husband

“A unique astrological energy fills this summer that you may well be feeling! On one hand, FIVE planets are retrograde in the heavens, bringing back old, sometimes ignored issues from the past to be reviewed, faced and cleaned up once and for all before a big, new cycle starts in autumn.” (This makes me want to vomit.)

For many years after my first divorce, more than I care to remember, I lived without air conditioning in LA. Many a hot summer was spent in that no-mans-land, north on the 405, otherwise known as the San Fernando Valley. 

Spoiled rotten after being raised in a home with central air, I roughed it in my twenties and thirties, too broke to afford a place with air-conditioning.  Many a night I braved the triple-digit heat naked on the floor in front of a fan, spraying myself with ice water. And I swore that when I had a few bucks I’d NEVER LIVE WITHOUT AIR CONDITIONING AGAIN!

Cut to: Friday of last week. Extreme heat advisories were issued as the temps set new record highs—rising to 113 degrees. I watched from the comfort of my air-conditioned home as the heat scorched all of my hydrangeas, caused the squirrels to loiter in my fountains, and shocked several of our trees into dropping all their leaves. 

Sitting in the cool, dry fabulousness of my home, I felt real compassion for all the suffering this extreme heat was causing. Been there, done that, I thought as I sipped a freshly brewed ice tea. Then, a few minutes later, I felt the tiny droplets of sweat form on my upper lip.

 Huh, that’s curious, I thought. With great haste, I made my way to the thermostat to see where it was set. You see, sometimes, when I’m feeling energy conscious, I set the thermostat to the recommended 78 degrees. But that happens so infrequently that I feel like I’m fibbing to you when I tell you that there was even the slightest chance that it was set at 78. 

Can we speak frankly? 

I’m fucking sixty years old. And I only mention that because I’ve been burnt alive from the inside out for the past decade or so. I guess you could say I “run hot”. But that’s a colossal understatement. That’s like saying volcanos “run hot”. Truthfully, I’m being burnt alive from the inside out! Luckily I have it under control. That is until it gets over 100 degrees. Then my body turns into a series of rolling wildfires. 

When that happens I’m not nice. I get short with people my husband. My tongue gets sharp like I ate glass for lunch.

And I most certainly CANNOT be anywhere that isn’t 72 degrees. So that was just the long way of telling you that our thermostat was set to 72 degrees. Do NOT get in my face about this! Trust me, it’s a preemptive measure because if I overheat I can do great damage. Seriously, you could weaponize me. 

So you can imagine my horror when I checked the thermostat and it was going in the wrong direction!

It was 79 degrees! 

I checked the vents. They were blowing tepid air in my face. 

WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD?!

I collected myself and calmly phoned my husband.
“I think the air conditioning is broken,” I chirped.

I know, that he knows, that if I know it’s not working we’re all fucked—so I pretend I’m not sure—when I am—sure that we’re all fucked. 

“I’ll call my guy,” he said. Then he hung up.

His guy. He has a guy—and he’s gonna call him. He’s gonna call his guy. I felt reassured. 

Cut to: Saturday afternoon. In an 87 degree room in our house. 

    “FUCKING FIX IT!” I screamed. 

And when I say screamed I’m not engaging in hyperbole. I was screaming. At the top of my lungs. 
What can I say? My inner heat index had reached DefCon 5 and I was about to blow. 
There was no reasoning with me, believe me, the sane part of me was trying. 
I watched our little brown dog run for cover, terrified.  We don’t scream in our house, well…ever. 

“FUCKING FIX IT NOW!” I continued to scream as if my husband possessed the superpower to shoot frost out his ass.

“I have a call out to all my guys; they’re swamped. Everybody’s air is breaking.”

Not everybody. All I had to do was stand next to one of the windows we had flung open searching for a breeze. But there was no breeze to be found. You saw that coming, didn’t you? Anyway, they were letting the hot breath of Hell superheat our house while I could hear a thousand of our neighbors cooling units happily humming a chorus of You Can’t Always Get What You Want.

SOMEONE NEEDED TO DIE FOR THIS. I was fully weaponized. God forbid a technician shows up now. 

“I swore I would NEVER live without air again!” I said.

“I know. You’ve screamed that at me a thousand times,” he said.

“Why aren’t you doing something? Aren’t you hot? Why are you fucking with your computer!!!” I screamed.

“I’m putting you in a hotel,” he said.

That’s when the technician showed up. As a favor to my husband. He’d made the time to squeeze us into his impossibly overbooked schedule. Because he likes my husband and they do a lot of work together.

I thanked him profusely, offered him a cold glass of lemonade and watched hopefully as he fixed our air conditioning. 

Nah. That’s not what happened. 

I annihilated him. I didn’t even let him descend the ladder before I laid into him. Remember, I was fully weaponized.

          “What do you mean it’s broken BECAUSE IT’S HOT! THAT’S WHAT IT WAS MADE FOR!  IT HAS ONE JOB! 

            WORK. IN. HOT. WEATHER!”

Then I caught myself and apologized with all my heart.

Nope. That didn’t happen either.

The guy came down the ladder—and quit. 

So here I sit on Tuesday, day five of a brutal heat wave with a crapped-out air conditioner. 

I LOVE a five-planet retrograde. And I really think I’m clearing out some of my old issues from my past, don’t you?

Carry on,
xox

I have a question for ya. What is your exit strategy? In other words, how do you plan to depart this big, blue marble? I’m not so concerned with what comes after the dying thing it’s just the way I have to get there that makes me anxious when I think about it—and unfortunately, I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately.

I know, Debbie Doom.

But hey, none of us can escape it—we can neither buy our way out, bribe our way out, talk, bargain or cajole our way out of the inevitable.

Death is an equal opportunity sniper on a hill.

It’s just the way this game is played. So…knowing that, have you thought at all about your exit? I read about a man who did.

Thursday, a 104-year-old Australian man chose to die in Switzerland from assisted suicide. He was neither terminally ill (which is the condition required for most legal assisted suicide) nor was he mentally impaired.  

He was just so fucking old that his quality of life had diminished significantly enough to cause him to make what we can all agree is a pretty drastic and permanent decision. Or is it?

Even his family was on board. As a matter of fact, he was accompanied by his grandson… to Switzerland, silly, not the great beyond!

Do you want to live so long that you outlive everyone you’ve ever known and loved? I for one, think that would suck.

The reason I’m asking is that my husband was in a motorcycle crash earlier this week and although he had to spend a couple of days in the hospital, he’s going to be fine. But it made me think about all the ways to die and how  there is a part of me that every time he goes racing or off-roading waits for “the call”.  

If you were to ask me on any given day over a beer and a taco, I would tell you that dying on his bike would be the way he’d want to go. But it would have to be quick. No severe injury that would force me to make the decisions no spouse ever wants to make. A friend of his in his eighties had a heart attack on his bike, so, maybe like that.

Right? Quick and nasty. Here one minute, gone the next. He would like that. 

But when I got “the call” which was actually a text, “I had a bad fall, I’m in a lot of pain, they’re taking me to the hospital,” well, all of that flew out the window. 

No, no, no, no, no! I bargained. You MAY NOT take him now! He’s too young to go, I’m too young to be a widow and besides that, we have tickets to a thing in June!

I’m here to report that I’m a fraud and a phony where the “just let him die fast” shit is concerned. Every molecule in my body was just so fucking happy he was still alive. 

But what am I waiting for? When will it ever be okay?

Do you want to die of a disease? Yeah, me neither. 

So what does that leave?

I know I don’t want to choke on salad. What a fucking waste of a last meal!

I know I don’t want to survive a zombie attack only to be forced to live in a post-apocalyptic society. Attention all Zombies: If you’re reading this—just take me in the first wave, I’ll be the one waving the white flag. (That’s a lie too. I know me. I’ll probably lead the resistance, storm the zombie perimeter with a fire gun and make it to the freezer where they keep the antidote).

I know I don’t want to die sitting in traffic on the 405 because ALREADY KNOW HOW THAT FEELS!

I’ve already said I don’t want to out-live every one I know but I also don’t want to die on a really good hair day doing something fun with my friends.

So…licked to death by puppies?

I may need to give this a little more thought…or not.

Carry on,
xox

Since I refuse to iron clothes (it is too time-consuming and besides that, I have a mild form of PTSD from a couple of “hot iron left unattended” incidents back in the day) I take all of my hubby’s shirts to the dry cleaners to get them laundered.

They have coupons online that make it so cheap it’s free.

Anyhow, this all started when Raphael insisted he LOVED to iron. He said he found it very “zen”, like drying dishes and baking pies—all three of these fantasies have NEVER happen in our house. Ironing went the way of many other good intentions gone awry. The iron itself turned into a heavy object that fell on my foot or got tangled up with all of the other useless laundry items we have stored (and that’s just a nice way of saying shoved in a haphazard way) next to our washer and dryer.

And don’t get me started on the ironing board. It met with a terrible accident recently and had to be put down. Let’s all take a minute…

Now, let’s cut to the real reason his shirts need ironing.

We have a dryer that cost more than my car but the lovely Swiss or German people who manufacture it have neglected to include a simple “fluff” cycle. Obviously, it was designed by men. Men who either have wives who love to iron or take their shirts to the laundry—and they’re too clueless to know how in the hell they live a wrinkle free life.

Anyway…I owned a piece-of-shit Kenmore for like a thousand years and it had the most magnificent “fluff” cycle imaginable. That freaking fabulous fluff cycle was one of the contributing factors for me turning my back on ironing clothes. You could throw a wizened 2500-year-old mummy in that dryer for ten minutes and it would come out looking like Heidi Klum. All you had to do was spray a little water on the wrinkled garment (even linen, *gasp) and voila! The fluff would work its magic.

Ten years ago when we upgraded to our present washer and dryer I was disappointed but I didn’t want to sound like Bratty McBraterson so I kept quiet about the loss of my beloved “fluff” cycle. After all, these fancy appliances had brains and sensors that could sense all of my deepest emotions—so I just assumed they’d figure something out.

But that never happened.

Every day Raphael would throw on a shirt that was clean but looked like it had been tied in a knot and then wedged into the tiny crack between the wall and bed to dry.

Remember scrunchies? They all looked like scrunchies.

He looked ridiculous. Like no one loved him. Like a sad, unloved, shlumpadinka (it’s an Oprah and Gail word—look it up).

“You need to iron that shirt before you leave.” was our default goodbye every morning. He never did, (you know, because it’s a fucking hassle) so he looked like a hobo. Like a 6’ 4” bald hobo. Nobody wants to hire a giant hobo/schlumpadinka to build their multi-million dollar dream home. Believe me, it’s in the small print.

So my solution was to get them laundered. Problem solved.
I know. Wife of the Year!

Cut to yesterday, when I was picking up his shirts (and one blouse of mine) and taking in some dirty ones to be laundered, I let the delightful little man who works there help me with the five-thousand smelly shirts that I had piled up in the back seat of my car (I put them there as a reminder—it works…seldom). He is an older gentleman who stands outside every day and helps all of us back and forth to our cars with our dry cleaning. I never see him without a smile and a freshly pressed shirt. My guess is that he’s retired and can only take so much of Fox news or the golf channel.

Anyhow, since it was close to ninety outside (he sits in the shade) and since he’d helped me schlep my shirts inside and then carried the clean ones to my car while I paid, I grabbed a couple of extra dollars bills (three to be exact) and mused aloud if it was okay to tip him.

Me, addressing the girl who worked there and anyone else within earshot while holding the money in my hand:
“I should tip him, right? I mean, does he accept tips?”

The woman next to me with the tightly pulled ponytail, dressed in head-to-toe LuLu Lemon huffed under her breath, “How rude.”

The girl at the register just shrugged.

“It’s rude to give him money…or it’s rude not to?” I asked, dumbfounded and a little embarrassed.

“What do you think?” She replied looking me up and down like a dog looks at a lamb chop—or like I was the unfortunate victim of a dryer without a fluff cycle.

“I don’t know! That’s why I asked!” I sneered at her in my best shlumpadinka voice.

She turned on her expensive, designer, limited edition Adidas and walked out giving me stink eye the entire time.

That’s okay. I burned a hole in the back of her head with my superpower bitch repellent as she struggled to get into her Range Whatever. I’m surprised she could drive.

After she left, the girls who work there rolled their eyes so hard they all did backflips and then told me that it was okay to give Ernesto a couple of bucks. “A lot of people do,” said the woman with the chartreuse hair and the painted on eyebrows (she’s my favorite).

So I did. And it didn’t feel rude and he didn’t seem the least bit offended.

Take THAT you ornery bitch-faced woman!

Okay, Now back to a loving place.

Carry on,
xox

According to me, this applies to men too.

“Love is a lot like a backache, it doesn’t show up on X-rays, but you know it’s there.”
~ George Burns

Someone asked, so I was going to give you advice on love —but I can’t.

That’s like me giving diet advice. Or advice on how to grow the biggest zucchini or play classical piano. All of which I’ve tried and sort of succeeded at. Except for the piano which I tried for like a minute, but I think the teacher moved without telling me. (Adults should take up a musical instrument only on a dare. And only if the payoff is over one hundred dollars. Only then.)

But I digress…

Telling people how to succeed at love is dicey. And by dicey I mean impossible. You can’t tell people how to feel.

Sure, there are rules and guidelines, but anyone who’s been in a long-term relationship knows that all of that—is bullshit. If someone tells you they have it all figured out—they’re lying.

You fly by the seat of your pants.

Until you reach altitude.

Then you serve drinks and a movie until the turbulence begins, at which point you can straighten your seat back and tray table into their upright position, put on your parachute and bail (like my piano teacher did), or you can stick it out and wait for smoother skies.

It really does boil down to those two choices. Bail, cut and run, break-up, whatever you want to call it—or wait and see what tomorrow brings. Which in its base form looks like an ostrich with its head in the ground, and in its purest form looks like you’re a saint.

And by-the-way, having been someone who has bailed, been an ostrich…and a saint, I can’t advocate for any of them. They all made perfect sense at the time, which leads me back to the first sentence.

I can’t tell you what does or doesn’t work. Some of the best relationships I’ve had, including the marriage I’ve been in for the past fifteen years, look terrible on paper and make no sense at all. We’re both Aries for chrissakes, and we belong to different political parties—we should have killed each other by now!

Even being married doesn’t make someone an expert on love. How could I be an expert at something I’ve failed miserably at MANY times and that I can’t explain how or why it works. If I were a brain surgeon who said that to you—would you let me operate?

Love’s alchemical. That’s my explanation and I’m sticking to it.

And don’t let anyone tell you it’s all roses.

It’s a lesson in compromise. It’s dirty socks on the floor, heated differences of opinion, vertical toilet seats, and bad politics. And that’s just a Friday night. But, listen, he could say the same or worse of me.

We put up with a lot of shit. We do. That constitutes turbulence in my book.
I guess I decided it was the kind I could weather, but honestly, I don’t remember making the decision.

And I guess that’s what it comes down to, a day by day, slow drip, decision to keep loving.

Some days are easy, others can be hard. And by hard I mean excruciating.
When my husband has the flu or a sunburn it is everything I can do NOT to put a pillow over his face while he’s complaining.

If I had to make one rule—here it is:

Your person should make you laugh—at the very least—once a week.

They should try to bring you coffee—at the very least—on the weekends.

They should give you that “Omg, you’re fucking adorable” feeling…once a month?

It would be really nice if they showed you some affection on a regular basis. Not sex. Affection. There’s a difference.

Shit howdy, will you look at that, four “rules” —and I’ve already told you, I’m full of shit.

Just love the best you know how and then try to do better tomorrow.

Carry on,
xox

“Women like confident bald men.”
~ Larry David & My Husband

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ME: “Wow. That was nice of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carry on,
xox

“Bird poop brings good luck!
There is a belief that if a bird poops on you, your car or your property, you may receive good luck and riches. The more birds involved, the richer you’ll be! So next time a bird poops on you, remember that it’s a good thing.”
~Bird Poop Expert

What about if a single bird poops on your head while you’re driving in your car? You know, moving target and all. That feels like a whole lotta good luck coming your way—along with super silky hair, right?

I’m about to talk about poop, a lot!
Bird poop to be exact, so if you’re eating your eggs, best to put down your fork right about now. Or oatmeal or yogurt for that matter. Just stop eating until you’re finished reading, okay? Studies have shown that reading while eating can lead to something serious and most likely deadly, like choking while laughing, so in essence, I just saved your life.
You’re welcome.

And now, back to the bird poop.

Many people the world over believe that if a bird lets loose on you, then good things are coming your way. One idea is that it’s a sign of major wealth coming from Heaven (the place where ALL real wealth resides), based on the belief that when you suffer an inconvenience (like a head full of bird shit), you’ll have good fortune in return.

The most popularly held belief is that if a bird hits your noggin, it is so lucky, so random and rare (statistically speaking it is rarer than being hit by lightning), how can a lottery win be far behind?

A Case in point — and true story:

Can a head full of bird poop be lucky, you ask?
A Bay of Islands man swears it is, after winning $100,000 on an Instant Kiwi ticket. The man said a bird recently pooped on his head, and his friends told him it was a sign of luck coming his way.

“This win gives me the funds to be able to get down there and be able to help out in any way I can in the city’s rebuild,” he said.

Let me just start by saying that the man in the story is WAY more altruistic than I’ll EVER be. Or maybe not. After he pays off his debt and relocates, how much city rebuilding can he do? I’m worried about him and his financial planning abilities. He has to make that money last and $100,000 doesn’t go as far as it used to. Maybe he’ll have the free time to volunteer. Okay. I feel much better now.

Anyhow, on Saturday the hubster and I decided to get a jump-start on Valentine’s Day being that we had flaked, waiting until the last-minute and all the good ideas for Sunday were taken. Left to our own devices, we hopped into the car, put down the top, and decided to drive really fast out of the beautiful, summer-like temperatures and head into opaque whiteness of a foggy purgatory, the beach. Faced with the choice of putting the top back up or leaving fog-ville altogether and going for a big lunch, you guessed it, THE BIG LUNCH WON! (No surprise there).

Winding our way through the tree-lined upscale neighborhoods at a brisk 40 mph (oh, don’t get your panties in a bunch, it wasn’t a school zone and besides, it was Saturday. Nobody drives below 40 mph. on Saturdays), on our way back into town and our search for the perfect kabob, I felt something clobber my cranium.

“Hey!” I exclaimed, hands on my head looking around like a freak. You have to admire my economy with words. Don’t feel bad. I’m a writer.

Anyway…

At first, I suspected it might be space debris or a tiny piece of meteorite, and it was only when hubby, with his two bare man-hands, picked a rather large and thankfully solid piece of avian excrement out of my hair—that I realized my good fortune. Lottery WINNER!

Can I just take a moment to thank my husband for his courage, strong stomach and lack of any real hygienic awareness? (He’s French). You are my hero and I will split the money with you AFTER I rebuild a city.

Needless to say, when the laughter subsided, (thankfully we share the same warped sense of humor that causes us to laugh at another’s misfortune), we hightailed it to the diviest Liquor Store we could find (because everybody knows THAT is where REAL wealth resides — not Heaven), and bought us some Power Ball, Super Lotto and Mega Millions tickets —and a box of Triscuits—the Rosemary and olive oil kind.

Then with big shit-eating grins on our faces (that’s an idiom, not literally, mind out of the gutter people, Ewwww), we drove to lunch.

Lottery or not, nothing says LOVE like picking bird poop out of your beloved’s hair—so I’m already a winner!

Love you my Big Handsome!

I know. You guys envy my life of glamour and romance. What can I say? I’m one lucky girl. Maybe YOU had a better Valentine’s Day than me? Huh? I don’t think soooo but I’ll listen!

Carry on,

xox

Hahahaha. Snort-laugh! I swiped this from a friend of mine and a reader of this page (thanks, Ernie!).

It almost caused a stream of coffee to shoot out of my nose like a fire hose because, well, because…it reminded me of that bad habit I have of offering unsolicited advice and how it has bit me in the ass.

It also reminded me of braking suddenly (Hypothetical Situation Alert), for a decision impaired squirrel who was standing upright in the middle of the street with a peanut in his mouth (pure fiction), which may or may not have been the cause of the car who was following too close behind me to swerve up and onto the curb.

It also, also, reminded me of a blog post from last year on this very subject which explains my predicament addiction and its consequences.

Is this a reprise you ask?
Why yes, yes it is.
But don’t blame me it was prompted by a funny meme, a snort-laugh, a squirrel, and nose coffee.

Happy Saturday & Carry on,
xox

ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER BAD HABIT

Bad habit #319 – I offer unsolicited advice.

I know! It sucks—big time.
I’m working on it, but sometimes I can’t seem to help myself.
I write a freakin’ advice blog for God sakes!

It’s a very masculine trait, problem-solving, one of the last remaining vestiges of working in a male dominated career and making it a priority to develop only the male side of my personality.
But enough of that, that’s a huge generalization and an exercise in stereotyping. If I try to reverse engineer how I became this way…well…
…I’m the eldest of three, and the younger kids would often need my help with…stop it, Janet!
Enough!

You see, if presented with a dilemma I will chew on that bone, sucking out the very marrow of it until I’ve come up with a plan.
Make that three plans.
Usually, a Plan A which is the best, (of course), to Plan C which I recommend only as a last resort.

From directions in the car—to what to order at my favorite bistro—to how to dump the chump, if you seem…uncertain—I’m your girl.

But you see, that’s the thing. I haven’t paid enough attention, or taken the time (a minute and a half), to distinguish what’s going on with you.

Is that look on your face the I’m working this out, I’ve got this look? Or, are you lost in a fog of uncertainty only wishing I would open my mouth and help you out? (No one has ever gotten that far so we’ll just have to imagine that one.)

Or this, right out of left field—maybe you’re just making conversation!

It’s a subtle difference (not really), and once I started to observe THE MASTER—I understood, and I decided to take a page out his play-book.

My husband has developed a sort of super power.

It was acquired and has been honed after years of having his head bitten off.
Like an exasperated praying mantis after yet another beheading, he started to pay closer attention. He learned how to read me and slowly but surely he has become the Master of Silent Advice.

Now you may be wondering what the hell I’m talking about.

He has mastered the skill of silence. Not indifference, make no mistake—the two can be easily confused and he’s lost his head a few times over that one too.

No, in the fifteen years we’ve been together he’s had the opportunity to be able to observe me closely when certain situations have presented themselves and then he listens —waiting—because honestly, whether I’ve got things covered or I’m lost in the fog—I look the same.
Like a freaking deer in the headlights.

You see, it’s a nuance thing.

And here’s the key, the Golden Ticket so to speak:
He only extends me a hand or offers me advice—when I ask him.

What?
If you wait, someone will ask you?
What a concept, that is genius!

So if you’re around me these days you may notice a strange look on my face as you tell me about your day. Oh God, don’t mistake it for disinterest—I’m literally biting my tongue…listening.

Waiting for you to ask me what I think.

You’re gonna ask soon—right?

Because I’ve got this.

Plan A is genius (if I do say so myself, humility is my next hurdle).

So ask me already!

Being aware you have a problem is the first step…right?

Carry on,
With big, big love and buckets of gratitude for putting up with me,

Xox

The other night, as we were getting ready for bed, my husband informed me that he was going to start his own blog.

“I’m going to call it The Mute Observer” he said, barely able to keep a straight face.
This made me laugh so hard I may have pee’d a little—and I just had to share it with you guys! (I even found a graphic online.)

He is an extremely private person. A man of few words. He holds things close to the chest, but that in no way means he isn’t noticing or feeling his way through his environment.

I can safely say that he feels things in a much deeper way than I do.

I’m guessing that he’s very much like a lot of you.

The fact that I tell our stories or mention him at all on these pages is a constant source of feigned exasperation characterized by a lot of head shaking and arm waving.

He has a hard time wrapping his brain around the fact that I share my/our life in such public way. You know what they say: Opposites Attract.

Sometimes, early in the morning I can hear him in his office laughing and I smile, knowing in that moment he’s getting a kick out of one of my many mis-adventures.

Other times he just stands silently in the doorway of the den, staring at me until I notice him there.
“Today’s made me cry” he’ll say with tears in his eyes. That’s it. Then he just walks away.
I love him for that.

He may not understand my need to use my voice—it’s not his thing—although at times I think he admires it. Thankfully,(for his own safety and the longevity of our marriage) he has NEVER tried to silence it.

He is my Mute Observer.

I don’t think for one minute he’s oblivious. That would be a huge mistake.

How many of you are Mute Observers, silently taking it all in? (oh wait—how funny! I’m asking anyway even thought I know you won’t write in the comments. Jeez, what part of mute do I NOT understand?)

Quietly Carry on,
xox

Oh God, pah-leeeeez don’t ask me to go with you, please for the love of all things holy go by yourself…

“I’d really love you to go with me to this car rally on Sunday”

There, he’d gone and done it, he’d interrupted my prayer vigil to ask me to do the very thing I was dreading: accompany him on an all day car rally in his newly restored vintage 1961 car —  the car of his dreams which he’d waited five years to drive — on his birthday weekend.

The trifecta of wifely favors.

Fuck.

I would rather have needles stuck in my eyes, walk on hot coals, or go to Disneyland with a bunch of little kids —on a hot day — during spring break.

But you see, I’m not a total ass, I had endured one of these rally’s in another car a few years back and It. Was. Torture. According to the rules of the Geneva Convention.

Every other participant knew Moses when he was a boy, the median age being approximately one hundred and seven, and saying I had nothing in common with their trophy wives who were hoping against hope that that Sunday would be the day the old geezer would kick the bucket – was an understatement of epic proportions.

I was sure I could not endure another vintage car rally, but in light of the fact that I am currently extolling the virtues of the book The Zim Zum of Love by Rob and Kristen Bell, I was forced to reconsider.

One of the things the book talks about is maintaining the energy or Zim Zum that exists between couples. One of the ways is through simple acts of kindness.

So I knew I had to suck it up…and walk the talk.

Fuckity, fuck, fuck.
He was so excited, all enthused and …happy; an emotion he hadn’t displayed in the month since our old dog had passed.

And did I mention it was his birthday?

So I grabbed myself by the scruff of the neck (not an easy feat) and had a Come-to-Jesus-Talk with ME.

You’ve got to do this so you might as well make the best of it. Try to have fun (that was my mantra all day) this means so much to him and it really is no skin off your nose to take a long ride in a cool car to Malibu for lunch. Try to smile, try to make conversation, try be nice — try to have fun.

In order to jooj up the fun factor I decided to be anyone but myself and play the part of a sixties femme fatale. I donned the requisite head scarf, Jackie O shades and attitude to get into the character of an International Woman of Mystery, someone who would have ridden in that car back in its heyday, and I’ve got to say, as corny as it sounds, that really helped.

That is until they let the air out of my balloon when they handed us the ten pages of “crazy clues and fun facts”  that were part of the directions to our lunch destination.

I would have loved to have seen my face — My eyes rolled so hard I almost did a back-flip

This was that most dreaded of all car rally’s: The Cloying Scavenger Hunt Rally where the navigator (me) reads the pages and pages of ever so clever clues to the driver in order to figure out which street to turn on or how far up ahead to stop.

Fuck.

I almost ripped off the scarf and glasses and went screaming down the hill, that is until I looked at his face. He looked so… hopeful, wanting me to just go along and be a sport, and I could hear the wobbly, self righteous Zim Zum between us calling my name…Janet…be kind…do the right thing…how many stupid-ass things have you dragged him to?

Zim Zum never lies; so I sucked it up, put on my shades, tied my head scarf and smiled; then down through the hills of Beverly we went as I called out clues and street names.

Try to have fun…just have fun. I kept repeating until it got easier.

The further we went, the sillier we got (truth be told he also thought this whole part was asinine. Whew!) Until we were laughing and waving at fellow drivers and suddenly I realized I was having a rally good time.

It turned out to be the perfect way to take his new baby out for a spin; and once we figured out where we were headed we just relaxed, chucked the ridiculously difficult list of clues, (it’s not like we were being graded) and enjoyed the gorgeous day.

Sometimes a relationship; a marriage; requires sacrifice.

Sometimes that sacrifice takes up your entire Sunday.

Sometimes you are reduced to wearing a disguise, I mean scarf and sunglasses, to make it palatable.

And sometimes, if you stop being such a stuck-up-bitch-face, stop thinking of only yourself and just show some love and kindness to your husband on his birthday — in spite of yourself you can have a whole lotta fun.

I’m always learning.

Psssst…don’t show too much enthusiasm or he’ll make you go every time.

Carry on,

Xox

There is a mysterious, indescribable, complex exchange that can happen in the space between you and your partner. You find each other. Your centers of gravity expand as your lives become more and more entwined. You create space for this other person to thrive while they’re doing the same for you. This creates a flow of energy in the space between you. This energy field is at the heart of marriage. It flows in the space between you, space that exists nowhere else in the universe. You can become more familiar with how this energy field works. You can develop language between you to identify what’s happening in the space between you. You can sharpen your abilities to assess it. You can act in certain ways to increase the flow. You can identify what’s blocking the flow, and then you can overcome those barriers. Years into your marriage, you can continue to intensify this energetic flow between you.

It is risky to give yourself to another. There are no guarantees, and there are lots of ways for it to fall apart and break your heart. But the upside is infinite.

—from The Zimzum of Love

New York Times bestselling author Rob Bell and his wife, Kristen Bell, explore a whole new way of understanding our most intimate and powerful relationship: marriage. The concepts behind The Zimzum of Love open ways for us to transform and deepen how we love.

*This is a list written by Alex Sandra Myles published in the Elephant Journal this week – it’s about love – I like it. I had to restrain myself from highlighting every line.

Do you have anything to add?
Happy Sunday Loves!
Xox

1. When it arrives, cherish it.

2. Whatever you accept, you will get.

3. Understand that love is a mirror—it will show us who we are if we allow it to.

4. Only we can make ourselves happy, it is not the other person’s responsibility.

5. Don’t say words with the intent to hurt.

6. Accept and forgive easily.

7. Don’t be scared to disagree, it is healthy.

8. Never be too busy for each other.

9. Do not punish.

10. Accept honest criticism, it is good for us.

11. Admit when you are wrong, quickly.

12. Support each other when the going gets tough.

13. Live in the moment—be present.

14. Leave the past where it belongs.

15. Leave drama out of it.

16. Don’t try to control.

17. Allow a small amount of jealousy.

18. Don’t use comparisons.

19. Celebrate differences.

20. Communicate openly and honestly.

21. Listen very carefully.

22. Don’t judge.

23. Don’t manipulate to get results.

24. Learn and grow.

25. Don’t try to change each other.

26. Don’t condemn each other’s family and friends.

27. Lines, flaws and imperfections are beautiful.

28. Trust your instincts, but don’t be paranoid.

29. Don’t compromise your morals and values and don’t expect them to either.

30. Instead of power, aim for balance.

31. Space is needed to breathe and to grow.

32. Accept that you are both unique—never compare.

33. Have fun, laugh and play—a lot.

34. Be each other’s best friend.

35. Don’t play mind games.

36. Do not carelessly throw away love.

37. Don’t waste energy with negative thoughts.

38. Compliment often.

39. Discover each other.

40. Be attentive and understand what’s not said.

41. Do at least one romantic and thoughtful thing every day.

42. Take picnics and sleep under the stars.

43. Don’t just speak about it, show love.

44. Walk together, cook together, bathe together, read together.

45. Do not be afraid, love requires surrender.

46. Be loyal and faithful.

47. Trust.

48. Be grateful.

49. Fluidity is good, accept change.

50. Don’t sleep on a fight.

51. Don’t cling to it, know when to let go.

52. Discover what turns you both on and explore it.

53. Make love, but also f*ck (regularly).

54. Give and receive without measure.

55. Never gamble with what you can’t afford to lose.

Xox