life lessons

“There’s one more thing.”
I was tugging gingerly at a piece of loose thread on my sweater, knowing that at any second the whole thing could unravel and I’d be literally as naked as I was feeling in that moment.

He turned to face me, looking at me intently, actively listening for what was coming next.

We were at that stage of dating where you start to lay the groundwork for the impending relationship. In your forties, this terrain can be peppered with land mines. I was hoping this mine would not blow my face off.

“I have a guy… he’s really an ex boyfriend” I saw something flash across his face, fear? confusion? I continued.
“He’s very special to me, and not like your thinking – well, anyway…we still talk and it would seem weird not to; he’s important in my life. We’re just friends now and…”

“You want me to meet him?”
It was like a brick to the forehead, I felt a little dizzy – I wasn’t expecting that response.
“Um, yeah, sure, that could be nice, sure…you can meet him.” The sweater was unraveling.

That actually sounded like it would be up there with the most awkward night of my life, but I didn’t want to sound deceptive or crazy: ‘Oh hey, there’s this guy who’s very important to me, but I want you to immediately forget I’ve mentioned him and NO, the two of  you will NEVER be in the same room together with me, because – well, just because. (Because I would spontaneously combust from the yuck of it all.)

“I also have a woman from my past that I still see occasionally – as a friend” he said, “like you and your friend.” Did I hear sarcasm?

Nope, he went on to explain that he truly did have a “special someone” from his past.
“I think it would be great if you two met, I think you’d like her.” I sensed some relief on his part, and as he got up to refill our wine glasses; I did, I saw relief wash over his face.

Our respective cats were now suddenly out of their bags.

Well, weren’t we something?
In a land somewhere beyond enlightened; trotting out our old flames like that, a couple of weeks into a new relationship.

The thing is, by the time you reach your late thirties, early forties, hopefully, you have a few ex’s that you can still stand the sight of. Where things have become…civil. Not horrible ex spouses who violate restraining orders – people you can actually stomach.
BECAUSE…
Sometimes break ups go well.
They are loving and mutual and…bullshit – sometimes after a couple of years, you can talk to the person without going to your dark place. Without circling the drain.
They’ve managed to make the huge leap from significant other, to sex buddy, to pal.

You did used to be in love, after all.

He explained her to me, this “special” woman who was now out in the open, virtually standing in my living room.
They’d known each other for years. It had been significant. They had been lovers, lived together, broken up, tried again, failed, not spoken, gone on to other relationships, and then recently reconnected – as friends.
“She’s a part of me; like family. You’ll love her.” And I did.
She is like family, and I learned volumes about him by meeting her.
She is smart and funny and I see why he still holds her in such high regard. I do too.
I may even have a bit of a girl crush – she’s THAT good.

My “special” guy was substantially younger than me. I had shoes that were older.

He was new to the horrors of dating in LA and had never been hurt in a relationship, so he had the MOST open heart of any human being I’d ever met. It used to scare the shit out of me. But I adapted.
He taught me how to love. Really.

Not open and free like him; my heart was a dried up raisin from dating more years than he’d been alive; but better than I had up until that point.
I now had a reconstituted raisin/heart with which to love my new man, and I gave the young one ALL the credit. I suppose that’s why I wanted to tell my new love about him; the fact that we would have never stood a chance, had he not come first.

When they met, they embraced. Then all three of us did. We had a lot in common.
I loved both of them, and they loved me. I burst into sentimental tears; not into flames as I had feared.

Our relationship went on to get serious. We’ve now been married thirteen years, and although we’ve spent time together with our “special” people, as life would have it, everyone moves on, and we see them less and less.

They were never a threat, as some of our friends had feared; they’d had their time and it had passed, but we gave them the credit they deserved.

In the court of popular opinion it is either incredibly brave or ridiculously stupid of us to include these people inside our new relationships. What do you think?

This is a reprise of one of the more popular posts from earlier this year.
Have a wickedly great Saturday!
xoxJ

I have a slogan for when things get messed up: Wait for the turnaround.
~Debbie Harry~lead singer of the punk rock band Blondie
(If you don’t know that – shame on you)

I’ve always been a “fix it” kinda gal.

If you present me with a problem or a mess, I’m gonna brainstorm it until I find a solution.

I’m going to fight it and wrestle it to the ground, I rarely take NO for an answer, and everything is figuraoutable.

I’d like to think I’m a lot like Debbie Harry…in more ways than one.
Truth is, I have waited for the turnaround…after I have exhausted every other option known to man – and then some.

Then I wised up.

I bet that wasn’t her slogan at 25 or even 35.
That’s the kind of wisdom you gain with maturity; the end result of many, many, many, mess ups.

Fifty – I’m going to guess that she came to that epiphany after fifty.
It’s around that age that you realize that there can even BE a turnaround.
That there will ALWAYS be a turnaround.

After fifty THIS you know for sure: You have to pick yourself up off the bathroom floor to be ready for the turnaround.

You have to make it until the sun comes up, because in the deep, suffocating blackness of 3am, you can’t even imagine a turnaround.

That you have to get sober to start the turnaround.

That tears make your eyes that much more capable of seeing the turnaround.

That sometimes you have to be alone, inside the silence, to listen for the turnaround.

That your wounded heart, with its bandages and skid marks, has to open enough to let the love in.
That love – is hidden in the turnaround.

Note to self:Look away.
The turnaround doesn’t reside anywhere near the mess, so if you stay digging around in that pile of shit, it will allude you.

You can’t stalk the turnaround, you can’t cajole it. You can’t bargain with it, or coerce it into place. AND……you certainly can’t rush it.

Believe me, I’ve tried.

When things are messed up. When they are epically trashed. There WILL be a turnaround. History has proven it.
It comes in its own time. It can take years or days or even just hours. Look at every disaster, natural and man made. Things appear bleak, all hope is lost, but eventually the dust settles and in rides…….the turnaround. Remember 9/11?
We were in shock, then despair, then pissed off, then….wait for it…we emerged stronger and more united than ever.
Humongous, miraculous, turnaround.

You gotta love Debbie Harry. Gorgeous, Sexy, smart, 70’s-80’s rock star icon and a guru after 50. Just like me. 😉
I bet she never thought she’d be quoted in a spiritual blog. There’s a first time for everything…even for you; Debbie Harry.

Tell me about a big turnaround in your life. I’d love to hear about it.

Xox

Sally: He just met her… She’s supposed to be his transitional person, she’s not supposed to be the ONE. All this time, I thought he didn’t want to get married. But, the truth is, he didn’t want to marry me. He didn’t love me.
Harry: If you could take him back now, would you?
Sally: No. But why didn’t he want to marry me? What’s the matter with me?
~From “When Harry Met Sally”

We ALL have him/her. That “one that got away.”
Even if we were the ones that broke it off, when that someone moves on – we suffer.
“That could’ve been me” we whine into our wine.

Saying they wanted to marry you or that they weren’t the marrying kind and then GETTING MARRIED. For some, this person is extremely high-profile – I can’t even imagine how that must feel. Seeing that person captured by the paparazzi, on the cover of every magazine, having the audacity to go off and be happy…with someone else. Ugh.

It’s bad enough when you just hear it from a friend or spot the happy couple at the Farmer’s Market; as you duck behind the organic apples, in order to avoid eye contact, because you still have bed head and you’re wearing your baggy sweats, and they look like they’ve just jumped off the pages of the J Crew catalogue.

A mutual friend posted something a couple of weeks ago about one of my former boyfriends.
He was no George Clooney, but he was a large liver. Large liver’s are those guys/gals that are highly successful in high-profile professions, have money to burn and style to spare.

Seems one of his country homes was published in a prominent shelter magazine, so I stupidly went to take a look.
Do you ever google yourself or people from your past?
I never have, but I did, and I can tell you – BIG mistake.

This guy is living the dream. Beautiful wife, kids, homes all over the world, tons of money.
Part of me thought, ‘Hey, that could’ve been me’ then, as I read further, the rest of me slapped some sense into me, ‘Hey, that would NEVER be you. You still have nothing in common.’
Shit. That part has an epic memory and is always right.

We met on a blind date. Fixed up by a mutual friend.
By the third date, he was professing his love. Every time he told me he loved me I’d smile and say: “well, thanks, but you don’t really know me yet.”
I was at least that self-aware; something he didn’t appreciate.

He was nouveau riche, meaning, he had gone from making fifty grand a year to well over a million – overnight.
It became his idea of fun to spend the entire day on Sunday, trying to spend all of his money. He already had a house, a boat and a couple of cars, so, hey, why not.

We did have tons of fun and laughed our heads off. Did I mention he was funny?

Oh yeah, he was handsome, smart and funny.
He had an amazing job and was the hottest new wunderkind in his profession.

And you could tell – he was wife shopping.

It felt to me like he was taking a walk on the wild side by dating me. He liked the waspy prom queen types; I was way too bohemian at the time; all blonde hair dyed red, vintage clothes, new age, alternative music – me.

The truth was – we were completely incompatible.

He had a boat – I got seasick. I was Yoshi Yamamoto, he was Chanel.
He made fun of my bleeding heart liberalism, my altruistic nature, the spiritual books I devoured and all my flea market finds; not in a mean way, but enough to keep me off-balance.

We didn’t have a thing in common besides the great sex and our senses of humor, and I was seriously considering overlooking that…for the lifestyle.

By the end of the first month together he launched the relationship into anxiety overdrive by asking me to go on a uber luxurious trip to Paris and the South of France with him for three weeks. I only had a week’s paid vacation time left, so he offered to pay my rent.
He’d also paid for my move to the city, to be closer to him. It was all making me extremely uncomfortable. He thought my squirming was cute.

One Sunday he took me shopping in Beverly Hills in that Pretty Womanish way: walking in, sizing up the joint, acting like a big shot, asking for champagne and pointing to the most expensive things in the store; while calling all the shop girls “sweetheart.”

It wasn’t sexy, or charming, like the movie. It was mortifying, and I had my first of many anxiety attacks in the dressing room, gasping for breath, watching through the curtain as the shop girls rolled their eyes at him.

Since he had Saturday and Sunday off, he immediately started to voice his disapproval of me working on Saturdays.
I was a jeweler, Saturday was non-negotiable. Hey, I was a shop girl…sweetheart.

He let me know he didn’t care for my roommate. He also disliked my friends and family, virtually isolating me from my old life. We only spent time with his friends, at his work events, on his boat or at his house.

His large life kicked my sweet little life’s ass .

Then the whispering started.
“He’s going to ask you to marry him in Paris” his friends whispered, giving me a head’s up…and a stomach ache.

Shouldn’t I have been elated? He looked amazing on paper, the anomaly every girl I knew was looking for; a wealthy, smart, thirty-something guy – who wanted to get married!

I sat in the bathroom staring at the bidet (wondering how it worked) that first night in Monaco, shaking like a leaf, experiencing another anxiety attack. I was thousands of miles from home, on his dime. All I had on me was the three hundred dollars in my wallet and a credit card with a fifteen-hundred-dollar limit. He was the only person I knew there, and not even THAT well.
ALSO
He had Henry Higgins’d me until I barely recognized myself.
I was acting like the biggest fakity-fak- fake, with the fancy clothes and the $500 bikini’s he’d purchased for me, smiling my big, white, toothy smile on the arm of this guy I barely knew, who I wasn’t sure I loved and was supposed to become engaged to.
For me, the fairy tale was unraveling.

The trip went…okay— long story.
Suffice it to say we did not get engaged. I told you, we weren’t compatible.
Yet, when things cooled off and he stopped calling and coming around – I was shocked and hurt. He was able to dismiss me as quickly as he fell for me. I kept asking myself, what had I done wrong? Why didn’t he love me anymore? It’s hard when the spotlight of someone’s affection shifts away from you when you have to return to your sweet little life, garment bags of gowns hanging sadly in the closet. I’m sure George’s former paramours can relate.

I hope they had fun and I hope they learned the lessons I learned:
1) When someone professes their undying love for you just days into a relationship – It isn’t real. I knew it, my anxiety was my indicator.
(My current husband used the appropriate vocabulary; he said he didn’t want to take me home after a date because he was infatuated with me, and that made me swoon.)

2) If your person isolates you, never wanting to spend time with your friends and family – run. He’s leading you away from all the people who take you by the arm and talk sense into you when you’re acting like an ass and a fake and making horrible decisions.
That would end up being a litmus test for future men. I would marinate them in my friends and my life and if they balked…I’d end it.

3) Really get to know someone before you leave the continent on their dime.
It’s all so romantic, but it’s a huge imbalance of power and you’ll feel it in your gut.
Don’t let the champagne override that, your gut is always right.

4) If it’s the lifestyle you miss – provide it for yourself. I realized I LOVED Europe and made it a priority to travel abroad as often as I could. On my own dime.

So, when you’re feeling that little pit in your stomach, thinking: ‘that could’ve been me’, you have to ask yourself: ‘Really? Could you have gone the distance with that person? Did you feel like the best version of yourself when you were with them?’

I believe not. Because I believe we’re always where we’re supposed to be, in every moment.

Deep down, Stacy Keibler knew things would never last. She obviously wanted to get married, which she did less than a year after the breakup with George, and now she has a child.
But when he got engaged I’m sure she thought for a second ‘that could’ve been me.’ We all did.
But, I know, just like me, she’s exactly where she’s meant to be.

xox

“I no longer have patience for certain things, not because I’ve become arrogant, but simply because I reached a point in my life where I do not want to waste more time with what displeases me or hurts me.
I have no patience for cynicism, excessive criticism and demands of any nature. I lost the will to please those who do not like me, to love those who do not love me and to smile at those who do not want to smile at me.

I no longer spend a single minute on those who lie or want to manipulate. I decided not to coexist anymore with pretense, hypocrisy, dishonesty and cheap praise. I do not tolerate selective erudition nor academic arrogance. I do not adjust either to popular gossiping. I hate conflict and comparisons.
I believe in a world of opposites and that’s why I avoid people with rigid and inflexible personalities.
In friendship I dislike the lack of loyalty and betrayal. I do not get along with those who do not know how to give a compliment or a word of encouragement.
Exaggerations bore me and I have difficulty accepting those who do not like animals.
And on top of everything I have no patience for anyone who does not deserve my patience.”

This quote has been making the rounds recently, attributed to Meryl Streep.
The problem is, this quote is actually from the pen of Portuguese self-help author/life coach José Micard Teixeira – not a woman, and not an elder, but a younger man who is suddenly becoming the “not Streep” Internet celebrity of the month.

It makes no difference to me, I’ve got no patience for that stuff.
I just love the quote.
Happy Wisdom Wednesday!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My bad. My lesson to learn. Obviously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love, love,
Xox

If it looks good, you’ll see it. If it sounds good, you’ll hear it. If it’s marketed right, you’ll buy it. If it’s real….you’ll feel it.
~Kid Rock

It used to make me furious when I was a young girl (under thirty) when someone; a guru, the lady at the cosmetics counter at Bullocks, even my mother, would end a piece of advise with the phrase: You just know when you know.

“How will I know when I’ve reached enlightenment?”

“There are soooooo many different shades of red lipstick, which one looks the best?”

“There are thousands of great men in the world (saying thousands instead of millions was me being discerning) how will I be able to pick just one?”

I was looking to these experts of the human experience for answers, and the one I got most often was: You just know when you know.

Ugh. I don’t want a Zen koan, I want some real life, practical wisdom. Little did I know, that’s EXACTLY what they were dispensing.

The more often I heard this pearl, the more it sunk in and I began to take it under advisement.

One Saturday afternoon at the West Hollywood MAC store, as I lined both hands and up one arm with samples of their thirty shades of red, while waiting for a gorgeous tranny to finish up a false eyelash tutorial and give a girl some help; it hit me.

Just like that, it was suddenly clear. The clouds parted, and I just KNEW.
Out of all the choices supplied by MAC that day, two shades were just okay, the rest were shit, too pink, too blue, too dark. Then, there was THE ONE (cue the children’s choir) – it looked spectacular on my yellowish skin tone.
I ran to the window for natural light – still good.
All indecision left my body as I grabbed a wipe, cleaned myself up and ran to the counter to make my purchase.
You just know when you know.

My pocket Guru that helped me out during all my spiritual troubles in the nineties, doled out that phrase to me like mints after Mexican food.
At the time I had an annoying habit of questioning EVERYTHING
.
“How will I know if the voice in my head is my intuition or that little devil that lives on my shoulder?”

“When do you know if you’ve reached that place in meditation?”

“How do you know when you’re done praying?”

“How can I tell if I’m living my life’s purpose?”

Some of my queries were existential masterpieces and some, even if I do say so myself, were mind numbingly dumb; still, his answer was always the same:
You just know when you know.

He was right. Damn him.

Where men were concerned, this phrase proved most infuriating of all.
I’ll just know…….shit.

I had married at twenty, thinking I knew, but if I’m being completely honest (which is always my goal here) I had my doubts at the time, just no courage to go along with them, so I went through with it.
Like I’ve written before, it should be against the law to get married that young. You shouldn’t be allowed to make that big of a life decision when you’re not old enough to buy beer.

Some people DO know at a young age, but it’s as rare as being struck by lightning – and that’s how I imagined it would feel to just know.

As each year went by after my divorce, I felt a lot of things about a lot of men, but certainty wasn’t one of them.
As I entered my forties, life experience came in handy as a kind of roadmap of what I DIDNT want.

You know what I mean.

When you know what you DON’T want, you are clearer on what you DO want. No mullets, no long, yellow toenails, no mommy issues – you know, like that.

I was waiting for lightening.
But when it showed up it was more like goosebumps.
That’s my signal when I just know – my whole body becomes covered with big, giant, goosebumps…oh, and I shake.

Good job Universe, that’s some pretty undeniable physical evidence to let me know – when I’m living my purpose, I’ve found the perfect shade of red lipstick and that this time I married the exact right guy for me.

My advise to you? Pay attention; to your body, to your gut, to your heart, because they DO help you out.

Life gives us all sorts of signs about when to leave, what to say, when to forgive and which black shoes to wear.

Be on the lookout for shivers and goosebumps and lightening.
And take it from me, The Former Queen of the Jaded Skeptics.

You WILL just know when you know.

Do you get physical signs that let you know that you know? What are they if ya don’t mind me askin’? Tell me about YOUR experience with this phrase, I’d SO love to hear about it!

In case you’d rather listen than read, here you go:
https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/how-to-find-the-perfect-red

You KNOW I’m sending some love,
Xox

This weekend, in a heroic act of immense bravery we took BOTH dogs, the boxer shark puppy, Ruby and the old girl, Dita, on a road trip up north to the Mountains of Santa Cruz.

Seems we were spurred on by a false sense of confidence, fueled by hope (and the need to get away, eat and drink too much and the lure of a good party) and by the fact that the couple who’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary we were road tripping to see, are dog lovers and had recently lost their old girl, and needed a dog fix.

Our friends usually have a room in their home with our name on it, except this time, since so many family members were coming into town and they had a full house.

No biggie, we’ve stayed at the local dog friendly hotels in the past, easy peasy – with one dog.

Now one mature dog and a seven month old boxer shark puppy isn’t two dogs; the number multiplies exponentially by the misbehaving, excess energy factor and the general havoc wreaked; making it seem in stress and aggravation as if there are nine wild, howling hounds.

I’d like to file a grievance right here and now with the Canine Powers that be.

I was misled to believe that the old dog would co-parent the puppy; giving us a helping paw with the potty training and pass along all the amazing traits that had made her such a well-behaved joy, and our home such a well oiled machine.

What a fucking lie.
The exact opposite has occurred.

The older girl now eyes with intrigue, all the raucous misbehavior that had never even occurred to her, like jumping up to the kitchen island to eat our dinner while our backs are turned.

She hits her forehead with her paw, like “Doh” and feels she has a lot of catching up to do.

Dita had the training of a service dog…..not anymore.

The puppy’s bad behavior has begun to rub off on her.
Ruby has cajoled my sweet old girl into barking (unheard of) ignoring orders to sit and stay, flipping us off and sticking out her tongue at us behind our backs, making long distance phone calls and smoking behind the garage.
They are both behaving like thirteen year old teenage bitches.

If this trip had a title, it would be called the “what’s the worst case scenario dog and pony show?”

“Well, what’s the worst thing that could happen?” was our default expectation.

Those two could assume the roles of furry terrorists. They could trash the room like a couple of drugged out, over sexed eighties rock stars, they could jump on party guests, muddying white pants, overturning lavishly decked out buffet tables and leave two big poops in the middle of the lawn. That was our worst case scenario  speculation. We wanted to steal ourselves for the worst, like soldiers preparing for battle, so we could be prepared.

We have a doggie door at home, which in my opinion is the best invention since sliced bread.
It is better than sliced bread. I will happily slice my own bread, if my dogs can take themselves out to shit in the middle of the night.

When we go away, we are privy to our dog’s bathroom habits, of which we are blissfully otherwise unaware.

In other words, we have to wake up, get dressed, get a leash, walk down a long corridor, traverse stairs, find a patch of grass, and indulge Ruby’s urge to go star-gazing and maybe relieve herself of a thimble full of pee at 3am.

Then, back at the room, the minute you get everyone settled, get undressed and climb back in bed, Dita, who had been feigning coma sleep, yawns loudly, shakes and lets you know in no uncertain terms: now she has to go out.

I know they hatched this plan when we left them alone in the car while we ate lunch on the way up. They are now laughing the uproarious laughter that only the naughtiest of dogs can hear.

I’m certain of it.

I’m telling you, Mean Girls.

The Worst Case Scenario Dog and Pony Show.

I knew I had to stop this madness.
I had to nip this thinking in the bud, or it would become a self-fulfilling prophesy.

As I always say, it’s all in the energy of our expectations.

Why couldn’t we hope for the best instead of expecting the worst?
We had to.

I decided to rename the trip to the BEST Case Scenario Tour, where every thing turns out BETTER than expected, where the girls are well-behaved, everyone sleeps through the night, there’s no crying (Raphael) and everyone has fun.

Once I suggested we change our expectations, the vibe shifted.
Although we were still hyper vigilant at the party, we let them run free without leashes, playing with the kids and even ended up abandoning our plan to put them in the van once the food was served.

Truth be told, they played so hard with all the kids and the other dogs, smiling their big toothy dog smiles, (including a one hundred pound, big lug of a Great Dane puppy) that they were far too exhausted by the time the food was served to cause any trouble.
They fell asleep in the car two seconds after we left to go back to the hotel, slept through the night without a whimper and had sweet dreams of the best dog day EVER.

Did they suddenly become the best behaved dogs in the world? Or did we just chill out and stop expecting mayhem?

Hmmmmmmm, hard to tell.

What was the Best case scenario?
Exactly what happened.

*You can substitute the word dogs with children, co-workers or in-laws, it’s all the same.

Tell me about your dog/kids road trips. I’m sure you’ve got some stories to share.
Remember when you share it helps the tribe!

Sending big, wet, dog kisses,
Xox

“Except for the things we did wrong, we did everything right.”
~Will McAvoy The Newsroom

Bravo Aaron Sorkin. I LOVE that line.

I was re-watching last season’s episodes of The Newsroom. I have to do that to get reacquainted with the characters and story line for the upcoming season.
Oh fuck it. Who am I kidding, I have to do it because the dialogue is so rapid fire and smart, that if I blink or chew or fail to focus one hundred percent of my attention on it, I’m lost.

I’m IN LOVE with that particular piece of dialogue because that’s how I feel.

About all of us.

Except for the things we did wrong, we did everything right.

We really are doing okay. 
Better than okay, but I can already feel you bristling, so I’ll stick with okay.

I know. It doesn’t feel like it sometimes.

Hey, except for the things we did wrong, we did everything right.

We’re all doing better than we think.

Listen, we show up everyday.
Our feet hit the floor and with some manner of enthusiasm.
We enter the arena.
We have neither Tom Cruise levels of couch jumping excitement, nor are we living under a bridge with trolls.
We are gamely in the game.
Whatever that means. You know what I mean.

We have shelter and something to eat.
You know how I know that?
Because we have a high speed internet connection, and in the survival handbook, that is third after shelter and food.

We have remorse for those things we did wrong.
Now our job is not to wear it like an anchor around our necks.

We are literate and educated.
I’m taking a leap here, but I feel pretty confident about that.

We’ve all dialed back our inner Neanderthal, serial killer.
We have been able to sidestep prison up until now. If you are incarcerated, tell me about it in the comments below. 

We have our humor.
That I know because you keep checking in each day to see what kind of an ass I’ve made out of myself. Or, what crazy vomit, note burning, vagina checking I’ve been up to lately.
Some of your emails just have Bahahahaha in the subject line.

We are all doing the best we can.
We are judging and criticizing less. We are meditating and attending to our yoga practice and our oral hygiene. I really can’t ask more from you than that.
Maybe cut your toenails?

You know you’re not alone.
Not in your hopes and dreams and not in your various neurosis. If you’ve read this blog for any length of time you should feel extremely reassured.
And incredibly normal.

We’re living responsible lives.
The bills get paid, the kids aren’t dead, the pets aren’t dead, the fish isn’t……

You’re striving to improve yourselves.
This is a spiritual blog at its core, so you’re reading and implementing any and all advise you glean from these pages (Indulge me here).
And, I’m intuitive so I KNOW you are all loving and kind people walking through the world, striving to live your purpose.
Aren’t I good? It’s a talent.

In closing: Except for the things we did wrong, we did everything right.

You’re welcome,

Amen.

Love yoooooooou!
Xox

You can only write me a comment if you’re currently in prison…

“When a woman rises up in glory, her energy is magnetic and her sense of possibility contagious.”
― Marianne Williamson, Woman’s Worth

That’s just so beautiful, so powerful and was SO freakin’ hard for me to learn.

I’ve been feeling SO incredibly proud of women these days.
In our groups, the Wednesday group, the Divine Feminine and others, we are reinforcing our connection to each other.

Women Empowering Women.

Shit! Talking about Marianne Williamson, she just ran for congress and Hillary may have a good shot at the presidency.
We are “in the arena” as Brene Brown would say.
Boy, are we ever!

This post is about the power of the feminine. 
Sorry guys.
The word vagina may even be bandied about.
You can either celebrate us, or take your balls and go home. ;-). I can say that because, for many years, my boss and everyone around me, swore I “had a pair.”

I kicked ass in a predominately male oriented business.
I was a fierce and ferocious negotiator. I could go toe to toe with the most grizzled, experienced diamond dealer, and he would finally call UNCLE, pay MY price and walk away, balls in hand.

Men were terrified of me.
I was all lipstick and lashes, but that was just to disarm them; then I’d go in for the kill.

BALL BUSTER was my middle name.

I used to swell with pride when I heard that. That was my admission to the boys club, whose glass ceiling I was determined to shatter.

I was also the enforcer.
Men would get that damp upper lip and lower their eyes when they saw me walk up to their booths at shows, to collect on their past due accounts.
They knew I would stand there until they provided me either a check or a credit card number. No excuses accepted.

I was not well liked. But that was alright by me. I was respected and I didn’t care if people liked me, I was there to do my job. To make money.
In our unspoken, boss/employee, good cop/bad cop routine, I was happy to take the fall.

That did not bode well for my romantic life.
I was killing it at the store, but it was crickets in the bedroom.
Great quality men have since told that they were intimidated by me. Flirting was OUT. OF. THE. QUESTION. too vulnerable. (which is hilarious, because now, I LOVE to flirt; just try to stop me)

In my world, surrounded by a sea of men…NOT ONE ever asked me out. In almost twenty years, I never dated anyone in the business.
I dated younger men because they didn’t mind my tough exterior. For some reason, I didn’t scare them.

They did all have one thing in common, every one of them had an extremely well-developed feminine side. WAAAAAAY more than me.

I actually learned a thing or two about sensitivity from them.
THAT is the kind of man who is attracted to a woman who has a highly developed masculine side.
Makes sense…

After living my thirties as a man……

I decided to soften up. To feminize.

At first it felt fake and contrived. I wore my vulnerability like a straight jacket. One size does not fit all. And, I felt like a weak suck; but I was determined to “fake it until I could make it”
Often I went overboard, as you tend to do before you swing back to the center. I know I did. Thank God there was no social media around then to capture any of that shit for posterity.

I took numerous seminars.
I drummed and chanted in all female prayer circles and sweat lodges. I laughed, cried and divulged all my secrets at weekend retreats in Big Sur.
At one evening class that was recommended by a “friend”; twelve strangers practiced nude hot yoga and were then given hand mirrors to go into a tent to look at our vagina, and report back our observations. A minor detail this friend had omitted from her endorsement of the class.

I’m pleased to report, contrary to popular belief, that NO balls reside between these legs.

For the love of all things holy……There I sat, in our discussion circle, naked and in full “church laugh” mode, (silent, with just my shoulders violently shaking) thinking this had to be, hands down, the craziest night I’d ever spent, and what a great cocktail party story this was going to make.

That is, until two women who were rape survivors spoke. That was one of those moments.

It was the start my deep ADMIRATION of women.

Year after year, my studies continued. I read SO many great and enlightening books about getting in touch with my inner Goddess. The Red Tent by Anita Diamant was one of my favorites, I read it three times….in a row.

With time, I began to soften my approach, my tone, my hair color, my clothes, EVERYTHING.
Slowly, l let my guard down. I learned to smile and even laugh at work. I have Sally and Steph to thank for that.

“A queen is wise. She has earned her serenity, not having had it bestowed on her but having passed her tests.
She has suffered and grown more beautiful because of it.
She has proved she can hold her kingdom together. She has become its vision.
She cares deeply about something bigger than herself. She rules with authentic power.”
-Marianne Williamson

Authentic power is rooted in collaboration, compromise and kindness.
The wise woman, the Queen, has authentic power. The princess, not so much.

That was the problem, I was still a girl…whose misguided thinking…led her to try to be a man.

What struggles have you felt trying to balance your male and female? What helped you to find that balance?
Please join the conversation, I’d LOVE some of your insights.

With love,
Xox