transition

Loves,

I came across this post today while searching for…don’t ask…and it’s become more relevant than ever as I traverse aging and what that even means for women over fifty in a program I co-lead with the intrepid Geraldine called Croneology. http://croneology.net

Middle age is a crossroads y’all.
You’ve either laid the track for where you’re headed in advance, or you’re about to——and there’s no alternative, because, as Brene Brown so eloquently puts it, “Midlife is when the universe gently places her hands upon your shoulders, pulls you close, and whispers in your ear: I’m not screwing around. All of this pretending and performing—these coping mechanisms that you’ve developed to protect yourself from feeling inadequate and getting hurt—has to go.”

So, what tracks are you laying right this minute for that thing you know will show up one day?

xox

“Signora, between Austria and Italy, there is a section of the Alps called the Semmering. … They built a train track over these Alps to connect Vienna and Venice. They built these tracks even before there was a train in existence that could make the trip. They built it because they knew someday, the train would come.”

When you read that story, about the train and the Alps, how does it make you feel?

Are you thinking, Why do I care about a train in Europe? I have three job interviews this week!

Or, are you more practical, like, How fiscally irresponsible is that to build something that no one can use?

Or… are you more like me?

As you’ve probably already guessed, that little anecdote gives ME goosebumps the size of Montana hail, a lump in my throat, and every time I read it my boobies tingle a little—because that’s just the kind of inspiring, real-life, stranger-than-fiction, magical nonsense that makes me excited to get up in the morning.

That passage is from a favorite movie of mine, Under the Tuscan Sun, which if you haven’t seen it or have read the book (which is marvelous) is about a woman going through a profound life change whose purpose, timeframe, and final destination are completely unknown to her. And yet, day after day, terrified and miserable as fuck, she just keeps putting one foot in front of the other.

Like we all do.
Even people who aren’t steeped in faith find a way to carry on.
Maybe they get it from stories about trains? Dunno.

Anyway, if you think about it from my very Pollyanna Perspective, every great work of art, creative endeavor, and scientific accomplishment started with some track building. I’ll take it a step further and insist that we all lay down tracks we can’t use until we flesh out our ideas from start to finish.

I do it every freaking day and so do you!

A dear friend of mine has gone back to school to get her degree. There’s no job lined up yet, no clientele or guarantee of employment waiting for her at the finish line. Nevertheless, I see her working her tail off—laying the tracks.

From the age of thirteen, Misty Copeland would practice up to eight hours a day, barely listening to the naysayers who insisted that her skin was too dark, her body too curvy, and she’d started dancing too late to have a real career in ballet. But Misty wasn’t screwing around, she was too busy laying tracks for a position that did not exist before her—the first African-American principal ballerina for the American Ballet Theatre.

She gave us something we never knew we needed—that now we can never imagine living without.

Like a train across the Alps.

What tracks are you laying right this minute for that thing you know will show up one day?

Carry on,
xox JB

Yesterday, my BFF posted in social media that she cut her own bangs. “Uh, oh,” I quipped in the comments. “How much wine was involved?” Then I remembered this post from back in 2016 and realized I was projecting my own deep, childhood based neurosis onto her well-adjusted, life-coachy self—and the only way I could think of to re-gain my self-respect was to finish half a pumpkin pie.

“Hi, my name is Janet, and I’m a serial bang cutter.”

Carry on,
xox

“It’s not a good idea to touch your hair when you are in transition. Or change your appearance at all for that matter.”
~ Me

I can offer this advice because I know it well—from personal experience.

The first time I used self mutilation, bang cutting as a soothing device was second or third grade, I can’t remember which, when I was unceremoniously transferred without any warning, from Miss Law’s classroom, which I adored because it was very progressive (she had us sit with our desks in a circle), to Sister Francis Ann’s dark and dreary classroom where the desks were aligned in eight, severe, ROWS.

That night I cut my own bangs. Badly. With plastic doll scissors. And although they were seven different levels of horrible I never admitted it. Until now.

I always seemed to get a bad haircut right about the time I was losing my front teeth or getting braces. Like I couldn’t just leave well enough alone.
What about you?

Was it bad timing?

One of the traumas of childhood?

Or a tragic coincidence?

I can’t be sure, but I have the pictures to prove it.

Due to the fact that pixie cuts were all the rage for little girls in the 1960’s, and that I wasn’t asked or consulted in any way because, well, because it was back in the days when kids didn’t get a vote and my mom chose my stylist and paid for my haircut, I decided to fly in the face of conventional thinking I followed the trend and wore my hair like a boy.

At first a toothless boy.

Then a little boy with teeth too large for his/her face to which the braces only added insult to injury.

Nothing says “Hey, I’m well-adjusted”,  like showing up to the first day of a new grade wearing braces, a uniform, and your dad’s haircut.

Damn…childhood. It’s no wonder we’re all so fucked up when it comes to transitions and change.

Make yourself look as bad as you possibly can—venture out into an awkward social situation—and then try to make new friends.

Which I’m pretty sure became a pattern for me.

I remember once, in the midst of a terribly painful break-up (not to be confused with all the other break-ups that were a laugh riot), drinking and dialing my hairdresser who was a friend. I needed to re-invent. Change my face, or my body, or my personality into something more desirable so that the next asshat would find me irresistible. So…we proceeded to spend the rest of the night smoking cigarettes, demolishing several bottles of two-buck-Chuck, cursing sexy bad boys and the women who f*ck them (us), and dying my blonde hair a hideous shade of blackish/purple. The color of an eggplant, maybe a plum, most definitely a gangrenous foot.

It was not pretty. As a matter of fact it was so far from pretty that to suggest that it was even in the vicinity is an affront to the word.

Then, without ever consulting a mirror, we both agreed (at least that has always been her side of the story), that the only thing that could make me look even cuter—were bangs.

The next day I wanted to die. No, seriously. I almost dropped dead at the sight of myself.
Not only did I have to venture out in public looking like Mo from the Three Stooges, I had an audition and I was sporting bangs. Bangs the color of a dead foot that sadly matched the rest of my hair—and as memories of the previous night came flooding back I remembered that that was the least of my problems.
I was single.
Again.
I was living a real catastrofuck.

This is my darling sister, with whom I lived at the time, and I’m sure we’re laughing at the eyebrows I had to draw on with a black pencil to match my hair. Gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Even my mom, the one who had me pixie-cut, hated it. She actually cried and asked why I was deliberately defacing myself. Like I was cutting or something. She suggested that I “get some help” which is code for “Your life has seriously jumped the shark and by-the-way, if anyone asks, none of this is my fault.”

I didn’t need a shrink to tell me I sucked at transition. I had a bigger issue. Control. If something happened that I didn’t have any control over…watch out! Bangs were in my immediate future.

They still are.

If you know me, you know how many different colors and styles I’ve worn my hair over the years and if I trace it back, something emotional was always happening, some change or transition. Two parallel blenders into which I threw my life.

What could go wrong? I know what you’re thinking. You wish you had the phenomenal coping skills that I possess, good god woman, get a grip!

I just did it again recently. When I decided I was a writer, I also decided it was time to stop dying my hair and go gray!

So, that just goes to prove that although I’ve gotten a gazillion times better—old neurosis die hard .
I recognize what’s about to happen when I get wobbly and start fingering the scissors.

Bangs.

Then I go and hide them from myself.

I’ve also outgrown drinking and dialing my hairdresser and I try not to make huge changes in my appearance before an important event—although I have a big meeting at the end of the month and I’m not sure my hair is purple enough underneath…I’m serious.

The other day I tore a picture out of a magazine of a cute way to wear gray hair with…bangs.

I’m doomed.

What do you do under similar circumstances? Loose weight? Buy boobs? Grow a beard? (Yeah, me too)

Carry on,
xox

It’s not a good idea to touch your hair when you are in transition. Or change your appearance at all for that matter.

I can offer that advice because I know from personal experience.

The first time was second or third grade, I can’t remember which, when I was unceremoniously transferred without any warning from Miss Law’s classroom, which I adored because it was very progressive (she had us sit with our desks in a circle), to Sister Francis Ann’s dark and dreary classroom where the desks were all in ROWS.

That night I cut my own bangs. Badly. With plastic doll scissors. But I never admitted it. Until now.

I always seemed to get a bad haircut right about the time I was losing my front teeth or getting braces. Like I couldn’t just leave well enough alone.
What about you?

Was it bad timing?

One of the traumas of childhood?

Or a tragic coincidence?

I can’t be sure, but I have the pictures to prove it.

Due to the fact that pixie cuts were all the rage for little girls in the 1960’s, and that I wasn’t asked or consulted in any way because, well, because it was back in the days when kids didn’t get a vote and my mom chose my stylist and paid for my haircut, I decided to fly in the face of conventional thinking I followed the trend and wore my hair like a boy.

At first a toothless boy.

Then a little boy with teeth too large for his/her face to which the braces only added insult to injury.

Nothing says “Hey, I’m well adjusted”,  like showing up to the first day of a new grade wearing braces, a uniform, and your dad’s haircut.

Damn…childhood. It’s no wonder we’re all so fucked up when it comes to transitions and change.

Make yourself look as bad as you possibly can—venture out into an awkward social situation—and then try to make new friends.

Which I think became a pattern for me.

I remember once, in the midst of a terribly painful break-up (to be distinguished from all the other break-ups that were a laugh riot), drinking and dialing my hairdresser who was a friend. I needed to re-invent. So…we proceeded to spend the rest of the night smoking cigarettes, drinking two-buck-Chuck, cursing sexy bad boys and dying my blonde hair a hideous shade of eggplant purple/red/black/vomit.

Then we both agreed (at least that was her side of the story), that the only thing I needed to make me look even cuter—were bangs.

The next day I wanted to die. No, seriously. I wanted to drop dead at the sight of myself.
I had an audition and I was now sporting bangs. Bangs the color of eggplant vomit; that matched the rest of my hair; and that was the least of my problems.
I was single.
Again.
It was a real catastrofuck.

This is my darling sister, whom I lived with at the time, and I’m sure we’re laughing at the eyebrows I had to draw on with a black pencil to match my hair.

Even my mom, the one who had me pixie-cut, hated it. She actually cried and asked why I was deliberately defacing myself. Like I was cutting or something. She said I “needed help.”

I didn’t need a shrink to tell me I sucked at transition. I had a bigger issue. Control. If something happened that I didn’t have any control over…watch out! Bangs were in my immediate future.

They still are.

If you know me, you know how many different colors and styles I’ve worn my hair over the years and if I trace it back, something emotional was always happening, some change or transition, right around the time I did the big ones.

I just did it recently. When I decided I was a writer, I also decided it was time to stop dying my hair and go gray!

So, that just goes to prove that old neurosis die hard although I’ve gotten a gazillion times better.
I recognize what’s about to happen when I get wobbly and start fingering the scissors.

Bangs.

Then I go and hide them from myself.

I’ve also outgrown drinking and dialing my hairdresser and I try not to make huge changes in my appearance before an important event—although I have a big meeting at the end of the month and I’m not sure my hair is purple enough underneath…I’m serious.

The other day I tore a picture out of a magazine of a cute way to wear gray hair with…bangs.

I’m doomed.

What do you do under similar circumstances? Loose weight? Buy boobs? Grow a beard? (Yeah, me too)

Carry on,
xox

Oh, I know (Jim), you don’t like reprises! Don’t get your panties in a bunch, maybe you missed this one and besides, a couple of readers requested it in lieu of the surprising exits of some beloved public figures this past week.

“It feels like a gut-punch,” one of my friends wrote me in a text on Monday. And it did.
Why do you suppose that is?

I guess it’s because neither Bowie nor Alan Rickman gave us any warning— no pale and sickly paparazzi photos or death vigil countdown after a prolonged hospitalization.

That sucks AND good for them!

My friend and fellow blogger Angie and I were writing back and forth about that yesterday. What a wonderful example they left us of having a conscious death. Creating all the way up until the end.

Happy, Healthy, Dead.

It may leave the rest of us reeling a bit but, come on, isn’t that the way we all want to go?

Happy, Healthy, Dead.

That is the clarion cry of the spiritual community I belong to. The one that lost Wayne Dyer this weekend. By the way, he isn’t really lost…but that’s another story.

I can’t remember where and when I heard it first, but it made one hell of an impression: happy, healthy, dead.

Irreverent I know, but just irreverent enough for me to embrace it wholeheartedly.
A new idea about the transition of death and how you want to leave this earth. The day you depart you want to be healthy, happy, dead. Lights out. Just like that. In a chair in front of the computer (right after you hit “send” on the best thing you’ve ever written), in your sleep (hopefully in clean pajamas, or at least pants), or sitting at a stoplight singing to your favorite song on the radio (at the end of an amazing road trip).

Boom. Gone. Sayonara. That’s that!

And that’s exactly what he did.

Transition. Why is it so fucking hard so goddamn always?

September is a month full of transition. Fall begins, the days get shorter, the nights get cooler (in theory), my big, fat, flip-flop feet have to squeeze themselves into shoes; and as the summer begins to wind down we all get a little bit squirrelly.

School starts. The nest empties. The time changes back to whatever the hell it was in May, and fucking Christmas decorations show up in the stores.

I like to say I’m pretty good at transition. But I also like to say other things that I know deep down aren’t completely true. Like: I’ll only take a couple of bites of your dessert or female politicians don’t lie.

I’ve discovered I’m okay with transitions as long as they look, feel, and taste EXACTLY like what just ended.

When I move, the joke is that my new place will be unpacked, with pictures hung, and fully decorated within twenty-four hours of receiving the keys. Everything will be in its place and it’ll look as if I’ve lived there for a decade. I even break down the boxes and drive around until I find a back alley dumpster. Anything to keep the place from looking chaotic and temporary. THAT my dear friends is not an example of someone who has a facility for change.

It is the white-knuckled fingers of control around the neck of my anxiety.

Why can’t transition be easy? The next logical step? The next great adventure? And since it’s a necessary part of life—why can’t we just chill?

How come we can’t remember what it felt like to graduate? To get our first job? To fall in love that very first time? Those were all transitions. Big ones. Ones that formed us. And they were pivotal in the unfolding of our life’s narrative; they were uncharted territory; fresh, new, and exciting!

Have you got an empty nest? Fill it with all the things you’ve been putting off for…Oh, I don’t know, almost twenty years!
Listen, now you get to look forward to college graduations, foreign travel, potential new family members, and maybe, eventually, the patter of little feet that go home when you’re tired of them.

I love me some summer and dread its ending, but then I remember that I also love fires in fireplaces, the smell of burning leaves, cozy sweaters, hot mint tea and rainy days. So what’s the big deal?

Transition. Happy; healthy; dead. Easy, peasy, Parcheesi.

Excuse me while I go wedge my paddle foot into some sexy black boots.

Carry on,
xox

Happy, Healthy, Dead.

That is the clarion cry of the spiritual community I belong to. The one that lost Wayne Dyer this weekend. By the way, he isn’t really lost…but that’s another story.

I can’t remember where and when I heard it first, but it made one hell of an impression: happy, healthy, dead.

Irreverent I know, but just irreverent enough for me to embrace it wholeheartedly. A new idea about the transition of death. How you want to leave this earth. The day you depart you want to be healthy, happy, dead. Lights out. Just like that. In a chair in front of the computer (right after you hit “send” on the best thing you’ve ever written), in your sleep (hopefully in clean pajamas), or sitting at a stoplight (at the end of an amazing road trip). Boom. Gone. Sayonara. That’s that!
And that’s exactly what he did.

Transition. Why is it so fucking hard, so goddamn always?

September is a big month full of transition. Fall begins, the days get shorter, the nights get cooler (in theory), my big, fat, flip-flop feet have to squeeze themselves into shoes; and as the summer begins to wind down we all get a little bit squirrelly.

School starts. The nest empties. The time changes back to whatever the hell it was in May, and fucking Christmas decorations show up in the stores.

I like to say I’m pretty good at transition. But I also like to say other things that I know deep down aren’t completely true. Like: I’ll only take a couple of bites of your dessert or female politicians don’t lie.

I’ve discovered I’m okay with transitions as long as they look, feel, and taste EXACTLY like what just ended.

When I move, the joke is that my new place will be unpacked, with pictures hung, and fully decorated within twenty-four hours of receiving the keys. Everything will be in its place and it’ll look as if I’ve lived there for a decade. I even break down the boxes and drive around until I find a back alley dumpster. Anything to keep the place from looking chaotic and temporary. THAT my dear friends is not an example of someone who has a facility for change.

It is the white-knuckled fingers of control around the neck of my anxiety.

Why can’t transition be easy? The next logical step? The next great adventure? And since it’s a necessary part of life—why can’t we just chill?

How come we can’t remember what it felt like to graduate? To get our first job? To fall in love that very first time? Those were all transitions. Big ones. Ones that formed us. And they were pivotal in the unfolding of our life’s narrative; they were uncharted territory; fresh, new, and exciting!

Have you got an empty nest? Fill it with all the things you’ve been putting off for…Oh, I don’t know, almost twenty years!
Listen, now you get to look forward to college graduations, foreign travel, potential new family members, and maybe, eventually, the patter of little feet that go home when you’re tired of them.

I love me some summer and dread its ending, but then I remember that I also love fires in fireplaces, the smell of burning leaves, cozy sweaters, hot mint tea and rainy days. So what’s the big deal?

Transition. Happy; healthy; dead. Easy, peasy, Parcheesi.

Excuse me while I go wedge my paddle foot into some sexy black boots.

Carry on,
xox

So yeah, I’ve been writing with my new mentor—and she’s dead.
Minor complication really, especially given her big personality.

Lately, all she wants to talk about is how she died and what it’s like being dead.
I know, blah, blah, blah, who cares.
Oh wait, I do!
I’ve always been curious about the after-life and now lucky me, I have my own personal color commentator giving me her blow-by-blow descriptions of death and dying.

The other morning was typical. Another 5 a.m. wake-up call.
After hearing her “writing” in my head, (that’s how this works, she sends me these thoughts, or sentences that repeat and repeat and the trouble is they’re so great they wake me up), I stopped dreaming about the beached dolphin who was stealing the Nutty Buddy right out of my hand — and I got my computer to write her shit down.

“Woman, can’t you see I’m sleeping? It’s five in the morning!”

“Not here.”

Did I mention she’s a world-class smart-ass?

Her opening line with me a few months back was: death is highly underrated. How’s THAT for an opener?
It got my attention.

Saturday morning was no different. Her early morning wake-up line was this gem:

Death is slippery… Death is slippery…
It would never occur to me to pair those two words, death and slippery together.
That is SO her — I don’t have her facility with language. I’ve also never died, not even little bit.
So…that’s what woke me up enough to grab my computer.

She went on with her thought once she knew that I was awake and ready for dictation.

Did I mention she’s a bit of a taskmaster?

Death is subtle. It is slippery and seamless.

Huh.
I sat up (I had been typing laying down, hoping this was going to be a short session and I could go back to sleep) wiped the sleep from my eyes, the drool off my chin, and started to give that phrase some thought. Then I did what has become my habit with her. I looked up the definition of EVERY word because there are so many layers to what she’s trying to convey and her words are chosen VERY carefully.

It has been my experience that there is always a treasure of wisdom hidden inside.
This time did not disappoint.

SUBTLE: Delicately complex and understated. Really? Look at those words describing death — delicately complex, understated… A new concept, but I like it.

SLIPPERY: Elusive in meaning because changing according to one’s point of view. That’s the third definition listed, but that’s the one she chose. That makes sense to me. Your death experience would morph to your point of view or expectations.

SEAMLESS: Smooth and continuous, with no apparent gaps or spaces between one part and the next. Great word. Okay, okay, I’m starting to sense a theme here.

Eh hem, (said with the utmost respect) Madam, would you care to elaborate? (Like I could stop her).

Death is subtle. It is slippery and seamless.
One minute you’re here, the next you are not. It is not ONE BIT SCARY.
Similar enough to (life) to comfort; different enough to question.
“I’m dead, right?”
It has speed. Momentum.
Slippery and seamless—Think white socks on a waxed floor.
(she shows me Tom Cruise in Risky Business when he slides into the doorway in his sunglasses, white socks and tighty whities.)

That’s quite an entrance, don’t you agree? I suppose it’s also an exit. According to her—it’s both at the same time.

Can’t you just hear that music? That piano line? Da,da,da,da,da,da,dum.
You slide into the next life with shades and attitude, helped along by speed and momentum.

“I’m dead, right?”

At that point…does it matter?

Is it really that easy?

Apparently so.

Carry on,
xox

Happy Independence Day to all Americans who are reading this far and wide.

Carry on you independent ones,
xox

The feeling in the air lately.

You too?

That feels exciting!

Have a mystical, magical weekend you guys,
xox

What can I say about losing a pet?

They are arguably a member of the family, an integral cog in the wheel that is our day-to-day life. They accept our moods, dysfunction and questionable decisions with a complete lack of judgement and a wash of unconditional love. Who else can do that for us?

We lost Querida (Dita) our precious 9+ year old boxer girl last night.
It was sudden, in her sleep, in the back of my husband’s van that doubles as her pimp ride everyday. The back seat of this vehicle looks like the inside of Jeannie’s bottle, lush and cushy, ridiculously cozy with balls and blankets and toys, befitting such a queen.
She exited this life HER way. No fuss, no muss and no drama.
It was the way I would have chosen for her to go, and truth be told, the way I had been begging her to choose –– the way we all want to go –– instantly, painlessly and peacefully. Right?

Then why do I feel so bad?

Ugh. I write this with such a heavy heart, and I know better….I really do. I know in my heart of hearts that she has merged with pure positive energy and is playing a wicked game of frisbee in dog park heaven…yet, I can’t stop the tears.

I’ve grieved cats before. I lost two of them to coyotes ten years ago. But losing a dog feels different to me in this way: Cats are affectionate, and mine loved me something awful, don’t get me wrong, but I never got a sense from them that they needed me. Not for their happiness anyway. Maybe to feed them and an occasional cuddle and pet, but I was quite aware that the human in their life wasn’t Janet specific – it was…interchangeable.

But my dog? SHE loved her mommy (me) and she let me know it every day.
She’d follow me around, especially this last year or so as her health declined, with her big soulful eyes, finding solace in watching me go through my daily routine. She’d peek around the corner if I wasn’t in the kitchen for coffee fast enough, Pssst, you comin’?
And accompany me to the bathroom to drink out of the bidet. She also stood beside the shower every morning waiting for the hot washcloth to rid her of the smeared make-up. As you can see from the photos, she was a bit heavy handed with the eyeliner.
They love routine. SHE loved routine.

Every morning I play the Gayatri Mantra chant by Dev Premal. It wafts through the house for a couple of hours while we go about our morning rituals. It soothes and calms and helps us start the day without killing each other.
Yesterday was no exception, but I noticed as I raced around, that Dita was standing in front of the computer with the most blissed out look on her face. I mean BLISSED.
I even made several comments to Raphael, chuckling, “Dita is REALLY enjoying the chant this morning!”

That’s what I want to remember.
My Yogi girl, with her snaggle toothed face, looking up at me, blissed out on the smell of incense and the sound of ancient Hindu chants.
As a side note, I play meditations at night to fall asleep. They last maybe fifteen minutes and none of us ever hear the end because –– out -we-go. All I had to do was start the intro and she’d hop down into her own bed, and proceeded to follow the breathing. I’m serious.

Breathe in… the tape would say, and as I inhaled a deep breath, I could hear Dita do the same. And…exhale… Which we’d both do, Dita and I, in tandem. It was so endearing that I would even elbow my husband, are you hearing this?

I’m gonna miss that.

Indulge me for a second while I remember her.

I raised her from an eight week old puppy the size of my foot.
I carried her outside to pee in the middle of the night as a puppy, inside my T-shirt, rain or shine, until she got the hang of the doggie door. It was me she came to when she didn’t feel good, right up until last week.
If I would have had a zipper, she would have crawled inside my Mommy suit.

We were a team, the two of us. Not like her dad and she, different –– in an almost metaphysical way.
We got each other. She understood my moods. She understood English for that matter, always freaking me out when I’d ask her to fetch her blue ball out of a box of tens of toys. She would disappear for a couple of minutes and there she’d be, blue ball in her mouth.
I know every mother says it – but she was gifted.

She held my hand at night, slept with me when Raphael went on his far away motorcycle excursions, and was our alarm clock, waking us all at 6 a.m. every morning. I expect I’ll be late for a while.

She was a wiz at balancing a banana on her nose, and then, on command, flipping it into her mouth, with great pride I must add. She also loved to eat ice cubes.

She hiked the canyons with me from the time she was twelve weeks until her legs gave out, loved to bite the sprinklers, was obsessed with balls, frisbee and playing catch, rode in the motorcycle sidecar like a biker bitch, wore a security vest at my husband’s job sites (with full attitude I might add) was impeccably trained, well-mannered and polite.

She was my “shop dog” at Atik, the greeter, the mascot and the resident rascal. She’d wear any hat, glasses, and reindeer antlers that came her way, she even rocked an orange polar-fleece vest that made my husband cringe with embarrassment.
She was game for anything. I loved that about her.

She knew funny. She had the comedic timing of Lucille Ball.
Dita knew how to make us laugh and loved to do it. But she never overdid it – she was a pro.

She hasn’t been too keen on the addition of the boxer-shark puppy this past year. I think our little plan backfired, calling attention to her advancing age, rather than prolonging her youth. I’m sorry baby.

I look forward to the sadness lifting so I can be more receptive to feeling her around me, because I know that’s how these thing work., and I’m looking forward to her visit.

Thanks guys, I needed to write just a small tribute to her – she deserved it.

A class act till the end, she touched a lot of hearts and will be sorely missed by so many.
Fuck…losing a pet…

xox

Thankfully for me personally, this year didn’t suck.
There have been some years in the recent past that could not end fast enough for my taste, (you know who you are 2009 – 2010).

I’m not sure I can say the same for the world at large, but I’ll let the journalists who are fond of charting those kinds of negative things, write about that, and you can choose which to read – humor or horror.

This is my blog, so naturally it’s funny and it’s all about me ;-).

This year was pivotal in a couple of ways.

First, it was the year that I finally came out of the closet – as a writer.
I owned it. Full time.
I went on a Mack Daddy writing retreat with other Mack Daddy writers and they didn’t vote me off the island. I’m writing a book based on this blog, co-writing a musical and helping a friend edit her book. Seems I bought the T- shirt and drank the kool-aid – and I couldn’t be happier. Who knew?!

Second, I gave up any and all hope I still held, that George Clooney would settle down and get married…to me. That was a hard one – we had something.

I used to sell him jewelry back in the day, and bake chocolate bundt cakes for him when he was just ER George Clooney, not GEORGE CLOONEY the movie star.

We used to tease each other.
I’d bring up “Facts of Life” storylines, tell him his credit card was declined – while threatening it with scissors, and make supermodel jokes because he was too thin (which he was, despite the cake) – and he’d put his arm around me or call me “his girl” and watch my face turn poinsettia red while I geeked out.

I helped him refine his taste in jewelry.

You’re welcome Amal.

I’m telling you, we had it.

Oh timing…you are a cruel opponent.

This was also the year we got our boxer-shark puppy which has been a blessing and curse.
I’ve written about maybe two percent of the shenanigans she’s pulled.

She’s a bitch, a trouble maker and a giver of NO fucks.
If she were human, she’d smoke cigarettes, have earphones permanently implanted, a bright blue mohawk and a pierced tongue. She would be the Girl with The Dragon Tattoo.

Currently she has mange. Or man-gee as my French husband calls it.
Yep, MY dog, who is bathed twice a month, and lives the life a Kardashian would envy – has mange. A friend I told recently, sympathized, “Oh yeah” she said, sipping a cocktail, “It’s like when your kid gets sent home from the expensive private school with head lice”

I can only imagine, but I felt a special bond, a kinship with her – she’s shared my mortification.

All kidding aside, it’s been a pretty great year.
I found my calling, expanded my furry family, and witnessed a Clooney miracle.

Gratitude. I’m filled with gratitude for the blessings that came my way, and hopeful that the ones that seemed to skip over my house will re-visit me in the coming year.

So y’all, how was your 2014? Are you happy to see it end?
What are some of the highs and lows you can share with the group? I’d love to hear about it!

Whoo Hoo! Come on 2015!
Xox