I’m just going to say it. The end of 2015 was a clusterfuck of mixed-up energies of epic proportions. Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but you get what I mean. Besides, many of YOU were the ones that were calling it to my attention.
When I wrote about how conflicted I felt about how sad I felt in paradise, the genie was out of the bottle! SO many of you were sad too–for no apparent reason–which just makes it all the more confusing. At least if someone fell and broke a hip or your cat got run over–you know why you want to crawl under the bed.
We all like reasons for our emotions. I know I do.
Even my teenage niece just wasn’t feelin’ it in December and she was raised by elves in Santa’s Village, North Pole, USA. We count on her to buoy the rest of us with her unlimited teenage-girl holiday enthusiasm, decorating her room with white twinkle lights and making sure every square inch of my sister’s house looks like a reindeer barfed Christmas (and presents), everywhere.
Not this year. She was…melancholy. We’re just chalking it up to the weird energy and he fact that a certain amount of melancholy is synonymous with being sixteen.
Okay so everybody felt sad. I get that. But here’s where it got interesting.
Suddenly, the week after Christmas, I was overtaken by an overwhelming sense of…optimism.
Like 2016 was going to be the best year ever!
Again, I had nothing, whatsoever, besides my usual delusional thinking on which to base that upbeat prognosis.
When I spoke up at the New Years Eve party, expecting to get pummeled with dinner rolls, instead, everyone, get that? EVERYONE agreed!
2016 is going to be awesome. And we have no idea why.
A couple of people, Danielle La Porte being one of them, wrote about the numerology behind the year 2016.
2016 2+0+1+6 = 9 the year of answered prayers.
What? Are you kidding? Prayers? Answered? Well, no wonder we’re all collectively peeing our pants. Who doesn’t love answered prayers?! Don’t you fucking LOVE knowing that?
The Year of Answered Prayers.
That unclenches my jaw AND my butt. A real double-whammy.
I can hear you. You’re all asking yourselves right now: Hey, (our tribe starts everything with “hey”), hey, does Janet pray? Hell yeah! And meditate and chant and write shit down and ask nicely in my most polite voice. I cover all of my request-line bases.
So, the other night, In answer to prayer 4,567,389, is this really going to be such a great year? I had a dream where I watched as the night sky was carpeted with falling stars. There were thousands a minute. It was the meteor shower of all meteor showers and because it was so extraordinary I knew it was a dream. Still, I squealed and clapped with delight like I do when I watch fireworks. When I woke up I felt elated. (which was the polar opposite of sad and that made me worry for a sec that maybe I was losing my shit).
Of course I looked it up:
“To see a meteor in your dream suggests that you will experience success in a project. You are on your way toward realizing your goals and desires. Alternatively, the meteor refers to wishful thinking and idealistic thoughts.
To see a meteor shower in your dream signifies romantic thoughts and idealistic notions.”
…and answered prayers you guys. The year of answered prayers.
Breath in…breathe out…and carry on
xox
How many of you are blamers? Or married to a blame? Or were raised by a major blamer?
Show of hands, please. Uh-huh, I thought so.
I had a boss for almost twenty years who was a blamer and it drove. me. nuts. He was a shamer too. I’m convinced blame and shame are siamese twins, but that’s just me. Let’s see what the expert, Brene Brown has to say about blame in this short, funny and insightful video.
As for me? I’m not a blamer, I’m an “I told you so-er”.
I have to bite my tongue not to say in some way, shape or form, “I told you so” to my husband like, forty-five thousand times a day.
Seriously.
Like today. He saved all of his outdoor tasks for this morning. The morning we were ALL warned that El Nino was going to hit us like well, like a big, fat, super soggy storm full of really wet rain.
And like the shining example of good wifery that I am, I reminded said husband of his shitty decision making,choices, —timing, before I left for the gym and it was only drizzling.
But alas, he waited until the REAL rain hit to empty the dog poop can into the main garbage bin, get the dead Christmas tree out to the curb for pick-up, and fiddle (fix in man-speak), with the sump-pump (all of which we talked about just yesterday), and then sent me a text and left evidence (wet pants in the shower), of how soaked he got. (Who is surprised here? What woman is the least bit surprised by this?)
See how I did that? Never once did you hear me say I told you so. I wanted to. So very, very, badly.
My tongue has permanent grooves.
Listen, I don’t want to tell Brene how to run her social media, but I think that needs to be her next video.
The seemingly repressed but clearly expressed I told you so.
What do you guys think? (That’s for you, Jim)
Love, soggy in Studio City
Carry on,
xox
Here it is, my first Huffington Post of 2016!
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/its-a-new-yearbe-audaciou_b_8905344.html
This is a re-worked essay from back when Moses was a kid (some of you old farts may remember it because you lived it with me), that talks about that moment when I finally realized, with every fiber of my being, that I couldn’t stand to be “left” by a man one-more-time.
So, I searched and searched for what I wanted to feel.
Loved? They all said they loved me but love wears a different hat with each guy so…I was thinkin’ no, not loved, apparently love wasn’t enough for them to stay.
How about respected? Oh sure, I wanted to feel respected by a man and I’m not saying I wasn’t. It’s just that respect doesn’t give you ooglies (that indescribably warm feeling that starts in your kishkes and eventually makes its way to your lady parts). I know it should—but it doesn’t and if it does for you—then you’re a better woman than I.
There was something else. Some key ingredient that was missing.
Finally, after an exhaustive search of my emotional inventory I found the word for how I wanted to feel but that word embarrassed me. It had alluded me because it felt like too much.
It felt audacious and a little dangerous to ask for it—but at that point what did I have to lose?
I wanted to be adored by a man. I wanted him to look at me the way I look at the waiter when he sets down a warm, gooey dessert in front of me with only ONE spoon.
With pure, unadulterated adoration.
And it worked!
It’s a New Year you guys! I say Go for it. Make this your most audacious year EVER!
xox
* I love finding all these lists of things that are going right in the world (you can find more on The Observer’s Voice Facebook Page), and I love sharing them with YOU even more! Here’s one by the great Pam Grout.
Just when you think humanity had fallen off the deep end, remember that there is so much that is going right with the world‚ sadly, it just doesn’t make the 6 o’clock news.
Happy Holidays my loves!
xox
“What worn-out shticks are blinding you to the blessings that life is conspiring to give you?”–Rob Brezsny
People magazine sent me out to interview a Kansas City Secret Santa who passes out $100 bills. Twice. It was a hoot and a half to join him, to see the expression on people’s faces when he’d peel a couple hundys off his stack and hand them over.
So in the interest of continuing my long-standing journalism career, here are 20 additional reasons to be of good cheer:
1. A mystery woman walked into a Toys R Us in Bellingham, Massachusetts and paid off the entire store’s layaway balance, allowing strapped parents to pick up Christmas gifts for their kids.
- Gas prices have dropped below $2 just in time for holiday visits to family.
-
The gorgeous beaches of Cuba have reopened to vacationing Americans.
-
Oakland Raider’s tackle Menelik Watson donated a week of his salary ($37,000) to Ava Urrea, a four-year-old girl who has had 14 heart surgeries.
-
Natalie DuBose, whose Ferguson, Missouri bakery was vandalized last year during protests, received more than $250,000 in donations from total strangers.
-
The curve is bending on new cases of HIV. More people are being treated than becoming infected.
-
Enough said. This note was left on a car in Edmonton, Canada.
-
Gay marriage is now legal in the United States.
-
An Ohio high school student took his 89-year-old great-grandmother to prom because she’d never been.
-
A cop in Montreal has been stopping drivers and, instead of passing out tickets, is passing out $100 bills.
-
Global life expectancy has risen by six years since 1990.
-
Nearly 200 countries signed a bill to reduce the use of foreign fossil fuels.
-
A Dallas woman has donated more than 15,0000 house cleanings for people going through chemo.
-
A 12-year-old from San Jose, California, built a Braille printer (it’s called a BRAIGO) out of LEGO Mindstorms (it’s the souped up version) that lowers the going $2000 price to an affordable $350. He even offers open source plans online for free.
-
A police captain in Omaha, Nebraska organized a Valentine’s card campaign for her sergeant who remarked that he’d never received a Valentine’s card as a kid. He got hundreds from people all over the country.
-
A former professional ballet dancer developed a dancing wheelchair so all of us can dance.
-
Michelle Obama has volunteered the last five years to take calls for NORAD’s Santa hotline.
-
A New York City software engineer gave coding lessons to a homeless man. He offered him either $100 or two months of coding lessons. After just three and a half months, his homeless protégé developed Trees for Cars, a smartphone app that helps commuters organize carpools.
-
Scientists dated a bristlecone pine tree in California’s White Mountains as the world’s longest-living organism. It’s more than 5000 years old, older than the pyramids.
-
And this video (which I already shared on Facebook)
And remember, my dear friends, this is the holiday season to do more of what you WANT to do and less of what you think you should.
Pam Grout is the author of 17 books including E-Squared: 9 Do-it-Yourself Energy Experiments that Prove Your Thoughts Create Your Reality and the just-released sequel, E-Cubed, 9 More Experiments that Prove Mirth, Magic, and Merriment is your Full-time Gig.
http://pamgrout.com/2015/12/18/21-reasons-to-be-of-good-cheer/
*Hi Loves,
This is a post from Christmas 2013, but it’s a crowd favorite for the timeless reason that my man never ceases to amaze me with his decency.
Immensely grateful for all of you and your decency and continued loyalty and wishing you and yours the happiest of holidays and a fucking amazing New Year!
xoxJanet
AVATAR
av·a·tar
ˈavəˌtär/
noun
1.HINDUISM
a manifestation of a deity or released soul in bodily form on earth; an incarnate divine teacher.
I met my husband when he was 47 and I was 43.
To say I kissed a lot of frogs along the way is an understatement!
Since he’s French, there’s also a certain irony there.
On paper, I looked über normal.
I had a great job, a house, a relatively “normal” family, lots of good friends, two Siamese cats, and a Partridge in a pear tree.
But as you all know by now, I had my dark, hidden secret.
I was a closeted seeker.
I was devoutly spiritual.
I did yoga,
I meditated twice a day,
I could have been a monk.
Well, except for the red lipstick and nail polish…oh, and the sex.
Anyway…
I’m pretty sure I blurted it all out on one of our early dates,
after a glass of wine, half expecting him to excuse himself, saying he was “going to the restroom”, only to discover he had made a run for it!
But he didn’t.
It ends up he was a seeker as well, having worked with
a Peruvian shaman along the way, so I should have seen this coming.
For years, I had sought the counsel of a channel, a friend who had the ability to call in beings of higher wisdom. So I invited her/them over to “meet” my new husband. I’m not exactly sure what I expected, but what they did was to completely ignore me, and practically fall all over themselves, calling him “Great Avatar”.
Then they explained that I am the “consort” to this great being.
What!? Really?
Like the Cleopatra to his Marc Anthony?
Nope.
More like the Robin to his Batman.
The Kato to his Green Hornet.
The Heckle to his Jeckle.
Well, not exactly.
He is my teacher.
I am grasshopper.
It just happened for the gazillionth time on Christmas Eve day.
He told me the story that night, on our way to dinner.
He is a typical man in the sense that he waits until 3 p.m. on the 24th to start his shopping.
So…he’s navigating an overcrowded parking lot, and he’s hungry.
You get the picture.
He finally sees a car ready to pull out of its space, so he positions himself, left blinker on, and waits…and waits…while the person sloooooowy backs out. Meanwhile, on the other side of them is a little pickup truck that has the same idea. My husband sees what’s up and aggressively blocks the spot with his black Porsche and then pulls in. (Don’t judge, just because it’s a Porsche and a pickup truck, just don’t)!
As the pickup truck drives off, he makes eye contact and flips my husband the middle finger.
Oh, don’t worry, that stuff rolls off his back…he’s French, remember?
But it’s Christmas Eve for cryin’ out loud!
He walks in to get a quick burger, and realizes while he’s eating,
that middle finger, pickup truck guy is eating with some friends a few tables over.
So, he gets out a pen and writes a note on a napkin.
He then attached $20 and hands it to the waitress to deliver to the guy…and leaves.
The notes says:
Even though you flipped me the bird,
It’s Christmas Eve.
your lunch is on me.
The black Porsche.
As he glanced back, while walking away, he sees the guy showing the note to his buddies and looking around the cafe.
He’s my hero.
He’s my teacher
He really is an Avatar.
It is an honor to be his consort.
Xox
We are now entering the second week of December. That triggers a hot mess of mixed emotions inside of me.
Every. Single. Year.
Listen, don’t get me wrong, I love all things Christmas, but can we please move it to May?
When I see THAT date—December 1st—I can’t help it—my butt puckers.
As the month progresses I secretly want to strangle December. I want to take it around back and teach it a lesson.
Show of hands, who’s with me? Who here in readerville secretly hates December?
Who thought that thirty consecutive days of extreme holiday stress was a good idea? Target? Santa? The devil?
By the end of week one, I’m consumed by that sinking feeling that lets me know—I’m already behind schedule.
I’m already late with my shipping.
Once I navigate the Post Office parking lot, or as I like to call it, December Demolition Derby (I once backed up and ONTO an Audi, a brand new one—my trailer hitch opening up the front hood of that car like a can opener), I have to stand in line and wait for the TWO postal clerks behind the counter to wade their way through all the other holiday shippers.
There is yelling. There are lies, bribes and cutting in line. There are tears. And that’s just me.
Once I work up the stamina (facilitated by devouring all of the fudge I made the previous night) to take on the Christmas tree shopping—usually reserving December 10th for my tree excursion—all of the good ones are gone.
By the second week of December! That is just criminal.
Last year they had a Charlie Brown section for people like me. Dried up weak and feeble trees that were already dead—pitifully begging for a home. Those are what’s left for us mid-December stragglers. The ones who wait so they don’t have to fight the crowds and crying kids the first two weeks.
Get this: I drove past a lot the other day where they were flocking trees. Remember flocking? Crispy, fake snow? I thought I’d passed through a time warp except for the crowd. There was a crowd of bearded hipsters with man-buns all milling around the tent inhaling crispy snow and sipping artisan hot chocolate.
Are hipsters bringing flocking back? Is that a thing again?
Are you freaking kidding me? If those hipsters had lived through the sixties like I had, they would NEVER in a million years have the slightest inclination to re-create it. I still have rotating color-wheel flashbacks.
Once I got my Christmas investment (they are well over ten bucks a foot) home, it took me three tries to get the white twinkle lights to do the one thing they were designed to do—light up. We sent men to the moon and wtf?… If you so much as look at a strand cross-eyed HALF of it will go dark.
But only half.
Which leaves me filled with hope, because December marks a season of hope, right? Hope that I can find the rat bastard loose bulb, tap it gently, twist it, or God willing, replace it with the extra one taped to the cord, and have the freaking tree lit by New Years.
THAT has never happened. In all of my years lighting a tree I’ve yet to twist a loose bulb and have the thing light back up.
That is an urban myth. Worse yet, it’s a fairy tale told to unsuspecting Christmas revelers in order to fill them with false hope.
That’s not playing fair. Jesus would frown on that.
In search of lights that worked I was forced to do what you’re never supposed to do the entire month of December if you have a brain in your head and one ounce of common sense left in your body——I went to Target yesterday and they were already out of white lights AND wrapping paper. It’s the first week of December people. Seriously?
In the parking lot, I nearly got sideswiped by an SUV wearing blinking antlers. Am I insured for that?
Baking. Let’s talk holiday baking. I love to bake.
I love it so much I only do it once a year in December, otherwise, I would be HUGE.
Like, walk me down Central Park West in the Thanksgiving Day Parade huge.
Because my love for baking is only exceeded by my love of eating what I bake.
What? You don’t do that? O call bullshit. Sure you do! Because it’s only logical. Artists love art. Singers love music. Bakers love all things warm and gooey. They love it so much they make it themselves—for themselves. Between eating the raw cookie dough and “quality testing” the finished products my friends are lucky to get a bite in edgewise.
December is also a month of wonder.
I wonder every year which of my favorite childhood ornaments will fall prey to the floor-gods. They are insatiable and unrelenting in their search for a sacrifice. I’m aware of this, so in order to keep the emotional carnage to a minimum I put the ones I don’t care as much about near the floor, as an offering. A token of respect. Then I padlock my favorite treasures safely inside the middle branches. But the floor gods always prevail. Last night the ice-skater I received when I was eleven mysteriously appeared on the hardwood floor under the tree. She wasn’t broken broken. Just her left ankle and skate are missing.
But her career is over. There go her hopes of a medal.
I had a good cry. SHE took it with grace and dignity so I re-hung her in the front of the tree as an example of Christmas courage.
Listen, how about those Christmas cards?
All year long I’m lulled into complacency, thinking I have several great shots for the front of a card. Then it comes time to send them in to get printed. Either I’m late for the “print by” date because for some reason I’m unable to fathom why on earth that date is August 31st, and I’m too busy eating watermelon BECAUSE IT’S SUMMER—or I can’t find the pictures.
They’re missing. Gone. Non-existent. A figment of my overactive imagination.
I could make do with the one from last year. The one where he’s squinting, my smile is jinky and the dog has wild eyes and a grin like Cujo. Oh, fuck it. Just never mind. It’ll just have to wait until next year. Again.
I do love receiving all the cards from friends and family. I really do. I adore being able to see how much the kids have grown every year but can I ask you a favor? Please don’t send me the three-page newsletters. That’s okay. I’m all caught up. That’s what Facebook is for. Besides, they’re primarily filled with bad news. The death of a pet, Uncle Frank’s broken hip, the baby that can’t say please. Are you kidding? Has no one any good news to share?
The last one I read was like a Charles Dickens novel. It was filled with so much tragedy I had to read it with a box of Kleenex (and Sees candy) and a glass of scotch. Honestly! I know nothing says Christmas like death and job loss, but can we all agree to just cut-it-out?
December. What is it with you?
You drive me nuts! You are like the bat-shit crazy relative everyone hates that keeps showing up drunk every year!
As much as I vow that this year will be different,
I eat too much.
I spend too much.
I drink too much.
I argue way too much.
I don’t get enough rest.
I over commit.
I cry.
And I lose my patience.
Which brings me to the realization—December, you are a little bit like childbirth. You are miserable and painful in the moment but after some time has passed (like 365 days) I forget and repeat all the madness because when I look back on the holidays you brought me miracles and filled me with wonder and THAT my friend,makes you impossible to hate.
Happy Holidays Y’all!
xox
You guys,
Friday, someone I hold in extremely high regard showered me with a veritable social media love-fest. Everywhere I looked she went out of her way to say something incredibly kind.
For no damn reason.
I didn’t give her money.
I didn’t clean her kitchen or babysit her dog.
Truth be told I hadn’t even talked to her in a while!
I just woke up, scratched my ass, had my coffee, and commented on her blog. I didn’t even say anything particularly special.
The next thing I knew, she unleashed the Kraken of Kindness.
Feeling awash in immense gratitude, I was reminded of this post from last year regarding this very thing.
The feeling I carried with me ALL DAY Friday was beyond delicious. That’s why knowing this is so, so, very important.
Love.
Somebody somewhere loves you.
I know I do
xox
A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.”
― Jackie Robinson
I missed the email when it came in.
Contrary to what most people believe, I am NOT on social media 24/7.
It was Sunday so…I was doing assorted Sunday stuff; sleeping past six, eating pancakes stuffed with blueberries, carbs and gluten, (because on Sunday, none of that stuff counts and calories don’t stick. Trust me, I’m a Doctor*) and engaging in general, slovenly goof-offiness.
When I finally did check in, I noticed that one of my readers/friends had left me some very lovely feedback on Saturday’s blog, the one about viewing your life as a movie.
It always moves me when people take the time to write and tell me how something made them feel. I know everyone is crazy busy, so it’s much appreciated.
It’s like finding blue sea glass Like discovering a gem—gorgeous, out of the blue and completely unexpected.
My point is this:
I swear to God. You didn’t do anything out of the ordinary to deserve it.
And you don’t even know it.
If you COULD somehow feel it you’d walk a little taller and maybe put on some lipstick.
I have teachers from grade school that I STILL revere and if they were alive…I know they would be surprised.
The same friend that wrote that email is herself an extraordinary woman.
Yet, she has NO IDEA.
In the jewelry world, she is a badass. She is an expert in time periods, stones, and things I can’t pronounce, let alone spell. Her lectures are always packed and she commands the stage like a rockstar. Believe me when I say, that many, many of us think she’s awesome — and I can assure you —she doesn’t know it.
Recently I was lucky enough to meet a brilliant, funny, and incredibly wise woman who resides in Paris.
An expatriate married to a Frenchman. She has such style and grace that denim has never touched her impossibly smooth skin. Her body would react so violently she would have to take anti-rejection drugs to wear a pair of yoga pants. Murphy (see, even her name is ridiculously cool), is so impossibly chic that French woman clamour for her style council and fashion advice.
I’m sure of it.
I’m also sure that wherever she goes, she leaves a wake of awesome-sauce behind her of which she is blissfully unaware.
Our friend Clay is knowledgeable in SO MANY fields. Just by breathing he can unintentionally make me feel equally stupid about music, computers and food.
THAT my friends is a trifecta of talent.
My husband continues to marvel at Clay’s humble manner and general down-lowness.
He’s a pilot and we didn’t know that for a year. He owns several patents, and again, we just somehow found out; and I’m pretty sure he invented the internet (sorry Al Gore).
In our estimation, he is a 21st-century renaissance man and he has NO IDEA we feel that way about him!
It’s startling when people let you know that they hold you in high regard. It’s like you were just going about your business, Lala la Lala, just being you—and someone noticed your sparkle.
It makes you want to straighten your crown and walk like a boss. It may cause you to strut. Like some serious red carpet strutting. Like Angelina Jolie on the red carpet type strutting. SHE is someone who owns her awesomeness. The rest of us mere mortals have to be reminded.
Which is why telling extraordinary people how much they’ve impacted you is a wonderful thing—please, do it. Often.
But I know it’s a safe bet that we each have several silent admirers who think we rock.
People we haven’t seen or spoken to for years AND people we see every day.
Isn’t that crazy wonderful?
There are people breathing your exhaled air, living right now, looking at the same moon, who think you’re covered in awesome sauce.
I do.
You’re all amazing!
Xox
*I’m not really a Doctor, I just play one on TV.
I’m going to rat myself out. Tell on my bad self. Tattle, like that snotty little kid back in grade school who thought he was the boss of everybody.
Well, I AM the boss of me and I’m here to tell you—I struggled with Shame on Saturday. Big Time.
I have to fess up because we talk about shame so much on this blog—how on earth could I look at myself in the mirror if I acted like it never touched MYlife.
Of course, it does! It’s not on the menu everyday—but more often than I’d like to admit.
What kind of whatever I am (blogger, advice giver, sister, friend, wife, nosey posey) would I be if I kept this to myself?
Now, there are numerous types of shame, many which I’ve experienced and some, by the grace of God, I have not.
This was not registered sex-offender shame, nor was it young divorcee or I wore a penguin costume to work on the wrong day shame.
This was familiar to me. Similar to bathing suit dressing room shame, only different.
Oh yeah, I knew this Shame.
We became intimately acquainted ( it slept with me most nights) during the year or so my store struggled financially—and every year since then it comes around less and less, but there are exceptions.
Trigger situations.
Believe me, I can still recognize Shame even with a different face and better shoes because it continues to wear that same cheap cologne and shit-eating grin.
Let me explain.
I have a ten-year-old car with almost 95,000 miles on it. It is not some piece-of-shit clunker with a bumper held on with masking tape. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had one of those. But this is different. It’s been meticulously maintained by yours truly and it’s one of those German Imports, a classy tank.
I’ve mentioned several, well maybe not several, is several more than three? Okay, then three. I’ve mentioned maybe three times that I wish it had Bluetooth, you know, for my phone. There, I admit to a tinge of Bluetooth envy. But never in a million years did I ever say:
“God, I hate my car, what a colossal piece of shit, I wish it was better, I need a new car!”
So, are we clear?
My current car is perfectly lovely. I could even go out on a limb and say it would be a lot of people’s dream car.
Shame. Oof. I can smell its strong cologne already.
Being that my car was getting close to having one hundred thousand miles on it, my husband, the car guy, gear head numero uno, began to ask me what car I thought I’d like next. My answer most times was: the Same car just newer I guess. The other times I told him I was perfectly happy with my existing car.
“What color would you get IF you were to get a new car?” he baited me.
“Blue, dark blue with tan interior.”
I chose that combination mostly because it is almost impossible to find. It would take him months and months to come up with a car in that combination.
I kept the New Car Shame at bay—or so I thought.
Thursday he emailed me a car at a local dealership fitting that exact description.
Shit.
“Let’s go check it out on Saturday” he suggested.
That is my husband’s ideal day. Vehicle shopping. Add a steak dinner and a nice bottle of wine to that and he could die a happy man.
I loath shopping for a car, besides, I really thought the one I was driving was just fine, Thank you very much.
But my mouth overrode my brain—it does that a lot. “Okay,” I agreed.
Now you’re all thinking oh, boo-hoo, he wants to buy you a nice new car. Where’s the problem? Quit your whining!
Well, that’s what I told myself all the way down to the dealership. But as we all know, logic and reason are no match for Shame.
Shame kicks their asses every damn time.
After we looked at it and I sat in it and even gave it a test spin, my husband eyeballed me with that “Let’s take it” look I know so well.
I froze. I stammered and stuttered, staring off into space, my eyes spinning in their sockets and I’m sure it appeared to the gregarious salesman as if I’d suddenly suffered a stroke.
“Can you give us a few minutes,” my husband asked after he observed my bizarre behavior, sending the salesman back into the showroom to stew in suspense.
I could feel the hot river of shame burn in my veins as it replaced all the blood in my body.
I observed it. I named it. I even cursed it. Well, duh!
I wanted to shout I’m feeling Ashamed! at the top of my lungs so it would crawl out of the shadows and dissipate.
That’s what happens when you acknowledge Shame. It leaves. I can only exist if it’s kept a secret.
But it had inhabited me so completely at that point I could barely gather my thoughts. A sinister voice had taken over the Pollyanna Land that normally resides inside my brain, spoon-feeding me well-disguised bullshit.
It was a sickening, sad, and sorry case of New Car Shame.
Now, I could get lost in the minutia of this moment and how horrible it all felt. I could do that. It’s kinda what I do. How my right eyelid was twitching compulsively and it suddenly felt like all the saliva had left my mouth. How everything went into slow-motion, like walking through deep water on stilts.
What? I think he’s talking to me. What’s he saying?
“What’s wrong with you? Isn’t this what you want?” he asked, not used to seeing me frozen and silent.
This man is a good man.
He is incredibly generous with me. Probably too generous. (See there it is).
Here’s what I SAID—out loud—remember? No more secrets.
“I don’t currently have a job that brings in any money. I don’t pull my own weight. At the moment, our relationship is financially lopsided and unbalanced. You are literally supporting me—for now. ( I always have to add that). Who am I to have a new car? Such a nice new car? (the rabbit hole was in sight). This is all making me extremely uncomfortable. Why are we doing this? Why are YOU doing this?”
Now, here’s what I was THINKING—thanks to that piece of shit, Shame:
You shouldn’t reward me for not working. You don’t gift an unemployed writer a snazzy new car. That comes later. Let me PROVE my worth. Let me drive my existing car into the ground. Let me wait until the bumper is held on by masking tape. I don’t deserve a new car. Not one so nice. Not This car. Especially not this car.
That is a veritable Molotov cocktail of Shame. And I was throwing it back like a barfly.
So there. I’m ratting myself out. I went there, to that dark place of unworthiness. I was So freaking ashamed of myself.
“You are the hardest working unemployed person I know”, he said looking me straight in the eye which was made difficult by the fact that mine were spinning and I had started to wander, walking in circles to clear my head.
“You have manufactured a writing career out of thin air, which you work tirelessly on EVERYDAY. That has not gone unnoticed by me.”
He was right goddammit! I have so many irons in the fire these days that my fire is full. You couldn’t squeeze another iron in that fire if you tried.
“And explain to me what in God’s name any of this has to do with a car. You need a new car for MY peace of mind.”
Shame triggers. They make no sense.
They are ridiculous and if you try to sidestep them like I did, YOU look ridiculous.
So there you have it—my story of New Car Shame, and how it ALMOST won. I have named it so many times and now I’ve written about it so it must skulk away, back into the shadows, preferably back to hell— because it is my wish to be free.
Do you have a Shame story to share?
Carry on,
xox
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