changes

This is Bob.
Bob is a scout. Scouts by definition are out looking for something.
They go ahead of the others. Often, even they don’t know what they’re looking for. They’re…scouting.

Bob crossed my face seventeen times last night. I assume he was looking for food.
The last time I checked I don’t keep spare food on my face. I keep my chin hairs pretty short. They don’t catch food anymore, so Bob was shit out of luck, but that didn’t stop him from looking because that’s what scouts do…they scout.

Bob was tenacious. He was determined, undeterred.

Which made me want to kill him. To roll him between my fingers until he was reduced to a balled-up version of himself but I didn’t have the heart. I admired his tenacity.

I look up to the Bob’s of this world, those who march on with conviction into the unknown. Way ahead of the huddled masses. Scouting.

I’ve only recently started it, scouting that is, and I’ve gotta tell ya, it ain’t easy.
Louis and Clark, I am not. I want detailed maps with well-marked routes and plenty of rest stops. This scouting thing means that you may very well be the first one to venture down a certain path. That sort of thing used to make me… nervous. Twitchy. When I got to the unmarked fork in the road—I called a cab and went back to the hotel pool with the shitty drinks and the scratchy towels.

Let’s just say I’m no Bob. But I’m learning.

Scouting takes a certain fearlessness. Bob was a prime example.
He crossed the unmapped craggy Mars-like terrain of my face seventeen times. Undeterred by my forest of eyebrows, large, black nose caves, or the chin hairs I mentioned that have the tensile strength of steel cable and are sharp enough to cleave him in half with one false move.

I can’t venture into an unfamiliar neighborhood without Google maps, global positioning, snacks, and my knowledge of the three points on the human body where if you kick a man—he dies instantly. But these days, I’m getting much braver about  moving into the uncharted territories of my life.

On a scale of one to five, one being fraidy cat Janet at the crossroads, five being Bob — where do you stand?

These days I’ve inched up the scale to the middle somewhere. You know how it goes, one step forward two steps back. But that’s okay, I’ll always have Bob’s example to keep me moving forward.

Because I want to know the unknown, discover the undiscovered — in other words, be a scout. Because scouts…scout.

Carry on,
xox

These may look like the random ingredients of a food challenged schizophrenic’s lunch. Or they belong to a Russian peasant whose secret ingredient for her award-winning Borscht — is Fritos.
They are both.
They are mine.

These are the ingredients which will eventually make up my future.

What? I hear you asking. (Actually, I toned it down. It’s still early.)

It’ll make sense in a minute. Let me explain.

My Muse loves Fritos so I snarf them down while I write. They make her happy, so in turn, I suppose they make me happy. And they make me salty. And puffy. And maybe ten pounds over the twenty pounds over that last five pounds I just can’t seem to loose.

The beets were to replicate a ridiculously delicious beet soup I had with my writing tribe in Mexico last month. Yes, beets and delicious belong in the same sentence. Nettie gave us the recipe after observing six grown women reduced to a band of bowl licking freaks. I’m dead serious.

I even used my food processor. I NEVER use my food processor.
I chop, microwave or order out of menus.
My food processor is just for decoration.
It says to people, “Hey, this chick is the real deal, she follows a detailed recipe, processes stuff, and serves it to people who enjoy their food the consistency of baby food.”
Mostly my food processor sits quietly collecting dust. That is until my husband fires it up to process fancy baby food for us to eat.

And it turns everything pink. Like bright magenta pink.
Not the processor. The beets.
And by everything I mean pee and poop. Oh, sorry. Is it too early?

Anyhow, all this to say I have a shit ton of weird ingredients around me these days (because my life barely resembles itself anymore), that make me happy in some way or another. Some I’m aware of, like the beets and the Fritos, others I am not, like the…well, I’m not aware of them so…I’ll let you know as soon as I find out what they are.

When I’m happy I keep moving forward. My feet aren’t stuck in cement and I’m no longer wishing I was anywhere but exactly where I’m standing. It’s fucking liberating.

It’s so interesting to look around and see the actual things that are coalescing to become your future. Blogs, and musicals, screenplays and articles all facilitated by happiness. Simple Frito and beet happiness. And chocolate. Barges and boatloads of chocolate.

Look around right now. What are YOUR ingredients?

Fido. Fido makes you happy AND he gets you out walking which puts your lazy ass in nature and as we all know, walking in NATURE is when all the great ideas come. And it lifts your ass and puts pink in your cheeks.

That bicycle taunting you in the garage. You rode it last weekend, the nature thing happened, AND you met a nice guy when you were stopped looking at the view ( allowing your heart rate to come back to a level that was a little less lethal). When you look back you’ll remember THAT was the day you met HIM.

The invitation to that dinner party you keep forgetting, avoiding to RSVP to, where you will sit next to the guy who will eventually become a good friend and give you the loan to start that business you’ve always dreamed of.

The book on the nightstand that will say something to you that will resonate so strongly that your boobies will tingle and it will change the way you think about things for the rest of your life.

I can hear you. “Wait!”  you say, “Those aren’t ingredients that will combine and lead to my future. They’re just a dog, a book, my bike, and an annoying dinner invitation.”

Are you sure about that?

That feet in cement thing is something I wrote yesterday, as a note, potentially for the screenplay:

“It turns out that by denying the life that was calling me, I kept my OWN two feet stuck in cement. I wouldn’t allow MYSELF to fly.”

That makes me tear up.

Hey, if I cry do you think my tears will be pink?

Carry on.
xox

So, you guys, in the past 36 hours, three of my squad, my spiritual tribunal — Liz Gilbert, Danielle LaPorte, and Marie Forleo, the ladies who I look to to give it to me straight — they ALL wrote or talked about looking fear in the eye, saying “fuck it” — and then moving forward.

Carry on through the fear you guys, (Like Lizzie into the fire, *wink).
xox

Take it away Liz!

Question of the day: DO YOU ALREADY KNOW WHAT YOU NEED TO DO?

Dear Ones –
Here I was yesterday in the South Island of New Zealand, where I am visiting my beautiful cousin Melissa. You can’t really see Melissa in this photo (she is the tiny figure on the right) but trust me: She’s here.

Why is Melissa here?

Because four years ago, my cousin quit her good steady job (during a recession, no less!) and left behind her safe and familiar life in her small Midwestern hometown, and moved HERE, to begin a new life, starting from nothing, at the wild ends of the earth.

My cousin didn’t know anyone in this entire hemisphere. She had never before traveled. She feared she was “too old” to change her life. She had always been risk-averse, and the thought of moving across the world was terrifying. But she had been stuck for too long. She was suffocating in her day-to-day existence. She couldn’t take it anymore. She was tired of faking happiness.

Then she realized: “If I don’t face my fears, I will never grow.”

So she did it. She followed some deep, irrational, inner instinct that led her right to this place. She planned to stay in New Zealand for only four months…but she has now stayed for four years. And holy shit, has she grown. She sees this wild ocean every day. She has bungee’d off cliffs, and climbed glaciers, and repelled down mountains, and bought a house, and started a business, and — most amazingly of all — she has conquered her fear of public speaking!
(And oh yeah…she also met and married the love of her life here.)

As Melissa told me today: “I wish I had changed my life earlier, but I didn’t have the courage. I always knew what I needed to do, but for years it made me sick with fear to imagine actually doing it.”
This observation made me think of all the times in my life when I was stuck, and also knew exactly what I needed to do — but I might have put it off for years, because I, too, was sick with fear about actually doing it.

In fact, it made me wonder if maybe we all have some deep inner instinct about our true destiny — about what we need to do next, at every turn — but our fear and insecurity and self-doubt sometimes makes us put it off for years. Or forever.

I do believe that every single time in my life I have ever said in desperation, “I don’t know what I should do!” — in fact, I DID know what I needed to do. I was just too afraid to do it.

And then one day, you’ve had enough.
And then one day — you just freaking go do it.
And that’s the day when the best part of your life actually begins.
ONWARD,
LG

If you need more convincing, take a look at this!

“The other world is this world rightly seen.” – Nisargadatta

“The been there’s and done that’s of the adult mind — we’ve seen it all. Familiarity breeds boredom”

I think we’re all a little guilty of this to varying degrees. Don’t you? And I agree that travel can revitalize the most numbed-out mind. It’s probably one of the reasons I LOVE to travel. Makes me want to jump on a plane right NOW!

Anyhow, take a look and enjoy your weekend.
xox

*Below you will find my latest Huffington Post essay you guys.
A reworked post from earlier this year about aging, and mothers and feeling completely unprepared for middle age.

And believe me when I say, that I know that you’d rather watch a slide show of Aunt Tilly’s vacation pictures from Bocca; than to write a comment on a fucking blog; I’d love it if you’d gush about me over at the Huffington Post. Then once I build a following, you can all go back to the anonymity of the shadows. Thank you and I love you.
xox

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/things-my-mother-forgot-to-tell-me-about-aging—-a-cautionary-tale_b_8155736.html

(This was taken during my five, um, 11, okay—15-year “awkward phase” — you can see she had her work cut out for her.)

I was reminded recently — as I continue my snarky, sweaty slog through my 50s — that I’ve done so without the guidance, advice or fair warning of my mother.

She was too busy; engaged in the parental heavy-lifting of delivering the three of us to adulthood, that it never occurred to her to share these pearls of wisdom.

So I’ll do you all the favor; pulling back the curtain to expose all the hidden truths (in no particular order), of life in middle age.

1.) Invest in a good bra, and for God’s sake, if you have anything over a D cup, don’t jog. It is for that reason alone that I have to tell the girl at Nordstrom that I wear a 36 long.

2.) Carry an across-the-shoulder messenger bag and keep the weight below 35 pounds. Yes, you heard me. I have a divot in my shoulder and the posture of a Sherpa from carrying around the kitchen sink everyday for over 40 years.

Oh, and ladies — after you stop menstruating, you can toss all the tampons. I’m giving you the all clear. I put them in my time capsule along with my Midol, my flat stomach, my perky tits and my happy-go-lucky disposition.

It’s okay — give up the fight.

3.) If someone says they’re sorry — forgive them. You may never talk to them again, or wish them well — but the forgiveness will set you free.

4.) Make eye contact and remember people’s names.

My trick? I repeat it back to them and use a rhyming game (in my head, not to their face).
Along those lines — Listen without interrupting, ask people questions about themselves and always introduce yourself and anyone standing with you.

These are the Golden Rules of any dinner party, staff meeting, black tie event or ladies restroom line — really, any social situation you may find yourself in.

5.) Use those dental-pick-thingies every night. I brush and floss like a maniac and yet I still manage to pull an entire steak dinner out from between my teeth with those things!

6.) Listen to advice but only from the smart people — never the stupid ones. Pay attention. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

7.) Word to the wise. You can forget about those mustache and chin hairs.

After 40, pubic hair will lose its genetic coding and start migrating around your body.

It will crawl up your stomach and onto the back of your legs if you let it. I tried to wrangle mine, to fill in my over-tweezed eyebrows (a ’70s fad that went horribly wrong), but to no avail. I did find one on my arm last week. Consider yourselves warned.

8.) Men stay boys all their lives. This needs no explanation.

9.) Stay curious. About people, life and the planet. It will help you to appreciate and demystify every seemingly mundane thing that surrounds you.

10.) Beach hair only looks good on 23-year-old models named Tia. The same goes for a navel piercing. Trust me on this.

11.) This is a big one. A lie is someone’s imagination working against them. Remember that.

12.) Always carry matches or a lighter. And lipstick. Always carry lipstick.

13.) You will never use calculus beyond college — but good table manners, clean fingernails and comfortable shoes will carry you far in life.

14.) Carrying (and reading) an interesting book will be an amazingly effective airplane conversation starter — and the perfect companion when dining alone.

15.) Be polite and try every food that is offered to you, (which means eat a bull testicle even if you’re a vegetarian.) It will broaden your horizons in unimaginable ways and make you a sought after dinner guest.

16.) Self-tanner is a catastrophe-in-a-can waiting to happen. Make peace with your paleness. End of story.

17.) Know that your looks will fade and reconcile yourself with that. Your neck will waddle, the hair on your head will thin, and your breasts will sag. If you decide to take matters into your own hands, make sure your surgeon has a light touch.

You still want to look like you — only rested.

19.) Pay attention to your feet. They will start to fight back after 50. All the years of squeezing them into severely pointed, one size too small, five-inch heels have made them…cranky.

Can you blame them?

20.) Take the effort to make a good first impression — you may never get a second chance.

And last but not least — reinvent. Don’t rest on you laurels, don’t question your intuition, and don’t tell yourself you’re too old, too fat, or too busy to reassess your situation and reinvent yourself.

Now pay this information forward and don’t say I never gave you anything.

My feelings got hurt, lightning stuck, a miracle occurred, and I avoided a fight.

Otherwise known as Thursday at my house.

See what I did there? I copped to the fact that my feelings got hurt.
I said it.
Out loud to my husband in real-time, to my girlfriend when I relayed the story on Sunday and to you guys now in print.

I think that’s important so I’m gonna point it out. Then I’m gonna stop because…well, because I believe that the very act of saying, “That hurt my feelings” diffuses the hurt a bit; and also because that’s enough whining for one post.

Here’s the deal:
My husband and I are in the midst of planning a motorcycle trip for this September.
I have been waxing nostalgic for Italy, the smarmy southern part, the part south of Rome, closer to Sicily where my people are from DNA wise, (I have the mustache to prove it), and Pompeii in particular.

I also want to see the leaves turn color on the East coast of the U.S. I think that would blow my mind on a motorcycle.

My husband is like…meh, ambivalent. Undecided. Uninspired. Comme si Comme sa. You get the picture.

Winding mountain roads with the sumptuous scenery of Vermont, the first hint of a nip in the air and the spectacle of the vividly colored leaves surrounding us.
OR
Warm, Indian summer days, dusty, ancient, red clay roads, the smells, sights and sounds of the Italian countryside; their food, their vino—and a city full of instantly fossilized citizens struck down mid-sentence during a cataclysmic volcanic eruption.

I know!
What to do?
So hard to decide.

I let it go, and the trajectory was sloooowly, (like the Titanic turning to avoid the iceberg) headed toward New England and the leaves.
Fine with me. That trip is up there on my list.

But fate intervened.
I used to balk at any sudden change of plans. Fate—Shmate. I never saw it as fate. It was just somebody sticking their big nose into my business, messing things up. Now we just call that Sunday.

We had emailed the company that was leading those Changing of the Leaves Tours of Vermont. Crickets…
Meanwhile…Raphael received an email out-of-the-blue from one of his Wolf Pack (The guys that he takes amazing motorcycle trips with every year) asking if he was interested in joining them for a four to five day ride in Europe. It fell at the exact time in September that we were planning our vacation.

Uh…hell yah, he answered explaining the serendipity of the timing and the fact that we (he and I) would be there together.

I’ve ridden with these guys many times. Tons. In all types of terrain and weather. As far as riding is concerned, I’m a dude. I leave my uterus at home in a drawer. At fifty-seven it’s not like I’m using it anymore.

Cool! A few days riding the Alps with the Wolf Pack, starting and ending in Milan. Then he and I would continue down south.
Fossilized citizens of Pompeii, here I come!

Until last Thursday night.
“They want a definite answer about the trip so they can purchase the tickets. The only thing is…by the looks of the count, they aren’t including you. I distinctly told them it would be you and I.”

Fuck. Fuck them! Oh, what is it? AnAll boys trip? I sneered.
“Um, yeah, no wives are coming” he answered sheepishly, never looking up from the text on his phone.

“None of their wives EVER come on the trips—they don’t ride!
Besides, It’s OUR vacation, I’m not trying to tag along, I’m there because it’s our vacation…and I’m not a wife! I’m a dude!”

“I know” he answered, looking more and more confused. I was getting pissed.

“That hurts my feelings!” I announced, surprising myself with the intensity of the declaration.
I think I even stomped my right foot and did a head thing—like a three-year old.

“It just does. You’ve got to work this out. Quit telling me they’re not including me. That just hurts my feelings! Let me know what you guys decide.” I turned and left the room with a dramatic flourish in a full-blown hissy-fit.

Into the den I stomped, flopping down on the couch, arms swinging wildly then resting across my chest, crossed; my bottom lip protruding beyond the rest of my face.
Just for affect.

A moment later lightning struck (because a tropical front was wafting through LA) and a miracle occurred.

I stopped being hurt and mad. Just like that. Big lip flop-down—to clarity—in 2.5 minutes.
A record. A personal best.

I didn’t want to go ride the Alps.
Been there done that, barfed on the T-shirt.
Too twisty of roads. Not my favorite ride. Soooo 2005.

I’ll pass and I’ll meet them in Milan! Genius! Fuck the Wolf Pack and the Alps, it’s southern Italy I want to see anyway.

He can go and I’ll meet him!

I ran back into the kitchen where he was furiously stirring something delicious. “Listen, here’s my plan. Call them back…”
As we started to flesh out our new-found solution—we found the nugget. It had been there all along, we were just too…lame? Stupid? Spoiled? Short-sighted, all-of-the-above, to see it.

It never occurred to us that they (their company) would be springing for plane tickets and renting the bikes. That would be four days expenses and Raphael’s flight taken care of—we just had to pick up another week or so, and my ticket.

NUGGET! (Happy dance)

When I told my friend this story her response made me laugh. Hard.
“You’re getting really good at this marriage thing” she remarked. “It’s great to see.”

Shit! I should hope so after almost fifteen years.

Carry on,
xox