maturity

Once upon a time I took score too soon.
I was convinced that my life as I knew it was over. Which it was, but not in the sucky way I thought.

I told you guys back at the start of this year how a past love from thirty years ago had contacted me, wanting to reconnect. I also told you how squirmy it made me on account of—he quite literally broke. my. heart!

At the time of our breakup, it seemed as if he’d dumped me right out of the blue, with no rhyme or reason; and it took me five long and torturous (for those around me), years to get over him.

My days consisted of wanton displays of reminiscing, whining, moaning and crying, all of which demonstrated a complete absence of any self-respect or common sense. The cry-fests were of such unending duration that I was single-handedly responsible for the uptick in Kleenex stock at the time.
You’re welcome Proctor and Gamble.

When I was telling my friend Kim (you all remember Kim. She’s the no shit-taker Janet whisperer), the story back in January, I remembered, for the first time in like, forever—this little tidbit.

This nugget of wtf.

This slight of hand that destiny dealt me.

It should have always been the prequel to this tale of woe. The appetizer, the trailer of coming attractions, but it never was, because I forgot about it. Until this year.

Late one hot summer night in 1986, I got off the phone with my luvah boy-toy after what could be described as a three-hour nasty-chat that sizzled the telephone lines between Long Beach, where he was attending college, and LA, where I was busy robbing cradles.

After finishing my post virtual-sex cigarette, I fell asleep ten times less horny and fifty times happier than earlier that night.
He was the love of my life…or so I thought.
Deep into my sexy, sweaty, summer stupor, I had a dream. It was as vivid as real life; only way more interesting.

I was walking barefoot into a cave, running my hands along its cold, smooth, stone walls, feeling the powdery sand between my toes as I ventured further and further into its pitch-blackness. It was cool and dry and I can still smell the mustiness that filled my senses as I  inhaled deeply. Even though I’m not a fan of dark cave walks in real life; at the time I felt more curious than anything else.

Suddenly, there was a male presence ahead of me dressed in a black robe with a hood that obscured his face. Again, in real life that is the universal sign for ‘run for your life’, but inside of this dream instead of being afraid I started a conversation, you know like you do with black hooded figures in pitch dark caves.

It’s not like our lips moved, well, maybe his did but it was so dark I couldn’t see them and besides, it was a dream, so we communicated telepathically. I started by asking him who he was and he immediately broke the ice with an ultimatum.

“This is not the direction your life is meant to go. This relationship must end.”

“Whoa there big hooded fella” I replied, appalled by his rude opening line. “That will NOT be happening!”

“He is not the one for you, this is not where your life is headed, let him go and move on.”

“I don’t remember asking you for advice, this is none of your black capey business.”

“This must end. Now”,  He demanded.

“No!” I could feel myself getting emotional as I argued back.

The tone of his thought/voice was firm and unwavering. There would be no compromise. I started to cry.

“But.. I love him.”

“This is not the life you are meant to live. The relationship must end.”

As he said that, I began to sob, and before I knew it this large hooded figure reached out and pulled me in for a hug.

I kid you not.

The moment we made contact I felt an amazing rush of incredible love and I knew EVERYTHING.

I mean EVERYTHING.

Who killed J.R., why we are here, the reason for it all, the cure for cancer, the names of all the planets in our galaxy and every baby that will ever be born on Earth. EVERYTHING.

I remember thinking for one split second remember this and omg it is all so easy.

When he let go of me I knew in my kishkes that my life had been changed forever, but I didn’t remember anything else.

“Show me your face” I begged.
“Not now”
“Then when?”

It was everything I could do not to reach up and pull the hood down but I was suddenly distracted by a telephone ringing in the distance. I turned around and started to run to answer it. As I raced out of the cave and back toward the light and the sound of the ringing, I remember glancing over my shoulder to see if he was still there—but he was gone.

I opened my eyes to bright sunlight streaming through the blinds and my telephone ringing loudly on the floor just where I’d left it the night before.

“Hello?” I croaked, my mouth so void of saliva that my lips were sticking to my teeth.

Silence. Then, “Hey baby…we have to talk”. And right then and there he told me he didn’t want to see me anymore. I pleaded for a reason, something I did wrong, something I could do to change his mind, but he was adamant. Just like that, we were over.

“That hooded dude did a Jedi-mind trick on your boy!”, Kim exclaimed at the end of my story.
“Really? You don’t see it? It’s as plain as day!”,  she snort-laughed seeing the gobsmacked expression on my face.

Why hadn’t I ever thought of that?!

“OMG! He still can’t explain why he left you, hence all the regrets and looking back”,  she howled.

She’s right. The dream provided me some warning for the impending 180 my life was about to take, but the Universe took the wheel and forgot to share its plans with my friend.

In the middle of it all, I took score.
Note to self: Don’t take score in the middle.

I was convinced my life was over when it was only just beginning.

In response to my extreme dumb-shittery during our time together, his departure facilitated a life-long spiritual practice . I went on a journey of self-discovery, saw the world, and started eating meat again, just not in that order.

And beware of black-hooded telepaths who hang out in caves giving hugs—for they may speak the truth.

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

My feelings got hurt, lightning stuck, a miracle occurred, and I avoided a fight.

Otherwise known as Thursday at my house.

See what I did there? I copped to the fact that my feelings got hurt.
I said it.
Out loud to my husband in real-time, to my girlfriend when I relayed the story on Sunday and to you guys now in print.

I think that’s important so I’m gonna point it out. Then I’m gonna stop because…well, because I believe that the very act of saying, “That hurt my feelings” diffuses the hurt a bit; and also because that’s enough whining for one post.

Here’s the deal:
My husband and I are in the midst of planning a motorcycle trip for this September.
I have been waxing nostalgic for Italy, the smarmy southern part, the part south of Rome, closer to Sicily where my people are from DNA wise, (I have the mustache to prove it), and Pompeii in particular.

I also want to see the leaves turn color on the East coast of the U.S. I think that would blow my mind on a motorcycle.

My husband is like…meh, ambivalent. Undecided. Uninspired. Comme si Comme sa. You get the picture.

Winding mountain roads with the sumptuous scenery of Vermont, the first hint of a nip in the air and the spectacle of the vividly colored leaves surrounding us.
OR
Warm, Indian summer days, dusty, ancient, red clay roads, the smells, sights and sounds of the Italian countryside; their food, their vino—and a city full of instantly fossilized citizens struck down mid-sentence during a cataclysmic volcanic eruption.

I know!
What to do?
So hard to decide.

I let it go, and the trajectory was sloooowly, (like the Titanic turning to avoid the iceberg) headed toward New England and the leaves.
Fine with me. That trip is up there on my list.

But fate intervened.
I used to balk at any sudden change of plans. Fate—Shmate. I never saw it as fate. It was just somebody sticking their big nose into my business, messing things up. Now we just call that Sunday.

We had emailed the company that was leading those Changing of the Leaves Tours of Vermont. Crickets…
Meanwhile…Raphael received an email out-of-the-blue from one of his Wolf Pack (The guys that he takes amazing motorcycle trips with every year) asking if he was interested in joining them for a four to five day ride in Europe. It fell at the exact time in September that we were planning our vacation.

Uh…hell yah, he answered explaining the serendipity of the timing and the fact that we (he and I) would be there together.

I’ve ridden with these guys many times. Tons. In all types of terrain and weather. As far as riding is concerned, I’m a dude. I leave my uterus at home in a drawer. At fifty-seven it’s not like I’m using it anymore.

Cool! A few days riding the Alps with the Wolf Pack, starting and ending in Milan. Then he and I would continue down south.
Fossilized citizens of Pompeii, here I come!

Until last Thursday night.
“They want a definite answer about the trip so they can purchase the tickets. The only thing is…by the looks of the count, they aren’t including you. I distinctly told them it would be you and I.”

Fuck. Fuck them! Oh, what is it? AnAll boys trip? I sneered.
“Um, yeah, no wives are coming” he answered sheepishly, never looking up from the text on his phone.

“None of their wives EVER come on the trips—they don’t ride!
Besides, It’s OUR vacation, I’m not trying to tag along, I’m there because it’s our vacation…and I’m not a wife! I’m a dude!”

“I know” he answered, looking more and more confused. I was getting pissed.

“That hurts my feelings!” I announced, surprising myself with the intensity of the declaration.
I think I even stomped my right foot and did a head thing—like a three-year old.

“It just does. You’ve got to work this out. Quit telling me they’re not including me. That just hurts my feelings! Let me know what you guys decide.” I turned and left the room with a dramatic flourish in a full-blown hissy-fit.

Into the den I stomped, flopping down on the couch, arms swinging wildly then resting across my chest, crossed; my bottom lip protruding beyond the rest of my face.
Just for affect.

A moment later lightning struck (because a tropical front was wafting through LA) and a miracle occurred.

I stopped being hurt and mad. Just like that. Big lip flop-down—to clarity—in 2.5 minutes.
A record. A personal best.

I didn’t want to go ride the Alps.
Been there done that, barfed on the T-shirt.
Too twisty of roads. Not my favorite ride. Soooo 2005.

I’ll pass and I’ll meet them in Milan! Genius! Fuck the Wolf Pack and the Alps, it’s southern Italy I want to see anyway.

He can go and I’ll meet him!

I ran back into the kitchen where he was furiously stirring something delicious. “Listen, here’s my plan. Call them back…”
As we started to flesh out our new-found solution—we found the nugget. It had been there all along, we were just too…lame? Stupid? Spoiled? Short-sighted, all-of-the-above, to see it.

It never occurred to us that they (their company) would be springing for plane tickets and renting the bikes. That would be four days expenses and Raphael’s flight taken care of—we just had to pick up another week or so, and my ticket.

NUGGET! (Happy dance)

When I told my friend this story her response made me laugh. Hard.
“You’re getting really good at this marriage thing” she remarked. “It’s great to see.”

Shit! I should hope so after almost fifteen years.

Carry on,
xox

HI Loves,
I hope this finds you enjoying the long holiday weekend – eating, watching sports, eating, shopping, eating, and hanging with friends and family. And eating some more.

That is my wish for you, for all of us really, that we age with grace and dignity, and kick some serious ass along the way!

much love,
xox

“I want to live my life in such a way that when I get out of bed in the morning, the devil says, “aw shit, he’s (she’s) up!” 
― Steve Maraboli, Unapologetically You: Reflections on Life and the Human Experience

I can feel it. The dry wind and rolling tumble weeds of change signal it’s departure.
Like a ghost town in an old John Wayne western, the town of Smallville is fast becoming deserted.
It wasn’t a bad place, there was simply no room to grow.

One by one, its inhabitants are leaving their old, timid and fearful ways behind and hitching a ride out of town.
They are breaking old habits, daring greatly, and living LARGE.

The part that has floored me is that it’s happening so fast….to so many.

Here are the tales of just three:

One of the residents of Smallville took a consulting job recently at an hourly rate in the three figures. She was approached because of her level of expertise and honesty. It doesn’t interfere with her day job since it was arranged to be done on her free time.
She has previously been approached but never agreed to do this. The townsfolk of Smallville had convinced her she wasn’t an expert, and that she didn’t deserve that kind of money.
But she’s grown so much and is now very aware of her worth.

She’s gonna have to look for new digs, the fit is wayyyyyyy too tight for Smallville.

Another resident also did something she’d never done before.
I’m telling you, THAT is when you can call the moving van to whisk you the hell out of Smallville.

She flew to another city for the weekend for classes that will take her to the next level of certification in her field.
Not bad for an already successful forty something woman.

She’s kicking ass (and tumble weed) and taking names on her way out of town.

“Live your truth. Express your love. Share your enthusiasm. Take action towards your dreams. Walk your talk. Dance and sing to your music. Embrace your blessings. Make today worth remembering.” 
― Steve Maraboli, Unapologetically You: Reflections on Life and the Human Experience

Then there is the story of one of Smallville’s life long inhabitants.
I don’t think she’d mind me saying that.
She’s played it safe, making sure she wasn’t too loud or too bright along the way. She tried not to rock too many boats, because when she had in the past, other people had problems with the choppy seas.

But she’s over sixty now, and as the world is fast finding out, you can’t keep a wise woman (with the winds of maturity and bravery at her back) down.

She is using her beautifully strong voice, fueled by integrity, to rally her community for a noble cause. She is taking a stand, as others around her are too scared to speak up.
This is very unlike her, so it is the first time for such a courageous act.

Last week she was on the front page of the paper in a large metropolitan city. (I know!)

The picture shows her, like an Amazonian Guardian of the Gate, standing firm but feminine in her conviction of the cause.
Not only has she outgrown Smallville, I’m not certain if her huge city can contain her now.

Too-da-looooooo Smallville!

“The Bhagavad Gita—that ancient Indian Yogic text—says that it is better to live your own destiny imperfectly than to live an imitation of somebody else’s life with perfection. So now I have started living my own life. Imperfect and clumsy as it may look, it is resembling me now, thoroughly.” 
― Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love

How are you living small? Are you ready to leave Smallville? I know you have ideas. Tell me how.
I’d be so happy to hear about it below!

*Welcome to the tribe Mauritius, you crazy little island nation, you. I had to look you up. Aren’t you a beautiful place?! Thanks for following.

Much love,
Xox

Even though my neck is developing a waddle, my arms are jiggly, and my bra size is a 36 long, I’m FAR from dead.

I feel great, look pretty darn good for my age, and I want to just give life a big slap on the ass for providing such incomparable entertainment, (because we all came here to be entertained, right?)

Here’s to fifty and beyond!

1) No more zits. That’s huge for me. I literally had chin acne up until five minutes ago.

2) More free time because of reduced mirror time.
I can’t really see anymore but I’ve decided that using the magnifying mirror is masochistic, so, if I have an occasional chin hair or stray lipstick creeping into the creases above my lip line, cut me some slack.
While I used to relish getting ready in the morning, these days the routine ends with me throwing my arms up saying: “Okay, f*ck it! This is as good as it gets.”

3) My BS meter is finely tuned,
I can smell a “phony baloney story” a mile away.

4) I BE WISE.
Not necessarily smart, more like crafty and clever.
I may not have a ton of what some would call common sense, or be very tech savvy,
but I have a keen street sense. In other words, “I be wise in the ways of the world.“

5) People expect less of me because my hair is gray and I often wear more sensible shoes (idiots) so when I get off the back of the motorcycle or I’m funny or say something current, they’re like, “Damn!”

6) My bucket list is getting shorter —and it seems suddenly attainable. Bo Shizzle!

7) I have felt all different kinds of love (except for a child…next life.)
But I DO know the difference between dog love and cat love, teenage crush, misguided 20 something love, sibling love, infatuation (not to be confused with love), lust (also not to be mistaken, under ANY circumstances for love), “I love you, but I’m not in love with you, love”, platonic love, love of country (don’t wince, travel; then come talk to me) And last but certainly not least—Self-love.

8) I give less F*cks.
I have so few left, why waste them? My inhibitions are almost non-existent. I offer my opinion, I don’t shy away from conflict, I’ll sing first at karaoke night and I’ll dance in Greek restaurants.
There’s not much that scares me anymore, much to the horror of my introverted spouse.

9) I stopped asking why. It was just SO exhausting. I wish I’d stopped decades ago.

10) I realize that I may have more years behind me than in front of me, and that doesn’t make me sad (most days)—on the contrary, it mobilizes me.
Listen, times a-wastin’!

Okay, you over fiftys! What can you add?
If you haven’t reached fifty yet, what are you looking forward to?

Xox