inspirational

This. This freaking post. I wrote it back in 2016 as an homage to our love. And truthfully, to show off our, oh so glamorous life. Now, it has become, BY FAR, the most popular of any other post I’ve ever written! 
I’d like to think it got traction because of the story, or the writing, but I know it’s because it has the word “poop”  is in the title.
That’s okay, If you’re here to read about poop—still love you.

Carry on, xox JB

“Bird poop brings good luck!
There is a belief that if a bird poops on you, your car or your property, you may receive good luck and riches. The more birds involved, the richer you’ll be! So next time a bird poops on you, remember that it’s a good thing.”
~Bird Poop Expert

What about if a single bird poops on your head while you’re driving in your car? You know, moving target and all. That feels like a whole lotta good luck coming your way—along with super silky hair, right?

I’m about to talk about poop, a lot!
Bird poop to be exact, so if you’re eating your eggs, best to put down your fork right about now. Or oatmeal or yogurt for that matter. Maybe you should just stop eating until you’re finished reading, okay? Studies have shown that reading while eating can lead to something serious that could render you dead, like choking while laughing, so in essence, I just saved your life.
You’re welcome.

And now, back to the bird poop.

Many people the world over believe that if a bird lets loose on you, then good things are coming your way. One idea is that it’s a sign of major wealth coming from Heaven (the place where ALL real wealth resides). And based on the belief that when you suffer an inconvenience (like a head full of bird shit), you’ll have a whole lotta good fortune in return.

The most popularly held belief is that if a bird hits your noggin, it is so lucky, so random and rare (statistically speaking it is rarer than being hit by lightning), how can a lottery win be far behind?

A Case in point — and a true story:

Can a head full of bird poop be lucky, you ask?
A Bay of Islands man swears it is! After winning $100,000 on an Instant Kiwi ticket, the man disclosed that a bird had recently pooped on his head and that his friends had insisted it was a sign of luck coming his way.

“I thought it was a load of shit,” the man admitted, (pun intended) “but when I was in a Lotto shop I had $5 left in my wallet so figured I would buy a scratch-off and test my luck.”

“I could not believe it when I scratched the right numbers and realized I had won $100,000,” the man told NZ Lotteries.

“It is such a great feeling! I plan to start a new life with this win. I want to wipe my debts and just enjoy life.” The man, originally from Christchurch, plans to move back down there, undeterred by the recent earthquake.

“This win gives me the funds to be able to get down there and be able to help out in any way I can in the city’s rebuild,” he said.

Let me just start by saying that the man in the story is WAY more altruistic than I’ll EVER be. Or maybe not. After he pays off his debt and relocates, how much city rebuilding can he do? I’m worried about him and his financial planning acumen. He has to make that money last and $100,000 doesn’t go as far as it used to. Maybe he’ll have the free time to volunteer. Okay. I feel much better now.

Anyhow, on Saturday the hubster and I decided to get a jump-start on Valentine’s Day being that we had flaked, waiting until the last minute and all the good ideas for Sunday were taken. Left to our own devices, we hopped into the car, put down the top, and decided to drive really fast out of the beautiful, summer-like temperatures and head into opaque whiteness of a foggy abyss, the beach. Faced with the choice of putting the top back up or leaving fogville altogether and going for a big lunch—you guessed it THE BIG LUNCH WON! (No surprise there.)

Winding our way through the tree-lined upscale neighborhoods at a brisk 40 mph (oh, don’t get your panties in a bunch, it wasn’t a school zone and besides, it was Saturday. Nobody drives below 40 mph. on Saturdays), on our way back into town on our search for the perfect kabob, I felt something clobber my cranium.

“Hey!” I exclaimed, hands on my head looking around like a freak. You have to admire my economy with words. Don’t feel bad. I’m a writer.

Anyway…

At first, I suspected it might be space debris or a tiny piece of meteorite. It was only when hubby, with his two bare man-hands, picked a rather large and thankfully solid piece of avian excrement out of my hair—that I realized my good fortune. Lottery WINNER!

Can I just take a moment to thank my husband for his courage, strong stomach, and lack of any real hygienic awareness? (He’s French). You are my hero and I will split the money with you AFTER I rebuild a city.

Needless to say, when the laughter subsided, (thankfully we share the same warped sense of humor that causes us to laugh at another’s misfortune—and poop), we hightailed it to the diviest Liquor Store we could find (because everybody knows THAT is where REAL wealth resides — not Heaven) and bought us some Power Ball, Super Lotto and Mega Millions tickets —and a box of Triscuits—the rosemary and olive oil kind.

Then with big shit-eating grins on our faces (not literally, that’s an idiom, mind out of the gutter people!) we drove to lunch.

Lottery or not, nothing says LOVE like picking bird poop out of your beloved’s hair—so I’m already a winner!

Love you my Big Handsome!

I know. You guys envy my life of glamour and romance. What can I say? I’m one lucky girl.

Carry on,

xox

Luckily, it’s three years later and I mostly hang out with animals and department store mannequins so this doesn’t happen to me so much anymore. But I was talking about this very thing to a friend this weekend, about not caring about getting to the bottom of things and the heartless asshole who taught me the extremely valuable lesson of not going there. 😉

Generally speaking I suppose you could describe me as an optimist. A Pollyanna even. After reading about my life I think that’s pretty safe to say.

So naturally, people come to me to have their spirits lifted. To lighten their emotional load, so to speak.

But what ends up happening if I’m not careful about my energy is: I cheer them up—and they cheer me down.

Not too long ago I consoled a friend whose business had fallen on hard times. I can do this, I thought through her torrent of tears.

No big deal. My business tanked almost seven years ago. I’m over it! I said to myself. And I meant it.

But her stories of debt collectors, empty bank accounts, no customers, and an evil, puss-pocket, scum-bag, hell beast, shit gibbon of a partner (he must have been related to my old landlord), sent me down the rabbit hole.

Obviously.

Before I took my journey to hell, I did manage to mumble a few things I thought might help. She felt so much better when she left. “I feel so much better”, she said. That’s all I can remember. My transformation into Zohar, the gatekeeper of hell had already begun, so my understanding of the English language became sketchy.

Driving home I came down with a splitting headache and a couple of hours later I was in full-on migraine mode which for me looks like incoherent muttering in a dark room about f*cknobs, the horrors of retail and the unfairness of life—with breath that could peel your face off—and an attitude to match.

WTF?

It doesn’t happen to me a lot, but more often than I’m comfortable with, and I see you my coach/motivational expert/fellow optimist friends. I can see your exhaustion, your edge, and your drastic need for a break because This shit can wear you down!

We may have no problem listening to our friends vent about their shit. But maybe we’re not doing anybody a favor by re-telling the story over and over again. I know, I know! We do it because we love them (and they’ve sat through our endless bitch sessions)  but I’ve gotta say, it is hard work keeping their shit from sticking to my shoes. Especially if I’ve been through anything even remotely similair—which is pretty much everything they’ve ever been through except maybe an alligator chewing off my arm.

The optimist in me has started to scream Awwwwww! My arm! My arm!

Besides that, I’ve started to remember the advice I received from someone very wise who was trying to help me crawl out of a bottomless eddy of despair over twenty-five years ago. Talking about something over and over again is NOT helpful, and he refused to do it, much to my dismay.

He would listen my sad story ONCE. Only one time would he listen before holding his hand up and shushing me. That’s right, he shushed me! (Truth be told, that was the only way to shut me up once I was on a roll.)

“You think you’re going to find answers to your problems by talking about them,” he said. “But the answers aren’t found in the problem and it’s just making things worse. It’s keeping you from progressing and I won’t go there with you.”

Huh… And fuck you.

I think that’s when I lunged over the table with a fork and threatened to tenderize his face. All I wanted was to hurt him as much as I was hurting, and that’s the truth.

But he would have none of it.

Because he knew how sticky that shit is when you give it life with words. “When you speak its name and give it language, you give it power,” he said. And he wasn’t willing to be cheered down. Not under any circumstances. Not even love.

Besides, what I know for sure is that if he’d gone to the depths with me to chew on that problem—I wouldn’t be here today. Swear to God. I needed him to stay with his head above water so he could throw me a line when I was drowning. You know what they say about rescuing someone who’s drowning: Be careful or they’ll pull you down with them.

So, I guess my advice to all of you optimistic uplifters out there would be (if you’re asking), speak briefly to each other about the shit. Don’t dwell on it and if you’re not up to it energetically—don’t sacrifice how you feel—even to temporarily lift a client/friend.

And check your shoes. ‘Cause that shit can stick.

How do you feel about this? Do you hate it? Does it feel shallow and selfish and other names that start with an ‘s’? Or, are you strangely relieved? Like, thank God I have permission?

Carry on,
xox

The rain was monsoonal, something as out-of-place in LA as a face with so much as a hint of a forehead frown line. 

I watched it coming down like an aggressive shower curtain of water slapping against the window while I waited in line at Trader Joes. So much for timing my run to the store in-between squalls. I knew I shouldn’t have lingered over the bone broth. What’s the thing with bone broth anyway? It’s like the second coming of Christ. And why do I do that? Why do I decide to do the deep dive into researching an item on Google, before deciding whether to buy it or not while I’m actually STANDING IN THE STORE?  

When I see people like me I just want to kick ‘em! Don’t you? 

Anyway, TJ’s was packed, just like most places are when it rains. It’s a phenomenon I can’t explain but it’s real. Ask anyone who’s ever worked in the service industry and they’ll tell you that the harder it rains the more people decide to put on pants (or not) under their raincoats—and shop. Or eat out. Or eat out then shop. 

It’s a thing. Trust me. 

Once I snapped out of my weather induced coma, it occurred to me that my line wasn’t moving. Isn’t that one of life’s great mysteries? How we always manage to get in the slowest line? Even after I do my due diligence by standing back and carefully sizing them all up! Even after deciding on the speediest checker, somehow, SOMEHOW, mine is the checkout line where the old ladies’s eggs fly out of the carton. Or the nice young man who’s bagging the groceries and has been blessed with the gift of gab discovers he went to middle school with the customer in front of me’s daughter and what a perfect time to get all caught up! Or the twenty-five pound bag of dog food (the only thing the man in a hurry in front of me is buying because god forbid he shows up at home without it—I’ve seen that look from Ruby) springs a leak right when he picks it up and kibble sprays like it’s coming out of a firehose, EVERYWHERE or, or, shit!

I decided it’s just the fickle-finger-of-fate and there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it now. Meanwhile, our line was at a standstill. So naturally, like a morbidly curious lookie-loo at the scene of an accident, I moved in for a closer look and you’re never gonna guess what it was that was holding us up. 

Go on, take a guess! Nope. Wrong!

The guy behind me must have seen it too because he went apoplectic. “Oh, sure, that’s just great!” he announced in his outside voice as he craned his neck in search of a quick escape.  

Here it is. Here’s what was causing the delay and subsequent pileup: The woman in front of me was going to WRITE A CHECK!

That’s right. A paper check. Like, one that’s been happily retired, living in a checkbook with all of it’s antiquated friends for the past several decades. I felt like I’d slip streamed the timeline back twenty years. Back to when I was thin and blonde, and..hey, maybe this wasn’t so bad…

Anyway, she was mid apology when she overheard the guy behind me loose his mind. Flop sweat appeared on her upper lip as she looked around nervously. Then she asked the checker for a pen. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so embarrassed,’ she said.

I was embarrassed for her.

“No problem,” replied the checkout girl, but I could tell it was a huge problem for her since she couldn’t find a pen that worked.

Having once been a Girl Scout, I fished one out of my purse and handed it to her.

“Here you go,” I said.

“Thanks,” she replied, and proceeded to write as fast as a human hand can move a pen across paper.

“Oh, for the love of god!” Cried the mom with two kids dressed in matching yellow rain coats who’d just gotten into line behind me. “Really, a check?” She was livid.

“What’s a check mommy?” one of the kids asked as she huffed away. “It’s a relic from our distant past,” she answered in her snarkiest mommy tone.

The woman in front of me was shaking as she handed me back the pen. Our eyes met as an explanation tumbled out of her mouth like popcorn does at the movies.

“My entire backpack was stolen in Barcelona, along with my wallet and passport,” she explained to no one in particular. “I had to go to the American embassy just to be able to get back in the country.”

I nodded sympathetically. I’ve traveled extensively in Europe and that sounds like my worst nightmare. I can’t imagine what she went through. 

“We got home late last night and there’s no food in the house…”

The cashier interrupted. “So I guess I can’t get any ID then, right?”

The hungry woman shook her head.

I’d heard enough. I pulled out my wallet but the manager, who I’m sure had noticed the back up, showed up right about then. “It’s cool,” he said. “I’ve seen her here million times.” He smiled a reassuring smile while scribbling his initials on the front of the check. “Haven’t done THAT in a while,” he said as he walked away. 

My anger had long since dissipated. After an entire line at the market had check-shamed her, now all I felt was compassion for the poor woman. No debit card to get cash. No credit cards. No drivers license. How else was she supposed to eat?

I imagined being in the same predicament and doing the exact same thing. 

Man, there were SO many lessons in that encounter.

People! Slow down! What’s the fucking rush?

Shit happens. 

Barcelona is divine but criminals live there too. 

American Embassies are essential in times like that.

There’s SO MUCH distracting candy around the checkout counter at TJ’s that found its way into my cart that it’s ridiculous. 

Have some compassion. Be kind. Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.

Carry on,
xox

I have a confession to make… I like politness.

I know that may seem untenable considering my foul mouth and general disregard for all things having to do with rules and decorum and yet— I love it when people are polite.

Tribe…Just so you know, it is now 2019—and nothing has changed.
xox

My house is a maze of contradictions so how can I blame Maria for being confused?

Maria is a our once-a-week housekeeper.
She came along with all the motorcycles, cars and dogs; in other words, the menagerie that was my husband’s dowry of sorts when we met and decided to get married. Now, after all these years of washing my unmentionables, going through my medicine cabinet and that drawer next to the bed—Maria is family.

She has to be. She is the keeper of all of our secrets.

And like any self-respecting family member, she screws up and I want to kill her and here’s why: She cannot tell the difference between trash—and a treasure.

I collect little pieces of nature which I’m lucky enough to find all around our property. Assorted nests, abandoned beehives in the eaves, fallen branches filled with hummingbird nests, heart-shaped rocks and found scraps of paper (even one-dollar bills) with cryptic messages that I’m sure are just for me. I’ve stumbled upon old skeleton keys, petrified tree pods, huge pinecones, old worm wood, even animal skulls, bones and teeth.

As if that weren’t bad enough, I go out and peruse flea markets and various other secret haunts, deliberately looking for that kinda stuff. Then, I actually pay money for it! Afterwards, I cart home my finds and carefully place them among the other seashells and rocks, beach glass, and seahorse skeletons.

It may look like a madman’s nightmare, but in reality— it’s MY carefully curated dream.

Oh yeah, I also collect cool, rusty old metal mermaids.
And don’t forget shiny. I can’t resist sparkly, shiny stuff.
Trust me when I say this: A rusty, sparkly mermaid would render me speechless with joy.

Anyhow, then I go about artistically displaying all of my found treasures around the house on tables and bookshelves—as art. I found them, I LOVE them, and I want to look at them everyday.

Saturday is the day Maria comes. It is a day of bittersweet agony.
The house smells of lemon pledge, murphy’s oil soap, and all things holy. It is spick and span’d within an inch of its life.
THAT is the sweet.
Now for the bitter.
She does not appreciate my taste in art. Better said: the woman is convinced I am batshit crazy.

For instance; I have the most realistic looking pair of ceramic fortune cookies displayed in my kitchen. One Saturday night I noticed they were missing. I wondered, did she break them? (She has broken so many things—irreplaceable, expensive things—gulp, remember, she’s family), but her habit after she breaks something into a million pieces is to lovingly arrange all of those pieces on a napkin, or, if at all possible, prop it up, where it waits to be discovered.

In other words she doesn’t dispose of any of the evidence.

Still, my instincts told me to check the trash and my suspicions proved correct. There they were, my ceramic fortune cookies, outside in the black bin, completely intact, with assorted food scraps and the contents of the vacuum cleaner at the bottom of a Gap Bag.

The following Staurday, when I asked Maria in my best broken Spanglish about it, she looked at me in complete bewilderment, as if I were wearing an Iguana as a hat, and said two words:
STALE. TRASH.

For weeks she continued to throw them away until I was finally able to convince her they were…art.

She has since, on occasion,  left me unwrapped, real stale fortune cookies on the shelf next to the…art.

But I know, in her heart of hearts, my sweet Maria is trying so hard to grasp this concept.
I get it. Nests,(even though I’ve sprayed them with clear polyurethane) are hard to dust. Animal skulls are supposed to be buried. And crumpled paper with sociopathic looking scrawl on it—well anyone can see—that’s just trash!

But not to me.

She has even put the five or six cryptic dollar bills that tell the secrets of my soul— IN MY WALLET, where I’ve inadvertanly pulled them out and almost tipped a valet—with my own treasured art!

This is a picture of a giant bird’s nest I was fortunate enough to find last spring in Santa Barbara. It is a masterpiece. A gift from God. It is stiff with shellac, yet extremely delicate.
I have it in a place of prominence—as art. Nature’s art.

She just doesn’t get it.

As many times as I’ve asked her not to, begged her to just skip over it, I know she picks it up and dusts. I can tell by the pieces of it, which I have to admit look suspiciously like dirty, random twigs—that I find in the trash.
“It’s okay” I tell her, “I’ll live with a little dust”.
But she cannot help herself—it’s not art to her, it’s a table full of dirty wood.
And so the nest, my treasure, is slowly dwindling away.

I just have to laugh. Hahahahaha!
My collectables have confused her to the point that she leaves crumpled paper (legitimate trash) right where she finds it, and asks if she can throw away an overripe peach.

I must also mention the real art. The nudes. I collect vintage and current black and white photographs and paintings of female nudes.
To Maria (Who I’ve neglected to mention is a devout Catholic) that is Not art. It is pornography.
Not only can she not bring herself to touch them, she cannot go anywhere near them which is apparent by the inch of dust they accumulate until I get around to dusting them.

And by-the-way—in case you were wondering—a mermaid is an abomination.

It is a topless fish. A dusty fish with tits!

To Maria it is clear—I’m an iguana hat wearing pervert, who likes to collect trash and stale food—and call it art. Which is only half-true…
But I’m family.

So you see, it’s easier to forgive when you realize—it’s all in a person’s perception. 

(I’m certain she owns a Jesus on black velvet.)

One man’s trash really IS another man’s treasure.

Carry on,
xox

I have a question for ya– can an inanimate object hold a vendetta?

Don’t answer that. 

The answer is obvious. Yes. Yes it can.

Case in point: The Ralph’s parking lot.

You may remember back a few months, in the heat of summer, I locked my keys in the car (another vendetta holder), and was forced to walk home to get the spare pair.

While wearing flip flops and teeny, tiny white shorts. 

Okay, I know. It appears that my biggest brain-fart moment and my most questionable fashion choices both coexisted in that one, brief moment in time, only to add to my humiliation and misery.

The dark, black pavement was the temperature of boiling hot tar—and my flip-flop chose that very unfortunate moment to break—and as a result it seared my foot the color of a piece of fine ahi tuna. 

Since I had an additional quarter-mile to walk to get my keys, I burnt my foot over and over again until, by the time I got home I could barely stand on it. 

As you can probably tell, I have a moderate case of flip-fop-failure PTSD. Which comes with (at no extra charge) a very bad attitude.

Nevertheless, you’d be surprised to know that I still wear flip-flops and I still go to that very Ralphs to shop. What can I say? I am a creature of habit. 

So, today. Today could not have been more opposite than that hot, summer day. It was about fifty degrees, raining cats and dogs. But apparently the parking lot was holding a vendetta, patiently waiting for months and months to exact its revenge for all of the bad press (vis-a-vis this blog) that it had gotten for burning the bejesus out of my foot. 

You see, that is the very definition of vendetta: A prolonged bitter quarrel or campaign against someone.

So, back to the rainy parking lot.

The pronouncement had been made this morning. We were out of coffee and I was trying to time my run to the store in between squalls. It had been raining for over twelve hours straight so the streets and the black top were riddled with deep puddles. Flooding was imminent.

Not to be overlooked—but it was—by me—it was also slippery as fuck.

So as I pulled up the hood on my jacket to keep my hair from getting wet and frizzy, and I started to dash (nice word for spazz running)  toward the entrance, the very same burned flip-flop foot hydroplaned, sliding out from under me, forcing me into a split.

It was a spit so perfect, so…committed, it would have gotten me a ten from the Russian judge. It also simultaneously filled my shoe with water and plopped my crotch smack dab into the middle of a puddle.

Groin pull! Was all my brain could think, the white-hot pain shooting up from my Achilles tendon straight into my unsuspecting vajay-jay who, only seconds before had been minding her own business.

I rolled on my side in the pouring rain, splashing around like a fish out of water, trying to get myself upright as fast as I could. Cars were waiting for me to get out of their way but nobody got out to help me for fear of being swept away by the invisible current that had obviously taken me down.

“Nothing to see here!” I yelled as I picked up my wallet which had fallen out of the bag I had brought to bag my own groceries—naturally.

Later, as I was attempting some yoga stretches, I began to laugh. I’m turning into my mother, I thought. 

Notes to self: Don’t run on wet pavement. Buy more coffee than you think you need. And try not to hold a grudge, they’re like boomerangs, they always come back to hit you in the head—or grab your foot.

Carry on,
xox

Often, when I go into the dark recesses of my blog’s analytics, I can see whatcha all are looking at.

Having written close to 2000 blog posts, what happens next is I see titles of posts that I don’t remember writing.

This was one of them.

And when I went back to read it—naturally, since it was written way back in 2016 (which in Earth 2.0 years is like a thousand) I started to edit–which bascially turned into a re-write.

That being said, this is just a long-winded way of saying, Happy Friday—and I plagiarized my own work.
Carry on,
xox

Oh, Holy Christ on a cracker is that ever true!
We just had a Capricorn new moon and that my friends, facilitates jettisoning all that is not working in our lives.

We get a cosmic do-over. A universal re-write (the best kind of re-write there is).

Wait. This all feels eerily familiar. That’s because, if you’re like me, we’ve done a full, life-retrospective every damn year around this time.

Anyway, some years look better than others. They just do. But for those jinky ones, the ones that make me cringe with regret, (You know the ones) I relitigate the past. And when I do, because I’m me, I play the roles of judge, jury, and executioner.

Then I move straight to the special effects department and I whitewash the mutherf*cker with some heavy-duty gauzy filter.

In my heavily CGI’d version, I’m so much smarter, prettier, and wittier, I have the most epic ideas, rebuttals and comebacks, and my hair looks impossibly, hatefully perfect—even after a nap.

In one version, nothing is my fault. In another everything is. It depends on which chapter you come in on.

In my dreamy, rom-com version,  I get chased by a horrible dragon, captured by a giant cyclops, and saved by a naked, brave and handsome knight (we know he’s a knight by the chain mail codpiece he’s wearing and his very…long…sword). That scenario is the only way I can introduce all of the magic that permeates my life—otherwise, nothing would make sense and nobody would believe me.

But I can’t justify how I got to where I am any more than you can. Sometimes shit just happens.

Often, when I look back I feel bad for her, for me. She simultaneously appears to be the heroine and the villain of her own story and that is a hard pill to swallow. Sometimes I want to warn her, “Hey, idiot! Watch out for that guy, he’s a …oh, there goes the bra…nevermind.” At other times I try to congratulate her. “You, yeah, you. Ya did…okay. Next time try to suck less.”

Most of the time I want to duck tape her mouth shut and put her in the corner with baby.

All of these years later I realize nothing good comes from looking backward. It’s all water under a rickety bridge guarded by angry trolls. It’s all ancient history, filled with faded Polaroids and lots of bad clothing choices and the worst part of it (besides a stint with eggplant purple hair) is that focusing on my past, however riveting, keeps me distracted from where I’m headed.

Someone once said, “Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it.” Well, I think quite the opposite is true. Selective amnesia is our friend AND those who look in the rear view mirror MUST be driving in reverse. I know I was. Also, and of this, I’m quite sure—Most of those lessons are learned and besides, my best times are not back there, behind me. They are ahead of me!

A few things that may be included while I create my future are (In no particular order): chocolate, naked knights, truffle almonds, dog kisses, a creative use of filters, and predominately minding my own business and looking dead ahead because the future I envision for myself doesn’t resemble my past IN. THE. LEAST. (except for maybe the good hair).

What about you?

Carry on,
xox

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