respect

Friends, 
Angels? Do you believe they walk among us? I sure do!
Read this and see what you think.
xox

As we rushed out through the smokey maze of the Casino at the old Sahara Hotel in Las Vegas, it suddenly hit me that he had once again forgotten to give me my show bonus. The monetary incentive he used to physically wring me dry.  

The realization stopped me in my tracks.
F*#&!

We had just finished a week-long, Estate Jewelry Show.
I was bone tired from being on my feet for over twelve hours a day—in heels, and to add insult to injury, our plane reservation left us no time to eat before the flight home, so to top it all off—I was hangry.
In other words—I was in NO mood for any fuckery!

We had grossed over one million dollars—in a week. The two of us. And I was about to fly home empty-handed, once again.

You see, I had a boss who hated to pay me. He just did.
And no carefully scripted notes or heartfelt talks, or angry outbursts on my part had done anything to change that.

I had coached him repeatedly on the merits of showing respect. It wasn’t difficult, all he had to do was pay me. And not make me ask for my money, which I HATED.

What would this be, the third time that day I’d had to ask him for my money? I was quite familiar with this humiliating power play, and I was sick of it! Listen, I had done everything I could think of to sidestep this idiocy! Even after years of his bonus structure consisting of whatever loose cash he had in his pocket, not his fat, overstuffed money clip mind you—but his pocket change, I had won one hard-fought battle by finally getting him to agree to a pre-set bonus amount.

“Why are you stopping?” he bellowed back at me impatiently. His aluminum wheelie suitcase, a rectangular R2D2, skipped from wheel to wheel, trying to keep its balance. I could’ve sworn it looked in my direction with a help me face.

He continued his frantic march through the casino toward the door.

“I’d love to get my bonus before we leave?” I asked for the third time, running to keep up. I knew that if I let it slide, even for a day or two, the odds of getting it would become so slim even a Vegas bookie would pass on that bet.

I wasn’t sure he’d heard me until in one fluid motion, he swung to the right, deftly executing a wide, sweeping, u-turn back in my direction. Still in motion, he reached into his murse (man purse) and dumped a handful of gambling chips in my direction. Surprised, I reached out with both hands in time to catch most of them. Several of them did make a break for it, the slippery little buggers rolling on their sides underneath the dollar slots nearby.

“That should cover it,” He insisted. “Now hurry up, we don’t want to miss our plane.”

I stood there red-faced and flabbergasted, knowing that he’d left me no time to cash them in. Quickly, I shoved the chips in my purse and proceeded to get down on my hands and knees to see if I could retrieve the ones that had made their escape.

A pot-bellied, middle-aged woman, with a cigarette with two inches of ash precariously dangling from her lipstick-stained lips, was straddling two stools in front of three slot machines. Without ever looking away from the rapidly rotating numbers she was counting on to change her life, her foot kicked the chips my way, like a bedroom-slippered hockey stick.
“Uh, thanks” I mumbled, crawling around on the ground in my skirt and heels, totally in awe of her unbroken focus.

“Janet, let’s go!” He chided from inside the automatic revolving glass exit doors before turning right to join the cab line.

I could hear the damn plastic chip clattering together in my bag as I ran to catch my flight back to LA.

In the hour it took to get from Vegas to Los Angeles, I began to seethe with rage.
Not only had he made me repeatedly beg him for money he had literally thrown poker chips at me in lieu of my bonus! I had never felt so disrespected. In. My. Life.

I don’t know about you, but when I get in touch with that level of anger, I have a tendency to burst into flames tears.
Hunched down in my middle seat toward the back of the plane, I cried and cried and cried. Big, wet, sloppy tears.

I decided I would rather die, covered in honey and tied on an anthill than take the prearranged ride home to Park La Brea with him and his wife. What I knew for sure was that someone was going to die if I got in that car with him. And I was way too overdressed to spend a night in jail.

As we exited the terminal, the crowd spitting us out onto the curb, I spotted his wife’s car to the left. Without making a sound, (or so much as an indecent hand gesture) I made a beeline to the right, jumping into a single cab that just happened to be waiting there for me.

The moment the door shut and we pulled away—I freaking lost it.

I began to ugly cry, complete with gasping for breath and rivers of snot running down my face.
There I was, trapped in a horrible working situation with no solution in sight. What do you do when you ask someone repeatedly to treat you with respect and they blatantly disregard that request?

I know what you’re thinking, quit! But I couldn’t. I had the kind of career everyone wanted. Travel, great pay, jewelry, prestige. Which led to a lot of financial obligations, AND I was thirty-seven and single. Wahhhhhhhhhhhh. That sad truth made me cry even harder.

As we wound our way through the late-night traffic on LaCienega, I spotted the dark, soulful eyes of the cab driver, staring at me in the rearview mirror. His deep brown skin, white turban, and singsongy accent gave away his country of origin. India.

“Beautiful lady, why you cry?” He cooed.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, I’m just feeling so sad,” I boo-hooed. “I don’t know what to do.”

I watched his eyes search my face in the mirror as I inadvertently wiped snot into my hair with the back of my hand.
“Beautiful lady, don’t be sad, it can’t be that bad,” he murmured in his soothing, heavily accented voice.

“Ohhhhhhh it is, I think I hate my boss…he doesn’t show me any respect…he paid me with…”

I started to wail. Loudly. “With, with, poker chiiiiiiiiiiiiips!”

I grabbed a couple out of my bag and tossed them onto the front seat for dramatic effect.

“Beautiful lady, you have God’s respect and that’s all that matters.”
“Really? I  mean, I guess…”

At that moment, the cab came to a slow, rolling stop in front of my high-rise apartment building.

Since I had cried the entire ride home, he had to wait as I scavenged around in my bag for cab fare. In the meantime, the lovely man retrieved my suitcase from where I had launched it, the driver’s side backseat, opened my door, and wheeled my bag inside the lobby, depositing it in front of the elevator doors. When he returned to the cab, I had composed myself enough to hand him his fare, including a generous tip for being such a good listener.

“Here you go, thank you for being so kind to me,” I said sheepishly through the tissue that was attempting to wrangle my false eyelashes back into place.

“Oh no beautiful lady, you keep that. This ride is on me.”
And before I could even argue with him, he pulled away into the dark Los Angeles night. As I watched his tail lights fade into the distance, I realized a couple of things that were not normal. And they gave me goosebumps.
They still do.

Number one: I never told him where I lived!

I just got in the cab and fell apart while he drove me home — to Park La Brea, a literal labyrinth of apartments, turnabouts, and one-way streets. My friends refuse to pick me up lest they never find their way out. Even with my best directions, many a cab driver has made a wrong turn and been spit back out onto Wilshire Boulevard.

Number two: There are ten high rises inside that complex. How is it that he had managed to navigate all the twists and turns and one-way streets and deposit me right at my door?
I’ll answer that. He was an angel. My angel. Plain and simple.

When I finally managed to come out of my stupor, slowly walking inside the lobby, I noticed he had propped the elevator doors open with my bag. Getting inside I was stunned to discover he’d also pushed the button to the ninth floor!

My floor! How did he know?

I really, truly believe that angels are everywhere and only show themselves when we need them.

THAT is the story of my Angel in a Turban.

Carry on,
Xox

I am not proud of what I’m about to say next but I need to vent…so here goes.

I HATE to be carded.

Above is a picture of me with my beloved tribe taken on our trip to Nashy (Nashville) last week. That face is the default annoyance setting that my face naturally morphs into…when you card me…and then take my freaking picture.

My face can’t help it and neither can I.

This “carding everyone” has apparently become a “thing”; a regular practice in hipster bars across the country. Never one to pass on a ridiculous fad I expect as much in LA, but Nashville, you? You definitely surprised me.

Being carded at thirty, or even forty is squeal worthy. Trust me. Although it happened infrequently (which is just a kinder way of saying almost never), I’ve squealed the flattered squeal with the best of ‘um.

But now, three days shy of my fifty-ninth birthday I am by no means flattered by this charade.

I wear my gray hair with the purple fringe with pride.
I exercise and take pretty good care of myself.
Genetics, (for which I can take absolutely NO credit) has been kind to me.

But there are no circumstances, no amount of great lighting or make-up, of farsightedness under which I can be mistaken for under twenty-one. I know it. You know it. And if we stopped a random person on the street and asked them, they’d know it.

So cut the crap.

Here’s the thing, I’m totally okay with it. I earned this head of gray. Every. Single. One. So don’t condescend to me by telling me you’re “required to card everyone”, or smirk as I fumble for my license while you hold my overpriced artisan cocktail for ransom. Show me the respect I’ve earned.

I have handbags older than you. And books. And memories. In bars.

There. I said it. I’m finished. But be forewarned. I may slug the smug off of the next millennial who asks me for I.D.

Carry on,
xox

“So, he said I have a really cute vagina…”

I just about dropped the carton of eggs I was pulling out of the fridge for our breakfast but made the save. The half-smoked cigarette I was balancing between my lips wasn’t as lucky, falling onto the kitchen linoleum, just barely missing my bare feet—as my mouth hung agape.

My roommate chattered on as I stomped out the hot ash that was skittering about with my heavily callused heel.

“One of the prettiest he’s ever seen.”

“Wait. Who said that? Michael? Your boyfriend?” I asked as if I really wanted to know.

Moments earlier I had innocently asked how her visit to the Gynecologist had gone the previous day. She’d had a couple of wonky pap smear results and, well, now here she was, off talking about all the compliments her vagina was getting—and I was confused.

She did have the attention span of a spider monkey so this wasn’t new, but the subject matter was. We weren’t in the habit of sharing super intimate, sex-related pillow talk.

“No, silly, Dr. SoandSo”, she laughed, smoke billowing from her nostrils as she snuffed out her cigarette in the Philodendron on the kitchen table.

We had a habit of smoking while cooking. Only while cooking. It nauseates me even now. All of it. Even this conversation. Especially this conversation.

I whipped around, setting the egg carton down hard in front of her. Egg snot ran from several of the perforations onto the vintage 1950’s Formica diner table we sat around in the kitchen.

She jumped, startled, as I yelled into her face.  “What the fuck?! Are you telling me you’re Gynecologist said that to you?!”

She looked at me as if my head had spun around (which it had, but just once), her big, brown saucer eyes filled with fear.

“Uh, yeah, he was just…um…it wasn’t…uh…”

“Please tell me he at least removed his hand before he said that!” I asked,  again not really wanting to know the answer. I’m not even sure why that mattered, it’s just that the thought of her doctor wrist-deep inside of her, cooing that bullshit while she’s on her back with her legs in the stirrups made me want to puke—and call the police.

“That is sexual harassment!” I screamed louder than I intended.
”He’s a professional! He should NEVER say that sort of thing to you! Everyone knows gynecologists are only allowed to talk about the weather when they’re down there—below the equator!”

She looked bewildered.

“Honey”, I pulled up a chair and sat straight in front of her, lowering my voice into a calmer, more soothing register as I realized she had no idea what he’d done.

It was a compliment. About her lady parts. From a man.

UGH.

“You have to report him. He’s a bad guy, and not a good doctor. That wasn’t a compliment. It was HIGHLY inappropriate.”

When she finally got it, she looked ashamed.

“If you don’t—I will!”

Sexual harassment in the workplace, from people in positions of power, and I think, in general, is SUCH a subjective topic and to this day—I’m not sure why.

It’s been my observation that most men just don’t get the intricacies.
The boundaries are blurred to the point that unless it comes down to an actual physical assault—it can slide under the radar like it did for my twenty-seven-year-old roommate.

It is often covert—cloaked in a compliment, delivered by someone in authority, wrapped inside of a joke or said straight up to your face with a wink—and if you so much as bat an eyelash—you’re overreacting.

Clearly, the situation was “misconstrued”.

I loathe that word. Misconstrued.
Lots of slimy people get away with highly questionable shit by hiding behind that word.

Here’s the thing, I don’t misconstrue anything. My gut construes everything you said correctly. Your innuendo? It was interpreted exactly how you meant it. There was no mistake made.

Except for you thinking I wouldn’t say anything.

I worked in a male-dominated business for almost twenty years.
And I grew up with a brother and worked my way through school on the night crew of a supermarket as one of only two girls.
I know men. I love men, and I know male humor.
I get it. I can even appreciate it. It can be bawdy and blue and I’m a real broad—one of the guys—so I’m often right there in it AND I can let a lot of shit slide.

But there’s a line. A boundary that should never be crossed, and you know when it has been by the pit in your stomach.

My male boss was always the epitome of appropriate behavior. He never made a misstep.
But one day in the midst of an all-male jewelry buy (or a shark feeding-frenzy, take your pick), the free-range testosterone in the room took control of one of my boss’ partners and best friends. As he went to leave, he hugged me goodbye for a little bit too long, and the hug was just a little bit too tight and there it was—his semi-erect “little friend” pressed up against my thigh.

It was no accident. There were a couple of dry-humps. I kid you not.

Reflexively and forcefully, I pushed him away with both hands looking him straight in the eye—horrified.

He winked, and yelled something back at the guys about his jeans being too tight, and made a quick getaway.

I could barely catch my breath. I was shaking and red in the face. Immediately, I grabbed my boss by the arm, yanking him out of earshot of the others.

As a woman in a man’s world, you walk a tightrope—you want to be a “good sport”, “one of the guys”, yet still be treated with respect.

“THAT man!”, I whisper/yelled, “You had better keep your FRIEND away from me—he is NEVER to lay a hand on me again, DO YOU UNDERSTAND? If he does—I will quit and then I will sue him all the way to hell and back!”

He shook his head and shrugged, confused. “O…kay…”, he stammered still staring at my panting, red face.

“He pressed his dick against my leg!” I whispered forcefully, staring him down, trying to make him understand. He immediately looked down at his feet, embarrassed. “Okay”, he replied, wishing he were invisible as he slowly turned and walked back to his buddies.

I think, rather I KNOW, that he thought I was overreacting. That I had misconstrued his friend’s natural affection for lechery.

I tried not to gag every time I had to see that man again, which was often since he was a part of my boss’ inner circle. But nothing even remotely resembling sexual innuendo or impropriety happened again. I don’t know if my boss had a talk with the guys or if they had just decided on their own to behave themselves.

All of them except for that one man.
In the space of ten years, with a wife and two kids to support, he settled three workplace sexual harassment cases (that I know of ), out of court.

If I remember correctly, I think it was when my boss told me about the second one that his face registered some sort of understanding and an unspoken apology for having doubted me.

That would have to be enough.

Talk to me.

Carry on,
xox

CONTEMPT IS CONTAGIOUS

The only emotion that spreads more reliably is panic.

Contempt is caused by fear and by shame and it looks like disgust. It’s very hard to recover once you receive contempt from someone else, and often, our response is to dump it on someone else.

If you want to be respected by your customers/peers/partners/competitors/constituents, the best way is to begin by respecting them and the opportunity they are giving you.

And the best way to avoid contempt is to look for your fear.

Seth Godin

This is from Seth Godin’s blog and the title resonated…deep. Contempt is contagious.

Have you ever had someone look at you this way? I have; although at the time I wasn’t altogether sure, so I mistook the first few times as indigestion or constipation. Eventually it became clear. Yep—it was contempt alright.

You know why? They could smell my fear with its side of shame.

Fear. Shame. Contempt= The Shitstorm Trifecta.

If you’re in it, you know it—you can smell it.

Right now! Quick! Are you the dumper?—Or the dumpee?

I’ve been both and I can guarantee you—either way, it sucks.

Looking for the fix? What’s the alternative?

Expose your fear; shine a light on the shame; brush yourself off; gather your wits; show some SELF  RESPECT FIRST and keep moving forward.

It’ll be all right.  You can take it from me, a “Silkwood Shower” and some Visine works wonders to wash away contempt.

I’d love to hear YOUR thoughts.

Carry on,
xox

I was reminded this weekend of a Petition to God that Liz Gilbert wrote as part of her memoir Eat Pray Love.

Her intention was to ask God to intervene in the suffering and dysfunction of her contentious divorce. She finished by signing it and sending it out into the ethers to collect the signatures of other interested parties, living or dead.

She figured that if you can stop the energetic animosity—it serves the world.

That got me to thinking.
I was hanging with a bunch of soulful, heart-filled creatives yesterday, with intriguingly varied projects and books in the works, but they’re no different from all of you guys with your projects and creations, dreams, hopes and wishes. Everybody’s got something in the works.

So I tweaked (okay I totally changed it, but kept the intention) Liz’s Petition To God.

This can apply to any situation you want to hand over to a higher power than yourself.

After you read it, if it feels right to you, “sign it” with your heart. (You can also sign it by putting just your name in the comments) and invite other parties to sign it as well.
They can be people attached to your project, people you know personally, people you’ve never met, people you admire…or in my case Robert Downey Jr. — it doesn’t matter, whoever comes to mind (you’ll, be surprised at who shows up).

Like Liz says in EPL:
“and I became filled with a grand sense of protection, surrounded by the collective goodwill of so many mighty souls.”
Hey, who doesn’t need that?

This is The Petition To Our Muses:

Dearest Muse,
Please intervene and help this project in any way you see fit, and even some ways that would shock and surprise me.
I have done my part. I have shown up, been receptive, chosen your words carefully, sat in the seat and done the work. Now it is your turn.

I recognize that you may be busy with other things like keeping the earth spinning in its orbit around the sun, editing the final drafts of Pulitzer Prize winners, and other various mundane tasks; but it is my understanding that you are focused on each and every one of us and our projects at all times (because times doesn’t matter where you are) and that you can multitask like a mo-fo.

It is also my understanding that when you gift someone with an inspiration, an idea; and that person, with your help, is able to birth that creative endeavor into the world — it uplifts everyone — and isn’t that what we’re all here to do?

Well, that and drink Sangria and eat fried food?

So therefore, it is my most humble request that you help me birth this project into its most splendid and kick-Ass physical manifestation. Whatever that looks like.

You have my utmost cooperation and my endless admiration and love.

I thank you for your kind attention,
Respectfully,
Janet Bertolus

I participated in an interesting exercise last spring.
It was suggested as a kind of fact-gathering, first step.
Part of an online, open hearted, business school that I took.

marieforleo.com/BSchool

What I did was to ask about thirty five people I respected, in the humblest way I could think of, to list my best qualities.
You know – for school.

I assured them it would be over quick, it was for my education – and we would never need to speak of it again!

At first you feel like a real assbite crafting such an email.
It could resemble an ego driven fishing expedition; but really, it wasn’t, and if you could get past the initial “yuck factor” and just write it from a place of heart-filled curiosity, it made it much easier to hit SEND…and I know people could sense that.

The idea behind this, in business speak, is that you can track the responses, and the ones that repeat enough to become your top three are your “greatest hits” so to speak – and those are the ones you could conceivably charge money for.

But what I garnered from this exercise went waaaaay beyond monetizing my personality.

1) If you have the balls to ask people you respect (and that’s an important distinction, don’t just ask every troll you find under a bridge) the emotional payoff is extraordinary.

My people, were honest, to the point, and didn’t pander or sugar coat their response. Come to think of it, that’s probably why they’re my friends.

2). You get HUGE insight into YOU. In a really good way. Stuff you didn’t ever think about yourself.
For me, good listener was in my top three. Who knew? I would NEVER have guessed that.
Big talker, interrupter, chatty, conversation hog – yes.
Good listener? Not so much. That was a truly unexpected surprise.

3) It felt so damn good to be seen. And complimented.
I want to send that letter every year, just to bask in the feedback kind of good.
I felt everyone’s two minutes of attention all the way down to my big toe.

Why on earth don’t we tell people how we feel about them?

The aspects we admire. The things they do better than anyone else.

Without them having to write a dumb-ass email?

Why don’t we compliment those around us, letting them know what they’re doing right in the world?

So much rage comes from feeling unseen and unheard. It kills some people from the inside out.

We’ve become a society that is quick with the snarky review. Some of the stuff I see on Yelp or on blog feeds makes me cringe.

I like to write letters, emails or comments when someone does something right. Positive reinforcement I guess.
I just know how good it feels.

I’ll leave you with two things before I get off my soapbox.

Last Friday my husband made a bank deposit and it never showed up online. So therefore it never happened. You can imagine his anxiety level last weekend. First thing Monday morning he went into the bank with his hair on fire. Not really, he’s bald. But three days of wondering had left him “Where the fuck is my money?” curious.

Seems he had attached a deposit slip from another bank account at a completely different bank to the check…so the manager WALKED it two blocks over and deposited it into that bank.

He did WHAT?! Are you kidding me?

Above and beyond the call of duty – so hubby is writing a letter full of admiration to this guy’s superiors.

You gotta tell people when they’re awesome.

Number two is this: Take a minute and think of someone who would be the most surprised, who feels the most invisible, unseen and unheard – and send them a text or an email with a compliment. Doesn’t have to be elaborate. Just a short “I really appreciate what a good listener you are. Thank you.”

Trust me, it’s going to make their day. Maybe even their month.

Love you guys, I really do! You are loyal and insightful and obviously have very good taste in blogs.

Have a great weekend!
Xox

*It’s always so interesting (as in weird) to go back into the archives and pull up an old post. You can really see the evolution of my writing. No F-bombs, no conversational tone, just…(yawn) advise.

Anyhow, this is from a year and a half ago, and it seems relevant to right this minute, since I’m hearing that a lot of you are being bitch-slapped around by your kids, your customers, your spouse, or the guy at the post office.
ENOUGH!
Take this advise 😉

By setting boundaries, being appreciative, and showing by example, you teach the people in your life how to treat you.

Will you accept not being treated with love and respect?
or will you stand tall and say “hey, that’s not okay”!
It can even be telling a friend you will not tolerate their chronic
lateness.

Do you show others that same love and respect that you seek?<
Boundaries are difficult for some people to enforce, for they fear they will lose something if they do.
If a love or a job or a friend evaporates because you 
ask to be treated a certain way, then it was not grounded in
any way that could have been sustained over time.
In other words, they was not REALLY a friend, or a lover 
and the cost was too high.

When you treat others with respect and fairness,
kindness, empathy, and love, it is returned to you ten fold.
It boils down to your self worth, and whether you will let 
any person or situation chip away at that.
It also shows you if you are recognizing the worth of 
those around you, and if you value it equally, 
or more than your own.

If you are nurturing, you will be nurtured.
Generosity brings you generous acts,
Thoughtfulness will be rewarded,

Always show your appreciation when someone treats you
wonderfully, for they may be teaching YOU ways you 
should be treated that you hadn’t even imagined.

And then return the favor!

love you you little boundary-setters! Now get back behind the glass!
xox

Think of your work life, not as separate from your spiritual life but as central to your spiritual life. Whatever your business, it is your ministry
~Marianne Williamson~ 

Can I get an Amen?
I don’t believe that the people around us, are there accidentally. Especially those we see every day at work.
This is not a random Universe. It is a Universe of order. Nothing is extemporaneous. Everything is on purpose. We are all brought together with the intention of the enlightenment of all concerned. Sounds heady right? Not so much.
It happens by showing those around you respect. By making them feel seen and heard and fostering their creativity.
So, that being said, what the fuck is with my boss? What karmic debt am I repaying at this job? I must have been a REAL ASSHAT in a past life.

I had lunch with my besties last week. We discussed and tried to solve allllll the problems of the world. We may know what happened to the Malaysian airliner, at least we have some pretty intriguing theories.
A lot of salad, some fries, a couple of eggs and lots of work talk.
A couple of us work for small businesses, mom and pops. Some of us are currently unemployed.
One of us has a corporate job for which she is EXTREMELY grateful. Let me just get that in there. She LOVES her job and the benifits, but the dynamics are not sitting well with her. Some recent life circumstances have caused my beautiful friend to grow and change, so the BS in her company seems just that much more manipulative and petty.
She yearns to enjoy her life. They would rather she not.

Even the swankiest workplace at the best address can have a gulag mentality. You get minimal breaks with lunch standing at your desk, if you eat anything at all. There is jockeying and score keeping for time off, unreasonable sales expectations, and a fostering of unhealthy competition, suspicion and greed where commissions are concerned.
I believe the heading on the moral compass is set at the top; so when these corporations become so large that human influence gives way to the bottom line…..they are lost. Thing is; they need human beings, not every sale is closed online
And therein lies the rub.

This year the topic of questioning. “The American Work Ethic” seems to have reached a tipping point. I’ve recently read Sheryl Sandberg’s “Lean In” and “Thrive” by Ariana Huffington. After I finished reading this article in The Washington Post:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/she-the-people/wp/2014/02/21/5-things-you-get-from-working-too-hard/?tid=pm_pop%20)
I Wanted to cheer and vomit, just not at the same time.

We all agree that everything is energy, right? What kind of energy do you suppose is at a company where the employees are overworked, underpaid and grossly unappreciated? Does that corporation really believe those people will represent them and their brand at the highest level? Will they brainstorm the best ideas for their company’s continued growth? Or, are they worried about getting that weekend off for a wedding, the sick kid at home or the constant insinuations about being easily replaced?
I think as an employer it is perfectly acceptable to expect the highest standards, and as an employee, to feel respected and appreciated.
When we are able to live our lives full of enthusiasm and creativity, we will bring our A game to the office. Doesn’t that make more sense?

There are four rules of miraculous work creation: Be positive. Send love. Have fun. Kick ass. Amen.
~Marianne Williamson~

Do you try to function at your highest level in an unconscious workplace? Are you willing to challenge the status quo, even if just by example? Let’s talk about this! I’d love to know.

Xox

ADORE
a·dore
əˈdôr/
verb
1. love and respect (someone) deeply.
synonyms: love dearly, love, be devoted to, dote on, hold dear, cherish, treasure, prize, think the world of.

My life changed forever when, as a 40 something woman looking for a prospective mate, I had the audacity to declare ” I want to be adored”

I told all my friends, and as they nodded and smiled their faux-supportive smiles I could see in their eyes, “Yeah, good luck with that”.

This new realization had hit me as a supreme and long overdue “Ah Ha” moment
after yet another 4+ year relationship crashed and burned.

Following my divorce at 25, I had actually fallen in love more than once, and as the years marched on, so did the list of dates, lovers, and boyfriends.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining they were all great guys. Some were younger than me, others were my age; some were artistic and wildly creative; others cerebral, funny and loving. (Are you feeling sorry for me yet? Yeah, don’t. Not yet. Wait for it.)

They were all very different, not at all alike.
The only commonality they all shared was how they ended our relationship.
The words that I heard at the end were always the same:
“You’re amazing, I’m just not ready”.
You’re the best girlfriend I could imagine”.
“Some lucky guy is going to grab you. Just not me.”
” I should probably never leave you, I’m sure I’ll regret this”
But…

Then they all walked away.
Some of them ran. One took a jet.

When the last one left I was around forty years old. (Which everyone knows is  too old to be dumped by  boyfriend.)  I could see that I had to change my relationship recipe if I wanted love to last. There was an ingredient missing. One component with the shelf-life of warm chocolate cake. By the time I even got a whiff of it—it was gone. Which explains why it took me awhile to come up with the word. And when I did, it was audacious.
I wanted to be adored!
Cherished, respected, treasured, thought the world of, and dearly loved!

I knew guys were capable of it, I had seen it in their faces when I suggested throwing away a favorite old flannel shirt, or their college baseball jersey.
They would grab it away and hug it close, eyes filled with…adoration.
I wanted the next man’s face to reflect that look back…to ME!

It was no longer acceptable to me to be so easily disposable.
I realized I was more like the stuff in the box that goes to Goodwill.
Easily Forgettable.

Fuck that!
I wanted to be the flannel shirt!
Instead of jetting out of my life I wanted to hear, “Out of the question, she stays! I would rather lose a limb than be without her!”

It takes a special man to adore a woman.
He has to have overcome his own broken heart enough to recognize your awesomeness, been vaccinated against that fear of commitment bug  in order to let his guard down, and then YOU  have to be willing to do the same.

The payoff for that level of vulnerability will be the look in his eyes.

The reason I’m sharing this is that it is possible. For me it became essential.
And after that realization, the audaciousness paid off.  I found it, and you can too.

Everyone has the right to feel cherished and treasured and held dear!
You just have to have the audacity to ask for it.

Now, adoration is pretty heady stuff, so your next task it to make sure you are someone who is capable of accepting it. I know who you are so I’m not worried.

Seeking adoration doesn’t happen overnight, but you can start now.
Xox Janet