family

 I have readers who request some of these holiday posts throughout the year. Even in July. From as far away as Brunei.
Seems we are all united by the one simple fact that family is family wherever you live.
And Americans have not cornered the market on dysfunction.

And neurosis speaks every language and crosses every border.

Oh, and by-the-way, that obnoxious cousin in the last sentence? Seems he may have had the gift of clairvoyance.
Carry on,
xox

Thanksgiving in the U.S. can be brutal. I blame it on social media and the unrealistic Norman Rockwellian expectations we place on each other. Unfortunately, what in our imagination looks warm and fuzzy, can quickly turn cold and prickly.

Even though everyone at the table is somehow related, dinner etiquette can morph into a kind of blood sport. Back handed compliments and thinly veiled sarcasm abound and it’s just not Thanksgiving unless someone leaves the table in tears.

Add tons of carbohydrates, loads of judgment, a dash of shame, with a pumpkin pie chaser and voila – Hilarity ensues!

NO. No it doesn’t.

When you put together people who only find themselves sitting in the same room once a year there isn’t enough alcohol on the planet to keep you in that loving place.

It can turn into a real numb-fest.

The carbs numb you down.
So do the booze,
The sugar,
The football,
Even the ridged potato chips smothered with delicious sour cream onion dip. THAT is my numbing agent of choice.

Yes, you heard me. It all numbs us down, making us compliant enough to smile and remain civil so that everyone lives to see another holiday.

But let’s all try to remember, shall we, that almost everyone had the highest of intentions when they pulled up in the driveway.

And each year can be a fresh start. We talk all about gratitude that day, but I think it’s a good idea to start with acceptance.

When we can make acceptance the first course, it helps us all to remember that everyone is just doing the best they can and it makes the rest of the day play out differently. 

My family is loving, relatively sane, and really quite civil —now.
I think that’s because we’re all so damn old. The last time we served crazy for Thanksgiving was during the Reagan
Administration.

Gone are the caustic comments lobbed across the table by a perpetually inebriated uncle that were meant to be funny—but weren’t. And the long, squirmy, uncomfortable silences that followed.

Everyone, even Aunt Barb, who’s worn a wig for the past twenty-five years has stopped criticizing my hair. I’m fifty freakin’ seven Barb! It’s gray with some purple fringe—let it go!

My dad used to insist that we get dressed up. You know, jacket and tie, skirt and (gulp) pantyhose were mandatory. But since he’s been gone for a decade, elastic reigns supreme. These days style is sacrificed for comfort. Think sweatpants thinly disguised as dress pants.

To add insult to injury, this year, I intend to give up the fight—the Spanx stay at home.

Hey you! You picky eaters! Stop your complaining. If somethings not Non-GMO, gluten-free, free-range, antibiotic and hormone free, vegetarian or vegan—just be polite and eat what won’t kill you—or feed it to the dog and stick with the crudités.

So…let’s all practice forgiveness, humor, acceptance and gratitude; choosing to operate from the heart remembering the true intention of this day. Being with family.

Now take a deep breath, put on your best holiday smile, and listen with loving acceptance as your well-intentioned cousin explains to you all the reasons why Hillary will never be President.

Happy Thanksgiving,
xox

Hi Guys,
This is from about two years ago and what can I say? Family…
Carry on,
xox

I prefer my bread gluten-free and my life drama-free. So does my husband. They are just a couple of the idiosyncrasies we share. We are a product of our pasts and in many respects—our damage is compatible.

This goes for family as well, and THAT can be a tall order, just like getting gluten-free anything outside of urban areas.

“Wanna go to New York for the weekend in October?  my husband asked one day this spring. “My cousin is having her first US art exhibition. She and her sister are going to be there for the opening with their adult kids, I’d love to see them again.”

I share the love that he has for these women AND I will go to New York for the opening of an envelope.

“Uh, letmethinkaboutthatYES, yes I would!” I replied.

Once they were reunited it was so dear and enlightening to sit back, watch and listen as they got caught up. It’s been over ten years since we’ve seen them.

Let’s be clear, my understanding of French, especially spoken fast and with enthusiasm, is similar to my grasp of Mandarin —nonexistent.

But giggles and guffaws, misty eyes and hugs, they need no translation.

Hours of stories and memories were shared.
These days the old guard are almost all gone, allowing everyone to exhale. This fancy, old, arisocratic French family is passing into very capable, progressive, and dare I say less dysfunctional hands.

Every family has their “stuff” and his family is no different; except their drama and family neurosis has style.
A certain je ne sais quoi. It wears Hermes scarves and pocket squares and is dripping with that sardonic French wit.

It’s the Coco Chanel of families.

A mistake a lot of us make is that we look at other people’s families who seem to have it all together; very beautiful and glamorous lives, all the trappings of success and we think: I wish they were MY family. I’d be SO lucky, SO together if he/she were MY parent.
I call bullshit.

It’s all the same in every language, in every country. It’s Universal. Family shit runs deep.

You think your family’s cornered the market on crazy? Think again.
The eccentric, wild-eyed, cousin who never wears pants, the snarky, judgmental, bitchy family member—they’re the same worldwide. The only difference is they may wear a sari, a Metallica t-shirt, or couture, and have a funny accent.

Seems it’s just a part of the human condition.

Walking around this weekend it all became clear.
New York is such a culturally diverse city. There were families, parents and children of various ages and ethnicities everywhere we visited. I was a witness to global love and global dysfunction; as they do go hand in hand.

And you know what?

You can’t make it to adulthood unscathed.

Family bestows on us its greatest traits (his family has an inordinate amount of successful, gifted artists) and its darkest, stickiest, secrets.
It damages us all to varying degrees.

Whether it’s through therapy, hypnosis, running away (like my husband did), or just the grace of God, it is my belief that we end up with the people with whom we share compatible damage. Humor is a bonus.

That’s all it is.
I did a very exhaustive, comprehensive weekend study – it really is THAT simple.

Love you my compatible people,
Xox

So…yesterday’s blog on family touched a nerve, a nerve so sensitive that the dialogue happened behind the scenes exclusively through text and email for privacy’s sake. No one wanted to offend anyone or open up a giant can of whoop-ass. I love that I have such a troll-free readership.
 

But believe me, I get it.

Many of you felt that I let family “off the hook” so to speak, and you felt obligated to weigh in.
Thank you. There is always another side to a coin. A different story to tell.

Some family members can behave hatefully and do real damage, and they absolutely, positively, do NOT have your best interest at heart. Since that has not been the case for me recently with my immediate blood family (I did have a wicked step-mother once-upon-a-time), I can’t speak to that—but you can.

After going back and forth on email, I asked this reader if I could please, please, pretty please, share their initial comment with the rest of you because it sort of summed up what everyone else was saying with a minimum of profanity and exclamation points!  And they agreed—just as long as they could maintain their anonymity.

So, here you go. Another, (and seemingly more common) view on family, bullshit-busting, motives, and friends.

Let me know what you think.
Carry on,
xox

I agree with you on many things and always respect your opinion, but I am not with you on this one.

I have found that very rarely are family members good arbiters of “bullshit”. Most of the time they act like wackos and their past experiences with you are tainted (and tinted by a filter) due to years of interlocking neurosis.

Oh, they will take you down a notch (or twelve) but do they have a better grasp of what is reality or the real you?

Do they really know you now? How much have they grown themselves and kept up with you? Do they have common sense (which is not common anymore!) or even your best interest at heart?
Not in my “reality”!

For this conversation, we’ll agree that we didn’t choose our family and that we’ve learned to live with what we got, so I feel very blessed that I have one family member who I would choose as a friend. And that’s where I rejoin you with the real “bullshit busters”: Your friends.
The friends that you pick (the good one at least) will call you on stuff because they grow with you and support your well-being. They will also support you in your dreams, aspirations, and growth without an agenda or baggage from your common past.

And if or when they stop doing that, they slowly dwindle away, to be replaced by new ones.

Family.

I’ve been around family all week and if you want to get a sense of your standing in the larger scheme of things…go sit with your family.

They are the great equalizers.

They are the anti-bullshit brigade.

However accomplished I may think I am, however big I am for my britches; I can count on them to take me down a notch, reminding me of who I really am —the fact that they’ve known me all of my life—and that I’m not all that.

You know what I’m talking about. Who’s with me?

Don’t get me wrong. They are quick with their heartfelt congratulations and words of encouragement, but make no mistake, they will be there to yank the string of my balloon and bring me back down to reality where I belong.

And as much as I may hate it—it’s invaluable.

If you’re like me, you may have the good fortune of being surrounded by people who think you hung the moon and the feeling is mutual. I marinate in a kind of mutual admiration stew. But before you get all twitchy, thinking I’ve aced out all of the truth tellers; every week I schedule regular visits with two of my pals who keep me honest and grounded, Kim and Sally.

They ask the hard questions. They get in my face when I need it—and even when I don’t, but truth be told, we all need that. People around us who call “bullshit!” The bullshit-busters as I like to call them.

Family.

Because they know us SO well, it can be direct, filterless, even blunt, because hey, family doesn’t pussy-foot around. They give it to you straight. It may hurt your feelings, but after the dust settles you know that everyone meant well in the end.

That’s family.

Throughout history, family has been counted on to hold each other accountable. It’s their JOB. Even the famous, highly accomplished folks have a family.

I have it on good authority that Albert Einstein’s mother was horrified by the way he wore his hair. Sure, he was good at math, but for god sakes son, get a haircut!

Bill Gates’s dad was NOT happy that his son dropped out of college. Although, once he convinced his parents how serious he was about starting a company, they became supportive. But still, I can just imagine the uncomfortable Sunday night conversations around the Gate’s family dinner table where they tried to convince him to keep this computer thing a “hobby”, stay in Harvard, graduate, and get a real job.

I’m certain Meryl Streep’s family is so proud of her, but I bet they are the first to dial her down, keep her feet on the ground and remind her of her true place in the world. Mother, daughter, sister, and friend.

Which leads me to ask because I just can’t help myself, where is Donald Trump’s family? Do they ask him the hard questions? Do they call bullshit? He is a perfect example of why this kind of equalizing is so important.

We have our “yes men”, and then we have our family and if yours is anything like mine—they don’t let you get away with jack-shit.

And that is as it should be.

Carry on,
xox

*To be read aloud by James Earl Jones

I am a firm believer in the goodness of people.
In kindness,
and hugs and the power of love.

I am a firm believer in friendship.
In tribes, and surrounding yourself with the people who “get” you.

I am a firm believer in magic.
Yesterday my magic told me that believing in it was just like sex.
Everyone tells you not to do it and when you finally do, the first time might not be so good, but every time after that feels better and better. (And eventually you get good at it).

I’m a firm believer in the healing properties of DARK chocolate,
black licorice,
thunderstorms,
dog kisses,
Fritos,
bouquets of flowers,
peanut butter,
sex,
red toenails,
laughter (blooper reels)
long walks,
karaoke,
candles,
warm salt water,
stories with happy endings,
books with the word Journey in the title,
foreign travel,
gelato,
fireworks,
babies laughing,
red wine,
diamonds,
handwritten notes,
freckles,
badly told jokes where the punchline is given away right at the top,
coffee,
loud burps,
emojis,
holding hands,
and a good night’s sleep.

I’m a firm believer in the FACT that if you leap the net will catch you.
You may bounce first. And your skirt may go up over your head.
But here’s the deal. If you are reading this, you have survived whatever godawful things have befallen you.

You’re okay.
You’re breathing,
It’s all working out.

I firmly believe that ALL IS WELL.

What do you believe?
Carry on,
xox

“Dear Lord — Please keep one hand on my shoulder, and the other hand over my mouth.”

Hard to find a better prayer than that.

When you are in the act of defusing a situation, be it a political argument or an obtuse disagreement about the pronunciation of the word foyer; and I say that because everyone knows there is only one correct pronunciation of the word foyer—Foy-yay—anyway, I highly recommend, if at all possible, a minimum of talking.

Think about it. We mostly defuse anger or frustration. We seldom defuse joy. When I say seldom, I mean never. When was the last time you said,’Oh, Holy Hell, there is just too much joy in this room, I need to change the subject!’
See what I mean?

Defusing is an act best left to heavily outfitted bomb squads, street mimes, or those who have, through some cruel twist of fate, found themselves without a voice.
I say that from experience.
Words tend to get… wordy, meanings become misconstrued, and at a certain point nobody is listening anyway so I say the fewer the better.

Silent nodding is my preferred method.

Then there’s petting. I’m a big believer in defusing a tense or uncomfortable situation with some awkward physical contact.
I’ve been known to braid a person’s hair or lint brush the shit out of their jacket in the midst of that kind of kinetic, twisty energy.

I do all of those things because it is next to impossible for me to keep my mouth shut. Hence the prayer at the top.

Question: Have you EVER helped this kind of situation by stating the facts, calling for common sense, or getting the last word?
Yeah, me neither.

There is always humor but humor is subjective and it can backfire and not in a funny clown car kind of way.

Let’s face it, there are times when people want nothing more than to vent. Or argue. Some like to pick fights.

It’s been my experience that this seldom ends well if I put in my two cents, so I’ve learned to keep my small change to myself and wait for people to ask for my opinion (which they don’t), or I keep my mouth full of cake. Cheese will do in a pinch, but cake takes forever to chew and swallow, especially without coffee, and by the time you do—the topic has usually shifted to something else.

Like the deterioration of the Antarctic Ice Caps and how the ice in my drink and the car I drive are contributing to the imminent death of the Planet.

Head… silently…nodding…

Cake anyone?

Carry on,
xox

A reader sent this to me. Wtf? And thank you.
This is a woman in hospice care, on her deathbed. At death’s doorstep.
And apparently this is part of her family. Grandsons? Great-grandsons? Who knows.

You’ve gotta love this. Her feisty spirit and ‘game’ is what struck me. Is that a gesture she made often in her life? (‘Come on Nona, flip ‘um the bird like you always did!’).
Or is this for a laugh like when you tell a two-year-old to say ‘fuck it?’

Is she watching the Republican debates? Or flipping off the kid taking the picture? Or is she giving death the finger?
God, I hope it’s death.

She looks as if she’s lived a good long life with her sense of humor intact until the end…

“I imagine you like this at the end”, the reader said when he sent the photo.

What a compliment.
I hope so dear reader.
I aspire.

Carry on,
xox

“Josephine caught my eye and gave me a signal we’d used for years to indicate that one of us had to leave. The signal was mouthing the words “I have to leave” and pointing at the door.”
~Lemony Snicket

I saw this quote the other day and it got me to thinking…I’m freakin’ Josephine.

When stuck at a painfully boring event, like the college graduation of the son of your husband’s boss, any party that starts with the word THEME, most New Year’s Eves, or any occasion where there is no alcohol served, how do you signal that you’ve had enough?

What charades do you employ to make your escape without seeming like a complete and total ass?

Do you discuss it with your companion ahead of time?
Do you have hand gestures?
Safe Words?

Back in the day a certain boyfriend and I employed the simple gun-to-the-head technique which consisted of basically putting the point of your index finger to your temple and pulling the imaginary trigger. If the food was particularly ghastly, which was often the case since we were all under thirty (think melted Velveeta cheese), we added a dramatic flair with eye rolls to heaven.
If we just couldn’t stand to breathe the smoke filled air for even one more minute, the trigger pull was accompanied by sound effects.

I would pass him at the makeshift bar set up in the bathtub (or at the keg), point the finger at my head.
Boom!
He’d get the message and within five minutes we were on our way to In-N-Out.

Over the years, my sister and I have taken this to another level.

We’ve become Bad Party Mercenaries.

When we catch each other’s eye at some bullshit obligatory event that we both tried to get out of—but couldn’t—we reach into our purses for the imaginary grenade we brought with us—pull the pin out with our teeth (you know, like you do), and throw it toward the biggest blowhard in the room, saving those around him from one more minute of torture.

I suppose it’s a humanitarian act. We should both get a medal.

When shit gets real and it looks like the madness will never end, we also have an imaginary bazooka which we’ve been known to pull out of thin air, put up on our shoulder, pull the two hand grips down and  back and BLOW THE PLACE DOWN.

BOOM! (Our cheeks blow up like a blowfish because bigger weapons need better sound effects).

Then we burst out laughing with snorts and guffaws and make a run for the cheese dip.

Every event has an implied “It’s safe to leave and not look like an idiot” marker.

You’re not supposed to leave a bridal shower until she’s opened all the presents and is sporting the “gift bow hat.” (Insert dramatic eye roll here.)

It is considered bad taste to leave a graduation until they hand out the diplomas.
The thing is they leave that task until the very end and it can take many, many hours in the hot sun waiting for your friend’s kid, R. Ziskin to walk up to the stage and shake hands.

Truth be told, I’ve thrown many a grenade before he ever throws his cap in the air.

At weddings, you’re supposed to wait until after they cut the cake.
I have been known to risk ridicule and leave prior to the cake cut because the band sucked, the bride and groom were drunk and the cake was white on white. (What? Why?)

These days I mostly sneak out (with snacks in my pockets), after saying my goodbyes to the hosts. (My husband makes me).

So, tell me. Do you guys adhere to all of the party etiquettes? Are you the last to leave…or the first?
What’s your silent signal?

I won’t be mad if you want to steal our bazooka idea. (It’s an acquired skill. We’re thinking of doing a YouTube tutorial).

Carry on,
xox

I just wanted to give you guys, my trusted tribe of loyal followers, a head’s up regarding my upcoming music video.

What’s that?
You haven’t heard about it? Have you been living under a rock?

Okay.(Giant, exasperated exhale)

So, I was going to videotape one of my epic karaoke go-arounds.
Preferably the one happening at my friend’s upcoming karaoke wedding reception.
What? I know!
Except the stupid LIVE kareoke band doesn’t play Total Eclipse of the Heart OR Living on a Prayer.
So, I scrapped that plan.

But I am going to be on an episode of Orange is the New Black.
After I write myself a part.
Which isn’t completely out of the question, and my favorite color is orange and I wear mostly all black, so…
Let’s see..
The Huffington Post did pick up and publish this essay I wrote about feeling like an alien stowaway inside of my own family, growing up a black sheep, and suffering through a wedding attended by a bunch of mean strangers disguised as family.

If it sounds familiar maybe we grew up in the same family OR you read it here on the blog earlier this week. Read it again, Jim, I know you, and you don’t have a photographic memory!

I’d love it if you’d take a look, comment, like or share.

And this concludes the self-promotion part of this Saturday, but I can’t promise you anything regarding the shamelessness.

Sorry, it’s the weekend.

Carry on,
xox

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/a-stowaway-a-black-sheep-_b_9696654.html

We’re at a family wedding.

Not immediate family. Extended family.  The worst kind. The judgiest ones in the bunch. The one’s who keep inviting you as an afterthought, because, well, you never come anyway, so when your husband convinces you that it’s an afternoon of cake and dancing, you RSVP Yes + 1—and blow their judgy little minds.

I’m the black sheep of our family, one of several, and so they’ve seated us at the “loser’s” table. I actually overheard someone at the wedding call it that.

It really is the loser’s table.
It’s the absolute worst table in the room. It’s way in the back, next to the kitchen, so far away from the action that the music takes a minute or two to reach us. It’s so bad the band’s lips are out of sync, like an old Charlie Chan movie. They run out of food by the time it’s our turn to hit the buffet. And cake. My hubby and I shared the last sliver of cake.

We are seated with two non-recovered alcoholics who are shit-faced and speaking what sounds like pig-latin to each other, what looks to be someone’s fourteen-year-old pregnant niece, an old hippie who took way too much LSD in the’60’s—and a convicted felon.

In stark contrast, the horrible bitch-faced woman who was married to my dad and quite literally drove him to his grave, is smiling sweetly at my husband from the bride and groom’s table (I can see her with my binoculars)—because she knows how to write epic thank you notes—and she plays the game.

I can remember looking at pictures of myself as a baby and wondering if I’d been a stowaway on a ship from some far-off galaxy that was looking for signs of intelligent life and when they realized this was an okay place to leave me—they did just that—in Santa Monica California—so, not too shabby.

With my thick white hair and tanned skin, I didn’t resemble my pale, dark haired, freckle-faced siblings in the least.

I also arrived with the most vivid imagination, a song in my heart and a skip in my step. And it saved me.

Rickets skinny with large buck teeth, I forged my way through childhood wondering if my people were ever going to swing back by this way and pick me up. That had never been their promise but still, I held out hope.

I’ve always been different. I can’t explain how or why and at times it caused me a world of hurt.
As much as I loved Catholic school, (especially the uniform, see, I told you, weirdo), the dogma never made sense to me.

The wrath of God? A punishing God?
Whose God were they referring to anyway? Mine told me knock-knock jokes and led me to the fields with the most lady bugs to catch. Mine wasn’t hanging over my head bleeding on a cross, mine lived happily, laughing and loving in my heart.

This caused me to question things. Mostly authority. I could never do or believe something just because someone older told me to. And I just could NOT bring myself to “play the game.”

That spells trouble for a kid. Trouble, with a capital T.
And not the obvious punky trouble. Rather, the kind that challenges parents and teachers with all of it’s “Why’s”.

I will ALWAYS pledge allegiance to the wild side, and by wild I mean overgrown. The unbeaten path.

I remember asking my fifth-grade teacher what I was actually promising by pledging my allegiance to the flag. It opened an hour long conversation about Patriotism and love of country and she seemed genuinely happy to be asked something she’d ‘never before given any thought to.’

I broke some of our unspoken family rules as a teen by addressing the elephants that had taken up residence in pretty much every corner of our house. It sounded like sassing, backtalking, and disrespecting authority and it was resoundingly unappreciated. But because I kept my 4.0 GPA and honor roll status, it saved me from long weekends grounded in my room.

I was an anomaly at the time. Not a paint-by-numbers slacker and not your typical hippie-druggie—just a high performing, insufferable, pain-in-the-ass.

Black sheep.

I think my dad first labeled me. He could never figure me out. That day it had something to do with the fact that I got an A in Science Class without ever buying a book, yet, I wanted the teacher fired for being a dumb-ass.

Black sheep. I’m guessing most of you were black sheep too.

I quit college to act.
I retired from Catholicism.
I prefer the cookie dough to the baked cookies. Always have.
I didn’t want to work the “family business”.
I believe in energy and the power of thought.
I was divorced by twenty-six.
I decided NOT to have kids.
I’m unafraid of confrontation.
Until I went gray, I couldn’t have told you what color my hair REALLY was I dyed it so many different colors.
I don’t like ambrosia salad.
I hate green jello, bridal showers and babies breath in flower arraignments.
I love to sing and dance. Anytime, anywhere.

And that vivid imagination that led me to believe that there was something greater out there for me. I know many of you feel the pull as well.

I’m back at the wedding, with all of its criticisms hidden in polite discourse.
“So, I guess no children for you, Janet?”
“No Aunt Barbara, You do realize I’m over fifty now.”
“Huh. And you’ve finally married. A Frenchman. American men aren’t good enough for you?”

I decided right then and there, in the midst of this family of strangers, to declare my status.

“I guess not. You know, I’m a black sheep.”

The old woman looked up at me with something…recognition?…as I gently guided her back to the “winners table”.

Carry on,
xox

Got any good “black sheep” stories?