death

Ray: I’m thirty-six years old, I love my family, I love baseball, and I’m about to become a farmer. And until I heard the Voice, I’d never done a crazy thing in my whole life.

Voice: If you build it, he will come.
~from the movie Field of Dreams

I’m baaaackkkkk! And I missed YOU!

I went away to devote a block of time to the screenplay I’ve been enlisted to write.
The one about death and life thereafter.

The comedy —the buddy picture—my own person Field of Dreams complete with a cryptic voice and characters who are invited to participate in this magical fairy tale I’ve been fortunate enough to be gifted with writing.

I haven’t always felt that way.

At first, it was so (insert baseball pun here), out of left field, that my inner skeptic was pooping her pants. I have a nose finely tuned for bullshit and this entire endeavor reeked of it.

But after a while, after a ton of questioning and “prove it to me’s” I plowed under my corn and built my field just as I’d been directed. I started writing a screenplay (which I had no interest in doing and absolutely NO experience at), that was dictated to me by my pal, the dead screenwriter.

And you know what happened? The more I got out of the way—the better it got. So much so that now, when I read it to people, ( even people I’ve just met  like the women at the retreat last week), THEY SEE THE PLAYERS ON THE FIELD. In other words, they believe in the magic and that never ceases to amaze me.

I remember loving Field of Dreams when it came out. Who doesn’t want to believe that there’s more to life than the mundane and ordinary? What Ray did seemed crazy but his courage (disguised as wavering conviction), wins everyone over in the end—even me.

I know. It’s a movie. But crazy as it sounds it’s also become a template for my life.

All ideas start as crazy fantasies. They do. Every. Single. One. of  Them.

They come out of nowhere, bite you on the ass, and invite you to come along for the ride.
What do YOU do when that happens? Do you up the volume on the radio (get caught up in life), to drown out the voices (ideas), or do you plow under the corn (take some risks), and build the field for the players to come and play (give your ideas life)?

I used to ignore the Voice. For years, I turned my back to the players on the field. But what kind of life is that?

When magic presents itself—I say, make the leap.
Not everyone will see the players on the field but that’s okay, those that do far outweigh the ones who cannot.

Plus, Magic can’t be contained. It bleeds into all other aspects of your life and that does NOT suck. I promise.

I’ve gotta go now, it’s the second inning and I’m up at bat.

Play ball!
xox

John Kinsella: Is this heaven?

~Dialogue from the movie FIELD OF DREAMS

So… here I go again, back to the land of a thousand mosquito bites, unlimited guacamole, and full body rashes.

My destination is a writing retreat (which my husband is referring to as the seven-day long  “girls night out”), and my intention is to work on my screenplay, which is a comedy—about death (because death is fucking hilarious).

As luck or fate or whatever runs the works behind the scenes would have it — the timing is perfect, and I am giddy excited.

I will always marvel at how perfect the timing is when your collaborator is a disembodied dynamo who isn’t subject to the limitations of space and time.

Nevertheless, I’ve been informed that the internet is sketchy at best, so starting Tuesday, for a week, the posts will be…reprises. (I just hit the deck because my brother just chucked his laptop across the room from 1500 miles away! He is one of a group of you that has been kind enough to let me know that you despise reprises).

I’m flattered and scared to death of you, all at the same time.

Anyhow…I’ve got to do it this way so; there will be some that I liked, some that you guys liked, and a couple that no one liked because I like to give those posts the chance of a new life.
Here’s how it’ll work:
Read ‘um, don’t read ‘um, (Jim).

Catch up. There’s probably a few that you’ve missed.

Browse around the page, there are over 1,000 posts, come on, you can’t remember them ALL!

If you’re new, welcome! Have fun, get to know me, and when I come back I’m sure they’ll be no shutting me up.

If you’re like my brother and you’re thoroughly disgusted, go make yourself a sandwich and check back here on February 2nd for what I’m sure will be the start of some crazy-ass stories of my adventure in screenwriter-ville

Love you guys & Carry on,
xox

Oh, I know (Jim), you don’t like reprises! Don’t get your panties in a bunch, maybe you missed this one and besides, a couple of readers requested it in lieu of the surprising exits of some beloved public figures this past week.

“It feels like a gut-punch,” one of my friends wrote me in a text on Monday. And it did.
Why do you suppose that is?

I guess it’s because neither Bowie nor Alan Rickman gave us any warning— no pale and sickly paparazzi photos or death vigil countdown after a prolonged hospitalization.

That sucks AND good for them!

My friend and fellow blogger Angie and I were writing back and forth about that yesterday. What a wonderful example they left us of having a conscious death. Creating all the way up until the end.

Happy, Healthy, Dead.

It may leave the rest of us reeling a bit but, come on, isn’t that the way we all want to go?

Happy, Healthy, Dead.

That is the clarion cry of the spiritual community I belong to. The one that lost Wayne Dyer this weekend. By the way, he isn’t really lost…but that’s another story.

I can’t remember where and when I heard it first, but it made one hell of an impression: happy, healthy, dead.

Irreverent I know, but just irreverent enough for me to embrace it wholeheartedly.
A new idea about the transition of death and how you want to leave this earth. The day you depart you want to be healthy, happy, dead. Lights out. Just like that. In a chair in front of the computer (right after you hit “send” on the best thing you’ve ever written), in your sleep (hopefully in clean pajamas, or at least pants), or sitting at a stoplight singing to your favorite song on the radio (at the end of an amazing road trip).

Boom. Gone. Sayonara. That’s that!

And that’s exactly what he did.

Transition. Why is it so fucking hard so goddamn always?

September is a month full of transition. Fall begins, the days get shorter, the nights get cooler (in theory), my big, fat, flip-flop feet have to squeeze themselves into shoes; and as the summer begins to wind down we all get a little bit squirrelly.

School starts. The nest empties. The time changes back to whatever the hell it was in May, and fucking Christmas decorations show up in the stores.

I like to say I’m pretty good at transition. But I also like to say other things that I know deep down aren’t completely true. Like: I’ll only take a couple of bites of your dessert or female politicians don’t lie.

I’ve discovered I’m okay with transitions as long as they look, feel, and taste EXACTLY like what just ended.

When I move, the joke is that my new place will be unpacked, with pictures hung, and fully decorated within twenty-four hours of receiving the keys. Everything will be in its place and it’ll look as if I’ve lived there for a decade. I even break down the boxes and drive around until I find a back alley dumpster. Anything to keep the place from looking chaotic and temporary. THAT my dear friends is not an example of someone who has a facility for change.

It is the white-knuckled fingers of control around the neck of my anxiety.

Why can’t transition be easy? The next logical step? The next great adventure? And since it’s a necessary part of life—why can’t we just chill?

How come we can’t remember what it felt like to graduate? To get our first job? To fall in love that very first time? Those were all transitions. Big ones. Ones that formed us. And they were pivotal in the unfolding of our life’s narrative; they were uncharted territory; fresh, new, and exciting!

Have you got an empty nest? Fill it with all the things you’ve been putting off for…Oh, I don’t know, almost twenty years!
Listen, now you get to look forward to college graduations, foreign travel, potential new family members, and maybe, eventually, the patter of little feet that go home when you’re tired of them.

I love me some summer and dread its ending, but then I remember that I also love fires in fireplaces, the smell of burning leaves, cozy sweaters, hot mint tea and rainy days. So what’s the big deal?

Transition. Happy; healthy; dead. Easy, peasy, Parcheesi.

Excuse me while I go wedge my paddle foot into some sexy black boots.

Carry on,
xox

This would be funny if it weren’t so freaking sad.

Screw you 2016!

In just fourteen days you’ve taken two of our best and left us with…well, Donald Trump and that creepy Burger King with the plastic hair and psychotic smile.

Earlier this week I was shocked and a little pissed at the loss of David Bowie. I walked around the entire day in a fog, almost as if I could feel the creative void he left behind. I was just getting my groove back when this morning I woke up to the news that the delicious Alan Rickman had passed.

Wait. What?
Things have gotten out of hand, this has just got to stop!

Both were sixty-nine years old, which from over here at fifty-seven seems really young and waaaaaayyyy too close. (Uh, oh, now my own mortality chip has been activated), AND they both died from cancer.

Fuck you cancer!

So now we all know what happens—we wait for the third one to go. It’s some kind of weird numerological anomaly that always proves itself to be true: celebrities die in threes.

When Raphael came home from the gym this morning he was met with my sad-sack face which stopped him in his tracks. I’m sure for a second he assumed I was upset over the fact that my ticket had not won us the  1.5 billion dollars (which I was), or simply that I’d finished my coffee—but he asked me what was wrong anyway.

“Alan Rickman died,” I sort of half sobbed.

“The guy from Harry Potter? The guy with the voice?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed with genuine shock. You see, my husband is so bad at remembering names, movies, actors, and anything pop culture that this was like a fifth grader correctly answering a $1000 Jeopardy question about life on our planet before computers. (As he explains it, he doesn’t want to waste the brain space.) Ouch. That always makes me feel like I need Will Smith to put on his sunglasses and flash that light in my face to free me up some brain bandwidth. (See what I did there?)

“Yeah, yeah, he was in Harry Potter. But oh my gawd, what about Love Actually, and Truly, Madly, Deeply* and Die Hard; oh, and we just saw him in A Little Chaos, remember?”

“Not really”.

“Ohhhhhh, I loved him…and now he’ll never know. I always wanted to meet him so I could ask him to record the outgoing message on my phone.” (Sigh) That voice…I can’t even…”, I could feel a lump growing like a goiter in my throat.

“Oh man, you’ve had a rough week. All your favorites.”
Awwwww, that was nice, some real sympathy. Then he turned on me.

“You know they always go in threes—I hope the third one isn’t Jean-Luc Picard—that would suck.”
He had a slight grin on his face as he ran out of  left the room, “Uh oh, what if he’s six-nine?” he shouted from a safe distance.

Okay, now he was just fucking with me.

I had made a dark secret of mine public knowledge a couple of years back in a speech I made at Raphael’s 60th birthday “roast”— the fact that I had a mad crush on Jean-Luc Picard and had used him as a husband template. Not so much the actor Patrick Stewart, although don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t throw him back. No, more specifically I had the hots for the French, bald, serious, thoughtful, smart, capable, man-who-could-solve-any-problem that the Universe (literally) threw at him and dare I say sexy, Captain of the Starship Enterprise—Jean-Luc Picard.
And I came damn close with Raphael. Except for the Starship, I nailed it.

“Natalie Cole!” I screamed down the hall. “She was the first. Jean-Luc is safe!—Natalie Cooooooole!”

“That was New Years Eve. Doesn’t count. It was still 2015.”

Shit, Game on.

“What about the Motorhead guy?” I was grasping at straws, my brain was scrambling, Google! Google!
Fuck that, “Siri! How old is Patrick Stewart?”

“Motorhead guy was still 2015”.
How did he know this shit? He must have been Googling as fast as his fingers could type. I could hear in his voice that he was trying not to laugh. Jerk.

“Patrick Stewart is seventy-five!” I yelled, filled with genuine relief. “Oh, thank God, he’s safe,” I muttered to myself under my breath, not realizing, because of all of the brain space filled with useless trivia, that that only meant he was six years closer to the pearly gates.

“Why are you yelling? I’m right here,” he said, standing in the doorway wearing only a smirk. (Not really, he was wearing pants, but it makes for a better story.)

All of this to say: Why are all of the great ones dying? Sixty-nine is middle-aged, people play stupid guessing games about who’s died instead of crying, it’s starting to suck being a baby-boomer, death is not the end, and considering who joined the general population this week—Heaven is going to be a blast!

Its been one-hullava week—wanna weigh in?

Carry on,
xox

*”Truly, Madly, Deeply” which came out in 1991, is one of my all-time favorite films and so I went on Amazon to order a DVD so I could watch it this weekend and cry my eyes out—and there was only ONE copy—for $200! WTF?

How lucky are we?

We all knew he wasn’t from HERE. Someone so otherworldly. Someone so fearlessly himself.

So maybe it was for that very reason that it never occurred to me that he could leave us.

Say what you will, even if you’ve never listened to a note of his music (which would seem virtually impossible and make you someone I’m not sure I could be friends with), you were aware of the man.

Because he was SO different.

An alien among us, so much so that he was the obvious choice for the lead in the 1976 film, “The Man Who Fell To Earth”.

But what made David Bowie, David Bowie?

I was crazy lucky to be in Chicago last year at the same time as the exhibition of his extraordinary life, “David Bowie is”.
So of course, nothing could keep me away.

It (the David Bowie-ness of David Bowie), started at the very beginning as this collection showed, giving us a peek into his private hand-written notes, diary entries and song lyrics. Among the treasures were many examples of his drawings for album cover art, stage mock-ups which he designed, and a remarkable collection of outrageously unique stage costumes (including early Alexander McQueen), photographs, and other rare possessions from the David Bowie Archives.

In other words, if Bowie was an alien—THIS was his mothership.

I stayed too long, (Rebel, Rebel) in the very last room, even as the museum people were trying to shoo me along to give the throngs of other Bowie-ites a chance to get a view. I was busy crying big, sloppy tears as I stood mesmerized by the multi-media presentation of floor-to-ceiling video tiles of concert footage and music (for which I was emotionally unprepared), which had me feeling as if I were onstage with him at Wembley Stadium.

It was without-a-doubt the best thing I’ve EVER experienced—in a museum.

All that stuff was just evidence of the obvious.
This guy knew who he was and what he came here to do VERY early on in his life and his focus and determination to be WHO HE REALLY WAS, no matter how strange and shocking that looked or sounded—separated him from the rest of us.

I was in high school in L.A. when that film came out and that’s also when I first heard his music at Martha Johnston’s house, (The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars… about a bisexual alien rock superstar—duh), and consequently, when I first snuck out to see him in concert.

It was a revelation. And while many aspects of it went over my Catholic-schooled, teenage head—still, it marked me.

He wasn’t like us. Was he a man or a woman? Both? Neither?

Shit! When I think about how ahead of the crowd he was with his androgyny and glam rock it blows my mind. I figure at least a decade.
And I suppose in the big picture none of that really matters except it kinda does because he influenced an entire generation of musicians; Duran Duran, Madonna, Lady Gaga to name a few; and in doing so—he influenced all of us.

They were all, with the exception of Gaga, part of the soundtrack of MY youth.

So, I think that’s what he did for all of us. What David Bowie is, as the title of the exhibit leaves blank for us to answer, is someone who gives us permission to be unique…maybe even a little bit odd. Someone who gives us permission—make that encourages us to:

To fly our freak flags. It may inspire others to do the same.
To stray away from the herd.
To control all aspects of our image.
To be different than the rest.
To have the vision of something shocking and untested.
To be forever curious, always moving forward.
To be our courageous selves, whatever that may look like—public opinion be damned.
And not to let any grass grow under our feet. To become a Master of Reinvention just as he’d done through the years.

We may never be as batshit odd/brilliantly genius as David Bowie. He set the bar too high.
But we can try.

I aspire to be like him. Receiving inspiration and creating until the end, but we may all be a little less brave without him around…for a while.

Annie Lennox wrote something that really resonated with me on her Facebook page today maybe it will with you too:

“Like a gazillion other people, I feel stunned by the news that David Bowie has departed this earth.
At the loss of someone who has impacted and influenced your life, you can hardly begin to measure the shape of what’s left behind.

Our personal and collective inner landscape has shifted and we’re trying to come to terms with it.
No one exists forever and it seems our elegant gentleman was well aware that his last mortal chapter was about to reach its conclusion.

“Blackstar” was his parting gift.
Provocative and nightmarishly “otherworldly”… we are jolted towards the twilight realms of epileptic seizures and voodoo scarecrows.
The bejewelled remains of Major Tom lie dormant in a dust coated space suit…
It leaves me breathless.
You must see it to believe it…
He knew…
He could see through it all.”

Love you, carry on,
xox

*The gorgeous and gifted actor Peter O’Toole died this week at 81 years young which made me uncommonly sad since I’d never met the man. Then I was reminded of this post I wrote a couple of years ago regarding his wishes for his epitaph. He was uniquely ahead of his time I think. A renegade and a rascal. When reading about his passing, I also came across this quote of his, written in a notebook at the start of his acting career at 18.
“I will not be a common man. I will stir the smooth sands of monotony. I do not crave security. I wish to hazard my soul to opportunity.”

THAT is my kind of man.

In an interview he did in 2007, Peter O’Toole, that beautiful, blue eyed, scalawag actor, was asked the question, “What do you want written on your tombstone”?

He leaned back and told the story of his beloved tattered leather jacket.
He said it was soaked in sweat, covered in blood, Guinness, and cornflakes?!
Which of course made it his favorite.
Eventually, it went to the cleaners.
It came back with a note pinned to it, that all these years later still made him chuckle.
It read:

“It distresses us to return work which is not perfect”

That’s was his answer, and I couldn’t agree more!
Because otherwise, what’s the point!?

When I leave this mortal coil, I want to be “distressed.”
I want to show I’ve lived.
That perhaps it wasn’t a pure and “perfect” life, but dammit! It was a life well lived!

Just like his jacket, I want to be worn in, with the wrinkles and scars to prove it.
I want to be covered in sweat, and dog hair, with smeared lipstick and wine stains.
…Maybe even cornflakes!

I want unpaid parking tickets in the pockets.
Along with a motorcycle key and a wad of foreign currency.

I want the leather to smell like a combination of caramel,tobacco, Shalimar, and coffee,
I want it left on the back of a chair in George Clooney’s suite in a Paris Hotel.

I want to remain perfectly imperfect.

Then I want to be “returned to sender, postage due.”

How about you?
Xox

*This post is from a couple of years ago, but it is forever intertwined with our wedding anniversary, so I can never forget. I don’t think we should.
xox

It is ridiculously dark in a hotel room with the black-out drapes closed.

It is a trip over stuff because it’s a strange room; blink, blink, blink for your eyes to adjust; bang your shin and stub your toe, kind of dark.

I experienced all of those things on the way to answer my phone which was shoved in my purse, somewhere under piles of room service napkins, magazines, and assorted other crap.

La la la la la la, my phone chimed its little heart out.

Who is calling me? Everyone knows I’m on my honeymoon and judging from how dark it is, (forgetting the drapes) it MUST be the middle of the night. How rude!

Five minutes earlier the ringing had woken me up, and I had stumbled like a drunken sailor, half asleep in the pitch blackness, to the bathroom. ‘Wrong number‘ I thought, still half asleep as I felt my way like a blindfolded mime, back to bed.
I heard it go to message. Now I was awake.
Hmmmmmmmm…that’s weird.

It started to ring again; this time, I could swear it sounded more insistent.
LA LA LA LAAAAAA!
Curious, I quietly slid out of bed and started moving heaven and earth to find it, only to hear it go to message a second time.

Not even a moment later, as I was finally holding it in my hand, it started to ring again.

At that same instant so did my husband’s phone charging next to him on the nightstand.  Then the hotel room phone on my side of the bed. It became a cacophony of three different rings, each one of them trying desperately at that point to get our attention.

I heard my husband’s voice behind me in the bed, “Shit, this CAN’T be good”. He was suddenly wide awake as he grabbed both the room phone and his cell, putting one to each ear.
“Hello!” he announced tersely into both.

I had just flipped mine open only to listen to my best friend Jen, mumbling and weeping. At the same exact moment, we both lunged for the remote as three different people screamed into our ears “TURN ON THE TV!”

We were two days into enjoying our post wedding coma. Ensconced in a room overlooking the Pacific at the Biltmore in Santa Barbara, still feeling giddy from the excitement of such a magical night.
Exhausted, we had given ourselves a couple of days to decompress before we were to fly to a friend’s party in Chicago and then on to Italy to have a motorcycle honeymoon.
None of those plans would come to pass.

My brand new husband pulled open the drapes with one swipe to reveal bright sunshine; it wasn’t the middle of the night, it was after six in the morning. This must be a movie, I thought, as we both slowly sat on the edge of the bed; watching in stunned silence as the second plane hit the tower.

I think I screamed. I know I screamed. A movie scream.

Everyone we loved was calling; apologizing for bothering us, but wanting us to know.
Because that’s what family does. They share bad news.

Just thirty-six hours before, they had all been loopy from too much champagne and wine, laughing, toasting and celebrating love…now they were crying and asking me, Why?

I couldn’t wrap my brain around what was happening. Everything felt surreal, like a slow motion disaster film.

I certainly didn’t have any answers.

My husband is an architect/builder. He knows about steel and fire and in his most serious Bob The Builder voice he didn’t pose a question or wonder aloud—he made a statement:
“I hope everyone’s out of there, that building’s coming down.”

And right on cue, as he finished that sentence…the first tower fell.

“Shit, shit, shit!” he yelled, sitting up straight on his knees.
I was screaming and shaking, “No, No, No…Oh MY GOD!”

Peter Jennings’ solemn voice said something to the effect of, “This has turned from an act of terrorism to an act of war.”

Time stopped. The planet shifted, and in my mind, that was the moment it happened. There will always before 9/11 and an after.

It was impossible to look away from the TV and I could not stop crying.

My mom called to tell me that Pam, who is like a big sister to me, and had flown in from San Francisco for the wedding, had to deplane on the tarmac at LAX and run for her life. The pilot had directed them all to run as fast as they could, away from the terminals and the airport.

Really. He told everyone to RUN!

No one knew what was going on, and where the next attack, if there were to be others, was going to take place. Lee and my mom picked her up as she ran east on Century Boulevard with a whole crowd of other panicky and confused thwarted travelers.

Many of the women had ditched their heels along the way, running in bare feet and business attire.

They had no idea where they were going.

How far would they run?

How far was far enough?

Where could you go that day to feel safe? I sure as hell didn’t know.

If you had told me a place—I would have run there with you.

After the second tower collapsed and the news went into that perpetual recap mode, I couldn’t watch another second; so I pulled on some sweats and sunglasses to hide my red swollen eyes and walked like a zombie downstairs to the lobby.

My inner historian/collector had kicked in and I went to see if they had the newspapers in the gift shop without the headline of the event, and the later edition, with it.

The adrenaline of the past few hours had subsided, which had dropped us both into a kind of numb stupor—so we also needed coffee. Bad.

The lobby was a ghost town. Everything was closed. No gift shop, no Starbucks, nothing. There wasn’t a soul in sight…this huge hotel felt deserted.

Back upstairs, I called room service.
It rang for what seemed like an eternity, then the voice that finally answered sounded out of breath and off of hotel protocol. She didn’t say Hello, Mrs. Bertolus, (which I was loving by the way), like they had been doing for the past couple of days.

“Yes? Hello, I mean, room service” she said.

“Um, are you guys open? Is it possible to get a pot of coffee?”

“I’ll try my best, I’m sorry ma’am, but no one has shown up for work this morning.”

“Oh my gosh, I completely understand—it’s just so terrible…”

“Yes ma’am,” she said, “it’s so sad.”
She started to cry, which set me off.

“Don’t worry about the coffee” I sobbed, feeling like an ass. “Just forget it, I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No ma’am, don’t be silly” she had composed herself, now the epitome of professionalism, “Your coffee will be right up Mrs. Bertolus.”

Ten minutes later a young man brought up a pot of coffee and some croissants, and after some caffeine and food, the shaking stopped and I started to feel a little better.

The government had halted all air travel until further notice. Planes were finding a safe place to land and staying put. It was unprecedented and I was relieved.

The absolute LAST thing I wanted to do was get on a plane.
We had a lot of phone calls to make and rescheduling to do.

Against my better judgment we kept our reservations that night for a seaside dinner. The place was beautiful… and depressing as hell. Everyone seemed to just be going through the motions. I sobbed like a three-year-old through the entire dinner, having a hard time forgetting those faces we’d seen all day of the people who were missing.

“How can I enjoy any of this? People lost husbands and fathers, brothers and wives and sisters. So many people died today!” I put my head in my hands, I couldn’t eat.

“How can you not?” my husband whispered, resting his hand on mine.

“Those people would give anything to be here, where we are right now, enjoying life. We don’t join them in death, that’s an even greater waste. We enjoy our lives. Every minute. Every day to the fullest. I think that’s what they would want. That’s what I would want.”

Damn, he’s good.

Just writing these memories makes me cry. It instantly brings me right back.

I think it’s important to tell the story. To never forget what happened.
Everything before 911 feels different, simpler somehow, like as a country we lost our innocence.

It just happens to coincide with my wedding. I can never think of one without the other. I celebrate the ninth of September, and I light a candle on the eleventh.
In my life, they are forever intertwined.

Just like our parents had the Kennedy assassination, this is our generation’s “where were you?” moment.

Do you have a 911 story? Tell us.

much love,
xox

“People call these things imperfections but they’re not; oh, they’re the good stuff.”

Idiosyncracies. Imperfections. Being Perfectly Imperfect. “I’ll save ya the suspense Sport, nobodies perfect.”

The bit about farting was improvised, and the laughter so hard and genuine that you can see the camera, held by the camera man, shaking with laughter.

goddamnit Robin Williams was a good actor.

Love you guys, enjoy your weekend,

Carry on,
xox

Happy, Healthy, Dead.

That is the clarion cry of the spiritual community I belong to. The one that lost Wayne Dyer this weekend. By the way, he isn’t really lost…but that’s another story.

I can’t remember where and when I heard it first, but it made one hell of an impression: happy, healthy, dead.

Irreverent I know, but just irreverent enough for me to embrace it wholeheartedly. A new idea about the transition of death. How you want to leave this earth. The day you depart you want to be healthy, happy, dead. Lights out. Just like that. In a chair in front of the computer (right after you hit “send” on the best thing you’ve ever written), in your sleep (hopefully in clean pajamas), or sitting at a stoplight (at the end of an amazing road trip). Boom. Gone. Sayonara. That’s that!
And that’s exactly what he did.

Transition. Why is it so fucking hard, so goddamn always?

September is a big month full of transition. Fall begins, the days get shorter, the nights get cooler (in theory), my big, fat, flip-flop feet have to squeeze themselves into shoes; and as the summer begins to wind down we all get a little bit squirrelly.

School starts. The nest empties. The time changes back to whatever the hell it was in May, and fucking Christmas decorations show up in the stores.

I like to say I’m pretty good at transition. But I also like to say other things that I know deep down aren’t completely true. Like: I’ll only take a couple of bites of your dessert or female politicians don’t lie.

I’ve discovered I’m okay with transitions as long as they look, feel, and taste EXACTLY like what just ended.

When I move, the joke is that my new place will be unpacked, with pictures hung, and fully decorated within twenty-four hours of receiving the keys. Everything will be in its place and it’ll look as if I’ve lived there for a decade. I even break down the boxes and drive around until I find a back alley dumpster. Anything to keep the place from looking chaotic and temporary. THAT my dear friends is not an example of someone who has a facility for change.

It is the white-knuckled fingers of control around the neck of my anxiety.

Why can’t transition be easy? The next logical step? The next great adventure? And since it’s a necessary part of life—why can’t we just chill?

How come we can’t remember what it felt like to graduate? To get our first job? To fall in love that very first time? Those were all transitions. Big ones. Ones that formed us. And they were pivotal in the unfolding of our life’s narrative; they were uncharted territory; fresh, new, and exciting!

Have you got an empty nest? Fill it with all the things you’ve been putting off for…Oh, I don’t know, almost twenty years!
Listen, now you get to look forward to college graduations, foreign travel, potential new family members, and maybe, eventually, the patter of little feet that go home when you’re tired of them.

I love me some summer and dread its ending, but then I remember that I also love fires in fireplaces, the smell of burning leaves, cozy sweaters, hot mint tea and rainy days. So what’s the big deal?

Transition. Happy; healthy; dead. Easy, peasy, Parcheesi.

Excuse me while I go wedge my paddle foot into some sexy black boots.

Carry on,
xox

So yeah, I’ve been writing with my new mentor—and she’s dead.
Minor complication really, especially given her big personality.

Lately, all she wants to talk about is how she died and what it’s like being dead.
I know, blah, blah, blah, who cares.
Oh wait, I do!
I’ve always been curious about the after-life and now lucky me, I have my own personal color commentator giving me her blow-by-blow descriptions of death and dying.

The other morning was typical. Another 5 a.m. wake-up call.
After hearing her “writing” in my head, (that’s how this works, she sends me these thoughts, or sentences that repeat and repeat and the trouble is they’re so great they wake me up), I stopped dreaming about the beached dolphin who was stealing the Nutty Buddy right out of my hand — and I got my computer to write her shit down.

“Woman, can’t you see I’m sleeping? It’s five in the morning!”

“Not here.”

Did I mention she’s a world-class smart-ass?

Her opening line with me a few months back was: death is highly underrated. How’s THAT for an opener?
It got my attention.

Saturday morning was no different. Her early morning wake-up line was this gem:

Death is slippery… Death is slippery…
It would never occur to me to pair those two words, death and slippery together.
That is SO her — I don’t have her facility with language. I’ve also never died, not even little bit.
So…that’s what woke me up enough to grab my computer.

She went on with her thought once she knew that I was awake and ready for dictation.

Did I mention she’s a bit of a taskmaster?

Death is subtle. It is slippery and seamless.

Huh.
I sat up (I had been typing laying down, hoping this was going to be a short session and I could go back to sleep) wiped the sleep from my eyes, the drool off my chin, and started to give that phrase some thought. Then I did what has become my habit with her. I looked up the definition of EVERY word because there are so many layers to what she’s trying to convey and her words are chosen VERY carefully.

It has been my experience that there is always a treasure of wisdom hidden inside.
This time did not disappoint.

SUBTLE: Delicately complex and understated. Really? Look at those words describing death — delicately complex, understated… A new concept, but I like it.

SLIPPERY: Elusive in meaning because changing according to one’s point of view. That’s the third definition listed, but that’s the one she chose. That makes sense to me. Your death experience would morph to your point of view or expectations.

SEAMLESS: Smooth and continuous, with no apparent gaps or spaces between one part and the next. Great word. Okay, okay, I’m starting to sense a theme here.

Eh hem, (said with the utmost respect) Madam, would you care to elaborate? (Like I could stop her).

Death is subtle. It is slippery and seamless.
One minute you’re here, the next you are not. It is not ONE BIT SCARY.
Similar enough to (life) to comfort; different enough to question.
“I’m dead, right?”
It has speed. Momentum.
Slippery and seamless—Think white socks on a waxed floor.
(she shows me Tom Cruise in Risky Business when he slides into the doorway in his sunglasses, white socks and tighty whities.)

That’s quite an entrance, don’t you agree? I suppose it’s also an exit. According to her—it’s both at the same time.

Can’t you just hear that music? That piano line? Da,da,da,da,da,da,dum.
You slide into the next life with shades and attitude, helped along by speed and momentum.

“I’m dead, right?”

At that point…does it matter?

Is it really that easy?

Apparently so.

Carry on,
xox