love

Hey you guys,
Digging around in my “dead drafts” file I came across this stream of consciousness, shitty first draft of an actual event that happened to me last year at this time. Since it’s a year old I suppose it’s a Throwback for a Thursday. Right? And since I know most of you, no, make that all of you, have loved and lost, I thought I’d share this unabridged account of just how much I suck at it. Loss that is. So here goes. 

Carry on,
xox

I wish more than anything that I had a profound and pithy quote befitting this story, instead, all you get is:

“Omg,omg,omg,omg,omg,omg,omg,omg,omg,omg,omg,breathe.”~ Me

I heard his voice again last night. For the first time in thirty years.

This is a voice I would have given my left tit to hear back then, back in the days and months after our break-up in 1986.

Truthfully? I would have sold my soul, my car and my beloved cat to hear him say my name in that seductive way he had.

Just one… More…Time.

Shameless doesn’t adequately describe me.

Neither, do I have enough fingers or toes to count the number of times I sold-myself-out emotionally.

I would call, he would answer and I would hang up. Or, I would get his out-going message on his answer machine and since I knew he wasn’t home (he was never home), I would call back and listen to it ten to fifteen times in a row with the intensity of a FBI voice analysis expert, searching for any small hint in the tone, or the words that he used as a clue to his state of mind.

Was he happier without me? Or did he sound like wads of Kleenex were shoved up his nostrils, his heart-broken into tiny pieces that were scattered across the globe by the wind—like me?

Mostly I did it because second only to his smell, I desperately ached for the sound of his voice. That along with a longing for reentry back into his inner circle from which I’d been banished.

He was the drug and I was the addict.
He was the tall, cool drink of water. I was dying of thirst.
He was the Sun, and whatever small ray of attention he chose to shine on me, like a sunflower I reached up and reveled in it.
He threw his scraps of attention to my bruised and broken heart as I rolled around in the dirt like a feral animal, begging for more.

You get the picture. Shameless.

It had to be enough—but it never was.
Because that’s the thing about that kind of love. The always evident, finite nature of it, creates mental insatiability.

From the beginning, the deep tone of his voice could magically make the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
Like a musical instrument, my body was specifically tuned to him–it had a visceral reaction—every cell vibrating with desire.
It was crazy. At nearly thirty years old I’d never felt anything like it.

My love for him felt crazy. So, I began to mistake feeling crazy—for love.

It culminated in a real eye-opener when I jumped out of a second-story window and chased his car down the street. In that moment it turned dangerous crazy. Stupid. Untethered to reality.

At no time was I aware how unsustainable that kind of love, lust, obsession was.
Nothing that burns that hot can survive as it consumes everything it touches. It must flame out. It must. Even volcanoes go dormant.

I thought I would never get over him. The mere mention of his name could send me to bed sobbing for hours.
The pain was simply unbearable.

In order to function in the world, I put myself into an emotional rehab of sorts. I removed all signs of him from my immediate surroundings. First I got rid of all the gifts he gave me. An 80’s abstract patterned sweatshirt, a small, carved jewelry box. Then I took the pictures of him out of their frames. Well, to be honest, for years I left them in the frames and covered them with more current shots of friends and family in the hopes that this was all just a bad dream and we would eventually reconcile and I could put our pictures front and center once again.

Slowly, I erased all of his saved voice messages. They were like the tiny airline bottles of booze alcoholics save in case of an emotional ”emergency”. A quick fix. A masochistic game. A rush followed by the pitiful groan of my heart as it dropped like a piano from a fifty story building. Over, and over, and over again.

First to go were the simple ones, “Hey babe, just checking in.” Hearing those only hurt a little bit, like a blister or a cold sore.
I could hit erase on those and not immediately burst into flames.

The next ones, the ones that were funny or touching, well, those hurt like I imagine a cracked skull or broken bones do. I would suffer physical pain for days after deleting those.

The last ones to get erased took me the longest to let go of because of their intimate nature.
They held my heart in chains and like a prisoner with Stockholm’s Syndrome I feared I’d die if I we parted.
I threw up for four straight hours the night I had the courage to hit ERASE on those.

Detox. It was Emotional Detox.

I’m not proud of the fact that it took me five years to become neutral. Yes, you heard me. Five fucking years to get that man out of my system. But I did.

Eventually, I healed and as part of that healing, I held a ceremony where I burned everything. It was my graduation ritual. Emotional rehabilitation complete.
As I watched all of the cards, love letters and yes, finally, the photos of us disintegrate into ash and swirl their way back into the aether, I felt free. He no longer held my heart prisoner. I was literally and symbolically free of him. Finally! And I have to say it felt fan-fucking-tastic!

So, you can imagine my reaction when a few weeks before Christmas, out of the blue, after thirty years —he reached out on Facebook for connection. And it triggered in me the most curious mixture of love and hate, attraction, and revulsion, curiosity, and fear.

Anyway, we agreed to talk. On the phone. Like for real.

He is fifty-two to my fifty-seven years and still in dire need of a “sensitivity chip”—just as I remembered.
He laughed hysterically when I said I was fifty-seven. “Yeah, sure you are” he guffawed, “You just keep telling that story.”
“I will, because it’s true,” I replied with a half-ass laugh, trying to keep things civil. Truth be told I wanted to reach though the phone and stab him in the neck with a fork. Come to think of it, it was not an unfamiliar impulse where he was concerned, but the rage he was still able to trigger shocked me.

Remember, we burned HOT.

After listening to him for a while, it was clear as he reminisced about our on-and-off two years together back in the eighties that:

1. He remembers that time fondly. Like, scary, made up memories of weird things that never happened, fondly. I do not. I was not my best self back then. Not even a little bit. Think, hot mess. That time turned into a catalyst for my own self-reflection and introspection. I’d jumped out of a fucking window overcome by lust so I’d say I was a girl desperately in need of some self-respect. It was not my proudest moment and as a result, I did decades of work on myself after that.

2. Our five-ish year age difference which I will admit felt much larger as a twenty-five-year-old woman with a twenty-year-old man (boy) had grown to a much broader span of his memory (hence the snide remarks). In HIS telling of our tale, the age difference has grown to decades. He is now Ben Affleck and I am Dame Helen Mirren, (who by-the-way admittedly looks better than I do in a bikini), but that is neither here nor there—the woman is seventy. 70!

3. His life has fallen to shit. He is re-connecting with me because he has become the Mayor of Martyr-ville. As he explained it, when his beloved father passed away, he gave up a thriving career and a life filled with fancy houses, cars, tons of money and super-models, (insert HUGE eye-roll), turned his back on love and ever having a family of his own, to live in his childhood bedroom taking care of his ailing mother and special needs sister. Oh come on! He’s NO saint. I can hear you, don’t turn on me now!

Why do guys do that? Why do they call you after they’ve fallen down the rabbit hole? I KNOW with every fiber of my being that if his life were going well he may have looked me up out of curiosity on Facebook (like we all do), but he would have NEVER in a million years have contacted me. I know that because I’m over fifty and life doesn’t work that way.

He sounded to me like someone who was in dire need of the three “C’s”. Camaraderie. Consolation. Contrition.
I don’t think I’m the right person for the job. I tried for about thirty minutes. Then I couldn’t wait to get off the phone and back to real life. You know, MY real life of fancy houses, cars, and super models.

For several days afterward I felt emotionally unstable. Like I’d been massaged by a plunger or punked.
I couldn’t tell if he felt bad about how things had ended and he most certainly didn’t call for my forgiveness.

You know why? Because he has no idea the suffering I put myself through. Did you catch that? I tortured myself. Everyday. All by myself.

So… why did he call me? Why was I the one he chose to soothe him? Honestly? I have no idea.

One of my friends who is familiar with our saga asked me if I somehow felt vindicated by his shitty life. You know, the best revenge is living well and all that. So…did I?… Maybe…and Yuck!
Had I learned nothing? Great. There go tens of thousands of dollars spent on three decades of self-help.

After feeling ashamed of myself, I have also started to figure out why I feel so out-of-sorts.

Perhaps because it was clear he still inhabited that wild, careless and dangerous place I had turned my back on years ago, and maybe I was afraid that hearing his voice would somehow lure me back there after being off of that sick, adrenalin high for thirty plus years. Perhaps.

More likely it’s because I have absolutely no desire to re-live the past. Even those lusty, tempestuous years with him. Like I said, those were not the good old days for me and no amount of reminiscing will make it so.

I have a distinct memory of something my mother said to me as I writhed on her bed in my broken-hearted agony—so here’s your quote. “He’ll come back. One way or another, they always come back.”

I lived breathlessly off the fumes of that hope for many years like a lost Mariners wife waits for the sea to return her beloved. Until eventually, facilitated by the passage of time, the entire situation was no longer a trigger for tears but an ancient, distant memory.

Then… he came back.

 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 were 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—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

Once upon a time, I was a hoe. Or least I had convinced myself that I was.

During my early twenties, I fell in and out of love—a lot! And by a lot I mean, weekly.
But there were two teeny, tiny, complications.

Number one: I mistook infatuation and lust, for love and…
Number two: I was married. So, there was that.

I’m sure the fact that I was completely and totally unhappily married lead me to look for greener pastures, but truth be told, lush green grass was EVERYWHERE I looked. As a matter of fact, I didn’t have to look for it—it found me. I seemed to unconsciously wander naked into field after green and luscious field of wild, verdant, grass.

Are you getting the thinly veiled sexy grass analogy? Yeah, I thought so.

Anyhow, I know that being a dissatisfied housewife summoned the greener pastures.
How do I know that?
Because less than two years after my divorce and a subsequent short-lived roll in the hay dalliance, I remained tragically single for eighteen years, half a dozen of which were grass-less and barren. The furthest, most opposite of lush green grass as you can get. Mohave Desert brown and dry.
Swollen tongue dry.
Severely chapped lips dry.
Camel toe dry.
Dry in every sense of the word—if you get my drift.

Nary a phone call nor a sideways glance came my way. Nothing. Zilch, zero, nada.
Crickets. The complete and total lack of interest expressed in me by the opposite sex was if I do say so myself…appalling.

I found myself single…and invisible.

When the occasional fellow (and I mean occasional, three in ten years), did decide to traverse the desert and ask me out, I responded like any dried up, thirsty nomad looking for her green oasis—I drank at the well of desperation as I clung to him by my sand filled fingernails—while my toes dialed the wedding planner.

I’m serious.

I had convinced myself that I couldn’t be trusted to make good decisions where men were concerned, after all, I had listened to lust and let a good one go.
Or so I thought.
What can I say? I was hallucinating, not in my right mind.
So, if a guy showed interest, and (gulp) I slept with him, I had to MARRY him. Right? Or at the very least buy matching his and hers snuggies and put a down payment on a condo—because that’s not terrifying to a man!

I was confiding this whacked-out way of thinking to a young friend the other day as anecdotal evidence that I was once under thirty-five, made a ton of questionable decisions, and had sex with men who didn’t propose. Hell, they didn’t even spend the night. Often, they ran shirtless out of my apartment and down the street to their car. Or I jumped out of a window and ran shoeless after their car…

What a mess. What a hot, hot mess. A promiscuous monogamist.

Anyway…

Then the craziest thing happened. She admitted to feeling that way too sometimes. (And here I thought that went out with big shoulder pads and even bigger Bon Jovi hair).

“So what did you do?” she asked, “How did you get out of thinking that every time you dated a guy—it HAD to lead to the big white dress?”

“I became a hoe” I chortled, the memory of it causing a dribble of coffee to come out of my nose.
She balked.
“Seriously! My best friend, the one with the great husband, finally lost her patience with me and my dating drama and ordered me to JUST DATE!”

My young friend was intrigued, “Go on”, she said with a quizzical look on her face.

“Well, my friend advised me to just play the field—have fun—lighten up—quit overthinking it—leave your phone with the Bridal Registry on speed dial…at home—and have sex like a man!”

My young friend leaned forward “What does that MEAN?”

I leaned in too “It is pretty vague, but I got the gist of what she meant. Have sex with the damn waiter. If he’s nice and there’s chemistry, and you’re both careful…go for it. You will probably not marry him—chances are, after two or three dates you may never see him again, but that’s okay.
You’ll know the right one.”

Now, that’s the way a woman has sex like a man—but it was the virtual permission slip I needed from someone who really knew me well—and I ran with it!

Listen, I’m not saying you should do this or anything else I ever write about but I will tell you this, my young friend ran toward a pasture that she was afraid to venture into and walked in some very tall, green grass this weekend—if you know what I mean.

Carry on,
xox

I love rants. Rants by definition are wild, impassioned speeches. I rant often. It beats the alternative—apathy.

Anyhow, here is exhibit A.
A ranty little rant written by someone I greatly admire who is anything but apathetic.  We met on Skype a couple of years ago when I wasn’t so sure I was a writer (I KNEW I was a ranter), and she had just secured a humongous book deal from a giant publishing house (don’t let anyone tell you that shit doesn’t happen anymore, Steph is living proof!), for her memoir, Unbound (which comes out in January).

In each other we found a kindred spirit. Two souls tethered together.
We both have Muses, we both love our men and our dogs (maybe not always in that order), we both aspire to spend our days laughing, eating and writing (again, not always in that order), we both believe in BIG magic, and we are both YES Sayers.

YES Sayers are harder to find than you may think. Most people have made a habit out of saying NO.

I just had to share her little YES rant with you so you can get an idea of who she is. Maybe it will inspire a desire to retire (wtf?!), your NO’s and say YES a little more often, just like it did to me. I’m currently searching for an ostrich to ride…

Carry on,
xox

I rode an ostrich once. I sat on it’s pillowy arse and then it ran like the wind. It happened because I said yes.

Yes, I will ride that bird.

Yes, I would like to go to the jungle. And yes, I would like to meet the shaman.

Yes…absolutely, I’ll try a bite of that giant snail.

Yes, I do want that promotion. Yes, I am worth that much.

Yes, I will. I will do that even though it’s terrifying AF and I’m not sure how.

Yes, I would like to sit at the shore of an ocean I’ve never laid eyes on just so I can listen to the rhythm it drums through the night.

Ice cream? Yes.

Love? Yes.

That dog’s tongue on my face? Yes.

Yes. Please. Thank you. Wow. Yes.

Here are some more Steph Jagger facts that I pilfered from her website:

P.S. I BET YOU WANT A FEW MORE JUICY TIDBITS DON’T YA?
I read. A lot. I love reading as much as I love laughter and when they’re combined. I can’t…I just can’t.

I’m obsessed about the good, the bad, the ugly and the drop dead freaking gorgeous involved with finding and truly owning who we are.

I have been referred to as the human embodiment of the mullet – polished professionalism up front and yee-haw laughter in the back.

I drink wine, usually it’s red but I won’t turn down white…or rosé.

The only kind of carrots I like are the ones on sticks, dangling in front of me.

I married my soul mate. The fact that he had a big, black dog sweetened the deal.

If I were a bettin’ gal, I’d put my money on pickles over cucumbers because I believe that courageous, awe-inspiring, hold-on-to-your-hat life doesn’t happen with one toe dangling in, but that we jump in and fully submerge. Get in the brine.

http://www.stephjagger.com

I have a tribe. A writing tribe of women.
Mel is a part of that tribe.

Mel writes in a way that her words paint pictures inside your imagination.
Mel’s writing transports you to the very place she intends to take you.
And while you’re there…she steals your heart.
She does it to me every fucking time.

My editor says I make her snort laugh coffee out her nose.
Mel made her editor cry.
She wins. Because everyone knows editors have their tear ducts removed. They never cry.

Her editor at Elephant Journal also told her “This is, hands down, one of my favorite elephant articles to date.”

Well…That…a compliment…That is an occurrence so rare it’s up there with editor tears and portraits of Jesus on burnt pieces of toast.

Now that I’ve thoroughly embarrassed her with all the gushing I’ll let you see for yourself. I’m posting the link only so you will go over and tweet and comment.

Ladies and gentleman, my friend, Mel Maure:

http://www.elephantjournal.com/2016/10/stop-ignoring-these-connections-they-can-turn-your-day-or-life-around/

*Melanie Maure is a forest-dwelling kind of gal who splits her time between writing and private practice as a psychotherapist and she teaches a little yoga on the side. One of the strongest influences on her writing is the twenty years experience she possesses helping people navigate PTSD, injuries and the effects of physical, mental and emotional trauma.

As a woman, therapist and writer Melanie believes humor is a key ingredient for recovery and growth, and her writing often reflects this belief. She is currently in the third round of revisions on her debut novel, which recently received agency representation with RO Literary. Mel did an extremely awkward happy dance on that day.

Melanie lives works and plays in Peachland, British Columbia with her husband Jason and her fur-child Slim Jim.

Melanie can be found in the woods or at these more convenient locations: email, Instagram, Facebook.

“When are you going to start a family?”
Really? The ink wasn’t even dry on the marriage license, I still had rice in my hair, for cryin’ out loud.

How the hell did I know? I was barely twenty, my husband twenty-three. WE were the babies in the room.

It’s the rare individual who is introspective enough to ask themselves at a young age: What kind of life do I see for myself? Do I want to be a parent? Will I have children?

Some people just KNOW. The rest of us? We go along with the proverbial flow.
We date, fall in love, have the wedding, the picket fence and….screech! (sound of a needle being dragged across a record) hey! Not so fast!

Your early twenties are a time of impetuous, risk-taking behavior. NOT the picket fence and most definitely not parenthood—at least not for me.

I could back it up with SCIENCE:
There have been recent studies and in fact, research from the National Institutes of Health have shown, the prefrontal cortex, a region of the brain associated with inhibition of risky behavior, and decision-making, doesn’t get fully developed until age 25.
Being a late bloomer, I am certain my prefrontal cortex finally matured at around thirty-five, and sadly, it still wasn’t screaming “make a baby!”

What was wrong with me? All my friends were doing it. Even my little sister.
Hello?! Where was my maternal gene?
At the time it felt like it had been replaced by the much more irresponsible (red hair dye, wine drinking, spend every dime on shoes, travel around Europe), happy-go-lucky gene.

It wasn’t a calling for me. I know a calling. I move heaven and earth when something calls me. Motherhood? Meh, not so much. It’s not that I don’t love kids, I do. Just never enough to make any of my own.

There was also the fact that the stars just never aligned.
It didn’t occur to me to start a family when I was married, it always felt like a decision for another day; and when it finally did cross my mind I was epically, tragically, single. Not a man in sight, let alone “father material.” By the time I married my second husband, as fate would have it, my eggs were all dried up.

Sooooo, I gave single motherhood some serious thought, only to be discouraged by a very wise, older woman friend, a “crone” who asked me, “the maiden”, why I wanted to have a child?
I stammered on for a good five minutes, never coming up with anything better than
“Everyone else is doing it.”

“It is the MOST important job, being a mama. Come talk to me when you have a better reason.”

Unfortunately, this maiden could never come up with one.

“To make the decision to have a child – is momentous.
It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body”
~Elizabeth Stone

By my mid-thirties, when I answered “no” to the kid inquiry, a sad, concerned look would wash over women’s faces; until I assured them that I was biologically able—but not interested in doing so. Well…

UNLEASH THE KRAKEN! 

Many women got angry, really, really angry. Especially at baby showers. And in my thirties, there was a baby shower EVERY weekend. You know the ones where you bring your babies? THOSE were the worst.
There was even some name calling.

Selfish.
I’ve been called that many times in my life.
It’s code for: why aren’t you doing what I’m doing?
It has been hurled my way in anger, hitting me like a dagger in the back.
It has happened so many times, I have a large callous there—these days the dagger just bounces off.

Is it selfish not to have children? Probably. Can selfish be a good thing? Yes, yes it can.

Call it what you want. I just knew I wasn’t wired for that level of self-sacrifice, and my unborn children are better off because of that.

Up until then, my life had not been premeditated in any way. It had all happened like a series of accidental decisions if there’s such a thing. Eventually, I recognized that I had actually made a conscious choice. I had decided “my supreme and risky fate”.

I didn’t need to hide in a cave or skulk away ashamed with my decision. Then, and only then, did the name calling stop.
Isn’t that always the way?

Now I’m over fifty, and the question is: How many grandchildren do you have?

What I know for sure is this: I’m so incredibly grateful to be born at a time in history when we’re not put in stockades in the town square, with villagers throwing eggs at our childless faces.
We decided it wasn’t for us…and that’s okay.

Luckily, times have changed since I was young and women are so much more accepting and supportive of different life choices. These days I feel anything but ostracized, some woman actually applaud my decision.

Childless women.
As Liz Gilbert and Oprah mentioned about on Sunday, we get to be the spectacular aunties.
Mama’s need the aunties.
We play a very important supporting role, we get to teach the children selfishness—which is thankfully something most mamas know NOTHING about.

Tell me about you. I’d love to hear YOUR story. Did you decide not to have children?

much love,
xox

I believe this with all my heart. Truth prevails.
Carry on,
xox

Hello luvs,
This is my latest Huffington Post.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/an-open-letter-to-the-rec_b_12250902.html

It’s about divorce. And life after divorce. And dating. And dating after divorce. And maybe, just maybe the sex as my friend Sandra refers to it.

Please feel free to comment, like and share. I’d love it if you would!

Carry on,
xox

I see you there, under the covers with your swollen eyes and a nose as raw and runny as your recently broken heart. Darling, I can see you because I’ve been you.

I also see dead people. And right now you are a zombie. Numb inside. A card carrying member of the walking dead.

But you will re-join the living—I can promise you that. How do I know? Because I too crawled out from beneath the smoldering rubble of a divorce—and lived to tell about it.

And as your future self, I can assure you that not only will you survive—you will thrive!

Am I an expert? Well, yes. Yes, I am. Even though no two divorces are alike, once you’ve lived through one you are part of a select group who can speak about it with authority. Kind of like plane crash survivors or those unfortunate souls who are born with a third nipple.

Besides, I am your future self. I am older and wiser and I deserve your respect.

Listen, everyone on the planet has had their heart broken at least five times, once, and very few (less than one percent), fail to fall in love again. So it goes without saying that the odds are in your favor. That your dried up raisin of a heart will eventually heal enough to try this love thing again.

You may even get re-married—but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

I can assure you that once the initial shock wears off you’ll silence the Adele, stop eating raw chocolate chip cookie dough straight from the roll and get back to wearing pants instead of pajamas bottoms. Your skin will clear up, you’ll get the best haircut of your life, and on a random Thursday night, you’ll finally agree to meet friends for drinks. Once there, you’ll only cry a little when someone brings up the holidays. Later that night, alone in bed, a turning point will be reached. You’ll have the realization that for the first time in like forever—you actually had—what’s the word? Fun.

Now a word of warning. Everyone and their cousin will try to fix you up with someone they know who’s “perfect” for you.

It is the craziest thing! No one can stand to see a divorced person single for more than five minutes. It’s just a fact of life so accept it. Now, this is either going to become a great distraction—or send you to bed for a month. Don’t get discouraged. I’m here to tell you this immediate aftermath is not the phase where anything meaningful happens so don’t worry about it. Take a lot of bubble baths, drink tea, catch up on your reading, watch every Nora Ephron movie, and eventually send out a search party to find your sense of humor—you’re going to need it.

Because here’s the thing. You are going to want to date again! 

I know, right now that sounds about as fun as walking barefoot on hot coals, or picking them up and putting them in your mouth—but hear me out. Eventually, you will meet someone you really like and when that initial rush of excitement hits you, it is going to feel like a combination of Christmas Eve and the Fourth of July. The body has sense memory where this is concerned. Trust it. You may be tempted to go slow, and that’s probably advisable, but after your protracted post-divorce hiatus from fun, laughter and (gulp) sex, this new attraction will feel as like a tall glass of ice water in hell.

We can talk about sex if you want to. I think we should.
I know it’s making you throw up a little in your mouth, but that’s all the more reason you will need to get back in the saddle, so to speak. Probably not right away…but sometime this decade. There’s just no way to get around this so I’m gonna give it to ya straight. Sex for the first time with someone besides your ex is going to feel extremely weird and titillating, and awful, and wonderful, uncomfortable and ridiculous.

A confusing mixed salad of emotions that will be hard to overcome.

There’s no denying that. But you must. And you will. Please, I beg of you, don’t listen to your self-sabotaging brain chatter. It will only fuck things up—in a bad way. I am here to tell you this can be exciting as hell and you will definitely be On. Your. Game—so don’t worry. You will feel present, awake and alive which I’m just guessing is very different than what was happening in your marriage just prior to your split.

Listen, I’m your future self, so I already know what went down. No judgment here. I only want to congratulate you on the progress you’ll make.

Listen, I thought this would be a good time to come talk to you in order to assuage your fears, dry your tears, and at the very least help you to crack a smile because, hey, it’s a start. It means you broke through the numbness and felt something. Something besides sadness, shame and anger.

I also highly recommend breathing and putting one foot in front of the other because that helps too, just keep moving forward.

I can promise you, the more time that goes by, the less you will look behind you at that jackass who doesn’t deserve you, and the more enthusiasm you will start to feel toward the future.

I can promise that because I am you. Only, I’m in the future. I am healed and whole and happy as shit—and I’m waiting for you here.

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

Hi loves,
This is a couple of years old but seems just as relevant as ever!
Happy weekend all you self-sacrificing mommies. I’ll be at the pool with a cocktail.
I know, I’d better pray I don’t choke on an olive because I’m going straight to hell.
Carry on,
xox

Being that I’m in my fifties most of my friends have grown kids.
But since age is just a number and I’m  just immature enough, I have several younger  friends with very small children, kids under the age of ten.

I was talking to one of these younger moms and she asked my advice.

Not about mothering of course, since I forgot to have children and she doesn’t want to go to jail, but about the level of commitment she and her girlfriends have to their kids and their spouses, and about how epidemic it is—this crazy, twenty-first century level of parenting and wife-ing.

Oh, and about how they don’t have the same level of commitment to themselves.

Seems she was chatting with a friend of hers, a fellow mom, and they were joking about how clueless their sons and husbands were. They mused that without their loving guidance these males would be feral, running in packs, eating garbage and living under bridges with trolls.

They commiserated that it was an all-consuming job with no time off  for good behavior and no fancy vacations.

We laughed of course, but it all sounded very familiar to me because that has been a recurring theme for most of the moms I have known.

“If it weren’t for me they wouldn’t eat, or they would live on Cheetos and Dr. Pepper. Their growth would be stunted, they would be spindly and stupid from lack of proper nutrition.”

“If it weren’t for me they would wear the same filthy clothes, brush their teeth once a month when they showered (or fell into some water and called that a bath), and their ears, fingernails, and feet would be caked black with dirt. Even their lice would have lice.”

“If it weren’t for me they wouldn’t have one lick of manners, as a matter of fact, they probably wouldn’t have much of a grasp of proper English or any social graces whatsoever. They would scratch their balls, grunt, and   never look up from their phone, iPad or computer. They would be complete social misfits.”

In a nutshell, if it weren’t for the tireless sacrifices, commitment and love to these guys (and girls) they would be just shells of their current magnificent selves. They would have NEVER made the team, passed fourth grade, gotten that big job, done a speck of homework, learned music, gotten braces, written that speech, etc., ect., ect.

It’s okay if it’s a two-way street – but let’s get real here – it can be very one-sided.

So I listened, and laughed and then got tough with her – because I love her – and she asked.

“That’s all ego talking. You have to justify all that time and energy so you tell yourself basically, they’d be nothing without you.”

Is any of that true? Probably not. As a gross generalization, woman DO tend to bring out the best in men. And children. And small animals. And other women too.

I explained to her the oxygen mask theory. It’s amazing actually.
The airlines have to tell you that in the case of cabin depressurization, it is imperative to put the oxygen mask on yourself FIRST and then your child (hopefully your husband can put on his own or you have bigger problems than you think.)
They give you permission to go first; which seems completely counterintuitive to mothers –– so they have to be reminded.

“You and your girlfriend have to put your oxygen masks on first, otherwise you’re no good to anyone.”

Then a thought entered my mind like a lightening bolt. I got chills it was so profound. It was Divine Guidance. I certainly didn’t come up with it, it was too good.

“Oh Jeez, hey, I just got this.
If you really believe what you’re saying, who would YOU be if you had devoted the same time, energy, commitment, sacrifice and LOVE to yourself that you have put into your family all these years?”

Then we both teared up.
Holy shit that’s big.

If you’re devoted to making everyone around you great, when is it your turn?

A ton of woman do it when they become empty nesters, but why wait?

This doesn’t apply to only kids and family.
I did it with my boss and my job, until I wised up, woke up, and set boundaries.
We make their lives easier, smoother, more fun and better, while we lose sleep at night.

I think it’s time for the oxygen mask first thinking to prevail, and taking the time to figure out how to make our own lives become great too.

Are you with me?

Can you relate to this kind of sacrifice and commitment to family? Have you found a balance? Let’s hear it in the comments.

Big love to the moms out there,
Xox