“Wonder is the beginning of wisdom.” – Socrates.
Oh, how I wish I could bottle this man’s enthusiasm!
Enjoy your weekend of wonderment!
xox
I LOVE when the Universe sends me a love note saying just the right thing—at just the right time, don’t you?
This one was so good I had to share it.
Waiting can be haaaaaarrrd. So, be impeccable with your thoughts and words, your dreams and desires, and stay focused because it’s ALL cueing up behind the scenes.
“Janet, do you know what happens in time and space just before something really incredible happens? Something mind-blowing? Just before a really HUGE dream comes true?
Do you?
Absolutely nothing.
At least not in the physical world.
So if, perchance, it appears that absolutely nothing is happening in your life right now… consider it a sign.
All the best,
“The Universe”
Sign up to get your own Notes From The Universe:
tut.com
Carry on,
xox
Last Friday, after braving a harried curbside check-in and the usual TSA shenanigans at LAX on my way to Chicago, I did what I always do when I fly.
I indulged in two of my guilty pleasures. The ones I use to take the sting out of air travel. I stopped by the airport newsstand to buy a candy bar and “the rags”. You know, the gossip magazines. I get so engrossed reading that shit that I barely notice the bumpy take-off or that bitchy flight attendant who always has to wedge my purse into the overhead compartment at the last-minute with the hysterics of a life and death emergency.
This trip was all Brangelina—all the time. And a Kit-Kat bar.
The dissolution of their marriage broken down into a precisely laid out timetable told in a he said—she said war-of-words—according to “inside sources”.
The day I heard of their breakup I gasped. It never occurred to me that they’d split. I had always imagined that their hot sex could help them to overcome any obstacles. Yes, Margret, I’m THAT naive.
The coverage was remarkable, and by remarkable I mean disgusting, even for “the rags.” One had the headline “I Had To Leave Him To Save The Children“ and was slanted blatantly in Angelina’s favor. It painted Brad as a drunken, pot smoking, child abuser who systematically berated the kids. You know, according to those inside sources.
THAT is a character assassinating bell that cannot be un-rung. I nearly choked on my Kit-Kat.
Another had the headline “Angelina—The Wife From Hell” where again sources painted the picture of a crazed. overindulged and neurotic woman with only the thinnest grasp on reality who tortured poor Brad with her wild mood swings.
I had to leave to it to People Magazine to be fair and balanced—the arbiter of civility (a sentence I never thought I’d write). They talked about the family, the kids and how sad everyone was about the divorce. It was a family after all. They had twelve years of pictures which showed the progression of the relationship, birth of the kids and various adoptions.
They all looked happy. Full of love. It made me sad.
Entertainment journalism…is not journalism by-the-way. And it’s barely entertaining. (Don’t get me wrong I love seeing the pictures of celebrities pumping their own gas or eating at In-N-Out.)
It is where the mean kids in high school get jobs after graduation until they get hired by TMZ. They make shit up to fill in the blanks of salacious breaking stories. They quote imaginary friends and sources. Ha! Some friends!
Everyone in LA is characteristically bored with the story of yet another relationship that’s hit the skids. “Oh, that’s out”, they yawn.
Is it me or is the world getting even more jaded?
Is it getting more cynical? Does anyone root for people to stay together? Are things getting meaner? Nastier?
Are friends standing in the shadows ready to rat us out at the flash of a handful of cash?
Is anything true? Is it all made up? Am I part of the problem because I buy that shit?
I think the answer to all of those questions might be yes. What do you think?
Carry on,
xox
I’m writing this as a self-reminder, although I’m sure you guys could use one too.
I cannot control the traffic or the way other people (idiots), drive.
I cannot control the cable person, the electrician, the handyman, the trash picker-uppers, the tree trimmers, the person who’s making my latte, or the air conditioning repair person. I cannot control the time they will arrive (which is never inside the promised window) how well they will perform their task, or what personality traits they possess (too chatty, too pissy, too flirty, too…)
I cannot control anyone or anything about the DMV. Period. End of story.
I cannot control the weather. I can have every app, and alert, but it will seldom cooperate when I hold an event outdoors, and I never have an umbrella or sweater when I need one.
I cannot control my dogs or any animal for that matter. I can guide them and train them, and make suggestions, but they all have minds of their own and there will be slobber on my white walls, water and/or muddy footprints all over my white slip covers and wood floors, and fossilized vomit under the bed. It’s inevitable despite my best intentions. This goes for children as well.
I cannot control my spouse or my family. (See above).
I cannot control the government, the postal system, the medical system or the educational system. But I can vote.
I cannot control bad grammar. Their-there-they’re, its-it’s, I could care less, It’s a mute point, Ugh. Dear God, make it stop.
I cannot control the speed or dependability of my WiFi connection, although I still think if I yell obscenities loud enough it will be shamed into complying.
I cannot control my hair. Where on my body it grows, what color it wants to be, and its texture. It’s time to give up the good fight. While I’m at it, I cannot control eye wrinkles, cellulite, lip lines or dark under eye circles, so I’m done letting Madison Avenue sell me the snake oil.
I cannot control how my garden grows. I can fertilize, weed and trim, but it has plans of its own to which I am not privy.
I cannot control aging. It has a superpower called gravity, and the combination are unbeatable. I surrender…you bitches.
I cannot control what others think of me. It is impossible.
I can carefully cultivate my image; but one false move, one bad outfit, snarky comment, or piece of spinach in my teeth and all that hard work is shot to hell.
I cannot control the bad manners of others. When a man lets a heavy door slam in my face as I exit a building right behind him; instead of jumping on his back like a crazed spider monkey…I send him love.
I cannot control what’s happening on the planet. Too many moving parts. I just have to trust in a Divine Order. (Which is true for all of it – everything in life.)
What I’ve discovered is this: ALL of my sufferings comes from thinking that I can control things. I cannot. And neither can you.
But here’s the one thing I CAN control – my perception and attitude. That’s it.
I can control ONLY my own energy and what I bring to the day, to the table, to every situation I encounter – even to the mirror, and THAT can change it all.
As my mom used to say when we were fighting with each other, as kids, “You just pay attention to yourself – watch where you’re going.
Got anything to add to the list?
Carry on,
Xox
Hi Guys,
This is from about two years ago and what can I say? Family…
Carry on,
xox
I prefer my bread gluten-free and my life drama-free. So does my husband. They are just a couple of the idiosyncrasies we share. We are a product of our pasts and in many respects—our damage is compatible.
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 husband asked one day this spring. “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, I’d love to see them again.”
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, yes I would!” I replied.
Once they were reunited it was so dear and enlightening to sit back, 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 giggles and guffaws, misty eyes and hugs, they need no translation.
Hours of stories and memories were shared.
These days the old guard are almost all gone, allowing everyone to exhale. This fancy, old, arisocratic 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 Hermes scarves and pocket squares and is dripping with 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 lucky, 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 pants, 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 all became 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 (like my husband did), or just the grace of God, it is my belief that we end up with the people with whom we share compatible damage. Humor 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
This is a reprise from one year ago but I consider love letters an integral part of any gratitude storm…maybe you’ll agree. So, here ya go!
xox
Hi you guys!
Here is this week’s Huffington Post essay. It has to do with failing BIG and making peace with it.
So much so that I sat down and wrote it a love letter:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/my-love-letter-to-failure_b_8198096.html
If you know anyone going through a hard time right now who could use this, I’d love it if you’d share.
Carry on,
xox
My dearest, darling Failure,
You don’t mind if I call you by that name, do you?
I’m well aware that it’s much more politically correct to refer to you on your visits as re-direction, contrast, disappointment and a shit storm blah, blah, blah.
But when the shit hits the fan, when careers crash and burn, when marriages end badly; when we get fired, sued, or otherwise fucked over — when the things we hold dearest in our lives fracture and give way under the stress — sweetheart, it’s YOUR face we all see at the scene of the crime.
I know, I hear you when you complain that you are greatly under-appreciated but let me be clear — no one wants you around!
That being said, as I’ve come to know you better over the past few years, well, I have to admit– I’ve fallen for you…hard.
I don’t mean to sugar coat things, but you came into my life with the face of my foe and you have become my friend.
You shook things up for me BIG TIME. You took my tiny Etch-A-Sketch of a life, with all of its perfectly drawn straight lines, and you hurled it into an F5 tornado.
But I love you for that, ya big lug.
Just uttering your name, Failure, can set a person’s teeth on edge, but please don’t take it personally. I’ll give it to you straight. The reason you’re not welcome in our lives is because we’re all terrified that when you show up you’ll get comfortable, and never leave.
But truth be told, you are just as fleeting as success, THAT you’ve taught me.
When you are standing next to me knee-deep in the rubble of my life, you know what I do the next day? I get up and put one foot in front of the other, each step moving me forward.
You know what I do the days Success holds my hand? I get up, put one foot in front of the other and move forward with my life.
Success has its value — don’t get me wrong — but you Failure, your lessons have marked me more deeply and profoundly than I could have ever imagined and I love you for that.
Success never caused me to grow, gave me depth nor made me an internally richer person.
But by God, you have Failure.
Success made me lazy, afraid to try new things and take chances.
You gave me a glimpse of my true nature.
You have delivered to me some of my most agonizing moments but they have transformed me.
You made me better. Better in business; better in life. A better friend, sister, and wife.
Damn it, I love you man.
We all go to extraordinary lengths to avoid you–I know I did–but I realize now that was a mistake.
It’s like trying to avoid aging, which is a similar double-edged sword and just as futile.
There are as many benefits to be gained from failure as there are from growing old, and BOTH are a privilege.
I truly love you Failure.
If you had not come into my life when you did, I would not be the person I am today.
Big hug and a sloppy kiss,
xox
Janet
“It’s not happiness that brings us gratitude, it’s gratitude that brings us happiness.”
As you all know by now, I’m currently in the midst of a gratitude storm because I truly believe in its mystical, darn right spooky, transformational power.
And I’ve gotta tell ya, this storm’s a real doozy. A virtual Thank You Tornado that feeds on itself. My hubby and I got swept up and are well on our way to filling our gratitude jar with slips of paper listing our blessings, big and small.
Besides the usual: family, friends, health, our dog, here are a few of mine—maybe (pretty please), you’ll share yours?
Thank you, chocolate chips. You make everything better. You jooj up cake batter, make banana bread exceptional, and I’m pretty sure no one would have ever heard of Toll House if it weren’t for you.
Thank you, sunrise. I know it’s cliche to be grateful for a sunrise or sunset, but this morning it was so spectacular with its periwinkle blue sky flecked with peach and rose-colored clouds I can’t help myself. Besides, when the Universe shows off in such a magnificent way—It feels rude to act indifferent.
Thank you, my body. Without you I’d be dead—so there’s that. You wake up every morning raring to go with a beating heart, eyes that see (albeit, with a lot of help from contacts), ears that hear, and feet that complain loudly with every step I take but still walk my three-mile morning hikes for me. Listen, besides taking a beating, you’re just a damn good sport.
Thank you, politics. I can’t even. Every day you make me happy I paid attention in Civics class, and you remind me of the glaringly obvious differences between RIGHT & WRONG.
Thank you, airline travel. Admittedly, you’re a pain in the ass, but the ability to have breakfast in LA and dinner in NY trumps all of that (pun intended).
Thank you, reservations and valets. You make dining out and going to the theater a pleasure. When I try to “wing it” with either of those, I always regret it.
Thank you, indoor plumbing. I have to admit, I take you SO for granted. I can’t imagine doing my business in a dark, cold, smelly outhouse, fighting off spiders and wiping myself with a leaf.
Thank you, metal drinking straws. You make the most ordinary glass of water seem civilized.
Thank you, pumpkin everything that starts showing up this time of year. Yep, I’m one of those people.
Thank you, kisses. Damn, I love ya. But I’m curious, how did you start? Who was the first person to pucker up and plant one? You’ve gotta admit, love and lips is a curious combination and I’ve always wondered.
Thank you, Instagram. I’m a voyeur at heart so getting a peek (although highly curated and orchestrated) into other people’s lives gives me a vicarious thrill.
Thank you, words. Because I get to choose just the right ones to express my never-ending gratitude to my readers all over the world who feel more like friends to me than anything.
Carry on,
xox
Oh… Holy Jesus in Jail.
I can’t think of anything I suck more at than small talk with complete strangers. It feels disingenuous, trite and completely without merit, therefore I loathe it.
small talk
noun:
polite (key word), conversation made about unimportant or uncontroversial matters, (why bother) especially as engaged in on social occasions. (Ugh, kill me now!)
“Propriety required that she face these people and make small talk.”
I want to blame it on the fact that I’m shy but we all know that would be a horrendous lie.
At gatherings, I can be gregarious, even bubbly IF I know the people (loving them makes me even better), and if I care about the topics being discussed.
See, that’s the thing about small talk with strangers at a soiree where you have not a rats lick of interest in what they have to say.
Case in point, a fancy car show.
Me: (said to one of the wives at lunch on day one of a two-day thingy) “So, what car did you drive here?” is what my mouth asked. My brain was screaming I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care! so loud that I couldn’t hear a word she said.
She, to be honest, looked as tragically bored as I felt. We were at a winery and I noticed she was drinking the Sauvignon Blanc so I gave her my sample. She handed me all of her red. All three samples. Well, I’ve slept with people for doing less. Needless to say, we became fast friends.
We sat in silence, like old friends do, sipping our wine, listening to the others prattle on. We had no need to talk. We had transcended small talk. Alcohol will do that if you let it. We did.
Later, back at the room, the prospect of a dinner with all of these same strangers loomed large. I opened the complimentary bottle of red and an equally classy bag of Pirate Booty. I stuffed my face without breathing, letting the puffed air covered in faux-white-cheese numb me out. I washed it down with a nice Shirah.
It was 4 p.m. and I was shitfaced. I NEVER get shitfaced. Most certainly NOT at 4 p.m. Dinner was scheduled for seven. Husband wanted to go down for cocktails at 6:30. Uh, oh.
I started drunk texting my tribe. What do I do? What do I say? How the hell did I polish off an entire bag of Booty? Help!
They were great. Very supportive. They only laughed at me a little. Ask the women what they’re reading. What’s on their nightstand. You’ll be able to comment on that, they suggested. SAVED! I thought. They’re right. I can do THAT.
Confidence renewed!
I proceeded to go and fix my face which meant reapplying pretty much everything I’d done that morning including picking my ubiquitous false lashes off of my upper lip and putting them back on my eyes where they belonged. Thank God I had two-plus hours to spare!
On the way down to cocktails, I was still a bit wobbly. Books. I’m a writer. I’ll ask what they’re reading, I reminded myself. I walked with all the conviction I could muster up to a table of wives. They barely looked at me. Tables of wives are a tough crowd. They are not for amateurs. I took a deep breath, handed my new BFF from lunch who was sitting with three others a glass of white wine as a bribe and was about to ask about books when one of them started to speak.
She was a gorgeous woman of about sixty-five in a stunning beige Valentino pantsuit. Her face contorted and she looked as if she were about to vomit as she whispered, “This is SO not my thing.”
Wait. What? We’re strangers telling each other the truth?
That’s when I lunged at her, practically sitting in her lap, hugging her in the most inappropriate and awkward way. “Ohmygodmeneither!” I did not whisper, “I love you!” They all nodded. We laughed, clinking glasses in an unspoken toast.
Then a magician appeared and did some card tricks. He finished by pulling an autographed ace of spades folded into the size of a postage stamp out of one of the wives wallet. I’m not kidding. You can’t make this shit up.
Okay…so, I have a theory. I think small talk is The Great Equalizer. Everyone dreads it and hardly anyone is good at it. Deep down people want to connect—just not that way. They want to talk about death, aliens, and magic. I really need to remember that the next time. And the nightstand question too.
How are you guys with the tiny talk? Are you good at it? If you are—please share your secrets.
Carry on,
xox
So…I’m back on the killer hill. Hiking. Or otherwise known as putting my life in jeopardy (maybe a touch melodramatic), to walk on dirt, uphill—in black stretch pants—with the camel toe to end all camel toes—at 8 am—for no good reason.
I’m still fucking around with my little WiFi experiment, but interestingly enough, the signal has been uncooperative since those two miraculous days last week when all the stars aligned to give me my NPR.
But I’m still at it. My middle name is tenacious. Janet Tenacious Bertolus.
There may have been some begging even though I know that begging is the surest way to silence.
Through the years, I’ve been told by pretty reliable sources that The Universe doesn’t keep score, or prioritize, and I know for a fact that The Universe can’t be bothered with begging.
Asking? Sure.
Prayers? Absolutely!
Begging? Not so much.
Especially begging for something as ridiculous as WiFi to distract from the excruciating “discomfort” I put myself through trudging up that freakin’ hill every morning.
It sticks its fingers into its ears and LA, LA, La’s until I stop.
Anyway…no begging this morning, just resigned acceptance when the signal cuts out.
Shitfuck.
Then I laughed because it’s starting to get funny.
Not really.
Have I mentioned what an opportunist the Universe can be? Oh, yeah.
Just at the point where I am at my most vulnerable; hands on my hips, bent into the hill, drenched in sweat and gasping for air like a sherpa about to summit Everest; the WiFi kicks in and Abraham on YouTube comes back on.
The Universe decides that this is the perfect time for a teaching moment.
I am elated.
This will help me summit my own humiliating, Studio City version of Everest. Except for one thing. I’ve already listened to this part. It didn’t pick up where it left off, it went all the way back to the beginning. Back to what I’ve already heard for the last forty minutes.
Shitfuck.
A not-so-mild wave of disappointment washes over me as the smile leaves my face.
Immediately the signal cuts out. Silence returns.
Awwww, come on! I actually shout out loud. What the hell?!
I stop and fiddle with my phone for a minute. Nope. Nothing. It’s no use. Resignation sets back in as I pull up my big girl stretch pants and soldier on.
It’s then that the Universe decides to give a lecture series entitled: Split Energy (Will Fuck You Every Time).
“You split your energy. You do it all the time and you needed to see an example of how it can stop the momentum of a desire faster than a concrete wall stops a speeding bullet.”
Nice visual.
“Thank you.”
But I need you to clarify, please. I barely have enough oxygen to keep me upright let alone fire the synapses’ in my brain that are needed for me to understand what the hell you’re trying to tell me.
“You desired WiFi. We gave you WiFi. And may we point out, in a place where WiFi doesn’t exist, so there’s that…”
I know! And I was so happy about that!
“For a minute. Not even. Then you were disappointed by the specifics. That’s split energy and it will stall a desire faster than anything else.”
So what should I have done?
“Really? You can’t stay grateful for a miracle for like, five minutes?…What do we always say?”
I don’t know…be kind to others and don’t say fuck so much?
“Besides that. We remind you that disappointment is taking score too soon. When you ask for something and it arrives don’t say, Oh, not THAT! it seems ungrateful and a tad rude. Wait awhile before you take score.”
I suppose you’re right.
“We’re always right! We’re the Universe! Whatever we deliver to you is ALWAYS perfect.”
Always?
“Always.”
What if…
“Always.”
What about that…
“Always.”
But…
“What part of ALWAYS are you not understanding?”
Point taken.
I’m at the parking lot and I have to pee so arrivederci and thanks for the chat.
Listen you guys, who among us hasn’t questioned a wish fulfilled because it didn’t look exactly like we expected it to look?
We’ve gotta cut that shit out. I’ll go first!
Carry on,
xox
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