shame

BEFALL:
verb: (used without object), befell, befallen,befalling.
to happen or occur.
to come, as by right.
3.verb: to happen to, especially by chance or fate.

I have become aware of late, that I am a pain in the Universal ass.

I suppose I always knew it, I suspected as much, but today I feel that it has become an undisputed fact.

You see, when I take off on my morning walks, one of the first things I ask the Universe, besides helping me to sidestep the dog poo; is to give me a message — hey guys… you know what I want — show me something I need to know!

That means the Universe has to put down its coffee, get dressed, and pay attention to…me.
The pain in the ass.

If you follow me regularly you are well aware that most days I get jack-nuthin’, (the Universe gets caught up in an article on the Huffington Post) while other times I actually receive some answers in the form of a cryptic haiku on a Post It, a tiny gnome village or a bird-strike omen — you know, the usual.

Anytime I spy something out of the ordinary I pick it up, truly convinced that it holds a message just for me, and today was no different.

It seems our entire neighborhood is under construction these days, developers tearing down the smaller, quaint, 1930’s homes to throw up another two-story, Leave It To Beaver style behemoth.

At eight in the morning the streets are lined with construction trucks, roach coaches…and men. Lots and lots of virile young men.

Now, as a woman, I have a kind of built-in shame meter that makes me automatically cross the street when I see men in tool belts and hard hats. All those years of wolf whistles and cat calls have trained me well.
The thing is, I am no longer the age where I elicit that sort of display of machismo. I am just south of sixty, and even though I am still technically a woman, I’m sure I am older than most of their mothers.

These days they are polite, they smile at me and say “good morning” like I’m their fucking grandma in yoga pants. I haven’t heard anything resembling a catcall in over ten years; (she says with immense resentment) yet, still I run. Middle aged wishful thinking I suppose.
Anyhow…
This cruddy, yellow flash card caught my attention as I jumped up on the curb after sprinting across the street to avoid a construction crew and their catcalls.

I actually ran past it in my zealousness to escape the nonexistent wolf whistles, but once I had seen it I knew I had to take my chances and double back around to find out what it was. When I bent over to retrieve the card I made sure my ass was pointed in the opposite direction of the men, you know, so as not to tease them.

It was the flash card pictured above. It has the word “befall” in middle-school-aged boy scrawl, with a couple of the definitions on the back.

It was trash day yesterday so I’m pretty sure the card had just escaped its fate by falling on the ground. I have to tell myself that to override any guilt I have about sabotaging some kid’s English final by hijacking card #2 with the word befall on it.

Technically I was picking up litter, so calm down.

Befall. What an old-fashioned, Elizabethan kind of word.

“What fate will befall you Janet Bertolus?”
Can’t you guys just hear those words spoken by a handsome King, who wants me to be his Queen (naturally) as I ride off into the sunset on a white horse with a young construction worker who has found me irresistible? Yeah, me neither.

My immediate reaction? Foreboding. Like it was a warning.
But when you throw down a word like BEFALL Universe, you get me thinking. And then I remembered the bird strike, and omens, and the fact that sometimes things that SEEM awful…aren’t.

What if it’s foretelling something magical that’s going transpire by chance or fate? What if befall means: to come as if by right — like I’m entitled to everything wonderful?
Much better, right?

“Great success was to befall Janet Bertolus in the very near future.” Oh, I like that one.

So you guys, what if you were as big of a pain in the ass as I am, and you asked for a sign from the Universe? What word do you think you’d get? Remember, these guys are tricky — nothing is ever obvious.

What fate will BEFALL you this fine weekend? A trip? A graduation? A great meal? The time to curl up with a good book?
More importantly, what are you entitled to?

Aren’t you liking the word BEFALL more and more? I am.

Carry on,
xox

I realize this post could be polarizing. It could upset people.
What upsets me is the fact that because of your age, many of you may not even know who Monica Lewinsky is!

“Public shaming as a blood sport has to stop.”

“Show of hands – who has regrets from their days as a twenty-two-year-old?”

“At the age of twenty-two I fell in love with my boss…”

These are just a few quotes from Monica Lewinsky’s recent TED talk.

I had read the Vanity Fair article, but I was curious;
what did she have to say for herself now as a woman in her forties?

I found her talk articulate, fascinating, and thought-provoking.

Like many at the time, I’m ashamed to say I had judged her as a doe-eyed, beret-wearing bimbo, who during a lapse of better judgment, trusted a “friend”, and neglected to get that freakin’ blue dress to the cleaners…then lived to regret it.

I drank the kool-aid of popular opinion.

As I watched her speak I have to say, I was awash in contradictory emotions. I found myself feeling sorry for her, yet what surprised me were my overriding feelings of empathy and pride. I was damn proud of her. Yes, that’s right, I said it.

She’s had the audacity to pick her head up and speak out.

How long do we punish ourselves for our mistakes and missteps?
Ten years? Twenty? A lifetime?

Are we allowed to re-write our narratives? Start over and reinvent ourselves using all our gained wisdom and insight?

Watch the video and then…
You tell me.

Carry on,
Xox

The other day my sweet, beautiful friend was mourning the death of her perfect FICO score.

She had been like a lot of us. She had done everything right. She watched her debt, bought her own house, payed her bills on time, even paying most of the balances in full every month – then disaster struck.

No, not the Great Recession, although I read an article in 2010 that said something like 80% of our FICO scores took a hit. (Gasp)
Nope.
She decided she’d had enough of her soul sucking job. She pried the fingers of the corporate world from around her neck and made a break for it. It was never her intention for her finances to be less than stellar, but sometimes shit gets real, and now, several years later, after the dust has settled, her FICO score sucks.

I have another friend whose ex-husband drove their relationship and her pristine FICO score off a cliff and into bankruptcy. She’s worked really hard to build it back up and overcome the shame of it.

There is a lot of shame attached, like a scarlet number is etched on your forehead.

This pissed me off! These are both incredible women. These are not bad check writing, run-up-the-credit-cards-on-late-night-internet-binge-shopping, kind of girls. And I know about twenty more.

Guess what ladies. YOU ARE NOT YOUR FICO SCORE.

Sometimes when you embark on a new life things get trashed, thrown into the chipper. Divorce, layoffs, mortgage under water, illness.
One of the things that can get caught in the collateral damage besides your pride, may be your FICO score.

People, it’s okay. Your score may have taken a beating, but hey, you’re still a good person.

I remember being so proud after I met my husband and we transferred my house into both of our names. The banker came out flushed and grinning ear to ear, looking like he’d just had illicit sex, (because to those banker types, FICO scores are a BIG turn on) anyway…he announced that our scores were in the high 700’s – one number apart. He refused to tell us which person had the higher score, which was smart and proved that the blood was returning to his brain.
I’m sure he could sense that we were competitive.
Listen, I just assumed it was my husband since he is methodical, thrifty, and exhibits self control – and he assumed it was me – for no good reason other than he loves me.
That’s why this marriage works.

So…you can imagine my colossal dismay when after doing everything right, for so many years, after my store closed – my FICO score plummeted.

Debt ratio, plain and simple.

Some poor slob at Chase, mentioned the number once when I was feeling particularly vulnerable (otherwise known as 2010-11), and I screamed and went into the ugly cry. My response was so over the top they checked to see if it was a mistake. Then, after they could see that it was not, they stood far away from me, nervously twisting the piece of paper. Where minutes before their eyes were filled with judgement, now they were looking at me with eyes full of pity.

“So my life took a U-Turn! Don’t look at me like that – bitch!”
I AM NOT MY FICO SCORE!

And neither are you.

These fucking numbers keep us enslaved in a world of potential disapproval, like a judgmental parent.

“Oh, don’t leave that job it might lower your FICO score.”

“Geez, your funding that business on your credit cards? Isn’t that going to ruin your FICO score?”

“Shit, your house Is upside down, what did that do to your FICO score?”

Hey, I’m not advocating ruining your credit with nasty, irresponsible deeds. I’m just sayin’ to those of us that were uber-responsible:

Investing your definition of yourself in something so unforgiving is emotional suicide,

AND…
I think it’s a racket.

I for one was a slave to mine. I stayed too long in a job I should have left, I hesitated accruing debt in my business when the recession hit, (the people I know that did are still standing) and then, in the end, after being such a good girl, the very thing I feared the most – happened.
I got slammed, owing everyone in the world money.

I went to the bank. I pled my case. I pay all the minimums.
Too bad – tough luck – bye, bye…

FICO is like a toxic relationship. We give it our money, our attention, our loyalty and it doesn’t return the favor.

It issues us a number that defines us, like a teacher on report card day.

It’s been almost seven years, which is when you are issued your Get Out Of Jail Free card.

But I’m already free and so are many others like me.
Truth be told, I don’t look at it anymore, I haven’t for years.
I decided that with the limited amount of fucks to give that I still have left, (thank you Mark Manson, you can check out his essay on The Observer’s Voice Facebook page) I shouldn’t waste giving a fuck about this kind of stuff anymore.

Nope, we are not our FICO scores.

What a relief.

xox

Apropos to what’s been written about this week.

Big love,
Xox

When I was a kid, I walked a mile straight up our street, to my little Catholic Grammar school, St John The Baptist De La Salle. When I wasn’t struggling with my overstuffed, fifty pound ( my mom weighed it) book bag, the one that was covered in the same blue plaid as my skirt (groovy, I know, don’t be jealous) I was looking at all the houses that lined my path.

It was one of the residential neighborhoods deep in the recently developed, middle class, suburban sprawl of the northern San Fernando Valley in the early 1960’s. Where once there were only orange and lemon groves, now stood, one to ten year old tract homes. I remind you it was the sixties, very cookie cutter; they lacked imagination and color. Some were ranch style with big lawns in the front, the garages in an alley around the back. Others had driveways with some generic plants in the front. They alternated, with the floor plan switching up every so often. Every few blocks the pattern would repeat itself.
It was new families, new sidewalks, sprinklers and the hum of “central air conditioning.” 

As an eight or nine year old I was already full of opinions. I knew which of the houses on my walk, I liked the best. Being the anal, Type A, control freak that I was, I preferred the ones that were well maintained, and I actually felt sorry for the ones that weren’t.
If the lawns were perfectly manicured, mowed and edged, the bushes clipped and the roses in bloom, I figured all must be well on the inside too. If the paint was peeling, the lawn needed weeding, and the place was a wreak, well, I thought maybe life wasn’t being so kind to those occupants. I noticed the screens that were brown with nicotine at the corner house, where the man smoked like a chimney, and I actually got frustrated when people chose bad window treatments, like beads, which were all the rage, or kept foil or sheets pulled up over their windows.
Couldn’t they see how that screwed up their curb appeal? Didn’t they care?

That was when I learned two very important life lessons: Things are not always as they appear, AND, some people pay more attention to what’s going on on the outside, than on the inside.

There were two houses that I can still remember loving. One was a light yellow, with white and yellow roses in the front. I approved of their window treatments and I even thought the decorative screen door was charming. It also allowed me to catch snippets of music, TV or conversation as I walked by. A nosey eight year old’s dream. I still love to catch a candid glimpse of how other people live. Although…..
One morning as I walked by, I heard an augment. It sounded bad. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but a man and woman were definitely yelling at each other. It stared happening on a regular basis, and went on for years. It was like, “okay, it’s 8:15, and in this corner, wearing the pink housecoat and slippers and weighing in at one hundred and forty pounds, the middle class champion…..” 
I began to pick up my pace, speed walking, just to get past without getting any of that vitriol on me.

Interesting observation number one: Life on the inside seemed to be a hot mess, while outside from the street, there didn’t appear to be a leaf out of place.

The second house was white with blue trim. It had the driveway in front, with two cars parked side by side. I watched the slow steady climb to prosperity that the house revealed on the exterior. It had a very fancy dichondra lawn, which required ridiculous maintenance. My mom tried one once. She was out there every afternoon with cuticle scissors and tweezers. I’m not kidding. It makes maintaining a bonsai tree look like a walk in the park. Anyway……beautiful house, stunning, professionally landscaped yard, a gardener and two cars that got nicer and more expensive every couple of years. I never heard any yelling. I really never heard or saw any people or signs of life. It was the perfect picture of suburban utopia, and I LOVED it.
One day, miss nosey pants here, noticed there had only been one Cadillac in the driveway for a couple of weeks. After that, the lawn started to get overrun with dandelions, and the flowers that seemed to magically appear in full bloom every couple of weeks were dried up and dead. Signs of human occupation appeared now on the crispy brown front lawn. A bicycle haphazardly discarded, like the rider had just flown off in a full sideways skid and disappeared. Trash and old papers collected on the porch. One afternoon I noticed a reddish curtain hanging, like a velvet tongue, out through a newly broken front window.
Not long after, a For Sale sign appeared. Divorce had beaten the shit out of my favorite house and apparently the family inside. That was shocking to me. Everything looked like it was going so well for them. I never saw any signs, there were no arguments for public consumption.

Interesting observation number two: Sometimes the exterior circumstances can reflect SO perfectly what’s happening on the inside. Mimic the slow decline. It can be unexpected, no yelling, no shot across the bow, and it’s heartbreaking.

Which one am I? Do I put up a good front when the walls are crumbling down?
I used to. It was exhausting. When I divorced my first husband, people were SHOCKED. No one saw it coming. Not even him.
But I’ve changed. I’ve become pretty transparent.
Ms. Cellophane.
I’d like to say I hide things. Save face. Maybe for a day or two, but I’m more like the second house. When my shit hits the fan, I don’t think anyone around me, who sees me, is surprised. If I were a house, MY big red velvet tongue would be hanging out a broken front window.

Which one are you? Have you encountered both? Were you surprised?
Tell me, I’d love to hear about it.

Xox

Live in such a way that you would not be ashamed to sell your parrot to the town gossip.
~Will Rodgers~

I had this post all queued up in my head and then I saw this quote on Sir Richard Branson’s blog…Go figure.
I believe the Universe seeds the air with messages so we can pick them up when we’re open enough to receive. For me that happens driving the car, in the shower, walking the dogs, or at the gym. Those are the times when my guard goes down and my antenna goes up. Consistent yes, convenient no!

Anyway, gossip…gossip…ohhhhh it can sound so delicious, yet be so malicious.
Sadly, it doesn’t stop at middle school. It’s an even snarkier beast as an adult.

The two key components with gossip that make it so hurtful are these:
1) It is often, and by often I mean almost always, NOT TRUE.
2) You would NEVER want it to get back to the subject, most especially not with YOUR name attached.
So right there, you have your filter.
Should you pass it along?
Not unless Barbie herself told you she had a boob job.
Even then, I’m guessing they can speak for themselves.

Think about it, the juiciest gossip is impossible to verify.
Did So and So’s husband really sleep with the nanny? Not unless you saw it with your own eyes. THAT is the only way to know for sure. And if you did, it’s more sad than salacious. It does not need a publicist.

Have you ever been caught on the wrong end of gossip?
Either as the subject or the spreader?
Both of those are entries into the humiliation and shame Hall Of Fame.
I’ve been both. I’m pretty sure if you’re honest and you’ve lived long enough, you have too.
Neither was my proudest moment, but MAN they taught me a lot.
I started to write them here, but then I realized in the telling of their stories, I was gossiping!
So I’ll just have to leave it to your imagination.

Here’s what I want all of us to do.
Just give it a second thought the next time a tasty tidbit is whispered in your ear.
Is it true? Even if it might be, is it for public consumption?
Would we want our name attached to it?
Would we want the parrot to blab?
Who would get hurt in the telling of this?
If it doesn’t stand up to these questions, no matter how sensational…we will walk away.
It’s none of our business.

XoxJanet 

“Perfectionism is a self-destructive and addictive belief system that fuels this primary thought: If I look perfect, and do everything perfectly, I can avoid or minimize the painful feelings of shame,judgment, and blame.”

― Brené Brown, The Gifts of Imperfection: Let Go of Who You Think You’re Supposed to Be and Embrace Who You Are

After reading this book and hearing this woman, whom I deem A gift from God speak,
I had an “ah ha” moment about that torturous, addictive, up in the middle of the night, thing called perfectionism.

What Brene helped me to understand, was that perfectionism comes from that deep well of shame and inadequacy that we immediately go to when we feel we must impress. But who are we impressing?
That well has been filled by all our negative self talk, and is fed by the very thing that we feel we lack the most.

So we will overextend ourselves, often to the point of exhaustion, to overcompensate. That starts more shame and self judgement, and now those negative voices, they have formed a choir…. A very loud choir, and the well gets deeper and deeper.

Here is the question I’ve had to ask myself. Am I striving for excellence?
wanting to be the best ME I can be? Is that what fuels the desire to be perfect?
Or…is all this tail chasing going on because of what I want “THEM” to think of me?
AH HA! Right?!

I was often under the false illusion that I was just striving for excellence.
But your demons are great bullshitters. They’ll tell you anything to keep the game going, those rascals.

So , “who am I trying to impress”‘ is always the first question I ask myself
When I get that twinge toward perfectionism.

Because you know what?
The peanut gallery,
“THEY”
Are never satisfied.
If they are as judgmental as I am…I’m doomed!

I have to say that age has set me free.
Perfectionism was my judge and jailer much more when I was younger, and age has brought me a certain ability to relax into the fact that things are never going to be perfect, most certainly, myself.

Whew!! What a relief!!

XoxJanet