gratitude

What is a belief anyway? It’s just a thought we keep thinking, right? I keep thinking about all of this stuff and more so I guess I have to say that still makes me a believer…I feel an “I Believe” speech 2.0 coming soon!

*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 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

 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

You guys!
Just yesterday I was talking with my sister about aging, botox, frown lines and that damn upper lip of mine! Some things never change! Cheers!
Happy Friday!
xox

“Youth is wasted on the young” ~ George Bernard Shaw

Fuck. I was just thinking about that today.

About youth and aging.

About perky tits and chicken neck waddle.

About going from looking in the mirror and worrying if you have enough concealer to hide the zits, to being completely helpless without the assistance of a mega-powerful magnifying mirror developed by some sadistic scientists at NASA to apply anything besides Chapstick.

By the way, news flash, what in holy hell happened to my lips?

Every morning I send out a search party out to find my upper lip.  It disappeared around five years ago, leaving only a butt pucker looking facsimile which my bottom lip lacks the volume to compensate for. I miss it.  If you see it out on the town, wearing a bleeding-into-the-creases, wildly undefined coat of Chanel red lipstick—please tell it I’m looking for it.

What I was really pondering, was my ability as a young woman to fluctuate between being utterly fearless—to riddled with insecurity, indecision and doubt.

It was quite a swing, the speedball of emotional cocktails – and I know I’m not the only one.  You can’t hide.  I can sense you there.

Things that used to terrify me, sending me into a cold sweat, have now become second nature. And vice versa.

These days I have no problem letting someone know if they’re out of line. I have mastered the art of confrontation (which when done well is an art) to the point where it doesn’t even feel like a disagreement and often we all end up laughing, hugging, singing Kumbaya and taking a selfie.

I also spontaneously hug people – in public.  Complete strangers. It can be triggered by the most random of things, a great haircut, a cool tattoo, an interesting laugh, what they’re eating, a cute dog or if I happen to catch them crying.

As a younger woman I would have rather been killed by a clown car full of disapproving authority figures.

Back then what I lacked in-depth I made up for in reckless abandon.
I was born with very little modesty.  I’d show my boobs to anyone who’d ask (there may have been requests), pee without closing the door and walk across a beach or crowded pool party in a bikini (gasp) without a cover up.

I know! I was oblivious. There is photographic proof.

Now just recalling those things makes me sick to my stomach.

I’d also sing at the drop of a hat.  At the top of my lungs.  That is until I turned thirty and developed crippling stage fright which only released its grip on me after fifty when I no longer gave a fuck.

I care less and less about making a fool of myself, which is one of the HUGE side benefits of getting older. I cannot overstate that.

 If only I’d felt that way back then. I’d be Lady Gaga by now.

As I established earlier this month, the older I get, the less fucks I give.  I have a limited amount left and I don’t want to waste one.

I’m a Nazi about only spending time with the people I want to see, doing the things I want to do.

I no longer give a fuck about chipped nail polish, carrying the “right bag”, who the latest, greatest anything/anyone is, how big your diamond is, how much grey hair I have, the ebb and flow of the stock market, keeping up with the Kardashians, or who wore it better.

I have bigger fish to fry.

All I give a fuck about these days is my health, the people I love, and what my dog think of me.

A friend complained to me recently, “Oh God, I don’t need any more friends, I have forty years worth, and I don’t see enough of the ones I have!”

Not me! It seems I make new friends faster and more easily as I’ve gotten older.

Either people have become less discerning or I’ve suddenly become much more interesting and engaging. (I’m not sure which one bodes better for me.)

Maybe it’s true that like a fine wine, I have improved with age. The jury’s still out on that but what I DO know is that I’ve become infinitely more approachable.
And curious.

I was so self involved when I was young, (if it had been an Olympic sport, I would have medaled), that I really didn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone else.  I also thought I knew it all.  Now I’m certain of ONE thing only:  I don’t know shit about shit.

Here’s the thing,  these days other people seem SO frickin’ interesting to me. Everyone’s doing something fabulous that I need to hear about right now! Their lives are complex, multi-faceted nuggets of wonder and goodness. When did that happen?

In my opinion, youth is wasted on the young simply because of their lack of appreciation. Also, because in not knowing any better, too many fucks are wasted on frivolous shit that doesn’t matter a day, let alone a year or ten years later.

And by the fact that in the moment, being young seems like it will last forever.   Doesn’t it?

Curious to hear what you think.
Big love,
Xox

This is an essay by my bad-ass, snort-laugh inducing friend Mel Maure. She can be funny right now because well, she’s Canadian.

I figured it would be perfect for today because maybe, if you’re like me, you’ve just emerged from your own twenty-four hour tantrum, you’re suffering from a terrible case of post-election tight-assery and you need to lighten up and just fucking say “thank you.”

Thank you Mel! Just like chocolate lava cake—you are deliciously gooey on the inside and always hit the spot.

Now if you’ll excuse me I’ll be:
1) Searching for my sense of humor.
2) Taking back all of the power I gave away to this election.

Carry on,
xox

I throw spiritual tantrums. There. I said it.

What does said tantrum look like? Think of the ugly cry steeped in performance enhancing drugs. There is gnashing of teeth, snot runners and long bouts of standing in the corner of my stylish bedroom banging my forehead against the wall. And let’s not forget the weird keening sound that rises from my clogged throat.

When I throw down like this it’s not that I have been diagnosed with some raging incurable case of gout or have suddenly been forced to live in a cardboard box.

These beatific blowouts arise when I have not received exactly what I have prayed, asked, pleaded, lamented for, forgetting that my squirrelesque brain may not be the most reliable source of knowing what I need when I need it. I have a history of embarrassing romantic relationships to prove that.

In this unnerving place of wait and trust, I convince myself that my disconnection from the divine engine is terminal and there isn’t even a Kenny G tune to lull me while I sit on hold. I’ve been known to patiently wait at least three hours and fifteen minutes in this interminable holding pattern. But who’s counting?

In an attempt to ease this unsightly spoiled behaviour, I made a pact with the Cosmic Smoothie — what I think of as Universal Superfood, or God if you prefer. My somewhat anemic pact went something like this:
“I will refrain from pitching fits when the rate of jaw-dropping blessings coming into my granular existence is slow,” I vowed.

“When I meditate and don’t feel the rash of exhilarated connection to the Universe I jones for like a kismet junkie, I will be patient,” I promised.

“When the beasts of the forest are not swooping, roaming or stepping gingerly onto my path as unabashed signs that the Universe is there to soothe my drama du jour, I will be a quiet little angel of contentment,” I assured.
This sacred accord lasted three hours and twenty-seven minutes.

So why am I so quick to stop, drop and bang my head on the ground like a spoiled kid in Walmart’s toy section?
Simple. My memory sucks.

I am a dementiated, addled, lucky-if-I’m-wearing-pants kind of spiritual adventurer. And I don’t believe I am alone in this tendency of being lackadaisical. I refuse to believe I am the only one whose heart is akin to a sieve on good days, unable to retain the fullness. And on bad days is more like a defunct smelly well — the Stephen King kind with a creepy clown hunched and waiting at the bottom.

Being an impatient sort of soul does nothing to further the cause.

Once again, I am fairly certain I am not the only one who plugs her ears and hums a tune to drown out a greater knowing. A wisdom that says it’s not the best idea for us, in our limited fallible skin-suit, to drink from the cosmic fire hose.
So what is a petulant, forgetful, impatient spiritual sojourner to do?

First step: get up and stop thrashing about in the dirt. It’s contaminated with all kinds of bullshit. And by bullshit, I mean that potent noxious blend of fear and doubt. The only thing that brand of dirt grows is mould and poisonous fungi.

Second step: Record, write, make cave drawings if you have to, of all the times when you were doused with magic and thrumming with exhilaration. And if you are one of the more efficient spiritual travellers who keeps a log of every step and has a slide show to prove it, be nostalgic. Remember. Pour over every detail like an old high school football QB reliving the glory days. Caress every stitch across the pigskin of your divine moments.

Third step: Enjoy the reprieve and say thank you. It’s quite simple if we think of it like food. We cannot eat nonstop…God knows I’ve tried…at some point we all need to stop and digest what we’ve swallowed. Assimilate the sacred nutrients. When I skip this rest and digest place, I often mistake a wicked case of gas for the energy of the universe moving through me. It’s not a pleasant affair.

Fourth and final step: Have fun. For the love of God; quite literally, unclench.
Tight-assery is not a divine construct and no one wants to hang out with a downer or tight-ass, except for other tight-ass downers. Why would the Cosmic Smoothie be any different? There is no room for amazing things and mind-numbing blessings in the realm of the anal-retentive.

The final caveat to all of this: we are bound to find ourselves in the throws of petulance again and again. Our greatness cannot help but thrash inside the constraints of our humanness.

So if you see a fellow traveller rolling around in the dirt, producing bizarre mewling noises, please kneel down and whisper in her ear that she needs to stand up now. It would do her well to say thank you. It will restore her to remember all the jaw-dropping moments. For this invites more of the same.

For more flawed thoughts and very human fumblings from Melanie
https://medium.com/@melmaure/the-spiritual-tantrum-of-a-kismet-junkie-5f6cc779df07#.ugt3ruknx

This is a reprise from one year ago but I consider love letters an integral part of any gratitude storm…maybe you’ll agree. So, here ya go!
xox

Hi you guys!
Here is this week’s Huffington Post essay. It has to do with failing BIG and making peace with it.
So much so that I sat down and wrote it a love letter:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/my-love-letter-to-failure_b_8198096.html

If you know anyone going through a hard time right now who could use this, I’d love it if you’d share.
Carry on,
xox

My dearest, darling Failure,

You don’t mind if I call you by that name, do you?

I’m well aware that it’s much more politically correct to refer to you on your visits as re-direction, contrast, disappointment and a shit storm blah, blah, blah.

But when the shit hits the fan, when careers crash and burn, when marriages end badly; when we get fired, sued, or otherwise fucked over — when the things we hold dearest in our lives fracture and give way under the stress — sweetheart, it’s YOUR face we all see at the scene of the crime.

I know, I hear you when you complain that you are greatly under-appreciated but let me be clear — no one wants you around!

That being said, as I’ve come to know you better over the past few years, well, I have to admit– I’ve fallen for you…hard.

I don’t mean to sugar coat things, but you came into my life with the face of my foe and you have become my friend.

You shook things up for me BIG TIME. You took my tiny Etch-A-Sketch of a life, with all of its perfectly drawn straight lines, and you hurled it into an F5 tornado.

But I love you for that, ya big lug.

Just uttering your name, Failure, can set a person’s teeth on edge, but please don’t take it personally. I’ll give it to you straight. The reason you’re not welcome in our lives is because we’re all terrified that when you show up you’ll get comfortable, and never leave.

But truth be told, you are just as fleeting as success, THAT you’ve taught me.

When you are standing next to me knee-deep in the rubble of my life, you know what I do the next day? I get up and put one foot in front of the other, each step moving me forward.

You know what I do the days Success holds my hand? I get up, put one foot in front of the other and move forward with my life.

Success has its value — don’t get me wrong — but you Failure, your lessons have marked me more deeply and profoundly than I could have ever imagined and I love you for that.

Success never caused me to grow, gave me depth nor made me an internally richer person.

But by God, you have Failure.

Success made me lazy, afraid to try new things and take chances.

You gave me a glimpse of my true nature.

You have delivered to me some of my most agonizing moments but they have transformed me.

You made me better. Better in business; better in life. A better friend, sister, and wife.

Damn it, I love you man.

We all go to extraordinary lengths to avoid you–I know I did–but I realize now that was a mistake.

It’s like trying to avoid aging, which is a similar double-edged sword and just as futile.
There are as many benefits to be gained from failure as there are from growing old, and BOTH are a privilege.

I truly love you Failure.
If you had not come into my life when you did, I would not be the person I am today.

Big hug and a sloppy kiss,
xox
Janet

“It’s not happiness that brings us gratitude, it’s gratitude that brings us happiness.” 

As you all know by now, I’m currently in the midst of a gratitude storm because I truly believe in its mystical, darn right spooky, transformational power.

And I’ve gotta tell ya, this storm’s a real doozy. A virtual Thank You Tornado that feeds on itself.  My hubby and I got swept up and  are well on our way to filling our gratitude jar with slips of paper listing our blessings, big and small.

Besides the usual: family, friends, health, our dog, here are a few of mine—maybe (pretty please), you’ll share yours?

Thank you, chocolate chips. You make everything better. You jooj up cake batter, make banana bread exceptional, and I’m pretty sure no one would have ever heard of Toll House if it weren’t for you.

Thank you, sunrise. I know it’s cliche to be grateful for a sunrise or sunset, but this morning it was so spectacular with its periwinkle blue sky flecked with peach and rose-colored clouds I can’t help myself. Besides, when the Universe shows off in such a magnificent way—It feels rude to act indifferent.

Thank you, my body. Without you I’d be dead—so there’s that. You wake up every morning raring to go with a beating heart, eyes that see (albeit, with a lot of help from contacts), ears that hear, and feet that complain loudly with every step I take but still walk my three-mile morning hikes for me. Listen, besides taking a beating, you’re just a damn good sport.

Thank you, politics. I can’t even. Every day you make me happy I paid attention in Civics class, and you remind me of the glaringly obvious differences between RIGHT & WRONG.

Thank you, airline travel. Admittedly, you’re a pain in the ass, but the ability to have breakfast in LA and dinner in NY trumps all of that (pun intended).

Thank you, reservations and valets. You make dining out and going to the theater a pleasure. When I try to “wing it” with either of those, I always regret it.

Thank you, indoor plumbing. I have to admit, I take you SO for granted. I can’t imagine doing my business in a dark, cold, smelly outhouse, fighting off spiders and wiping myself with a leaf.

Thank you, metal drinking straws. You make the most ordinary glass of water seem civilized.

Thank you, pumpkin everything that starts showing up this time of year. Yep, I’m one of those people.

Thank you, kisses. Damn, I love ya. But I’m curious, how did you start? Who was the first person to pucker up and plant one? You’ve gotta admit, love and lips is a curious combination and I’ve always wondered.

Thank you, Instagram. I’m a voyeur at heart so getting a peek (although highly curated and orchestrated) into other people’s lives gives me a vicarious thrill.

Thank you, words. Because I get to choose just the right ones to express my never-ending gratitude to my readers all over the world who feel more like friends to me than anything.

Carry on,
xox

So…I’m back on the killer hill. Hiking. Or otherwise known as putting my life in jeopardy (maybe a touch melodramatic), to walk on dirt, uphill—in black stretch pants—with the camel toe to end all camel toes—at 8 am—for no good reason.

I’m still fucking around with my little WiFi experiment, but interestingly enough, the signal has been uncooperative since those two miraculous days last week when all the stars aligned to give me my NPR.

But I’m still at it. My middle name is tenacious. Janet Tenacious Bertolus.

There may have been some begging even though I know that begging is the surest way to silence.

Through the years, I’ve been told by pretty reliable sources that The Universe doesn’t keep score, or prioritize, and I know for a fact that The Universe can’t be bothered with begging.

Asking? Sure.

Prayers? Absolutely!

Begging? Not so much.

Especially begging for something as ridiculous as WiFi to distract from the excruciating “discomfort” I put myself through trudging up that freakin’ hill every morning.

It sticks its fingers into its ears and LA, LA, La’s until I stop.

Anyway…no begging this morning, just resigned acceptance when the signal cuts out.
Shitfuck.
Then I laughed because it’s starting to get funny.
Not really.

Have I mentioned what an opportunist the Universe can be? Oh, yeah.
Just at the point where I am at my most vulnerable; hands on my hips, bent into the hill, drenched in sweat and gasping for air like a sherpa about to summit Everest; the WiFi kicks in and Abraham on YouTube comes back on.

The Universe decides that this is the perfect time for a teaching moment.

I am elated.
This will help me summit my own humiliating, Studio City version of Everest. Except for one thing. I’ve already listened to this part. It didn’t pick up where it left off, it went all the way back to the beginning. Back to what I’ve already heard for the last forty minutes.
Shitfuck.

A not-so-mild wave of disappointment washes over me as the smile leaves my face.

Immediately the signal cuts out. Silence returns.

Awwww, come on! I actually shout out loud. What the hell?!

I stop and fiddle with my phone for a minute. Nope. Nothing. It’s no use. Resignation sets back in as I pull up my big girl stretch pants and soldier on.

It’s then that the Universe decides to give a lecture series entitled: Split Energy (Will Fuck You Every Time).

“You split your energy. You do it all the time and you needed to see an example of how it can stop the momentum of a desire faster than a concrete wall stops a speeding bullet.”

Nice visual.

“Thank you.”

But I need you to clarify, please. I barely have enough oxygen to keep me upright let alone fire the synapses’ in my brain that are needed for me to understand what the hell you’re trying to tell me.

“You desired WiFi. We gave you WiFi. And may we point out, in a place where WiFi doesn’t exist, so there’s that…”

I know! And I was so happy about that!

“For a minute. Not even. Then you were disappointed by the specifics. That’s split energy and it will stall a desire faster than anything else.”

So what should I have done?

“Really? You can’t stay grateful for a miracle for like, five minutes?…What do we always say?”

I don’t know…be kind to others and don’t say fuck so much?

“Besides that. We remind you that disappointment is taking score too soon. When you ask for something and it arrives don’t say, Oh, not THAT! it seems ungrateful and a tad rude. Wait awhile before you take score.”

I suppose you’re right.

“We’re always right! We’re the Universe! Whatever we deliver to you is ALWAYS perfect.”

Always?

“Always.”

What if…

“Always.”

What about that…

“Always.”

But…

“What part of ALWAYS are you not understanding?”

Point taken.
I’m at the parking lot and I have to pee so arrivederci and thanks for the chat.

Listen you guys, who among us hasn’t questioned a wish fulfilled because it didn’t look exactly like we expected it to look?
We’ve gotta cut that shit out. I’ll go first!

Carry on,
xox

This is the cake my tribe gets almost every time we get together because we have SO much to be grateful for that if we listed everything there wouldn’t be enough room for frosting!

*”The running commentary that dominates my field of consciousness is kind of an asshole.”
~ Dan Harris ABC News Nightline Co-Anchor

Who hasn’t felt like that about those saboteurs that dominate your brain-chatter? Listen, did you know that you can banish them for good? Well, you can, so let me tell ya how!

I’m in the middle of Pam Grout’s new book Thank and Grow Rich which is about the unimaginable power of gratitude.

Although the title insinuates it is about accumulating money—it is so much more than that. It is THE gratitude handbook. A  manual on how you can start thanking your way toward a “rich” life in every damn way you can imagine.

Love, relationships, creativity, peace of mind, and FUN!

Yes, life can be fun.

*”Life is a ticket to the greatest show on earth.”
~ Martin H. Fischer Physician and Author

Here’s the rub. *“Quit thinking, start thanking.”

I could blah, blah, blah, all over this page giving you a synopsis of what the book is about but I think I’ll let Pam, the author, do that instead because she says it way better than I ever could, as a matter of fact, she did! Here is a quote from page 72.

*AMASSING ALCHEMIC CAPITOL

“The bliss, the wisdom, the creativity, the laughter, the friendships, the joy, the serenity and peace that have been, for the most part, seen as an impossible dream will become your most ordinary state of being.”
~ The Way of Mastery

More than another book on counting blessings, this is a book about climate change. Changing the climate of your energy field, upgrading the resonance with which you perceive the world.
Practicing gratitude, more than penciling a written list, is to practice alchemy.
Looking for the good in life literally changes things. Physically changes things.
Financially changes things.
Mentally and emotionally changes things.
It literally changes atoms and rearranges molecules.

Cynics like to discount gratitude, downgrade it as sweet, nice, something for naive Pollyannas.

What I’ve discovered is that living on the frequency of joy and gratitude causes cataclysmic reverberations.”

So I, for one, am getting my Thank You on. What do you think? Are you with me?

Carry on,
xox

*Taken directly from the book Thank and Grow Rich
https://www.amazon.com/Thank-Grow-Rich-Experiment-Shameless/dp/1401949843/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1474414863&sr=1-1&keywords=thank+and+grow+rich

This is my latest Huffington Post piece and another in my unintentional series on the way hope, gratitude and optimism have become dirty words these days. What do you think my tribe?
xox

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/i-may-be-a-pollyanna-but-_b_11265326.html

It’s become terminally “uncool” to be hopeful and optimistic; and if anyone so much as gets a whiff of it, you are laughed at, belittled and shouted down.

That being said, I have a confession to make—I am proud to admit that I am a card-carrying “Pollyanna”.

Just to clarify, “Pollyanna” is a derogatory term for someone who remains excessively sweet-tempered and optimistic even in adversity. This may sound like it’s all fairy dust, rainbows, and unicorn balls, but I’m here to tell you, it can be difficult to maintain, especially surrounded as we are by the current apocalyptic zeitgeist.

Optimism is not for crybabies or the faint of heart.
Neither is hope. It’s an audacious act.
And fucking hard work.
It takes focus, grit, grace, a thick skin and the ability to unplug.

Hopelessness has countless outlets these days and it broadcasts its tale of woe 24/7. Like a spoiled, bratty child it yells at the top of its lungs all the while keeping its hands over its ears, lest it hear something uplifting—like the truth.

Here at the Pollyanna channel, we eat fear for breakfast—because we know the truth.

College graduation is at an all time high.
Teenage pregnancy numbers have continued to fall.
Violent crime is at an all-time low.
There has been a drop in domestic violence and drunk driving-related deaths.
Around the world, deaths from infectious diseases and child mortality are at an all time low.
Just to name a few.

I’m not blind, I still see huge room for improvement, but as an optimist, I believe the solutions come to us when we stay centered in hope.

It can be damn hard. I get it.

But like I said, optimism is not a fair weather sport for weaklings. It is for warriors. It’s so much easier to complain and blame, be furious and scared.

This pollyanna shit is not all kumbaya—it takes work!

By-the-way, if a doctor, therapist, teacher or pastor told me that the problem I was struggling with was a hopeless disaster, I would seriously run for the freakin’ hills. I expect even more from someone campaigning for the highest office in the land.

Please tell me one time that that kind of thinking has brought lasting, positive change.
One time. Tell me. I’m waiting.
NEVER.

I can guarantee you that throughout human history while some fraidy-cat fear-monger was running around like a headless chicken screaming about a falling sky, the Pollyanna’s in the bunch were calming the crowd and building a roof.

I swear to God, Noah was a Pollyanna.

“What devastating flood?” he said, over the deafening shouts of rain! Rain! Flood! Flood! Death! Disaster—and worse, no flood insurance!

“I’m building a boat” was his reply.

“What an idiot you are!” they all shouted after him as he sailed away.

Pollyanna’s unite! Be strong in the face of constant ridicule. Use your hope, use your faith, keep your optimism high and calm the crowds. Stay in the arena! We need you in the game!

Carry on.

We had a day of gratitude yesterday, me and my husband.

As we mentioned to each other how grateful we were for the simple things in life, parking spaces appeared (with time left on the meter), hassle-free food at a crowded concert showed up, there were even two empty seats in front of us for the first half of a sold-out show.

Now, I know what you’re thinking.

Shut the fuck up! What do we have to be grateful for? Face reality! The world is a horrible, threatening place filled with uncertainty, hate, and people who are looking to do us harm.

Well, maybe you’re not saying that, but people do. A lot of people. And they get very angry when the word gratitude gets mentioned.

These days, saying you’re grateful has become a subversive act—the molotov cocktail of declarations. If you have the audacity to utter the words in mixed company, say at a bar-b-que or something, it can make you a lightning rod for a spew of vitriol the likes of Linda Blair in The Exorcist.

To some folks, it’s as bad as admitting you want Hillary—or that you slap puppies.

Too bad.

Yesterday we felt gratitude. There. I said it.

We are blessed in so many ways and whatever argument you yell in my face you cannot talk me out of it—so please stop trying. And I realize it is just as impossible for me to change your mind.

Reading this will not help. Words will never change you. That I know for sure.

You have to be willing to look at things differently, literally take your eyes out of your head and dip them in something pleasant–and preferably fizzy—perhaps some pink champagne or one of those fruity Pellegrino drinks that are a “thing” right now. Let the bubbles help clarify your vision.
Do something, anything shocking to break the pattern.

Because only seeing the shit in life is a BAD HABIT.

And…right about now you want to take a fork to my face. But listen, I know that from experience!
It was my bad habit too. My default setting. I was so fucking vigilant and valiant in my suffering—I would have made ya proud.

Sound familiar?

OMFG, do I have bad habits!
I chew my cuticles until they bleed, I dispense unsolicited advice, I say the word fuck before breakfast more than Richard Pryor did in his entire career, and at certain points in my life I have fallen into the habit of pessimism—and I’m oversimplifying the depth of my angst by using that word. Call it depression, call it anxiety, call it a four-years-long bad mood—NEVER have any of my other bad habits tried to systematically dismantle my soul day in and day out—like that fucker did.

From the moment I woke up until the moment I closed my eyes and even those hours in between when human beings are supposed to be asleep, I could ONLY see what was going wrong and how unfair, unjust, and just plain awful my existence had become.

Can you say Shit. Show?

So, I get it.

You guys, I don’t pretend to know how any of this works, this perpetual darkness thing, what I DO know is that eventually, I hated feeling so damn bad–it was exhausting, like breathing water—and I wanted a way out.
Desperately.
I drank excessively, I ate too much, I meditated, I exercised fanatically, I chanted, I cut my own bangs and I Ommmm’d my ass into submission, seeking and searching. Like a five-pack-a-day smoker, I sought a patch, something to slap on my arm to numb my addiction to feeling bad.

But this was what kept showing up:
Practice gratitude, I read somewhere.