the holidays

Christmas Conundrum — A Love Story from 2017

Ho ho ho—A repost of one of your favorites from 2017
Happy holidays and carry on,
JB

Co·nun·drum
noun
“one of the most difficult conundrums for the experts”
synonyms: problem, difficult question, difficulty, quandary, dilemma;

“I have a real conundrum”, was how he answered my standard nightly inquiry which goes something like this:

Me: “How was your day?”
Husband: “It was (fill in the blank).”

Usually, he says “good.” Other times I can tell by his face that I shouldn’t ask. More often than not there’s a story or a funny anecdote that starts a conversation that carries us through dinner.

But never, in the almost seventeen years I’ve asked the question has it been answered this way.

“Wow, really? A conundrum. What happened?”
He hedged.
I don’t like hedging. Hedging makes me anxious.

“I’ll feed the dog,” he volunteered.

When it comes to eating our dog is probably a lot like yours. Since she comprehends any sentence that has the word food or feed or treat in it — the “spinning around the kitchen” phase of the evening begins as she excitedly waits for her dish to be prepared.

“Come on! Tell me what’s up!” I urged as he shoveled kibble into warm water.
When he bent down to give our whirling dervish her dinner, I spotted some residual unsteadiness left over from the bout of vertigo he’s been battling for the past couple of weeks.
Slowly, he came back to standing, leaning on the kitchen counter directly across from me.

Those corners in the kitchen, those are sacred. Over the years they have become our preferred conversation spots.

If I think about it, almost every conversation, big or small, has a least started in those corners.
We may shift back and forth while we prepare dinner but it all begins in those corners.
If things get tense, we maintain our distance, like fighters in the ring.
But I have laughed my ass off and been flooded with tears (often at the same time) in the corners of our kitchen.

We hug a lot there too.I don’t know why, but kitchen corners are conducive to hugging.

Anyway, it took a while for him to explain.

“I wanted to get you a tree,” he said looking at me sheepishly.
“I wanted to surprise you…with a Christmas tree.”

“What?”

You see, since we met, Christmastime at our house can be…complicated.

For me, it is the BEST time of year. You can find me Ho, Ho, Ho-ing my way through December.

For my husband—not so much. No, No, No-ing is more like it for him.

It could be due to his horrible, Jesuit boarding school, Oliver Twisted childhood—no one knows for sure.

All I DO know is that Christmas can be a minefield, a subject we have litigated into the ground only to come away without any reasonable solution as to how we can navigate without blowing somebody up.
If you read my last blog post you know that I’ve decided to go treeless this year. It was a compromise I’ve never been willing to make—until no——made easy by some brilliantly timed post-holiday travel.

In an act of holiday self-care (which,I highly recommend for everyone) I decorated my sister’s tree on Tuesday which was a fix for this Christmas Junkie.

So, I’m good with it. Really.

And that’s the part that confused him.

He continued, “On Monday, I finally felt up to driving to that awesome nursery where we saw those live trees,” he said.
“The ones with the silver needles you like?

He could see the bewildered expression on my face but he kept going.

“So I had it in the back of my van and I was going to set it up this morning…until I read your blog.”

I still wasn’t following so he continued.

“You said you were happy that you didn’t have a tree. That you liked the ease and simplicity…”

“Well, yeah…but…”

“So I drove back there to return it, but they don’t take back Christmas trees.” I could see a look of chagrin trying to hide behind his sexy, white beard.

I started to laugh. “What? No you didn’t!”

“Yep,” he said, starting to see the humor. “You are the proud owner of a living, silver pine tree which has been driven all over hell and back the past two days and is now lurking in the back of my van trying not to feel rejected.”

“Awwwwww, come on! You did not!” My eyes filled with tears as I launched myself into his arms. I told you those corners were for hugging.

“Lemme see him!” I squealed.

“I’m sorry.” He nuzzled his face in my neck. “I just can’t seem to get it right.”

“Don’t be sorry. Ya did good.”

Sometimes when you let something go. Like really let it go with no residual bullshit–it hunts you down and lurks in a van in your driveway.

Bible.

Carry on,
xox

The Christmas Avatar— The #1 Most Requested Holiday Post

*Hi Loves,
This is a post from Christmas past. I think it was way back in a simpler time — 2013.

Anyhow…it’s a crowd favorite, the number one most requested holiday post and you guys really know how to pick ’em because I love this one too! After all, it’s about my husband and everybody roots for my hubby. Right? I mean, he tolerates me and that is no. small. feat.

Listen, he’s no saint, believe you me. He’s a procrastinator extraordinaire as this story will reveal, and a curmudgeony rapscallion of epic proportions.  HOWEVER, all that being said, the man never ceases to amaze me with his common decency.

And here on Earth 2.0 I miss common decency. I think we all do.

So here’s a dollop of decency courtesy of my own personal Avatar. I’m immensely grateful for him and for all of you for your decency and continued loyalty.

Wishing you and yours the happiest of holidays and an amazing 2020!

xox Janet


AVATAR
av·a·tar
ˈavəˌtär/
noun
1.HINDUISM
a manifestation of a deity or released soul in bodily form on earth; an incarnate divine teacher.

I met my husband when he was 47 and I was 43.
To say I kissed a lot of frogs along the way is understating the obvious!
And since he’s French there’s also a certain irony there.

On paper, I looked über normal.
I had a great job, a house, a relatively “normal” family, lots of good friends, two Siamese cats, and a Partridge in a pear tree.

But as you all know by now, I had my dark, hidden secret.
I was a closeted seeker.
Devoutly spiritual.
I did yoga,
I meditated twice a day,
I could have been a monk.
Well, except for the red lipstick and nail polish…oh, and there’s the sex. Anyway, I’m pretty sure I blurted it all out after a glass (or three) of wine on one of our early dates, half expecting him to excuse himself, saying he was “going to the restroom”, only to discover after ordering dessert and eating it by myself—that he had made a run for it!

But he didn’t.

It ends up he was a seeker as well, having worked with
a Peruvian shaman along the way—so I should have seen this next part coming…

For years, I had sought the counsel of a channel, a friend who had the ability to call in “beings” of higher wisdom. So, I invited her/them over to “meet” my new husband. I’m not exactly sure what I expected, but what they did was to just, well, so perverse. Let’s just say they completely ignored me and practically fell all over themselves (in that way nebulous mist can) calling him “Great Avatar”.

Then they explained that I am the “consort” to this great being.

What? Really?
Like the Cleopatra to his Marc Anthony?
Uh, no. You can’t be serious! It’s nothing like that!

More like the Robin to his Batman, maybe. OR…
The Abbott to his Costello.
The Kato to his Green Hornet.
The Elaine to his Jerry.
The Heckle to his Jeckle.

Well, not exactly. I had to acquiesce to the undeniable fact that, gulp,
He is my teacher, and I am grasshopper.

I just rolled my eyes, thinking that infinite wisdom must have mistakenly ‘Avatared’ the wrong guy—but the irrefutable proof of it happened again—for the gazillionth time on Christmas Eve.

He told me the story with tears in his eyes that night on our way to dinner.

He is a typical man in the sense that he waits until 3 p.m. on the 24th of December to start his holiday shopping.

So…there he was driving while famished, navigating an overcrowded parking lot with nothing to sustain him except the remnants of a candy cane covered in pocket lint.

He was Hangry (hungry + angry).
You get the picture.

Finally, after circling eight-thousand times, he saw a car ready to pull out of its space so he positioned himself, left blinker on, and waited…and waited…while the lovely person, 175 year-old woman who should have NEVER been driving in the first place, backed ever so sloooooowwwly took her ever-loving, f*c@ing time, to vacate the coveted spot. Meanwhile, on the other side of her was a little pickup truck that has the same idea. My husband, seeing what was about to happen, aggressively blocked the spot with his black Porsche and pulled in. (Don’t judge, don’t say you’ve never done that because WE ALL HAVE! And don’t get your panties in a bunch because it’s a Porsche vs a pickup truck, just don’t.)

As the pickup truck realized defeat and drove off, the driver made eye contact with my husband—and flipped him the middle finger.

Oh, don’t worry, that stuff rolls off his back…he’s French, remember?
But still, it was Christmas Eve for cryin’ out loud!

No matter. He ducked into a local joint to grab a quick burger and realized while he was eating, that middle-finger-pickup-truck-guy was eating with some of his buddies a few tables over. So, instead of pounding his chest or letting his smug get the better of him, he got out a pen and wrote a note on a napkin.
He then attached $20 and handed it to the waitress to deliver to the guy…and without saying a word—he left.

The note read:
Even though you flipped me the bird,
It’s Christmas Eve.
your lunch is on me.
The black Porsche.

While walking away he glanced back to see the guy showing the note to his buddies as he stood to search the cafe for this mystery Santa.

So freakin’ decent, right? It brought tears to my eyes, you guys!

He’s my hero.
He’s my teacher
He really is an Avatar.
(And said without any eye-roll whatsoever) It is an honor to be his consort/grasshopper.

Merry Christmas everybody!
Xox

“Everything you love is very likely to be lost, but in the end, love will return in a different way.”

Friends,
Around this time of year, missing those who are dearly departed can be absolutely heart-wrenching. A while back I read this little story and even if it proves to be some sort of made-up myth, I don’t care!—it warmed my heart. It’s about things changing, about looking for our loved ones “where they are”, not where they used to be. As energy transformed. Energy that’s on an epic adventure.

You may not recognize them at first.

Maybe they’ll show up as the delicate snowflake that gently touches your cheek with the first snow. Or dog kisses.

They can even show up as the kind act of a stranger.

Rest assured they are everywhere, all you have to do is look for them where they are. Everywhere.
With so much love,
xox Janet


When he was 40, the renowned Bohemian novelist and short story writer FRANZ KAFKA (1883–1924), who never married and had no children, was strolling through Steglitz Park in Berlin, when he chanced upon a young girl crying her eyes out because she had lost her favorite doll. She and Kafka looked for the doll without success. Kafka told her to meet him there the next day and they would look again.

The next day, when they still had not found the doll, Kafka gave the girl a letter “written” by the doll that said, “Please do not cry. I have gone on a trip to see the world. I’m going to write to you about my adventures.”  

Thus began a story that continued to the end of Kafka’s life. 

When they would meet, Kafka read aloud his carefully composed letters of adventures and conversations about the beloved doll, which the girl found enchanting. Finally, Kafka read her a letter of the story that brought the doll back to Berlin, and he then gave her a doll he had purchased. “This does not look at all like my doll,” she said. Kafka handed her another letter that explained, “My trips, they have changed me.” The girl hugged the new doll and took it home with her.  

A year later, Kafka died.

Many years later, the now grown-up girl found a letter tucked into an unnoticed crevice in the doll. The tiny letter, signed by Kafka, said, “Everything you love is very likely to be lost, but in the end, love will return in a different way.”

I❤️this.

Turns Out Heaven Is Real, But Sometimes They Send You Back ~ 2014 Reprise

image

We first met on December 18, 2000. Then he died. On this, the nineteenth anniversary of our first blind date here’s a recounting of just what happened from back in 2014. This is our very personal Christmas miracle.


“Life is a dream walking. Death is going home.” – Chinese proverb

He died for a minute and 56 seconds. His heart stopped and his breathing ceased. I’d just say 2 minutes, but hospitals and doctors are exact. They are to-the-second precise. So, when he tells the tale; he died for a minute and 56 seconds because four seconds more would be way too long.
Just writing this makes my eyes well up.

He…is my husband.

In December of 2000 he contracted bacterial spinal meningitis on an airplane. Or as I now call them, flying, metallic, germ delivery systems.
He’s a car guy, often referred to as a gear head. That second week of December he took a one-way flight from LA to Houston to look at a car, which he then purchased and drove back with a buddy. Trouble was, he boarded that flight with a bad head cold. It was mid-December, everyone’s sick with something around the holidays. Right?

As luck would have it, that was just the route an opportunistic virus used to infect him. The meningitis rode in, like a sinister villain in a spaghetti western, on the back of streptococcus pneumonia. Once the pneumonia had chewed up his lungs to the point where they resembled snowflakes, all the meningitis had to do was dismount, and stroll on in.

Meningitis is a jerk. And an opportunist.

He’s a fragile, lazy, coward of a virus. If everything isn’t just so, he takes his badass self and leaves town. But pneumonia is efficient and the path had been prepared, so he set up camp in my husband’s lungs.

Three days after he got back to LA, as pneumonia went about doing its dirty work, he felt pretty lousy. Meanwhile, meningitis was still lurking in the shadows. He felt lethargic. By then he was probably running a fever, but men don’t check stuff like that. He just got out of bed, showered and dressed. He had plans that night.
He had arranged a blind date with someone who was recommended by a friend’s girlfriend. She sounded…intriguing. And she had big boobs. Yep, he was just that shallow.

That someone was me.

The blind date story is epic and meant for another day. We got married nine months later, so I’m gonna say it went pretty well.

I’ve always been fascinated by near-death experiences (NDE’s.) Now I live with someone who’s had one and he’d be the first to tell you, it profoundly changed him, it set him free.

Two days after our first date, and a super gushy follow-up phone call, he drove the new car up to San Jose, with his dog, to celebrate the Christmas holidays with his younger brother, his wife and their two young kids.
He was driving five hours to cook the Christmas bird.

If a turkey is involved you drop everything and call my husband. He is the Turkey Whisperer. THE turkey cooker extraordinaire. The next morning, in between long stints in bed he did all the prep. He was trashed, feeling sicker with each passing hour and had developed the headache from hell. Now, he figured, he had a hell of a bad flu bug.

I will remind you, my husband is a BIG guy. He’s 6’3″ 230 lbs of big handsome, and that helped save his life.
When he makes a promise, he keeps it. It’s one of the things I admire about him, and damn it, he cooked that turkey. From his sickbed, even though he never had a bite.

The next day he got out of bed once and collapsed. The paramedics were called and he was rushed to a local teaching hospital that was affiliated with Stanford.

During transport, the paramedics called him Ralph. “Stay with us Ralph. Any pain Ralph?” My husband’s name is Raphael. I’ve been told they do that to piss you off and keep you conscious and talking. It worked. “My name is Raphael” he kept correcting them.
Genius.
But it was short-lived.
His brother told the doctor all he knew, that Raphael had complained of a terrible headache and the flu. He used to have migraines but this was different. The ER was about to send him home with migraine meds, but his brother refused. He’d never seen Raphael that ill. THAT solitary act saved his brother’s life.

Just about that time, it ceased to matter. His blood test came back with an astronomical white cell count, and he had gone into a coma. Now suspecting meningitis, they did a spinal tap. So, normally our spinal fluid is clear and under pressure. Normal is: 70 – 180 mm H20, his reading was over 400 and the fluid was thick and black, like oil. As the story goes, it was right about this point in the evening where he flat-lined. After they brought him back, they wrote TERMINAL on his chart, pumped him full of morphine and wheeled him into a room to die.

It was during this time that Raphael remembers a foggy, all-white environment, no walls, ceiling or floor. He could see all sides at once. The best thing was, he was out of pain, his head no longer hurt.

He was looking at three beds which contained three Raphael’s.

The Raphael on the right was saying: I am suffering, why would I stay in this bed, I want to go where it’s peaceful. Where there’s no pain. Pointing at a bright white tunnel.
He represented the physical self.

The Raphael in the bed on the left said: Go ahead and go! Quit complaining. That’s fine, it really affects no one except those that are left behind. He represented the intellectual self.

The Raphael in the middle was the observer. He just listened to the two others arguing. He just WAS. No attachment. He represented the soul.

That white tunnel was the path home. It was a silent, pain-free, deliciously peaceful place where he wanted to stay forever.
But they started his heart and brought him back.

That night a female doctor very much like Dr. House from TV, took a look at his chart. She specialized in ONLY terminal cases. Since it was a teaching hospital, she was allowed to literally throw everything in her extensive medical arsenal at these patients, searching for a cure. It was equal parts medicine, alchemy, and wishful thinking. After she did everything she could, she just handed it over to a higher power. Her success rate was 3%. I know, calm down, they were terminal cases after all.

It was the fight of his life and he was on the ropes. At that point, his size was the only thing saving him.

By that time the hospital had reported their diagnosis of bacterial meningitis to the CDC. Thirteen people from his flight to Houston had come down with it, four had died. Raphael’s brother was told to get his whole young family tested. It was a stressful, scary time.

I remember hearing it on the news. It struck me because one of the women who died was my age at the time, 43. Shit. I have to get on a plane in five days, I worried.

Since he was away, I had no idea he was even sick. We only had our one blind date, with a promise of a second on December 28th. He never called. He never showed. I called twice, which was only mildly pathetic, and both times his cellphone went right to message. So I left for New Year’s Eve in Miami. When I didn’t hear from him by the end of the first week of January I told my friends, “Frenchy better be abducted by aliens or dead by the side of the road, because those are the only two excuses I’ll accept.”

Yikes! We still laugh about that.

His medical file is as thick as a phone book with the lists of drugs and scans his doctor administered that first night. There is even a straight jacket included. She did say he put up a hell of a fight to live. Apparently so.
By the middle of the second day of her treatment, he was slightly improved. She determined he would live, but he’d be a vegetable from the cerebral fluid pressure and its horrible condition.
No brain could ever recover from that.

His family, his siblings, who were all now at the hospital, looked at each other to determine who would care for him and for how many months.

A couple of days later, with the determined doctor holding one hand, one of his sisters holding the other, he woke up. Just like that.

Startled, the doctor shooed everyone out of the room and started asking him questions, which he answered…perfectly…in detail. Not just, What’s your name? But since he’s an architect, and French, she quizzed him on the architectural intricacies of the Pompidou Centre, even speaking French with him. It was evident he could see her, he could hear her, and he was still his whip-smart self. THAT she could never explain. She considered him a miracle. Everyone at the hospital did. Honestly.

Finally, he asked what day it was. When he found out it was January, he said, “I have to call Janet.” For those standing around him, some doubt set in, because no one had heard of any Janet. They thought he had an imaginary friend. Uh oh, brain damage.

Nope, apparently, infatuation survives near death. I love that part of the story. It’s like a movie.

He remembers dying as easy, with nothing to fear.
He recalls that he had a decision to make, and either way everything was going to be okay.
Afterword, all the outpouring of love, together with the morphine, broke open his heart—and he was a changed man.

Luckily, he decided to stay and give me a second date, and for that, I am forever grateful.

Happy nineteen years baby! I love you.

Carry on,
Xox

From the 2015 Archives—There Are Actually 24 Hours In A Day, And Other Christmas Myths

“I work 8 hours, I sleep 8 hours, that leaves 8 hours left for…what?”

I was listening to a podcast today and this “old saying” stopped me in my tracks.

Well, the big, juicy melted piece of gum I stepped in while I was listening and traversing the parking lot at Target actually DID stop me in my tracks. A stop so dead—I walked right out of my shoe.

I kid you not.

Seeing that we are deep into December, I had to park so far away that the actual Target store was just a speck on the horizon. I’m sure someone left their gum, like a bread crumb, to mark the trail back to their car so…I can’t really be mad, can I?
But enough about my glamourous life.

Back to the saying. You know, the myth that implies that there are more than enough hours in a day.

You work eight hours.
Stop laughing.
I know we’re smack dab in the middle of the holidays and what with shopping and wrapping and all—the Elves up at the North Pole have a shorter work day. And better benefits. And terrific catering. Nevermind.

So… you work.

Anyhow, you sleep eight hours. But seriously, who does? I’m lucky to get seven. This morning I woke up at 3 am because I thought I saw an orange glow down the hall and knew for sure the tree was on fire.
It wasn’t.

Too late, adrenaline rushes don’t keep regular office hours.

Then I couldn’t remember all of the reindeer names or get that damn song out of my head.
I lay there wondering where on earth my pine nut cookie recipe went and the next thing I knew it was 4am and all I could think about was how good coffee would taste with a pine nut cookie—so I got up and made some. Coffee. Not the cookies. I’m still at a loss.

So…You sleep.

But you guys, that still leaves at least several, maybe four, hours left to do whatever you want.

My friend says those hours are reserved for worrying.
Yikes.
My hubby says traffic on the 101 freeway chews up his spare time.
Jeepers, people.

What about eating?
Sex? Anybody?
Holiday merriment?

I decided to paint with a broad brush.
“I work 8 hours, I sleep 8 hours, that leaves 8 hours left for… FUN!”

That sounds downright illegal, doesn’t it? Fun? Really? And for eight hours? Oh, sweet Jesus, help me!

But fun can be anything, right?

A glass of pink champagne for no reason?

Maybe it’s staying up after everybody else goes to bed to binge watch Netflix.

What about going out to lunch and catching up with an old friend?

Today, my friend Kim and I played hookie and went to see a movie—in the middle of the day!

How would you complete that sentence? Gimme some hints, I’d love to know.

Carry on,
xox

The Christmas Avatar ~ #1 Most Requested Holiday Post

*Hi Loves,
This is a post from Christmas past. I think it was way back in a simpler time — 2013.

Anyhow…it’s a crowd favorite, the number one most requested holiday post and you guys really know how to pick ’em because I love this one too! After all, it’s about my husband and everybody roots for my hubby. Right? I mean, he tolerates me and that is no. small. feat.

Listen, he’s no saint, believe you me. He’s a procrastinator extraordinaire as this story will reveal, and a curmudgeony rapscallion of epic proportions.  HOWEVER, all that being said, the man never ceases to amaze me with his common decency.

And here on Earth 2.0 I miss common decency. I think we all do.

So here’s a dollop of decency courtesy of my own personal Avatar. I’m immensely grateful for him and for all of you for your decency and continued loyalty.

Wishing you and yours the happiest of holidays and an amazing 2020!

xox Janet


AVATAR
av·a·tar
ˈavəˌtär/
noun
1.HINDUISM
a manifestation of a deity or released soul in bodily form on earth; an incarnate divine teacher.

I met my husband when he was 47 and I was 43.
To say I kissed a lot of frogs along the way is understating the obvious!
And since he’s French there’s also a certain irony there.

On paper, I looked über normal.
I had a great job, a house, a relatively “normal” family, lots of good friends, two Siamese cats, and a Partridge in a pear tree.

But as you all know by now, I had my dark, hidden secret.
I was a closeted seeker.
Devoutly spiritual.
I did yoga,
I meditated twice a day,
I could have been a monk.
Well, except for the red lipstick and nail polish…oh, and there’s the sex. Anyway, I’m pretty sure I blurted it all out after a glass (or three) of wine on one of our early dates, half expecting him to excuse himself, saying he was “going to the restroom”, only to discover after ordering dessert and eating it by myself—that he had made a run for it!

But he didn’t.

It ends up he was a seeker as well, having worked with
a Peruvian shaman along the way—so I should have seen this next part coming…

For years, I had sought the counsel of a channel, a friend who had the ability to call in “beings” of higher wisdom. So, I invited her/them over to “meet” my new husband. I’m not exactly sure what I expected, but what they did was to just, well, so perverse. Let’s just say they completely ignored me and practically fell all over themselves (in that way nebulous mist can) calling him “Great Avatar”.

Then they explained that I am the “consort” to this great being.

What? Really?
Like the Cleopatra to his Marc Anthony?
Uh, no. You can’t be serious! It’s nothing like that!

More like the Robin to his Batman, maybe. OR…
The Abbott to his Costello.
The Kato to his Green Hornet.
The Elaine to his Jerry.
The Heckle to his Jeckle.

Well, not exactly. I had to acquiesce to the undeniable fact that, gulp,
He is my teacher, and I am grasshopper.

I just rolled my eyes, thinking that infinite wisdom must have mistakenly ‘Avatared’ the wrong guy—but the irrefutable proof of it happened again—for the gazillionth time on Christmas Eve.

He told me the story with tears in his eyes that night on our way to dinner.

He is a typical man in the sense that he waits until 3 p.m. on the 24th of December to start his holiday shopping.

So…there he was driving while famished, navigating an overcrowded parking lot with nothing to sustain him except the remnants of a candy cane covered in pocket lint.

He was Hangry (hungry + angry).
You get the picture.

Finally, after circling eight-thousand times, he saw a car ready to pull out of its space so he positioned himself, left blinker on, and waited…and waited…while the lovely person, 175 year old woman who should have NEVER been driving in the first place, backed ever so sloooooowwwly took her ever-loving, f*c@ing time, to vacate the coveted spot. Meanwhile, on the other side of her was a little pickup truck that has the same idea. My husband, seeing what was about to happen, aggressively blocked the spot with his black Porsche and pulled in. (Don’t judge, just because it’s a Porsche and a pickup truck, just don’t do it!)

As the pickup truck realized defeat and drove off, the driver made eye contact with my husband—and flipped him the middle finger.

Oh, don’t worry, that stuff rolls off his back…he’s French, remember?
But still, it was Christmas Eve for cryin’ out loud!

No matter. He walked into a local joint to grab a quick burger and realized while he was eating, that middle-finger-pickup-truck-guy was eating with some of his buddies a few tables over.

So, instead of pounding his chest or letting his smug get the better of him, he got out a pen and wrote a note on a napkin.
He then attached $20 and handed it to the waitress to deliver to the guy…and without saying a word—he left.

The note read:
Even though you flipped me the bird,
It’s Christmas Eve.
your lunch is on me.
The black Porsche.

While walking away he glanced back to see the guy showing the note to his buddies as he stood to search the cafe for this mystery Santa.

So freakin’ decent, right? It brought tears to my eyes you guys!

He’s my hero.
He’s my teacher
He really is an Avatar.
(And said without any eye roll whatsoever) It is an honor to be his consort/grasshopper.

Merry Christmas everybody!
Xox

What Your Tree Topper Says About You ~ Straight From The Archives

You are going to be so happy to know this!

As I was digging through my totes of Christmas decorations this year, at the very bottom, buried by an old, torn tree skirt that is too sentimental to throw away yet always escapes me when its time to take it to be mended; and an old reindeer antler headband for the dog, (which still makes me guffaw with laughter and infuriates my husband—because dogs have no business wearing hats or headbands)—was the Troll Angel.

“Sister girl, where have you been?” I squealed.

She looked up at me with those oversized eyes, cotton candy mohawk and the same bad attitude she displayed thirty years ago. God I love it when inanimate objects freeze in time!

You see, the Troll Angel was the tree topper for my sister and me when we lived together in the 80’s. It said Yeah, my face looks like this because I have a Christmas tree up my skirt—what’s YOUR excuse?

It was irreverent and full of sass. Just like us. Which got me to thinking…

We keep ornaments for a lifetime but treetoppers change with the times. I think a treetopper may just be an un-unsciency marker of where we are in life.

This is mine these days. A vintage 1960’s brightly colored version of my Aunt Shirley. All business in the front —and party in the back. Tipsy…topsy..turvy. Kinda like the current me.

But, seriously! Think about it. I had a guy friend back in the day when we were a decade shy of thirty, who displayed an old deflated basketball on the top of his tree. It was from some high school championship game he…blah..blah…blah…anyway…through the years it got so old and frayed it started to looks like Wilson from Castaway. God bless him, he kept it that way until he got married. Then that girl started calling the shots and threw that thing out faster than you can say #Christmasbuzzkiller.

My accountant’s tree wears a Santa hat. Wow. What an imagination!

One mixed faith couple I know have a Star of David on the top of theirs. I think nothing says Christmas like compromise.

Many well intentions are housed in a tree topper.
Here are a few examples.

This one says: “Dog people can be scary.”

This one says: “Diane, get my flute!”

Okay, you guys. Go look at your tree. What does the topper say about you? It’s uncanny, right?

Happy Holidays & Carry on,
xox

The Holidays—And Heart Holding

The holidays can be haaaaard you guys. And as much as I’d love to sugar coat it—I can’t.

I know, they can also be full of joy and wonder.

But when they’re not—when you’re just struggling to keep your head above water because of a health crisis, or a death, divorce, or something else unimaginable has you down for the count—it is helpful to remember (at least it is for me) that no matter how famous you are, how much money you have, or influence you peddle, or how many self-help processes you keep in your back pocket, at some point, THEY WILL GET YOU DOWN.

Here in California, the wildfires that raged a mere two weeks ago have left a literal shroud hanging over the state. So many people have lost so much it’s hard to fathom feeling much Ho, Ho, Ho.

My BFF is navigating a mother who is deep into her Alzheimer’s long goodbye, and although she’s maintaining a stiff lip and a brave face, I can feel her sadness all the way from the Great Northwest. 

I’ve felt wonky for the past few months which led to me seeing a cardiologist about an arrhythmia caused by a jacked-up thyroid. As somebody who usually runs circles around the holidays, this “health situation” had made me feel anxious, vulnerable, and introspective. The old adage, “If you don’t have your health, you have nothing”, has turned from a blah, blah, blah thing that old people say—to the god’s honest truth.

So, in a nutshell, I’ve really had nothing funny or uplifting to say. (As a sidenote it must be said that if I lose my sense of humor, it’s time to take me to the doctor.)

Then, the other day, I came across this picture on Liz Gilbert’s social media and it gutted me. This is her first holiday season without her beloved Raya, and it shows her seeking solace in the lap of her friend Martha Beck.  I stared at it for a long time, crying the ugly cry because, number one—I’d been holding onto a lot of fear around my health and it felt good to let it all out, and number two—when I saw it, it reminded me of pretty much everyone I know right now, including, perhaps, The Statue of Liberty. It reminds me of exhausted surrender. A place I initially have a hard time finding–but know well.

Then, on Wednesday, Liz wrote this and I wanted to share it with you.

THIS I can do. I can hold the hearts who are hurting in my heart ( just as long as y’all don’t mind a bumpy ride!) You are not alone. You are not misunderstood. We can do this.

Let’s all hold each other hearts. We’ll know when it’s safe to let go. We’re gonna be alright.

I love you.
Carry on,
xox


Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving after the death of a loved one.

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving after a divorce.

Holding your heart in my heart if you can’t be with your family this year.

Holding your heart in my heart if you are estranged from your family.

Holding your heart in my heart if you have a family member serving in the military, or if you yourself are serving.

Holding your heart in my heart if you have to work today.

Holding your heart in my heart if you a missing a loved one at your table today because of addiction or mental illness or sickness or anger.

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving in sobriety.

Holding your heart in my heart if you struggle with food, and you feel like nobody understands.

Holding your heart in my heart if family holidays bring up nothing but memories of suffering for you.

Holding your heart in my heart if you are alone, or if you are just feeling alone in the crowd.

Holding your heart in my heart today, all day long. Holidays aren’t always easy. But you are loved. Please know that you are loved.

Unclench your fist and lay your hand on your heart. It’s all gonna be alright.

We love you.
❤️LG

 

There Are Actually 24 Hours In A Day—And Other Christmas Myths

“I work 8 hours, I sleep 8 hours, that leaves 8 hours for…what?”

I was listening to a podcast today and this “old saying” stopped me in my tracks.

Well, the big, juicy melted piece of gum I stepped in while I was listening and traversing the parking lot at Target actually DID stop me in my tracks. A stop so dead—I walked right out of my shoe.

I kid you not.

Seeing that we are deep into December, I had to park so far away that the actual Target store was just a speck on the horizon. I’m sure someone left their gum, like a bread crumb, to mark the trail back to their car so…I can’t really be mad, can I?
But enough about my glamourous life.

Back to the saying. You know, the myth that implies that there are more than enough hours in a day.

You work eight hours.
Stop laughing.
I know we’re smack dab in the middle of the holidays and what with shopping and wrapping and all—the Elves up at the North Pole have a shorter work day. And better benefits. And terrific catering. Nevermind.

So… you work.

Anyhow, you sleep eight hours. But seriously, who does? I’m lucky to get seven. This morning I woke up at 3 am because I thought I saw an orange glow down the hall and knew for sure the tree was on fire.
It wasn’t.

Too late, adreneline rushes don’t keep regular office hours.

Then I couldn’t remember all of the reindeer names or get that damn song out of my head.
I lay there wondering where on earth my pine nut cookie recipe went and the next thing I knew it was 4am and all I could think about was how good coffee would taste with a pine nut cookie—so I got up and made some. Coffee. Not the cookies. I’m still at a loss.

So…You sleep.

But you guys, that still leaves at least several, maybe four, hours left to do whatever you want.

My friend says those hours are reserved for worrying.
Yikes.
My hubby says traffic on the 101 freeway chews up his spare time.
Jeepers, people.

What about eating?
Sex anybody?
Holiday merriment?

I decided to paint with a broad brush.
“I work 8 hours, I sleep 8 hours, that leaves 8 hours left for… FUN!”

That sounds downright illegal, doesn’t it? Fun? Really? And for eight hours? Oh, sweet Jesus, help me!

But fun can be anything, right?

A glass of pink champagne for no reason?

Maybe it’s staying up after everybody else goes to bed to binge watch Netflix.

What about going out to lunch and catching up with an old friend?

Today, my friend Kim and I played hookie and went to see a movie—in the middle of the day!

How would you complete that sentence? Gimme some hints, I’d love to know.

Carry on,
xox

Her Own Secret Santa

image

*This is a guest post by my dear friend Jeanne Sullivan. We were roomies at that badass writing retreat I had the privilege to attended in August. http://bookmama.com

One of the advantages of sharing a room with a writer besides staying up late, talking and laughing, is the telling of great stories. This is one that she told me that weekend, and it has stayed with me ever since, because it is that good.

I could SO relate as I had been a mostly unattached single woman for about a million years – and I’m sure a few of you can too.

I think this is genius self-care, and I wanted to share it with you.

Jeanne is such an amazing woman. Smart, funny, warm, compassionate, a killer business woman, and a single mom.

I know you’re going to fall in love with her – just like I did.

Take it away Jeanne!

Just last Christmas I found myself on Christmas morning without presents under the tree.
We did our usual exchange with the family between my mom and sisters, but mine was a gift certificate that arrived via email. My kids, not yet of driving or earning ages, hadn’t contributed to the pile of wrapping under the tree. And my on again, off again relationship was off again. All that to say, I thought it wouldn’t bother me; I thought I didn’t care. I thought I wasn’t such a materialistic person. But when 2 pm came, my boys went to their dad’s house; and I had a good cry about it. Then I moved on.

Flash forward to February, and I’m laughing with my son at breakfast about how I’d ordered a flash drive for him at Christmas and forgotten about it. I’d come across it cleaning out my office the day before in a box with something I’d bought for myself: a Bamboo stylus I had been so excited about! Apparently, so excited that I completely forgot about it for two months while it was sitting in an Amazon box on top of my bookcase.

And just like that, the idea hit me.
If it was that easy for me to forget about the stylus, I bet I’d also forget about a new pair of boots, a sweater, and a brand new iPad.

Here was my plan: I’ll order myself a Christmas present every month between now and then. I’ll pay the extra $5 to have it wrapped and follow my son’s suggestion to lock them in the attic like I do their presents. I’ve had a smile under my hat about it ever since, part grin and part gratitude. You see, at other times in my life, I might have thought: “there’s no way this would happen again” or “I’m sure I’ll be in a relationship next year.” Or my favorite denial strategy:

“By next year, I’ll be so mature that not having presents under the tree won’t bother me at all.”

Those ways of thinking were for back then, when I wasn’t yet forty and cared a lot more about what other people think. Back when I wanted to be better than wanting a pile of presents under the tree. And, life might be short, so just in case, I decided to plan differently for this year.

Last February, I conceded that things could change: “Maybe I’ll be in a great relationship with a man who showers me with gifts by December 25th this year. Maybe I’ll cultivate a huge circle of friends who have nothing to do but think about their single sister’s supply under the tree. Maybe my kids will work all summer mowing lawns just to put a few gifts under the tree for mom.”

While I’m as optimistic, maybe even more so, than the next person – I sure am glad I took matters into my own hands. At this very moment, I have no shame in sharing that I have the MOST presents under the tree – ten to be exact. The final present to myself, from myself will arrive on December 23rd from Stitch Fix. This was, ahem, the same strategy I used for buying my own birthday present this year, and it worked out very well.

Vulnerability, like good wine, is always better with friends.

Won’t you to share your insights, fears, stories and dreams with me in the comments below?

Which holiday is hardest for you? What could you do to make sure it’s better this year, even if it seems silly or selfish?

Jeannie Sullivan

With a pocketful of entrepreneurial dreams, Jeannie left her VP corporate gig in the middle of the recession to launch her own consultancy. Within her first year, she was leveraging a revenue mix to bring home six figures annually doing work that she loves. Her coaching practice attracts professionals who are ready to create commerce on their own terms by starting a business, innovating their business strategy, or unleashing their true talents on the world. You can learn more about her at jeanniesullivan.com.

Hi, I’m Janet

Mentor. Pirate. Dropper of F-bombs.

This is where I write about my version of life. My stories. Told in my own words.

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