stories

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

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

Enjoy your weekend of wonderment!

xox

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

This one was so good I had to share it.

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

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

Do you?

Absolutely nothing.

At least not in the physical world.

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

All the best,
“The Universe”

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

Carry on,
xox

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carry on,
xox

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

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

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

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

WHAT!?

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

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

Awwww…dontcha all act so disappointed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How’s that for a silver lining?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carry on,
xox

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Got anything to add to the list?

Carry on,
Xox

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s the Coco Chanel of families.

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

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

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

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

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

And you know what?

You can’t make it to adulthood unscathed.

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

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

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

Love you my compatible people,
Xox

Hello luvs,
This is my latest Huffington Post.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/an-open-letter-to-the-rec_b_12250902.html

It’s about divorce. And life after divorce. And dating. And dating after divorce. And maybe, just maybe the sex as my friend Sandra refers to it.

Please feel free to comment, like and share. I’d love it if you would!

Carry on,
xox

I see you there, under the covers with your swollen eyes and a nose as raw and runny as your recently broken heart. Darling, I can see you because I’ve been you.

I also see dead people. And right now you are a zombie. Numb inside. A card carrying member of the walking dead.

But you will re-join the living—I can promise you that. How do I know? Because I too crawled out from beneath the smoldering rubble of a divorce—and lived to tell about it.

And as your future self, I can assure you that not only will you survive—you will thrive!

Am I an expert? Well, yes. Yes, I am. Even though no two divorces are alike, once you’ve lived through one you are part of a select group who can speak about it with authority. Kind of like plane crash survivors or those unfortunate souls who are born with a third nipple.

Besides, I am your future self. I am older and wiser and I deserve your respect.

Listen, everyone on the planet has had their heart broken at least five times, once, and very few (less than one percent), fail to fall in love again. So it goes without saying that the odds are in your favor. That your dried up raisin of a heart will eventually heal enough to try this love thing again.

You may even get re-married—but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

I can assure you that once the initial shock wears off you’ll silence the Adele, stop eating raw chocolate chip cookie dough straight from the roll and get back to wearing pants instead of pajamas bottoms. Your skin will clear up, you’ll get the best haircut of your life, and on a random Thursday night, you’ll finally agree to meet friends for drinks. Once there, you’ll only cry a little when someone brings up the holidays. Later that night, alone in bed, a turning point will be reached. You’ll have the realization that for the first time in like forever—you actually had—what’s the word? Fun.

Now a word of warning. Everyone and their cousin will try to fix you up with someone they know who’s “perfect” for you.

It is the craziest thing! No one can stand to see a divorced person single for more than five minutes. It’s just a fact of life so accept it. Now, this is either going to become a great distraction—or send you to bed for a month. Don’t get discouraged. I’m here to tell you this immediate aftermath is not the phase where anything meaningful happens so don’t worry about it. Take a lot of bubble baths, drink tea, catch up on your reading, watch every Nora Ephron movie, and eventually send out a search party to find your sense of humor—you’re going to need it.

Because here’s the thing. You are going to want to date again! 

I know, right now that sounds about as fun as walking barefoot on hot coals, or picking them up and putting them in your mouth—but hear me out. Eventually, you will meet someone you really like and when that initial rush of excitement hits you, it is going to feel like a combination of Christmas Eve and the Fourth of July. The body has sense memory where this is concerned. Trust it. You may be tempted to go slow, and that’s probably advisable, but after your protracted post-divorce hiatus from fun, laughter and (gulp) sex, this new attraction will feel as like a tall glass of ice water in hell.

We can talk about sex if you want to. I think we should.
I know it’s making you throw up a little in your mouth, but that’s all the more reason you will need to get back in the saddle, so to speak. Probably not right away…but sometime this decade. There’s just no way to get around this so I’m gonna give it to ya straight. Sex for the first time with someone besides your ex is going to feel extremely weird and titillating, and awful, and wonderful, uncomfortable and ridiculous.

A confusing mixed salad of emotions that will be hard to overcome.

There’s no denying that. But you must. And you will. Please, I beg of you, don’t listen to your self-sabotaging brain chatter. It will only fuck things up—in a bad way. I am here to tell you this can be exciting as hell and you will definitely be On. Your. Game—so don’t worry. You will feel present, awake and alive which I’m just guessing is very different than what was happening in your marriage just prior to your split.

Listen, I’m your future self, so I already know what went down. No judgment here. I only want to congratulate you on the progress you’ll make.

Listen, I thought this would be a good time to come talk to you in order to assuage your fears, dry your tears, and at the very least help you to crack a smile because, hey, it’s a start. It means you broke through the numbness and felt something. Something besides sadness, shame and anger.

I also highly recommend breathing and putting one foot in front of the other because that helps too, just keep moving forward.

I can promise you, the more time that goes by, the less you will look behind you at that jackass who doesn’t deserve you, and the more enthusiasm you will start to feel toward the future.

I can promise that because I am you. Only, I’m in the future. I am healed and whole and happy as shit—and I’m waiting for you here.

xox

This is a reprise from one year ago but I consider love letters an integral part of any gratitude storm…maybe you’ll agree. So, here ya go!
xox

Hi you guys!
Here is this week’s Huffington Post essay. It has to do with failing BIG and making peace with it.
So much so that I sat down and wrote it a love letter:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/my-love-letter-to-failure_b_8198096.html

If you know anyone going through a hard time right now who could use this, I’d love it if you’d share.
Carry on,
xox

My dearest, darling Failure,

You don’t mind if I call you by that name, do you?

I’m well aware that it’s much more politically correct to refer to you on your visits as re-direction, contrast, disappointment and a shit storm blah, blah, blah.

But when the shit hits the fan, when careers crash and burn, when marriages end badly; when we get fired, sued, or otherwise fucked over — when the things we hold dearest in our lives fracture and give way under the stress — sweetheart, it’s YOUR face we all see at the scene of the crime.

I know, I hear you when you complain that you are greatly under-appreciated but let me be clear — no one wants you around!

That being said, as I’ve come to know you better over the past few years, well, I have to admit– I’ve fallen for you…hard.

I don’t mean to sugar coat things, but you came into my life with the face of my foe and you have become my friend.

You shook things up for me BIG TIME. You took my tiny Etch-A-Sketch of a life, with all of its perfectly drawn straight lines, and you hurled it into an F5 tornado.

But I love you for that, ya big lug.

Just uttering your name, Failure, can set a person’s teeth on edge, but please don’t take it personally. I’ll give it to you straight. The reason you’re not welcome in our lives is because we’re all terrified that when you show up you’ll get comfortable, and never leave.

But truth be told, you are just as fleeting as success, THAT you’ve taught me.

When you are standing next to me knee-deep in the rubble of my life, you know what I do the next day? I get up and put one foot in front of the other, each step moving me forward.

You know what I do the days Success holds my hand? I get up, put one foot in front of the other and move forward with my life.

Success has its value — don’t get me wrong — but you Failure, your lessons have marked me more deeply and profoundly than I could have ever imagined and I love you for that.

Success never caused me to grow, gave me depth nor made me an internally richer person.

But by God, you have Failure.

Success made me lazy, afraid to try new things and take chances.

You gave me a glimpse of my true nature.

You have delivered to me some of my most agonizing moments but they have transformed me.

You made me better. Better in business; better in life. A better friend, sister, and wife.

Damn it, I love you man.

We all go to extraordinary lengths to avoid you–I know I did–but I realize now that was a mistake.

It’s like trying to avoid aging, which is a similar double-edged sword and just as futile.
There are as many benefits to be gained from failure as there are from growing old, and BOTH are a privilege.

I truly love you Failure.
If you had not come into my life when you did, I would not be the person I am today.

Big hug and a sloppy kiss,
xox
Janet

“It’s not happiness that brings us gratitude, it’s gratitude that brings us happiness.” 

As you all know by now, I’m currently in the midst of a gratitude storm because I truly believe in its mystical, darn right spooky, transformational power.

And I’ve gotta tell ya, this storm’s a real doozy. A virtual Thank You Tornado that feeds on itself.  My hubby and I got swept up and  are well on our way to filling our gratitude jar with slips of paper listing our blessings, big and small.

Besides the usual: family, friends, health, our dog, here are a few of mine—maybe (pretty please), you’ll share yours?

Thank you, chocolate chips. You make everything better. You jooj up cake batter, make banana bread exceptional, and I’m pretty sure no one would have ever heard of Toll House if it weren’t for you.

Thank you, sunrise. I know it’s cliche to be grateful for a sunrise or sunset, but this morning it was so spectacular with its periwinkle blue sky flecked with peach and rose-colored clouds I can’t help myself. Besides, when the Universe shows off in such a magnificent way—It feels rude to act indifferent.

Thank you, my body. Without you I’d be dead—so there’s that. You wake up every morning raring to go with a beating heart, eyes that see (albeit, with a lot of help from contacts), ears that hear, and feet that complain loudly with every step I take but still walk my three-mile morning hikes for me. Listen, besides taking a beating, you’re just a damn good sport.

Thank you, politics. I can’t even. Every day you make me happy I paid attention in Civics class, and you remind me of the glaringly obvious differences between RIGHT & WRONG.

Thank you, airline travel. Admittedly, you’re a pain in the ass, but the ability to have breakfast in LA and dinner in NY trumps all of that (pun intended).

Thank you, reservations and valets. You make dining out and going to the theater a pleasure. When I try to “wing it” with either of those, I always regret it.

Thank you, indoor plumbing. I have to admit, I take you SO for granted. I can’t imagine doing my business in a dark, cold, smelly outhouse, fighting off spiders and wiping myself with a leaf.

Thank you, metal drinking straws. You make the most ordinary glass of water seem civilized.

Thank you, pumpkin everything that starts showing up this time of year. Yep, I’m one of those people.

Thank you, kisses. Damn, I love ya. But I’m curious, how did you start? Who was the first person to pucker up and plant one? You’ve gotta admit, love and lips is a curious combination and I’ve always wondered.

Thank you, Instagram. I’m a voyeur at heart so getting a peek (although highly curated and orchestrated) into other people’s lives gives me a vicarious thrill.

Thank you, words. Because I get to choose just the right ones to express my never-ending gratitude to my readers all over the world who feel more like friends to me than anything.

Carry on,
xox

Oh… Holy Jesus in Jail.

I can’t think of anything I suck more at than small talk with complete strangers. It feels disingenuous, trite and completely without merit, therefore I loathe it.

small talk
noun:
polite (key word), conversation made about unimportant or uncontroversial matters, (why bother) especially as engaged in on social occasions. (Ugh, kill me now!)
“Propriety required that she face these people and make small talk.”

I want to blame it on the fact that I’m shy but we all know that would be a horrendous lie.
At gatherings, I can be gregarious, even bubbly IF I know the people (loving them makes me even better), and if I care about the topics being discussed.

See, that’s the thing about small talk with strangers at a soiree where you have not a rats lick of interest in what they have to say.

Case in point, a fancy car show.

Me: (said to one of the wives at lunch on day one of a two-day thingy) “So, what car did you drive here?” is what my mouth asked. My brain was screaming I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care! so loud that I couldn’t hear a word she said.

She, to be honest, looked as tragically bored as I felt. We were at a winery and I noticed she was drinking the Sauvignon Blanc so I gave her my sample. She handed me all of her red. All three samples. Well, I’ve slept with people for doing less. Needless to say, we became fast friends.

We sat in silence, like old friends do, sipping our wine, listening to the others prattle on. We had no need to talk. We had transcended small talk. Alcohol will do that if you let it. We did.

Later, back at the room, the prospect of a dinner with all of these same strangers loomed large. I opened the complimentary bottle of red and an equally classy bag of Pirate Booty. I stuffed my face without breathing, letting the puffed air covered in faux-white-cheese numb me out. I washed it down with a nice Shirah.

It was 4 p.m. and I was shitfaced. I NEVER get shitfaced. Most certainly NOT at 4 p.m. Dinner was scheduled for seven. Husband wanted to go down for cocktails at 6:30. Uh, oh.

I started drunk texting my tribe. What do I do? What do I say? How the hell did I polish off an entire bag of Booty? Help!

They were great. Very supportive. They only laughed at me a little. Ask the women what they’re reading. What’s on their nightstand. You’ll be able to comment on that, they suggested. SAVED! I thought. They’re right. I can do THAT.

Confidence renewed!

I proceeded to go and fix my face which meant reapplying pretty much everything I’d done that morning including picking my ubiquitous false lashes off of my upper lip and putting them back on my eyes where they belonged. Thank God I had two-plus hours to spare!

On the way down to cocktails, I was still a bit wobbly. Books. I’m a writer. I’ll ask what they’re reading, I reminded myself. I walked with all the conviction I could muster up to a table of wives. They barely looked at me. Tables of wives are a tough crowd. They are not for amateurs. I took a deep breath, handed my new BFF from lunch who was sitting with three others a glass of white wine as a bribe and was about to ask about books when one of them started to speak.

She was a gorgeous woman of about sixty-five in a stunning beige Valentino pantsuit. Her face contorted and she looked as if she were about to vomit as she whispered, “This is SO not my thing.”

Wait. What? We’re strangers telling each other the truth?

That’s when I lunged at her, practically sitting in her lap, hugging her in the most inappropriate and awkward way. “Ohmygodmeneither!” I did not whisper, “I love you!” They all nodded. We laughed, clinking glasses in an unspoken toast.

Then a magician appeared and did some card tricks. He finished by pulling an autographed ace of spades folded into the size of a postage stamp out of one of the wives wallet. I’m not kidding. You can’t make this shit up.

Okay…so, I have a theory. I think small talk is The Great Equalizer. Everyone dreads it and hardly anyone is good at it. Deep down people want to connect—just not that way. They want to talk about death, aliens, and magic. I really need to remember that the next time. And the nightstand question too.

How are you guys with the tiny talk? Are you good at it? If you are—please share your secrets.

Carry on,
xox