trust

*Hey you guys,
You know I share everything with you, well, whatever I can get away with without getting arrested!
Anyhow, last Friday I had a huge existential crisis—a colossal crisis of faith.

Yeah, I know, I’m the only one, boo hoo, poor me.

I have a project that means a lot to me that is requiring humongous amounts of courage, and it is being highly uncooperative and testing my patience to no end.

It’s been a long while since I’ve felt so, so, low-down-gutter-shitty.
Friday I just woke up that way.

Being that I’m a writer, I wrote a long, rambling, gutter-shitty manifesto. (If I’d been an artist I’d have painted an all black canvas with the word FUCK or HACK on it).
You get the picture.

Then I sent it to my husband and four of my besties. And I waited…

During all of this emotional flailing around the voice in my head said: You are overreacting. You don’t need sympathy—you need trust and faith. (GOD! when will you quit being so goddamn right, so goddamn all the time! That is SO annoying!).

Anyway, I waited for something from my tribe…I suppose it was sympathy, okay I’ll just say it, I was waiting for sympathy with a layer of compassion and a dash of empathy and love.

You wanna know what I got?
Crickets. I got crickets—nothing.

My computer showed that the manifesto had sent. My husband’s computer showed he did not receive it.

When I tried to re-send it later that night to my one poor friend who happened to text—nothing. Again it said it was sent when it was not.

I had asked for a sign and apparently my computer was hacked by that part of me that knows better. It wasn’t having any of my sad-suckiness. It showed me no sympathy on Friday. NONE!
It let me squirm in the uncomfortableness of doubt and ride the emotions until they passed. (Two days).

So there you have it. I feel better, but I still can’t STAND doubt! How about you?
Have you had a crisis of faith? How were you able overcome it? How long were you in it?

Here is the part of the manifesto that I feel you guys could relate to and doesn’t have the f-bomb as every other word!

Carry on,
xox

Ugh.
I feel like I’ve been left hanging.

Like I got up the courage to say “I love you” to someone and the other person just smiled.

Or, like we agreed to jump off the cliff together, and as my foot leaves the edge, I am able to turn just enough as I hurtle toward the abyss—to see the other person still standing at the edge.

I feel bamboozled.

It has made me profoundly uncomfortable and has opened the door to doubt.

I fucking hate doubt.
I like forward motion, Courage and momentum. Not all of this start and stop shit.

wtf am I doing?
wtf am I saying?

Am I a fraud or some delusional hack?

I can’t shake it so I’m going to have to ride this wave and then wait for it to pass.
Give me a sign Universe—anything!

Hello loves,

I sat down to write about my journey lately on the short bus to trust.

Then I realized I had fifteen minutes before I had to leave. So I made a two-minute video instead—you know—like you do when you’re pressed for time!

The takeaway in case you don’t feel like watching is this: Your intuition will NEVER lead you astray.

It will never take you down the dark alley, or tell you to wear the white pantsuit.
It has NO intention whatsoever of humiliating you or leaving you standing in a steaming pile of disgrace.

So trust it you guys! I’m really trying to do it too.
And that is my nugget of advice for today.

Trust yourself.

Carry on,
xox

AND….The outtakes. First one is my standard duh moment with the video running. Have I learned nothing?

And the second one is a correction. I forgot what day it is.

Dame Helen Mirren who turned 70 this week.

Hi, My Lovelies!
Here is my latest Huffington Post essay on rocking the years after your fifth decade, AND, there’s a cool, humiliating, humanizing, little life lesson attached.

I know there are a few over the fifties in this group and you guys will appreciate this post. So you get your glasses while I find mine…

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/turning-50_b_8282198.html

Anyway, the lesson is this: I gave this to the HuffPo over three weeks ago. Cue the crickets…

I was well aware that the divorce pieces had gotten some legs, but come on! There’s more to my story than that—WAY more! Yet the divorce pieces continued to run and my thought process went like this:

“Why didn’t they run the Over Fifty piece, it’s been a week?”

“Clearly they hated it and are rethinking their decision to make me a blogger. Shit. I’ll just lay low…”

“It’s been two weeks, I can’t continue to just lay low, maybe they never received it. Should I risk seeming desperate and re-send it?” (I sent something else instead, an essay on unsolicited advice, you know, just to check the system for bugs—no bugs detected, the piece ran the next day).

Instead of making me feel better I was now convinced they HATED the Over Fifty piece.
In my imagination, they all laughed over lunch about how stupid it was, “Can you believe that Janet Bertolus! She doesn’t know shit about being over fifty! Or writing for that matter!” Bahahahaha! (diabolical editor laughter).
Fuck.

By week three I decided that for the sake of my mental health and to maintain any shred of confidence (that was hiding somewhere in the vicinity of my big toe) —I had to just forget about it and go on with my life.
That was last week.

Yesterday they sent me the email that they were running the Over Fifty piece.
Well, that’s…unexpected…

When I pulled up the link I gasped (and you will too). There, at the end of the essay, is one beautiful photograph after another of spectacular women over fifty! What a great surprise!

Sometimes I can be such an ass.

They’ve obviously been busy the last three weeks compiling pictures to run in this section—and here I thought was all about me.

Lesson #1789–Trust the process. At a certain point, it has nothing AT ALL to do with you. I think this applies to every situation in life!

Carry on,
xox

This is a story about a whining, spoiled bitch. Not me, the other whining, spoiled bitch in our house.

My dog is the spoiled brat daughter I never had.

She rules the roost, runs my life and continuously sucks all the oxygen out of the room.

Her boxer-shark puppy stage is now simply a distant memory of hyper-energetic fur and razor-sharp teeth reeking their constant havoc. No human arm or furniture leg escaped unscathed—we all have the scars to prove it. Yet, these days I’ve almost grown nostalgic because this second stage—tween-boxer—is a fucking nightmare.

She is just a month shy of her second birthday which in dog years makes her about thirteen and a half, which explains the entitled, leg stomping, bitchy attitude—and the whining.
Good Lord almighty in Heaven, the whining!
Will it never cease?
What horrible sins have I committed that my penance would be such as to be subjected daily to this bitch’s endless whining?

It has become the soundtrack of my life.

And it has no basis in reality.

That’s the thing, it’s not like she’s locked up in a kennel, or left to fend for herself on the mean streets of LA searching for scraps to eat or a cardboard box to call a bed.

OH HELL NO!

She is the most pampered, overindulged, spoiled dog you will ever meet, which makes this whole “my life sucks—that walk was too short—why don’t you guys have kids for me to play with?”  dissatisfied dog act that much harder to swallow.

The other day I had to go for an early morning blood test so I took her with me in the car because I was tired of hearing: You never take me anywhere.

My plan was to get the test and then drive home via Burbank (completely out of my way) and drop her off at her favorite daycare facility Bow Wow Bungalow, to spend the day playing with her friends.

She played the sad-sack card whining the entire time.
I just turned the music up louder.
Which made her up the ante with a howl/cry.
Those cries are hard to drown out, so I had to crank up the volume even louder and proceeded to drive on.
I looked back at her in the rearview mirror—stink-eye—the death stare shot directly back at me while she twirled her hair and popped her gum.

If you had the misfortune to be sitting next to us in the stop-and-go traffic on the 405 that morning, you would have been accosted first by the music—Lady Gaga at full volume like those hoodlums at the stop lights that play their music so loud it registers on the Richter Scale.

If you had looked over you’d have seen a frazzled, middle-aged mother in a station wagon, screaming obscenities back at her petulant, whining, teen aged…dog. Who by that time was looking in the other direction, ignoring me completely, muttering under her breath “Talk to the paw”. (See photo above)

For the entire hour-and-a-half round trip drive, she whined and complained—right up until the street just before Bow Wow—then when she realized she was about to enjoy a day at Doggie Disneyland and she suddenly changed her tune.

Her face broke into a big smile and her whining turned to yelps of surprised anticipation. Her Velveteen Rabbit ears perked up and I think I even saw her wag her tail.

Oh sure, NOW she was filled with gratitude.

“Love you mommy, love you! You are the bomb! I’m so happy, you’re the best mommy ever!” she cried with joy all the way up the stairs, her little nub of a tail wagging furiously as she disappeared into the bowels of this dog Utopia.

Dammit she reminds me of me, I lamented on the blissfully silent drive home.

Hey, don’t laugh, I’m no different from you.

I whine and complain, pop my gum, stomp my feet and twirl my hair, the duration of pretty much every journey I undertake in life.

“Where am I headed? Where is life taking me? Why is this taking so long? Uhhhhh, this sucks, It’s not at all what I want to be doing!

Bitch, moan, complain—with a howl/cry and a stink-eye.

Wow, that’s identical to the tween-boxer’s backseat behavior.

I played the role of the Universe that day—I knew the destination was going to be off-the-charts fantastic for her. All I asked is that she shut up and enjoy the ride.

My little dog played me. She was void of even a whiff of patience. She thought she knew better. She second guessed every second of the trip.

She bitched and moaned because in her mind we should be at the park.

But I/The Universe had bigger, better plans for her/me.

Fuck. Lesson #1002847 learned.

Carry on,
xox

*Sad-sack stink-eye face.

ELEGANT
el·e·gant
ˈeləgənt/
adjective: elegant
1.pleasingly graceful and stylish in appearance or manner.
“she will look elegant in black” (a reason why I always wear black, ha!)
synonyms: stylish, graceful, tasteful, sophisticated, classic, chic, smart.
antonyms: messy, unwieldy (hot mess)!

Oh yeah, I’ve talked about this. I cautioned you in the previous post.
We can aspire to it, aim for it, even pray for it, but enlightenment, spiritual awakening, whatever you want to name it, is rarely elegant.

And by rarely…I mean never.

There is a mine field of inelegance that surrounds becoming conscious.
You can side step the big stuff, like disaster and dis-ease, but you’ll still get your shoes dirty.
It’s kinda the name of the game.
If it was pretty; clean and easy, everyone would do it.

Take meditation for instance.
I can’t tell you how many friends have said this to me: When I started meditation, all hell broke loose.
It starts out all zen and blissful, with the breath and the inner peace. You will have that in your back pocket for life; but ask anyone who’s seriously meditated for a while.
Shit can hit the fan!
If you meditate every day, you literally change your brain…and your body.
You put the monkey mind in its place, and make your connection with source.

But source likes a clean link. It doesn’t like an old plugged up infrastructure, so it cleans and clears things out. When that happens, all your bad habits, your sabotaging self talk, your anger, hate, rage, lack of forgiveness, selfishness, greed, and jealousy, to name a few, are chased out of the shadows and into the light.

Get the fan.

This will set you free, but these guys won’t be graceful, chic or elegant.
They will give you the middle finger on their way out.
Meditation shook their cage, and they’re pissed.

Yoga is right up there too. A great practice, amazing for the mind and body, but it’s not just exercise, there is a spiritual aspect to Yoga that you can’t get around.
Yoga in Sanskrit means “the Divine Union”. Using the physical postures to bring the mind under control and join with the Higher Self or Source.

Uh oh.
Get the fan.

A regular Yoga practice will unleash all the usual suspects.
Anger will be released from your hip joints, sadness from your shoulders.
There will be heart openings, epic realizations, even tears.
It will free YOU as well…it just won’t be elegant.

Choosing the path less traveled.
Operating outside your comfort zone.
Mindful living.
Being of Service.
All call for making the tough choices, lots of “no’s” = Fast track to a more enlightened life.
Elegance…not so much.

The path may not seem the most elegantat first, but don’t loose faith you guys, elegance comes later. Trust me.
Choose wisely.

XoxJanet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is The Petition To Our Muses:

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

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

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

Well, that and drink Sangria and eat fried food?

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

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

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

I’m convinced that one of the main differences between an optimist and someone who walks around with a black cloud over their head without an umbrella; and horribly mis-matched shoes is this:

They believe, as I do, that we get more than just one thing to love

Ask anyone with multiple marriages under their belt if there is only one soul mate per lifetime. (don’t ask mid divorce).

The answer is no.

Optimist. Faithful to the belief that if your true love ship has sailed, just stand at the dock, another will come along.

I’ve loved several men in my life, each relationship was equally powerful but drastically different, and at the time, in the moment, I was convinced they were my one-and-only soul mate — the connection was that intense.

I loved some with only my head; a few exclusively with the region below my waist; but only a couple with all my heart, and they were spaced decades apart.
Thank God I had optimistically stood on that dock waiting, albeit impatiently, for another ship to come in. If I hadn’t, the loss would have been profound.

We get more than just one thing to love.

I found comfort in that because I often got distracted by my phone or the lady with one pink roller in her hair, and I worried that I’d miss my golden opportunities as they passed me by.
Now I know better.

But only because I’m older and wiser (ha) and because I know that as we change and grow, preferences shift and we start to want something different, something…more.

Thank God those ships kept coming — When situations ended I stood waiting for a virtual fleet of ships to come into port — I think I saw you there, (I could tell it was you even with the hat and sunglasses.)

And they always come.

Guaranteed.

This applies to careers as well.
By the time you get to be my age, (our age) you’ve worn many hats so to speak.

I loved working at the Antique Mall, I adored acting and singing, I loved being a jeweler, I LOVED my store, and when that ended I loitered long enough on the dock that writing found me— and it may be the all time love of my life.

We get more than just one thing to love.

I used to LOVE playing jacks as a kid, probably because I was inexplicably good at it, (good eye/hand coordination, that’s all) then I LOVED Barbie’s and Monopoly.

One summer as a fifteen year old I LOVED riding my bike up and down the hills the ten miles to the beach and back everyday. (now just the thought make me want to puke).

I had a friend who LOVED to ice skate, you could find her at the rink every morning, six days a week at 5:30 a.m. She was obsessed. Soon she became so good she started to compete.

I’m not exactly sure what happened, an awkward growth spurt or becoming boy crazy, but one summer she lost interest and all that changed, and by the fall she LOVED horses and started training and competing in dressage.
Now she owns a successful interior design business. Go figure.

Obviously she spent a lot of time on that dock, catching one ship and then the next, and the next, LOVING each one that came along.

We get more than just one thing to love.

More than one great love,

More than one fantastic hobby,

More than one way to wear our hair that makes us look the way we envision ourselves,

More than one goal in life, or purpose, or destiny (yes, I said destiny)

More than one thing that we are better at than anybody else,

More than one chance…

We get more than just one thing to love.

Marinate in the thought of that all weekend,

Bon Voyage! and Carry on,
xox

I was going to write about the fact that there are a whole bunch of us, right now, about to make a leap.

Thinking about making a leap,

Just waiting for the …courage to make that leap!

But instead, all I want to say is that we should all get together energetically; because we’re better together you guys. So let’s leap as a group — lets be fucking brave!

Who’s with me?!

Ready…
Set…
GO!

xox

*this is a little trip down memory lane from last July. In honor of Dita, but also reminds me what a handful they were together!

This weekend, in a heroic act of immense bravery we took BOTH dogs, the boxer shark puppy, Ruby and the old girl, Dita, on a road trip up north to the Mountains of Santa Cruz.

Seems we were spurred on by a false sense of confidence, fueled by hope (and the need to get away, eat and drink too much and the lure of a good party) and by the fact that the couple who’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary we were road tripping to see, are dog lovers and had recently lost their old girl, and needed a dog fix.

Our friends usually have a room in their home with our name on it, except this time, since so many family members were coming into town and they had a full house.

No biggie, we’ve stayed at the local dog friendly hotels in the past, easy peasy – with one dog.

Now one mature dog and a seven month old boxer shark puppy isn’t two dogs; the number multiplies exponentially by the misbehaving, excess energy factor and the general havoc wreaked; making it seem in stress and aggravation as if there are nine wild, howling hounds.

I’d like to file a grievance right here and now with the Canine Powers that be.

I was misled to believe that the old dog would co-parent the puppy; giving us a helping paw with the potty training and pass along all the amazing traits that had made her such a well-behaved joy, and our home such a well oiled machine.

What a fucking lie.
The exact opposite has occurred.

The older girl now eyes with intrigue, all the raucous misbehavior that had never even occurred to her, like jumping up to the kitchen island to eat our dinner while our backs are turned.

She hits her forehead with her paw, like “Doh” and feels she has a lot of catching up to do.

Dita had the training of a service dog…..not anymore.

The puppy’s bad behavior has begun to rub off on her.
Ruby has cajoled my sweet old girl into barking (unheard of) ignoring orders to sit and stay, flipping us off and sticking out her tongue at us behind our backs, making long distance phone calls and smoking behind the garage.
They are both behaving like thirteen year old teenage bitches.

If this trip had a title, it would be called the “what’s the worst case scenario dog and pony show?”

“Well, what’s the worst thing that could happen?” was our default expectation.

Those two could assume the roles of furry terrorists. They could trash the room like a couple of drugged out, over sexed eighties rock stars, they could jump on party guests, muddying white pants, overturning lavishly decked out buffet tables and leave two big poops in the middle of the lawn. That was our worst case scenario  speculation. We wanted to steal ourselves for the worst, like soldiers preparing for battle, so we could be prepared.

We have a doggie door at home, which in my opinion is the best invention since sliced bread.
It is better than sliced bread. I will happily slice my own bread, if my dogs can take themselves out to shit in the middle of the night.

When we go away, we are privy to our dog’s bathroom habits, of which we are blissfully otherwise unaware.

In other words, we have to wake up, get dressed, get a leash, walk down a long corridor, traverse stairs, find a patch of grass, and indulge Ruby’s urge to go star-gazing and maybe relieve herself of a thimble full of pee at 3am.

Then, back at the room, the minute you get everyone settled, get undressed and climb back in bed, Dita, who had been feigning coma sleep, yawns loudly, shakes and lets you know in no uncertain terms: now she has to go out.

I know they hatched this plan when we left them alone in the car while we ate lunch on the way up. They are now laughing the uproarious laughter that only the naughtiest of dogs can hear.

I’m certain of it.

I’m telling you, Mean Girls.

The Worst Case Scenario Dog and Pony Show.

I knew I had to stop this madness.
I had to nip this thinking in the bud, or it would become a self-fulfilling prophesy.

As I always say, it’s all in the energy of our expectations.

Why couldn’t we hope for the best instead of expecting the worst?
We had to.

I decided to rename the trip to the BEST Case Scenario Tour, where every thing turns out BETTER than expected, where the girls are well-behaved, everyone sleeps through the night, there’s no crying (Raphael) and everyone has fun.

Once I suggested we change our expectations, the vibe shifted.
Although we were still hyper vigilant at the party, we let them run free without leashes, playing with the kids and even ended up abandoning our plan to put them in the van once the food was served.

Truth be told, they played so hard with all the kids and the other dogs, smiling their big toothy dog smiles, (including a one hundred pound, big lug of a Great Dane puppy) that they were far too exhausted by the time the food was served to cause any trouble.
They fell asleep in the car two seconds after we left to go back to the hotel, slept through the night without a whimper and had sweet dreams of the best dog day EVER.

Did they suddenly become the best behaved dogs in the world? Or did we just chill out and stop expecting mayhem?

Hmmmmmmm, hard to tell.

What was the Best case scenario?
Exactly what happened.

*You can substitute the word dogs with children, co-workers or in-laws, it’s all the same.

Tell me about your dog/kids road trips. I’m sure you’ve got some stories to share.
Remember when you share it helps the tribe!

Sending big, wet, dog kisses,
Xox

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
-Chinese Proverb

Darling peeps,

Your path lights up before you. It’s right under your feet, not out there somewhere.
I’m just getting this! Can you believe it?

You don’t have to go find it, so unpack those bags.

Just pay attention.
To the inspiration,
to the ideas,
to the song on the radio when you get into the car,
to the graffiti that inspired you,
the book that fell off the shelf as you walked by,
the rejection letter that sent you in a different direction entirely,
to your dreams,
to your intuition,
to your aspirations,
the call that never came,
and the one that did.

You guys, That’s your path calling you forward. It’s right under your feet. Would I lie to ya?

Carry on,
xox