awakening

In 1994 I traveled with a friend to the Big Island of Hawaii and the trip turned out to be magical.
No really. Magic happened.

I hadn’t thought about it for many years, but on my walk today I started remembering all the amazing things that took place, especially on one particular afternoon, and that usually means I should write about it.
So here goes:

We were guests of a friend who was working on a movie being shot on the Big Island. The studio was springing for her condo up in the hills overlooking the deep, blue Pacific, so she invited us to spend some time in her pre-paid paradise.

Pretty magical already, right? Just wait.

I can’t exactly remember how, but we met a really wonderful woman who worked at The Four Seasons, with the dolphins.
Best. Job. Ever.
She was around our age, easy to laugh, spiritual, toned and tan. Her connections allowed us to use the facilities and more importantly, go out on a lava rock jetty with the waves just below us, trade winds billowing through our beachy hair…and meditate. It was ridiculously spiritual, just like you imagine it would be.

Does it get more magical than that? You betcha.

While our one friend worked all day on her movie, my other girlfriend and I rented a convertible and decided to explore the island.

Someone had told us about a magical black sand beach at the end of a five-mile hike, so that was the focus of our journey.
We started that day like we did most, bathing in a tranquil cove, where the water was as calm and warm as a bathtub. We spent about an hour floating and soaking the sleep out of our eyes, rinsed off at an outside shower, threw shorts and t-shirts over our bathing suits – and took off. Well, not before stopping at the local gas station/market to fill up, get a diet coke, a Yahoo, a kit kat and a peppermint patty.

You know, key components for creating magic.

I remember following someone’s directions and finally arriving at an unmarked, gravel pull off on the side of the road. Besides a few cars parked nearby, there were no signs of life. Was this the way to the black sand beach? We sure hoped so.
My friend and I decided to head down and take our chances and ask the first person we came across.

The temperature was perfect, with a breeze and lots of shade, so the hike started off easy.
God was a show off that day, as we were surrounded by dense, lush greenery, and every kind of flora and fauna Hawaii had to offer. We started down; admiring, well, everything, until we came to a fork in the dirt path where we stopped, looking around for a sign of some kind, or a clue as to which direction we should go.

I remember this as clearly as if it happened yesterday:
We were in a clearing with a path veering to the left, and another one on the right, wondering which to take, when out of nowhere, a small scruffy dog with tufts of hair all askew appeared.

My friend called him Gremmie since he resembled a gremlin, and he answered to it. He interacted with us for a minute or two, seeming friendly but preoccupied.  Clearly he was on his way somewhere special and we were keeping him. He seemed familiar with the area so we asked Gremmie the way to the beach.

Without hesitation he gave us a look of great conviction, as dogs do, and started down the path to the right – so we followed.

We walked for a long time with him running ahead of us, turning around occasionally to check our progress.
It was evident he was a pro, weaving in and out of vines and narrowing paths, sure-footed, with the confidence of a dog twice his size. Toward the bottom, the path got steep with deep ruts in the cliff side. Little Gremmie seemed to know the way, jumping and traversing obstacles, stopping to make sure we made it to the bottom. I think I saw him give me stink-eye on a particularly tricky part, eyeing my lame “hiking boots” with their worn out soles as I slid on some loose dirt. Seems he had opinions about my poor choice of hiking attire.

All in all, it took us just under two hours to make our way down, but it was worth it because there we were standing on an endless stretch of uninhabited beach.

A beach of black sand.

Gremmie didn’t stop for long. He obviously had an agenda as he ran ahead to a river of fresh water that had cut a swath through the rain forest, down from the mountains, dissecting the beach, making its way to the sea. It must have been raining at the top of the mountain because the water was moving pretty fast and it was too wide to jump across.

My friend and I were assessing the situation, figuring out if we could make it across when we turned to see Gremmie running way up-stream. I mean like where we could barely see him. Then, just like that, he jumped in and swam for all he was worth, traversing the current as it swiftly carried him down river toward us.

Keeping his head bobbing above the water, his legs going a mile a minute, his small, scruffy face a study in concentration, he zoomed past us toward the open ocean.

“Go Gremmie, go!” we screamed over the sound of the crashing waves, “Swim!” and just at what seemed like the last possible second…he made it across.

“Yeah! good boy! Way to go!” He shook off, not even out of breath, and looked across at us, jumping and screaming like crazy women. He looked bemused, head cocked to the side. This was no accident. This dog knew exactly where to enter the water in order to make it across before being swept out to sea.

Standing on the opposite side he barked. “Okay, now it’s your turn” said the dare on his face.

We entered the water about half the distance from where Gremmie started, and I was surprised by the strength of the current. It was determined to make its way to the waves and if you were stupid enough to go in you were going with it. It was about waist-deep, with a current that swept us both off our feet, so we swam like hell, carried downstream toward the sea. After several harrowing minutes, we both made it across where we flopped down on the coarse black sand, laughing and gulping in giant lungsful of the warm, thick, humid air.

Gremmie looked on exasperated. “Come on! There’s more! and he took off running. We just wanted to take in the grandeur of this incredible place so we sat down, watching him turn into a tiny, scruffy, speck in the distance.

After a few minutes of listening to the roaring waves, looking out at the whitecaps, I turned back toward the hillside in the direction we’d just come. “That’s going to be a hell of an uphill hike” I laughed, but it wasn’t funny.
The thought of it was killing my black sand buzz.

My friend was ignoring me. “Wouldn’t it be awesome if dolphins started jumping, right out there?”  she mused, pointing straight ahead toward the open ocean. Before I could reply the sea started boiling as a pod of dolphins began leaping out of the air one after the other, right in front of us!
We jumped to our feet, screaming!

“What the hell?”, “Oh my God!” We were literally dancing as they jumped and played.

“Wish for something else!” I yelled. “This place is frickin’ magic! Wish for a man! A handsome man! “

But my friend wasn’t going to waste a wish on such nonsense.

“I’ve heard there are wild horses all over this island. Wouldn’t it be great to see one?”
We started looking around. I half expected a Unicorn to go prancing by, when I noticed my friend was walking behind us, into the rainforest type greenery that met the sand at the bottom of the cliffs rising above us into the clouds.

She seemed to be walking with purpose, so I followed her into the cool shade of vine-covered trees, ferns, and tall grass. I can’t tell you how long we were there, fifteen minutes, half an hour? I was just enjoying the pleasant change in temperature, when my friend stopped, grabbed my arm, stooped down low, and whispered – you guessed it – “horse!”

Not fifteen feet away was a wild horse, I kid you not. It let my friend approach it and pet it. I’m not kidding. The whole scene was surreal, like something from a movie. When the magic horse finally decided to leave, we were downright giddy as we made our way back onto the black sand.

“What is this place?”

We laid on our backs laughing, looking up at the crystal blue sky. Just so you know, there is NO sky as blue as a Hawaiian sky.

After about an hour, I was starting to feel a little light-headed, and my friend had developed a splitting headache. It soon became evident she was in no condition for the hike back up the hill.

Shit. What to do?

I could see Gremmie in the distance running back our way, but unless I could strap my friend to his back, or he could run and get assistance, like Lassie, he was going to be of little help.

We were in full brainstorming mode, when I started to hear the rumble of an engine over the sound of the waves. It seemed to be coming from the hill we’d hiked down earlier that day.

And just like something out of Indiana Jones, a beat up pickup truck broke through the trees, splashed across the freshwater river, and came straight for us. My friend could barely stand up, so I talked to the guy who happened to be a very nice, local mountain hippie. Think Matthew McConaughey in his naked bongo playing days.

And maybe just the best miracle of the day.

I explained our situation, and he agreed to give us a lift back up the hill to our car.
My friend laid down in the flatbed, while Gremmie and I kept her company. The guy explained that Gremmie didn’t belong to anyone really, he was just a local dog that everyone looked after. That explained his devil-may-care attitude.

The ride was rough but it was a blessing, delivering us to our car in under 20 minutes compared to the several hour hike in the heat, uphill, that would have most certainly killed us.

Hey, my friend was sick and I was hungry!

We still marvel, to this day, about all the magic on that beach.

Did that really happen? 

I wonder about Gremmie sometimes. That scrappy little guy. He’s gotta be about 150 yrs old by now.

Is he still guiding unsuspecting seekers down that hill on a magical mystery tour to those sands of black? What do you think?

Xox

*yep, that’s me on that beach, right after the hike down the hill, feeling exuberant, and I think denim, overall shorts need to make a come-back! HA!

If you’re at all like me (and I know you are!), as December comes to a close, and 2018 becomes just the dumpster-fire-of-a-year that it was, getting smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror—I turn introspective. 

Introspection is great. But it’s highly underrated. The thing is, it’s nearly impossible to do in a crowd—or while chewing—and I don’t know about you but that’s where I am and what I’m doing this time of year, most hours of the day. Truth be told, it’s more like a solitary act done with your mouth closed and that can make things complicated.

But I need it you guys. Desperately! It clears out the cobwebs and it gets me headed in the right direction, otherwise I might make a somewhat unintentional u-turn and drive right back into the fire. 

As 2019 approaches, there are certain things I want to carry forward—and there are other things I want to leave behind in the “dustbin of history” as they say.

Many things can trigger introspection. This year, mine was triggered by an interview I heard on NPR with Michael Pollen. His new book, How To Change Your Mind, talks about the clinical trials being done using psychedelics like LSD and psilocybin (the active ingredient in hallucinogenic mushrooms) to help the severely depressed, treat addiction, and lessen the anxiety of individuals who’ve been given a terminal diagnosis and are facing imminent death. 

One woman he heard about had overcome ovarian cancer but was so paralyzed by terror of its reoccurrence that she was unable to live her life. As she put it, “It’s all I think about.” 

Let’s stop right here. Who hasn’t had trouble ‘getting over’ a terrifying setback in their life? I think we can all agree that’s a pretty universal fear. 
A reoccurrence? 
The ‘other shoe’ dropping? 
More bad luck?

Anyway, they had my attention.

During the study, when they gave her the psilocybin, (Which by-the-way, is not like you and a bunch of your friends taking mushrooms in Debbie’s hot tub back in 1980. In this trial they were monitored and guided by professionals). Anyway, once on the drug, she took a tour of the interior of her body and during that tour she saw a large black mass in her chest. Cancer, right? Well, that was her first impression too. She was urged to confront it, not run from it and when she did it revealed itself to be…wait for it…her FEAR. So she stood toe-to-toe with it, and screamed “Get the fuck out of my body!” And in the process, she eradicated it from her life. Entirely! Gone! Bye Bye forevah!

What she told the interviewer was this, “I can’t control my cancer, but I CAN control my fear.” and that was a revelation to her. WE REALLY CAN CONTROL OUR FEARS YOU GUYS! And we don’t need magic mushrooms to make that happen. We only need to believe it! (Insert giant forehead slap here.)

Here’s the interview, it’s FACINATING!

‘Reluctant Psychonaut’ Michael Pollan Embraces ‘New Science’ Of Psychedelics 

‘Reluctant Psychonaut’ Michael Pollan Embraces ‘New Science’ Of Psychedelics 

So, this was just a super long way to say that during my introspection, I decided that in 2019 I would control the things I can, like maybe even my fear, and leave everything else behind! 

What do ya think? Sound like a plan?

Here are a few I’ve been thinking about just this week. Maybe you can add yours below. 

Aging—Can’t control it. I can only manage my feelings around it, use a moisturizer that costs as much as a time machine, and wait for acceptance to kick in. I’m thinking any day now.

Politics—Can’t control it. But I can control my exposure to cable news and manage the stress I feel when I hear his voice saying something stupid.

Boundaries—Can’t control how people react to them. I can only control the loving but completely necessary implementation of them on my part. 

Other People’s Crazy—Can’t control it and I used to think I would die trying. I can only control my perception of crazy and I swear to god that makes a huge difference!

Let’s change our minds you guys, and march into this new year as the brave, resilient, joyful souls we really are!

Carry on, 
xox

*Hi Loves,
This is a post from Christmas past. I think it was way back in a simpler time — 2013.

Anyhow…it’s a crowd favorite, the number one most requested holiday post and you guys really know how to pick ’em because I love this one too! After all, it’s about my husband and everybody roots for my hubby. Right? I mean, he tolerates me and that is no. small. feat.

Listen, he’s no saint, believe you me. He’s a procrastinator extraordinaire as this story will reveal, and a curmudgeony rapscallion of epic proportions.  HOWEVER, all that being said, the man never ceases to amaze me with his common decency.

And here on Earth 2.0 I miss common decency. I think we all do.

So here’s a dollop of decency courtesy of my own personal Avatar. I’m immensely grateful for him and for all of you for your decency and continued loyalty.

Wishing you and yours the happiest of holidays and an amazing 2020!

xox Janet

AVATAR
av·a·tar
ˈavəˌtär/
noun
1.HINDUISM
a manifestation of a deity or released soul in bodily form on earth; an incarnate divine teacher.

I met my husband when he was 47 and I was 43.
To say I kissed a lot of frogs along the way is understating the obvious!
And since he’s French there’s also a certain irony there.

On paper, I looked über normal.
I had a great job, a house, a relatively “normal” family, lots of good friends, two Siamese cats, and a Partridge in a pear tree.

But as you all know by now, I had my dark, hidden secret.
I was a closeted seeker.
Devoutly spiritual.
I did yoga,
I meditated twice a day,
I could have been a monk.
Well, except for the red lipstick and nail polish…oh, and there’s the sex. Anyway, I’m pretty sure I blurted it all out after a glass (or three) of wine on one of our early dates, half expecting him to excuse himself, saying he was “going to the restroom”, only to discover after ordering dessert and eating it by myself—that he had made a run for it!

But he didn’t.

It ends up he was a seeker as well, having worked with
a Peruvian shaman along the way—so I should have seen this next part coming…

For years, I had sought the counsel of a channel, a friend who had the ability to call in “beings” of higher wisdom. So, I invited her/them over to “meet” my new husband. I’m not exactly sure what I expected, but what they did was to just, well, so perverse. Let’s just say they completely ignored me and practically fell all over themselves (in that way nebulous mist can) calling him “Great Avatar”.

Then they explained that I am the “consort” to this great being.

What? Really?
Like the Cleopatra to his Marc Anthony?
Uh, no. You can’t be serious! It’s nothing like that!

More like the Robin to his Batman, maybe. OR…
The Abbott to his Costello.
The Kato to his Green Hornet.
The Elaine to his Jerry.
The Heckle to his Jeckle.

Well, not exactly. I had to acquiesce to the undeniable fact that, gulp,
He is my teacher, and I am grasshopper.

I just rolled my eyes, thinking that infinite wisdom must have mistakenly ‘Avatared’ the wrong guy—but the irrefutable proof of it happened again—for the gazillionth time on Christmas Eve.

He told me the story with tears in his eyes that night on our way to dinner.

He is a typical man in the sense that he waits until 3 p.m. on the 24th of December to start his holiday shopping.

So…there he was driving while famished, navigating an overcrowded parking lot with nothing to sustain him except the remnants of a candy cane covered in pocket lint.

He was Hangry (hungry + angry).
You get the picture.

Finally, after circling eight-thousand times, he saw a car ready to pull out of its space so he positioned himself, left blinker on, and waited…and waited…while the lovely person, 175 year old woman who should have NEVER been driving in the first place, backed ever so sloooooowwwly took her ever-loving, f*c@ing time, to vacate the coveted spot. Meanwhile, on the other side of her was a little pickup truck that has the same idea. My husband, seeing what was about to happen, aggressively blocked the spot with his black Porsche and pulled in. (Don’t judge, just because it’s a Porsche and a pickup truck, just don’t do it!)

As the pickup truck realized defeat and drove off, the driver made eye contact with my husband—and flipped him the middle finger.

Oh, don’t worry, that stuff rolls off his back…he’s French, remember?
But still, it was Christmas Eve for cryin’ out loud!

No matter. He walked into a local joint to grab a quick burger and realized while he was eating, that middle-finger-pickup-truck-guy was eating with some of his buddies a few tables over.

So, instead of pounding his chest or letting his smug get the better of him, he got out a pen and wrote a note on a napkin.
He then attached $20 and handed it to the waitress to deliver to the guy…and without saying a word—he left.

The note read:
Even though you flipped me the bird,
It’s Christmas Eve.
your lunch is on me.
The black Porsche.

While walking away he glanced back to see the guy showing the note to his buddies as he stood to search the cafe for this mystery Santa.

So freakin’ decent, right? It brought tears to my eyes you guys!

He’s my hero.
He’s my teacher
He really is an Avatar.
(And said without any eye roll whatsoever) It is an honor to be his consort/grasshopper.

Merry Christmas everybody!
Xox

He was SO mad at me. Furious. How could I tell? Because he told me right to my face.

I’m glad you’re home safe,” he said. He looked stoned but I knew better. That was his sleepy face. His way-past-my-bedtime face.

“Really? ‘Cause you seem pissed,” I quipped. It was pretty obvious as he stomped around in his bare feet and blue, flannel jammie pants, slamming drawers and doors and anything within reach that he could slam on his way back to bed.

No hug.

No kiss.

No eye contact.

No kidding.

Even the little brown dog had picked sides, staying put, warm and cozy back in our bedroom, her brain having been filled with anti-mommy propaganda for the past couple of hours. 

“Wow! You’re mad?”

“Yes I’m mad!” He snapped. I think I saw smoke billow from of his nostrils.

“I can’t believe…”

“Well, believe it because I am! (Insert dramatic pause) You know I texted you…and you didn’t answer.”

“You did?” I started looking for my phone.

“Yes, I did. When I was going to bed, around eleven.”

He turned around without looking me in the eye which I took as the ‘silent eye treatment’ and stomped away. It was impressive.

But I could hardly keep from laughing. I know that sounds insensitive but this is a man who NEVER worries about me when I’m out. I suppose I should take it as a compliment but it’s always been a little disconcerting, this faith he has in my ability to make the good decisions, you know, the ones that have led me, so far, to remain…not dead. Since we didn’t even meet until we were both well into our forties, he believes me to be capable of defending myself and figuring shit out as proven to him by the fact that I rarely call him to bail me out of any jam that I may or MAY NOT get myself into. (Psssst…I have Auto Club and our friend Ernie on speed dial.)

Unfortunately, that door does not swing both ways. I make him (and by ‘make him’ I mean it’s written in Chapter One of The Husband Manual that he read and signed before we sealed the deal) I make him text me when he’s off the motorcycle.

Because that’s a fucking dangerous hobby and I have this habit of liking to know he’s still alive.

Since the scariest thing I do is karaoke in Korea town, occasionally, I think to text him when I leave because fair is fair, you know, goose and gander stuff, but he’s always led me to believe that it’s kind of adorable—but completely unnecessary. 

“On my way home,” I’ll text, letting him know that I didn’t choke on the microphone or accidentally drown on my own spit. 

CRICKETS…

Or, a simple ‘thumbs up’ emoji—meaning that I had momentarily interrupted his pizza, beer, and violent movie night by stating the obvious.

I have to admit, the evening had run later than I’d told him it would by about an hour and a half. I was at the Forum in Inglewood with my sister, having the spiritual experience of #becoming with Michelle Obama and eight thousand of her most rapturous admirers. The night was a lot of things. It was transformative. It was inspirational. But it was NOT punctual. So when I told him I’d be home by eleven and the event didn’t let out until then—and in my post Michelle-taking-me-into-her-confidence-coma, I neglected to think to correct that with a text… 

THAT was a mistake.  

As a matter of fact, unbeknownst to me, my phone, which was zipped securely inside the pocket of my purse, (because she was THAT good), had long since gone into ‘sleep mode’. 

This meant his text vibrated silently, unseen in the dark. 

TEXT: 11:09 pm — Is everything ok? It’s late. I’m going to bed
(kiss face emoji)

Holy mother of all things hyperbolic and hysterical!

You have no idea how over-the-top dramatic this is! It may seem completely innocent to you but this, you guys, this is a five alarm fire. This is a scream into the void. This is my husband absolutely freaking out! 

And I missed it. 

I was too busy fan-girling, re-living over and over every tasty morsel of juicy girl-talk Michelle had spoon fed us all night. We quoted back to each other every word. The story about falling in lust with Barack. About therapy and in-vitro. We laughed again at every joke and implied jab at the current administration as we wove our way in and out of post-Michelle traffic. It took us a good thirty minutes to find the freeway and when we did—it was choked with traffic. Don’t look at me like that, it’s LA! There’s always traffic in LA at 11pm (or so I’ve heard).

Anyway, there it sat, the unanswered text, stewing in its own juices for another forty minutes or so. And there he sat back at home—marinating in worrying. Wondering whether I’d fallen victim to a mugger in a dark parking lot, or gotten into a car accident and was lying unattended in the hallway of County Hospital. Or maybe a carjacking had occurred, or a drive-by shooting, or my sister had finally reached her limit with me, stuffed me into the trunk of her car, put it in neutral, and pushed it off a cliff.

As it turns out he’d texted a preview of what was to come. Look at that. He was all set to worry. Who knew?

Who had created this monster? In retrospect, I blame myself. Maybe it’s the fact that lately, with the whole #MeToo thing, I’d been talking to him a lot about the fact that just living in the world as a woman is akin to walking naked through a sketchy neighborhood. A lot of stuff that he never gives a thought to—is out to harm or even kill us. The fact that my guard is never down. I have to park my car in a well-lit area, lock my doors the minute I get into the car, and walk with my keys woven in and out of my fingers like a weapon. The fact that his only concern is protecting the money in his wallet and that my purse is the least of my worries when I’m out at night. That’s because my most valuable asset will always be MY ENTIRE BODY. 

Men don’t think about that kind of stuff until we educate them. And then they worry, like, all the time. They slam things and get mad when we don’t answer texts late at night—which they have every right to do because we’ve scared the bejesus out of ‘em. 

Later, when I got into bed, I snuggled up close to him, but I could feel him tense up. He wasn’t done being mad.
I know that feeling of loving someone or something (a pet) so much that the mere thought of anything happening to them shatters the veneer of complacency we all wear—and then the vulnerability leaks out all over the place like a big, wet, mess, and the only thing that can keep you from embarrassing yourself and losing your shit altogether—is anger. 

But I’m sorry, I still wanted to laugh.

Isn’t love absurd sometimes? 

Carry on, 
xox

My BFF, Steph and I caught this on the SNL Christmas Special that aired one day last week and we laughed ourselves silly!

You see, it’s about a peach candle that gets regifted around the world. I’m sure Steph was laughing at the mere concept of a peach candle getting passed around from person to person as the anecdote to “I forgot to get you a present”, or “I really don’t know you that well, Jenny!”

As for me, well, I had a dark secret and it’s about damn time I came clean.

You guys, I have an entire drawer in my house dedicated to regifting. And most of it is devoted to candles. And most of the candles are pine scented because I make it my mission all year to find the best ones and through many, many years of exhaustive research I can report to you that most of them are absolutely horrible. Like, slap your own face horrible. Like, I’m offended by you and how can you call yourself pine when you smell like moose ass horrible.

I’m not proud of this in the least, but I feel better now that I’ve admitted.  

And by-the-way, if you deny you have something similar in a closet or a drawer; a secret stash of candles whose scent is so cloying they make you want to gag, or stationery that is so old fashioned that the 1960’s called and they have no use for it either. If you even try to get all judgy on me and deny this—you have to live with yourself because YOU are a lying liar who lies.

But I forgive you because it’s Christmas. But if I see you just know that I will hang mistletoe off your nose, Pinocchio.

At work we exchanged a single Secret Santa present and the same pair of reindeer socks and box of awful peppermint candy made the rounds for about a decade. But what did I expect? The limit was thirty dollars and you can barely buy a cup of coffee or feed a parking meter for under thirty dollars in LA. Besides, I think we can all agree that nobody gives one brain cell of thought, one fire of a neuron, to a Secret Santa gift, most especially men.

I once was regifted something I had given the person and he’d not even taken the time to rip off my handwritten tags! But here’s the thing, I didn’t get mad, how could I? I actually laughed, put it in my “regifting” drawer, and gave it back to him in a different box the following year!

So, in the spirit of Christmas I encourage you to go to that special closet or drawer, and clean that sucker out! Let’s all get rid of that shit and start fresh.

I’ll start. I will give every partially burned candle (Because I burn the questionable ones to see if they get better when burned—they don’t) to my blind housekeeper, Maria, (She will never notice. Oh, don’t get your panties in a bunch, it’s the truth!) and probably most of the unburned ones as well.

The stationery I will donate to a local church. I just know the ladies there will love it, (it has ‘church lady’ written all over it).

And then I may just have to throw the rest of it away because if I take the time to do some careful self-reflection I will have to admit that I’m one shoebox away from being a…a…hoarder!

There. I said it. Now I’m going to eat my feelings. I hear pie calling!

Carry on,
xox

From the Archives:
This is making the rounds on social media and I adore it! So, of course, I had to share it just in case you haven’t seen it yet.
Big candy cane kisses,
xox

“Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

I won’t sleep a wink. Not this week. That’s because this week ends on December 1st and besides starting the most stressful month with an “R” in it—December 1st means only one thing to me and my sister. 

That is the date we attempt to make our yearly reservation for Christmas Eve dinner.

I cannot be held accountable for the lengths I will go to secure a reservation at this famous, Beverly Hills, Prime Rib establishment which I shall not name (but it starts with an L and ends in a WHY?)

For reasons too numerous to mention, (okay, it’s cheaper and so much less work than hosting at home), dinner here has become a tradition in our family and I am not about to disappoint the entire family which at this point consists of a bunch of eighty-something’s who look forward to this all year long—by fucking it up. 

Let me be clear, a Christmas Eve reservation at this place is as coveted and hard-to-get as they come. You are more likely to book lip injections with the guy who “refreshes” all the Kardashian lips, (not that I would EVER! I read somewhere there is a five-year waiting list) than you are to get a table for ten, on the night before Christmas. 

Back in the day, I had no problem playing the absurd LA reservations games that the hot, new places put you through to get a table. It was all about seeing and being seen. But that ship has sailed. I don’t give a rip about getting a table if I can’t book it the same day on Open Table. Not to be indelicate but I don’t care how good a restaurant is—it all gets pooped out the next day, so why bother?

That being said, regarding Christmas Eve I have learned that you MUST make the reservation for as many people as you can. You over-book. You add two extra chairs just to play it safe. We generally have eight people but god forbid somebody unexpectedly brings a date or decides at the last-minute, as a Christmas miracle, to reconcile with their ex. I have learned the hard lessons that are still—years later—too painful to recount, that you may absolutely, positively, NOT ADD A PERSON TO YOUR RESERVATION! 

Apparently adding one chair will tip the balance of the universe and all life will cease to exist—or a least that’s how serious this place is about that rule. (If you subtract a person they’re not happy about that either, but a death certificate usually gets you off with just a stern warning.) 

You see, the problem is the restaurant. They have become heartless savages. They know they have you by the short hairs so as far as holiday reservations go—they keep moving the goalpost. For years the date to call-in was October 1st. Easy, peasy Parcheesi—no sweat! I got all kinds of time in October! 

That morning I would set my alarm for 6AM which gave me plenty of time to stretch and do my vocal warm-ups. At nine-fifty-nine exactly, I would sit down with my coffee and start the speed dialing. By 10:05 I would get an actual living, breathing, woman named Nancy or Carol who I could tell wore sensible shoes and was short on the chit-chat . A serious pro who was teed up and ready to book me a table. 

Oh, Holy night.

Then, suddenly, a few years ago when I called on October 1st, the woman who answered seemed startled, unprepared. She sounded…young. Her name was Tiffany. 

“Uh, Christmas Eve?” she asked a little confused. I wasn’t having it.

“Yeah! What’s the problem?” I yelled, feeling not one bit ashamed of my outburst. I had trained all month for this day and her I’m a little confused game was not about to side track me. She could save that BS for the newbies, the amateurs. This was not my first rodeo. After close to a decade of this shit—I was a pro. 

“Well  played, Tiffany,” I said with a little chortle and a hand gesture that was completely lost on her because…telephone. “It’s ten o’clock, the assigned time to book a table for Christmas Eve and that’s exactly what I intend to do!”

There was silence.

“Hello? Tiffany, are you there?” I screamed hysterically.

A minute went by. I could hear her breathing, and turning pages. It was the longest minute of my life. You know how they say that in the midst of a crisis, time stands still?

Time froze.

It ceased to exist.

All I could think of were the large tables being booked by other operators while Tiffany and I were caught outside the time/space continuum.   

“Oh yeah”, she finally answered. “They moved the date for Christmas Eve reservations to November 1st.”

“Novem…wait. What? You can’t be serious!” 

“Let me check.” Then he put me on hold.

ON HOLD!

An instrumental version of Feliz Navidad tried its damnedest to soothe me while I waited.

For a goddamn table. On Christmas Eve!

After speaking with the manager and the manger’s manager, I was convinced this was not some cruel tactic to put me off. It was a fact. The date had actually been changed. Again! 

November 1st dawned dark and dreary that year. A cold rain fell as I cracked my knuckles and cleared my throat waiting to commence the speed dialing. Just to be sure we got a table, my sister was calling and checking the internet at the same time. We would enlist the old “double team” tactic and if one of us got through we would text the other immediately. 

Listen, if our family wants over priced Prime Rib on Christmas Eve, no one is going to keep my eighty-year-old mother from her Diamond Jim cut of beef!

My sister got through first. It was 10:10 AM and the only tables they had left were for 3:30 in the afternoon.  That seemed…asinine. What should we do?  

“Tell them your Sandra Bullock’s assistant and the table’s for her and she can’t eat solid food before 5PM!”

“Too late.”

“Shit!”

But in the end, after dropping every name I could think of, we took our allotted thirty-seconds to decide that maybe the old people would actually love it. You know, a real early, early bird special. Dinner not only started but completely finished by five! No heavy meal sitting in their stomachs at midnight. No meat sweats. No indigestion. No Alka-Seltzer. No Tums needed. Everyone would have plenty of time to digest. And if I knew my mom, by eleven-thirty she’d be back out in her kitchen, like Henry the Eighth, gnawing happily on that enormous bone. 

Grateful, we booked the damn thing, profusely thanking them like idiots for allowing us to basically spend north of a $1000 for lunch. 

This year, November first, we coordinated by text before the 10AM call in time. I had a jam-packed day and so did my sister, but we knew that in a few short minutes the suspense would be over. Even though we might be eating Prime Rib for breakfast we’d have our table for nine and all would be right with the world. Let the speed dialing commence! 

I put my phone on speaker and set it on the table next to me while I ordered Christmas wreaths online. 

“Hello, this is Barbara.”

I texted my sis, “Im in.”

“Good morning, Barbara, I need a table for nine on December 24th…”

“That’s Christmas Eve, right?” 

Uh oh. Barbara was clearly not the brightest crayon in the box. I tried not to lose my patience.

“Uh huh. Every year.”

“The day to call for that has been changed to December 1st.”

I took the phone off speaker and put it to my ear. 

“Don’t you fuck with me Barbara,” I hissed. “It’s now November 1st, which after a generation of being the date to call was changed from October 1st. I get it. You want to separate the wheat from the chaff, cut out the riff-raff. But if you look up my phone number you can see that we book a large table every…”

“I see that Ms. Bertolus”, she said. I could tell Barbara was used to being cursed at, my f-bomb rolling right off her back. I felt bad. This was about Christmas after all. 

“So call back at 10AM on December 1st?” I changed my tone and I didn’t insist on speaking with her supervisor.

“Yes. I know it feels like they change it every year,” she laughed a little, so I did too.

“Okay, I’ll talk to you then…happy holidays.”

I will not sleep a wink this week. December first is cutting it really close. By that time we won’t be able to book another place and it’s not fair to have one waiting in the wings only to cancel it of we get in. And if we don’t get a table?  I see a Google search for “How to cook a prime rib” in my future. 

Or my husband’s future.  Same thing. 

Explain to me how any of this makes sense? It doesn’t. It’s a Christmas nightmare, tradition that will most certainly die when my mother does just like all great but totally annoying traditions do. I’m sure a small part of me (maybe my spleen) will miss doing this when she’s gone. But who knows, by that time they might make it first-come, first-serve, and half of LA will stand in line all night like we do outside the Apple store for an iPhone.

Carry on,
xox

The holidays can be haaaaard you guys. And as much as I’d love to sugar coat it—I can’t.

I know, they can also be full of joy and wonder.

But when they’re not—when you’re just struggling to keep your head above water because of a health crisis, or a death, divorce, or something else unimaginable has you down for the count—it is helpful to remember (at least it is for me) that no matter how famous you are, how much money you have, or influence you peddle, or how many self-help processes you keep in your back pocket, at some point, THEY WILL GET YOU DOWN.

Here in California, the wildfires that raged a mere two weeks ago have left a literal shroud hanging over the state. So many people have lost so much it’s hard to fathom feeling much Ho, Ho, Ho.

My BFF is navigating a mother who is deep into her Alzheimer’s long goodbye, and although she’s maintaining a stiff lip and a brave face, I can feel her sadness all the way from the Great Northwest. 

I’ve felt wonky for the past few months which led to me seeing a cardiologist about an arrhythmia caused by a jacked-up thyroid. As somebody who usually runs circles around the holidays, this “health situation” had made me feel anxious, vulnerable, and introspective. The old adage, “If you don’t have your health, you have nothing”, has turned from a blah, blah, blah thing that old people say—to the god’s honest truth.

So, in a nutshell, I’ve really had nothing funny or uplifting to say. (As a sidenote it must be said that if I lose my sense of humor, it’s time to take me to the doctor.)

Then, the other day, I came across this picture on Liz Gilbert’s social media and it gutted me. This is her first holiday season without her beloved Raya, and it shows her seeking solace in the lap of her friend Martha Beck.  I stared at it for a long time, crying the ugly cry because, number one—I’d been holding onto a lot of fear around my health and it felt good to let it all out, and number two—when I saw it, it reminded me of pretty much everyone I know right now, including, perhaps, The Statue of Liberty. It reminds me of exhausted surrender. A place I initially have a hard time finding–but know well.

Then, on Wednesday, Liz wrote this and I wanted to share it with you.

THIS I can do. I can hold the hearts who are hurting in my heart ( just as long as y’all don’t mind a bumpy ride!) You are not alone. You are not misunderstood. We can do this.

Let’s all hold each other hearts. We’ll know when it’s safe to let go. We’re gonna be alright.

I love you.
Carry on,
xox

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving after the death of a loved one.

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving after a divorce.

Holding your heart in my heart if you can’t be with your family this year.

Holding your heart in my heart if you are estranged from your family.

Holding your heart in my heart if you have a family member serving in the military, or if you yourself are serving.

Holding your heart in my heart if you have to work today.

Holding your heart in my heart if you a missing a loved one at your table today because of addiction or mental illness or sickness or anger.

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving in sobriety.

Holding your heart in my heart if you struggle with food, and you feel like nobody understands.

Holding your heart in my heart if family holidays bring up nothing but memories of suffering for you.

Holding your heart in my heart if you are alone, or if you are just feeling alone in the crowd.

Holding your heart in my heart today, all day long. Holidays aren’t always easy. But you are loved. Please know that you are loved.

Unclench your fist and lay your hand on your heart. It’s all gonna be alright.

We love you.
❤️LG

“Are you waking up feeling overwhelmed, anxious, and insecure for no apparent reason?
A nagging knot in your gut, a panicked feeling rushing upside you, an unpleasant heat flushing your cheeks?
Yeah, well, you’re not alone.

The period from October 31-December 31 is the darkest time of the year, when the veil between Earth and the Spirit World is at its thinnest…

Forcing you to confront what your soul truly needs to thrive as we close out the year.

It’s a beautiful and natural process in our evolutionary spiral upwards. 

We’ve been sitting in this shadowy energy for a week and while it may feel a bit intense and uncomfortable now…

Just. You. Wait.”*

OR, or…

Is your Apple iwatch, with all of it’s good intentions disguised as motivational “nudges” feeling more like a relentless bully— or your mother? Here’s what I mean.

Breathe. (Uh, I am. I least I thought I was. I am watching Black Mirror so maybe I forgot.)

Time to stand Up. (I’m pooping, so no. And I’ve noticed your timing is a bit sinister. Do you have a hidden camera that I don’t know about?)

But my all-time favorite is: Close Your Rings. (I don’t know who set my rings, but if I find that sadistic triathelete—I will hide their spin-bike shoes and force-feed them carbs.

You’re usually further along by now. (I know! But today I’m sitting on a plane. I have a leg cramp, the guy next to me is Ebola patient zero, and I have to pee but my husband, who is seated next to me on the aisle, just fell asleep. But hey, thanks for the reminder—asshat.)

Keep it going. You did better yesterday. (Really? I did a lot of things better yesterday. Yesterday I made a pot roast, booked a mammogram, and shaved my legs. Yesterday will go down in the record books as a banner day. Not all days are as stellar as yesterday and life is full of disappointments so, back off—or I will cut you.)

Janet, you’re so close. A brisk 16 minute walk should do it. (Okay. I hiked 3.5 miles this morning. Up hill. With the dog. You can just kiss my ass you judgy fuck—no brisk walking will be happening for the rest of the day. Get over it. And don’t call me Janet like we’re friends or something.)

I know I seem testy but these motivational reminders are relentless. And irritating as hell, reminding me several times an hour what a dismal failure I am at standing, moving, even breathing!

I don’t know how you guys feel but I cannot express my feelings strongly enough.

You’re a damn watch! Mind. Your. Own. Business.
Nobody wants your special brand of “motivation”. And if you can’t say anything nice, how about if you don’t say anything at all!

Oh, and maybe for the next two months, you know, during these darkest of dark times, with the air already thick with anxiety, we should all ditch our iwatches—at least until we feel emotionally strong enough to fight back. 

Carry on,
xox

*From https://numerologist.com

“Who would be stupid enough to think that there’s such a thing as a pure race.”

SO important. Today more than most.

An Open World Begins With An Open Mind

Carry on,
xox