lessons

I would add: Humor, Courage, Personality, Selflessness, Honor, Health, Loyalty, Happiness and Sparkle*.
How about you?

xox

FIXATE

2) technical, direct one’s eyes toward.
“subjects fixated on a central point”

When riding our motorcycle, it is very important that Raphael look up the road, just ahead of us. One reason seems obvious, so that he can gauge the road, it’s bumps, cracks and any debris; to see the banking of a curve, in order to slow down – in other words, he looks ahead to keep us safe.

What he absolutely cannot do is fixate on one particular object, you know why?

Because wherever you look – is where you will go.

Fixation can send you into the bushes on its best day, and off a cliff on its worst.

I’ve seen many a biker go down on the side of a road because he fixated on a blinking sign, a parked CHP car, or a dog running on the median.

It’s inevitable.
It’s law.

Ask yourself right now, Where or what am I fixated on? Are you headed for a fall?

An acquaintance of mine is in the middle of a remodel.
All she can focus on are the things that haven’t been done, or the tiny things that need to be fixed. She cannot, for the life of her, see all the beautiful tile and finishes of her amazing masterpiece.

Driving over in the car she was fixating on all the sucky things she’d find.
It was all she could talk about. She was in full obsession mode.

So what were her eyes only capable of seeing? The fuck ups.

She was so off in the bushes, it was impossible for her to get any enjoyment from the beautiful fireplace that had just been installed. The stone work was gorgeous, the mantle, incredible. Instead, she was stuck in the foyer, freaking out over a scratch in the drywall.

It’s all she could see.
Crying and yelling and blaming – oh my.
She’s likely to go off the cliff soon.

Several of my friends are already knotting up their stomachs in anticipation of the Holidays. They’re fixated on the shenanigans they’ve come to expect throughout the years. They’re preoccupied with the dysfunction of every jolly participant.

You know where they’re going to end up?
Off road, in the dirt, sadly stuck on the road of dysfunctional shenanigans.

Where you’re fixated is where you will go.
What you’re obsessed with is what you’ll see.
Every time.
Swear to God.
Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.

Be careful. Mindfully fixate on good things for a change.

This is also the cousin of: Would you rather be right? Or happy?
Ouch.

This has been a Public Service Announcement – from me.

Xox

What do you do when you get depressed?

I’ve learned through the years that the best way to talk myself down from the ledge is to remind myself This too shall pass by repeating the mantra This_________ is only temporary.
It seems my endurance of all things sucky is fueled by the fact that I’m certain that nothing lasts forever.
Even my acne finally decided to hit the road.

This weekend during Rob Bell’s inspiring talk, he reiterated that philosophy with this quote: Depression comes when you believe that tomorrow will look just like today.

Doesn’t that make sense? And lighten your load?
My shoulders come down off my ears when I say that out loud.

Depression comes when you believe that tomorrow will look just like today. I can change that, I can turn my ship around.

To me, if I want to hitch myself to any emotion, it would be hope; because inside hope is change, and if I don’t like how things are panning out right now I can have the certainty that they will change.

The best thing about this belief is that WE don’t have to figure out how it’s going to change, we just have to KNOW that it will.

Haven’t you ever been low on cash and then someone who owed you money paid you back unexpectedly?

When that relationship with your soul mate, love of your life crashed and burned ten years ago someone else came along, right? And they were even better for you.

When you were so sick last fall, you recovered. You may have had that hacking cough for a month, but even that eventually went away. You probably didn’t even notice when it left.

See, that’s the thing, change is sneaky – and it’s humble. It doesn’t call attention to itself. It. just. happens.

I had a job at a grocery store after my divorce when I was in my twenties. I’d actually had it since I was fifteen in one capacity or another. At the time of my divorce I was a checker. Then I worked the night crew, stocking the shelves while you all slept, for extra money and to allow me to pursue acting, running to auditions during the day. I could work as much or as little as I wanted depending on my level of greed at any given moment.

At a certain point, around my thirtieth birthday to be exact; I decided, probably over alcohol, that I’d had enough of acting – AND the grocery business. I had NO idea what would come next for me, all I knew was that if tomorrow looked the same for much longer, I was going to be forced to join the circus to shake things up.

One afternoon while I was lying around moping, eating an entire pumpkin pie; my mom (who was well acquainted with my dissatisfaction with life) called to say she’d read about an antique mall that was opening on Melrose and was looking for part-time help. I loved antiques, so I immediately called, got an interview, and was hired on the spot.

I worked at the Melrose Antique Mall (which closed in the early nineties) by day, and at the market at night for about a year, until one day as a fluke, one of the girls that worked with me at the mall happened to mention a job she’d turned down working with real jewelry, at Antiquarius. It wasn’t the direction she wanted to take her life, but it sounded amazing to me, so I called, interviewed, and the rest is history.

I managed that store for just under twenty years and it was one of the unexpected joys of my life.

If you had asked me any day along that two-year transition what was next for me, I couldn’t have told you. All I knew was that even though I’d been working at the market for fifteen years, tomorrow could look different for me, it HAD to, and it kept me from falling into a deep pit of despair.

Not that deep pits of despair are unfamiliar to me; I just know by this stage of the game that there is a bottom, a ladder, and sunshine that can shine on your face – if you’ll just look up.

Believe a change is on the way – because it is – THAT I can guarantee.

Love you,
xox

* If you feel you are, or have been diagnosed as clinically depressed, please seek psychological treatment.

“If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all”
~ My Mom~

She’d usually lob that nugget of wisdom behind her, into the backseat of the car, where my brother and sister and I were calling each other “doodie heads” or something worse.

That directive felt like a HUGE challenge to me, since everything bugged me and I could never keep my mouth shut. It may as well have been a vow of silence, which I tried once – and thought I would rather die.

We weren’t allowed to “tattle” either, and it was our “go to” pastime as children.
She just would not have any of it.
“I don’t care – work it out.” She’d snort, exasperated, after hearing hours of “he did this” and “she said that.”

If we weren’t bleeding and could still walk upright, her complaint department was closed.

“Tell your troubles to Jesus” was an old favorite.
It would leave her mouth the minute she sensed a sour face walking in her direction. She wouldn’t even turn her head your way.
That one was Kryptonite; nothing could turn a disgruntled Catholic kid around faster than a suggestion of a bitch session with the Almighty. Too much like confession.
Plus, I knew even then, that Jesus would just laugh.

“Methinks thou doth protest too much” Is from William Shakespeare’s Hamlet – and my mom.

Us kids could get very dramatic, and I was, by far, the worst of the bunch.
My mom nicknamed me Desdemona, who is a character from Othello, ( yeah she’s clearly THAT mom) because of my histrionics. I could bring the crowd to its feet over a burnt grilled cheese sandwich, or tangled hair.

“Children are to be seen and not heard.” 
That was saved for those occasions when we had adult company at the house. It was the sixties and everyone said that to their kids, so I’ll give her a pass.
Of course it never applied to me.
I’d politely meet a complete stranger, and then ask them if they’d like to hear a special song I’d prepared for that evening.
Precocious? Ya think?!

But her best words of wisdom, the ones I’ve taken with me into adulthood, into the world of internet haters, are these:
“Consider the source (honey).”

She’d just calmly shake her head and tisk a few tisks, clearly signifying the completely misguided nature of the comment that had made me cry, by someone who had NO business ruining my day.

“Well that just doesn’t sound like a smart boy” or “their mother lets them stay up past midnight” or “they don’t wear shoes.”
I’d weigh that against the insult – and immediately feel better.

I still do to this day.

Well played mom.

I prefer my food gluten-free and my life drama-free.

This goes for family as well, and THAT can be a tall order, just like getting gluten-free anything outside of urban areas.

“Wanna go to New York for the weekend in October? My cousin is having her first US art exhibition. She and her sister are going to be there for the opening, with their adult kids,” husband asked this spring.

I share the love that he has for these women; AND I will go to New York for the opening of an envelope.

“Uh, letmethinkaboutthatYES,yesIwould!” I said all in one looooong exclamation.

It was so dear and also enlightening to sit back and watch and listen as they got caught up. It’s been over ten years since we’ve seen them.

Let’s be clear, my understanding of French, especially spoken fast and with enthusiasm, is similar to my grasp of Mandarin – nonexistent.
But I understand giggles and guffaws and misty eyes and hugs.

Hours of stories and memories shared.
Seems the old guard are almost all gone, everyone is allowed to exhale. This old French family is passing into very capable, progressive, and dare I say less dysfunctional hands.

Every family has their “stuff” and his family is no different; except their drama and family neurosis has style.
A certain je ne sais quoi. It wears better clothes, and is dripping in that sardonic French wit.

It’s the Coco Chanel of families.

A mistake a lot of us make is that we look at other people’s families who seem to have it all together; very beautiful and glamorous lives, all the trappings of success and we think: I wish they were MY family. I’d be SO together if he/she were MY parent.
I call bullshit.

It’s all the same in every language, in every country. It’s Universal. Family shit runs deep.

You think your family’s cornered the market on crazy? Think again.
The eccentric, wild-eyed, cousin who never wears shoes, the snarky, judgmental, bitchy family member – they’re the same worldwide. The only difference is they may wear a sari, a Metallica t-shirt, or couture, and have a funny accent.

Seems it’s just a part of the human condition.

Walking around this weekend, it was all becoming clear.
New York is such a culturally diverse city; there were families, parents and children of various ages and ethnicities everywhere we visited. I was a witness to global love and global dysfunction; as they do go hand in hand.
And you know what?

You can’t make it to adulthood unscathed.

Family bestows on us its greatest traits (his family has an inordinate amount of successful, gifted artists) and its darkest, stickiest, secrets.
It damages us all to varying degrees.

Whether it’s through therapy, hypnosis, running away, or just the grace of God, it is my belief that we end up with the people with whom we share compatible damage. Funny is a bonus.

That’s all it is.
I did a very exhaustive, comprehensive weekend study – it really is THAT simple.

Love you my compatible people,
Xox

Is it pride, experience, reason or heart? Who do you listen to most often? Is it serving you? Hmmmmmmm, too may hard questions for a Saturday? (Wink)

Food for thought.
Big Love,
Xox

You can always tell what your friends think of you, by the people they set you up with.
~J Bertolus

“Oh, and he’s sooooo good with ALL of my dogs, even my crazy new rescue…”
She leaned across the jewelry counter, handing me his card, her giant diamond ring blinding me.

At that point she’d been waxing poetic about this guy for a good fifteen minutes.

Tina was the young, hot wife of a regular watch client of ours. He was a significantly older businessman, she was an attorney, (which never ceased to amaze me, because she looked like Malibu Barbie…seriously) he was richer than Trump – she was Georgia Peach sweet – and they seemed genuinely crazy about each other.

I was turning over every rock in my search for a husband at that stage of my life, and I’d decided, in a flash of desperate spontaneity, to ask her if she knew anyone.

Looking at her, I was sure men threw themselves her way on an hourly basis, and I was right.
She had a stack of cards that could choke a horse in the secret pocket of her bright blue Birkin bag, and when she pulled this guy’s out of the pile, it had his personal cell phone number handwritten on the back.

“He’s an excellent vet, he really is, and a beautiful human being. Honey, call that number” she said, tapping the back of the card with a long crimson fingernail, “that’s where he can be most easily reached.”

“Oh…I’m sure of THAT.” I snarkily replied, turning the card over in my hand. “For a dog emergency, right?”

“Of course. He said anytime, day or night. Isn’t that darling? He’s so devoted…”

I searched her face for any trace of…well, I don’t know; was she for real?
Could she really be THAT naive?
Yes – yes she could.

A handsome, single, forty year old veterinarian; in my neighborhood; that didn’t suck, right?

I gave her MY card, I wanted him to call ME.
I was getting good at blind dating – blind calling? Not so much.

After another five minutes of extolling his virtues, I stopped her by fibbing; telling her I had an appointment coming in, and immediately called the Vatican to petition for his sainthood.

Then I promptly forgot about this Saint Francis of Assisi – and Studio City.

As I remember it, he called, and we set up a time to meet the following Friday night, at the bar of a local Mexican restaurant.

I was usually dressed nice enough for work to be able to go straight out for drinks or a blind date. Nothing too fancy, but waaaay nicer than what I wear now.
If I was dating now – forget about it. I’d have to spackle, and put on pants.
Have I said too much?

The bar was LOUD and filled with every assorted type on a Friday night in the middle of summer.
There were tourists, with their Universal Studios t-shirts, young businessmen in suits, and sports guys, glued to the game on the TV above the bar.
She’d said he was dark haired and handsome, so I just looked past the ferret faced blonde guys.

“Janet?” a man’s voice asked from behind me, so I spun around.
There was my vet – in board shorts, flip flops and a faded surf shop t-shirt.
I had seen him in my preliminary scan of the bar and mistaken him for…something – not a guy meeting a blind date.
Had I made a mistake? Were we meeting to go grunion hunting?

“Oh hi.” I tried not to look as disappointed as I felt. I don’t think I succeeded.

“This place was a terrible idea (mine) it’s too loud and crowded, let’s go someplace else.” He said walking several steps in front of me toward the door.

Maybe he was disappointed as well.
I wasn’t Tina, not even on a good day.
Maybe he thought all her friends looked like they hung out in her Barbie Dreamhouse.
Yet, he certainly hadn’t dressed to impress.
I was hungry, disappointed and stumped. And I wanted to run.

“Were do you think we should go?” he was asking me as we stood outside on the sidewalk.
I wasn’t exactly batting a thousand, since I’d picked the loud, crowded place, and he wasn’t really dressed for anything nicer than Denny’s.

We walked for a few awkward blocks on Ventura Boulevard and settled on CPK – for a blind date – in LA. This was NOT going well.

Just as I’d suspected, it was filled with families and screaming kids at that hour, but I was done giving this date one more minute of thought, since it appeared HE was already phoning it in.

Wine!! I need wine!, was all that was going through my head as we sat down at a booth that was so dirty it sticky/slimed my silk blouse.

After the booze came, we started to make small talk, mostly him, (and if you know me at all, you know it’s rare when I’m quiet) as I chug-a-lugged my merlot.

He loved the animals and being a vet, and he lived up the hill – Nice.
Then suddenly, like a brick to the forehead, “I went to veterinary school in the Philippines, I really LOVE Philippine woman, they’re my type” he said to the curly-haired blonde, stuck to the table across from him.
He had a lascivious look on his face.

How rude was he going to get? His lack of blind date decorum was shocking. Didn’t he know the rules? Didn’t he know he was blowing it? Did he even care?

“Well, of course you do” – I’d had it.
“Isn’t that where the people who can’t get into veterinary school in the states go?”
I sniped.

Okay I know, low blow.

I grabbed a passing waiter’s sleeve as he walked by, “Check” I hissed, almost yanking his arm off.
Board short guy barely noticed; he was still staring off into space, grinning, dreaming of the women in the Philippines.

He grabbed the check and insisted on paying, even though I had my $20 out and ready.
What a gentleman.
He pulled a crisp hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet and snapped-snapped it in my face, to pay the $18 tab, like the flip-flop wearing, high rolling, big shot that he was.

I couldn’t have been more UNDERWHELMED.
I’m sorry to sound like an ass, but I was a jeweler, I counted hundred-dollar bills all day long, so much so, that they’d begun to resemble Monopoly money to me. (But that’s a whole other story.)

He then took several minutes to arrange the change in his wallet according to the bill denomination. I bolted.

“Uh, thanks so much, I’ve really got a run, I have an early….thing” I was literally speed walking to my car, with the vet trying to keep up, flying out of his flip-flops.

“Let’s do this again” he was behind me, out of breath.

That stopped me in my tracks.
“Your kidding right? This did not go well, we have nothing in common and we have absolutely NO chemistry.”
I let him down easy. Hey! That was easy, believe me.

“Oh, okay.” I heard in the distance. I was running now, with the safe haven of my car in sight.

I felt like I was going to need a Silkwood shower to wash off the yuck of that night and what the hell was Tina thinking?

Lost in thought, I didn’t hear the person beside me honking and trying to get my attention.
It was the vet. In a brand spanking new, red Corvette, giving me that same hundred-dollar smile and a thumbs up.

So, the moral of this story is: be really careful when putting out the blind dating feelers. You should ONLY ask the people who know you and love you. And you’ll be able to tell who they are by the people they fix you up with.

PS: Tina was shocked when I told her the vet and I were not a match. He told her I was “out of his league.” What?!

Ladies? Weigh in pretty please.
Xox

My friend and I were talking yesterday, reminiscing about the state of the world, immediately following 9/11.
Everyone was shell shocked, which disarmed their defenses.
People were kind. They went out of their way to help, they got involved.

Even the French. If you can believe it.

I can say that. I’m married to a Frenchman.
Actually he’s half French, half American.
He has the arrogance and love of food of a Francophile, the other half, Yankee Ingenuity and some Huckleberry Finn “Aww shucks.”

We were given ninety days to use our honeymoon tickets, whose dates fell inside those post September 11th “no air travel” dates.
Wasn’t that nice of them?
It was Air France, so yes, it was EXTREMELY nice of them.

Just under a month later we jetted off to Paris to visit his family.
Italy would have to wait.

“Air travel is safer than it’s ever been” he kept reassuring me, “they’re not going to use planes again, not with everyone watching.”

I suppose he was right, but there weren’t enough drugs in the world to get me through the airport, with the new security and National Guard presence, and then allow me to spend eleven hours in high altitude anxiety, without a puke or five.

Once we landed, I noticed it right away. The energy was palpably different.

There wasn’t any fear in Europe. No recent trauma.
No low grade anxiety that we, in the US, had been marinating in for a month.

I felt lighter immediately.
I felt I could smile and laugh again – except it was Paris and that’s forbidden.

Then an anomaly occurred.
Once a person heard me speak English, they would ask: American? I’d nod, and they would touch my shoulder or take my hand, “So sorry” they would attempt in their best American accent.

Are you kidding me?

In bistros, they would meet my eyes when they heard me speak, and give me a very soulful, extremely sympathetic, little grin. A sort of Mona Lisa smile of compassion. With a tilt of the head.

That’s a HUGE outpouring of emotion for them. I was very, very touched.

The take away for me on that trip and in the weeks and months that followed the tragedy of 911 was this: the world can feel like such a small place. Like a little community, where we all feel each other’s pain.
It was the first time in my life I’d ever noticed that.

The country that holds most Americans in low regard, (I know, BROAD generalization, but…) touched my heart and shared my grief.

Instead of cringing when they heard me speak, which I’ve experienced more times than I can count, my American-ness drew them to me like a magnet, so they could extend their sympathies.

We were all just citizens of the world…for awhile.
I miss that.

Sending Saturday Love,
Xox

“Sooner or later, everyone’s story has an unfortunate event or two…The solution, of course, is to stay as far away from the world as possible and lead a safe, simple life.”
― Lemony Snicket, The End

I was driving to the hair salon to see my beloved Reny and get my grey amped up.

Yes, you heard me, I’m embracing my inner crone, who is making her debut in my life one strand of coarse grey hair at a time.

On my drive through the canyon that morning, the traffic was light, so I was tooling along at a pretty good clip; lost in my thoughts, thinking about some drama from my past, when a motorcycle startled me – zipping past me on the left.

As you know, we ride a lot and there is a practice, splitting lanes, which is riding between lanes of traffic, and is legal here in California.

Before I rode, I used to think those riders were jerks who just wanted to get where they were headed faster than the rest of us fools, who were stuck in our cars.

Au contraire.

I got schooled by the hubby in the beginning of our relationship when we, to my horror, split lanes in traffic on the 101 freeway, and I yelled for him to stop acting like a criminal. “Let’s not be that guy, shall we?”

“Motorcycles are air cooled” he informed the very naive, backseat driver behind him on his bike, “so they have to stay moving, otherwise you’ll have a bunch of overheated bikes tying up traffic even more.”

Mea culpa Big guy, I stand informed and corrected.

Still, it hasn’t lifted the jerk stigma that I KNOW the other, not as clued in drivers, level on us as we wind our way between their cars during rush hour.
I’ve seen the stink eye they give us as we go by, so I close my eyes now.

If you can’t see people, they can’t see you – right?

As we weave in and out of the lanes of slow moving vehicles, we cut it thisclose to their rear view mirrors so I’ve asked him on several occasions: what happens if we hit someone’s mirror?
“We keep going.”

Jerk factor just ramped up several notches. Did you feel it?

We never have, thank God. I would have had to hear it, since I’m blind with my eyes closed, and I wear my invisibility cloak.

But low and behold, after I had this lane splitting flashback, I came out to my car, (with a lovely, new, fabulous silver wash over my hair) to a mangled rear view mirror on my drivers side, that I suspect was the unfortunate recipient of motorcycle karma.
As I looked for a note or flowers or some kind of clue as to the identity of the culprit, my husband’s voice echoed in my ears “we don’t stop, we keep going.”

Still Jerky.

And karma…. you have the wrong car! I’m just a passenger; a blind, invisible, unwilling participant.

When I was meditating later, and asking about the whole mirror, Karma debacle, you know what the Universe said? You’re gonna laugh, I did.

“You were thinking about some past drama too much, it wasn’t motorcycle Karma at all (besides, Karma doesn’t make mistakes) it was to get your attention and to remind you to move forward, stop looking behind you – stop living in the past.
Rear view mirror – get it?”

Ha. Got it.

What signal, signs, metaphors does the Universe send you? Do you always recognize them, or are you dense, like me?
Tell me about it. Help a girl out.

Sending love and good Karma,
Xox

https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/audio-recording-on-wednesday

If you think you’re too small to make a difference, try sleeping with a mosquito
~The Dalai Lama~

It seems mosquitos are very effective teachers.
To some they teach tolerance and non violence.
They test your patience as they make their presence known.
They draw you into the present and make you pay attention.
Me? With me they bring out my deepest, darkest killer instinct. My inner Dexter.
At three in the morning, when I hear that high pitched whining in my ear,
I Want. Them. Dead.
So much for non violence.
And I’m the girl that carries spiders outside.
I’m a card carrying pacifist until the mosquito shows me otherwise.

Just when you’re certain of your enlightened state. At the moment you know who you are and what you stand for, you can leave it to one of God’s tiniest creatures to bitch slap you back to reality. Or leave crazy, itchy, welts on your ass.
She has a wicked sense of humor.
If THAT doesn’t get you off your high horse….

So……I’m a pacifist unless pushed. Good to know.
Can you be a conditional pacifist? What IS my breaking point?
Those are important questions that can lead to self discovery……..or not.

Here’s what I know for sure.
I know I can snap if my sleep is interrupted.
I have been known to scream obscenities at ignorant drivers.

Then there’s the little dog. The puppy. The boxer-shark puppy.
IT has been sent by God to torment; I mean test me.
I have swatted the puppy on the rump for numerous infractions. Not hard, don’t go all PETA on me. It’s a swat to get her to pay attention to my stern face. She has made a mockery of my stern face. My stern face is a joke to her. The older dog cowers, she points and laughs.
Forget about NO. NO has become useless. To her, it means HI and SURE. She thinks it’s her name. It is yelled so frequently it has lost all of its bite. 
Talking about bite; that one tests my patience with her incessant biting.
She bites when she’s playing. She bites when she’s tired. She bites to make a point. She bites AIR. 
She bites the older dog on her Achilles. Little bitch. I scold her. I forcefully push her away. I “time out” her. When all I really want to do is bite her back.
She wields an unbelievable amount of power in our house. She is small, but her presence is mighty. She is my teacher. She makes me question my parenting skills AND my pacifist membership.

OMMMMM…………Back to a loving place………..Between the Mosquitos and the boxer-shark puppy, I have some serious spiritual work to do.

Who or what is your trigger? I’d love to hear who tests your patience, tolerance and all around spiritual practice. Tell me about it in the comments.

Xox