The Huffington Post

Hello luvs,
This is my latest Huffington Post.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/an-open-letter-to-the-rec_b_12250902.html

It’s about divorce. And life after divorce. And dating. And dating after divorce. And maybe, just maybe the sex as my friend Sandra refers to it.

Please feel free to comment, like and share. I’d love it if you would!

Carry on,
xox

I see you there, under the covers with your swollen eyes and a nose as raw and runny as your recently broken heart. Darling, I can see you because I’ve been you.

I also see dead people. And right now you are a zombie. Numb inside. A card carrying member of the walking dead.

But you will re-join the living—I can promise you that. How do I know? Because I too crawled out from beneath the smoldering rubble of a divorce—and lived to tell about it.

And as your future self, I can assure you that not only will you survive—you will thrive!

Am I an expert? Well, yes. Yes, I am. Even though no two divorces are alike, once you’ve lived through one you are part of a select group who can speak about it with authority. Kind of like plane crash survivors or those unfortunate souls who are born with a third nipple.

Besides, I am your future self. I am older and wiser and I deserve your respect.

Listen, everyone on the planet has had their heart broken at least five times, once, and very few (less than one percent), fail to fall in love again. So it goes without saying that the odds are in your favor. That your dried up raisin of a heart will eventually heal enough to try this love thing again.

You may even get re-married—but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

I can assure you that once the initial shock wears off you’ll silence the Adele, stop eating raw chocolate chip cookie dough straight from the roll and get back to wearing pants instead of pajamas bottoms. Your skin will clear up, you’ll get the best haircut of your life, and on a random Thursday night, you’ll finally agree to meet friends for drinks. Once there, you’ll only cry a little when someone brings up the holidays. Later that night, alone in bed, a turning point will be reached. You’ll have the realization that for the first time in like forever—you actually had—what’s the word? Fun.

Now a word of warning. Everyone and their cousin will try to fix you up with someone they know who’s “perfect” for you.

It is the craziest thing! No one can stand to see a divorced person single for more than five minutes. It’s just a fact of life so accept it. Now, this is either going to become a great distraction—or send you to bed for a month. Don’t get discouraged. I’m here to tell you this immediate aftermath is not the phase where anything meaningful happens so don’t worry about it. Take a lot of bubble baths, drink tea, catch up on your reading, watch every Nora Ephron movie, and eventually send out a search party to find your sense of humor—you’re going to need it.

Because here’s the thing. You are going to want to date again! 

I know, right now that sounds about as fun as walking barefoot on hot coals, or picking them up and putting them in your mouth—but hear me out. Eventually, you will meet someone you really like and when that initial rush of excitement hits you, it is going to feel like a combination of Christmas Eve and the Fourth of July. The body has sense memory where this is concerned. Trust it. You may be tempted to go slow, and that’s probably advisable, but after your protracted post-divorce hiatus from fun, laughter and (gulp) sex, this new attraction will feel as like a tall glass of ice water in hell.

We can talk about sex if you want to. I think we should.
I know it’s making you throw up a little in your mouth, but that’s all the more reason you will need to get back in the saddle, so to speak. Probably not right away…but sometime this decade. There’s just no way to get around this so I’m gonna give it to ya straight. Sex for the first time with someone besides your ex is going to feel extremely weird and titillating, and awful, and wonderful, uncomfortable and ridiculous.

A confusing mixed salad of emotions that will be hard to overcome.

There’s no denying that. But you must. And you will. Please, I beg of you, don’t listen to your self-sabotaging brain chatter. It will only fuck things up—in a bad way. I am here to tell you this can be exciting as hell and you will definitely be On. Your. Game—so don’t worry. You will feel present, awake and alive which I’m just guessing is very different than what was happening in your marriage just prior to your split.

Listen, I’m your future self, so I already know what went down. No judgment here. I only want to congratulate you on the progress you’ll make.

Listen, I thought this would be a good time to come talk to you in order to assuage your fears, dry your tears, and at the very least help you to crack a smile because, hey, it’s a start. It means you broke through the numbness and felt something. Something besides sadness, shame and anger.

I also highly recommend breathing and putting one foot in front of the other because that helps too, just keep moving forward.

I can promise you, the more time that goes by, the less you will look behind you at that jackass who doesn’t deserve you, and the more enthusiasm you will start to feel toward the future.

I can promise that because I am you. Only, I’m in the future. I am healed and whole and happy as shit—and I’m waiting for you here.

xox

This is a reprise from one year ago but I consider love letters an integral part of any gratitude storm…maybe you’ll agree. So, here ya go!
xox

Hi you guys!
Here is this week’s Huffington Post essay. It has to do with failing BIG and making peace with it.
So much so that I sat down and wrote it a love letter:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/my-love-letter-to-failure_b_8198096.html

If you know anyone going through a hard time right now who could use this, I’d love it if you’d share.
Carry on,
xox

My dearest, darling Failure,

You don’t mind if I call you by that name, do you?

I’m well aware that it’s much more politically correct to refer to you on your visits as re-direction, contrast, disappointment and a shit storm blah, blah, blah.

But when the shit hits the fan, when careers crash and burn, when marriages end badly; when we get fired, sued, or otherwise fucked over — when the things we hold dearest in our lives fracture and give way under the stress — sweetheart, it’s YOUR face we all see at the scene of the crime.

I know, I hear you when you complain that you are greatly under-appreciated but let me be clear — no one wants you around!

That being said, as I’ve come to know you better over the past few years, well, I have to admit– I’ve fallen for you…hard.

I don’t mean to sugar coat things, but you came into my life with the face of my foe and you have become my friend.

You shook things up for me BIG TIME. You took my tiny Etch-A-Sketch of a life, with all of its perfectly drawn straight lines, and you hurled it into an F5 tornado.

But I love you for that, ya big lug.

Just uttering your name, Failure, can set a person’s teeth on edge, but please don’t take it personally. I’ll give it to you straight. The reason you’re not welcome in our lives is because we’re all terrified that when you show up you’ll get comfortable, and never leave.

But truth be told, you are just as fleeting as success, THAT you’ve taught me.

When you are standing next to me knee-deep in the rubble of my life, you know what I do the next day? I get up and put one foot in front of the other, each step moving me forward.

You know what I do the days Success holds my hand? I get up, put one foot in front of the other and move forward with my life.

Success has its value — don’t get me wrong — but you Failure, your lessons have marked me more deeply and profoundly than I could have ever imagined and I love you for that.

Success never caused me to grow, gave me depth nor made me an internally richer person.

But by God, you have Failure.

Success made me lazy, afraid to try new things and take chances.

You gave me a glimpse of my true nature.

You have delivered to me some of my most agonizing moments but they have transformed me.

You made me better. Better in business; better in life. A better friend, sister, and wife.

Damn it, I love you man.

We all go to extraordinary lengths to avoid you–I know I did–but I realize now that was a mistake.

It’s like trying to avoid aging, which is a similar double-edged sword and just as futile.
There are as many benefits to be gained from failure as there are from growing old, and BOTH are a privilege.

I truly love you Failure.
If you had not come into my life when you did, I would not be the person I am today.

Big hug and a sloppy kiss,
xox
Janet

This is my latest Huffington Post piece and another in my unintentional series on the way hope, gratitude and optimism have become dirty words these days. What do you think my tribe?
xox

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/i-may-be-a-pollyanna-but-_b_11265326.html

It’s become terminally “uncool” to be hopeful and optimistic; and if anyone so much as gets a whiff of it, you are laughed at, belittled and shouted down.

That being said, I have a confession to make—I am proud to admit that I am a card-carrying “Pollyanna”.

Just to clarify, “Pollyanna” is a derogatory term for someone who remains excessively sweet-tempered and optimistic even in adversity. This may sound like it’s all fairy dust, rainbows, and unicorn balls, but I’m here to tell you, it can be difficult to maintain, especially surrounded as we are by the current apocalyptic zeitgeist.

Optimism is not for crybabies or the faint of heart.
Neither is hope. It’s an audacious act.
And fucking hard work.
It takes focus, grit, grace, a thick skin and the ability to unplug.

Hopelessness has countless outlets these days and it broadcasts its tale of woe 24/7. Like a spoiled, bratty child it yells at the top of its lungs all the while keeping its hands over its ears, lest it hear something uplifting—like the truth.

Here at the Pollyanna channel, we eat fear for breakfast—because we know the truth.

College graduation is at an all time high.
Teenage pregnancy numbers have continued to fall.
Violent crime is at an all-time low.
There has been a drop in domestic violence and drunk driving-related deaths.
Around the world, deaths from infectious diseases and child mortality are at an all time low.
Just to name a few.

I’m not blind, I still see huge room for improvement, but as an optimist, I believe the solutions come to us when we stay centered in hope.

It can be damn hard. I get it.

But like I said, optimism is not a fair weather sport for weaklings. It is for warriors. It’s so much easier to complain and blame, be furious and scared.

This pollyanna shit is not all kumbaya—it takes work!

By-the-way, if a doctor, therapist, teacher or pastor told me that the problem I was struggling with was a hopeless disaster, I would seriously run for the freakin’ hills. I expect even more from someone campaigning for the highest office in the land.

Please tell me one time that that kind of thinking has brought lasting, positive change.
One time. Tell me. I’m waiting.
NEVER.

I can guarantee you that throughout human history while some fraidy-cat fear-monger was running around like a headless chicken screaming about a falling sky, the Pollyanna’s in the bunch were calming the crowd and building a roof.

I swear to God, Noah was a Pollyanna.

“What devastating flood?” he said, over the deafening shouts of rain! Rain! Flood! Flood! Death! Disaster—and worse, no flood insurance!

“I’m building a boat” was his reply.

“What an idiot you are!” they all shouted after him as he sailed away.

Pollyanna’s unite! Be strong in the face of constant ridicule. Use your hope, use your faith, keep your optimism high and calm the crowds. Stay in the arena! We need you in the game!

Carry on.

How are you with loss? OMG you guys I sucked at it!

Coping with any kind of loss has been a learning curve for me.

First I was a cold-blooded jackass looking for payback, then an armoured up she-devil, then, slowly, eventually. I started to figure things out.
Take a look, see if what you did was radically different (do tell) or if you are a part of my tribe.

Please share with anyone you know who might need this right now. I’d also love it if you’d leave a comment on the HuffPo.

Thank you, love you, and carry on,
xox

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/learning-to-navigate-loss_b_8671602.html

Have you been a victim of Family Holiday Dysfunction?  Yeah, me too.

That’s why they call it Turkey Day.

Here’s a reader’s holiday favorite NEW and revised on the Huffington Post.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/hard-feelings-with-a-side_b_8612360.html

Hang in there—it’ll be over soon!

xox

I’ve been in a sort of pickle these past few days. Not quite a dilemma—I suppose you could call it a quandary.

Yeah, that’s it—I’ve been in a quandary as to how to handle all this hubbub around the two essays I wrote for The Huffington Post regarding my divorce—and the quandary is this: There are two sides to every story.

He said—she said.

Suddenly my side, which after over thirty years decided to show up in my rear view mirror and then be published not once, but in two different essays, with an interview today on Huffington Post Live, is starting to make me a tad uncomfortable.

With all the distance, and water under the bridge; the fact that both my ex and me have gone on to find love again and lead perfectly lovely lives; and the fact that we are…friendly—has helped me approach the telling of the story of our divorce and the subsequent years afterward with a light touch.
With humor and gratitude, unicorns and love letters.

Now here’s the rub. I’m not so sure he sees things that way.

I haven’t actually had a conversation with him about our divorce in over twenty years, and I have no intention of re-opening that subject with him now, that is not an easy topic for us and last we spoke I can guarantee you—there were no unicorns or love letters mentioned.

You see, back in 1984 I left the marriage and he was not happy about it.
He swears he never saw it coming which always makes me shake my head in disbelief (I’m doing it right now), so I’m sure his story would read more like this: Blindsided great guy (he really was) gets the heave-ho from totally ditzy, hopelessly romantic and seriously deluded first wife.

True or not, that is probably his take on a difficult and painful situation from his past—and the problem is —no one will ever hear about it.

Since my side(s) of the story have gotten more traction, I’ve been dialing down the social media blitz that comes with having your articles reach outside of your comfortable circle of friends and family. Strangers are reading it and weighing in and THAT feels weird somehow.

I know my ex peruses my personal Facebook page so I’ve left both articles off of it, hoping for the best.

That’s the thing. One person talking about their experience as half of a partnership, a union, a collaboration—or a relationship—is missing a very important element—the other side of the story.

Liz Gilbert wrote about her difficult and emotionally wrenching divorce in Eat,Pray,Love,and the world sympathized—which eventually compelled her ex-husband to write a book about HIS experience inside of the same situation.

The Oscar-nominated screenwriter of When Harry Met Sally and Sleepless in Seattle, wrote Heartburn in 1983. The book was inspired by the events of her break-up with her second husband, the Watergate journalist Carl Bernstein, whom she discovered was having an affair with British politician Margaret Jay while Ephron was pregnant with their son Max. While it may seem as if he wouldn’t have had a leg to stand on in the court of public opinion, Bernstein did threaten legal action for how he was portrayed.

All I know you guys, is that I‘m not so sure I’d like to read about what any of my ex’s thought about our relationship on Facebook or in The Huffington Post.

Even if they were kind about it, (which I made sure to be), I’m certain I’d disagree with all, most, some of what they had to say.

It’s too late. The genie is out of the bottle.
I have a blog where I talk about all aspects of my life—from my perspective—no holds barred—hoping to share the common thread that runs between all of us, and I can’t start being worried about what someone will think about it now.

I get to have “my view of the facts” as a friend said to me today, but remember—true or not—completely accurate or not—everything you ever read is just one person’s View of the Facts.

I often forget that, falling under the assumption that it’s the whole story.

What do you guys think?

Carry on,
xox

*Below you will find my latest Huffington Post essay you guys.
A reworked post from earlier this year about aging, and mothers and feeling completely unprepared for middle age.

And believe me when I say, that I know that you’d rather watch a slide show of Aunt Tilly’s vacation pictures from Bocca; than to write a comment on a fucking blog; I’d love it if you’d gush about me over at the Huffington Post. Then once I build a following, you can all go back to the anonymity of the shadows. Thank you and I love you.
xox

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/things-my-mother-forgot-to-tell-me-about-aging—-a-cautionary-tale_b_8155736.html

(This was taken during my five, um, 11, okay—15-year “awkward phase” — you can see she had her work cut out for her.)

I was reminded recently — as I continue my snarky, sweaty slog through my 50s — that I’ve done so without the guidance, advice or fair warning of my mother.

She was too busy; engaged in the parental heavy-lifting of delivering the three of us to adulthood, that it never occurred to her to share these pearls of wisdom.

So I’ll do you all the favor; pulling back the curtain to expose all the hidden truths (in no particular order), of life in middle age.

1.) Invest in a good bra, and for God’s sake, if you have anything over a D cup, don’t jog. It is for that reason alone that I have to tell the girl at Nordstrom that I wear a 36 long.

2.) Carry an across-the-shoulder messenger bag and keep the weight below 35 pounds. Yes, you heard me. I have a divot in my shoulder and the posture of a Sherpa from carrying around the kitchen sink everyday for over 40 years.

Oh, and ladies — after you stop menstruating, you can toss all the tampons. I’m giving you the all clear. I put them in my time capsule along with my Midol, my flat stomach, my perky tits and my happy-go-lucky disposition.

It’s okay — give up the fight.

3.) If someone says they’re sorry — forgive them. You may never talk to them again, or wish them well — but the forgiveness will set you free.

4.) Make eye contact and remember people’s names.

My trick? I repeat it back to them and use a rhyming game (in my head, not to their face).
Along those lines — Listen without interrupting, ask people questions about themselves and always introduce yourself and anyone standing with you.

These are the Golden Rules of any dinner party, staff meeting, black tie event or ladies restroom line — really, any social situation you may find yourself in.

5.) Use those dental-pick-thingies every night. I brush and floss like a maniac and yet I still manage to pull an entire steak dinner out from between my teeth with those things!

6.) Listen to advice but only from the smart people — never the stupid ones. Pay attention. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

7.) Word to the wise. You can forget about those mustache and chin hairs.

After 40, pubic hair will lose its genetic coding and start migrating around your body.

It will crawl up your stomach and onto the back of your legs if you let it. I tried to wrangle mine, to fill in my over-tweezed eyebrows (a ’70s fad that went horribly wrong), but to no avail. I did find one on my arm last week. Consider yourselves warned.

8.) Men stay boys all their lives. This needs no explanation.

9.) Stay curious. About people, life and the planet. It will help you to appreciate and demystify every seemingly mundane thing that surrounds you.

10.) Beach hair only looks good on 23-year-old models named Tia. The same goes for a navel piercing. Trust me on this.

11.) This is a big one. A lie is someone’s imagination working against them. Remember that.

12.) Always carry matches or a lighter. And lipstick. Always carry lipstick.

13.) You will never use calculus beyond college — but good table manners, clean fingernails and comfortable shoes will carry you far in life.

14.) Carrying (and reading) an interesting book will be an amazingly effective airplane conversation starter — and the perfect companion when dining alone.

15.) Be polite and try every food that is offered to you, (which means eat a bull testicle even if you’re a vegetarian.) It will broaden your horizons in unimaginable ways and make you a sought after dinner guest.

16.) Self-tanner is a catastrophe-in-a-can waiting to happen. Make peace with your paleness. End of story.

17.) Know that your looks will fade and reconcile yourself with that. Your neck will waddle, the hair on your head will thin, and your breasts will sag. If you decide to take matters into your own hands, make sure your surgeon has a light touch.

You still want to look like you — only rested.

19.) Pay attention to your feet. They will start to fight back after 50. All the years of squeezing them into severely pointed, one size too small, five-inch heels have made them…cranky.

Can you blame them?

20.) Take the effort to make a good first impression — you may never get a second chance.

And last but not least — reinvent. Don’t rest on you laurels, don’t question your intuition, and don’t tell yourself you’re too old, too fat, or too busy to reassess your situation and reinvent yourself.

Now pay this information forward and don’t say I never gave you anything.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/i-was-a-twentysix-year-ol_b_8086040.html

So I finally did it. I reached a milestone, the bloggers Holy Grail. I got a piece published in the Huffington Post!

But it was the journey there that made an even, dare I say, larger impression on me!

After receiving the nicest email a year ago from Arianna herself (on a Sunday for chrissakes), hooking me up with a blog editor, I have spent the past year submitting posts like a fucking headless chicken, with no luck.

Finally, around June-ish, my poor harried Muse suggested I give it a rest—just for the summer.

But, but, how will I know when to start again? I whined in protest.

You’ll just know, she replied in an exhausted tone; drink in hand, the nub of a cigarette dangling from her lips.

goddamnit! I hate when she does that.

Anyhow, I did as I was told. I immediately stopped submitting.
But I kept a keen eye open, looking for a signal; a sign; a flare;  SOMETHING; ANYTHING; to let me know when it was time to start submitting again. And… I never stopped writing.

About two weeks ago I sat down and out poured an essay about my divorce (Yawn*. I have covered that topic from head to toe, turning over every rock, so much so that I’M even bored with it).

However, this time was different. It was written from the perspective of my twenty-six year old self and how it all felt to her.  Hmmmm… I still wasn’t sure what to make of it, so I filed it away with the ten gazillion other unfinished drafts.

A week later as I was browsing the Huffington Post Facebook page, an essay on divorce caught my eye. It said at the top that they were running a series This is Divorce at… Stories about what divorce meant at all different ages. If you had one, they were asking for submissions.

Whoa, What?
Shut Up!
Are you kidding me? I just wrote that piece.

Then it dawned on me, because it takes me a while and I have swiss cheese for a brain. (You’re all way ahead of me aren’t you?)

OMG! That was my sign to submit!

So I finished the essay, sent it in, (I had to shorten it), and the rest, as they say is history.
It was THAT easy.

What’s that word we’ve been throwing around all freaking summer?

Oh yeah, surrender.

This is my best surrender story EVER! (Well, except for the time I surrendered my poor struggling store to the Powers That Be, and it flooded and died that very night) —yeah, besides that one.

Today I’m filled with SO MUCH gratitude! That is some powerful Unicorn ju-ju!

Love you, Carry on,
xox

Hey you guys,
I would appreciate it SO MUCH if you would leave a comment on the HuffPo article and up at the top there is a tiny little heart that if you click on it makes you a fan. Would you do that for me?
Thank you so much!

xox