awareness

My mom & Poppy lost their beloved cat Calvin Tuesday night. This is for them.

We all know how this story ends, yet death, as inevitable as we try to forget it is, surprises the shit out of us when it takes someone we love.

A pet.
A parent.
A sibling.
A close friend.

Pain is pain—because love is love, is love, is love, is love, is love, is love. (To quote Lin-Manuel Miranda’s brilliant sonnet.)

But I believe that the risk of a broken heart is far outweighed by the innumerable rewards and blessings that love bestows.

Maybe you needed to hear this today. I did.

Carry on,
xox

“Grief; it covers you with the weight of a wet blanket and smothers all other emotions, most especially joy”

~J. Bertolus

Here I sit, internally pummeled by the ebb and flow of grief.

It was just a dog, I tell myself, as the terribly underutilized rational part of my brain gets its chance to craft a reason and attempt to soothe me.

Doesn’t matter, moans my heart.

I loved her with all I had. I loved her without boundaries, deeper and wider and bigger than I could have ever thought possible.
She was my baby –– That thought just makes me cry longer and louder.

The rational brain, not used to seeing me like this, ups it’s game, taking a different tack—
You knew how this story would end, it reasons. Everybody dies, that’s the exit strategy we all agreed upon.

You’re right, I answer begrudgingly.

She was old and sick and you could sense the end was near… That’s funny, my rational brain doesn’t usually acknowledge intuition. It was clearly pulling out all the stops.

So why the sadness and the tears? It continued. The question actually had an air of sincerity –– my brain searching, seeking a viable answer.

Love…it’s about love. When you love someone or something with ALL your heart and soul…well, the pain of its loss is equal in measure.

I could feel it contemplating, reasoning –– love sounded dangerous.

Then why love at all? When you know it will end this way, with so much pain –– why risk it?

How do I explain?  Deep breath.

Because without that love, without opening your heart that much, each time more, then more, then more again –– life is colorless, black and white, and in my opinion not worth living. The reward is worth the risk.

So…I’ll cry and I’ll feel bad for a while and time will carry me through this; and when I’m on the other side of grief I won’t forget her, I could never do that. It will just start to hurt a little less each day until her memory makes me…smile.

Then I will have forgotten the pain enough to love without borders, ignoring all reason.

All the while knowing how this ends…

xox

There once was a man, running for the highest elected office in the land, who considered himself to be perfect in every way.

We can all agree, that’s absurd, right?

I mean a certain amount of self-esteem is terrific, don’t get me wrong. But I also think it’s a helpful practice to be somewhat self-aware. To know your strengths and your weaknesses. That way you can surround yourself with people who compliment you.

Folks who are great at ALL the things that you suck at—and vice-versa.
So, that got me to thinking…here’s the short list of what I totally suck at:

1. Sports. I am athletically challenged. I do, however, have amazing eye-hand coordination that I have yet to capitalize on.

2. Staying on my side of the bed at night. I possess an unconscious desire to spread out. My husband’s nickname for me is starfish.

3. Backing up. In the car. I had a series of unfortunate metal-on-metal incidents while in reverse a few years back and so now I suffer from a form of Reverse PTSD.

4. Returning phone calls. I’m the worst. I remind myself so often to call someone back that after a while I mistakenly think I already have. That’s crazy, I know.

5. Wearing shoes. I have a passion for shoes and I own way too many pairs. Especially for someone who spends 99.9% of her time barefoot. I have driven all the way to the gym or worse yet, up the mountain to my hike only to discover once I’m there that I’m barefoot!

6. Making a soft-boiled (runny) egg. I am the world’s leading over-cooker of eggs. Sorry. Can’t do it. The end.

7. Reading. I know that doesn’t make sense. I read a lot. But a book has to really catch me by the end of the first page or I’ll put to down—and forget about it. I currently have, no lie, seven or eight partially read books lying around the house. Shame on me.

8. Making a decent vinaigrette. My husbands are to die for. Mine? Meh. It always tastes how I imagine motor oil does. Motor oil with a splash of lemon and too much pepper.

9. Sneezing quietly. You know those people who can silence their sneeze? I am not one of them. Mine is so loud—like a gunshot. I can’t help it. They sneak up on me and startle those around me. They can actually scare my husband to the point anger.

10. Tolerating lying. I simply cannot. I can smell a lie. I should work for the FBI. So… this Presidential campaign?  You cannot even imagine how many times my head has spun around in the eighteen months since this madness started.

11. I know I said ten but I suck at spelling and it needs to be mentioned. I used to excel at it. I won spelling contests in grade school. I used to correct other people’s spelling mistakes for shit’s sake! Now, I absolutely SUCK at it! I misspell my own name. I blame technology. Spellcheck. Auto correct. And laziness.

12. I suck at gambling and dancing and I don’t follow directions either. so…twelve, thirteen, fourteen.

Care to share a few of yours?

Carry on,
xox

Okay…these are good!

Hi Loves,
Holy shit.
I’m so sickened by Friday’s lewd DT tape. I’m not even going to write out his name.
But what makes me even sicker is how that type of “locker room” talk is supposed to be brushed off. Laughed off  if you follow the example of the RNC and this guy’s supporters. Here’s why that should be impossible for us to ignore.

1) That was not a locker room. It was a professional work situation. A TV interview. (Hence, the microphone).
2) Many athletes have gone on record stating that they don’t talk like that in the locker room. Dirty talking is not the same as bragging about assaulting a woman.
3) He was a 59-year-old man at the time, not a fourteen-year-old boy on the JV football team. Although…

Let’s be clear. What he was bragging about is sexual abuse.
And we women, we’re not “good sports”, we’re hysterical, prudish, over-reacting feminists (said with a sneer) if we call if what it is—rape.

As women, there have been numerous times in our lives where we have denied unwanted male advances. You all know what I’m talking about. And that may have cost us our job, promotion or most importantly our dignity.

Society wants us to be quiet. To play along. To be “good girls.”

This is an essay I wrote earlier this year about how surprising, horrifying and even confusing it can be when a man in a position of authority crosses the line.

We’re all good girls here, aren’t we ladies? And good girls always make sure they VOTE.

“So, he said I have a really cute vagina…”

I just about dropped the carton of eggs I was pulling out of the fridge for our breakfast but made the save. The half-smoked cigarette I was balancing between my lips wasn’t as lucky. It fell onto the kitchen linoleum, just barely missing my bare feet—as my mouth hung agape.

My roommate chattered on as I stomped out the hot ash that was skittering along the floor with my heavily callused heel.

“One of the prettiest he’s ever seen.”

“Wait. Who said that? Michael? Your boyfriend?” I asked as if I really wanted to know.

Moments earlier I had innocently asked how her visit to the Gynecologist had gone the previous day. She’d had a couple of wonky pap smear results and, well, now here she was, off talking about all the compliments her vagina was getting—and I was confused.

She did have the attention span of a spider monkey so this wasn’t new, but the subject matter was. We weren’t in the habit of sharing super intimate, sex-related pillow talk.

“No, silly, Dr. SoandSo”, she laughed, smoke billowing from her nostrils as she snuffed out her cigarette in the Philodendron on the kitchen table.

We had a habit of smoking while cooking. Only while cooking. It nauseates me even now. All of it. Even this conversation. Especially this conversation.

I whipped around, setting the egg carton down hard in front of her. Egg snot ran from several of the perforations onto the vintage 1950’s Formica diner table we sat around in the kitchen.

She jumped, startled, as I yelled into her face.  “What the fuck?! Are you telling me your Gynecologist said that to you?!”

She looked at me as if my head had spun around (which it had, but just once), her big, brown saucer eyes filled with fear.

“Uh, yeah, he was just…um…it wasn’t…uh…”

“Please tell me he at least removed his hand from inside you before he said that!” I asked again not really wanting to know the answer. I’m not even sure why that mattered, it’s just that the thought of her doctor wrist-deep inside of her, cooing that bullshit while she’s on her back with her legs in the stirrups made me want to puke—and call the police.

“That is sexual harassment!” I screamed louder than I intended.
”He’s a professional! He should NEVER say that sort of thing to you! Everyone knows gynecologists are only allowed to talk about the weather when they’re down there—below the equator!”

She looked bewildered.

“Honey.” I pulled up a chair and sat straight in front of her lowering my voice into a calmer, more soothing register as I realized she had no idea what he’d done.

It was a compliment. About her lady parts. From a man.

UGH.

“You have to report him. He’s a bad guy, and not a good doctor. That wasn’t a compliment. It was HIGHLY inappropriate.”

When she finally got it, she looked ashamed.

“If you don’t—I will!”

Sexual harassment in the workplace, from people in positions of power, and I think, in general, is SUCH a subjective topic and to this day—I’m not sure why.

It’s been my observation that most men just don’t get the intricacies.
The boundaries are blurred to the point that unless it comes down to an actual physical assault—it can slide under the radar like it did for my twenty-seven-year-old roommate.

It is often covert—cloaked in a compliment, delivered by someone in authority, wrapped inside of a joke or said straight up to your face with a wink—and if you so much as bat an eyelash—you’re overreacting.

Clearly, the situation was “misconstrued”.

I loathe that word. Misconstrued.
Lots of slimy people get away with highly questionable shit by hiding behind that word.

Here’s the thing, I don’t misconstrue anything. My gut construes everything you said correctly. Your innuendo? It was interpreted exactly how you meant it. There was no mistake made.

Except for YOU thinking I wouldn’t say anything.

I worked in a male-dominated business for almost twenty years.
And I grew up with a brother and worked my way through school on the night crew of a supermarket as one of only two girls.
I know men. I love men, and I know male humor.
I get it. I can even appreciate it. It can be bawdy and blue and I’m a real broad—one of the guys—so I’m often right there in it AND I can let a lot of shit slide.

But there’s a line. A boundary that should never be crossed, and you know when it has been by the pit in your stomach.

My male boss was always the epitome of appropriate behavior. He never made a misstep.
But one day in the midst of an all-male jewelry buy (or a shark feeding-frenzy, take your pick), the free-range testosterone in the room took control of one of my boss’ partners and best friends. As he went to leave, he hugged me goodbye for a little bit too long, and the hug was just a little bit too tight and there it was—his semi-erect “little friend” pressed up against my thigh.

It was no accident. There were a couple of dry-humps. I kid you not.

Reflexively and forcefully, I pushed him away with both hands looking him straight in the eye—hor. ri. fied.

He winked, and yelled something back at the guys about his jeans being too tight, and made a quick getaway.

I could barely catch my breath. I was shaking and red in the face. Immediately, I grabbed my boss by the arm, yanking him out of earshot of the others.

As a woman in a man’s world, you walk a tightrope—you want to be a “good sport”, “one of the guys”, yet still be treated with respect.

“THAT man!” I hissed. “You had better keep your FRIEND away from me—he is NEVER to lay a hand on me again, DO YOU UNDERSTAND? If he does—I will quit and then I will sue him all the way to hell and back!”

He shook his head and shrugged, confused. “O…kay…”, he stammered still staring at my panting, red face.

“He pressed his dick against my leg!” I whispered forcefully, staring him down, trying to make him understand. He immediately looked down at his feet, embarrassed. “Okay”, he replied, wishing he were invisible as he slowly turned and walked back to his buddies.

I think, rather I KNOW, that he thought I was overreacting. That I had misconstrued his friend’s natural affection for lechery.

I tried not to gag every time I had to see that man again, which was often since he was a part of my boss’ inner circle. But nothing even remotely resembling sexual innuendo or impropriety happened again. I don’t know if my boss had a talk with the guys or if they had just decided on their own to behave themselves.

All of them except for that one man.
In the space of ten years, with a wife and two kids to support, he settled three workplace sexual harassment cases (that I know of ), out of court.

If I remember correctly, I think it was when my boss told me about the second one that his face registered some sort of understanding and an unspoken apology for having doubted me.

That would have to be enough.

Talk to me. Tell me your story.

Carry on,
xox

“When are you going to start a family?”
Really? The ink wasn’t even dry on the marriage license, I still had rice in my hair, for cryin’ out loud.

How the hell did I know? I was barely twenty, my husband twenty-three. WE were the babies in the room.

It’s the rare individual who is introspective enough to ask themselves at a young age: What kind of life do I see for myself? Do I want to be a parent? Will I have children?

Some people just KNOW. The rest of us? We go along with the proverbial flow.
We date, fall in love, have the wedding, the picket fence and….screech! (sound of a needle being dragged across a record) hey! Not so fast!

Your early twenties are a time of impetuous, risk-taking behavior. NOT the picket fence and most definitely not parenthood—at least not for me.

I could back it up with SCIENCE:
There have been recent studies and in fact, research from the National Institutes of Health have shown, the prefrontal cortex, a region of the brain associated with inhibition of risky behavior, and decision-making, doesn’t get fully developed until age 25.
Being a late bloomer, I am certain my prefrontal cortex finally matured at around thirty-five, and sadly, it still wasn’t screaming “make a baby!”

What was wrong with me? All my friends were doing it. Even my little sister.
Hello?! Where was my maternal gene?
At the time it felt like it had been replaced by the much more irresponsible (red hair dye, wine drinking, spend every dime on shoes, travel around Europe), happy-go-lucky gene.

It wasn’t a calling for me. I know a calling. I move heaven and earth when something calls me. Motherhood? Meh, not so much. It’s not that I don’t love kids, I do. Just never enough to make any of my own.

There was also the fact that the stars just never aligned.
It didn’t occur to me to start a family when I was married, it always felt like a decision for another day; and when it finally did cross my mind I was epically, tragically, single. Not a man in sight, let alone “father material.” By the time I married my second husband, as fate would have it, my eggs were all dried up.

Sooooo, I gave single motherhood some serious thought, only to be discouraged by a very wise, older woman friend, a “crone” who asked me, “the maiden”, why I wanted to have a child?
I stammered on for a good five minutes, never coming up with anything better than
“Everyone else is doing it.”

“It is the MOST important job, being a mama. Come talk to me when you have a better reason.”

Unfortunately, this maiden could never come up with one.

“To make the decision to have a child – is momentous.
It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body”
~Elizabeth Stone

By my mid-thirties, when I answered “no” to the kid inquiry, a sad, concerned look would wash over women’s faces; until I assured them that I was biologically able—but not interested in doing so. Well…

UNLEASH THE KRAKEN! 

Many women got angry, really, really angry. Especially at baby showers. And in my thirties, there was a baby shower EVERY weekend. You know the ones where you bring your babies? THOSE were the worst.
There was even some name calling.

Selfish.
I’ve been called that many times in my life.
It’s code for: why aren’t you doing what I’m doing?
It has been hurled my way in anger, hitting me like a dagger in the back.
It has happened so many times, I have a large callous there—these days the dagger just bounces off.

Is it selfish not to have children? Probably. Can selfish be a good thing? Yes, yes it can.

Call it what you want. I just knew I wasn’t wired for that level of self-sacrifice, and my unborn children are better off because of that.

Up until then, my life had not been premeditated in any way. It had all happened like a series of accidental decisions if there’s such a thing. Eventually, I recognized that I had actually made a conscious choice. I had decided “my supreme and risky fate”.

I didn’t need to hide in a cave or skulk away ashamed with my decision. Then, and only then, did the name calling stop.
Isn’t that always the way?

Now I’m over fifty, and the question is: How many grandchildren do you have?

What I know for sure is this: I’m so incredibly grateful to be born at a time in history when we’re not put in stockades in the town square, with villagers throwing eggs at our childless faces.
We decided it wasn’t for us…and that’s okay.

Luckily, times have changed since I was young and women are so much more accepting and supportive of different life choices. These days I feel anything but ostracized, some woman actually applaud my decision.

Childless women.
As Liz Gilbert and Oprah mentioned about on Sunday, we get to be the spectacular aunties.
Mama’s need the aunties.
We play a very important supporting role, we get to teach the children selfishness—which is thankfully something most mamas know NOTHING about.

Tell me about you. I’d love to hear YOUR story. Did you decide not to have children?

much love,
xox

“Wonder is the beginning of wisdom.” – Socrates.

Oh, how I wish I could bottle this man’s enthusiasm!

Enjoy your weekend of wonderment!

xox

I LOVE when the Universe sends me a love note saying just the right thing—at just the right time, don’t you?

This one was so good I had to share it.

Waiting can be haaaaaarrrd. So, be impeccable with your thoughts and words, your dreams and desires, and stay focused because it’s ALL cueing up behind the scenes.

“Janet, do you know what happens in time and space just before something really incredible happens? Something mind-blowing? Just before a really HUGE dream comes true?

Do you?

Absolutely nothing.

At least not in the physical world.

So if, perchance, it appears that absolutely nothing is happening in your life right now… consider it a sign.

All the best,
“The Universe”

Sign up to get your own Notes From The Universe:
tut.com

Carry on,
xox

Last Friday, after braving a harried curbside check-in and the usual TSA shenanigans at LAX on my way to Chicago, I did what I always do when I fly.

I indulged in two of my guilty pleasures. The ones I use to take the sting out of air travel. I stopped by the airport newsstand to buy a candy bar and “the rags”.  You know, the gossip magazines. I get so engrossed reading that shit that I barely notice the bumpy take-off or that bitchy flight attendant who always has to wedge my purse into the overhead compartment at the last-minute with the hysterics of a life and death emergency.

This trip was all Brangelina—all the time. And a Kit-Kat bar.

The dissolution of their marriage broken down into a precisely laid out timetable told in a he said—she said war-of-words—according to “inside sources”.

The day I heard of their breakup I gasped. It never occurred to me that they’d split. I had always imagined that their hot sex could help them to overcome any obstacles. Yes, Margret, I’m THAT naive.

The coverage was remarkable, and by remarkable I mean disgusting, even for “the rags.” One had the headline “I Had To Leave Him To Save The Children“ and was slanted blatantly in Angelina’s favor. It painted Brad as a drunken, pot smoking, child abuser who systematically berated the kids. You know, according to those inside sources.

THAT is a character assassinating bell that cannot be un-rung. I nearly choked on my Kit-Kat.

Another had the headline “Angelina—The Wife From Hell” where again sources painted the picture of a crazed. overindulged and neurotic woman with only the thinnest grasp on reality who tortured poor Brad with her wild mood swings.

I had to leave to it to People Magazine to be fair and balanced—the arbiter of civility (a sentence I never thought I’d write). They talked about the family, the kids and how sad everyone was about the divorce. It was a family after all. They had twelve years of pictures which showed the progression of the relationship, birth of the kids and various adoptions.

They all looked happy. Full of love. It made me sad.

Entertainment journalism…is not journalism by-the-way. And it’s barely entertaining. (Don’t get me wrong I love seeing the pictures of celebrities pumping their own gas or eating at In-N-Out.)

It is where the mean kids in high school get jobs after graduation until they get hired by TMZ. They make shit up to fill in the blanks of salacious breaking stories. They quote imaginary friends and sources. Ha! Some friends!

Everyone in LA is characteristically bored with the story of yet another relationship that’s hit the skids. “Oh, that’s out”, they yawn.

Is it me or is the world getting even more jaded?

Is it getting more cynical? Does anyone root for people to stay together? Are things getting meaner? Nastier?

Are friends standing in the shadows ready to rat us out at the flash of a handful of cash?

Is anything true? Is it all made up? Am I part of the problem because I buy that shit?

I think the answer to all of those questions might be yes. What do you think?

Carry on,
xox

(Okay. This has irked me since I was a teenager reading the fashion magazines with the airbrushed, clear skinned models as the face of acne. Fuck you, you insensitive magazine editors! And HaHa! Now who looks younger?…Um…now back to a loving place.)

Don’t you love stories with happy endings? Where the hero or heroine battle their demons, slay the dragons and eventually end up victorious? Me too! This is that kind of story.

Last week, as I sat picking my toenails (long story), watching political pundits try to explain the most asinine and unexplainable Presidential campaign of my entire life, (which could be to blame for the toenail picking), the ticker at the bottom of the screen which runs “Breaking News” stories caused me to sit up and take notice.

“Study finds acne suffers age better and live longer.”

WHAT!?

Well, I almost started jumping up and down except my boobs, which have lost all of their former shape and elasticity, would have flown up and hit me in the face—and knocked me unconscious—and I wanted to enjoy this moment.

I was certain I had hallucinated from the lack of blood flow to my brain. My head had been down by my feet concentrating on my horrible toe calluses. Can we just talk for a minute about?…no…let’s stay focused on the most positive thing I’ve heard in a looooong while. Maybe years. Perhaps decades. Bitching about my case of epic toe jam will have to wait for another day.

Awwww…dontcha all act so disappointed.

So, I waited at full attention and lo and behold, five minutes later the acne headline came back around.

“Study finds acne suffers age better and live longer.” Just writing that again makes me so happy.

It was true! Oh, sweet Jesus. There is a God!

Still, seeing was not believing. You know, everything you see on the news is not always true…right? So I jumped up onto my callused, toe-jammy feet and ran to get my laptop. I HAD to look this up.

You see, I was cursed with acne from the age of twelve to…well, now.

Even at the tender age of fifty-eight I still get angry looking, teenage breakouts.
But only when I’m having my picture taken or I’m going to be on a live video feed. When was invited to be on Huffington Post Live last year to talk about life after divorce, I developed a zit so large and so red I was forced to go and get a cortisone shot (something I hadn’t done in over ten years), lest I look like someone who had been punched in the face.

Face punching does not instill confidence in a happy post-divorce life.

Running for last minute shots, monthly facials, peels, and potions that smell like The La Brea Tar Pits.
Ah, such is the life of an acne sufferer. Mine could go from minimal to moderate at the sight of a french fry. I could go months without a single inch of clear skin. NOT A SINGLE INCH.  The week before my period? Forget about it—all bets were off. Heavy layers of Clearasil at night and cover-up by day could not hide the angry monsters who would torment my life. The chin zits were the worst, they hurt like hell, followed only by the dreaded nose zit. Every word or facial expression made my eyes wince and water in pain.

Back then, I wanted to hide. Or die. Acne does that. It takes your self-esteem and throws it in the wood chipper. But luckily it hits you at an age when no one notices and you feel on top of the world—your teens. All irony aside, looking back, I have no idea how I remained an extrovert. I’m pretty sure I overcompensated.

I was one of the lucky ones. I have a minimum of scarring—physically…

Anyhow, for all of you fellow acne suffers (I wanted to say former acne sufferers but it really never goes away—does it?), here is the study:

“A new study published in the Journal of Investigative Dermatology found that the cells of people with acne are better equipped to curb aging, which not only means these lucky folks look better later in life but that they are also more likely to reach old age.” 

How’s that for a silver lining?

“Researchers looked at over 1,000 female twins, a quarter of whom suffered from acne. They investigated the participants’ skin biopsies and white blood cells and discovered that those affected by breakouts had longer “telomeres,” which are essentially protective caps in our DNA that holds together the ends of chromosomes.

These telomeres prevent your chromosomes from breaking down and fusing with neighboring chromosomes during cell division. As we get older, these “caps” shrink, and people with acne, who the study found usually have longer telomeres, therefore tend to stay youthful for longer.”

Seems we acne sufferers also have lazy pathway genes that are less active (sullen and moody), therefore slowing the aging process.

Eureka! Hallelujah! Hazah! All of those years battling my overzealous oil glands has finally paid off!

I wonder if I had known this back when I was nineteen and in the war-of-my-life for the face-of-my-dreams if it would have made a rat’s ass of a difference to me then? I’m not someone who enjoys delayed gratification so I’m gonna say no.

But I’ve gotta tell ya, it sure feels good now! And this is simply a feel good story.

Did you/do you have acne? Isn’t this terrific news?

I’m sitting back and waiting for the studies that find that chocolate makes you smarter and sex make you taller.

Carry on,
xox

I’m writing this as a self-reminder, although I’m sure you guys could use one too.

I cannot control the traffic or the way other people (idiots), drive.

I cannot control the cable person, the electrician, the handyman, the trash picker-uppers, the tree trimmers, the person who’s making my latte, or the air conditioning repair person. I cannot control the time they will arrive (which is never inside the promised window) how well they will perform their task, or what personality traits they possess (too chatty, too pissy, too flirty, too…)

I cannot control anyone or anything about the DMV. Period. End of story.

I cannot control the weather. I can have every app, and alert, but it will seldom cooperate when I hold an event outdoors, and I never have an umbrella or sweater when I need one.

I cannot control my dogs or any animal for that matter. I can guide them and train them, and make suggestions, but they all have minds of their own and there will be slobber on my white walls, water and/or muddy footprints all over my white slip covers and wood floors, and fossilized vomit under the bed. It’s inevitable despite my best intentions. This goes for children as well.

I cannot control my spouse or my family. (See above).

I cannot control the government, the postal system, the medical system or the educational system. But I can vote.

I cannot control bad grammar. Their-there-they’re, its-it’s, I could care less, It’s a mute point, Ugh. Dear God, make it stop.

I cannot control the speed or dependability of my WiFi connection, although I still think if I yell obscenities loud enough it will be shamed into complying.

I cannot control my hair. Where on my body it grows, what color it wants to be, and its texture. It’s time to give up the good fight. While I’m at it, I cannot control eye wrinkles, cellulite, lip lines or dark under eye circles, so I’m done letting Madison Avenue sell me the snake oil.

I cannot control how my garden grows. I can fertilize, weed and trim, but it has plans of its own to which I am not privy.

I cannot control aging. It has a superpower called gravity, and the combination are unbeatable. I surrender…you bitches.

I cannot control what others think of me. It is impossible.
I can carefully cultivate my image; but one false move, one bad outfit, snarky comment, or piece of spinach in my teeth and all that hard work is shot to hell.

I cannot control the bad manners of others. When a man lets a heavy door slam in my face as I exit a building right behind him; instead of jumping on his back like a crazed spider monkey…I send him love.

I cannot control what’s happening on the planet. Too many moving parts. I just have to trust in a Divine Order. (Which is true for all of it – everything in life.)

What I’ve discovered is this: ALL of my sufferings comes from thinking that I can control things. I cannot. And neither can you.

But here’s the one thing I CAN control – my perception and attitude. That’s it.

I can control ONLY my own energy and what I bring to the day, to the table, to every situation I encounter – even to the mirror, and THAT can change it all.

As my mom used to say when we were fighting with each other, as kids, “You just pay attention to yourself – watch where you’re going.

Got anything to add to the list?

Carry on,
Xox

Hi Guys,
This is from about two years ago and what can I say? Family…
Carry on,
xox

I prefer my bread gluten-free and my life drama-free. So does my husband. They are just a couple of the idiosyncrasies we share. We are a product of our pasts and in many respects—our damage is compatible.

This goes for family as well, and THAT can be a tall order, just like getting gluten-free anything outside of urban areas.

“Wanna go to New York for the weekend in October?  my husband asked one day this spring. “My cousin is having her first US art exhibition. She and her sister are going to be there for the opening with their adult kids, I’d love to see them again.”

I share the love that he has for these women AND I will go to New York for the opening of an envelope.

“Uh, letmethinkaboutthatYES, yes I would!” I replied.

Once they were reunited it was so dear and enlightening to sit back, watch and listen as they got caught up. It’s been over ten years since we’ve seen them.

Let’s be clear, my understanding of French, especially spoken fast and with enthusiasm, is similar to my grasp of Mandarin —nonexistent.

But giggles and guffaws, misty eyes and hugs, they need no translation.

Hours of stories and memories were shared.
These days the old guard are almost all gone, allowing everyone to exhale. This fancy, old, arisocratic French family is passing into very capable, progressive, and dare I say less dysfunctional hands.

Every family has their “stuff” and his family is no different; except their drama and family neurosis has style.
A certain je ne sais quoi. It wears Hermes scarves and pocket squares and is dripping with that sardonic French wit.

It’s the Coco Chanel of families.

A mistake a lot of us make is that we look at other people’s families who seem to have it all together; very beautiful and glamorous lives, all the trappings of success and we think: I wish they were MY family. I’d be SO lucky, SO together if he/she were MY parent.
I call bullshit.

It’s all the same in every language, in every country. It’s Universal. Family shit runs deep.

You think your family’s cornered the market on crazy? Think again.
The eccentric, wild-eyed, cousin who never wears pants, the snarky, judgmental, bitchy family member—they’re the same worldwide. The only difference is they may wear a sari, a Metallica t-shirt, or couture, and have a funny accent.

Seems it’s just a part of the human condition.

Walking around this weekend it all became clear.
New York is such a culturally diverse city. There were families, parents and children of various ages and ethnicities everywhere we visited. I was a witness to global love and global dysfunction; as they do go hand in hand.

And you know what?

You can’t make it to adulthood unscathed.

Family bestows on us its greatest traits (his family has an inordinate amount of successful, gifted artists) and its darkest, stickiest, secrets.
It damages us all to varying degrees.

Whether it’s through therapy, hypnosis, running away (like my husband did), or just the grace of God, it is my belief that we end up with the people with whom we share compatible damage. Humor is a bonus.

That’s all it is.
I did a very exhaustive, comprehensive weekend study – it really is THAT simple.

Love you my compatible people,
Xox