help

Friends, 
Angels? Do you believe they walk among us? I sure do!
Read this and see what you think.
xox

As we rushed out through the smokey maze of the Casino at the old Sahara Hotel in Las Vegas, it suddenly hit me that he had once again forgotten to give me my show bonus. The monetary incentive he used to physically wring me dry.  

The realization stopped me in my tracks.
F*#&!

We had just finished a week-long, Estate Jewelry Show.
I was bone tired from being on my feet for over twelve hours a day—in heels, and to add insult to injury, our plane reservation left us no time to eat before the flight home, so to top it all off—I was hangry.
In other words—I was in NO mood for any fuckery!

We had grossed over one million dollars—in a week. The two of us. And I was about to fly home empty-handed, once again.

You see, I had a boss who hated to pay me. He just did.
And no carefully scripted notes or heartfelt talks, or angry outbursts on my part had done anything to change that.

I had coached him repeatedly on the merits of showing respect. It wasn’t difficult, all he had to do was pay me. And not make me ask for my money, which I HATED.

What would this be, the third time that day I’d had to ask him for my money? I was quite familiar with this humiliating power play, and I was sick of it! Listen, I had done everything I could think of to sidestep this idiocy! Even after years of his bonus structure consisting of whatever loose cash he had in his pocket, not his fat, overstuffed money clip mind you—but his pocket change, I had won one hard-fought battle by finally getting him to agree to a pre-set bonus amount.

“Why are you stopping?” he bellowed back at me impatiently. His aluminum wheelie suitcase, a rectangular R2D2, skipped from wheel to wheel, trying to keep its balance. I could’ve sworn it looked in my direction with a help me face.

He continued his frantic march through the casino toward the door.

“I’d love to get my bonus before we leave?” I asked for the third time, running to keep up. I knew that if I let it slide, even for a day or two, the odds of getting it would become so slim even a Vegas bookie would pass on that bet.

I wasn’t sure he’d heard me until in one fluid motion, he swung to the right, deftly executing a wide, sweeping, u-turn back in my direction. Still in motion, he reached into his murse (man purse) and dumped a handful of gambling chips in my direction. Surprised, I reached out with both hands in time to catch most of them. Several of them did make a break for it, the slippery little buggers rolling on their sides underneath the dollar slots nearby.

“That should cover it,” He insisted. “Now hurry up, we don’t want to miss our plane.”

I stood there red-faced and flabbergasted, knowing that he’d left me no time to cash them in. Quickly, I shoved the chips in my purse and proceeded to get down on my hands and knees to see if I could retrieve the ones that had made their escape.

A pot-bellied, middle-aged woman, with a cigarette with two inches of ash precariously dangling from her lipstick-stained lips, was straddling two stools in front of three slot machines. Without ever looking away from the rapidly rotating numbers she was counting on to change her life, her foot kicked the chips my way, like a bedroom-slippered hockey stick.
“Uh, thanks” I mumbled, crawling around on the ground in my skirt and heels, totally in awe of her unbroken focus.

“Janet, let’s go!” He chided from inside the automatic revolving glass exit doors before turning right to join the cab line.

I could hear the damn plastic chip clattering together in my bag as I ran to catch my flight back to LA.

In the hour it took to get from Vegas to Los Angeles, I began to seethe with rage.
Not only had he made me repeatedly beg him for money he had literally thrown poker chips at me in lieu of my bonus! I had never felt so disrespected. In. My. Life.

I don’t know about you, but when I get in touch with that level of anger, I have a tendency to burst into flames tears.
Hunched down in my middle seat toward the back of the plane, I cried and cried and cried. Big, wet, sloppy tears.

I decided I would rather die, covered in honey and tied on an anthill than take the prearranged ride home to Park La Brea with him and his wife. What I knew for sure was that someone was going to die if I got in that car with him. And I was way too overdressed to spend a night in jail.

As we exited the terminal, the crowd spitting us out onto the curb, I spotted his wife’s car to the left. Without making a sound, (or so much as an indecent hand gesture) I made a beeline to the right, jumping into a single cab that just happened to be waiting there for me.

The moment the door shut and we pulled away—I freaking lost it.

I began to ugly cry, complete with gasping for breath and rivers of snot running down my face.
There I was, trapped in a horrible working situation with no solution in sight. What do you do when you ask someone repeatedly to treat you with respect and they blatantly disregard that request?

I know what you’re thinking, quit! But I couldn’t. I had the kind of career everyone wanted. Travel, great pay, jewelry, prestige. Which led to a lot of financial obligations, AND I was thirty-seven and single. Wahhhhhhhhhhhh. That sad truth made me cry even harder.

As we wound our way through the late-night traffic on LaCienega, I spotted the dark, soulful eyes of the cab driver, staring at me in the rearview mirror. His deep brown skin, white turban, and singsongy accent gave away his country of origin. India.

“Beautiful lady, why you cry?” He cooed.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, I’m just feeling so sad,” I boo-hooed. “I don’t know what to do.”

I watched his eyes search my face in the mirror as I inadvertently wiped snot into my hair with the back of my hand.
“Beautiful lady, don’t be sad, it can’t be that bad,” he murmured in his soothing, heavily accented voice.

“Ohhhhhhh it is, I think I hate my boss…he doesn’t show me any respect…he paid me with…”

I started to wail. Loudly. “With, with, poker chiiiiiiiiiiiiips!”

I grabbed a couple out of my bag and tossed them onto the front seat for dramatic effect.

“Beautiful lady, you have God’s respect and that’s all that matters.”
“Really? I  mean, I guess…”

At that moment, the cab came to a slow, rolling stop in front of my high-rise apartment building.

Since I had cried the entire ride home, he had to wait as I scavenged around in my bag for cab fare. In the meantime, the lovely man retrieved my suitcase from where I had launched it, the driver’s side backseat, opened my door, and wheeled my bag inside the lobby, depositing it in front of the elevator doors. When he returned to the cab, I had composed myself enough to hand him his fare, including a generous tip for being such a good listener.

“Here you go, thank you for being so kind to me,” I said sheepishly through the tissue that was attempting to wrangle my false eyelashes back into place.

“Oh no beautiful lady, you keep that. This ride is on me.”
And before I could even argue with him, he pulled away into the dark Los Angeles night. As I watched his tail lights fade into the distance, I realized a couple of things that were not normal. And they gave me goosebumps.
They still do.

Number one: I never told him where I lived!

I just got in the cab and fell apart while he drove me home — to Park La Brea, a literal labyrinth of apartments, turnabouts, and one-way streets. My friends refuse to pick me up lest they never find their way out. Even with my best directions, many a cab driver has made a wrong turn and been spit back out onto Wilshire Boulevard.

Number two: There are ten high rises inside that complex. How is it that he had managed to navigate all the twists and turns and one-way streets and deposit me right at my door?
I’ll answer that. He was an angel. My angel. Plain and simple.

When I finally managed to come out of my stupor, slowly walking inside the lobby, I noticed he had propped the elevator doors open with my bag. Getting inside I was stunned to discover he’d also pushed the button to the ninth floor!

My floor! How did he know?

I really, truly believe that angels are everywhere and only show themselves when we need them.

THAT is the story of my Angel in a Turban.

Carry on,
Xox

It was 8 pm. We had just settled in after a long day.

I was on the couch, wrapped up in a fur blanket, living off the fumes of a recently completed, particularly fabulous zoom call.  He’d just completed a day running around, “putting out fires”, (the irony of this will be evident shortly. Wait for it) which is the way he’s always described his life as a contractor.

“I’m so ready to have this beer and chill,” he said, his flannel jammie-pants signaling his surrender.

That’s when the power went out, throwing our den into a darkness so complete I never saw him leave the room.
For a brief moment, it went back on.
Then blackness.
Three times the power tried to return, each attempt producing a mournful groan. “What is that?” I asked no one in particular. It was a sound so weird I can hardly describe it, residing somewhere between a whale fart and elephants singing the blues, it triggered an anal kegel.
“I have no idea but it doesn’t sound good.” He’d found a working flashlight the size of a light-saber and was headed outside.

The Santa Ana winds had picked up at sunset, but they were nowhere near as ferocious as it takes to knock out the power. But apparently, ferocity isn’t necessary when you have bamboo branches to do the job for you.

“Siri, turn on the flashlight!” I ordered, following a loud popping sound as I traversed the pitch-black obstacle course previously known as our living room. He’d left the door to the driveway wide open, the wind whipping a frenzy of leaves into the garage.
The minute I looked outside I could see why.
I froze in my tracks. Ruby, who’d been hot on my heels, recoiled, the bejesus scared out of her by the roman candle of fire roaring and popping like gunfire directly across the street.

Holy shit, I whispered under my breath.

All the neighbors who hadn’t left for the holiday poured into the street. “Has anyone seen Raphael?” I yelled, the wind carrying my query up and down the block. Half a dozen people pointed toward the fire.
“He’s back there with Marty, they’re putting out the fire!”
Of course he is.
Across the street was total chaos. People were either yelling and running like headless chickens, or standing like zombies their faces frozen in fear as the wind whipped hot embers over the rooftops. Two large cables had fallen from a transformer igniting a wall of bamboo behind a gray two-story with a white picket fence, and then, in an act of contrition, the bamboo promptly lit itself on fire.

Before I could get my bearings, a hysterical woman handed me a terrified, shivering toddler who’d had the misfortune of being in the bathtub of the bamboo house when the power went out.
“Take him!” she screamed at me. “I have to go back for the baby!”

Wait. There’s a baby inside?

NOOOOO! the gathering crowd screamed in unison, reading my mind. I couldn’t help but notice, as I ran him across the street into the waiting arms of his grandmother, that the naked little boy was wrapped in one of Ruby’s dog blankets.

That explained why the door to Raphael’s van was open.

Within minutes, five fire trucks showed up. Checking for smoking rafters and smoldering bushes, it was their job to make sure all the fire fighting the brave men of our neighborhood had kept the fire from spreading. Soon, the crowds broke up and we all returned, safe and sound, to our eerily dark and silent homes. Y’all, there is no silence like the absence of technology. No humming in the background. No beeping, whirring, or clicking. Just quiet. And total, dark-side of the moon, blackness.

Full. Stop.

Things I’m grateful for this Thanksgiving:

Our wonderful neighbors, who really showed up for each other and restored my faith in humanity.

Raphael, the de facto mayor of Bakman Avenue, and a man who runs towards fire while wrapping wet babies in freshly washed dog blankets. And did I mention he makes a mean turkey and his gravy is sublime?

The fire department.

ELECTRICITY! Omg! We take it SO for granted—until it goes away.

The DWP, who restored the power at 3 am with the help of mayor Raphael who just happened to be awake, see their truck, and show them the way into the neighbor’s backyard. wtf?

Flashlights with working batteries.

Solar candles.

And an Honorable Mention shout-out goes to the Emotional Support Pie we stress-ate by candlelight.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone in the US and Thursday everywhere else.

Carry on,
xoxJ

You know how when we present our dilemma to a friend and they launch one solution, one brilliant idea after another our way and we barely even listen? And even if we do, we can find something wrong with every solution offered and argue for our dilemma.

Why do we do that?

You know what I’m talkin’ about. We argue FOR that thing that is driving us bat-shit nuts with the skill and tenacity of a fucking Supreme Court Judge.

“Well, yeah, but that takes money and I can’t afford it.”

“Well, yeah, but I can’t just leave.”

“Well, yeah, but when I walk on it, it hurts.”

Overruled! You are all overruled! I want to stay stuck and miserable; mired in my miasma of muck. (Holy alliteration!)

I think I’ll call it MY YEAH BUT HABIT.

Listen, we even use this tactic when things are going well—WTF?!

You got a promotion! “Yeah, but I didn’t get more vacation days.”

You got a raise! “Yeah, but, not as much as I wanted.”

A baby boy! Congratulations! “Yeah, but, I really thought we were having girl, and everybody says boys are tough, and he doesn’t let us sleep for a minute.”

What’s with that you guys?

Do we like to complain? (I know someone who thinks that complaining is the force that keeps us all alive. Seriously.)

Do we like to hear ourselves speak? (yes, yes I do)

Is unhappiness and dissatisfaction a habit? (yeah, but, I REALLY don’t know why).

Do our dilemmas get us attention? (Similar to publicly—there is no bad attention)

Here’s a thought.
What if we used that skill all the time? Like an equal opportunity Yeah but. Like this:

Oh, that’s a nasty dent is your fender; “Yeah, but, I’m lucky that’s all that happened.”

There are a lot of people applying for that position. “Yeah, but, my resume is stellar, I have tons of experience, and they’d be lucky to have me.”

Wow, he left you? “Yeah, but, if I’m honest with myself things have been lousy between us for a while, and now that the ball is rolling we can figure things out and move on with our lives.”

I know. That ones a streeeeeeeech. (but we could do it)

Then how about this one? Let’s all try to be more aware when we’re arguing FOR the muck we’re mired in.
It is BEYOND limiting!

Once and for all, lets all get off our Yeah butts.

Carry on,
xox

*This is a Flashback Friday piece written a while ago, about some questionable behavior on my part.

I watched several people walk right by it. I did too. Twice.
Obviously some trash had found its way onto the path and into the planters in front of the door to the Y.

It looked like as if it had made a break for it on the way to the dumpster that lived around the side of the building. It consisted of a few pieces of shredded paper, a power bar wrapper and parts of a banana peel. As I walked around it on my way in, I thought: Gee, someone needs to pick that up.

I’m sure the guy in the way too tight and shiny bike shorts, holding the door for me, thought the same thing.

After my 45 mins of extremely rigorous and effective circuit training (15 mins on the elliptical, 15 mins on the arm machines and 15 mins gossiping with Tina at the front desk)
I sprinted (walked slowly), with Bruno Mars still blaring in my ears, to my car.
When I saw that the trash was still by the doorway, I was annoyed, Jeez, that’s still there? I’d better go tell Tina to send someone to pick it up. And I walked right by.

What.  an.  assbite.

The sheer audacity of my own entitled ass-bite-ish-ness stopped me in my tracks.I looked around. Someone WAS sent to pick up the trash. Me.

I bent down, made sure I got all the pieces, walked back inside and threw it in the can that was next to the door. With my own, two, manicured hands. It took me less than a minute. Probably less than 30 seconds.
Sometimes I just shake my head in amazement…at my own behavior.

Who are we, when no one is watching? Are we assbites that walk by trash, or people in need? Do we turn our heads or pretend we’re on the phone?
Or are we people with some character? I think we can be both.

Back in the day, right after I bought my house, I LIVED at the 24 hour Hollywood Home Depot. I would walk down EVERY aisle like it was a gourmet market. Even the lumber department.

It was dependable, free entertainment, by the fact that it was consistently crowded with a cross-section  of the most unique examples of humanity on the planet. It was the bar scene from Star Wars. AND, they played KROQ, an alternative rock radio station on the store PA after 6pm.

One night (It seemed I always needed a plunger or a dimmer switch at 11pm) in the aisle between electrical supplies and sprockets, was a sharp something or other that hadn’t been put back properly. As I absent mindedly strolled by, rocking out to The Clash, it jumped out and sliced my leg. Bad. Blood was suddenly EVERWHERE. It started to resemble a crime scene and as I looked around for help…crickets. There had easily been ten people on that aisle seconds before, and now it was deserted. Not a single soul.

People freak when they see blood. And a girl in denim overall shorts and Doc Martins hopping on one leg, howling OWWWWWWEEEEE loudly is certainly terrifying, I get it.

They don’t want to get involved.

I’ll never understand that. When you see someone fall, find a crying, lost child, or stumble upon a bleeding new homeowner –– see if you can help.
Be a person of some character. Even if no one else is watching.

Someone must have hunted down an employee, because a guy that looked like my brother, if my brother was COVERED in tattoos and wearing a Home Depot shirt, came to my rescue.
He quickly wrangled the guilty object that cut me back into its cubby, tied a tattered bandana around my ankle and told me to go get stitches and a tetanus shot.
In that order.
He also alerted me to the fact that I roamed those aisles “at my own risk.” Regardless, he was kind as he smiled and helped me back up on my feet.

It was then that my hero appeared. I heard angels singing.

He showed up with one of those flatbed wheelie things, and asked if I needed transport to my car. How chivalrous.

See…now this guy has some character.

Problem was, he resembled a biker/vampire, and I was sure the smell of my blood had beckoned him to my side. I declined his kind offer, and hobbled alone in the dark to my car, looking over my shoulder for a bat, or my scary pale, blood thirsty, knight in shining armor.

With all the cameras everywhere and YouTube video postings, we will all eventually  get caught in the act. But we have a choice. Will it capture us in a random act of helping or hiding? 

Tell me, are you the person that springs to action when someone falls or drops trash? Or have you caught yourself not wanting to get involved? Also, has something happened to you, and no one helped out? I’d love to hear your escapades?

Carry on, 

Xox

Ohhhhh. SNAP! That one’s deep.

Xox

..or late at night.

I want to start a feature called What The Hell Wednesday, where we marvel at the extraordinary things that happen – on a daily basis – in our lives.
Are you in?
Great!
Okay. I’ll start.

Over Thanksgiving weekend our old doggie had another seizure (two in ten days).

Since the vet was closed for the Holiday, and Dita seemed to recover in under ten minutes (tail wagging, ball in her mouth), we decided to forgo an emergency visit, observe, and wait until the vet re-opened.

On the outside that’s what it looked like we were doing, but on the inside we were freaking out, consumed with worry, thinking this could be “goodbye”.

You see, our previous dog had a seizure, followed by another every day, until we had to put her down. All within a week. My husband and I both have post traumatic seizure syndrome.

That night, while acting cool, calm and collected (for Dita), I laid in bed and awfulized, working myself into a tizzy (albeit a quiet one).
My thoughts were racing. Don’t kid yourself, you know how this ends was what that practical bastard in my head kept repeating over and over.

Fears greatest hits – on an endless loop.

My husband had anesthetized with pie. I was not so lucky.

I meditated. I listened to my tapes. Finally it got so bad I asked for help.

Please, you’ve gotta help me with this, I write about gaining control over fear, but I’m spiraling over here.

I must have pleaded for a minute or two when a very calm voice came through: It’s not like the other dog, they’ll be able to control it with medication.

Uh, okay. They can do that? With dogs I mean? They have meds for seizures?

It’s not like the other dog, they’ll be able to control it with medication.

But what if…

It’s not like the other dog, they’ll be able to control it with medication.

That’s all they said, exactly those words, over and over, until I calmed down and went to sleep.

A couple of days later, at the vet, after numerous blood tests and X-rays; as he brought the old girl back into the room, I KNEW what the Vet was going to say; I’d even told my husband.

“It’s not cancer like your other dog, we can control it with medication.”

I swear. Verbatim.

Asking for help, then listening for the answer=good.

Spiraling out of control=not so good.

AND even if things look the same, they are not!

What The Hell! I LOVE when that happens!

Now it’s YOUR turn. Please share your best WTH story in the comments below. I know everyone would love to read them – especially ME!

Big Love,
xox

“Inaction breeds doubt and fear. Action breeds confidence and courage. If you want to conquer fear, do not sit home and think about it. Go out and get busy.
Most of the important things in the world have been accomplished by people who have kept on trying when there seemed to be no help at all.”
– Dale Carnegie

I had about one hour until I had to be back at the store to let Homi go pick up her kids from school.
She would open the place up and work until two, a few days a week, giving me some time.
Time to run errands, pick frames, go to the bank, look for new merchandise, and worry.

By that point, late 2009, I was a professional worrier.

“They” say if you do something for ten thousand hours, that qualifies you as a master.
I can attest to that. I had mastered the art of worry, which is using your imagination to create things you DON’T want.
I was so brilliant at it, that an avalanche of unwanted shit was beginning to suffocate me.

The store was underwater financially and I was drowning. 

But life goes on, and we were having some friends over that night for a pot luck dinner in the backyard. I had used my morning to shop for food, buy candles, straighten up the place and get myself organized enough to come home at six and entertain.

I wasn’t in the mood to act happy, but I was going to fake it until I could make it.

Just as long as nobody asked me about the store, because if they did I was so tender and close to tears, the floodgates could open, run my mascara, and ruin a good time.
‘I’ll just change the subject, that’s what I’ll do’ I told myself.
That would be my version of self preservation.

We all agree that when we ask someone how they’re doing – we don’t REALLY want to know, right?

Things had gone faster than expected that morning, smoothly even, so I put the vacuum away, grabbed a handful of nuts that I’d put in a bowl for that night, and decided to lay down on the bed in the guest room. I was so deeply exhausted, I had one hour to regroup and maybe actually sleep instead of think.
When I laid my head down, I stated to relax.
Maybe because it was light outside, I could feel my face unclench, my hands open and my stomach unknot itself.
Darkness is worry’s ally, they double team you, and take you down. A daytime nap feels friendly, comforting almost.

I always say a mantra when I lay down. I can’t help it, I’ve done it for so many years it’s a habit. I’m not even sure if I can lay down without doing it.

That afternoon as exhaustion overtook me, I started repeating over and over, 
I SURRENDER
I SURRENDER
I SURRENDER
‘I can’t do this anymore, I give it to you, God, take it from me.’
I SURRENDER
‘I’m tired, and I give up.’
I pictured throwing my hands up over my head with great resignation.
‘I give up.‘
I SURRENDER.

We had our dinner party that night, it was relaxed and really nice.
Because people were over, I put my phone on silent, thew it in my purse and stowed my purse inside the closet; so I never heard it ring or all the texts coming in from midnight on – and there were MANY.

That night just before twelve, a giant water line broke on Coldwater Canyon and somehow filled my store with four and a half feet of water, changing THAT situation forever.
Blissfully unaware, for the first time in months, I slept like a baby.
Be careful what you pray for…..

A couple of days later….
My intuition had delivered a directive: go talk to my beautiful friend, whose also a counselor, Diana, have her help me process the turn of events, and have her do a meditation with me. In the meditation she guided me to a place of my choosing, to meet with someone with more wisdom than myself, someone who could give me a little insight, because I was in a quandary.

What do I do NOW?

We sat cross legged on the floor, across from each other, knees touching, eyes closed, as she guided me to a special place.
I saw myself in white robes in a kind of amphitheater, with tiers of stone seating. It felt like Ancient Greece to me. I was a great orator, and this place felt like home.

“Do you see anyone there with you?” Diana asked.
I didn’t.
“We called in someone wise, someone high above you, to help; they should be there.”
Finally, I saw a male figure approaching, he didn’t feel like any big deal to me, although Diana kept insisting he was.
“We called in someone very wise, very high up, that’s who he is.”
“Nope. He’s no big deal, we’re the same.” I continued to tell her.
“Janet, stop it, ask him to help you. What does he have to say?”
When I did that he came into focus.
Tears began to roll down my cheeks.
I had a hard time speaking, I was so overcome with emotion.
“Oh…..I’m kneeling down before him now, he has his hand on my head….. he’s my father?”
I was sobbing now.
“Not my dad – my father. Diana, he has a trident?
Oh…..He’s raising my chin to look him in the eyes….”
He looked at me with so much love and understanding.
“My daughter” he said, “I heard your prayer.
You may move Heaven and Earth, but I MOVE WATER.”

I can’t remember who said it first, but both Diana and myself said softly, “Poseidon”
Then I started to half laugh, half cry, while we both sat there wrapping our brains around what had just happened.

Great.

Does insurance cover Poseidon inspired flooding?

What do I tell Raphael? ‘Hey babe, you’re never gonna believe this, but Poseidon is my daddy and he took out the store because I prayed for help.’

Remember that parable from the other day about the man and the flood?
The answer to your prayers may not always look how you expect.

Love, Poseidon’s daughter,
Xox

for your listening pleasure 😉
https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/whos-your-daddy-mines-poseidon

Sometimes the Universe delivers to you the hard scrabble lessons that you need in order to grow.

You can either resist or comply.
If you resist, it will revisit you, getting larger and more complicated in its delivery until you are forced to pay attention and acquiesce.

You know how I know that?
I am currently being supported by a man
Ugh………
AWKWARD (sung in high voice)

In a very deliberate attempt to be my own person and pay my own way, I got a job at sixteen, while I still lived at home.
Also, my dad made me. But that’s beside the point.
He insisted it be at Von’s supermarket, but rest assured, I would have started earning my own money at that age if it killed me.

I wanted to buy my own food (I HATED what was served at home).
I wanted to supplement my clothing budget. Sears and JC Penny’s-OUT, Bullocks Wilshire- IN.
I wanted to buy my own shampoo and make up, and get my hair cut where and when I wanted, and pay for it myself
AND
I wanted to stop taking the bus and buy a car.

Everyone in my family has a very strong work ethnic which has come in extremely handy for me, since I like money.
I like the financial freedom it gives me, and I’ll work my ass off to get it.
I’ve held two jobs at one time, with eight hours in between to sleep.
I like to spend it or give it away without explanations, excuses or apologies.

This independence has been a badge of honor I’ve worn all my life.
Hi, My name is Janet, I pay my own way.

So you can imagine how I feel at this stage of my life, mid fifties, with no job and no income stream.
I never saw this chapter coming.
It wasn’t how I’d imagined my life would be.
But hey, shit happens, right? Get over it.

I can sit around wanting things to be different, which is like trying to give a cat a bath, or I can embrace – Where. I. Am.

I’m being supported. Not by the state, or strangers, but by a man. Husband.
I hate even writing that.

My bad. My lesson to learn. Obviously.

But look how lucky I am. He is willing and able.
I would totally do it if the situation were reversed – no question about it.
I am the only one that has a problem with the arraignment.
Note to self: When shit hits the fan and you ask the Universe for help, it’s not polite to say “Oh, not THAT!”

I’m reminded of the parable about the man and the flood. 
There is a terrible flood and a man is trapped on his rooftop as he fervently prays to God to be saved.
After awhile, a boat comes by, but the man won’t get in. He’s waiting for God to save him.
Next a helicopter hovers overhead and throws down a rope. The man won’t take it. He yells up “I’m waiting to be saved by God.”
A second boat appears and still the man declines. “I’ve prayed to God and He’s going to save me”.
Soon, the man drowns and goes to Heaven. As you can imagine, he’s pissed.
When he finally sees God he exclaims, “I was praying so hard for you to save me, why did you let me down?”
To which God responds, “I sent you two boats and a helicopter, what more did you want?”

Just because what is supporting me right now feels foreign to me, doesn’t mean it’s not the answer to my prayers. As a matter of fact that’s how I KNOW it’s sent from God.

It just irked me to have to be supported.
Until I read the definition.
Supporting someone is noble and at times, necessary.
I’ve done it many times without giving it a second thought.
Being the receiver is much more difficult, but I’m starting to think that it can be just as noble a task – when your head’s in the right place. (Work in progress)

SUPPORT
sup·port
səˈpôrt/
verb
1.
bear all or part of the weight of; hold up.
produce enough food and water for; be capable of sustaining.
be capable of fulfilling (a role) adequately.
2.noun
give assistance to, especially financially; enable to function or act.
provide with a home and the necessities of life.
give approval, comfort, or encouragement to.

I’m definitely at a crossroads in my life and I’m not passive at all. I’m actively pursuing a couple of different ventures, but while I do, it’s nice to be able to eat and have a roof over my head, and believe me when I say- I have SO MUCH MORE

Yin and yang
Light and dark
Ebb and flow
This too shall pass.

What irks you right now that you KNOW is part of a bigger plan?

Love, love,
Xox

Go first

Imagine what the other person needs, an exercise in empathy that might become a habit.
~Seth Godin

Practice this exercise liberally and often. It’s not that difficult really.
It sets you apart from the pack, it will get you noticed, it will make all the difference and the habit will just make you feel damn good.

Imagine the needs of others. 

Much love,
Xox

When I walked up to my husband I had tears in my eyes. That is NOT a common occurrence, so he looked at the picture I had in my hand, that I had walked over to show him. It was the photo above. He’s a “major weeper” around me, so he became a puddle in seconds.

You know why?

We are both “strong people”and no one EVER asks us how we’re doing or if we’re okay.

Does that happen to you?

It’s really not that people don’t care to ask you, they just don’t think of it.

We know that about the world, so we ask each other, with the promise that we aren’t allowed to answer with the obligatory I’m fine, if that’s not the the case.
Complete honesty is required. We have earned each other’s trust, so it releases us of any reservations about letting our guard down.

Being strong is a blessing and a curse.

I’ve had some really nasty shit happen to me in my life, and basically everyone around me just assumes I’m going to be “fine.” I always am, so they’re right. 
But……

I have screamed, in anger at whomever was in the room, “what do I have to do? Bleed? Does blood have to pour out my eyes in order for you to see how much emotional pain I’m in?”

The response was always the same. “I just figured you were okay.”

I love that I instill that level of confidence in people, but for Gods sakes, ASK me if I’m okay.

Ask me how I’m feeling. Ask me how it’s going, or if I need help, because I’m a big girl and I’ll let you know if you have overstepped my emotional boundary, although that’s pretty hard to do.
I’ve talked recently to many other strong people I know, to ask them what they need when something goes down.

I’m going to give you a few simple steps in my GUIDE TO HELPING THE STRONG:

Sometimes us strong ones, we need a hug. If you’re too uncomfortable to talk to me, hug me. I promise, I won’t ever push you away.

Just a simple “I’m here for you” when you don’t know what to say to us, is beyond appreciated.

We’ve heard “You’ve got this” all our lives, and we do, because we’re the strong ones, so please don’t say that.

If we ever get from you the opportunity, willingness to listen and the space to vent, please let us. We won’t self indulge and stay there long, we’re the strong ones, it just helps us process.

We will NEVER call YOU in the middle of the night, that has not been OUR role. WE get the calls. So, if you know something has just gone down, like a death or a huge loss, firing, humiliation, fight, whatever….call us.

If I cry, let me. I promise, it’s not the end of the world.
Don’t try to get me to stop, or tell me I’m overreacting.
I can assure you, I’m not.

People HATE to see strong people vulnerable. It scares the fuck out of them.

I KNOW several of my love affairs have ended because I showed vulnerability and upset the dynamics of the relationship. I was supposed to be the “strong one.
”
If you’re one of the the strong ones, you’re welcome; and…..email this to all your friends and family, because they are at a loss as to how to handle you.

If you know a strong one, please take this to heart.

You strong ones, do you have anything to add?
What helps you?
Do you have a strong one around you? Did this help you to understand how to navigate them better?

I’d love to hear about what YOU think.
Much love, 
Xox