“A finite game is played for the purpose of winning, an infinite game for the purpose of continuing the play.” – Kevin Kelly
Oh Holy mutha. With everything I’m learning about life after death, about being immortal, continuing to play the game…because we’re never done…wow.
Carry on…and on…and on,
xox
“The other world is this world rightly seen.” – Nisargadatta
“The been there’s and done that’s of the adult mind — we’ve seen it all. Familiarity breeds boredom”
I think we’re all a little guilty of this to varying degrees. Don’t you? And I agree that travel can revitalize the most numbed-out mind. It’s probably one of the reasons I LOVE to travel. Makes me want to jump on a plane right NOW!
Anyhow, take a look and enjoy your weekend.
xox
One of the magazines I read, (it must be a shelter magazine because I’ve let all of my other subscriptions lapse), has a column I love called, Things I Can’t Live Without where a famous designer gives a glimpse into their daily life.
I’m nosey as shit and I’m assuming since you’re here that you are too, and while I’m no famous anything, here’s a list of some of the favorite things inside of my little world.
Deva Premal Gayatri Mantra Chant
I play this every morning. It’s 2 hours long so I just let it run in the background and I swear to god it shifts even the worst morning’s energy from crabby-pants—to tolerable.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BSmToj9VZ4s
I play the chant and anything else worth listening to on this baby The Bose Bluetooth Wireless Speaker. The sound quality is amazeballs.
http://www.amazon.com/Bose-SoundLink-Bluetooth-Speaker-III/dp/B00HWSXVDG/ref=sr_1_15?ie=UTF8&qid=1453319528&sr=8-15&keywords=bose+wireless
Trader Joe’s or TJ’s as it’s affectionately known. If you don’t have one in your town you should start a petition. My friend calls it “the poor man’s Whole Foods”, I call it Mecca.
Chocolate anything. Preferably dark. The darker the better. There have been studies done that suggest that consuming chocolate makes you clever. Who am I to argue with science?
“To win a Nobel Prize you have to produce something others haven’t thought about – chocolate that makes you feel good might contribute”
~Prof Christopher Pissarides
I’ve mentioned these before but Dental soft-picks have saved my life on numerous occasions. No one wants a smile full of kale.
Nag Champa incense. Me love mucho. I burn it all the time mostly because it is brilliant at covering the smell of dog farts.
Trader Joe’s Organic Corn Chips. They are my writer’s crack. I was once caught by surprise on a LIVE Blab Chat fishing one out of my bra. No, I don’t keep them there, I just missed my mouth. #brasnacks
My prescription cheaters. I have about six pairs scattered everywhere. I’ve lost more glasses than Elton John owns.They are 2.0 and I can’t read shit without them because of the other thing I can’t live without—my contact lenses for nearsightedness. I love you eyes but honestly, you suck at seeing.
My half down, half other stuff (I suspect spotted owl feather), pillow. I can’t leave home without it.
MAC Plushglass lipgloss in bountiful. And any good black khol eye pencil to line the inside of my eyelids. This is no run-of-the-mill need. This is a serious “stranded on a desert island” kind of can’t live without it kind of thing.
The Chinese chicken salad at Joan’s on Third. With its perfect ratio of chicken to crispy won-tons and a not-too-sweet dressing, it is a large bowl of deliciousness that I manage to devour at least twice a week. http://www.joansonthird.com
Writing in my dining room surrounded by all of the accumulated art.(photo at the top)
My MacBook Air, iPad and iPhone. I am seriously addicted. “Hi, my name is Janet and I’m an Apple addict.”
My morning meditation. Without it, I suffer. I am a short tempered, maniacal mess with no sense of direction and a complete lack of imagination. Yikes.
The YMCA or the ghetto gym as I call it. Cheap and cheerful, it has all the machines, free weights, lots of parking and absolutely NO attitude—and the boy at the front desk calls me “miss”.
False eyelashes. All day, every day. They are my obsession. The spiky ones make me giddy. I’m convinced I’m Korkie, the missing Kardashian sister—Don’t you dare judge me!
White Phalaenopsis orchids. I have them in the bathroom all year ‘round. They are much easier to maintain than people think, they actually thrive on neglect which makes them the perfect plant for me, AND the blooms can last for up to three MONTHS! Whaaaaat?
The Gap 1969 medium rise/skinny jeans. I’ve tried all the rest, but these fit me the best.
You guys and this blog. I LOVE writing this blog, it makes me so happy. You know it’s mostly for me, right?…and maybe a few of my friends (wink).
I am SO freaking curious about y’all. What can’t you live without? Care to share?
Carry on,
xox
How many of you are with me on this one? Come on, a show of hands!
How many of you guys thinks that’s an understatement? I know I do.
How many of you have a five-year plan? How about a ten-year plan? (Really? Wow.)
Now, let me ask you this and remember, don’t kill the messenger—how do you handle changes in those plans? Do you go with the flow, or hunt down and kill whoever fucked with your brilliant plan?
I’m getting better with the flowing thing (it’s about time!), although I’m still not great, and I can totally relate to the murderous thoughts at the slightest whiff of a plot twist.
Here’s the thing, we think we have life all figured out. We leave minimal if any room for improvement. That’s right, I said improvement.
Not every plan we make is foolproof—in retrospect, most plans of mine have been foolhardy.
I have actually come to not so much welcome, (I’m not that good—yet), but to be curious about why my plan was foiled and where in the hell LIFE thinks it’s taking me.
Yesterday, as I was talking with a friend, I was encouraging him to be more curious as to why all his plans had gone to shit and where he was be directed. When we brainstormed his shitstorm (whaaaaat? Best sentence EVER!), we both came to realize how many opportunities lay hidden (like little dolphins, or Nemo) just below the surface.
Was he really in the midst of a calamity—or was an unseen opportunity unfolding?
Next time you’re unleashing a long string of obscenities ( have I told you how much I love you?), while you shake your fist at the heavens, remember this blog, unclench your fist and blow me a kiss. (Is it too soon to say I told you so?)
You’re welcome,
Carry on,
xox
Everything comes out of nowhere. It starts as an inspired idea. Everything.
The pizza joint at the corner, your relationship (remember, the day before you met—you were complete strangers), where you live, the iPhone…
Jason makes a good point.
Some ideas are sold to us. Our perception is altered. Good ideas spread.
But so does herpes.
In the current political climate, we have to pay close attention to who and what has our ear, try to ignore the rhetoric, be discerning and then decide for ourselves—what makes a good leader.
Happy Sunday!
xox
In case you struggle with this the way I do.
It’s almost NEVER about you. 99.9% of the time. I promise.
Everyone is busy thinking about their own story.
BIG sigh…What a fucking relief!
Carry on with your bad selves this weekend,
xox
This is a story about a whining, spoiled bitch. Not me, the other whining, spoiled bitch in our house.
My dog is the spoiled brat daughter I never had.
She rules the roost, runs my life and continuously sucks all the oxygen out of the room.
Her boxer-shark puppy stage is now simply a distant memory of hyper-energetic fur and razor-sharp teeth reeking their constant havoc. No human arm or furniture leg escaped unscathed—we all have the scars to prove it. Yet, these days I’ve almost grown nostalgic because this second stage—tween-boxer—is a fucking nightmare.
She is just a month shy of her second birthday which in dog years makes her about thirteen and a half, which explains the entitled, leg stomping, bitchy attitude—and the whining.
Good Lord almighty in Heaven, the whining!
Will it never cease?
What horrible sins have I committed that my penance would be such as to be subjected daily to this bitch’s endless whining?
It has become the soundtrack of my life.
And it has no basis in reality.
That’s the thing, it’s not like she’s locked up in a kennel, or left to fend for herself on the mean streets of LA searching for scraps to eat or a cardboard box to call a bed.
OH HELL NO!
She is the most pampered, overindulged, spoiled dog you will ever meet, which makes this whole “my life sucks—that walk was too short—why don’t you guys have kids for me to play with?” dissatisfied dog act that much harder to swallow.
The other day I had to go for an early morning blood test so I took her with me in the car because I was tired of hearing: You never take me anywhere.
My plan was to get the test and then drive home via Burbank (completely out of my way) and drop her off at her favorite daycare facility Bow Wow Bungalow, to spend the day playing with her friends.
She played the sad-sack card whining the entire time.
I just turned the music up louder.
Which made her up the ante with a howl/cry.
Those cries are hard to drown out, so I had to crank up the volume even louder and proceeded to drive on.
I looked back at her in the rearview mirror—stink-eye—the death stare shot directly back at me while she twirled her hair and popped her gum.
If you had the misfortune to be sitting next to us in the stop-and-go traffic on the 405 that morning, you would have been accosted first by the music—Lady Gaga at full volume like those hoodlums at the stop lights that play their music so loud it registers on the Richter Scale.
If you had looked over you’d have seen a frazzled, middle-aged mother in a station wagon, screaming obscenities back at her petulant, whining, teen aged…dog. Who by that time was looking in the other direction, ignoring me completely, muttering under her breath “Talk to the paw”. (See photo above)
For the entire hour-and-a-half round trip drive, she whined and complained—right up until the street just before Bow Wow—then when she realized she was about to enjoy a day at Doggie Disneyland and she suddenly changed her tune.
Her face broke into a big smile and her whining turned to yelps of surprised anticipation. Her Velveteen Rabbit ears perked up and I think I even saw her wag her tail.
Oh sure, NOW she was filled with gratitude.
“Love you mommy, love you! You are the bomb! I’m so happy, you’re the best mommy ever!” she cried with joy all the way up the stairs, her little nub of a tail wagging furiously as she disappeared into the bowels of this dog Utopia.
Dammit she reminds me of me, I lamented on the blissfully silent drive home.
Hey, don’t laugh, I’m no different from you.
I whine and complain, pop my gum, stomp my feet and twirl my hair, the duration of pretty much every journey I undertake in life.
“Where am I headed? Where is life taking me? Why is this taking so long? Uhhhhh, this sucks, It’s not at all what I want to be doing!
Bitch, moan, complain—with a howl/cry and a stink-eye.
Wow, that’s identical to the tween-boxer’s backseat behavior.
I played the role of the Universe that day—I knew the destination was going to be off-the-charts fantastic for her. All I asked is that she shut up and enjoy the ride.
My little dog played me. She was void of even a whiff of patience. She thought she knew better. She second guessed every second of the trip.
She bitched and moaned because in her mind we should be at the park.
But I/The Universe had bigger, better plans for her/me.
Fuck. Lesson #1002847 learned.
Carry on,
xox
*Sad-sack stink-eye face.
Hi you guys!
Here is this weeks Huffington Post essay. It has to do with failing BIG and making peace with it.
So much so that I sat down and wrote it a love letter:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/my-love-letter-to-failure_b_8198096.html
If you know anyone going through a hard time right now who could use this, I’d love it if you’d share.
Carry on,
xox
My dearest, darling Failure,
You don’t mind if I call you by that name, do you?
I’m well aware that it’s much more politically correct to refer to you on your visits as re-direction, contrast, disappointment and, of course, correction, blah, blah, blah.
But when shit hits the fan, when careers crash and burn, when marriages end badly; when we get fired, sued, or otherwise fucked over — when the things we hold dearest in our lives fracture and give way under the stress — sweetheart, it’s YOUR face we all see at the scene of the crime.
I know, I hear you when you complain that you are greatly under-appreciated but let me be clear — no one wants you around!
That being said, as I’ve come to know you better over the past few years, well, I have to admit– I’ve fallen for you…hard.
I don’t mean to sugar coat things, but you came into my life with the face of my foe and you have become my friend.
You shook things up for me BIG TIME. You took my tiny Etch-A-Sketch of a life, with all of its perfectly drawn straight lines, and you hurled it into an F5 tornado.
But I love you for that, ya big lug.
Just uttering your name, Failure, can set a person’s teeth on edge, but please don’t take it personally. I’ll give it to you straight. The reason you’re not welcome in our lives is because we’re all terrified that when you show up you’ll get comfortable, and never leave.
But truth be told, you are just as fleeting as success, THAT you’ve taught me.
When you are standing next to me knee-deep in the rubble of my life, you know what I do the next day? I get up and put one foot in front of the other, each step moving me forward.
You know what I do the days Success holds my hand? I get up, put one foot in front of the other and move forward with my life.
Success has its value — don’t get me wrong — but you Failure, your lessons have marked me more deeply and profoundly than I could have ever imagined and I love you for that.
Success never caused me to grow, gave me depth nor made me an internally richer person.
But by God, you have Failure.
Success made me lazy, afraid to try new things and take chances.
You gave me a glimpse of my true nature.
You have delivered to me some of my most agonizing moments but they have transformed me.
You made me better. Better in business; better in life. A better friend, sister and wife.
Damn it, I love you man.
We all go to extraordinary lengths to avoid you–I know I did–but I realize now that was a mistake.
It’s like trying to avoid aging, which is a similar double-edged sword and just as futile.
There are as many benefits to be gained from failure as there are from growing old, and BOTH are a privilege.
I truly love you Failure.
If you had not come into my life when you did, I would not be the person I am today.
Big hug and a sloppy kiss,
xox
Janet
My house is a maze of contradictions so how can I blame Maria for being confused?
Maria is a our once-a-week housekeeper.
She came along with all the motorcycles, cars and dogs; in other words, the menagerie that was my husband’s dowry of sorts when we met and decided to get married. Now, after all these years of washing my unmentionables, going through my medicine cabinet and that drawer next to the bed—Maria is family.
She has to be. She is the keeper of all of our secrets.
And like any self-respecting family member, she screws up and I want to kill her and here’s why: She cannot tell the difference between trash—and a treasure.
I collect little pieces of nature which I’m lucky enough to find all around our property. Assorted nests, abandoned beehives in the eaves, fallen branches filled with hummingbird nests, heart-shaped rocks and found scraps of paper (even one-dollar bills) with cryptic messages that I’m sure are just for me. I’ve stumbled upon old skeleton keys, petrified tree pods, huge pinecones, old worm wood, even animal skulls, bones and teeth.
As if that weren’t bad enough, I go out and peruse flea markets and various other secret haunts, deliberately looking for that kinda stuff. Then, I actually pay money for it! Afterwards, I cart home my finds and carefully place them among the other seashells and rocks, beach glass, and seahorse skeletons.
It may look like a madman’s nightmare, but in reality— it’s MY carefully curated dream.
Oh yeah, I also collect cool, rusty old metal mermaids.
And don’t forget shiny. I can’t resist sparkly, shiny stuff.
Trust me when I say this: A rusty, sparkly mermaid would render me speechless with joy.
Anyhow, then I go about artistically displaying all of my found treasures around the house on tables and bookshelves—as art. I found them, I LOVE them, and I want to look at them everyday.
Saturday is the day Maria comes. It is a day of bittersweet agony.
The house smells of lemon pledge, murphy’s oil soap, and all things holy. It is spick and span’d within an inch of its life.
THAT is the sweet.
Now for the bitter.
She does not appreciate my taste in art. Better said: the woman is convinced I am batshit crazy.
For instance; I have the most realistic looking pair of ceramic fortune cookies displayed in my kitchen. One Saturday night I noticed they were missing. I wondered, did she break them? (She has broken so many things—irreplaceable, expensive things—gulp, remember, she’s family), but her habit after she breaks something into a million pieces is to lovingly arrange all of those pieces on a napkin, or, if at all possible, prop it up, where it waits to be discovered.
In other words she doesn’t dispose of any of the evidence.
Still, my instincts told me to check the trash and my suspicions proved correct. There they were, my ceramic fortune cookies, outside in the black bin, completely intact, with assorted food scraps and the contents of the vacuum cleaner at the bottom of a Gap Bag.
The following Staurday, when I asked Maria in my best broken Spanglish about it, she looked at me in complete bewilderment, as if I were wearing an Iguana as a hat, and said two words:
STALE. TRASH.
For weeks she continued to throw them away until I was finally able to convince her they were…art.
She has since, on occasion, left me unwrapped, real stale fortune cookies on the shelf next to the…art.
But I know, in her heart of hearts, my sweet Maria is trying so hard to grasp this concept.
I get it. Nests,(even though I’ve sprayed them with clear polyurethane) are hard to dust. Animal skulls are supposed to be buried. And crumpled paper with sociopathic looking scrawl on it—well anyone can see—that’s just trash!
But not to me.
She has even put the five or six cryptic dollar bills that tell the secrets of my soul— IN MY WALLET, where I’ve inadvertanly pulled them out and almost tipped a valet—with my own treasured art!
This is a picture of a giant bird’s nest I was fortunate enough to find last spring in Santa Barbara. It is a masterpiece. A gift from God. It is stiff with shellac, yet extremely delicate.
I have it in a place of prominence—as art. Nature’s art.
She just doesn’t get it.
As many times as I’ve asked her not to, begged her to just skip over it, I know she picks it up and dusts. I can tell by the pieces of it, which I have to admit look suspiciously like dirty, random twigs—that I find in the trash.
“It’s okay” I tell her, “I’ll live with a little dust”.
But she cannot help herself—it’s not art to her, it’s a table full of dirty wood.
And so the nest, my treasure, is slowly dwindling away.
I just have to laugh. Hahahahaha!
My collectables have confused her to the point that she leaves crumpled paper (legitimate trash) right where she finds it, and asks if she can throw away an overripe peach.
I must also mention the real art. The nudes. I collect vintage and current black and white photographs and paintings of female nudes.
To Maria (Who I’ve neglected to mention is a devout Catholic) that is Not art. It is pornography.
Not only can she not bring herself to touch them, she cannot go anywhere near them which is apparent by the inch of dust they accumulate until I get around to dusting them.
And by-the-way—in case you were wondering—a mermaid is an abomination.
It is a topless fish. A dusty fish with tits!
To Maria it is clear—I’m an iguana hat wearing pervert, who likes to collect trash and stale food—and call it art. Which is only half-true…
But I’m family.
So you see, it’s easier to forgive when you realize—it’s all in a person’s perception.
(I’m certain she owns a Jesus on black velvet.)
One man’s trash really IS another man’s treasure.
Carry on,
xox
*Hi You guys,
You may have already seen this, its been around for a couple of years, but it’s new to me. It’s right up my/our alley. Thought provoking musings about life, death and God—with a dash of humor.
As always, take what you like and leave the rest. Oh, and tell me what you think.
Oh, oh, and read Andy’s novel The Martian. I finished it in two days.
I guess that’s it.
Carry on,
xox
You were on your way home when you died.
It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.
And that’s when you met me.
“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”
“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.
“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”
“Yup,” I said.
“I… I died?”
“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.
You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me.
“What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”
“More or less,” I said.
“Are you god?” You asked.
“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”
“My kids… my wife,” you said.
“What about them?”
“Will they be all right?”
“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”
You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God.
I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe.
More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”
“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”
“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”
“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”
“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.” You followed along as we strode through the void.
“Where are we going?”
“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”
“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”
“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”
I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are.
It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.
“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”
“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”
“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”
“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”
“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”
“Where you come from?” You said.
“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”
“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”
“So what’s the point of it all?”
“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”
“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.
I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”
“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”
“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.” “Just me? What about everyone else?”
“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”
You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”
“All you. Different incarnations of you.”
“Wait. I’m everyone!?”
“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back. “I’m every human being who ever lived?”
“Or who will ever live, yes.”
“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”
“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.
“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.
“And you’re the millions he killed.”
“I’m Jesus?”
“And you’re everyone who followed him.”
You fell silent.
“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”
You thought for a long time.
“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”
“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”
“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”
“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”
“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”
“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”
And I sent you on your way.
A short film Adaptation:
