friends

*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

Hi All,
This is from a year ago January, but I was feelin’ it today.
Carry on,
xox

I had coffee with a friend this week and she mentioned the blog, Hala! and God bless her.

She was particularly triggered by the post I wrote about paying people compliments, and the fact that we can be pretty stingy with our admiration.

http://www.theobserversvoice.com/2015/01/5123/

“You know why I don’t get compliments?” she asked me, apparently not expecting an answer because she didn’t let me get a word in edgewise.

“Because I deflect them. I’m like a superhero with a shield. They make me so Goddamn uncomfortable that my face and chest get bright red, and I either start laughing or I tell the person to shut up.”

Did I hear that right? I’d seen her blush, maybe even giggle, but the shut up part…
She could tell by the expression on my face that her statement needed further clarification.

“I just did it the other day, the guy at the car wash complimented my choice of vehicle and I ran away. Like a nine-year-old. But before I did, I told him to shut up. It was completely unintentional, a reflex, a hit and run, I just blurted it out…Shut Up!” she was clearly mortified but on a roll.

“Hey, you have nice eyes. Shut up! Fuck you, Perv!” Now she was acting it out, with hand gestures and everything.

“Nice job on that report. Shut up! Asshole! It wasn’t that great! Raise your bar! You need higher standards!

“Oh My God what is wrong with me? It’s like I have Compliments Tourette’s.”

We were both laughing, yet at the same time, I realized that what she does is more common than we’d all like to admit.

Why can’t we take a compliment gracefully? The key word here being: grace.

I used to be AM terrible at it too. I stare at my feet and mumble a hurried thank you, when all I want is for the perpetrator of the abomination to fall through a trap door in the floor.
Insecurity I suppose. Feeling unworthy? You betcha.

Back in the day, people used to compliment me on my big, white teeth, (now thanks to Crest White Strips they are a dime dozen) and it made me cringe. I had done NOTHING whatsoever to earn those teeth. Okay, maybe I’d worn braces and brushed, but honestly, they were just the luck of the draw, like having good hair. So it never felt like it was right to say thank you.

Now I do. I jump at the chance. Sure, God and my parents gave me great teeth, but I’ve maintained them and appreciated them EVERYDAY. Plus after fifty, you’re just so grateful when someone says anything without prefacing it with for your age.

These days I also chase that good feeling you get when you give a compliment.
I give out compliments like Tic Tacs. Because people deserve them. AND it gets me as high as an addict with a drug.

“Oh but wait” my friend warned, holding her palm up to face me, “It gets worse. If you don’t hate me already, you will after this!”

“Well Okay – Don’t leave a sister hanging – spill it!” I teased, playing along with her game of ‘true confessions’.

“I don’t pay ANYONE a compliment, doesn’t matter what they did, even if I’m thinking it, I don’t say it because I want to save them the humiliation that I feel.
That’s fucked up…right?”

I wouldn’t dare judge her. That actually made perfect sense to me and it possessed more altruistic overtones than not wanting to make a fool of yourself, which was the most common reason I used to come up with for not complimenting the people who deserved them.

We had a laugh, a damn good cup of coffee…and cake. But it really got me to thinking…

What do you guys think about this?
Are you like my friend? Is it all just too humiliating for words?
Does that humiliation override how good it feels to give or get a compliment? Or have you become so grateful, like me, when someone throws one your way that you can’t say thank you fast enough?
Have you developed grace or are you still searching for it, like my friend? How did it happen for you?

I’m curious. Tell me in the comments.

xox

In the beginning of her book “Eat Pray Love”, Liz Gilbert finds herself in the middle of something she has no control over which is causing her a great deal of angst, worry, anxiety, and despair. In her case, a contested divorce. It has come to the place where it has the potential to consume yet another year of her life by tying her up in court, not to mention wasting every dime of their money on legal fees.

Are you guys with me? Anxiety? Despair? Loss of control? Can you relate?

She feels hopeless and out of control and while on a drive through Kansas with a friend, she expresses her desire to write a Petition to God, you know, to inject some Divine Intervention into a situation which seems beyond repair.

Once she drafts a copy in the car, she and her amazing and very willing friend, add imaginary (energetic), signatures at the bottom. “My parents both signed it!” her friend exclaims. “So did mine! And so did my grandparents!” Liz replies. “St Francis of Assisi just signed it!” her friend yells excitedly, pounding the steering wheel for emphasis; and the exercise continues for well over an hour raising Liz’s spirits and bolstering her resolve.

Later, still in the passenger seat of the car, she grabs a quick nap and is awakened by her ringing phone. “You’ll never guess”, her attorney from New York exclaims without even saying hello, “He just signed the papers!”

God, I love that scene! Because I love magic, and I believe in the Physics of Quests, clues, and signs, and our right to Petition God or the Universe to take the wheel on our behalf, and so it dawned on me that I should write my own Petition, regarding my own crazy brave,crazy, brave, batshit crazy endeavour, and send it to my tiny inner circle—my tribe—so I did last night.

“Just like in the book I’d love it if you could sign it energetically (or literally) and send it out to others in the aether, living or dead, and let me know who we’ve got working on this.
I’ll put mine at the bottom.

I love you all more than words can express.
xoxJ”

And all day the names of the signatories have been pouring in!
Lucille Ball, Charlie Chaplin, Jackie Kennedy, The Obama’s…
Even the Pope signed it! What??!!

I wasn’t going to share it but then I realised that you guys are my tribe too! Below is what I wrote so you can use it as a template for your own Petition.

Then, I had what I thought was a great idea! I wanted to offer YOU this: If you want to write a short sentence in the comments about something that needs some energetic surrendering—start your own Pettition—I (we) will add our names and the names of others to it and up that juju factor.

How about it? Wanna try it? What do you have to lose?

I love you all more than words can express!
Carry on,
xox

Dear God, Universe, Nora, Nixon and All,
It is now time for you to intervene and facilitate the making of this “darling” screenplay into a movie. I humbly and respectfully acknowledge that I haven’t the faintest idea of what comes next or how to make this happen, and I am well aware of the fact that if I attempt to meddle in matters this far outside my paygrade, well, let’s just say ‘I’ll fuck it up’.

I realize that you may have more pressing things on your agendas like Chinese and North Korean diplomacy, Syria, finding a great karaoke song and looking for other ways to demystify death, and that helping me to ‘mind my own business’ seems like an insurmountable challenge, but we’ve come this far and worked so well together—that I beseech you to try.

Please attract only those to this project who are lifted by its message. Let it easily find its way to the best and the brightest. May the making of the movie be surrounded by as much love, light, fun and magic as the writing of the screenplay has been and may those that lay eyes on it see beyond what was written on the page. May it live to touch hearts and soothe souls.

Thank you for your kind consideration,
Respectfully,
Janet Bertolus

Picasso
Diane Sawyer
Mike Nicols
James Cameron
Elizabeth Gilbert
Oprah
Gayle King
My dad
Tom Hanks
Rob Bell
Erma Bombeck
Dear Abby
Clark Gable
Eva Gardner
Frank Sinatra
Andy Williams
Bob Fosse
Hemingway
Mark Twain
Martha Stewart
Mama Cass
Stevie Nicks
Joni Mitchell
Cameron Crowe
Ron Howard
Bryan Lorde
Rob Lowe
Prince

I was practicing resistance on Saturday morning, like the kid at the piano who is twisted sideways on the bench, one hand practicing their scales while the rest of their body searches for something better to do.

Procrastinating.
Dragging my feet.
Lolly gagging.
Diddly doinking as it’s known in our family.

I should have been tweaking a song that’s been giving me shit in our musical, downloading my screenplay onto a flash drive and then making my way to FedEx to print up the masterpiece, or unloading the dishwasher—but instead, I got sucked into my phone.

Not by Instagram; not even by Facebook.
This day I was swallowed up by the contacts in my cell phone to be exact.

I could say I was purging.
Yeah, that’s it—I was doing a little bit of purging. Except purging a little bit is an oxymoron.

Truth be told, I was looking around. Wasting time. Searching for one thing when I noticed another.

What is this?  I have over seven hundred contacts and I can’t for the life of me remember who the hell many, many of these people are!

For one split second on a random Tuesday, they must have meant something to me because there they are—living in my phone. But honestly, even with the hints I left myself (because I know how lame I can be), like Aaron—Washer Repair in the W’s, or Clifford and for his last name—Sandy’s deadbeat boyfriend. You guys, I haven’t the foggiest idea who Sandy is and for the past fifteen years a man named Raphael has fixed my washing machine.

He also sleeps in my bed, rubs my feet, and makes me coffee in the mornings so I figure he trumps Aaron in more ways than one.

Delete! Delete! Goodbye, Clifford! Adios Aaron!

That was fun!

And it was then that a tangent was born and I got on it and rode that sucker for over an hour!

One of the things that surprised me the most was the fact that there were so many dead people haunting my phone.
Is that a side effect of aging? Please tell me it’s not. I’d rather think that I have a group of extremely unlucky individuals as friends. Careless people who overindulge in the hedonistic pleasures of life or forget to look for falling pianos and such.

Nope. There were actual friends who I’ve known and loved who are gone too soon. Like Vinnie, whose list of emails and six different telephone numbers was like a sucker-punch to the gut.

And then some I just wish were dead. Like the two dozen lawyers and legal firms from back in the days when if you weren’t suing me—you were on the short list.

Because of the “cloud” and the fact that it never forgets a thing, I also had the contact info for a bunch of celebrities who used to shop in my store. The store that’s been closed for seven years. I hesitated in deleting these, you know because celebrities living in my phone made me cool and all, but the fact that most of that information had probably been changed a thousand times by now convinced me of its diminished cool factor—so out it went.

Delete, delete, delete.

Oh, sorry Gayle Zappa, you were an amazing woman and a great customer, but you’re the most useless of contacts: the dead celebrity.

There were five Patty’s.
Patty—with the neck. I suppose I wrote that to distinguish her from the other four Patty’s whose heads sit directly on their shoulders.

Patty S.—Oh, good, that clears THAT up.

Patty, Antique Mall—Which is a place I worked back in 1988.

Patty with a 310 number.

Patty with an 818 number.

I wracked my brain, I did. I actually sat for many minutes and I could not for the life of me remember ANY of these Patty’s. Not a one.
I suppose I could have called each one and asked them if we were close—but I didn’t. I was busy purging.

Delete, delete, delete.

Here is more useless information that was chewing up all of my storage capacity (and my Saturday):

The name, address and phone numbers of every landlord I’ve had since I was twenty.

Bandmates from the days when I was in “New Age” bands around LA. When “New Age” was a thing. This was the early 80’s, people.

Guys I went to acting class with, (I only know this because it says ACTING CLASS after their names), whose numbers I had so we could “run scenes” together. My guess is that most of them live in Orange County and are pretty close to retiring from some big corporate job right about now.

The numbers of every doctor, Gynecologist, dentist, acupuncturist, masseuse, Vet, chiropractor, and nail salon I’ve ever used.

The number for One Hour Photo. Yes, the magical place where you could get your film developed at the lightning speed of one hour! What?
Can you imagine?

All of my favorite restaurants, many of which have been closed for decades. (Rita Flora).

Jewelry contacts. You guessed it. Many who are retired… or dead.

Lessons learned? Were there any? Hell yeah!
1) The first one being, sometimes procrastinating (and purging), can be a good thing! And woman, for the love of God, you need to go through your contacts at least once a decade! (I’m now down to 238!).

2) Celebrities will give you their contact information ONLY if they want something from you. BUT… there is a small window of time where it is accurate. After that it self-destructs or you have to print it—and eat it.

3) Some people’s info NEVER changes. Forty-years later EVERYTHING is the same, and other folks info is obsolete by the time you finish entering it.

4) Be on the lookout for those neck-less Patty’s and if you see them—ask them to call me.

Carry on,
xox

What’s the oldest contact you have in your phone right now?

If you haven’t read this yet…you must. I mean it.

I’m visiting a friend who is about a decade older than I am and often runs circles around me—and I love her for that! She was remarking with great disappointment the other day, how all her contemporaries do when they get together is complain about their health.

Fuck that!
I say, get younger friends!

One newish member of my tribe is thirty-five. Which mean she could be my daughter. The beauty of having her in my life, besides the snort laughs and introducing me to different emojis, is that fact that I know Steph would NEVER tolerate me going to bed early when she visits or hearing me complain about my sacroiliac (whatever that is).

So read this. It’s by Liz Gilbert and it may change your mind about things.
Carry on,
xox

Dear Ones –
This is a line my (73-year-old) mother said to me the other day while she was issuing a gentle warning not to fall into the trap of letting your life get smaller as you get older.

She was talking about how frustrating she finds it that — somewhere around the age of 50 or 60 — she watched as so many of her peers stopped making goals and long-term plans for adventure and exploration in their lives. Instead, they began shutting down, and making their lives smaller, and their minds smaller, too. She got so weary of listening to them making self-deprecating jokes about how old they were, and how much their bodies hurt, and how bad their hearing and eyesight was getting… She felt they had surrendered to age far, far, far too soon. My mom said, “Nothing is more frustrating to me than listening to people who are still vital saying, ‘Well, at our age, you have to be careful…'”

No. She begs to differ.

As you get older, there is no more time to be careful, and no more REASON to be careful — at least as my mom sees it. Instead, this is time to seize as much life and joy and adventure and learning and novelty as you possibly can. As my mom said, “I hate seeing people slide themselves into the grave far before their time. Death will come when it comes — but it’s crazy to sit around waiting for it. If you’re not dead yet, you’re not done yet.”

My mom thinks that everyone should have a five-year plan for their lives, and also a ten-year plan, and a twenty-year plan — and that every few years you have to revisit your plans to see if your goals and aspirations have changed…and that you should never stop making these plans, even as you age. (Especially as you age!) She has shared with me the travel she wants to do in the next 20 years, and work she wants to finish, the projects she wants to begin, the cultures she wants to explore, the people she wants to enjoy, her fitness goals…

It’s inspiring.

I have heard people speak of their lives as if they were finished at 30, done at 40, washed up at 50, too late to start over at 60, no more chances at 70…

But are you still here?
Then you aren’t done yet.

Don’t make your life smaller as the years pass. If it’s time to start over, then it’s time to start over. If you aren’t where you planned to be, then it’s time to make a new plan.
Today, I ask you all to share the most inspiring stories you know (from your own life, or the lives of others) about people who refused to be done yet because they aren’t dead yet.

Rise up, everyone, and keep rising.
We are still here. There is much to be done and enjoyed.
Let’s go.
ONWARD,
LG

My husband is a gem. He is a prince of a man. A tender-hearted soul who adores dogs, good food and anything with an internal combustion engine.
Okay, now that I’ve made that clear let’s get real.
He can also be an asshole.

But, hey, show me the short list of who isn’t.
Plus, I said ‘can be’ —not ‘IS an asshole’.
That’s a VERY big distinction and one that will probably save my marriage.
He has his moments, but then again, don’t we all.

He is also a procrastinator.
Big time. A professional. It is such a finely honed skill of his, refined and practiced all these many years, that he is a MASTER Procrastinator.
He could teach it at the college level.
At Harvard.
Sir Raphael of the Bertolus, Professor of Procrastination.

Now you may be worried that he’ll read this and get angry. He will, and he will — in about a month. That leaves me plenty of time to practice my apology and cook him a nice dinner.

So, am I writing just to bag on my adorable hubster? Yes. And NO.

You see, this is all relevant because he’s surprised me lately. He’s taken on a new “ator”.
He has become The Validator.
Validation is just this side of a compliment, so I think he’ll get to keep his *“I’m a Frenchman, The French don’t give compliments” card.

Just the same, he’s been showering me and everybody around him with the gift of validation and it sounds something like this:

HUB: “I told Matt that I was very happy with the fact that he’s treating himself to a nice, new motorcycle, you know he works really hard AND he takes care of his brother.”

ME: “Wow. That was nice of you.”

The following week,
HUB: “When I had lunch with Peter the other day I mentioned how impressed I am with him. He always seems to make the best, most measured and uncompromising business decisions. He’s a pleasure to observe.”

ME: “Wait, What? You said that to his face? Did he choke on his steak sandwich?”

So, Today…
ME: “Thank GAWD we didn’t run into anybody at lunch. It’s a miracle. I look like a fart smells. I have this cold so my entire face is a chapped disaster, my hair is filthy and I smell like sour feet.

HUB: “I really like that you can go out in public and not care if you’re all dolled up. You’re like Janet—Unplugged. That’s really great because when you DO get fixed up, it’s such a startling contrast that everybody realizes how good you clean up.” (OUCH. And Yeah! Okay, it’s not perfect but I got the gist.) *SEE HE GETS TO KEEP HIS CARD.

ME: You are…that is just so…Was that a compliment? I think it was. No, wait, it was that validation thing you’ve been doing lately.
It needs some polish but I like it!

Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to — The Validator!
Which makes so much sense to me because he is such a silent observer of the human condition, only I guess now he’s decided to offer us all some validation on the wanky-wonky way we’re just trying to live our lives.

I think more people could use validating. Don’t you my beautiful, smart and loyal tribe?

Carry on,
xox

This one hit a nerve and I’ve had a ton of requests (okay, five) to re-run it.
Here ya go!
xox

Thank you, doctor, for keeping me waiting forty minutes for my fifteen-minute, two hundred and fifty dollar consultation.
I’m your second appointment of the day. It’s 10 am. How the fuck could you already be running that far behind? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I’m firing you on account of bad time management. I may not have all the letters after my name — but my time is just as valuable as yours.

Thank you, dear friend who is chronically late because she can never find parking.
Because of you I keep a ten-minute window ahead of all my appointments, even lunch dates, to make sure I can wrangle the admittedly criminal lack of sufficient parking in Los Angeles.
I love you so I’ll tolerate this one character flaw.

Thank you every commercial airline I’ve ever flown.
You treat departure and arrival times as loose suggestions, which has forced me to get all the apps that alert me of your lateness so that I don’t end up getting trapped at the airport, overspending at the duty-free shops, or standing so long at the arrivals gate that I end up printing a random name on a box lid just to fit in.

As long as I’m venting, thank you private jet travel.
I’ve been fortunate to partake in your luxurious expediency and I must say: You have ruined me.
It is my belief that NO individual who is financially incapable of sustaining their own jet ( which is 99% of us), should be allowed to fly private.
It is a mind fuck on steroids.
When they say they’re leaving at 10, you may arrive at 9:50, but you will be wildly, inappropriately, “rookie” early because by 9:53 someone will have taken your bags, lead you to your double-wide, leather, Barcalounger; peeled you a grape, dipped you a strawberry, massaged your feet and told you a joke. There is no long security line, no barefooted X-ray pat down or frantic belt removal.
And if everyone is on board by 9:54 — they just take off.
What?
It’s too good. I can’t take it! Never again.

And last but not least thank you over-entitled rock singers. You know who you are.
At my current age of fifty-seven I’m well aware that I’ve wasted vast portions of my youth, hundreds if not thousands of hours, waiting for you to start your fucking concerts and I’m pissed and I want that time back! I know you’ve been to the arena or stadium. You had a soundcheck and a driver for Pete’s sake. Why can’t you manage to be fed, made-up and dressed by showtime? I can.
Is that too much to ask for the millions we’re paying to see you live? I just don’t get.

And thank you, Taylor Swift. Although I’ve yet to see you live, I heard you start your set right on time. Just one of the things I love about you.

Sorry about that, I just needed to vent. I have a thing about punctuality!
What about you? Are you late as a habit? Do you think it’s rude? How long will you wait for someone?

Carry on,
xox

This is a badass essay by Liz Gilbert about her favorite badass friends and her idea of what makes a badass (which of course I agree with wholeheartedly because she did all of the emotional research and thinking and I just nodded the entire time in complete agreement).

And when I did feel up to it (after a Triscuit or five with cheese—and a nap), I made a sloppy, unorganized and I’m certain incomplete list of my favorite badasses. BTW– if you’re not mentioned here and it pisses you off, KNOW that very reaction makes you a badass. And know that it was just an oversight on my part due to age and a brain made of Swiss cheese and try not to hate me too much.

My FAVORITE BADASSES (in no particular order):

Mom & Lee for being tanks and overcoming health obstacles (and for being regular readers of this blog which makes you an automatic badass, and if you laugh–an honorary badass).

My husband for obvious reasons and because HAVE YOU MET HIM? His picture is in the dictionary under badass. No lie.

My sister and brother for sharing our crazy fucking gene pool and still managing to gather together cool people to love and create a couple of great lives that entertain and delight me.
And for being there.

My friend Eva, for kicking cancer’s ass like a ninja-rock-star. And reinventing herself afterward.

My friend Kim, for her courage, grace and for maintaining her sense of humor in the face of her epic reinvention.

My friend Step, for being more fully realized at 35 than I’ll ever be, for accruing the most vertical miles skied, for believing in herself and her story so much she scored an unheard of bangin’ book deal as a first-time author AND for walking with me on imaginary hot magma.

Linda, Danielle and our beautiful writers group. Just that we all found each other and can keep up with all of the talent—makes us badasses.

Little Pants for just maintaining her equilibrium as a teenage girl in Los Angeles in 2016. I could NEVER!

To Nora for teaching me trust, courage and receptivity from beyond the grave. Talk about a badass!

This list could go on and on because pretty much everyone around me is covered in badass sauce. So…what about you? Who is your favorite badass? Do you have the courage to put in  the comments? (gauntlet thrown).

Carry on,
Xox

***

WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE BADASS? By Liz Gilbert

Dear Ones –

Our sweet friend Ruth Sze at www.doodlebubbledesigns.com posted this lovely drawing on Instagram yesterday and I love it so. She invited us to ponder who our favorite badass is right now, and i invite you to do the same, and to tag that person in your response.

My favorite badass this week is my friend Glennon Doyle Melton (Momastery) because she always uses her broken heart to heal a broken world. She is a tireless and generous love ninja, who is not afraid to be vulnerable, not afraid to risk connection, not afraid to share her scars and fears so that others do not feel so alone in their confusion.

Also, this week, somebody was mean to Glennon (which makes me become a crazy she-wolf of protection for my friend!) but Glennon refused to let it stop her from her ongoing mission of love.

My favorite badasses are all people who are not afraid to feel their feelings.

A real badass is not afraid to forgive.

A true badass is not afraid to sit in her sadness and anger and pain until she works her way through it — rather than lashing out in retaliation at the world, or making other people suffer for her pain.

A beautiful badass — in my eyes — is someone who has learned that before she can make friends with anyone else, she must make friends with the crazy shit-tornado who is herself. Because until we love our own crazy shit-tornado, we can’t love anyone else’s crazy shit-tornado.

A creative badass is anyone who is not afraid to share her imagination with the public — regardless of the criticism that may arise.

A generous badass is anyone who says, “I have more than enough for myself and I ALWAYS WILL — therefore, I will share whatever I have with you.”

A resilient badass is anyone who stands in the wreckage of failure and error and says, “Oops. Guess we better start cleaning this up…anybody got a broom?”

A brave badass is anyone who has ever asked for help.

An optimistic badass is anyone who believes that this broken world is still worth fighting for.

A smart badass is anyone who can set boundaries without being punishing or vindictive.

And a holy badass is anyone who knows that — beyond this whole wild and messy world — there is power at work greater than anything we can imagine…and that we are part of that story.

I am so lucky to be surrounded by SO MANY badasses. It would take forever to list them all. But today, I especially honor Glennon, who had a rough week and who keeps going…and for whom I will ride or die.

Now…over to you guys.

Who is your favorite badass today?

ONWARD,
LG

This is a me at about nine I think. Rockin’ my groovy Beatles haircut and braces—and side-eye.

Who is she? You ask yourself after being referred to this blog by a friend of a friend, of a friend, of a friend.

Who is this person who writes about love and loss and everything in between?

What are her credentials? (None, you only need hands and a brain to start a blog—and seriously, both of those are questionable).

Why does she do it? (The truthful answer is: I have absolutely NO idea— I just freaking LOVE it!).

In the beginning, I didn’t need to introduce myself. I had thirteen followers that were pretty much all family and friends, many who had seen me naked.

Now there are new people. People I‘ve just met and some I don’t even know, so…
In an act of foolish self-disclosure here are twenty-five things you don’t know about me.

1. I can’t whistle.

2. Or snap my fingers.

3. I LOVE to sing karaoke show tunes.

4. I have a very low tolerance for liars.

5. I get carsick in the back seat.

6. I hate card games and most board games. (It’s an attention span thing).

7. I had Scarlet Fever and missed most of first grade.

8. I wanted to be a nun in sixth grade.

9. I did some TV commercials when I was in my twenties.

10. I see Angelyne, a Los Angeles icon, out and about all the time!

11. I am a huge SiFi geek.

12. I read mostly non-fiction.

13. I don’t think I’ve gone a day since I was five without nail polish on my toes.

14. I have amazing eye-hand coordination.

15. I’m a very weak swimmer.

16. I have a fear of open water at night. (Just writing that makes my butt pucker).

17. I was once mistaken for a Parisian—in Paris—by another Parisian! (Something I’m very proud of).

18. Cilantro tastes like soap to me.

19. I once melted a rubber spatula in boiling hot caramel while making candy and contemplated NOT throwing it out. (I did toss it—after I laughed myself senseless).

20. I am a sucker for all things Christmas.

21. I pierced my ears myself all eight times. (And I had a navel piercing done by a professional).

22. I could read before I entered kindergarten.(No Tolstoy, just Cat In The Hat).

23. I am in the Who’s Who of American High School Students 1976 edition.

24. I used to bake cakes and cookies for work at Christmas—and watch George Clooney devour them while we talked.

25. I can grade a diamond.

Do you feel as if you know me a little bit better? Anything else you’re curious about? Just ask!

I’d love to know more about YOU guys. Tell me one thing you don’t think anyone knows.
It’ll be our secret.
Shhhhhhhhhh.

In the meantime…
Carry on,
xox

As a child I was cautioned by my mom and the teachers at school: Don’t talk to strangers.
But my innate curiosity over ruled that dictum on a regular basis. I was an extroverted, chatty kid who liked people and asked a lot of questions.

And of course, just to confuse me, there were exceptions to the rule.

“When the nice lady compliments your dress, what do you say?”

Wait. Really? Okaaaay, Thank you strange lady whom I’ve never seen before and will most likely never meet again. *BIG SMILE

“Tell the nice man how many apples we want,” my mom would encourage, giving me the green light to start a conversation with the man in the produce department, who by the time we left the market was my new best friend. “See you later alligator!” was something someone had taught me and I LOVED it—and people LOVED it—so of course I used it as often as I could.
It became a hello and a goodbye, kinda like my own personal Ciao or Aloha.

All this to say: I detest that stranger=danger rule.
I know, I know! I don’t have kids, and it’s a different time, but…

When I look over my life, I have had some of the deepest, most interesting conversations with absolute strangers.

Traveling is well, an impossibly dry and hopeless mess if you don’t ask people—complete strangers who often speak a different language—directions, or food recommendations, or where they got that incredible hat!
I can’t even imagine it! Mute adventures? Why bother?

I’ve ended up hugging complete strangers after we’ve bonded over a “conversation” made up almost entirely of charades due to a language barrier. Italians have mastered this skill and have forced me on occasion to up my game.

What I’ve learned is that humanity is mostly good, kind-hearted and eager—almost to a fault—to help out a stranger in any way they possibly can. Truly. I see you shaking your head, but I kid you not.

On one trip to Salzburg I bought TWO enormous, extremely overstuffed down pillows, you know, like you do—and instead of having the good sense to ship them home, I carted them all over Europe for the next two weeks.

One day as I was struggling to catch a train out of Italy with my luggage, assorted bags—and my pillows, I spotted the face of a gentleman I had struck up a conversation with at an espresso bar an hour earlier. He was dressed as dapper as I’ve seen anybody dress in. my. life. —And I had commented on his bespoke suit as we both shared a laugh about all my bags and the jackassery of my enormous pillows.

Later when we locked eyes across the train platform, he saw the look of sheer…exasperation on my face, got up out of his first class seat in the train across the tracks, and helped me get settled on my train back to Austria. As he lifted my three ton suitcase and stowed my fucking pillows in the metal racks overhead— I watched HIS train pull away.

I had talked to a stranger and he had gone out of his way and missed his train to become my train station savior. (Thinking back, he wasn’t from this timeline of that I’m sure. He was a chivalrous gentleman from a different era.)

Some strangers have even made it into the inner sanctum =friendship status. Wherever I go I talk to the people around me–and we become friends.

Most of my dearest friends started off as strangers—as did my husband—it doesn’t get any stranger than a blind date!

If you never talk to strangers—how do you meet people?

Think about that, and don’t email me about all the serial killers and bad guys out there looking to do me harm—it won’t change my mind.

Carry on,
xox