marriage

“Now everyone of us was made to suffer
Everyone of us was made to weep
We’ve been hurting one another
Now the pain has cut too deep.

So take me from the wreckage
Save me from the blast
Lift me up and take me back
Don’t let me keep on walking
I can’t keep on walking, keep on walking on broken glass…

Walking on, walking on broken glass
Walking on, walking on broken glass
Walking on, walking on broken glass
Walking on, walking on broken glass.”

Written by Annie Lennox • Copyright © Universal Music Publishing Group

The energy was spiky this weekend, could you feel it? It felt crunchy, sharp and toxic, kinda like my hair back in the 80’s.

For me, it started with the middle-aged madman calling me a dumb bitch on Friday and it continued to amp up all the way through Sunday.

“They” say it’s the lead up into the full solar eclipse that’s happening next month. If I had a dollar for every time I blame bad shit or wonky energy on solar eclipses —well—I’d have tens of bucks.

Maybe it was the ungodly heat that was making everything feel like a life or death, big hairy deal. I don’t know about you but you can’t trust a word out of my mouth when I’m dehydrated.

And traffic. Traffic in the summer or any season for that matter is the ultimate barometer of humanity’s angst.
You want to know how the world is feeling about its current state of affairs? Hop on the 101 or the 405 freeways. There is rage. There is drama. There are motorcycles splitting lanes! If you make it home without killing anyone—that was a good day. Or the world ended and you’re the only person left on earth.

Even my even-tempered husband was edgy. Moody. PMS-ing. He kept on cruising’ to pick a fight. By Sunday I was exhausted from deflecting his barbs with my Wonder Woman bracelets. Running away from home occurred to me, and I would have except for the fact that after sixteen years I have him honed, groomed and trained exactly the way I want him.

Plus, he has this endearing and completely irreplaceable habit of not minding my snoring and appreciating my bed head in the morning.

He gets up before I do so by the time I wander into his office to signal the fact that I’m ready for my coffee, he’ll take one look at me, “Oh, yeah”, he’ll say, “That is some particularly epic bed head this morning,” and he’ll come in for a pity hug.

He thinks it’s adorable. My best look. He has since day one.

I play along, hardly able to contain my excitement on the really bad days. Like when I’m sick, or hung over, hot flashing, or
all of the above. With a pigtail sticking straight out from the side of my head and the rest of my hair arranged into a something resembling a sweaty beaver’s den, I’ll run to his office looking like a cyclone victim—barely able keep a straight face. Standing on the stair I’ll strike a pose, waiting for my score like a beauty pageant contestant during the swimsuit competition

“There she is,” he’ll say, slowly getting up from his chair nodding with appreciation, stifling a laugh, “A great natural beauty. How do you manage it?”

These are some of our best laughs. They’re always at my expense because he’s bald, so there’s that… but I know for a fact that I could never find anyone who could muster that level of genuine appreciation for such a hot mess—so I’m staying. Fight picking or not.

All of this to is warn you of the impending eggshells shards of broken glass you may find yourself walking in the next few weeks or so until the moon covers the sun and all the animals go to bed and darkness inhabits the Earth for like a minute and then it’s over and we can all get back to our regular scheduled programming.

Like loving baby goat videos, avoiding those who view parking as a combat sport, catching a cool breeze, and hating Trump.

Stay strong & Carry on,
xox

Get a house in the suburbs they said. An ivy-covered cottage with mature trees just north of the hills.
That way you’ll get to experience all of the flora and fauna the area has to offer, they said. So much better than the concrete jungle of mid-city, they said.

So, we did.
We listened to “them”.

And for almost twenty years it’s been exactly as advertised—idyllic—except for that July a few years back when the coyotes ate my two Siamese cats. I can honestly say that put quite a damper on my summer. Still, we have managed to co-exist with nature in a very cordial and symbiotic way.

I leave past-its-prime fruit out for the squirrels so they’ll leave my bird feeder alone; we tolerate the enormous spider webs that are mysteriously woven overnight in high traffic areas and happen to always be at face level. There’s nothing like walking outside in the early dawn hours with a cup of coffee and becoming entangled in a giant, sticky, web that entraps you like a mummy and leaves you batting at your hair like a crazy person—all the while wondering where the damn spider went.

But like I said— we agree to co-exist.

Well, except for the crows. My husband wants to shoot them because they’re colossal pains-in-the-asses whose poops are ruining the paint on our cars. I fight, like a cheap defense attorney, for their right to occupy our giant tree in the front even though the evidence is overwhelming AND it pisses me off too. The sheer volume and size of their shit attacks are hard to fathom. I had one last week, the size of a serving platter, that blotted out the entire driver’s side of my windshield. And it was purple. Wtf?

Nevertheless, I won’t allow him to kill them although I’m pretty sure he’s already had target practice with a few.

But only the ones that laugh at him. Crows laugh you know.
At you.
At your dog.
At your poor choices in cargo shorts.
But you wouldn’t know that unless you live in the suburbs.

Aside from that; things have been quiet. That is, until this year, or as we like to call it: The Year That Wild Kingdom Took Over Studio City.

Lest you label me a complainer—I will first tell you some things I love about living amongst nature.

I love the squirrels, they’re chatty and cute and they hide peanuts in my flower pots… Yipppeeee.

I love the birds. They sing and crap joyfully while building their nests in the drawers of the outside potting table where I keep the clippers and the tiny garden spade—so I can’t get to them until the babies are hatched and raised and go off to college.

I love all the spiders and their cobwebs (which I learned recently are abandoned spider webs that have dust bunnies stuck to them) but I already said that.

I love the hummingbirds who actually come up to my face and make their cute little brrrrrrrrrr sound while I’m watering.

Ok. I’m done.

This year has been the year of the skunk and now, as of late, the year of the raccoon—and I don’t mean I’ve gone schizophrenic on the Chinese calendar.

We have captured and released three skunks after our beautiful but stupid boxer, Ruby, got skunked four times.
It has cost us the equivalent of a monthly car payment for an exterminator to wait them out and once caught, have them relocated to a more hospitable zip code.

But who needs money anyway?

Once those little rascals went bye-bye we mistakenly let down our guard thinking that the worst was over.

Until last week when twice, Ruby and I were woken up by the smell of skunk. Again.

One of my friends joked that the skunks are hitchhiking back to our house because they miss us. I had her killed.

This week there hasn’t been any skunk stench. Nope. Just the terrifying screaming that accompanies Raccoon Fight Club which starts promptly at 2 am—two shows a night—two mornings in a row. The sound is SO loud and horrific I’m certain that if a skunk were anywhere in the vicinity the smell would be scared right off.

“It’s just a cat”, my husband mumbled in his sleep the first night. “Yeah, if a cat was as big as a dog and screamed like a child whose foot was caught in a bear trap,” I replied. To add to the racket, Racoon Fight Club had a cheering section like it was a championship prize fight in Las Vegas. The rats who inhabit the Bougainvillea covered fence like it’s rent controlled apartments, were squealing their little hearts out. Favorites were picked. Bets were placed. Peanuts exchanged hands.

Oh, the rats? Haven’t I mentioned them yet? Oh, pardon me. Yeah. Our house is a veritable torture museum obstacle course of mouse traps that are set…everywhere. Apparently, all of Studio City is infested with rats.

They say it’s all the ivy and mature trees. Fucking “they”!

Anyway…After fifteen minutes of cowering in the corner with Ruby, it finally stopped. All of it. The screaming, the squealing, and our whimpering.

Last night it started again only this time it was so deafening and ferocious I could have sworn they were inside the house. Ruby and I jumped into each other’s arms, shaking like two pitiful Chihuahuas. It even woke up my husband and forced him to put on pants.

You don’t want to do that in the middle of the night.

You don’t want to make my husband put on his pants because then he means business—and somebody’s gonna pay.

I heard him grab the giant industrial flashlight that occupies valuable real estate on his nightstand. I hate that thing. It’s ugly AF, weighs a ton, doubles as a weapon, and is so bright I’m sure they can see the light from space.

Husband opened the door to the backyard and yelled “Hey!” because wild animals respond to bald guys holding klieg lights yelling at them. In reality, the screaming didn’t even miss a beat. I wondered how any of our neighbors could sleep through this horror movie nightmare, I’m sure I’ll read about it in the neighborhood blog: Neighbors hold middle-of-the-night, illegal racoon fight club on their rat infested fence.

After another ten minutes of relentless screaming from the raccoons with the rats cheering loudly in the background —I’d had enough. Someone had to do something! I left the safe embrace of my cowardly dog and barefooted my way out the door to the deck on the far side of the yard. I could see the glaring beam of light shining from the flashlight on the other side of the lawn where my husband was hiding standing.

It seems he had bestowed stadium lighting upon Raccoon Fight Club which caused the rats to cheer even louder!

“It’s two raccoons”, he whisper-yelled over in my direction. I could barely hear him over the commotion. But I know they heard us, those two raccoons, yet, whatever they were fighting about overrode their fear of two humans.
And a dog.
As an aside: Were’s the memo that goes out to the wildlife in the neighborhood that lets them know that our house is probably not a good idea for staging Fight Club because —it has a DOG. A little brown dog that will…right.

Anyway, this next section sums up our marital partnership in five or six sentences. Maybe it will sound familiar to you?

“I’m hosing ‘um!”, I yelled over to my hero who was shining his beam of light right on them like it was the Super Bowl half-time show. Meanwhile, the raccoons gave not one shit. They just kept on with the scream fighting. So I turned the hose on full strength and blasted them with everything I had.

I think for a minute they thought it was part of the show. But Lord have mercy it shut them the hell up.

Blessed silence.

“They’re gone”, he informed me. “Good idea”, he added as he powered down the klieg light they can see from space.

”Uh, ya think?”, I muttered under my breath as I wound the hose back up—stood for a moment like Wonder Woman—and went back to bed.

Being the woo-woo, California knucklehead that I am, I saged the entire yard this morning concentrating on that corner, which I’m convinced is a portal to the mouth of hell.

Hmmmmm…I wonder… how much is it going to cost us to trap and relocate two raccoons? They are definitely meaner than the skunks. Hear that? I’m starting to miss the damn skunks!

I think I’ll start a Go Fund Me Page.

Carry on,
xox

Yuck it up big guy.

This post is from early last year and the good news is: nothing has changed. And the bad news? Nothing has changed. Cest la vie!
Big Love,
xox
***

My husband is a gem. He is a prince of a man. A tender-hearted soul who adores dogs, good food, boobs, and anything with an internal combustion engine.

Okay, now that I’ve made that clear let’s get real.
He can also be an asshole.

But, hey, show me the short list of who can’t.

Plus, I said ‘can be’ —not ‘IS an asshole’.
That’s a VERY big distinction and one that will probably save my marriage.
He has his moments, but then again, don’t we all.

He is also a MAJOR procrastinator.
Big time. A professional. It is such a finely honed skill of his, refined and practiced all these many years, that he is a MASTER Procrastinator.
He could teach it at the college level.
At Harvard.
Sir Raphael of the Bertolus, Professor of Procrastination.

Now you may be worried that he’ll read this and get angry. He will, and he will — he’ll get to it in about a month. That leaves me plenty of time to practice my apology, find my push-up bra, and cook him a nice dinner.

So, am I writing just to bag on my adorable hubster? Yes… and NO.

You see, this is all relevant because his behavior has surprised me lately. He’s taken on a new “ator”.
He has become The Validator.
Validation is just this side of a compliment so I think he’ll get to keep his *“I’m a Frenchman, The French don’t give compliments” card.

Just the same, he’s been showering everyone around him with the gift of validation and it sounds something like this:

HUB: “I told Matt that I was very happy with the fact that he’s treating himself to a nice, new motorcycle, you know he works really hard AND he takes care of his brother…”

ME: “Wow. That was nice of you.”

The following week,
HUB: “When I had lunch with Peter the other day I mentioned how impressed I am with him. He always seems to make the best, most measured and uncompromising business decisions. He’s a pleasure to observe.”

ME: “Wait, What? You said all of that to his face? Did he choke on his steak sandwich?”

Then, today…
ME: “Thank GAWD we didn’t run into anybody at lunch. It’s a miracle. I look how a fart smells. I have this freaking head cold so my entire face is a chapped disaster, my hair looks like fuel for a grease fire, and I smell like yellow toenails.”

HUB: “I really like that you can go out in public and not care if you’re all dolled up. You’re like Janet—Unplugged. That’s really great because when you DO get fixed up, it’s such a startling contrast that everybody realizes how good you clean up.” (OUCH. And Yeah! Okay, it’s not perfect but I got the gist.)
*SEE, HE GETS TO KEEP HIS FRENCH CARD.

ME: “You are…that is just so…Was that a compliment? I think it was. No, wait, it was that validation thing you’ve been doing lately.
It needs some polish but I like it!”

Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to — The Validator!
Which makes so much sense to me because he is such a silent observer of the human condition, only I guess now he’s decided to offer us all some validation on the wanky-wonky way we’re just trying to get by—just living our lives.

I think more people could use validating. Everyone needs to be acknowledged from time to time, right?

Don’t you agree my beautiful, smart and loyal tribe?

Carry on,
xox

“Boredom is the basement in the house of change.”

This post throws us all the way back to the end of 2015 but it feels more timely now than ever. Do we as women wait for things to implode in our lives before we make a change? Do we march our butts down to the basement where the dryer drowns out the whisper of discontent and fold socks, or do we pay attention to this soft whisper from the basement and make it our clarion call to change?
I would urge you to listen for the call.
xox

I just spent the day writing an article about getting divorced at twenty-six for a series on divorce at all ages.

I called it I Was A Twenty-Six Year Old Divorced Unicorn because that was how…um…unusual I felt at the time.

You see, my ex-husband wasn’t a troll. He wasn’t a bad guy in any way. We just weren’t a good match. But you need more than that as grounds for divorce. Right? I mean, how was I to know we weren’t a match that could pass the test of time when I married him at the tender age of twenty?

By twenty-six I was desperately unhappy. Like can’t eat, can’t sleep unhappy.

Today I searched for the one word to describe how I felt at the time. At twenty-six I was not able to articulate exactly what I wanted and what I felt was missing. All I knew was that in my heart of hearts—I wanted more.
More than this relationship.
More than this husband.
More than this “until death do us part” commitment that was feeling more like a prison sentence than a wedding vow.

That’s when it suddenly hit me. Greedy. I felt greedy. On paper, I had so much. Everything. What all my girlfriends were clamoring for.

Greed instead of gratitude one friend scolded. 

What the fuck was wrong with me?

“You want more? More than what?” my dad had asked barely hiding his disgust upon hearing that I wanted a divorce. “He’s a great guy and a good provider. What more could you possibly want? It doesn’t seem like anyone can make you happy!”

He was right about that. That was my job, only I didn’t know it at the time.

I only knew that something profoundly wonderful was missing and that I wasn’t able or willing to settle.

So that made me feel greedy. And greedy felt wrong.

Other people settle. Why can’t I?
Believe me, when I say, it would have been so much easier to just stay married!

“I’m a freakin’ unicorn! An anomaly; and NO ONE understands or knows what to make of me!”

Once I was single, I found out guys didn’t want to date a twenty-six-year-old divorcee. Used goods. High maintenance.

Typical First Date Conversation:

“So, you ever been married?”

“Yeah.”

“Really? He die?”

“Uh, no, we’re divorced.”

“He cheat on you?”

“Nope.”

“He left you?”

“Nope. I left him.”

(Beat) “Waiter, check please!”

Obviously, I needed to set my bar higher.

What I eventually discovered, after a whole lot of sleepless nights, and years of pain was that there were benefits to divorce; to asking more from life; to refusing to settle; to being greedy.

I also forgot that a Unicorn is a mystical, rare and beautiful creature.

So I’m curious…

This being what it is, more of a stream of consciousness, I want to turn the tables and ask you guys:

Q- What does it mean to you to settle? When have you done it and when could you not?

Q- Do you agree with the word greedy? What word would you choose when things look good but you want more?

Q- Are you a Unicorn? Why?

I love you all madly, carry on,
xox

I didn’t want to write this.
I sat on my hands, I bit my tongue.
I minded my own business.

Like I said on my Facebook page, I don’t usually editorialize other people’s break-ups.
But the force was strong with this one. It chewed at my insides.

And eventually…it wrote itself…in about seven minutes.
Then I hit publish.
On the Huffington Post.

It’s about love and fame and stories and potential happy endings.
It’s about a complete stranger who, through no fault of her own, feels like a friend.

Curious to see if you agree.

Carry on,
xox

I was saddened to read of the ending of Elizabeth Gilbert’s marriage on Friday.

Liz is the author of several best-selling books, the most well-known being EAT PRAY LOVE, which chronicled her global spiritual quest and search for happiness after a painful divorce. At the end of her soulful journey, almost unexpectedly, she finds love. And a happy ending.

I rooted for her, as I’m sure many of you did, which breeds familiarity and makes her feel like a friend.

She made the announcement of her separation on her Facebook page, which much to her credit is a place you can find her almost every day in the guise of a gorgeously written, unerringly kind and unflinchingly authentic essay. The line that struck me the most amid her request for privacy and gratitude for her reader’s continued kindness, was this:

“This is a story I am living — not a story that I am telling.”

Which leads me to the first reason we should care.

This is a woman who started her career as a writer. A writer is someone who sits in a chair for hours a day — alone — and writes. She could have never in her wildest dreams have known the universal appeal her story would have and the fame and fortune it would bring her. I’ve heard her say as much in interviews.

She never asked to be famous.

She never wanted to be a celebrity.

As a writer, I have watched the trajectory of her career and I’m always in awe of how generously she shares the details of her life, which is why she said she felt compelled to announce the separation.

I also suspect she wanted to “get ahead” of the story.

To break the news before anyone else had a chance to put their spin on it. Every media outlet covered her announcement, from CNN and People Magazine to the Hollywood Reporter.

She needed to remind us of the distinction between living — and telling.

That breaks my heart.

She shouldn’t have to do that. The end of a relationship is painful enough.

Fame…

The second reason we should care is that we need a reminder. And the reminder is this: What happens to other people is NOT ALL ABOUT YOU.

Most responses to her news were filled with love and respect, but as you can imagine some were more like this, how could you do this to ME? I believed in you, in love, in happy endings. How dare you! One woman from the UK was beside herself. “Not this week! How could you do this on the same week as Brexit? I can’t take it!”

We all know that ridiculously self-involved person who makes everyone’s story about himself or herself. Let’s all try really hard not be that person.

The third and final reason and the one that matters the most to me is this:
In her Instagram bio Elizabeth_Gilbert_writer, she describes herself as an Olympic-level long-distance optimist which can only mean one thing. That she will be sad for a time. And she will mourn her loss. And eventually, the optimist part of her will kick in because she’s been down this road before and she knows — she will not die.

And she will write and write and write some more.
Some really great stuff.
Because that is who she is.

Perhaps she’ll even be able to write about another happy ending — how to salvage the love inside of an amicable split.

Because THAT is something we should care about.

Here’s the HuffPo article.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/elizabeth-gilberts-marria_b_10788398.html

“Never drink wine while operating power tools. The dust will spoil it.”
~Ted Bixby

…or apply eyeliner. “Never apply eyeliner while operating power tools. The line will always be crooked.”
~Me

We are forbidden in our house to use the words never and always. Mostly because when we do they’re spit out through grit teeth during an argument, and secondly, and most importantly—because they’re never true. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)

“I can’t wait for that to never happen.”

It’s a good rule (of course it is, I made it up), and I credit it with the longevity of our marriage.

“You never take me anywhere” is quite simply a lie. My husband and I are in the car together a lot and most of the time he drives. Same with the motorcycle, so just as a technicality—it’s total bullshit.

The same holds true for “You are always picking on me!”. IF there were a grain of truth in that statement, he would have left me long ago or my forehead would have met with a fork in a very unfortunate way.

It’s all about communication. Picking the right words. Saying what you REALLY mean…and chocolate. Relationships, and pretty much all the other good things in life are made that much more tolerable with chocolate.

So as not to belabor the point and to maintain my status as a contradicted mess—here are some never’s that never disappoint and a few always that always hold up.

“Wicked people never have time for reading. It’s one of the reasons for their wickedness.”
― Lemony Snicket

No matter how smart you are you can never convince someone stupid that they are stupid.
~Anonymous

I never made a mistake in my life. I thought I did once, but I was wrong.
~Charles M. Schulz (And my husband)

Never moon a werewolf.
~Mike Binder

Never ask a starfish for directions.
~Anonymous

Always remember that you are absolutely unique. Just like everyone else.
~Margaret Mead

You can always tell when the groove is working or not.
~Prince

It always seems impossible until it’s done.
~Nelson Mandela

If you love somebody, let them go, for if they return, they were always yours. And if they don’t, they never were.
~Khalil Gibran

Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible. (grimacing a little on this one, but, okay…he’s the Dali fucking Lama…)
~Dalai Lama

All of this just goes to show that it’s a good idea to watch your words and that every rule is made to be broken!

Carry on,
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 utter 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

“Love is a lot like a backache, it doesn’t show up on X-rays, but you know it’s there.”
~ George Burns

Someone asked, so I was going to give you advice on love —but I can’t.

That’s like me giving diet advice. Or advice on how to grow the biggest zucchini or play classical piano. All of which I’ve tried and sort of succeeded at. Except for the piano which I tried for like a minute, but I think the teacher moved without telling me. (Adults should take up a musical instrument only on a dare. And only if the payoff is over one hundred dollars. Only then.)

But I digress…

Telling people how to succeed at love is dicey. And by dicey I mean impossible. You can’t tell people how to feel.

Sure, there are rules and guidelines, but anyone who’s been in a long-term relationship knows that all of that—is bullshit. If someone tells you they have it all figured out—they’re lying.

You fly by the seat of your pants.

Until you reach altitude.

Then you serve drinks and a movie until the turbulence begins, at which point you can straighten your seat back and tray table into their upright position, put on your parachute and bail (like my piano teacher did), or you can stick it out and wait for smoother skies.

It really does boil down to those two choices. Bail, cut and run, break-up, whatever you want to call it—or wait and see what tomorrow brings. Which in its base form looks like an ostrich with its head in the ground, and in its purest form looks like you’re a saint.

And by-the-way, having been someone who has bailed, been an ostrich…and a saint, I can’t advocate for any of them. They all made perfect sense at the time, which leads me back to the first sentence.

I can’t tell you what does or doesn’t work. Some of the best relationships I’ve had, including the marriage I’ve been in for the past fifteen years, look terrible on paper and make no sense at all. We’re both Aries for chrissakes, and we belong to different political parties—we should have killed each other by now!

Even being married doesn’t make someone an expert on love. How could I be an expert at something I’ve failed miserably at MANY times and that I can’t explain how or why it works. If I were a brain surgeon who said that to you—would you let me operate?

Love’s alchemical. That’s my explanation and I’m sticking to it.

And don’t let anyone tell you it’s all roses.

It’s a lesson in compromise. It’s dirty socks on the floor, heated differences of opinion, vertical toilet seats, and bad politics. And that’s just a Friday night. But, listen, he could say the same or worse of me.

We put up with a lot of shit. We do. That constitutes turbulence in my book.
I guess I decided it was the kind I could weather, but honestly, I don’t remember making the decision.

And I guess that’s what it comes down to, a day by day, slow drip, decision to keep loving.

Some days are easy, others can be hard. And by hard I mean excruciating.
When my husband has the flu or a sunburn it is everything I can do NOT to put a pillow over his face while he’s complaining.

If I had to make one rule—here it is:

Your person should make you laugh—at the very least—once a week.

They should try to bring you coffee—at the very least—on the weekends.

They should give you that “Omg, you’re fucking adorable” feeling…once a month?

It would be really nice if they showed you some affection on a regular basis. Not sex. Affection. There’s a difference.

Shit howdy, will you look at that, four “rules” —and I’ve already told you, I’m full of shit.

Just love the best you know how and then try to do better tomorrow.

Carry on,
xox

“Women like confident bald men.”
~ Larry David & My Husband

I’ve been in a sort of pickle these past few days. Not quite a dilemma—I suppose you could call it a quandary.

Yeah, that’s it—I’ve been in a quandary as to how to handle all this hubbub around the two essays I wrote for The Huffington Post regarding my divorce—and the quandary is this: There are two sides to every story.

He said—she said.

Suddenly my side, which after over thirty years decided to show up in my rear view mirror and then be published not once, but in two different essays, with an interview today on Huffington Post Live, is starting to make me a tad uncomfortable.

With all the distance, and water under the bridge; the fact that both my ex and me have gone on to find love again and lead perfectly lovely lives; and the fact that we are…friendly—has helped me approach the telling of the story of our divorce and the subsequent years afterward with a light touch.
With humor and gratitude, unicorns and love letters.

Now here’s the rub. I’m not so sure he sees things that way.

I haven’t actually had a conversation with him about our divorce in over twenty years, and I have no intention of re-opening that subject with him now, that is not an easy topic for us and last we spoke I can guarantee you—there were no unicorns or love letters mentioned.

You see, back in 1984 I left the marriage and he was not happy about it.
He swears he never saw it coming which always makes me shake my head in disbelief (I’m doing it right now), so I’m sure his story would read more like this: Blindsided great guy (he really was) gets the heave-ho from totally ditzy, hopelessly romantic and seriously deluded first wife.

True or not, that is probably his take on a difficult and painful situation from his past—and the problem is —no one will ever hear about it.

Since my side(s) of the story have gotten more traction, I’ve been dialing down the social media blitz that comes with having your articles reach outside of your comfortable circle of friends and family. Strangers are reading it and weighing in and THAT feels weird somehow.

I know my ex peruses my personal Facebook page so I’ve left both articles off of it, hoping for the best.

That’s the thing. One person talking about their experience as half of a partnership, a union, a collaboration—or a relationship—is missing a very important element—the other side of the story.

Liz Gilbert wrote about her difficult and emotionally wrenching divorce in Eat,Pray,Love,and the world sympathized—which eventually compelled her ex-husband to write a book about HIS experience inside of the same situation.

The Oscar-nominated screenwriter of When Harry Met Sally and Sleepless in Seattle, wrote Heartburn in 1983. The book was inspired by the events of her break-up with her second husband, the Watergate journalist Carl Bernstein, whom she discovered was having an affair with British politician Margaret Jay while Ephron was pregnant with their son Max. While it may seem as if he wouldn’t have had a leg to stand on in the court of public opinion, Bernstein did threaten legal action for how he was portrayed.

All I know you guys, is that I‘m not so sure I’d like to read about what any of my ex’s thought about our relationship on Facebook or in The Huffington Post.

Even if they were kind about it, (which I made sure to be), I’m certain I’d disagree with all, most, some of what they had to say.

It’s too late. The genie is out of the bottle.
I have a blog where I talk about all aspects of my life—from my perspective—no holds barred—hoping to share the common thread that runs between all of us, and I can’t start being worried about what someone will think about it now.

I get to have “my view of the facts” as a friend said to me today, but remember—true or not—completely accurate or not—everything you ever read is just one person’s View of the Facts.

I often forget that, falling under the assumption that it’s the whole story.

What do you guys think?

Carry on,
xox

Last week I was approached by an editor at The Huffington Post asking me to write a piece for them. An essay on divorce.

Wait I sec, this must be a mistake, I thought to myself as I scanned the email on my phone.
I had already done that—I had written that piece for them about being a divorced twenty-six year old Unicorn.
Surely this was some glitch in the system.
Unicorns—Divorce—What more could possibly be said?

Then my eyes landed on this sentence:
“I know you submitted on the subject recently—but we’d love to include something else from you specifically for this series.”

Really?
I felt honored and puzzled all in the same moment.

The deeper meaning behind this sequence of events was not lost on me. Why was I revisiting a divorce that happened over thirty years ago NOW?
I had faced the facts, I had cried the tears, made the gut-wrenching decision to leave and moved on.
Or had I?
According to the Universe—apparently not.

They needed the essay in five days.
Okay…that’s doable, I thought, I’ll just use the over 500 words that I cut from the Unicorn piece to fashion something fresh.

But the voice in my head, the sassy, bossy one, she had other plans: Write a love letter to your divorce. she barked, suggested.

You see, after a shit sandwich (Thanks Liz), has had the time and distance to fully digest, I’ve taken to writing love letters to my adversities and I had just published one in the HuffPo: My Love Letter to Failure, about the loss of my business.

But it had never occurred to me to write one to my divorce.
Why you ask? Because I’m tellin’ ya, I thought that was water under the bridge, a horse that had been beaten to death—in other words: ancient history. Then it occurred to me why I hadn’t, my divorce had taken great care NOT to become an adversity.

So as I sat down to start the piece, the words just poured out. Heartfelt sentiment infused with gratitude as I realized gift after gift it had given me.

Still, she was right, that bossy bitch that resides inside my head, it was the perfect time to craft a love letter to my divorce!

It was as if it had been fully written somewhere in forgiveness-land and was just waiting for the exact right time to be pulled down to earth. It took me less than an hour to write, (which is by no means a testament to my writing prowess), it just shows how ready this baby was to be born.

My wish is that it will be able to sooth a young soul, and assure them that although it may feel as if your life is ending—it is truly just beginning.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/a-love-letter-to-my-divorce_b_8223504.html

A Love Letter To My Divorce

Dearest, darling Divorce,

Man O man, you saved my life!

I had no business getting married at twenty.
That’s a decision that is layered with complexities and as science has shown, I had four or five more years of brain development ahead of me to get that one right.

Besides, I agree with you, no one should be able to sign a marriage license before they can legally buy beer.

I stayed for six years but I could feel you, there on the sidelines right around year three, and here’s the irony: I was terrified of you. I had you pegged as my adversary when in actuality you were to become my greatest ally.

What did I know? I was wearing Daisy Dukes and living on Doritos and Dr. Pepper.

You were right Divorce, (and you of all people know how hard it is for me to utter those words), when you kept reminding me that you were NOT Failure.

That was a tough lesson for me to learn, what with all the snarky remarks from the peanut gallery and the years of confused men and a seriously empty bed.

Still, I love you deeply, I do!

They say you know it is love when you become your best self inside of the relationship. That was the clincher for me. I was never better than those eighteen years we spent together. I guess you could say we grew up together you and I—and you taught me so much.

You taught me the courage to make the tough, unpopular decisions. To never settle, to run from mediocrity and forge my own path, and to be my own person outside of a couple.

You taught me to be discerning. To call bullshit, and not to fall for the fast lines and the cheap wine.

You taught me to slow down already! Life is not a race to the finish line.

“Savor it. Take your time”, you said—and I did.

You taught me that although I was still young, once might be enough. That I may never get another walk down the aisle—and that would be okay. If I got panicky you reminded me that I had been there and done that.

You taught me to hold my head high. That even though I had already been married—no one had to know unless I told them. There was no banner across my chest, no giant D written in red lipstick on my forehead.

You taught me that I could use the accumulated relationship experience those six years had provided to do good in the world. I had insights that could help other girls.

You showed me that adversity builds character and I was a girl who was in serious need of some character building.

You taught me tolerance. The fact that even when people start out with the best of intentions—promises gets broken.

You taught me compassion. Leaving someone is hard enough. You don’t have to emotionally eviscerate them and kill every ounce of love on your way out.

And you were right again when you cautioned me not to stay too long in the marriage or this was bound to happen.

You taught me to listen to my gut. That it is the real brains behind the operation. Not my head and most certainly nothing that resides below my waist.

You cautioned me against closing up my heart. That I needed to keep it open and supple—resilient and willing to try again. A dried up raisin of a heart has a hard time holding love.

As luck would have it I did find love again. But I never would have been able to recognize it or love him without your years of priceless observations.

Now go; visit yourself upon another young girl who is in over her head and is just looking for that chance to grow up.

And whisper that stuff about Failure to her. I loved when you did that for me.

Big Hug,

Xox Janet