Gossip

Last Friday, after braving a harried curbside check-in and the usual TSA shenanigans at LAX on my way to Chicago, I did what I always do when I fly.

I indulged in two of my guilty pleasures. The ones I use to take the sting out of air travel. I stopped by the airport newsstand to buy a candy bar and “the rags”.  You know, the gossip magazines. I get so engrossed reading that shit that I barely notice the bumpy take-off or that bitchy flight attendant who always has to wedge my purse into the overhead compartment at the last-minute with the hysterics of a life and death emergency.

This trip was all Brangelina—all the time. And a Kit-Kat bar.

The dissolution of their marriage broken down into a precisely laid out timetable told in a he said—she said war-of-words—according to “inside sources”.

The day I heard of their breakup I gasped. It never occurred to me that they’d split. I had always imagined that their hot sex could help them to overcome any obstacles. Yes, Margret, I’m THAT naive.

The coverage was remarkable, and by remarkable I mean disgusting, even for “the rags.” One had the headline “I Had To Leave Him To Save The Children“ and was slanted blatantly in Angelina’s favor. It painted Brad as a drunken, pot smoking, child abuser who systematically berated the kids. You know, according to those inside sources.

THAT is a character assassinating bell that cannot be un-rung. I nearly choked on my Kit-Kat.

Another had the headline “Angelina—The Wife From Hell” where again sources painted the picture of a crazed. overindulged and neurotic woman with only the thinnest grasp on reality who tortured poor Brad with her wild mood swings.

I had to leave to it to People Magazine to be fair and balanced—the arbiter of civility (a sentence I never thought I’d write). They talked about the family, the kids and how sad everyone was about the divorce. It was a family after all. They had twelve years of pictures which showed the progression of the relationship, birth of the kids and various adoptions.

They all looked happy. Full of love. It made me sad.

Entertainment journalism…is not journalism by-the-way. And it’s barely entertaining. (Don’t get me wrong I love seeing the pictures of celebrities pumping their own gas or eating at In-N-Out.)

It is where the mean kids in high school get jobs after graduation until they get hired by TMZ. They make shit up to fill in the blanks of salacious breaking stories. They quote imaginary friends and sources. Ha! Some friends!

Everyone in LA is characteristically bored with the story of yet another relationship that’s hit the skids. “Oh, that’s out”, they yawn.

Is it me or is the world getting even more jaded?

Is it getting more cynical? Does anyone root for people to stay together? Are things getting meaner? Nastier?

Are friends standing in the shadows ready to rat us out at the flash of a handful of cash?

Is anything true? Is it all made up? Am I part of the problem because I buy that shit?

I think the answer to all of those questions might be yes. What do you think?

Carry on,
xox

You know those things you do in your life that seem like a good idea at the time?

How when you’re young you feel as if you have all the time in the world to change them if they turn out to be nothing more than a bad habit?

Like jaywalking, talking with your mouth full, or unprotected sex?

I smoked cigarettes. Not all the time. Just socially. At parties mostly, and clubs, or with my roommate at the Formica dining table we had in the kitchen of the little rental we shared with my sister, who did not partake in this most unhealthy of habits. We kept a pack of Virginia Slims in the freezer with booze and a little bit of ice. Two liberated young women, beating the odds in a man’s world — Baby, we’d come a long way! Sexy, right?

Meh…now I keep coffee in my freezer. And an unopened bottle of Vodka. And a non-GMO corn crust pizza.
That’s almost-sixty-sexy.
I know. Meh…anyway…

Gossip was served in that shitty little kitchen most mornings and evenings and nothing goes better with gossip than a cigarette. They are the Batman and Robin of vices. In my opinion, you cannot have one without the other. Even now, when I smell cigarette smoke I want to divulge something dishy.

I want to speculate on Tom Cruises’ sexuality or get the dirt on Melania Trump. Is she really a fembot?

I suppose I should also designate gossiping as a bad habit. I thought I did that several decades ago but this talk of cigarettes and vices has opened Pandora’s Box—or a time machine—and inside is a Star Magazine and a pack of Virginia Slims.

This all changed for me the minute a guy told me I smelled like an ashtray. I’m lying. No man ever said that to me. They weren’t stupid, they wanted to get laid.

In my twenties, at parties, and in clubs the smoke was so thick that everybody smelled like an ashtray. Looking back I’m convinced most ashtrays actually smelled better than my thick, curly hair which absorbed all the bad breath, BO, eighties music, and smoke within a ten block radius. That transferred to my clothes, then my car and finally to my pillow. After awhile (several years), when I’d wake up and all of those smells would hit my nose in the first few seconds of consciousness—I’d want to ask—are Angelina Jolie’s lips real?— no, seriously, I’d want to puke.

There comes a time, (thirty) when you ask yourself: Is this the woman I thought I’d become? At least I did that. And I came up short.

I was letting a man emotionally get the better of me. How was that okay?
I was dabbling. I wasn’t serious about much of anything.
I was jaywalking, talking with my mouth full, and smoking, gossiping and apparently lying.
I was having protected sex. So, one point for Janet.

All of that seemed like a good idea at the time. Because I was completely unconscious. I had no idea who I was or who I wanted to become.

When, on the five-millionth smelly pillow morning, it finally dawned on me. I need to get my shit together. I need to figure out where I’m headed, who I want to be, and how that person behaves. And good lord, I need a shower.

I’d love to say it all happened overnight, easy-peasy-Parchesi, but I’d be lying (and that’s prohibited), it was progressive. And messy. It took focus, intention, and tons of introspection. In other words, it took decades to craft the ADULT woman I wanted to be and for starters, she wasn’t a smoker.

A Small Confession: I still miss smoking.

The reason this came up for me was the fact that now, at almost sixty, I’ve begun to craft what kind of “older” woman I want to portray. Do I continue to eat whatever I want and put elastic in all of my pants? Do I forgo red lipstick because it spreads all over my face like Heath Ledger’s Joker? Do I succumb to sensible shoes?

Luckily, because I’ve done this before I know the work that lies ahead of me—and I’m exhausted already!

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Carry on,
xox

I can’t ever imagine taking pleasure in someone else’s misfortune. Can you? No, of course you can’t!
Yet, I know people like that exist.
You know, they hang around the not so nice people.

I hear them in line at Alfreds;
I’ve overheard their telephone conversations (okay, just one side, but you can still get the gist) in airport terminals;
and someone has actually said something snarky and malicious TO MY FACE about a mutual acquaintance.
More than once.

The first time it came as such a shock that I just stammered, the food falling from my surprised lips, and to my credit I neither agreed nor rose to our friends defense — I just got up and left.

I say it’s to my credit because if I had agreed with the villainous, insane pleasure this woman was taking at the expense of said friend, well, I would have had to join The Douche Bag Club, a club so fraught with stink that you can only remain a member for about one month before dying of asphyxiation.

If I had come to our friend’s defense it would have come to blows and the place we were in was public, and although I may be on the small and polite side, I’m a scrappy spider monkey and I would have taken. her. down.

Plus I was wearing a skirt. And heels. And you have to take those things into account. You cannot wage a good assault in that kind of outfit.

All this to say: When it happened to me again, with someone different, I didn’t hesitate to speak up.

This time I had on pants; and comfortable shoes; and it was a telephone conversation so I could count on very little blood being shed.

Someone we knew had lost a ton of money when one of their stores closed. A real shitastrophy.
I had actually been in on several of the discussions leading up to the closure so I was aware that it had been an extremely hard choice for them to make.

This other person was deriving such delicious gratification, satisfaction, even enjoyment in relaying all the lurid details, as she understood them to be, that her glee reached a fever pitch as she exclaimed how much she loved when “rich people failed big.”

“Hold it right there.” I ordered, after finally hearing enough,
“Although it may look otherwise, it was a smart business decision, besides, that rich person is out in the world doing good things. Remember? They used to pay your salary and health insurance, and although they can probably absorb the loss, it’s still a shit-ton of money and I can assure you, none of this feels good to them.”

My words fell on deaf ears; she had HER story to tell that was a lot juicier but — nowhere near the truth.

It was a tale rife with bankruptcy, botched Botox and marital woes — and I gotta tell ya, this woman was in pig-heaven.

Can you imagine?

Here’s the thing you guys, and I’ve found it to be true time and time again: Those that take pleasure in other’s misfortunes; in failures, divorces, even accidents and tragedies are the side-line sitters — the ones that never take any risk. They live with their butts glued in the safe-seats, and pass judgment on those of us that get our asses kicked on the playing field of life.

Of course they hate rich people, because they don’t have the courage to leave their shitty job and go out on their own. They never ask for a raise, pose the hard questions or have an inspired idea.

Instead, they keep their binoculars trained on the ones that do — watching and waiting for a mis-step.

They are also known to be riddled with envy.
They can’t be happy for anyone’s success; they dismiss it, chalking it up to luck, family money, contacts, astrology, nepotism, anything but hard work, and the guts to take chances.

They also have a hard time with happy marriages, good health, washboard abs, and expensive vacations. Oh, how they hate a nice vacation story!

Please, when you encounter someone like this — and they spew their toxic nonsense all over you — set them straight.

And then drive away…and take an expensive vacation…with rich people.

Love you, Carry on,
xox

Snarky Sam.
He doesn’t have a kind word to say, well, ever.
You can count on him to complain about the weather, the slow waiter, the quality of the vegetables at the local Framers Market “their celery is flaccid” and most certainly your clothes “your closet is where 1985 went to die”, so why in God’s name would you ask his advice — about anything?

Debbie Downer (that character was invented by SNL, but it is applicable here) sees only the worst aspects of things.
In dogs, hats, and especially people.
“that hat is wearing that woman” she’ll whisper just loud enough so that the entire room, including that poor woman, can hear her.

She had one good day back in the early nineties that had an unfortunate ending – something about her foot and some dog shit, so every canine is the target of her vitriol. “You know I love Thailand, they don’t have a stray dog problem there because they eat them.”

If you share any of your good news with her she is the first one to rain on your parade, interrupting you to let you know she ran into your ex at Target and he said you looked old…and fat; or to remind you of the fact that your student loans will only take you another thirty-seven years to pay off.

Debbie’s a bitch, so you can expect that her advice will be…horrible.

Barracuda Betty.
Now she really appears as if she’s got her shit together. High functioning, top performer at her company, food connoisseur, and loyal friend.
But if you read the small print on her Friendship Resume you’ll find she is also a backstabbing secret spiller and wealthy ex-husband collector.

Her loose lips possess some of the juiciest gossip that exists on. the. planet. She has dirt on everyone (it’s rumored she even has some stink on Oprah) which makes the seat next to her at dinner parties the most highly coveted ticket in town.

Betty has the most amazing trainer, maitre ‘d at a five-star restaurant, not-so-discreet plastic surgeon, and the most cut throat divorce attorney in the country all on speed dial; and in a crisis she will tenderly pat your back and dry your tears, just don’t ask her for advice.

Betty gets and gives Bad Barracuda Advice, and if you follow it you’d better have a couple packs of cigarettes to bribe the other prison inmates, some bail money set aside, and an airtight alibi — because there will be a trail of bad decisions from here to Kingdom Come, huge invoices from a private detective to pay, and an open can of  whoop ass to clean up.

What I’m getting at you guys is this: When the going gets tough and the fan is hitting the shit, who do you go to for advice?

The person that will commiserate with you, fill your head with devious ideas and fuel your fire; or someone who will listen calmly and only agree with roughly fifty percent of everything you say? I know, hard choice.

I’m horrified by some of the stories I’ve been hearing lately about friends that are on the receiving end of some crazy ass, mean-spirited, highly questionable deeds that have been perpetrated on them after the other party sought and followed Bad Barracuda Advice. When that happens, consider the source and by all means don’t take the bait.

There’s no winner in a one man bar fight, and that’s what they want — they want a brawl — and they want to win. At all costs.

Nobody wants to hear “Two wrongs don’t make a right,” You wanna know why? Because it’s true! You’re the good guy, the white hat; you’re just an unwilling participant in a fucked up situation. Sit tight and let the other party spin their wheels, taking all the bad advice that these shifty characters have to offer, knowing that in the end, when the dust settles, you will prevail.

You may not be able to see that for years but it WILL become clear to you if you can manage to stay out of the gutter.

I promise.

And when you are seeking advice what should you listen to?
Well, you may want to punch the person in the throat that offers up this pearl of wisdom: “There are two sides to every story”. That implies that YOUR side may not stand up to the scrutiny of a friendly kitchen table cross-examination.

None of us are right one hundred percent of the time and a good friend will call bullshit, and then immediately fill your glass with more wine.

Run from the friend that thinks “You’re not being hard enough on him” or says, “Lets make her pay”.

That reeks of Bad Barracuda Advice and you, (we) are all better than that.

Carry on & try to stay out of prison,
xox

Live in such a way that you would not be ashamed to sell your parrot to the town gossip.
~Will Rodgers~

I had this post all queued up in my head and then I saw this quote on Sir Richard Branson’s blog…Go figure.
I believe the Universe seeds the air with messages so we can pick them up when we’re open enough to receive. For me that happens driving the car, in the shower, walking the dogs, or at the gym. Those are the times when my guard goes down and my antenna goes up. Consistent yes, convenient no!

Anyway, gossip…gossip…ohhhhh it can sound so delicious, yet be so malicious.
Sadly, it doesn’t stop at middle school. It’s an even snarkier beast as an adult.

The two key components with gossip that make it so hurtful are these:
1) It is often, and by often I mean almost always, NOT TRUE.
2) You would NEVER want it to get back to the subject, most especially not with YOUR name attached.
So right there, you have your filter.
Should you pass it along?
Not unless Barbie herself told you she had a boob job.
Even then, I’m guessing they can speak for themselves.

Think about it, the juiciest gossip is impossible to verify.
Did So and So’s husband really sleep with the nanny? Not unless you saw it with your own eyes. THAT is the only way to know for sure. And if you did, it’s more sad than salacious. It does not need a publicist.

Have you ever been caught on the wrong end of gossip?
Either as the subject or the spreader?
Both of those are entries into the humiliation and shame Hall Of Fame.
I’ve been both. I’m pretty sure if you’re honest and you’ve lived long enough, you have too.
Neither was my proudest moment, but MAN they taught me a lot.
I started to write them here, but then I realized in the telling of their stories, I was gossiping!
So I’ll just have to leave it to your imagination.

Here’s what I want all of us to do.
Just give it a second thought the next time a tasty tidbit is whispered in your ear.
Is it true? Even if it might be, is it for public consumption?
Would we want our name attached to it?
Would we want the parrot to blab?
Who would get hurt in the telling of this?
If it doesn’t stand up to these questions, no matter how sensational…we will walk away.
It’s none of our business.

XoxJanet