stories

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!

Dec. 2015 Looking back into the archives and realizing how little I have changed. This was that time I spied on George and Amal—in Mexico—and my imagination.

I’m doing it you guys. Every minute of every day so far. I can’t help myself. I am completely and unabashedly obsessed with the property NEXT DOOR to our resort.

When we arrived earlier this week all of the shutters were down.
It was closed up tight. Like the legs of a Catholic school girl, tight. Well, being that I was a Catholic school girl once maybe that’s a bad example—but you know what I mean. Shuttered up. Closed.
“Nothing going on here, move along,” kind of closed.

While the lovely young man was giving my husband the tour of our room, I was craning my neck to the left, hanging precariously off the balcony to get a better look.

“So…what’s the story over there?” I asked this young version of Javier Bardem, waving my sunglasses in that direction, attempting to seem nonchalant; less like a creeper.

“Those are private condos”, he replied, kind of annoyed that I had interrupted his prepared spiel and he’d lost his place and was going to have to start over from the beginning.

Private condos…with their own infinity pools…and a sandy private beach. Me likey.

Now, our resort is nothing to sneeze at. It is gorgeous squared. But I can’t help it—I’m intrigued.

I hear you. Mind your own business. Isn’t that what you’re saying? Well, cut it out.

The next morning I asked Teresa, the woman who was dropping off towels. “Why do you think no one is at those private condos over there?” I inquired, pointing a toe in the general direction while reclining in a lounge chair, sipping an umbrella drink and acting bored. “Why are they all closed up at this time of year?” And then to sound less like a curious paparazzi I added, “I mean, after all, it IS the height of the season.”

She shrugged (in the nicest possible way) then as she closed the door she dropped this cryptic little grenade with a thud right at my feet: “They will come.”

My, how Field of Dreams of her.

So now, every morning after I wake up, the second thing I do is check on the shutter status of those condos.

The first thing I do is pee.

The third thing I do is wish I had a pair of binoculars. I’m just too embarrassed to answer the expected probing questions: Why? What are you going to look at? Or I’d ask for them.
The staff here is so solicitous I can imagine they would print some on a 3D printer for me if I wanted them to.
But I couldn’t withstand the preliminary scrutiny.

“Because I want to stare at those condos over there! Are the shutters open? Are there signs of life? What are they up to over there? You know, stuff like that!”

Mind your own business lady (insert eye roll).
Fail.
Here come the Federales to take me away. At least I have a nice, new pair of 3D printed binocu...

Well, anyway, while I was looking away, you know, living my life, sure enough sometime during the day yesterday, “they come”.

Not only were the shutters pulled aside, several of the large sliding glass doors were thrown open so I could see inside!!! I got so excited I almost dropped my mojito.

It was a vision right out of a magazine. All white interior with large modern art and white furnishings just as I had imagined.
You see, I had imagined an entire scenario over there. Hey, I’d had three whole days for my imagination to run wild!
Three days inside this head is more than a lifetime to most people.

I had manufactured the craziest shit going on over in the private condos.

In my imagination George Clooney and his glamorous, uber-skinny wife Amal inhabit the entire top floor, which totally makes sense since I haven’t seen a soul. Not one sign of life besides open shutters. They are stealth those two. They. Are. Pros.
Amal is probably standing right there, turned sideways so I can’t see her. Well played, Amal.
Smart girl.

On the second story are Cindy Crawford and Randy Gerber…oh yeah and their kids I suppose. But who cares? You guys! Cindy fucking Crawford! Yucking it up at MY private condos! On MY private beach!
I know those two couples vacation together in Mexico. I have it from the most reliable of sources. Instagram.

THAT is the truth. The rest of this is a pack of lies…or is it?

Yesterday I was in the men’s section of the spa (you don’t want to know) where they have the most incredible birds eye view of MY private condos from their window seats, so I ran like the wind back to my locker on the lady’s side to get my phone in order to take this picture. I was desperately hoping I wouldn’t have to explain to any indignant man with his penis at eye level (remember, I’m in the men’s section) why I’m sitting with my face pressed against the glass, taking pictures IN A SPA—and lucky for me, (and him), I did not.

Never mind.

From that vantage point, I had such a great view of their perfect little sandy beach.
It made me want to brave the jagged rocks and pounding surf that surround our resort and Diana Nyad my way over there. But if you remember from the 25 Things You Don’t Know About Me, I’m a weak swimmer and I didn’t want to wash up all waterlogged and choking up seaweed— Hell no! I want to walk out of the surf impossibly hot, like fucking Haley Barry in that James Bond film I can’t remember the name of.

So I axed that plan.

This evening there were many open shutters. “They HAD come.”
Still no sign of any human life. Maybe people THAT fantastic are invisible to us mere mortals. I’ll have to Google that when I get a chance.

I’m currently imagining one hell of a New Year’s Eve bash over there after I’m gone.
Fireworks, Casa Amigos Tequila flowing like…Tequila flows in Mexico, the whole shebang. George, Cindy, sideways Amal and Randy…and the kids I guess. In MY beautiful, hillside private condos.

So…are you at least a little like me?
Do you LOVE to look in other people’s windows?
Do you spend hours imaging the going’s on over at your resort-adjacent neighbors fabulous condos?
Do you make up entire lives just-over-there in order to amuse yourself?

You do? Me too! Let’s all fly our freak-flags together!

Or are you thinking this girl’s got too much time on her hands! Mind your own business, Janet! You’re being just plain nosey?
Perhaps.

Eh Hem, I just like to call it curiosity.

Am I missing the moment? Probably. Or maybe I’m creating my own. I would be advising you all to be in the moment, wouldn’t I?

Fuck that. I’m having a ball.
Almost as good of a time as the Clooney’s.

Carry on,
xox

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

You are going to be so happy to know this!

As I was digging through my totes of Christmas decorations this year, at the very bottom, buried by an old, torn tree skirt that is too sentimental to throw away yet always escapes me when its time to take it to be mended; and an old reindeer antler headband for the dog, (which still makes me guffaw with laughter and infuriates my husband—because dogs have no business wearing hats or headbands)—was the Troll Angel.

“Sister girl, where have you been?” I squealed.

She looked up at me with those oversized eyes, cotton candy mohawk and the same bad attitude she displayed thirty years ago. God I love it when inanimate objects freeze in time!

You see, the Troll Angel was the tree topper for my sister and me when we lived together in the 80’s. It said Yeah, my face looks like this because I have a Christmas tree up my skirt—what’s YOUR excuse?

It was irreverent and full of sass. Just like us. Which got me to thinking…

We keep ornaments for a lifetime but treetoppers change with the times. I think a treetopper may just be an un-unsciency marker of where we are in life.

This is mine these days. A vintage 1960’s brightly colored version of my Aunt Shirley. All business in the front —and party in the back. Tipsy…topsy..turvy. Kinda like the current me.

But, seriously! Think about it. I had a guy friend back in the day when we were a decade shy of thirty, who displayed an old deflated basketball on the top of his tree. It was from some high school championship game he…blah..blah…blah…anyway…through the years it got so old and frayed it started to looks like Wilson from Castaway. God bless him, he kept it that way until he got married. Then that girl started calling the shots and threw that thing out faster than you can say #Christmasbuzzkiller.

My accountant’s tree wears a Santa hat. Wow. What an imagination!

One mixed faith couple I know have a Star of David on the top of theirs. I think nothing says Christmas like compromise.

Many well intentions are housed in a tree topper.
Here are a few examples.

This one says: “Dog people can be scary.”

This one says: “Diane, get my flute!”

Okay, you guys. Go look at your tree. What does the topper say about you? It’s uncanny, right?

Happy Holidays & Carry on,
xox

This is the dating “us” circa 2001.

Last night was the 18th anniversary of this extremely fortuitous, change-my-life-in-every-way-possible, blind date. And BTW, we’re still together … and I like food!
xox

I met my husband through the most old-fashioned of means—the blind date.
I know in this time of hooking up via the worldwide web this sounds as antiquated as sidling up to a bar and ordering absinthe. Oh, wait, that’s a thing again, isn’t it?

Anyway, here’s how it worked. Friends fixed us up.
My friend Sharon was dating his friend Bert, and when she met Raphael she thought of me. Nice, right?

Being the curious type I’ve often wondered about that. How does that work exactly? How much thought is put into a friend’s fix-up?

I wondered if it was pondered thoughtfully, carefully… like a wine pairing? Or was it knee-jerk, impulsive like, “You read books and Harvey mentioned that he read a book once, so…”

In our case, my friend knew I liked European men and his friend knew he liked big boobs, so, yeah, what our fix-up lacked in depth and substance it made up for in that personal touch—two people who actually knew us and thought that we might be able to sit across from each other for an hour without gagging.

His friend Bert was a serial fixer-upper and at the time that ours was suggested, Raphael had a serious case of blind date fatigue. Nevertheless, when Bert uttered the code words, big boobies, it triggered a deeply embedded Pavlovian response in Raphael which overrode all of his reservations, and prompted him to ask for my number and give me a call.

Now, on dating websites I’ve heard that hours of careful curation are devoted to crafting a personal profile. I’ve known people who’ve hired a ghostwriter in order to convey just the perfect blend of desperation and disinterest.

As far as the photo goes, I have friends who have been known to enlist the services of a professional photographer. As I understand it, good lighting can make or break whether someone swipes right or left. There is one guy in town who has a waiting list as long as one of Donald Trump’s ties because he manages to give everyone that “bewitching hour” glow.

You know, the kind that renders you unrecognizable to your own mother.

Giving our friend’s good judgment the benefit of the doubt, without the ability to Google each other, or the benefits of viewing each other’s carefully crafted social media narrative in advance, (because neither of those things existed), we agreed to meet at a bar in Brentwood. Here is a frame of reference for you: Brentwood happy-hour was used as the basis for the movie The Hunger Games. It is savage. It is every man for himself. Your main objective is to escape with your soul intact—and nobody eats.

That is except for me.

I was the new improved, fully revised, 2.0 version of blind-dating Janet, which meant that after surviving nearly twenty years of this contact sport I had decided to reinvent. To adopt a new and audacious persona.

I had decided to just be myself.

So, after nursing a glass of wine while we exchanged pleasantries, I determined that I liked this Frenchman enough to sneak out and let the valet know he didn’t need to keep the car running—and because I was STARVING I also agreed to have dinner.

This sent a shockwave throughout all of Brentwood and any “wood” within a twenty-five-mile radius. You see, as I would come to find out, women in the metropolitan Los Angeles area do very little eating on first dates. And if by some magical twist of fate you DO find yourself seated across from a man by the dinner portion of the evening—you do the sane thing—you order a salad.

Leafy greens.

Never carbs. Carbs are strictly forbidden. They are horrible and terrifying, and they scare women to death.
You may as well order a bowl of live snakes.

I could tell I’d broken a cardinal-dating rule by the puzzled look on Raphael’s face as I dug into my pasta entrée with gusto.

As soon as the shock of this spectacle wore off enough for him to speak, he educated me on the dating habits of the West Los Angeles female in the 20th century. It started off with this pronouncement: “Oh my God! You EAT!”

He continued, “I am SO SICK of watching a woman push a piece of salad around a plate. Honestly! There is so much incredible food out in the world to share!” He shook his head, bewildered, as he tore off a piece of the warm focaccia and dredged it through the pungent, green, extra-virgin olive oil.

I nodded enthusiastically while at the same time sucking a stray piece of linguine drenched in the most delicious clam sauce through my puckered lips.

Sensing he was in the presence of a fellow foodie he went further. “Or… they order the most expensive thing on the menu, poke at it and take it home. What is with that?” His lightly French accented voice was filled with genuine curiosity.

I couldn’t answer because well, my mouth was full.

“You eat with appetite”, he declared, a huge smile hijacking his entire face. “I like that!” Then he said something so perverse I almost dropped my fork. “I like women to look like women”, he said, “To have a little meat on their bones. None of those skinny-waif, teenage boy looking women for me.”

Had I heard him correctly?

Well, you’re in luck mister because I am none of those things…well, except for the meaty woman part… I thought as I smiled back broadly, daintily dabbing at my lips with the cloth napkin. Damn. Who knew this being myself stuff would reap such immediate dividends?

Then it hit me. The swoon.  I swooned. Or at least I think I did. Having never really swooned before I did my best impression of a swoon. It probably looked more like I had gas.

Undeterred, he continued, “We share a passion for food, that’s obvious.” His swoon-inducing sweet-talk continued while he deftly reached for the bottle of wine. “I’ve always felt that passion translates into every aspect of life. Work…play…even sex.” His eyes sparkled as he re-filled our glasses with the hearty Cabernet.

“Cheers!” I toasted in agreement as our crystal glasses clinked together melodically. “Salute” he replied, locking eyes with me in a charmingly wicked way.

We have been savoring life together ever since.

The moral of this tale? Ladies, order the damn pasta!

Carry on,
xox

A classic Janet holiday rant straight from the archives.
I’m guessing you can relate? No?
Let’s meet at the bar at 5.
xox

We are now entering the third week of December. That triggers a hot mess of mixed emotions inside of me.
Every. Single. Year.

Listen, don’t get me wrong, I love all things Christmas, but can we please move it to May?

When I see THAT date—December 1st—I can’t help it—my butt puckers.

As the month progresses I secretly want to strangle December. I want to take it around back and teach it a lesson.

Show of hands, who’s with me? Who here in readerville secretly hates December?

Who thought that thirty consecutive days of extreme holiday stress was a good idea? Target? Santa? The devil?

By the end of week one, I’m consumed by that sinking feeling that lets me know—I’m already behind schedule.

I’m already late with my shipping.
Once I navigate the Post Office parking lot, or as I like to call it, December Demolition Derby (I once backed up and ONTO an Audi, a brand new one—my trailer hitch opening up the front hood of that car like a can opener), I have to stand in line and wait for the TWO postal clerks behind the counter to wade their way through all the other holiday shippers.

There is yelling. There are lies, bribes and cutting in line. There are tears. And that’s just me.

Once I work up the stamina (facilitated by devouring all of the fudge I made the previous night) to take on the Christmas tree shopping—usually reserving December 10th for my tree excursion—all of the good ones are gone.

By the second week of December! That is just criminal.

Last year they had a Charlie Brown section for people like me. Dried up weak and feeble trees that were already dead—pitifully begging for a home. Those are what’s left for us mid-December stragglers. The ones who wait so they don’t have to fight the crowds and crying kids the first two weeks.

Get this: I drove past a lot the other day where they were flocking trees. Remember flocking? Crispy, fake snow? I thought I’d passed through a time warp except for the crowd. There stood a gaggle of hipsters, all bearded and man-bunned up, milling around the tent inhaling crispy snow and sipping artisan hot chocolate.

Are hipsters bringing flocking back? Is that a thing again?

Are you freaking kidding me? If those hipsters had lived through the sixties like I had, they would NEVER in a million years have the slightest inclination to re-create it. I still have rotating color-wheel flashbacks.

Once I got my Christmas investment (they are well over ten bucks a foot) home, it took me three tries to get the white twinkle lights to do the one thing they were designed to do—light up. We sent men to the moon and wtf?… If you so much as look at a strand cross-eyed HALF of it will go dark.

But only half.

Which leaves me filled with hope, because December marks a season of hope, right? Hope that I can find the rat bastard loose bulb, tap it gently, twist it, or God willing, replace it with the extra one taped to the cord, and have the freaking tree lit by New Years.

THAT has never happened. In all of my years lighting a tree I’ve yet to twist a loose bulb and have the thing light back up.

That is an urban myth. Worse yet, it’s a fairy tale told to unsuspecting Christmas revelers in order to fill them with false hope.
That’s not playing fair. Jesus would frown on that.

In search of lights that worked I was forced to do what you’re never supposed to do the entire month of December if you have a brain in your head and one ounce of common sense left in your body——I went to Target yesterday and they were already out of white lights AND wrapping paper. It’s the first week of December people. Seriously?

In the parking lot, I nearly got sideswiped by an SUV wearing blinking antlers. Am I insured for that?

Baking. Let’s talk holiday baking. I love to bake.
I love it so much I only do it once a year in December, otherwise, I would be HUGE.
Like, walk me down Central Park West in the Thanksgiving Day Parade huge.
Because my love for baking is only exceeded by my love of eating what I bake.

What? You don’t do that? I call bullshit. Sure you do! Because it’s only logical. Artists love art. Singers love music. Bakers love all things warm and gooey. They love it so much they make it themselves—for themselves. Between eating the raw cookie dough and “quality testing” the finished products my friends are lucky to get a bite in edgewise.

December is also a month of wonder.
I wonder every year which of my favorite childhood ornaments will fall prey to the floor-gods. They are insatiable and unrelenting in their search for a sacrifice. I’m aware of this, so in order to keep the emotional carnage to a minimum I put the ones I don’t care as much about near the floor, as an offering. A token of respect. Then I padlock my favorite treasures safely inside the middle branches. But the floor gods always prevail. Last night the ice-skater I received when I was eleven mysteriously appeared on the hardwood floor under the tree. She wasn’t broken broken. Just her left ankle and skate are missing.

But her career is over. There go her hopes of a medal.

I had a good cry. SHE took it with grace and dignity so I re-hung her in the front of the tree as an example of Christmas courage.

Listen, how about those Christmas cards?
All year long I’m lulled into complacency, thinking I have several great shots for the front of a card. Then it comes time to send them in to get printed. Either I’m late for the “print by” date because for some reason I’m unable to fathom why on earth that date is August 31st, and I’m too busy eating watermelon BECAUSE IT’S SUMMER—or I can’t find the pictures.

They’re missing. Gone. Non-existent. A figment of my overactive imagination.

I could make do with the one from last year. The one where he’s squinting, my smile is jinky and the dog has wild eyes and a grin like Cujo. Oh, fuck it. Just never mind. It’ll just have to wait until next year. Again.

I do love receiving all the cards from friends and family. I really do. I adore being able to see how much the kids have grown every year but can I ask you a favor? Please don’t send me the three-page newsletters. That’s okay. I’m all caught up. That’s what Facebook is for. Besides, they’re primarily filled with bad news. The death of a pet, Uncle Frank’s broken hip, the baby that can’t say please. Are you kidding? Has no one any good news to share?

The last one I read was like a Charles Dickens novel. It was filled with so much tragedy I had to read it with a box of Kleenex (and Sees candy) and a glass of scotch. Honestly! I know nothing says Christmas like death and job loss, but can we all agree to just cut-it-out?

December. What is it with you?
You drive me nuts! You are like the bat-shit crazy relative everyone hates that keeps showing up drunk every year!

As much as I vow that this year will be different,
I eat too much.
I spend too much.
I drink too much.
I argue way too much.
I don’t get enough rest.
I over commit.
I cry.
And I lose my patience.

Which brings me to the realization—December, you are a little bit like childbirth. You are miserable and painful in the moment but after some time has passed (like 365 days) I forget and repeat all the madness because when I look back on the holidays you brought me miracles and filled me with wonder and THAT my friend,makes you impossible to hate.

Happy Holidays Y’all!
xox

I have a very complicated relationship with the holidays and their prerequisite decoration requirements, most particularly, the Poinsettia plant. Some people call it a flower but really, is it a flower? It seems fairly obvious to me that it is a green plant that has the ability, once a year, for our enjoyment, to turn only its center leaves red. Like a flower.

Or not. 

I find that to be an amazingly unselfish contribution to the holiday season which I can appreciate, so that being said, I cannot pass up a good poinsettia…or five. And therein lies the complication.

They are not an inexpensive obsession.

I need several, and by several I mean many of the medium plants, most which sell for around $5.99 to $7.99 a pot. My need for them is nonnegotiable if I want to put together a proper centerpiece or decorate an entrance. Don’t even get me started on the giant ones which I LOVE—because they are gorgeous. They can be as much as $25-$30 at a swanky nursery, upscale farmer’s market or florist in the city.

Granted, you can find them cheaper at certain grocery stores, (you know which ones I’m talking about) but they are the text-book case of “you get what you pay for.” Pathetic is the word that comes to mind when I think of them. They are the Tiny Tim’s of poinsettia plants. Generally minuscule, dry and scrawny, with broken leaves, these plants can’t afford to be any of those things because of their inherent sparseness.

After feeling the appropriate amount of pity for these underperformers, I turn around, suck it up, and pay my eight dollars.

Here’s the thing. I have been buying poinsettias at Christmastime for well over forty years. I figure I pick up at least six to ten of them at eight dollars a plant. I am ashamed to admit I also buy at least three of the large, lush and perfectly crimson red thirty-dollar-a-pop plants each year so that makes almost fifteen poinsettias and that doesn’t count the replacement ones I buy after the ones I purchase right after Thanksgiving wilt and die by the second week of December. And you can just forget about all of those years we held Christmas Eve at our house. There was veritable red sea of Poinsettia plants as far as the eye could see. And not the Tiny Tim’s, the big, expensive guys.

I know you’re all with me. I see you with your plants at the check-out counter where we all size up each others choices and swallow our shame.

I sooth my guilt this way: Poinsettias are like buying into those expensive but strictly frivolous kitchen gadgets, like a super-duper vegetable juicer or a fancy food dehydrator. You convince yourself you must have them. You NEED them. Then after a couple of weeks you curse yourself for being such gullible idiot and get rid of them only to find yourself a year later forgetting why you hated them in the first place—and buying them all over again!

So… you can do the math. I have spent a small fortune on seasonal plants that every year I promise myself I will nurture and use again the following year but in truth I once spotted a poinsettia plant in a friend’s garden in July. It felt like an aberration. Nope. I will continue to squander my money for the next three weeks and I justify it by deeming poinsettias necessary and calling them festive. To me, they signal the start of the holidays.

But let me be blunt. Had I not been bamboozled year after year by this nefarious plant/flower I would own a small island in the Bahama’s next to Johnny Depp’s or a diamond the size of my head.

Happy Holidays