advice

I stole this from Liz Gilbert because I LOVE words. The odder the better—the only thing I love more are my husband, my dog…and bacon.

Because, come on! Bacon has no calories, it isn’t bad for us and goddamnit, apparently it cures grief!

BLT.

Mac-n-cheese with bacon.

Swiss bacon burger.

Bacon wrapped hot dogs.

Comfort food.
Yeah, I might know something about that. I ate bacon as a Vegan.
Oh, relax! I also had sex before marriage as a Catholic. Clearly I can’t be trusted to follow the rules—anyway—how did this get to be about me and my questionable boundaries?

This is about BACON.

Enjoy some levity on your Sunday and indulge in some Bacon!
xox

Last week I was approached by an editor at The Huffington Post asking me to write a piece for them. An essay on divorce.

Wait I sec, this must be a mistake, I thought to myself as I scanned the email on my phone.
I had already done that—I had written that piece for them about being a divorced twenty-six year old Unicorn.
Surely this was some glitch in the system.
Unicorns—Divorce—What more could possibly be said?

Then my eyes landed on this sentence:
“I know you submitted on the subject recently—but we’d love to include something else from you specifically for this series.”

Really?
I felt honored and puzzled all in the same moment.

The deeper meaning behind this sequence of events was not lost on me. Why was I revisiting a divorce that happened over thirty years ago NOW?
I had faced the facts, I had cried the tears, made the gut-wrenching decision to leave and moved on.
Or had I?
According to the Universe—apparently not.

They needed the essay in five days.
Okay…that’s doable, I thought, I’ll just use the over 500 words that I cut from the Unicorn piece to fashion something fresh.

But the voice in my head, the sassy, bossy one, she had other plans: Write a love letter to your divorce. she barked, suggested.

You see, after a shit sandwich (Thanks Liz), has had the time and distance to fully digest, I’ve taken to writing love letters to my adversities and I had just published one in the HuffPo: My Love Letter to Failure, about the loss of my business.

But it had never occurred to me to write one to my divorce.
Why you ask? Because I’m tellin’ ya, I thought that was water under the bridge, a horse that had been beaten to death—in other words: ancient history. Then it occurred to me why I hadn’t, my divorce had taken great care NOT to become an adversity.

So as I sat down to start the piece, the words just poured out. Heartfelt sentiment infused with gratitude as I realized gift after gift it had given me.

Still, she was right, that bossy bitch that resides inside my head, it was the perfect time to craft a love letter to my divorce!

It was as if it had been fully written somewhere in forgiveness-land and was just waiting for the exact right time to be pulled down to earth. It took me less than an hour to write, (which is by no means a testament to my writing prowess), it just shows how ready this baby was to be born.

My wish is that it will be able to sooth a young soul, and assure them that although it may feel as if your life is ending—it is truly just beginning.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/a-love-letter-to-my-divorce_b_8223504.html

A Love Letter To My Divorce

Dearest, darling Divorce,

Man O man, you saved my life!

I had no business getting married at twenty.
That’s a decision that is layered with complexities and as science has shown, I had four or five more years of brain development ahead of me to get that one right.

Besides, I agree with you, no one should be able to sign a marriage license before they can legally buy beer.

I stayed for six years but I could feel you, there on the sidelines right around year three, and here’s the irony: I was terrified of you. I had you pegged as my adversary when in actuality you were to become my greatest ally.

What did I know? I was wearing Daisy Dukes and living on Doritos and Dr. Pepper.

You were right Divorce, (and you of all people know how hard it is for me to utter those words), when you kept reminding me that you were NOT Failure.

That was a tough lesson for me to learn, what with all the snarky remarks from the peanut gallery and the years of confused men and a seriously empty bed.

Still, I love you deeply, I do!

They say you know it is love when you become your best self inside of the relationship. That was the clincher for me. I was never better than those eighteen years we spent together. I guess you could say we grew up together you and I—and you taught me so much.

You taught me the courage to make the tough, unpopular decisions. To never settle, to run from mediocrity and forge my own path, and to be my own person outside of a couple.

You taught me to be discerning. To call bullshit, and not to fall for the fast lines and the cheap wine.

You taught me to slow down already! Life is not a race to the finish line.

“Savor it. Take your time”, you said—and I did.

You taught me that although I was still young, once might be enough. That I may never get another walk down the aisle—and that would be okay. If I got panicky you reminded me that I had been there and done that.

You taught me to hold my head high. That even though I had already been married—no one had to know unless I told them. There was no banner across my chest, no giant D written in red lipstick on my forehead.

You taught me that I could use the accumulated relationship experience those six years had provided to do good in the world. I had insights that could help other girls.

You showed me that adversity builds character and I was a girl who was in serious need of some character building.

You taught me tolerance. The fact that even when people start out with the best of intentions—promises gets broken.

You taught me compassion. Leaving someone is hard enough. You don’t have to emotionally eviscerate them and kill every ounce of love on your way out.

And you were right again when you cautioned me not to stay too long in the marriage or this was bound to happen.

You taught me to listen to my gut. That it is the real brains behind the operation. Not my head and most certainly nothing that resides below my waist.

You cautioned me against closing up my heart. That I needed to keep it open and supple—resilient and willing to try again. A dried up raisin of a heart has a hard time holding love.

As luck would have it I did find love again. But I never would have been able to recognize it or love him without your years of priceless observations.

Now go; visit yourself upon another young girl who is in over her head and is just looking for that chance to grow up.

And whisper that stuff about Failure to her. I loved when you did that for me.

Big Hug,

Xox Janet

I was reminded by Facebook that three years ago this week my dear friend and I attended a Peter Gabriel concert at the Hollywood Bowl. I have a love/hate relationship with that feature on Facebook, but that is fodder for another story.

When I saw the photo of the group of us I was stunned. Had it really been three years?

I looked closely at her face in the picture. She is beautiful in a patrician Grace Kelly kind of way, blonde, cool and collected. But I could see the numbness behind her eyes, and I remembered the fear in those days. It was palpable.

She had been diagnosed with cancer just a week or so before if my memory serves me, and this concert was an early birthday—cheer-up—everything’s going to be okay, present.

I started to get transported back; to the days of chemo, radiation, watching her lose her beautiful long, blonde hair. Back to the day she shaved half of her head and sent us the photo just prior to going full-blown bald. Man, we all cried…until, fuck, wouldn’t you just know it, she had the most gorgeous scalp and perfectly shaped head imaginable! She wore the wigs until the stubble grew in at which point we begged her to dye it platinum and own it. Why the hell not?

She looked like a fucking runway model. I kid you not.
People who hadn’t seen her in a while and were in the dark about her diagnosis fell over themselves marveling at her beauty. I literally saw a guy fall over his own feet staring at her.

Once she found out she wasn’t going to die, the fear subsided. She started to glow from the inside out and not from the radiation.  She glowed because she wasn’t marinating in fear anymore.

Fear is a serial killer. Remember that.

Fast forward three years: Don’t you EVER grow your hair out! we all begged—and she hasn’t.
She rocks that short white hair like a 90’s Annie Lennox, something she would have NEVER done prior to the cancer.

She has been transformed in so many ways they are too numerous to count. It’s no exaggeration to say that pretty much everything is different about her than the woman in the picture—not only different—it’s better.

 I think she walks taller in the world. She waged a battle and beat a pretty nasty foe and she’s got the scars and the swagger to prove it.

She’s a hell of a lot more authentic. She’s becoming more and more who she really is—even occasionally flying her freak-flag—Above is a picture of her this year at Burning Man, a warrior Goddess, who fulfilled a lifelong dream and in the process realized she had found her tribe.

Courage is her middle name now, not Ann or Penelope or whatever it was. I think she should legally change it.

When you go through something like that you can’t help but grow up. She’s a grown-up now.

And a magician.
When she was diagnosed she had been unemployed for a while, broke, with no prospects on the horizon.
I’ve watched her these past three years manifest perfect health, money, a great job—and then a dream job. I just met her for lunch and she’s probably the happiest I’ve ever seen her. Her eyes are bright and wise—her face—serene.

That’s the thing about life you guys. If we only had a crystal ball during the shitstorms that could show us the future—our future.

That not only does everything work out, it works out better than we could have ever imagined!

I’ve always told myself,(because we all know I don’t reside in the real world too much), that after a particularly difficult time—the Universe rewards me. It showers me with magic. I’ve seen it happen over and over again and now I’m seeing it with my sweet, courageous friend.

So let this be your crystal ball. Hang on. Have faith. Be brave. Magic is on the way. I promise.

Carry on,
xox

*I don’t care who you are or what you’ve done—This is for everybody who draws a breath, who has loved and been loved; who has tried and failed…and it makes me want to cry!
xox

MANIFESTO OF THE BRAVE AND BROKENHEARTED

There is no greater threat to the critics and cynics and fearmongers Than those of us who are willing to fall Because we have learned how to rise.

With skinned knees and bruised hearts; We choose owning our stories of struggle, Over hiding, over hustling, over pretending.

When we deny our stories, they define us.

When we run from struggle, we are never free. So we turn toward truth and look it in the eye.

We will not be characters in our stories. Not villains, not victims, not even heroes.

We are the authors of our lives. We write our own daring endings.

We craft love from heartbreak, Compassion from shame, Grace from disappointment, Courage from failure.

Showing up is our power.
Story is our way home. Truth is our song. We are the brave and brokenhearted.

We are rising strong.
~Brene Brown
#RisingStrong

Brenebrown.com

As a child I was cautioned by my mom and the teachers at school: Don’t talk to strangers.
But my innate curiosity over ruled that dictum on a regular basis. I was an extroverted, chatty kid who liked people and asked a lot of questions.

And of course, just to confuse me, there were exceptions to the rule.

“When the nice lady compliments your dress, what do you say?”

Wait. Really? Okaaaay, Thank you strange lady whom I’ve never seen before and will most likely never meet again. *BIG SMILE

“Tell the nice man how many apples we want,” my mom would encourage, giving me the green light to start a conversation with the man in the produce department, who by the time we left the market was my new best friend. “See you later alligator!” was something someone had taught me and I LOVED it—and people LOVED it—so of course I used it as often as I could.
It became a hello and a goodbye, kinda like my own personal Ciao or Aloha.

All this to say: I detest that stranger=danger rule.
I know, I know! I don’t have kids, and it’s a different time, but…

When I look over my life, I have had some of the deepest, most interesting conversations with absolute strangers.

Traveling is well, an impossibly dry and hopeless mess if you don’t ask people—complete strangers who often speak a different language—directions, or food recommendations, or where they got that incredible hat!
I can’t even imagine it! Mute adventures? Why bother?

I’ve ended up hugging complete strangers after we’ve bonded over a “conversation” made up almost entirely of charades due to a language barrier. Italians have mastered this skill and have forced me on occasion to up my game.

What I’ve learned is that humanity is mostly good, kind-hearted and eager—almost to a fault—to help out a stranger in any way they possibly can. Truly. I see you shaking your head, but I kid you not.

On one trip to Salzburg I bought TWO enormous, extremely overstuffed down pillows, you know, like you do—and instead of having the good sense to ship them home, I carted them all over Europe for the next two weeks.

One day as I was struggling to catch a train out of Italy with my luggage, assorted bags—and my pillows, I spotted the face of a gentleman I had struck up a conversation with at an espresso bar an hour earlier. He was dressed as dapper as I’ve seen anybody dress in. my. life. —And I had commented on his bespoke suit as we both shared a laugh about all my bags and the jackassery of my enormous pillows.

Later when we locked eyes across the train platform, he saw the look of sheer…exasperation on my face, got up out of his first class seat in the train across the tracks, and helped me get settled on my train back to Austria. As he lifted my three ton suitcase and stowed my fucking pillows in the metal racks overhead— I watched HIS train pull away.

I had talked to a stranger and he had gone out of his way and missed his train to become my train station savior. (Thinking back, he wasn’t from this timeline of that I’m sure. He was a chivalrous gentleman from a different era.)

Some strangers have even made it into the inner sanctum =friendship status. Wherever I go I talk to the people around me–and we become friends.

Most of my dearest friends started off as strangers—as did my husband—it doesn’t get any stranger than a blind date!

If you never talk to strangers—how do you meet people?

Think about that, and don’t email me about all the serial killers and bad guys out there looking to do me harm—it won’t change my mind.

Carry on,
xox

Awwww, man, Jason seems like he’s speaking from experience. Right?

The gut-punch level pain is unmistakable.

Here’s the thing you guys, we are all letting go of people right now. Loves, great and small.

Here’s to loving so big it hurts like hell when it’s gone.
“Tis better to have love and lost”…aw hell, you guys know the rest.

Carry on,
xox

“I’m warning you – I’m foul today. Stay clear!”

That’s what I did for years. I’d make that announcement as I walked into work; OR if it was the five minutes I had a boyfriend, I’d give the poor guy a chance to make a clean getaway.

I thought I was doing the kind thing—warning the unfortunates. That I was taking care of myself and others.

The trouble was, although I cleared the room of the usual, aggravating suspects, my path became littered with all the foul people who matched my mood.

Driving became a kind of every man for himself obstacle course of assbites. The air was peppered with f-bombs, the middle fingers flashing—and that was just inside my own car.

Going to pick up lunch became a contact sport.
Elbow jabbing, line cutting and tons of stink-eye. Never mind that when I got back to the office, the entire order was wrong. Of course MY salad was the one missing—oh but wait—thank God there are 5,000 packets of ketchup in the bottom of the bag even though no one ordered fries!

You get the gist.
After a while—make that many years—I came to the realization that announcing  I’m a grade A, number one bitch today  wasn’t helping anyone, least of all myself. As a matter of fact it was setting a horrible tone for my day, and attracting to me every other bad day haver in the greater Los Angeles area.

You’ve got to be smarter about this, I thought one night after getting both a ticket and a flat tire on the way home at the end of one particularly bitchy day. There’s GOT to be a better way!

And there is. It takes a few minutes and a bit of commitment, but I can assure you – it’s worth it.

If, for whatever reason I wake up on the wrong side of sanity, instead of just resigning myself to a day of disasters, I acknowledge the mood and then take a few minutes to shift it.

I’m not at the whim of some unforeseen force, I tell myself. I’m in control here! Ahhhh, that feels better already.

I start by putting whatever set me off into perspective. Nothing is so bad it can’t be fixed AND no amount of shitty is worth sacrificing an entire day. Seriously.

Don’t get too specific. First, take away the blame.
Instead, figure out how you’d rather FEEL. 

If “he” pissed you off again, by breathing or wearing that face, take a minute to remember why you loved him enough to have him underfoot. Get back to that loving (or at least liking, place).

If you’re feeling under-appreciated, think of the last time you told someone how much you appreciated their extra effort. It was probably during the Clinton administration—too long.
You see, that stuff goes hand in hand.

You want love—be loving.

You want appreciation—show it to those around you.

You want a helping hand—be generous to others.

You want to hear “Thank you”—say it more.

You want more money – spend some. (Counterintuitive I know, but it works)

You want the cramps to go away (or the headache, or the sore shoulder) – take some fucking Motrin, and quit complaining.

I can’t tell you how many times I went into work first, all twisted with cramps, and after the oxygen had left the room and everyone was sufficiently aware of my agony – THEN I took the appropriate medication.
(That’s what happens when you live alone too long; there’s nobody there to scream “enough!” and shove pain meds down your throat).

Don’t do that. It’s not nice. Your co workers aren’t paid enough to share your  misery.

So loves, during this stressful next couple of weeks, don’t give into your foul moods. Consider this a warning. If you do, the angry, stressed out crazies will magnetize to you and make things worse.

I can promise you this from years of tireless research.

Eat a chocolate chip cookie (or 5), take a walk and look at the decorations and the holiday windows, tell someone you love them (and mean it), say “please” and “thank you” and watch it come back to you.

What you send out into the world – comes back to you. It’s the law.

Sending Big, big love your way,
Xox

“I never said most of the things I said.”
-Yogi Berra

Having written this blog pretty much everyday for almost three years now, an interesting phenomenon has started to show up in casual conversation with family and friends.

I’m being quoted back to myself.
“You know that thing you wrote Tuesday about the forgiveness?” Then they recite it back to me—verbatim.
I just nod, because sadly, my memory has taken a menopause vacation. You guys, I can barely remember to wear pants!

Other times it isn’t even remotely something I wrote. It has the innate wisdom of a Rumi quote or something Oprah said—same thing.

Anyhow, it still boggles my mind that anyone reads this blog, let alone remembers what I wrote—and I feel unending, immense gratitude for all of you.
So there’s that.

Here’s the other thing that takes me aback every time it happens—which is actually growing in frequency.

“This is off the record—I don’t want to see this in the blog”, my friends will whisper.
Even in the car. Like I’m wearing a wire.
Like I’m a fucking investigative reporter doing important journalistic work for The Washington Post or something. It’s all I can do not to snort laugh when that happens.

The funny part is that when I do mention a friend—everyone thinks it’s them.

“That was cool, that thing you wrote about me yesterday” they’ll chirp with pride; and I don’t have the heart to tell them that most of the friends I mention are compilations, you know, to keep me from getting my ass kicked in line at Joan’s.

Truth be told, the person I out the most—is myself. I gave myself permission to do that—to tell the uncensored truth in the very beginning because what’s the use of writing a blog about your life when you don’t disclose anything intimate about yourself! Besides, the real rewards for doing that have been enormous personal insights on my part—and this response from readers: I’m so glad you wrote about that—I thought it was just me.

Well it’s not just you Sheila, I fart in Yoga class too.

Like I said, uncensored.

The second person who has endured being fodder for the blog is my hubby who seems to take it all in stride. It’s like he’s reading about a fictional character called “husband”. He’ll even refer to himself in third person “I felt bad for her husband today”, he’ll remark after reading the blog.

Other days he’ll walk into the room with tears in his eyes.
That guts me.
Here he is, living my life with me—day in and day out—yet, even after all these years of late night pillow talks, patio talks and kitchen talks (If you haven’t guessed, I’m a talker), he’s surprised to read how I felt about something he did or said.

Or the backstage antics of the three ring circus that is disguised as my life.

“I had no idea all that was happening,” he’ll say, marveling at the fact that I can recount all the actual dialogue. “How in the hell do you DO that?”
I just smile.

Then he envelopes me in one of those big bear hugs that I love so much.
And I worry…Shit, I hope he can’t feel the wire.

Be cool you guys, have a great weekend and carry on,
xox

“I live a little bit on the seat of my pants, I try to be alert and available. I try to be available for life to happen to me. We’re in this life, and if you’re not available, the sort of ordinary time goes past and you didn’t live it. But if you’re available, life gets huge. You’re really living it.”
Bill Murray to Charlie Rose, 2014]

I heard once that when we die the first question we ask when we get to the other side is: How did I do?

Can you imagine? How did I do?

Not, where’s the big guy or which way’s the buffet. How did I do?

So, if that is indeed the case, what do you want the reply to be?

“You did okay. You played it a little safe though.”

“You forgot to have fun!”

“Better luck next time.”

Or the worst one of all: “You completely missed the point.”

Wouldn’t that just suck?

Sooooooo…..

Let’s all try to be more available. More alert too. No more sleep walking!

Let’s let life get huge.

Let’s add value and leave a wake of shattered rules behind us.

Let’s all let our light shine bright, replacing our earthly halo’s with the real deal.
Why not?
Isn’t that the point?

Carry on,
xox

“Suddenly at the next corner, came the craziest thing. About thirty women, all in golden crowns, were crossing Market Street. No, I wasn’t hallucinating, maybe they were heading to some trippy bridesmaid’s party. And there I was, utterly surrounded, crying and laughing in the midst of it all, as they passed by.”
~Tosha Silver — “On Crowns and Mars/Venus”

Yesterday morning Tosha Silver (whom I love), posted this and it prompted one of those out-of-body synchronistic moments; you know the ones where you shiver with goosebumps and break into a cold sweat all at the same time.

Or is that menopause? Nope. Sorry menopause you have never given me goosebumps. Not once, not EVER.

Besides, the serendipity lies in the fact that I had two really heartfelt and deeply intimate conversations with two completely different friends, at two separate times, in the past three days.

About friendship and CROWNS and feeling special.

“I’ve known I was special my whole life” we each confessed in a hushed whisper, as if admitting to a secret affair with Benedict Cumberbatch, or a third nipple.

One of my friends stands on the precipice of great success. Like change your life, slap your mama, kind of success. She confided that the other night she dreamt she was wearing a gold crown, or perhaps it was even (gasp) a halo…and the brightness of it made her so uncomfortable that she pulled up the hoodie she was so conveniently wearing—and covered it up.

Why? Why isn’t that a good thing? To feel special I mean.

Maybe the more important question we have to ask is this: Who killed this in us and why?

What is it with crowns anyway?
I suppose we’ve all agreed that they’re just a physical validation of how special someone is.
Gold and preferably jewel encrusted would suit me just fine, thank you very much.

Then we all laugh, hahaha, that’s so funny—wait, you know you’re not special—right? And just like the soup nazi in Seinfeld, someone shows up and yanks the crown right off of your head, bobby pins and all.

“NO crown for you!” He announces and the crowd applauds,”Who do you think you are? Show some humility!” they all chant.

Here’s the thing: I don’t think the three of us can stay covered very much longer. We seem to have all reached a place in our lives where we are being asked to remove the hoodie and shine!

To spit polish the crown and wear it.
Everyday.
Even with yoga pants. Especially with yoga pants!

We’re called to OWN OUR HALO.

And I know in my kishkis we are not alone.
I’ve seen you in your hoodies, walkin’ around thinkin’ I can’t see the glow underneath. But I can.

We’ll lose friends over it, sure. Family too. Maybe even mates. But that’s old news, it’s already happening.

And just like Tosha asks in the rest of her essay, are you ready to “Own your OWN worthiness, own your own divinity, crown YOURSELF. No one else can do it, no partner, no friend, no teacher. NO one.” Well…are you?

I love that there are a group of us women (& men), at this time in history, that are coming into our own. I love that we are pulling down our hoodies, and shining brightly for all to behold.

You are special too—make no mistake about that! So…are you ready to crown yourselves?

Much love and carry on,
xox

http://toshasilver.com