gratitude

I love giving things away.
It makes me feel good.

But…has someone ever given something to someone you know—and they don’t want it—and they try to give it to you—but you’re too polite to say no?
Yeah, me neither.
OR, have you ever given someone something and they were completely ungrateful?

I could say I’m not attached to the reaction of the recipient because we all know that’s a trap and we don’t give only to receive—but if I said that I’d be lying.

Case in point.
I cleaned out my refrigerator the other day. And “cleaned out” might not be exactly the right term. I reached for a bag of apple slices (I buy them already sliced in a convenient reusable bag because I CANNOT be bothered to cut my own apples), and when they looked less than appetizing, kind of brown and mushy, instead of putting them back in the drawer and looking for some other snack, I took them out to throw them away.

I think we can all agree, “cleaned out” does work here.

Anyhow, as I made my way to the trash I had an idea.
This was not a fresh, shiny, new idea. It was actually the same reoccurring idea I get when I have fruit that has turned unfit for human consumption. I will put it out front for the squirrels!
Just two weeks ago I gave them a couple of apricots that had turned to jam all by themselves in the bottom of the fruit bowl—and they loved ‘em! Gone in five minutes!

I love that! It’s such win, win situation. They eat my perfectly squirrel-edible fruit and I don’t have to feel guilty about the fact that eighty-five percent of the fruit I buy spoils before I can eat it.

So…let me just tell you about these squirrels.

We have an entire community of extremely boisterous, horney and hungry squirrels that came part and parcel with the house, which came part and parcel with the giant Ash tree out front.

Someone in the neighborhood feeds them peanuts, the shells which I find in all of my planters…and my dogs’ poop. They have also been key players in The Mystery of The Steak Bones From Nowhere.
A reoccurring drama where we find beef and steak bones (is that redundant?), randomly on our property more than I’m guessing you do.

They appear out of nowhere and find their way into our house, I suspect via my dog’s mouth. I have felt suspicious of their appearance from the start but that’s just me. I have a suspicious nature.

On the other hand, my delightful husband with not a suspicious bone in his body, suggested that the squirrels were bringing them over. This is exactly what he said, “I think someone is giving the bones to the squirrels and they’re bringing them to the dog”.

Of course, I immediately balked at the idea of that.

Most of the bones are bigger than a squirrel’s head, some larger than their entire body I just couldn’t wrap my brain around the aerodynamics of it. Still, they kept showing up. Then the other day, when I was pruning the Bougainvillea, a perfectly round beef bone the size of my fist, fell out of the air and onto my head. It must have fallen into the boug from the canopy of the Ash tree that covers our patio. Otherwise known as the squirrel Trump Tower.

My husband was as vindicated as you can be without saying “I told you so”, the dog was as grateful as a dog can possibly be without exploding. Me—I was neither.

All this to say, our squirrels pretty much accept any and all hand-outs.

Except apparently, brown apple slices. They lay there for three days covered with snail slime until the ants finally unionized enough to carry them away.

Oh sure, bones the size of a grapefruit are fine, but apples that have oxidized a little are unacceptable?! What happened to gratitude?

Which reminds me. They also hate grapefruit. But only the white ones. Pink they love.

Carry on,
xox

P.S. Once, when I was leaving a cafe in Venice, I offered a homeless man sitting nearby the rest of my perfectly yummy, warm and untouched dinner. He accepted and I felt terrific. As we drove away my heart swelled as I watched him open the container…and throw the contents against a wall.
I’m not sure which felt worse. That or the squirrel snub.

Two very rare tree bones

Mind. Blown.
xox

Oh, oh, oh! Do you ever need to read this! You know who you are. It’s an oldie but goodie…still, take heed…and quit carrying on.
xox

GRUDGE

grudge
ɡrəj/
noun
1. a persistent feeling of ill will or resentment resulting from a past insult or injury.

synonyms: grievance, resentment, bitterness, rancor, pique, umbrage, dissatisfaction, disgruntlement, bad feelings, hard feelings, ill feelings, ill will, animosity, antipathy, antagonism, enmity, animus;
chip on one’s shoulder

verb
1.
To be resentfully unwilling to give, grant, or allow (something).

synonyms: begrudge, resent, feel aggrieved about, be resentful of, mind, object to, take exception to, take umbrage at

I used to work for someone who was the King of the Grudge Holders. He was brilliant at it.
If you had a grudge that needed to be held, you could count on him to do it for you.

His family used him over the years as their sanctioned grudge holder.
That left the rest of them free to live an unfettered, happy life.

He held a grudge toward his brother for being a dick to him as a teenager, you know like older brothers are.
Dude. It’s a right of passage — let it go.

Nope. Over twenty years later and they barely spoke.

It got to the point where he didn’t even know why he hated someone — he just did.
His dad had once told him the story of some slight that befell him after the war. Not the Vietnam war, that would have been bad enough, no, we’re talking WWII — the 1940’s for god sakes.

I watched my boss act as cold as ice to a seemingly very nice older gentleman who came into our store, and after he left I questioned him about his behavior. “What the hell was that?” I said in a tone reserved for people who kick dogs.

“I don’t want that guy in here” he responded defensively, “Besides, he’s got a lot of nerve. He and my dad got into a bar fight once over a girl.”

“Uh, really? When? The Neolithic period? Your parents have been married for over fifty years, I think the statute of limitations on post-war fights over girls who are now almost eighty has been exceeded.”

He wasn’t having it. He folded his arms tight, pursed his lips, and stomped away.

I used to joke with him, “Give me the list of who you’re not mad at, suing, or holding a grudge against — it’s the short one.”

Bygones could never be bygones.

And that’s the thing with some people. They have a dog in every fight. They’ll latch onto a story they hear about something gone awry and they’ll run with it, holding the grudge long after the situation has been rectified.

“That guy owes Jerry money.” he sneered one day as he walked by me to put something in the safe.
I looked up to see some nondescript someone I didn’t know, writing a check to another dealer in the building. “How do you know that?” I decided to bite, it was a welcome distraction from all the paperwork.

“Jerry told me in Miami” he replied, standing at the counter staring the guy down. His face was turning red. I could feel his blood pressure rising.
“That was over six months ago, maybe he’s paid him, besides I can see the line of people who owe Jerry money from here. You guys all owe each other money. Shit, Jerry owes YOU money!”

He just grunted and mumbled something under his breath as he sat back down behind his desk.

Dog in someone else’s fight.
Nose in somebody else business.
Mood ruined.
Grunge held…for Jerry.

He really should have charged for his services. His obituary will read: He never met a grudge he couldn’t hold.

The problem with holding a grudge …is that your hands are then too full to hold onto anything else.
-Seth Godin

It has been my observation (I did almost twenty years of research), that what chronic grudge holders are incapable of holding because their hands are full of …grudge… are joy and gratitude.

Grudges turn toxic and eventually soul numbing.

It was physically impossible for him to feel appreciation and gratitude. That chip was missing.
We used to be able, with the help of copious amounts of alcohol, to coax an uncomfortable “thank you” out of him after trade shows.

He had a good life. A successful business, healthy family and money in the bank, and I watched him year after year take it all for granted. Like it was owed to him.

And for many, many years I witnessed a complete lack of joy. Actually, all the higher emotions were missing. I never really saw love, empathy or compassion shown toward anyone.

But over time, I learned to cut him a break. I understood. After all — his hands were full.

I’m happy to report that like cheese, age has softened him and we are still friendly, but when I thought of the word grudge, his face immediately came to mind.

Who do you think of when you see that word?

Carry on,
xox

Dearest body of mine,
I would like to extend my most heartfelt apology for under appreciating you all of these years and for being your harshest critic.

It is high time I write this. It is way past time actually–horribly overdue by years, maybe even decades.

I’m sorry. I can be such an ass.

I certainly deserve your indifference and yet you are so endlessly forgiving.
I could learn something from your example.

Anyway, I’m here to say…I’m sorry. And I love you.

I have repeatedly ignored your wishes, judged you and even called you names.
Tiny department store dressing rooms, covered in carnival mirrors and bright, unforgiving fluorescent lights can attest to that fact.

Please accept my sincerest apology.

Over the years, I have deprived you of sleep, rattled you with stress, covered over your anxiety by overworking you and then made up for it at times by smoking and drinking too much, (which I’m sure is exactly what you did NOT need).

Other times, I have marinated you in a melancholy laced dissatisfaction until it affected your health, at which point you knocked me on my ass with anxiety attacks, Mono, a lung infection, strep throat or some other malady long enough to get my attention and give me time to re-group and let you heal.

Thank you and I’m sorry.

I have systematically starved and over fed you; brutally sunburned you summer after teenage summer; changed your natural hair color and texture too many times to count, tweezed, waxed and lasered you beyond all reason and basically treated you like shit since, well– since I was old enough to get away with it.

And don’t get me started on that face.
Every time I look in the mirror I only see the flaws–the thin chicken lips and over-plucked eyebrows, several deep divots due to teenage acne and just when it looked as if I had come to terms with it all–alas, the wrinkles.

But you always cut me slack. Don’t you just want to strike back at me? Like with a giant forehead zit, you know, the kind that hurt like a mutha or a stye in my eye?

You should! What the hell’s wrong with me?

Just the fact that my eyes have sight, my legs still carry me and that I can hear and smell all the wonders of the world around me–is a lottery win! You are sturdy and strong, hearty and healthy — but why hasn’t that ever been good enough?

I’m so sorry.

As a young woman I was naturally thin, (another unappreciated lottery win), so of course, I wanted to be curvy.
I never appreciated your stellar metabolism for one minute. I took it for granted, stuffing my face with junk food knowing you’d save me from myself, when suddenly at around age forty you dialed it back so that now I have to exercise like an Olympian and watch what I eat–every morsel registering on the scale.

Well-played. I know, I deserved it.

I apologize for never knowing you were good enough just as you were.
Listen, I’d like to call a truce. Can we be friends?

I finally realize you are not some cosmic mistake or last minute consolation prize. I wasn’t supposed to be Cindy Crawford or Florence Joyner. I get that now.

God chose you for me, or better yet, it was a collaboration between both of us before we were born, for the life we were meant to lead.

You house my soul for crying-out-loud–my very essence. We are a team, you and me, so you’d think I would have held you in higher regard.

I am so sorry.

So now, having said all of that,
I don’t care what you weigh as long as you’re healthy.

I don’t care if you can’t run five miles like you used to, your legs are still strong enough to hike–hikes are good.

I don’t care if you have wrinkles. Together we have worried and we have laughed–we earned those lines by engaging in a life well lived.

I promise to try to drink less alcohol (you keep telling me it no longer agrees with you).

I promise to get you checked out on a regular basis, you know, for tune-ups –like the high-performance vehicle you are and trust that you can fix yourself most of the time.

I promise to get enough sleep.

I promise to keep us stimulated, body, mind, and spirit, well into old age.

I promise to quit looking around to see how other women are aging and just be happy and make the most with what I’ve been gifted.

I promise to listen to you and to pay closer attention to what you’re telling me.

You, my glorious friend, are a work of art and a freaking miracle and every creak, groan and crack are there to remind me to treat you with respect–After all, we are a team.

Love you,
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

You guys,
Friday, someone I hold in extremely high regard showered me with a veritable social media love-fest. Everywhere I looked she went out of her way to say something incredibly kind.
For no damn reason.
I didn’t give her money.
I didn’t clean her kitchen or babysit her dog.
Truth be told I hadn’t even talked to her in a while!

I just woke up, scratched my ass, had my coffee, and commented on her blog. I didn’t even say anything particularly special.
The next thing I knew, she unleashed the Kraken of Kindness.

Feeling awash in immense gratitude, I was reminded of this post from last year regarding this very thing.

The feeling I carried with me ALL DAY Friday was beyond delicious. That’s why knowing this is so, so, very important.

Love.
Somebody somewhere loves you.
I know I do
xox

A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.”
― Jackie Robinson

I missed the email when it came in.
Contrary to what most people believe, I am NOT on social media 24/7.

It was Sunday so…I was doing assorted Sunday stuff; sleeping past six, eating pancakes stuffed with blueberries, carbs and gluten, (because on Sunday, none of that stuff counts and calories don’t stick. Trust me, I’m a Doctor*) and engaging in general, slovenly goof-offiness.

When I finally did check in, I noticed that one of my readers/friends had left me some very lovely feedback on Saturday’s blog, the one about viewing your life as a movie.
It always moves me when people take the time to write and tell me how something made them feel. I know everyone is crazy busy, so it’s much appreciated.

It’s like finding blue sea glass  Like discovering a gem—gorgeous, out of the blue and completely unexpected.

My point is this:

I swear to God. You didn’t do anything out of the ordinary to deserve it.
And you don’t even know it.
If you COULD somehow feel it you’d walk a little taller and maybe put on some lipstick.

I have teachers from grade school that I STILL revere and if they were alive…I know they would be surprised.

The same friend that wrote that email is herself an extraordinary woman.
Yet, she has NO IDEA.
In the jewelry world, she is a badass. She is an expert in time periods, stones, and things I can’t pronounce, let alone spell. Her lectures are always packed and she commands the stage like a rockstar. Believe me when I say, that many, many of us think she’s awesome — and I can assure you —she doesn’t know it.

Recently I was lucky enough to meet a brilliant, funny, and incredibly wise woman who resides in Paris.
An expatriate married to a Frenchman. She has such style and grace that denim has never touched her impossibly smooth skin. Her body would react so violently she would have to take anti-rejection drugs to wear a pair of yoga pants. Murphy (see, even her name is ridiculously cool), is so impossibly chic that French woman clamour for her style council and fashion advice.
I’m sure of it.
I’m also sure that wherever she goes, she leaves a wake of awesome-sauce behind her of which she is blissfully unaware.

Our friend Clay is knowledgeable in SO MANY fields. Just by breathing he can unintentionally make me feel equally stupid about music, computers and food.
THAT my friends is a trifecta of talent.

My husband continues to marvel at Clay’s humble manner and general down-lowness.

He’s a pilot and we didn’t know that for a year. He owns several patents, and again, we just somehow found out; and I’m pretty sure he invented the internet (sorry Al Gore).
In our estimation, he is a 21st-century renaissance man and he has NO IDEA we feel that way about him!

It’s startling when people let you know that they hold you in high regard. It’s like you were just going about your business, Lala la Lala, just being you—and someone noticed your sparkle.

It makes you want to straighten your crown and walk like a boss. It may cause you to strut. Like some serious red carpet strutting. Like Angelina Jolie on the red carpet type strutting. SHE is someone who owns her awesomeness. The rest of us mere mortals have to be reminded.

Which is why telling extraordinary people how much they’ve impacted you is a wonderful thing—please, do it. Often.

But I know it’s a safe bet that we each have several silent admirers who think we rock.

People we haven’t seen or spoken to for years AND people we see every day.
Isn’t that crazy wonderful?

There are people breathing your exhaled air, living right now, looking at the same moon, who think you’re covered in awesome sauce.

I do.

You’re all amazing!
Xox

*I’m not really a Doctor, I just play one on TV.

So here we are at the three-year mark. The third anniversary of the spontaneous creation of this blog.

It has changed me. YOU have changed me. For the better.

You make me want to be a better version of me. To write better. To always tell the truth.

Without your love, support, comments and hilarious off-the-grid emails—I’d have stayed sad and stuck.

I hated stuck. Stuck sucked. So did sad. Sad was like quicksand.

So thank you.

For letting me vent. And rant. And offer advice. And maybe even make you laugh.

You guys are the best, honestly—and I love you all madly.

Color me Immensely Grateful.

Carry on,

xox

Have you been a victim of Family Holiday Dysfunction?  Yeah, me too.

That’s why they call it Turkey Day.

Here’s a reader’s holiday favorite NEW and revised on the Huffington Post.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/hard-feelings-with-a-side_b_8612360.html

Hang in there—it’ll be over soon!

xox

Thank you ancient Chinese woman who is taking an eternity to cross the street.

There is no doubt in my mind that you will celebrate your 102nd birthday in the crosswalk—while we all watch and wait.

I’m tempted to buy a cake and balloons—but I’m pretty sure your resolve to get to the other side of the street is such that you wouldn’t even notice, and I don’t want an entire uneaten cake sitting around my house taunting me.

You see I’m in a big, hairy hurry today and you have forced me to slow down, no make that stop, and cool my jets.

You’ve probably saved my life. Maybe there was a car accident up ahead with my name on it—so thank you.

No, really.
I want to scream at you or nudge you with my car, after all, it’s been over seven minutes and you’re not even half-way across—but I too possess feet that barely walk anymore—a conscience—and I want to go to heaven when I die—where I will wait for you—because you’ll still be crossing this fucking street!

A man tried to help you and you waved him off, so I’ve turned off my engine—we all have. We’re treating this like a train crossing.

But really, thank you oh ancient one, for giving me hope that I will still be getting around and holding up traffic at rush hour (that term is a cruel joke) when I am your age. I can only aspire.

By the way, where are you headed? Where did you come from? What’s your story? Why are you walking? What—no Uber for you?

And seriously, you have the tiniest feet I’ve ever seen on someone over six months old.
How do they hold you up? And I’m not sure about the little black Mary Jane’s over white socks.
They look like doll shoes. As a matter of fact the more I look at them the more certain I am that there is a barefoot doll lurking somewhere in Chinatown.
I would have chosen something more…sensible. Perhaps a cross-trainer. Just sayin’.

Here’s the thing, with all this time on my hands I’ve had a chance to look you over, after all I’m the first car at the crosswalk and you’ve been crossing in front of me for the better part of, well, a damn long time!

奶奶 Nǎinai (That’s grandma in Chinese, I had time to google it).
I like your pointy hat. Although a straw Chinese hat borders on cliché and would not have been MY first choice, I like how it ties under your chin with a red string and shades your entire face. I can see that you go for substance over style. Classics only, no fads for you. Good job.

And Oh My God, can we talk about that face for a minute?
It is the color of latte (which reminds me, I haven’t had my coffee yet—fasting blood test) and is so wizened that it appears that your lines have lines, tributaries that traverse your entire face from the corners of your eyes to your chin. (I can’t see the rest—pointy hat is in the way).

Okay then, gauging from your progress so far, (sitting through four light changes), I’ll have plenty of time to finish this post AND check my emails.

I typically don’t check them while I’m driving, but I can see them flash across the screen when they come in—and of course two that I’ve been waiting days to see, have shown up at the moment I’m least able to reply.

Six hours at the computer—nothing.

Get in the car—every email I’ve ever needed to read, all the answers to all of my questions bling into my awareness—while I’m fucking driving and my hands are tied! (Sorry, remember I haven’t had my coffee and I’m a pint low on blood.)

So thank you ancient Chinese Nǎinai, I’m all caught up now.

I have also finished my taxes, filed a broken nail, plucked my eyebrows in the rearview mirror, and cleaned out my wallet.

Well, look at that! It seems that you are suddenly finished, (you took that curb like a champ)… and I already miss you.

Thank you for all of your life lessons today. You have taught me so much!

You slowed me down. You showed me you can live a perfectly lovely life at another speed besides TURBO.

You attempted to teach me patience, empathy and compassion. (You were successful on two out of three.)

You showed me what wise, ripe, old age can look like. And power. You showed me you have the power to stop traffic.

You schooled me in the millinery arts.

And you made me fall just a little bit in love with you.

So now, the twenty or so of us that have gathered and waited (without honking by the way), for you to cross the street, we have to race away and try to make up the time we’ve lost.

But I’m going to think of you today, traveling at your glacial pace, and wonder how you are and if you ever made it to your destination.

Who am I kidding? I will be waiting for you in heaven!

Carry on,
xox

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/i-was-a-twentysix-year-ol_b_8086040.html

So I finally did it. I reached a milestone, the bloggers Holy Grail. I got a piece published in the Huffington Post!

But it was the journey there that made an even, dare I say, larger impression on me!

After receiving the nicest email a year ago from Arianna herself (on a Sunday for chrissakes), hooking me up with a blog editor, I have spent the past year submitting posts like a fucking headless chicken, with no luck.

Finally, around June-ish, my poor harried Muse suggested I give it a rest—just for the summer.

But, but, how will I know when to start again? I whined in protest.

You’ll just know, she replied in an exhausted tone; drink in hand, the nub of a cigarette dangling from her lips.

goddamnit! I hate when she does that.

Anyhow, I did as I was told. I immediately stopped submitting.
But I kept a keen eye open, looking for a signal; a sign; a flare;  SOMETHING; ANYTHING; to let me know when it was time to start submitting again. And… I never stopped writing.

About two weeks ago I sat down and out poured an essay about my divorce (Yawn*. I have covered that topic from head to toe, turning over every rock, so much so that I’M even bored with it).

However, this time was different. It was written from the perspective of my twenty-six year old self and how it all felt to her.  Hmmmm… I still wasn’t sure what to make of it, so I filed it away with the ten gazillion other unfinished drafts.

A week later as I was browsing the Huffington Post Facebook page, an essay on divorce caught my eye. It said at the top that they were running a series This is Divorce at… Stories about what divorce meant at all different ages. If you had one, they were asking for submissions.

Whoa, What?
Shut Up!
Are you kidding me? I just wrote that piece.

Then it dawned on me, because it takes me a while and I have swiss cheese for a brain. (You’re all way ahead of me aren’t you?)

OMG! That was my sign to submit!

So I finished the essay, sent it in, (I had to shorten it), and the rest, as they say is history.
It was THAT easy.

What’s that word we’ve been throwing around all freaking summer?

Oh yeah, surrender.

This is my best surrender story EVER! (Well, except for the time I surrendered my poor struggling store to the Powers That Be, and it flooded and died that very night) —yeah, besides that one.

Today I’m filled with SO MUCH gratitude! That is some powerful Unicorn ju-ju!

Love you, Carry on,
xox

Hey you guys,
I would appreciate it SO MUCH if you would leave a comment on the HuffPo article and up at the top there is a tiny little heart that if you click on it makes you a fan. Would you do that for me?
Thank you so much!

xox