awakening

Um, Yeah, what he said.

Since Donald Trump landed with a giant, orange thud on my radar two-ish years ago, I have watched him traverse the political landscape with a mix of slack-jawed awe and mild nausea.

Who is this guy and how in the hell did this happen?

Previous to running for the office of President of The United States he was just another self-aggrandizing blowhard who lived in a golden tower, cheated on his wives, called himself a billionaire, starred in a cheesy reality show and had something to say about everyone and everything.

Not necessarily an educated opinion—just something to say.

He assumed he had an audience. I guess he thought people cared…Right? Someone must have said that to him once, “Hey, Don, I’d love to hear what you have to say about Roe V Wade!”

He slithered his way through his preferred method of communication—a Howard Stern interview, waffling back and forth on his opinions of the Clintons, Barack Obama, abortion, and the Iraq war on a regular basis.
It was all in good fun back then.

Just a couple of douches talking nonsense.

New Yorkers couldn’t stand the guy and yet, without ever holding public office or participating in any kind of community organizing besides building skyscrapers with his name emblazoned on them in thirty-foot high gold lettering—he gained some traction.

And in 2015 after some consideration (I can’t write that it was careful because that word can never be used in the same sentence as his name), Trump decided to you know, run for Leader of the Free World.

After the most wtf campaign on record and the most wtf win in the history of winning—he now sits behind the big desk in the Oval Office.

“Nothing like this has remotely happened!” has been echoing around the globe since November and I for one have just GOT to put some kind of positive spin on this…this…this anomaly.

What is an anomaly anyway?

Webster defines it as “something that deviates from what is standard, normal, or expected.”

An oddity. A peculiarity. 

A quirk. A rarity.

Something inconsistent with the norm.

Yes, yup, uh huh and bingo.

It seems to me we are now living in the Age of Absurdity. I can resist (which believe me, on the things that matter I am) but on one point in particular, I say, if you can’t beat ‘um—join ‘um. Do you wanna know what the tipping point was for me?

One word. Oprah.

She voiced in a recent interview exactly what I’ve been thinking.

When asked if she was interested in running for President she responded saying that Mr. Trump’s election had made her re-evaluate her previous skepticism about running for President.

“I never considered the question even a possibility,” she told David Rubenstein on his Bloomberg Television program when pressed about whether she might consider running in 2020. “I just thought, ‘Oh… oh?'”
Referring to Mr. Trump, Mr. Rubenstein said: “It’s clear you don’t need government experience to be elected president of the United States”.

“That’s what I thought,” she continued. “I thought, ‘Oh, gee, I don’t have the experience, I don’t know enough.’ And now I’m thinking, ‘Oh.'”

That’s crazy, right? …CRAZY GOOD!

Will Oprah run? Probably not. But that’s not the point.

How many of us think we’re “unqualified” for a promotion because of the way things have always been done?
How many of us never even try things we know nothing about like writing books, screenplays or musicals?

What if we could accept this new normal and have the kind of faith in ourselves that Trump apparently has? We don’t have to go all dark and twisty narcissistic. What about supremely, peculiarly and unexpectedly confident?

You know what I mean.

If you’re like me you reconsider opportunities because of your age (too young or too old), your inexperience, the fact that you’re unfamiliar with the “system”, and the knowledge that certain things Just aren’t done that way.

I think we can all agree that time is over.

All bets are off.

The rules have all been broken. They are scattered at our feet. That can either be a bad thing—or a good thing.

I say if the idea occurs to you and you think you’d be good at it—go for it!

Who knows, you may end up President of The United States.

Carry on
xox

Nothing remotely like this has happened before!

I’ve heard this more in the last three months than I have at any other time in my life. Have you noticed it too?
I joke that we went to bed one night in one reality, one that we were completely familiar with, and woke up in a similar but significantly different one.

But is it a joke? I mean, look at their faces?

There is a growing school of thought among some big brains out there that we are living inside of a computer simulation. Think the Matrix, the holodeck in Star Trek, or Westworld if you’re looking for a reference that’s not decades old. And this thinking wasn’t really mainstream until…

http://www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/did-the-oscars-just-prove-that-we-are-living-in-a-computer-simulation

This is an article not from Science Digest or The Computer Geek Journal, it’s in the freaking New Yorker you guys! The author Adam Gopnik makes this point: Start with the election in November, the Superbowl results and the recent Oscar f-up and we have proof, according to Adam, that someone or something is either asleep at the wheel or stuck in the loo.

Either suddenly nobody is paying attention or there is the glitch of all glitches glitching with events that are viewed oh, let’s see…BY THE ENTIRE WORLD.

We’ve experienced not one, not two, but THREE Nothing Like This Has Remotely Happened Like This, events in the space of three months. I’ve been scratching my head. Haven’t you?

Doesn’t that somehow make sense? Did you see the Truman Show? When is the sky going to peel back?

This hypothesis is all at once fascinating and terrifying. If given the choice of how to feel I’ll go with fascinated.

Read the article, then talk to me.

Carry on,
xox

Lather, rinse, repeat. Who does that? Whose got the time?

Yet, those are the directions on the bottle of shampoo. If your hair won’t come clean after one lather, you’ve got bigger problems baby.

Tags on a mattress: It is forbidden, under penalty of law to remove the tags.
Who leaves them on?
I rip tags off of everything…immediately.
I once worked my way around a friend’s apartment discreetly removing the tags that were still on her futon, chair cushions, couch, and pillows. I couldn’t help myself.

Was she just lazy or following directions, hoping to avoid the tag police?

What about waiting a half hour after eating, before going back into the ocean or pool.
“You’ll get a cramp and drown”. That rule never made any sense to me. Even if it did happen to Marge’s sister’s cousin, kid brother. Never mind that he didn’t know how to tread water, it was the bologna sandwich that did him in. So, our moms enforced that rule to-the-minute. As a kid, I could inhale my lunch in 2.5 seconds, so a half an hour was an eternity.
But to all of the neighborhood moms which included my mom, that rule was law. It was non-negotiable. Believe me, I tried.

Some folks follow directions to the letter.
Not me. Directions, tags, rules for games, most rules in general, are always just…a suggestion.
The ones I can’t get around, like flossing and taxes, I adhere to begrudgingly.

Maybe it’s America. So much fear of liability. You can be sued by anyone, for anything, anytime. It’s not that way in other countries.That’s why I love the Italians. In Italy, there is a kind of “live in the moment” attitude that renders laws and rules…obsolete.

To the Italians, they truly are only suggestions. Weak ones. Ones that should be ignored. Which makes them my people.

I was in Rome for a couple of weeks when every day it was steamy, well over 100 degrees. They call that August. There are many, many gorgeous fountains in Rome. Each one has a sign that basically says: Stay Out of the Fountain. But by the number of men, women, little kids, grandmas, dogs, even nuns; standing and splashing around, you would have thought the sign said: Come on in, the water’s fine!
Even the politzia turned a blind eye.

Several years later I went back and the signs were down. Apparently, after hundreds of years they had figured out, why waste good wall space? Godere!

My husband is also European, so maybe it’s in the water. His motto is one that I’ve grown to love, and have adopted as my own: It is easier to ask forgiveness than to ask permission. Meaning, if you know the answer most likely will be no, if you know a rule is about to be broken, and no one’s getting hurt, just do it.

Gasp… I know, I know. But there are so many joyful, playful, beautiful things in life that somewhere along the line became “not okay.” Some killjoy decided it was a bad idea to swim too soon after eating or rip a tag off a mattress or shampoo only once or splash in a fountain on a hot summer day, and they ruined it for everyone.

I’m not advocating hurting anyone, defiling public property, or acts of debauchery.

I’m just saying, it’s okay to color outside the lines, to find joy whenever and wherever you can.
Rules are made to be broken. Tear some tags. Laugh in a library. If there are no cars, cross the street just before the light turns green. Oh, you rebel! And if you’re caught in the fountain, don’t be embarrassed, just smile and say: I’m sorry, it’ll never happen again.

Until next time.
Xox
.

I don’t just appreciate this quality from my foliage, it is a quality I like in my friends too.

I like a friend who, even if you haven’t seen them in a while you don’t have that awkward “catching up” phase.

I like friends who require very little eggshell walking.

I like friends you’ve had long enough, and that you know well enough that you can order their drink to be waiting for them before they arrive at the table.

And like the tree I have in my front yard, I like to just begin where we left off.

No idle chit chat.

No shallow small talk.

Not with my friends, we like to jump right into the deep end.

Exactly like I do with you guys.

Carry on,
xox

#Ilovemytribe

“Be a matador” he yelled as I whimpered pitifully in the middle of a six-lane highway, traffic whizzing by us on both sides.

Not waiting for a break in the traffic he had grabbed my hand and run us between cars out to a place I try REALLY hard to never find myself. The middle of a busy street.

I hate that shit.
I will NOT play chicken, I’ll wait, or walk to the corner crosswalk thank you very much.

But to my French husband jaywalking on a busy boulevard is in his blood, a skill learned as a youth on the impossibly dangerous streets of Paris.

It is not a chicken sport. It is a bullfight. And he/we were Matadors.

Gulp.

Me: (leaning in, yelling above the noise of the cars) Wha…what? Did you say a matador?

Husband: Yes! Stand still! Don’t let the cars smell your fear.

Me: (Squeezing his hand like a vice grip, hoping to illicit pain) Are you crazy? What are you talking about?

Husband: (Yelling back at me through a smirk) Listen to me! All the greatest Matadors are French!

Me: You’re kidding me right? They are NOT French, they’re Spanish!

Did you see what he did there? He took my mind off of my predicament, knowing I would argue with him. Well played husband, well played.

Husband: I’m telling you, they’re French! They’re called Coreadors.

I was laughing nervously. Mostly at the absurdity of the conversation. I’m sure I appeared squirmy, uncomfortable and maybe a little hysterical. That comes from knowing that you’re probably going to end up as a splat on the windshield of a Prius.

Me: Shut. Up! They are NOT!

Husband: (Leaning in, yelling above traffic) Or Toreadors. Those are the guys on horseback. 

Me: (Feeling queasy. close enough to death to relate to the bull) Uhhh! Stop! Bullfighting is barbaric! The French don’t have bullfighting! They’re WAY too civilized for that!

Husband: (Amused by my argument) That’s what YOU think!

By the way, can you believe we were still standing in the middle of a busy street? Me either, but we were!

Me: (Wishing I’d ordered the french toast as my last meal) Egads. Bullfighting. Brutal. Whoever thought that was a good idea?

Husband: The Romans.

Me: Figures.

With that, the last car hurtled past us and he yanked my hand and ran me to the safety of the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. We were both laughing, not at bullfighting because it’s a horrible practice*—but at the absurdity of our conversation.

Husband: God, you can be such a baby!

Me: God, you’re weird! And damn, the Romans were assholes!

Some story on the radio in the car changed the subject, but I had to share this.

Words from a French wise guy I know—When you’re in the middle of chaos—stand still—be a matador.

Carry on,
xox

*Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I am in no way condoning bullfighting and no bulls were killed in the telling of this story.

Right?
Okay. Add to that:

Low rise skinny jeans.

Any TV playing cable news.

All of my diet books & all seven, three of my vegan/paleo cookbooks.

All of my shoes except flip flops.

What are you getting rid of this weekend that doesn’t bring you joy?

Carry on,
xox

“Nature is efficient, it doesn’t waste time.”

As I huffed and puffed my way up the hill, hoodie up protecting my ears from the freezing (58 degrees) winds, shoes caked with mud from the recent rains, all I could do was question my sanity—demonstrated by the fact that I’d decided to “switch things up” and go the opposite way that I usually do—which is markedly harder—and freakishly longer—and that I don’t have time for this shit, I’ve got things to do!

Don’t argue with me. I understand when you tell me that it shouldn’t be harder OR longer, that it is physically impossible for that to be true, blah, blah, blah…

HEY, GO TO HELL! I have one of those step counting thingies which said I climbed 31 flights of steps today as opposed to 17 flights on a regular day, and we all know those things don’t lie.

Feeling every. single. extra. step. I was called to sit on a bench at the apex of one of the hills. I have to mention that the view of the San Fernando Valley from that bench is spectacular.

Yet, in the fifteen plus years that I’ve hiked that hill, I have NEVER been called to cop a squat on that bench.
Not when the ninety plus degree weather was making me nauseous.
Not when I’ve been caught in the rain.
Not when my plantar fasciitis had me limping like Quasimodo in yoga pants up the entire hill.
Not even when it was the best seat in the house for some of our recent brush fires.

Nope. I blast past that bench as I silently judge anyone who sits there.

Must be nice to just be able to sit and waste time, I think in that judgy tone of voice that inhabits your head when you see someone doing something which never occurred to you to do, or you feel unworthy of attempting.

So when the bench called me I was surprised. Taken aback.

Wha…what? I stammered back. Are you talking to me?
My face laughed a little. My head turned right as I looked in its direction but the rest of my body continued full steam ahead straight up the hill.

Why don’t you come sit for a while? It said again.

Listen, I have a heart-rate to maintain…

That’s when I observed my body in full speed-walking mode, make a very impressive u-turn in one sweeping motion and end up planting my ass on that bench.

Huh.

I sat there self-consciously for a minute or two staring straight ahead, catching my breath.

That’s when I saw him enter. Like a highly choreographed actor, he came gliding into view from stage left, out above the trees, but right at eye level. A stunning red-tailed hawk hovering in one place, artfully surfing the wind currents.

I sat mesmerized. So enthralled I neglected to take his picture. It was that wonderful and I would have missed his graceful dance had I not heeded The Calling of the Bench.
Or was it the hawk calling me from the wings to sit and witness his perfectly timed entrance and beautiful dance?

Huh.

He seemed to be having a ball; maintaining his altitude, wings majestically out stretched, big smile on his face (I’m just assuming that last one). He didn’t seem worried about the rest of his day, about how the hunting would be and catching his dinner. He seemed unaware of the occasional smaller birds that tried to join him and couldn’t.

He was having fun wasting time. Actually, he seemed unaware of time at all.

Huh.

I was reminded of that quote I once heard, “We have twenty-four hours in a day. Eight hours to work, eight hours to sleep, and eight hours to do whatever else makes us happy.”

I sat there and watched him for about ten minutes which is a really long time to sit on a random bench—on the top of a hill—in the middle of a hike. It felt suspiciously like time-wasting but it made me happy so I put it in that eight-hour category.

Hey, leave it to nature to school me. If that gorgeous hawk who must hunt and catch his prey if he wants to eat, has the wherewithal to just enjoy life and waste a little time, then me with my refrigerator full of food (and some trail mix in my car), can follow his example.

So…who do you think called me to sit? The bench or the hawk?

Carry on,
xox

I was looking through some of the OLD posts from so long ago they were written on papyrus, and I came across this love poem. This was before it was explained to me by someone who should know that love never dies—that it crosses over with the person beyond death.

Don’t you love knowing that? I do. That we can love someone past the end of our time here?
My wish is that you guys get the same warm tinglies that I got when I read it again.
xox

If our souls live forever,
marking time inside each day,
if we share in this endeavor,
then I guess it’s safe to say,
I will love you past the end of time.

As we share this mortal coil,
and we wear a suit of skin,
never stopping at the endings,
waiting for each lifetime to begin,
There, I will love you past the end of time.

Life may bring the next adventure,
we never know where it will lead,
I will wait for you, my darling,
I will not miss you, there’s no need,
for I will love you past the end of time.

JB to her beloved RB

“If you are going to tell people the truth be funny or they will kill you.” ~ Billy Wilder

I took the truth for granted and I’d bet my mothers Sees fudge recipe that you did too.

I love the truth. It’s solid even if it’s messy and it’s so much less complicated than lying.

We’re all grown-ups here, we know we can expect some lying in our daily lives.  Used car salesmen, the waiter who insists the coffee is decaf, and normal, run-of-the-mill politicians.

I miss the truth.

Heck, I’ve lied before and not just a little white lie. It wasn’t black, like saying the dingo ate my baby, it was more brownish-grey, like no, I’m not attracted to that other guy. Anyhow, all I can tell you is that I don’t possess the skill it takes to be a gifted liar. It tore me up. I couldn’t sleep, I lost weight.

Now I don’t have the bandwidth to lie. I could never remember the fabricated story I’d have to tell so even the simplest question could trip me up.

The truth is simple. It’s easy. I read a study once where they had figured out through years of studying vigorous lying that the longer and more complicated an explanation was —the more likely it was to be untrue.

Truth is quiet, lying is loud.

Truth feels like a deep breath after you realize you’ve been shallow breathing again.

Truth is like watching murky water clear up. Once it reveals the beautifully colored fish and the multi-colored rocky bottom, you discover you aren’t in deep water after all. Nope, it’s shallow as shit and you can stop furiously dog padding and just put your feet down.

Truth is the difference between squinting to read the small print, and going and getting your glasses.
Instant clarity.

Clarity is truth’s sidekick. Together they calm us down. We know where we stand. We can see the bottom, read the small print.

I never realized how much I counted on those two until recently. I took truth for granted. It never occurred to me how scary watching someone repeatedly lie could be.

But all is not lost. Here’s what I know for sure. From one really bad lying liar to you.

Liars get cocky. They make mistakes. They forget about all the past bragging, the hidden cameras, the blind ambition of the hyenas in the room—and this one simple fact:

Truth, like that stubborn splinter in your finger always works its way to the surface.

I take solace in knowing that.

Carry on,
xox

“Trust is like an eraser, it gets smaller and smaller after every mistake.”

Don’t task me with bringing the fruit salad to brunch. I cannot be trusted to pick ripe fruit so I screw it up every time.

Once, emboldened by the misguided faith that I’d picked well, I waited until the last possible minute to cut up the fruit and ensemble the salad. The peaches were as hard as baseballs, the strawberries were moldy and lo and behold I had chosen not one, not two, but three worm infested melons. A cantaloupe, a honeydew, and a casaba to be exact.

Cue the screaming.

You ‘d think at this stage of my life I’d have knocked on enough melons to know the difference, but alas, that is NOT the case. (For decades the same could be said for my ability to pick men.)

Now I know my shortcomings and after that horrendous episode I will volunteer for dessert duty (excluding fruit torts), or the cheese plate. Always the cheese plate. If you can have your pick of what to bring to a soiree, pick cheese. It’s next to impossible to screw up a cheese plate. (Unless you bring Velveeta. Although…at a wedding back in the day they served sliced Velveeta with a sharp cheddar and some brie and many of us scoffed. How incredibly low brow!  Then, some of us covertly loaded up our napkins and scarfed it up secretly in a dark corner.)

I cannot be trusted to pick out glasses that compliment my features. I repeatedly go for style over substance, trendy and oversized. I am neither a millennial nor a hipster so I cannot carry off trendy trends but don’t tell that to my oversized purple cat eye frames.

I should stick to timeless. Classic style frames and cheese plates.

I cannot be trusted to know off the top of my head how to get anywhere.

And by anywhere I mean ANYWHERE.

I could not find my way out of a paper bag without GPS.
Don’t follow me because I can be counted on to walk in the opposite direction of where we’re headed.

Not just sometimes. EVERYTIME!

It’s a joke. But not a funny one. Unless you’re my husband who finds it endearing and thinks it’s hilarious.

You must always marry a man who laughs at your shortcomings.

I am a continuous source of entertainment for the man. 

So in closing, pick the cheese plate, stay away from the fruit, don’t attempt purple cat eye frames (you’ve been warned), and pick a man who thinks wormy melons and watching you walk with determination in the wrong direction is a riot.

Carry on,
xox