Life

“I work 8 hours, I sleep 8 hours, that leaves 8 hours left for…what?”

I was listening to a podcast today and this “old saying” stopped me in my tracks.

Well, the big, juicy melted piece of gum I stepped in while I was listening and traversing the parking lot at Target actually DID stop me in my tracks. A stop so dead—I walked right out of my shoe.

I kid you not.

Seeing that we are deep into December, I had to park so far away that the actual Target store was just a speck on the horizon. I’m sure someone left their gum, like a bread crumb, to mark the trail back to their car so…I can’t really be mad, can I?
But enough about my glamourous life.

Back to the saying. You know, the myth that implies that there are more than enough hours in a day.

You work eight hours.
Stop laughing.
I know we’re smack dab in the middle of the holidays and what with shopping and wrapping and all—the Elves up at the North Pole have a shorter work day. And better benefits. And terrific catering. Nevermind.

So… you work.

Anyhow, you sleep eight hours. But seriously, who does? I’m lucky to get seven. This morning I woke up at 3 am because I thought I saw an orange glow down the hall and knew for sure the tree was on fire.
It wasn’t.

Too late, adrenaline rushes don’t keep regular office hours.

Then I couldn’t remember all of the reindeer names or get that damn song out of my head.
I lay there wondering where on earth my pine nut cookie recipe went and the next thing I knew it was 4am and all I could think about was how good coffee would taste with a pine nut cookie—so I got up and made some. Coffee. Not the cookies. I’m still at a loss.

So…You sleep.

But you guys, that still leaves at least several, maybe four, hours left to do whatever you want.

My friend says those hours are reserved for worrying.
Yikes.
My hubby says traffic on the 101 freeway chews up his spare time.
Jeepers, people.

What about eating?
Sex? Anybody?
Holiday merriment?

I decided to paint with a broad brush.
“I work 8 hours, I sleep 8 hours, that leaves 8 hours left for… FUN!”

That sounds downright illegal, doesn’t it? Fun? Really? And for eight hours? Oh, sweet Jesus, help me!

But fun can be anything, right?

A glass of pink champagne for no reason?

Maybe it’s staying up after everybody else goes to bed to binge watch Netflix.

What about going out to lunch and catching up with an old friend?

Today, my friend Kim and I played hookie and went to see a movie—in the middle of the day!

How would you complete that sentence? Gimme some hints, I’d love to know.

Carry on,
xox

Dear Janet,
This is a letter from the most neglected thing in your home at the holidays (besides your legs, which go unshaved in December as a timesaving measure)—the back of your Christmas tree.

I mean, I know I face the street, and people really can’t see anything beyond the white lights as they walk by, but this year I feel pressed to complain about the meager amount and shall I say questionable (I’m being delicate) choice of ornaments you’ve chosen to hang (a better word might be, hide) back here.

But enough with decorum.

She can’t be serious, I thought to myself, when you hung that dumbass plastic snowman who’s supposed to also be a construction worker (clever. Not really) in what I consider a prime spot of pine tree real estate. But hey, I get it. I’m the BACK of the tree. What did I expect, the sparkly gold-flecked Buddha? The peacock with real feathers, or the man in the spaceship? Noooooo. Those are your favorites so they get to hang in the FRONT!

This is an almost seven-foot tree and you’ve hung a total of five ornaments back here. FIVE!

To say it looks sparse would be like saying water is wet.

If a mullet says business in the front, party in the back, then this tree is an example of a mullet in reverse. We can hear the party happening in the front while back here it’s crickets. And I’ll tell ya why.

The ornaments you’ve relegated to this “no man’s land,” this great forgotten evergreen expanse, are either ones you’ve been gifted and don’t give a rat’s ass about—or they’re broken. Take for example the beloved ice skater from your childhood who had the misfortune of losing a leg in the Great Tragic Vacuum Cleaner Incident of 2011 (perpetrated by your blind housekeeper Maria—word gets around—whose coke bottle glasses should read: Objects are closer than they appear).

Anyway, she—the skater, not Maria—let us all know in the first five seconds that she used to reign over one of the coveted front and center spots on the tree, but now things have changed. My how the mighty have fallen (literally) and so we all (the other four misfits and myself) we have to listen to her go on and on about her freaking triple Axels, the morally bankrupt Russian judges who couldn’t recognize real talent if it skated up their skirts—and how unfair her life has become!

Oh, I’m sorry. Has your privileged life as an imaginary elite athlete in a wildly expensive sport taken a turn, sweetie? Tell your troubles to Jesus! I’m dying! I was cut down in my prime so you could hang here and complain all the live-long day!

Listen Janet, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, judgey, and bitter—but I am, so, deal with it. It’s Christmastime. Shit gets real. And the backside of trees, we have feelings too.

That’s all. I guess I just needed to vent. Hey, is that Celine Dion singing Silent night? I LOVE that song! I have to say, I’m feeling so much better!

Merry Christmas everybody!

Carry on,
Xox

“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

Hey guys,
I get texts and emails all year around requesting this post which is consistently in the top five most viewed every year.  “Re-post the one about your husband stealing Thanksgiving from your mom!” They’ll write. Or, “What is the name of that one about your husband and his disrespect for the turkey?” 

But mostly they request his recipe for the leek bread pudding (which, unfortunately,  I am not at liberty to reveal since that recipe resides in his head and that is a neighborhood too dangerous for me to visit!)

Anyhow, I like to wait for the appropriate time of year‚ which is now, to lovingly harass the big guy.  So, take a look. If you know him you’re going to smile and if you don’t, well, I think you’ll want to.

Here’s to my big handsome. That French guy who stole my heart — and then hijacked my favorite meal!
Cheers!

PS. REAL men always use pink rubber oven mitts! 

Carry on & Happy Thanksgiving!
xox

JB

It happened over several years, with the subtle finesse we’ve come to expect from the French.

He entered our family just under twenty years ago.
He is a gourmand extraordinaire and an accomplished cook in his own right, but he ingratiated himself in the beginning, acting as the sous chef for my mother who is the culinary queen of our family—then slowly, skillfully, and sneakily—He hijacked Thanksgiving.

The only demand he acquiesces to is that it must be an ORGANIC turkey.
“No antibiotics, no hormones…no taste,” he sing-songs sarcastically under his breath as he places the order every year.

I suppose we should be grateful that he hasn’t decided to switch fowl on us yet. Next year it could be pheasant or duck in the center of the table.

See, that’s the thing, we, my siblings and I, we LOVE and crave all year ‘round, my mom’s traditional Thanksgiving feast. The one we ate as kids. The meal whose perfection is so sublime it should never be messed with.

EVER.

Yet…the now reigning chef in our holiday kitchen—the one with the red passport—HE  little by little, year after year, has modified each dish so completely that it bears little if any, resemblance to the original.

And my mom doesn’t give a hoot!
She’s just so thrilled that someone has taken over the culinary heavy lifting, along with the fact that I finally found a husband—and he’s French—that she sits back and happily eats what she is served; doling out the compliments like Tic-Tacs at a cigar shop.

Benedict Arnold.

This European guy feels no sense of urgency—he doesn’t start the turkey until late morning.

I remember waking up as a child, the entire house already heavily scented with the aroma of a turkey that had been in the oven for hours. Now, I sit and watch the Thanksgiving parade, eyeing him suspiciously as he lingers over his coffee and Sudoku.

You can’t rush the French—about anything, most especially cooking—it shows disrespect and they just won’t stand for it.

And yet…he shows the old hen no respect. He’s rude to her, slathering her with butter and olive oil and then flinging her, breast down, legs in the air (the turkey, not my mother) into a 500-degree oven for the first twenty minutes.

His mashed potatoes are loaded with creme Fraiche, truffle salt, and a pound of butter…yet oddly enough—not a single calorie. Oh, the French.

His vegetable of choice is the brussel sprout. The recipe is so elaborate, with all of the shredded bacon and Gruyère in a balsamic reduction that he’s only allowed to make them every other year. That allows us to have the green beans in mushroom soup with the dried onion rings on top for the alternating years. He would never deign to eat that slop. We, on the other hand, squeal with delight in gleeful anticipation of this mushy mess of soupy goodness while his face assumes that pinched look of French disapproval.

But maybe the worst atrocity against the holiday is the stuffing—or lack thereof. He was raised in France. They don’t know from stuffing. They have bread pudding.

This year he is repeating the mushroom and leek bread pudding that he served last Thanksgiving. It really is delicious, don’t get me wrong, it’s just not my mom’s stuffing and it doesn’t go well with gravy—if you can imagine that.

As long as we’re talking gravy. His gravy is ridiculously smooth and savory, I’ll hand him that. No one can figure out how he does it and I still haven’t caught him in the act of making it. I’m convinced it is delivered to the back door by Trappist monks just before we sit down to eat.

Yams and sweet potatoes are not his things either (he insists they’re baby food) so he’s given us the okay to make my mom’s killer Sweet Potato Casserole. It is heart-stoppingly delicious. I die a little every time I taste it.  Like the French say, La petite mort— it is THAT good.

 I have readers who request some of these holiday posts throughout the year. Even in July. From as far away as Brunei.
Seems we are all united by the one simple fact that family is family wherever you live.
And Americans have not cornered the market on dysfunction.

And neurosis speaks every language and crosses every border.

Oh, and by-the-way, that obnoxious cousin in the last sentence? Seems he may have had the gift of clairvoyance.
Carry on,
xox

Thanksgiving in the U.S. can be brutal. I blame it on social media and the unrealistic Norman Rockwellian expectations we place on each other. Unfortunately, what in our imagination looks warm and fuzzy, can quickly turn cold and prickly.

Even though everyone at the table is somehow related, dinner etiquette can morph into a kind of blood sport. Back-handed compliments and thinly veiled sarcasm abound and it’s just not Thanksgiving unless someone leaves the table in tears.

Add tons of carbohydrates, loads of judgment, a dash of shame, with a pumpkin pie chaser and voila – Hilarity ensues!

NO. No it doesn’t.

When you put together people who only find themselves sitting in the same room once a year there isn’t enough alcohol on the planet to keep you in that loving place.

It can turn into a real numb-fest.

The carbs numb you down.
So do the booze,
The sugar,
The football,
Even the ridged potato chips smothered with delicious sour cream onion dip. THAT is my numbing agent of choice.

Yes, you heard me. It all numbs us down, making us compliant enough to smile and remain civil so that everyone lives to see another holiday.

But let’s all try to remember, shall we, that almost everyone had the highest of intentions when they pulled up in the driveway.

And each year can be a fresh start. We talk all about gratitude that day, but I think it’s a good idea to start with acceptance.

When we can make acceptance the first course, it helps us all to remember that everyone is just doing the best they can and it makes the rest of the day play out differently. 

My family is loving, relatively sane, and really quite civil —now.
I think that’s because we’re all so damn old. The last time we served crazy for Thanksgiving was during the Reagan
Administration.

Gone are the caustic comments lobbed across the table by a perpetually inebriated uncle that he meant to be funny—but weren’t. And the long, squirmy, uncomfortable silences that followed.

Everyone, even Aunt Barb, who’s worn a wig for the past twenty-five years has stopped criticizing my hair. I’m fifty freakin’ seven Barb! It’s gray with some purple fringe—let it go!

My dad used to insist that we get dressed up. You know, jacket and tie, skirt and (gulp) pantyhose were mandatory. But since he’s been gone for a decade, elastic reigns supreme. These days style is sacrificed for comfort. Think sweatpants thinly disguised as dress pants.

To add insult to injury, this year, I intend to give up the fight—the Spanx stay at home.

Hey you! You picky eaters! Stop your complaining. If somethings not Non-GMO, gluten-free, free-range, antibiotic and hormone-free, vegetarian or vegan. Please, just be polite and eat what won’t kill you—or feed it to the dog and stick with the crudités.

So…let’s all practice forgiveness, humor, acceptance and gratitude; choosing to operate from the heart remembering the true intention of this day. Being with family.

Now take a deep breath, put on your best holiday smile, and listen with loving acceptance as your well-intentioned cousin explains to you all the reasons why Hillary will never be President.

Happy Thanksgiving,
xox

I’ve been traveling lately. A lot. Much more than usual.
Three countries in two weeks. Eight flights. More shitty airport food than I care to remember.

It’s one reason you haven’t heard from me lately. The other fifty have to do with varying degrees of slothiness, jet lag, and a profound lack of inspiration.

Anyway, one trip was a two-week motorcycle ride through southern Italy. Rome to Sicily.

The other, two days after my return from Italy, was a journey to Tofino, a town on the wild western coast of Vancouver Island, British Columbia. From LA it takes a plane, a ferry, lots of coffee, and four-plus hours (depending on the weather and road conditions) of driving to get there. To say it’s all worth it is an understatement, so I will not do it that disservice. Just suffice it to say—WOW.

All of this to say, for both it was the journey, not the ultimate destination that captivated me and made me practically pee my pants with delight. Don’t get me wrong, Sicily and all of the cites and towns we visited were amazing and I blow another zipper just remembering the food. But it was the ride each day through the countryside to get there and then exploring the island and making memories with the fabulous people in our group that was—bellisimo!

The same goes for Tofino.

So I was reminded, as I often am, not to rush through things.

Here’s a short excerpt from my self-talk with that part of me that knows more wise shit than I ever will:

Them: Remember, LIFE is the journey.
Me: What?!
Them: You heard us!
Me: I know, but that always gets me.
Them: We know. Maybe, eventually, you’ll remember it.

Here’s the thing: If I were only interested in getting to Sicily, I could have flown directly there, had dinner, taken a selfie, and flown home. Same with Tofino (although the scuttlebutt says that flight is so harrowing you need to carry a change of underwear in your purse). So never mind.

The point is, LIFE is the journey!
Slow down.
Take it all in.
Be grateful.
Have fun.

Amen.

Carry on,
xox

“Doubt kills more dreams than failure ever will.”

I am by nature, one of the most optimist people you will ever have the good fortune, or misfortune to meet, depending on your mood.

After being around for this long, I’ve developed the faith that things are always working out for me. (And when I say me I mean my husband, my family, those I love, my dog and my country—just to be clear.)

But, and I can say this from years of personal experience, a deep reservoir of doubt runs just under the surface of us optimists. We have a profound and abiding respect for it and unless you cohabitate with us or secretly videotape our most private moments (sicko), you will most likely never see it overtake us. Because we are extremely skilled at keeping it under wraps.

For many, it can be a struggle. Yet, at the end of the day, their cork always bobs to the top, their glass remains half-full and the sun comes up the next morning. Pessimistic curmudgeons never fight with themselves this way.

One half of them says things suck—and the other half agrees.

Sometimes I envy them.  

Many describe their doubt as an adversary they meet on the battlefield. They fight it tooth and nail. I was taught by a wise so-and-so along the way, I can’t remember who, that if you come face to face with your doubt—play devil’s advocate.

So I learned to stage a doubt and faith debate.

Instead of silencing my doubt or smothering it with chocolate sauce and salted peanuts and scarfing it down at midnight by the light of the refrigerator — I let it have its say.

When Doubt takes the podium he is disgusting—puffed up with hot air, bloated with confidence. He brings flow-charts. He quotes statistics. You have to hand it to him, he comes loaded with evidence and everything he points to has a basis in fact. He produces pictures and movies to remind you of past failures. When he thinks he has you on the ropes, he brings out a panel of experts who can back him up.

Don’t you fucking hate panels of experts?

If you’re like me I can only listen to his bullshit for so long before I start to argue—and that’s when the debate begins.

He can recite from memory an article he read or a study that was done which PROVES my dreams will never succeed. “I don’t believe that!” I interrupt. Then I site the exceptions, because if there are exceptions, well, then his theory sucks. I name big names, important names. Names we’d all recognize.

He sweats like a pig and drinks water while he feigns ignorance.

“Look around you”, he demands, his face turning the color of eggplant, “There is SO MUCH EVIDENCE. Nobody’s happy in their job, nobody likes what they do, what you hope to accomplish is impossible! Besides that, people are miserable. And they’re fat.” He stuffs half a Reuben with extra sauerkraut into his mouth between jabs.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I step away from my podium for full effect. I have bare feet because, number one, it grounds me, and number two, it’s against the rules and this throws Doubt for a loop. Doubt is most definitely a rule follower.

While he wavers, I state my case. “While I cannot argue that there are those who may feel this way; when I look beyond all the flotsam, I see hope. And possibility. There have always been people like me—like most of the people I know—who despite all of the cautionary tales still run into the arena.”

Doubt shakes his head in exasperation. There is mustard on his chin.

“It’s easier to be scared and quit. Believe me. I know. But as more and more of us poke holes in your lousy logic, it deflates… like a flaccid balloon. And everybody knows you can’t win an argument with a flaccid balloon.”

“Wrong!” he bends low and hisses air into his mic. “Wrooooong.” His eyes are squinted closed as he all but disappears behind his podium.  He knows I’m right.

Doubt had his say and the more I argued for my crazy, optimistic, why-the-hell-not way of life, the more I stood flat-footed in my conviction—the more I started believing it.

Someone once said, “Faith is the act of believing what you cannot yet see.”
I think it was Bill Murray or some other saint who said that which makes sense because you’d have to be able to perform a miracle, like a brain swap, to maintain faith and optimism in this day and age. But then I think about living in the middle ages with no indoor plumbing and only porridge to eat and I feel a sudden wave of gratitude for exactly where I’m standing.

See how that works?

Carry on,
xox

The phone was ringing. That’s odd, I thought, trying to clear away that cotton candy that inhabits your brain after you’ve just fallen asleep.

Only minutes earlier I’d turned off the light after struggling to stay awake while reading my latest self-help book, “The Road Less Traveled.”

It has to be late, I mumbled, rolling on my side to get a look at the time on the digital clock radio next to the bed. It was half past eleven.

Now it is my experience that NO good news is EVER on the other end of a phone that rings after eleven. Ever!

Either that person is drunk and dialing, picking a fight about something that happened a week ago, telling you that someone is sick—or there’s been an accident.

This call ended up kicking all of those things to the curb.

“Janet, sorry, are you awake? I know it’s late.” It was my friend Rita (not her real name).
Rita is one of the “herd”, as we were called. We were given that moniker because of the level of noise that entered a room wherever we showed up, and because there were always seven of us. Seven teenage girls attached at the hip through all four years of Catholic high school.
I’m sure you can imagine.

We shared everything teenage girls share—all the firsts.
First periods, first cigarettes, first joint, first drunk/sick night, first loves and all the trouble, chaos and complications that boyfriends bring to a young girl’s life.

Now we were in our late twenties. Everyone was pairing up, I was the first, already married and divorced, Rita, the smart, choosy one, was the last. Several of us had left LA, but the following weekend there would be a reunion of sorts.

Rita was getting married.

“Yeah, sure, no problem, I’m awake…what’s up?” I sat up in bed.

“I think Marco’s cheating on me” she started to cry.

“What? Noooooo.” I said, lighting a cigarette. I was up now, sitting on the edge of the bed. This was in the days before mobile phones, although I did have a fifteen-foot cord on my yellow push button telephone – so I could wander.

She was crying harder now, rustling papers in the background.
Still groggy, the cigarette was getting me high, had I heard correctly? “What are you talking about? What happened?” I asked. The rustling stopped.

“A woman called me yesterday claiming that she and Marco are in love! That they have been for a long time…she knew my name.” she spit out that last part like she’d bitten into a lemon.  I could hear in her voice she was getting mad.

“Oh. My. God.” I replied while frantically searching my drawers for an ashtray, but deciding to settle on a potted plant.

“That’s bullshit, he loves YOU, you’re getting married in less than a week…” She interrupted, her voice agitated, almost yelling, “She told me to check the phone bill for her number. Janet, it’s on here over sixty times just this month, the same with last month and as far back as I…”

“Hold on a second, where is Marco?” They’d been living together since the engagement, but he had a job that took him out-of-town two weeks of every month, so the rest of the herd didn’t really know him all that well.

“He’s in Atlanta until tomorrow night.”

“Did you call him? What did he say?” This I had to hear.

“Of course, the minute I hung up with her.”

“And?…” I was dying to hear his explanation.

“Well he denied it, said she’s a girl from work, that she’s super needy, really insecure and kinda crazy. He explained that her number’s on the bill because he’s her supervisor and they have to talk about work problems. I mean I know things have been super stressful at the office lately, with all the layoffs and personnel changes.” She was quiet for a minute. “He started accusing ME of having cold feet!”

That didn’t sound right, but I stayed on script. “Okay, well let’s see—she’s just a kook from work and he’ll set her straight honey.” I lit a cigarette with a cigarette, something I never did, but this situation called for it.

“That’s what I thought, but she called again tonight, I just got off the phone with her and called you!” Her voice took on a desperate edge.

“Shit.” My blood went ice-cold.
There was a sweater in a pile of folded laundry that was waiting patiently on the chair to be put away. I pulled it on, switching the receiver from hand to hand, turned on the light, and started pacing, wandering the room.

“She’s been here! At MY house! They’ve been here together! She described the condo and she even described me! She’s seen me, she waits for me to leave! Get this – she says that I’m the girl he marries and has children with— but she’s the girl he loves. Fucking bitch!” That sent a jolt of whatthefuckery throughout my entire body. Rita NEVER used the “F-word.”

He was feeding my friend a crap sandwich. And that other woman! It sounded like the asshole was dishing out crap all over the place.

I was speechless. She continued. “She said he’s Latin and that it’s a cultural thing.” She started crying again. “They laugh at me, she says they laugh about how unsuspecting I am, that I think I’m going to get married and ride off into the sunset…they laugh at me, Janet.” As I listened to her sobs, tears filled my eyes and I started to sniffle so I pressed the receiver to my chest so she couldn’t hear me.

After a long time I thought of something to say, “What does she want from you?”

Rita cleared her throat, her exhausted voice barely a whisper.
“She wants me to walk away, to break things off, otherwise at the wedding, when they ask who objects—she’s going to stand up and tell everyone the truth.”

“That’s bullshit!” I yelled. “That only happens on soap operas!” my voice was so loud it actually startled me.

“Janet, what should I do? He’s just going to deny it. So what if she IS just a crazy girl from work, she’s still going to ruin my wedding!”

“Maybe when Marco comes home, you guys have a heart to heart. He has to figure this mess out… I don’t know, maybe postpone things…” Rita jumped in, she was bordering on hysterical. “I can’t call off the wedding! I just wrote the balance check for the hall! This morning was the final fitting on my dress!”

“Okay, I know, listen.” My tone was firm.
“If he’s cheating on you, you sure as hell are NOT going through with this wedding! I don’t care how much money is lost and how embarrassing it is. People will just have to get over themselves.”

Crickets.

“You know I’m right. I’ll help you. I can call people and…” She interrupted me. “I’m tired, I have to go. I’m sure when Marco comes home this will all get settled.”

Her voice turned Stepford.
“I’m sorry I called you so late, you’re right, it’s probably nothing.” What was happening? I never said that. I never said it was nothing. “Goodnight.” The line went dead.

I couldn’t sleep the rest of the night, struggling with whether I should share it with anyone else. If this whole thing didn’t blow up before then, the rest of the herd would be in town by the end of the week so I decided it was best to just zip it.

The next time I saw Rita was at the rehearsal. I was singing Ave Maria and One Hand One Heart from West Side Story at the ceremony, so we did a run through. Rita looked beautiful and happy, all smiles. Even when I searched her eyes while saying our goodbyes after the rehearsal dinner, there was no hint that anything was amiss. Marco sat beaming, surrounded by relatives and friends from out-of-town.

So okay. They’d worked it out. It was one just of those late night calls that you just chalk up to nerves and forget it ever happened.

The next morning, up in the choir loft, after Rita’s entrance in her big, flowing, white gown, I watched from above, scanning the crowd. Marco’s family and friends on the right and Rita’s giant Irish Catholic family on the left – and a mystery woman dressed all in black wearing an enormous hat and standing in the back.

Who was that? I bent waaaay over the ledge to try to catch a glimpse of her face, but short of doing a half gainer with a twist off that balcony – it wasn’t going to happen.

All black. To a wedding? Really bitch? My heart was pounding. Was this the “other woman” all set to ruin Rita’s special day?

I was helpless to do anything. It was time for the Ave Maria. The minute the song was over, the last note still reverberating, riding the incredible church acoustics, I ran back to the ledge, searching for the stranger in black – but she was gone.

I wish this story had a fairy tale ending…

As it turns out Marco did have another woman. Several actually. He let it be known right after Rita told him he was going to have a son. They tried to play happy family for a while, but I think the marriage lasted all of three years.

It’s been about thirty years and Rita hasn’t had a serious relationship since. She’s never been able to let herself trust a man again.

She got the big white dress – but at what price?

The thing that Rita really lost was the trust of her own internal navigation system. She stopped trusting herself. She’d known in her gut what was going on, even when he denied it, but she thought she was too far in to get out. She wanted to save face, to be married, only to be divorced a few years later, as a single mother.

We all do things we know in our hearts are doomed to fail.
We stay in situations that we know aren’t right, because we’re deeply invested.
But there can be a way out, there’s always way out.

Gut check – intuition – rumors – lies – denials.
WE KNOW.
If it feels bad – it probably is.

Have you ever found yourself in a similar situation? It’s not just about weddings. Did you get out? How did you do it?

Carry on,
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, Carry on,
Xox

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(Double click link) ^^^^^^^^

Okay, so, we’re headed back to Italy on Monday for a motorcycle ride from Rome to Sicily and that means I’m fantasizing about losing weight on gelato and getting my ass pinched by deliciously lascivious Italian men.

Wish me luck!
Ciao!
xox

We just returned from a week in Paris and my brain is addled from jet lag and partaking in too much rich food because, Paris. It feels like if churros and beignets had a baby—and then covered it in Nutella. Yeah, like that. So…

1. Plaid does not exist as a wardrobe staple outside of the US. Well, except for Scotland and kilts of course, but I’ve always considered them to be a centuries-long practical joke gone awry.

2. Whatever shoes you pack— they’re wrong. And since sneakers are like wearing a Kick me, I’m the worst kind of tourist sign on your feet, you will never be comfortable. The women there have it all figured out. Me? Not so much. Mine are either too fancy or not fancy enough — too pointy, too dated, too blistery, or too…what is the word I’m looking for here…slutty, to be taken seriously or worn with any confidence outside the U.S.

3. Whatever shoes you finally DO decide to wear will be eaten alive by the cobblestones and the street grates. Europe is a death camp for shoes. One pair of mine didn’t make it out alive—and the rest have PTSD.

4. Their local “Pharmacies” are equivalent to the best Sephora you could ever imagine! Like the flagship store in Manhattan, only it’s been condensed down into a space the size of a broom closet. Besides that, when you’re walking around they’re every few feet, like a Seven/Eleven, and the flashing neon green cross has hypnotic qualities, I swear to god. It lures me in with the promise of blister guards and laxatives, and the next thing I know I’ve spent 150 euro on some French eye cream that promises me that I will have hot-monkey-sex every night if I apply it regularly—to my eyes—let’s be clear. At least that’s what I THINK the small print says. Nevertheless, I fall for it every time.

5. The toilet paper is atrocious. It is ridiculously thin and so rough you can file down a chipped nail or take some home and use it to sand down that one bad spot on the corner of the dining room table that keeps snagging your sweaters. And don’t get me started on the size of the beds.

6. Oh, hello, as it turns out, I’m lactose intolerant in Europe. I’m just one gelato away from spending the night in the bathroom. Which comes in handy because without it—I don’t poop in Europe. It’s like the food is so clean my body doesn’t produce any waste… right, anyway, I’m as regular as rain in the States so this always surprises me…in a bloaty kind of way.

7. There is no such thing as a cold drink. Or ice. But I’ve never stopped asking! I keep waiting for our obsession with tall, cold drinks to catch on, but alas, water, wine, even beer is served at room temperature and you had better get used to it ‘cause it ain’t changin’ anytime soon.

8. The sun is wonky. In the summer it stays up waaaayy past my bedtime, and it’s pitch-dark until almost 9am in the winter. It’s fucked up! Which leads me to…

9. I never pay one lick of attention to my circadian rhythm. Ever. I live in the perpetual light-box that is LA, so mine stays regulated all-year-round. But between the weird hours of daylight, the nine-hour time difference, and the mutant jet lag—my circadian ain’t got no rhythm. It’s like the fifth Pip, the one who couldn’t dance; and no amount of sunlight, exercise, sleep, or wildly expensive, overpromising eye cream can make it better. It just takes time.

10. Speaking of time—that place is old. I mean really, really, old. The stone is ancient and worn smooth. The wood is cracked and bent like my feet, and if the walls could talk they’d tell the tales of a thousand other starry-eyed visitors who walked the streets, drank the wine, cavorted, laughed, and ate more cheese than any human has the right to eat— and they loved. You can’t help but fall in love with Europe. There’s just something about it. It might be the color of the light or the air…I think it’s in the water.

Carry on,

xox