husbands

I don’t know about you guys but I have a pretty good relationship with my “inner boss” (some call it their Guardian Angel, mine is way to bossy to have wings).

I know this because she has kept me out of trouble for most of my life. Guiding me toward what makes sense, and away from my most idiotic tendencies. That is when I listen to her.

What I often forget to factor into my daily discourse with all of the idiots (I say that with love) around me, is that THEY also have an inner boss who is guiding them away from idiocy. 

But can we trust that? 

Can I trust that the guy driving sixty-miles-an-hour next to me on the 101 and TEXTING is going to put down his phone long enough to hear his “boss” try to convince him that the fight—texting with Debra is a really bad idea?

I heard a woman talking the other day about her twelve-year-old son wanting desperately to walk on their frozen pond. It was early March and she wasn’t convinced the ice was still thick enough to support him. 

In other words, FUCK NO!

Just to back up her concerns she told him all the “falling through thin ice” stories she could think of. Especially the ones that didn’t end well. She even showed him the videos on YouTube. By the end of her lecture, he was yawning and SHE was the one who was hyperventilating and needed a cocktail.

She was so worried that he’d disobey her warning that she forbid him to go outside at all.

Seeing that it was the first nice day they’d had in months, he pitched a hissy fit and she felt like Cruella D’Ville. Even the dog showed his disapproval by pooping in their downstairs bathtub. 

Maybe we should all just wrap ourselves in bubble wrap, live in a hermetically sealed room, and call it a life, right? I mean at some point we have to trust that those we love (and even those we don’t) have their own inner boss who will keep them out of danger. Ewwwww, that’s a haaaard one!

I’m practicing this in real-time with my own husband—who is a twelve-year-old boy in a man suit. 

He wants to go on his annual motorcycle ride up in Northern Cal barely two weeks after getting out of ICU due to a nasty interaction between his motorcycle AND THE GROUND. All the doctors advise against it. They warn him that the margin of error is, well, zero. If he falls again, it will be bad. 

Like, fall through thin ice bad. 

But I’m not his mom. I can’t forbid him to go.  I have to trust that his inner boss will take the wheel. That he will realize the idiocy of taking a chance like that—and make the “right” decision.

He asked for my opinion and I gave it: Go on the trip, just drive a car.

“That’s what my better angels were telling me to do!” he admitted. 

Whew! I guess that “trusting” shit really does work sometimes! With sixty-five-year-old men.
Mother’s—I still wouldn’t let my kid walk on the frozen pond.

What do you think?

Carry on,
xox

This is a post from back in 2014. My husband is leaving today for a weekend motorcycle adventure in the High Sierras and even though it is much tamer than his rides through Namibia and South America, I’m always reminded of this story and the fact that while he’s away no matter how much I say I won’t, swear I’m above it and lie to myself that nothing can happen—I worry.

As you can probably imagine, the sigh I breathe when I hear the motorcycle pull into the driveway is one that starts at my big toes, rolls around in my chest, and lowers my shoulders down from my ears on its way out of my mouth.

Be safe this weekend.
xox

My husband left yesterday for France, for a testosterone filled yet refined long weekend of car auctions, car parties, followed by a car show.

Can you say Gear Head?

Last night, after delivering the dead weight of both sleeping dogs to their beds, I looked up and was reminded of a mystical motorcycle message that was delivered to me on another night when he was far, far away.

It was a different kind of trip, raw and rugged.
He was pretty much incommunicado, racing in a desert over ten thousand miles away, but things had taken a turn and I sensed he was in danger.

So I asked for a sign, and the Universe, with her wicked sense of humor, delivered a doozy.

It was the second year he had decided to ride with his buddies at Rawhyde, down in South America to follow this crazy-ass off-road, Mad Max style race called the Dakar.

The year before they had the time of their lives, riding in that environment, among all the other idiots, I mean racers and being worshiped by the locals who line the route and gather in great numbers at every gas stop, handing them food, babies, and cameras to capture the moment.
They are revered, like rock stars.

The riding is treacherously fabulous.
The dirt roads through the Atacama Desert are rocky and rutted and they’re racing next to Rally cars, other motorcycles, and behemoth Russian supply trucks that decided a few years back that they too wanted a piece of the action.
It’s consistently well over one hundred degrees, and they have to cross the Andes via Paseo De San Francisco, which at over 10,000 feet requires them to do what the locals do to offset the altitude—chew raw coca leaves.
While they ride a motorcycle. Yes, you read that right.

It’s an insane cluster fuck, an accident waiting to happen. People die.

But as he’s told me, it’s the most fun he’s ever had with his clothes on.

Here’s a taste in case you’re interested:
http://youtu.be/UYFt7hrMWOg

This trip Murphy’s Law prevailed.
Everything that could go wrong did—and then some. I heard all about it in my one brief text per day. It was often terse and exhausted-sounding, sent at the end of another grueling episode of Chasing Dakar.

Let’s just say, things were not flowing, and he was not a happy camper. I felt terrible for him.

The day came to cross over the Andes and because of circumstances too complicated to get into, he and an instructor were leading the group up and over.

The idea is to do it as quickly as you can, spending as little time as possible up at that elevation. Get your paperwork stamped at the checkpoint and GO!
The previous year he’d told me stories of helping other riders back down the mountain, who were literally found laying in the road next to their bikes, sick and seriously delusional from the altitude.
Apparently, they’d never received the coca leaf memo.

Knowing all that only made things worse for me when I didn’t hear from him at all that day. Nothing.
The window of time in which I’d usually receive my text had come – and gone. Man, how I would have welcomed one of his cantankerous texts.
I started to worry.

With the phone tucked under my pillow, I laid there – waiting. Once I realized it was asinine to try to sleep, I decided to text him.
Hope you made it safely. I Love you.
I knew he wouldn’t answer, But it made me feel better…for about a minute.

It’s amazing where your mind can go when you’re sick with worry about someone you love.
Mine writes horror movies that could never be shown because of the graphic nature of the gore. They involve motorcycles and danger, blood, guts, and death.
That night I had him lost in the Andes, with no food or water, crazy from the altitude, eyeing a fellow victim like a pork chop. Or dead, his body carried away by the Andes version of a Yeti, never to be found.

I felt completely powerless, and I was making myself sick.

By 3 a.m. I decided to pray. I prayed the tight-fisted prayer of the terrified wife.

Please let him be okay. I even forgive the fact he hasn’t checked in. Please let him be alive. Please give me a sign.

I took a Xanax and finally drifted into a fitful sleep filled with nightmares. In one, the bedroom was filled with an eerie, greenish light. I could see it through my closed eyelids.
No, really.
My eyes snapped open and the room was filled with an eerie green light I’d never seen before. I blinked, then blinked again.

WTF? Slowly I got up to see where the light was coming from, half expecting a ghostly visitation from my dearly departed in the arms of a Yeti. What I found was almost as weird.

We have a 1953 Peugeot motorcycle up on the short wall that separates our bathroom from our bedroom. Yes, you can say it. All his friends do. I’m the coolest wife EVER!
Anyway…
You’re required by law, to have a fluorescent light in a bathroom. I’ve always hated the greenish glare those bulbs give off, so we installed it behind the motorcycle to assuage the inspector – and then had it promptly disconnected.
If you flip the switch, nothing happens.

But not on this night. I came out of my worry coma to find that the motorcycle above my head was impossibly illuminated. By a light that should NOT be working.

I stood there frozen, a shiver ran around the room, looking for a spine to run up, then it found mine.

It was my sign. It had to be. Light…Motorcycle…

Now just to be clear, he’s okay, right? This means he’s alive, not dead.

The exasperated Universe told me to cut the chit-chat and go back to bed. I flipped the switch which was already in the off position, not knowing what to expect, and the light went out.

Later that day, I received a text. It was short, crabby and filled with expletives.  It was the best text of my life
They had become stuck at the top for hours, and things had gone downhill from there (pun intended). But at last they were back at sea level; sleepless, starving, but safe and sound and back in the race.
It ended with Love you, and that’s all that I could see. I burst into large, crocodile tears of relief.

PS. That light has never worked since.

Keep Calm & Carry on,
Xox

Let me be clear.
I never wanted kids.

I knew my limitations and the list was long.

As an adult, I had a cat and at times, even that was a stretch.

Then I met my husband and he had a dog. Rather, he was a dog and not in the way you’re thinking (Those days were over.) He explained to me that he was part BMW (motorcycle) and part Boxer. He still is.

Suddenly, I was a mom. A dog mom.

Let me say right here that I approach this job with great commitment.
I pick-up poop (never had to do that with a cat), I load her in my car and take her with me when she’s not attached to her dad’s hip, and I’ve gotten used to finding these little dog hairs (boxers don’t have fur they are covered with the equivalent of eyebrow hair), EVERYWHERE.

My wood floors are scratched to hell, my white kitchen cabinets are perpetually covered with dried eye goobers, and most of the fabric in my home has the stench of dog fart baked right into it.

Let me also be clear about this: I love her. Truly, madly and deeply.

Well, except for this morning.

I hate being woken up by anything other than my own circadian rhythm. That was one of the reasons I sidestepped motherhood. I can’t be bothered by someone else’s needs. I even slept peacefully through the night my husband was suffering from appendicitis because he knew better than to wake me up—he snuck silently into the guest room to whimper pitifully until it was safe to complain.

Hey! I can hear you… Jeez… You guys are judgy AF!

Anyway, this morning was especially brutal because we had been away all weekend partying with friends.


See what I mean.

I needed sleep. Real sleep. Ten hours of sleep uninterrupted by alcohol and hotel sex if ya know what I mean.

Instead, this morning at 6 am while my husband was at the gym, I got skunked. Rather, she got skunked.

For the fourth time in six months.

I blame the skunk. He’s not stupid, he knows a dog lives here. There are “Beware of the Dog” signs posted all over the place to discourage this kind of bad behavior.

Besides, I’m sure he can smell her! But this guy doesn’t give a shit. He’s got his tail in the air like he just don’t care.

And for the fourth fucking time, my dog has been the face-first, one woman, early morning welcoming committee.

Since this debacle has happened more than once, we now keep the ingredients for the anti-skunking right there in the bathroom next to the shower.

1 Large pan of water.
Baking soda
liquid detergent (I use Dawn)
Hydrogen peroxide
Bloody Mary (optional)

I don’t measure any amounts because who can be bothered? I just make a paste and smear it all over the unfortunate victim’s face, rinse and repeat.

By the time her dad got home she was cleaned up but the house had the lingering, now familiar stench of skunk road kill.

“She must be a slow learner”, I said like I imagine a mother does when her kid bites into a lemon every time she hands it one. 

My husband wasn’t having any of it. You’re allowed to fuck up three times in our family while we good-naturedly just look the other way. Need a Silkwood shower first thing in the morning before we’ve had our coffee? No problem.

But four times? Fuck that. Four times—You are called out!

“What are you, a dumbass?” he asked her to her face.

She’s a teenager so she just shrugged and flipped her hair.

Different parenting style is also one of the reasons on that long list. Not that we would have ever had kids. My eggs had turned to capers by the time we met. But still.

So to make her feel better about herself I made her a sign. She likes signs. I told her it said “You is smart, you is kind, you is pretty” and she believed me.

In retrospect, I think I would have made one helluva mom.

Maybe not…

Carry on,
xox

Yuck it up big guy.

This post is from early last year and the good news is: nothing has changed. And the bad news? Nothing has changed. Cest la vie!
Big Love,
xox
***

My husband is a gem. He is a prince of a man. A tender-hearted soul who adores dogs, good food, boobs, 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 can’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 MAJOR 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 — he’ll get to it in about a month. That leaves me plenty of time to practice my apology, find my push-up bra, 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 his behavior has 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 everyone 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 all of that to his face? Did he choke on his steak sandwich?”

Then, today…
ME: “Thank GAWD we didn’t run into anybody at lunch. It’s a miracle. I look how a fart smells. I have this freaking head cold so my entire face is a chapped disaster, my hair looks like fuel for a grease fire, and I smell like yellow toenails.”

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 FRENCH 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 get by—just living our lives.

I think more people could use validating. Everyone needs to be acknowledged from time to time, right?

Don’t you agree my beautiful, smart and loyal tribe?

Carry on,
xox

“Be a matador” he yelled as I whimpered pitifully in the middle of a six-lane highway, traffic whizzing by us on both sides.

Not waiting for a break in the traffic he had grabbed my hand and run us between cars out to a place I try REALLY hard to never find myself. The middle of a busy street.

I hate that shit.
I will NOT play chicken, I’ll wait, or walk to the corner crosswalk thank you very much.

But to my French husband jaywalking on a busy boulevard is in his blood, a skill learned as a youth on the impossibly dangerous streets of Paris.

It is not a chicken sport. It is a bullfight. And he/we were Matadors.

Gulp.

Me: (leaning in, yelling above the noise of the cars) Wha…what? Did you say a matador?

Husband: Yes! Stand still! Don’t let the cars smell your fear.

Me: (Squeezing his hand like a vice grip, hoping to illicit pain) Are you crazy? What are you talking about?

Husband: (Yelling back at me through a smirk) Listen to me! All the greatest Matadors are French!

Me: You’re kidding me right? They are NOT French, they’re Spanish!

Did you see what he did there? He took my mind off of my predicament, knowing I would argue with him. Well played husband, well played.

Husband: I’m telling you, they’re French! They’re called Coreadors.

I was laughing nervously. Mostly at the absurdity of the conversation. I’m sure I appeared squirmy, uncomfortable and maybe a little hysterical. That comes from knowing that you’re probably going to end up as a splat on the windshield of a Prius.

Me: Shut. Up! They are NOT!

Husband: (Leaning in, yelling above traffic) Or Toreadors. Those are the guys on horseback. 

Me: (Feeling queasy. close enough to death to relate to the bull) Uhhh! Stop! Bullfighting is barbaric! The French don’t have bullfighting! They’re WAY too civilized for that!

Husband: (Amused by my argument) That’s what YOU think!

By the way, can you believe we were still standing in the middle of a busy street? Me either, but we were!

Me: (Wishing I’d ordered the french toast as my last meal) Egads. Bullfighting. Brutal. Whoever thought that was a good idea?

Husband: The Romans.

Me: Figures.

With that, the last car hurtled past us and he yanked my hand and ran me to the safety of the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. We were both laughing, not at bullfighting because it’s a horrible practice*—but at the absurdity of our conversation.

Husband: God, you can be such a baby!

Me: God, you’re weird! And damn, the Romans were assholes!

Some story on the radio in the car changed the subject, but I had to share this.

Words from a French wise guy I know—When you’re in the middle of chaos—stand still—be a matador.

Carry on,
xox

*Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I am in no way condoning bullfighting and no bulls were killed in the telling of this story.

*Hi Loves,
This is a post from Christmas 2013, but it’s a crowd favorite for the timeless reason that my man never ceases to amaze me with his decency.
Immensely grateful for all of you and your decency and continued loyalty and wishing you and yours the happiest of holidays and a fucking amazing New Year!
xoxJanet

AVATAR
av·a·tar
ˈavəˌtär/
noun
1.HINDUISM
a manifestation of a deity or released soul in bodily form on earth; an incarnate divine teacher.

I met my husband when he was 47 and I was 43.
To say I kissed a lot of frogs along the way is an understatement!
Since he’s French, there’s also a certain irony there.

On paper, I looked über normal.
I had a great job, a house, a relatively “normal” family, lots of good friends, two Siamese cats, and a Partridge in a pear tree.

But as you all know by now, I had my dark, hidden secret.
I was a closeted seeker.
I was devoutly spiritual.
I did yoga,
I meditated twice a day,
I could have been a monk.
Well, except for the red lipstick and nail polish…oh, and the sex.

Anyway…
I’m pretty sure I blurted it all out on one of our early dates,
after a glass of wine, half expecting him to excuse himself, saying he was “going to the restroom”, only to discover he had made a run for it!

But he didn’t.

It ends up he was a seeker as well, having worked with
a Peruvian shaman along the way, so I should have seen this coming.

For years, I had sought the counsel of a channel, a friend who had the ability to call in beings of higher wisdom. So I invited her/them over to “meet” my new husband. I’m not exactly sure what I expected, but what they did was to completely ignore me, and practically fall all over themselves, calling him “Great Avatar”.

Then they explained that I am the “consort” to this great being.

What!? Really?
Like the Cleopatra to his Marc Anthony?
Nope.
More like the Robin to his Batman.
The Kato to his Green Hornet.
The Heckle to his Jeckle.

Well, not exactly.
He is my teacher.
I am grasshopper.

It just happened for the gazillionth time on Christmas Eve day.

He told me the story that night, on our way to dinner.

He is a typical man in the sense that he waits until 3 p.m. on the 24th to start his shopping.

So…he’s navigating an overcrowded parking lot, and he’s hungry.
You get the picture.

He finally sees a car ready to pull out of its space, so he positions himself, left blinker on, and waits…and waits…while the person sloooooowy backs out. Meanwhile, on the other side of them is a little pickup truck that has the same idea. My husband sees what’s up and aggressively blocks the spot with his black Porsche and then pulls in. (Don’t judge, just because it’s a Porsche and a pickup truck, just don’t)!

As the pickup truck drives off, he makes eye contact and flips my husband the middle finger.

Oh, don’t worry, that stuff rolls off his back…he’s French, remember?
But it’s Christmas Eve for cryin’ out loud!

He walks in to get a quick burger, and realizes while he’s eating,
that middle finger, pickup truck guy is eating with some friends a few tables over.

So, he gets out a pen and writes a note on a napkin.
He then attached $20 and hands it to the waitress to deliver to the guy…and leaves.

The notes says:
Even though you flipped me the bird,
It’s Christmas Eve.
your lunch is on me.
The black Porsche.

As he glanced back, while walking away, he sees the guy showing the note to his buddies and looking around the cafe.

He’s my hero.
He’s my teacher
He really is an Avatar.
It is an honor to be his consort.

Xox

Hey guys,
Here’s a holiday favorite that this year I’ve been able to put on the Huffington Post.
Take a look. If you know him you’re going to smile and if you don’t, well, I think you’ll want to.

The big French guy who stole my heart — and then hijacked my favorite meal!
Cheers!
PS. REAL men use pink rubber oven mitts! Bam!
xox

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/how-my-french-husband-hij_b_8547286.html

I believe with every fiber of my being that we ALL have a superpower. The thing or things that we are better at than almost ANYONE else.

Mine is my memory. I remember every word you said, the shoes you wore, and the song that was playing on the radio when you dumped me.
And then there’s my ability to weave that into a story.
Ouch. Oh relax, I’m only joking…sort of.

I have a friend that can make a box of Girl Scout Thin Mint Cookies last for more than three days — I know — UNBELIEVABLE. Yet, I have seen it with my own eyes.

My mom, and for that matter most mothers, are able to hear the spoken and often un-spoken mischievous musings, whispered plans and naughty plots of their children clear across the house; sometimes from out in the backyard with a cocktail while listening to the Dodger game; or even from the neighbor kid’s treehouse.

“No, you most certainly are NOT going to rig that old clothesline and beat up beach chair into a neighborhood zip line!”

Is she kidding? Could she have cracked our code? How did she know that was our plan? She’s making baloney sandwiches — in a house —down the block.

I was convinced as a child that her pink plastic hair rollers were some kind of sound enhancing devices.

Or how about this other widely demonstrated talent — the eyes in the back of her head trick.

“I see you…give your baby sister her cookie back. NOW!”

How is that possible…she’s driving?

Maternal Superpowers — used mostly in the service of good rather than evil; although as a child, that point was debatable.

My little sister is a kind of Culinary Wonder Woman. She can put together an event or party at the drop of a hint and I can guarantee you — it will be SPECTACULAR.

If you want to feed 6 or 60, it doesn’t matter call Sue.

She’ll cater it herself with eight to fifteen different appetizers, each more delicious than the next. Then she’ll serve a roast turkey AND a Prime rib, AND a smoked ham AND a goat; all lovingly prepared and garnished to perfection — with thirty-five gourmet side dishes — half of them using kale. That’s a talent.

Oh, and you’d better leave room for dessert. They’ll be seventeen pies, ten cakes, donuts, pastries and fountains of chocolate, both dark and white.

All of them homemade. In her spare time.

Every inch of her home will be decorated for the affair. Gorgeous fresh flowers (grown, picked and arranged by her own loving hands), tablecloths and centerpieces with white twinkle lights hung by Tinkerbelle herself.

You’ll receive a keepsake memento as you enter, and another as you leave (after she gets to know you better). They will be thoughtful and touching things that are personally selected for you and you alone. Things that will make you cry; items you will treasure for years to come. (We haven’t yet figured out how she does that; as far as we can guess she has a team of people who go through your drawers while you’re at the party, then shop, gift wrap and return before you’re ever the wiser.)

If you’re one of the lucky ones she may have put together a slide show of long forgotten but favorite photographs which will play on an endless loop — with a tear-jerking soundtrack.

Her parties are so inventive and fabulous that Martha Stewart has installed a top-secret party cam just to swipe ideas.

At Christmas, the elves at the North Pole have a Pinterest page of several years of her winter wonderland home and decoration ideas, which they present to Santa as their own — tiny lying slackers.

Susan’s undeniable superpower? — Making people happy with delicious food, beautiful ambiance and her over-the-top thoughtfulness.

My husband has the good fortune to have been blessed, as many of you have, with two superpowers.

He has his MacGyver Superpower and his Sparkle*.
Our friends and I tease him about it…but if you’ve ever been on the receiving end, they are both equally indispensable.

He can build you a house out of eleven Popsicle sticks, a random shard of glass, nine paperclips, one stick of Black Jack gum, and a sweat sock.
With those same exact items he can also fabricate a life raft, patch a blown tire, signal a rescue helicopter, fix a motorcycle, design a prom dress, start a signal fire, and end world hunger.

You want him on your team when the Zombie’s attack.

As for the Sparkle*(ting)…well, those that have been caught in its spell have given us the best table at a packed restaurant, upgraded us to First Class at no charge, overlooking the fact that our three bags each were over the weight limit, and found us front row tickets to a sold out concert.

Men, women, it doesn’t matter, his superpowers don’t discriminate.

Does it only work for he and I? Nope, whole groups of friends have benefited from his equal opportunity Sparkle*.

If he switched to the darkside…the man could rule the world. Seriously.

We all have ‘em these Superpowers; have you figured out what yours is?

Carry on,
xox

“I never said most of the things I said.”
-Yogi Berra

Having written this blog pretty much everyday for almost three years now, an interesting phenomenon has started to show up in casual conversation with family and friends.

I’m being quoted back to myself.
“You know that thing you wrote Tuesday about the forgiveness?” Then they recite it back to me—verbatim.
I just nod, because sadly, my memory has taken a menopause vacation. You guys, I can barely remember to wear pants!

Other times it isn’t even remotely something I wrote. It has the innate wisdom of a Rumi quote or something Oprah said—same thing.

Anyhow, it still boggles my mind that anyone reads this blog, let alone remembers what I wrote—and I feel unending, immense gratitude for all of you.
So there’s that.

Here’s the other thing that takes me aback every time it happens—which is actually growing in frequency.

“This is off the record—I don’t want to see this in the blog”, my friends will whisper.
Even in the car. Like I’m wearing a wire.
Like I’m a fucking investigative reporter doing important journalistic work for The Washington Post or something. It’s all I can do not to snort laugh when that happens.

The funny part is that when I do mention a friend—everyone thinks it’s them.

“That was cool, that thing you wrote about me yesterday” they’ll chirp with pride; and I don’t have the heart to tell them that most of the friends I mention are compilations, you know, to keep me from getting my ass kicked in line at Joan’s.

Truth be told, the person I out the most—is myself. I gave myself permission to do that—to tell the uncensored truth in the very beginning because what’s the use of writing a blog about your life when you don’t disclose anything intimate about yourself! Besides, the real rewards for doing that have been enormous personal insights on my part—and this response from readers: I’m so glad you wrote about that—I thought it was just me.

Well it’s not just you Sheila, I fart in Yoga class too.

Like I said, uncensored.

The second person who has endured being fodder for the blog is my hubby who seems to take it all in stride. It’s like he’s reading about a fictional character called “husband”. He’ll even refer to himself in third person “I felt bad for her husband today”, he’ll remark after reading the blog.

Other days he’ll walk into the room with tears in his eyes.
That guts me.
Here he is, living my life with me—day in and day out—yet, even after all these years of late night pillow talks, patio talks and kitchen talks (If you haven’t guessed, I’m a talker), he’s surprised to read how I felt about something he did or said.

Or the backstage antics of the three ring circus that is disguised as my life.

“I had no idea all that was happening,” he’ll say, marveling at the fact that I can recount all the actual dialogue. “How in the hell do you DO that?”
I just smile.

Then he envelopes me in one of those big bear hugs that I love so much.
And I worry…Shit, I hope he can’t feel the wire.

Be cool you guys, have a great weekend and carry on,
xox

You know that phenomenon that occurs when you spill red wine? How it is attracted to anything residing in the white color palette?

And even though it was only half a glass (okay maybe 3/4 of a glass – it was shitty day) the spillage appears to be more like an entire bottle and requires four rolls of paper towels to clean up.

You familiar with that scenario?

One glass of wine that has now ruined:
1) Your new silk and linen blend light beige pants that you’re wearing for the first time.

2) The white flokati rug that has the nerve to sit under your friend’s coffee table. (Who has white rugs?)

3) Your reputation as someone who can balance a glass of wine, a cocktail napkin, eat some kind of tartlet stuffed with cheesy goodness — and tell a funny story, without spilling a single drop.

What about a drop of black dye in a cup of water?
It swirls and undulates, acting as if it’s alive as it permeates every molecule.

Until in a matter of seconds it appears as if by magic that the entire contents of the cup had turned the color of midnight.

A single drop.
An entire glass.
Saturation.

When I wake up in the mornings, even before I get out of bed, I practice gratitude.

I’m thankful that I had the good fortune to wake up, that I can smell coffee in the other room, and that I don’t have to be woken up by the shrill ringing of an alarm.

I do that to get myself into a good feeling place. To keep my imaginary glass of water clear. It makes for a smoother, better day all around.

Most days I can stay there on pretty solid footing.

Other days I can’t make it to the bathroom without the spilled wine worries invading my thoughts; staining everything I think.

Recently, it seems as if black ink has been saturating me right as I come to consciousness. I think one nice thought and I get hijacked. BLAMO!

Black ink in the form of a troubling thought is swirling in my head as I try to find my balance; it’s reminding me of something awful, making gratitude the boulder I’m now struggling to push up the mountain of my mind.

If it takes hold I’m screwed. Covers over the head, might as well go back to sleep and reset, kind of screwed.

You all know how that goes. Once the wine or the ink stains your brain, once it permeates the entire glass of water, it is such an effort to escape –– it can ruin a whole day.

Then I remembered what my husband told me he was doing. Instead of letting an awful thought take hold and then attempting to play catch-up all day; he just kept his gratitude driven thinking going 24/7.

It took work but he was up to the challenge. The alternative was unacceptable –– it felt like hell.

“You can’t process thoughts from opposite parts of the brain at the same time.” He reminded me. “It’s impossible! Try being sad and grateful at the same time. Or happy and anxious. Love or hate. You just can’t do it. So I just drive around these days, ALL day –– feeling appreciation and gratitude. It keeps my thoughts from going dark”

He was right! (Damn, I hate when he’s right – insert forehead slap here) but what he’s doing is SO much easier than trying to turn your emotional ship around after its run aground.

You have the choice to pick a better thought. You do. I challenge you to try it.

Don’t get me wrong, some days are going to be a fight.
A fucking fist fight street brawl.

It will feel like using a tweezers and a magnifying glass to look for a needle of happiness inside of a haystack of sad.

But don’t give up. I know you; you won’t. You’re scrappy like me.

Feeling grateful, or something above despair, even in the shit times, is like those drops they give you to take to the Amazon to clear the water of all those swimming amoebas that’ll kill ya.

You swirl it around for a couple of minutes and viola! Your cup is full of crystal clear drinking water.

Let gratitude clear your glass of water. If gratitude is too far of a reach try a happy place moment.

I go to a beach on Maui on a seventy-two degree day, with zero wind, perfect rolling waves, warm water and my twenty-five year old body…sadness, at a least for a few minutes – out of sight, out of mind.

It’s a start, and SO much better than an entire day of feeling bad.

That’s all.

Carry on,
xox