stories

Sally: He just met her… She’s supposed to be his transitional person, she’s not supposed to be the ONE. All this time, I thought he didn’t want to get married. But, the truth is, he didn’t want to marry me. He didn’t love me.
Harry: If you could take him back now, would you?
Sally: No. But why didn’t he want to marry me? What’s the matter with me?
~From “When Harry Met Sally”

We ALL have him/her. That “one that got away.”
Even if we were the ones that broke it off, when that someone moves on – we suffer.
“That could’ve been me” we whine into our wine.

Saying they wanted to marry you or that they weren’t the marrying kind and then GETTING MARRIED. For some, this person is extremely high-profile – I can’t even imagine how that must feel. Seeing that person captured by the paparazzi, on the cover of every magazine, having the audacity to go off and be happy…with someone else. Ugh.

It’s bad enough when you just hear it from a friend or spot the happy couple at the Farmer’s Market; as you duck behind the organic apples, in order to avoid eye contact, because you still have bed head and you’re wearing your baggy sweats, and they look like they’ve just jumped off the pages of the J Crew catalogue.

A mutual friend posted something a couple of weeks ago about one of my former boyfriends.
He was no George Clooney, but he was a large liver. Large liver’s are those guys/gals that are highly successful in high-profile professions, have money to burn and style to spare.

Seems one of his country homes was published in a prominent shelter magazine, so I stupidly went to take a look.
Do you ever google yourself or people from your past?
I never have, but I did, and I can tell you – BIG mistake.

This guy is living the dream. Beautiful wife, kids, homes all over the world, tons of money.
Part of me thought, ‘Hey, that could’ve been me’ then, as I read further, the rest of me slapped some sense into me, ‘Hey, that would NEVER be you. You still have nothing in common.’
Shit. That part has an epic memory and is always right.

We met on a blind date. Fixed up by a mutual friend.
By the third date, he was professing his love. Every time he told me he loved me I’d smile and say: “well, thanks, but you don’t really know me yet.”
I was at least that self-aware; something he didn’t appreciate.

He was nouveau riche, meaning, he had gone from making fifty grand a year to well over a million – overnight.
It became his idea of fun to spend the entire day on Sunday, trying to spend all of his money. He already had a house, a boat and a couple of cars, so, hey, why not.

We did have tons of fun and laughed our heads off. Did I mention he was funny?

Oh yeah, he was handsome, smart and funny.
He had an amazing job and was the hottest new wunderkind in his profession.

And you could tell – he was wife shopping.

It felt to me like he was taking a walk on the wild side by dating me. He liked the waspy prom queen types; I was way too bohemian at the time; all blonde hair dyed red, vintage clothes, new age, alternative music – me.

The truth was – we were completely incompatible.

He had a boat – I got seasick. I was Yoshi Yamamoto, he was Chanel.
He made fun of my bleeding heart liberalism, my altruistic nature, the spiritual books I devoured and all my flea market finds; not in a mean way, but enough to keep me off-balance.

We didn’t have a thing in common besides the great sex and our senses of humor, and I was seriously considering overlooking that…for the lifestyle.

By the end of the first month together he launched the relationship into anxiety overdrive by asking me to go on a uber luxurious trip to Paris and the South of France with him for three weeks. I only had a week’s paid vacation time left, so he offered to pay my rent.
He’d also paid for my move to the city, to be closer to him. It was all making me extremely uncomfortable. He thought my squirming was cute.

One Sunday he took me shopping in Beverly Hills in that Pretty Womanish way: walking in, sizing up the joint, acting like a big shot, asking for champagne and pointing to the most expensive things in the store; while calling all the shop girls “sweetheart.”

It wasn’t sexy, or charming, like the movie. It was mortifying, and I had my first of many anxiety attacks in the dressing room, gasping for breath, watching through the curtain as the shop girls rolled their eyes at him.

Since he had Saturday and Sunday off, he immediately started to voice his disapproval of me working on Saturdays.
I was a jeweler, Saturday was non-negotiable. Hey, I was a shop girl…sweetheart.

He let me know he didn’t care for my roommate. He also disliked my friends and family, virtually isolating me from my old life. We only spent time with his friends, at his work events, on his boat or at his house.

His large life kicked my sweet little life’s ass .

Then the whispering started.
“He’s going to ask you to marry him in Paris” his friends whispered, giving me a head’s up…and a stomach ache.

Shouldn’t I have been elated? He looked amazing on paper, the anomaly every girl I knew was looking for; a wealthy, smart, thirty-something guy – who wanted to get married!

I sat in the bathroom staring at the bidet (wondering how it worked) that first night in Monaco, shaking like a leaf, experiencing another anxiety attack. I was thousands of miles from home, on his dime. All I had on me was the three hundred dollars in my wallet and a credit card with a fifteen-hundred-dollar limit. He was the only person I knew there, and not even THAT well.
ALSO
He had Henry Higgins’d me until I barely recognized myself.
I was acting like the biggest fakity-fake- fake, with the fancy clothes and the $500 bikini’s he’d purchased for me, smiling my big, white, toothy smile on the arm of this guy I barely knew, who I wasn’t sure I loved and was supposed to become engaged to.
For me, the fairy tale was unraveling.

The trip went…okay— long story.
Suffice it to say we did not get engaged. I told you, we weren’t compatible.
Yet, when things cooled off and he stopped calling and coming around – I was shocked and hurt. He was able to dismiss me as quickly as he fell for me. I kept asking myself, what had I done wrong? Why didn’t he love me anymore? It’s hard when the spotlight of someone’s affection shifts away from you when you have to return to your sweet little life, garment bags of gowns hanging sadly in the closet. I’m sure George’s former paramours can relate.

I hope they had fun and I hope they learned the lessons I learned:
1) When someone professes their undying love for you just days into a relationship – It isn’t real. I knew it, my anxiety was my indicator.
(My current husband used the appropriate vocabulary; he said he didn’t want to take me home after a date because he was infatuated with me, and that made me swoon.)

2) If your person isolates you, never wanting to spend time with your friends and family – run. He’s leading you away from all the people who take you by the arm and talk sense into you when you’re acting like an ass and a fake and making horrible decisions.
That would end up being a litmus test for future men. I would marinate them in my friends and my life and if they balked…I’d end it.

3) Really get to know someone before you leave the continent on their dime.
It’s all so romantic, but it’s a huge imbalance of power and you’ll feel it in your gut.
Don’t let the champagne and the sex override that, your gut is always right.

4) If it’s the lifestyle you miss – provide it for yourself. I realized I LOVED Europe and made it a priority to travel abroad as often as I could. On my own dime.

So, when you’re feeling that little pit in your stomach, thinking: ‘that could’ve been me’, you have to ask yourself: ‘Really? Could you have gone the distance with that person? Did you feel like the best version of yourself when you were with them?’

I think not. Because I believe we’re always where we’re supposed to be, in every moment.

Deep down, Stacy Keibler knew things would never last. She obviously wanted to get married and be a mother—she did both less than a year after the breakup with George.
But when he got engaged I’m sure she thought for a second ‘that could’ve been me.’ We all did.
But, I know, just like me, she’s exactly where she’s meant to be.

xox

BEFALL:
verb: (used without object), befell, befallen, befalling.
to happen or occur.
to come, as by right.
3.verb: to happen to, especially by chance or fate.

I have become aware of late, that I am a pain in the Universal ass.

I suppose I always knew it, I suspected as much, but today I feel that it has become an undisputed fact.

You see, when I take off on my morning walks, one of the first things I ask the Universe, besides helping me to sidestep the dog poo; is to give me a message — hey guys… you know what I want — show me something I need to know!

That means the Universe has to put down its coffee, get dressed, and pay attention to…me.
The pain in the ass.

If you follow me regularly you are well aware that most days I get jack-nuthin’, (the Universe gets caught up in an article on the Huffington Post) while other times I actually receive some answers in the form of a cryptic haiku on a Post It, a tiny gnome village or a bird-strike omen — you know, the usual.

Anytime I spy something out of the ordinary I pick it up, truly convinced that it holds a message just for me, and today was no different.

It seems our entire neighborhood is under construction these days, developers tearing down the smaller, quaint, 1930’s homes to throw up another two-story, Leave It To Beaver style behemoth.

At eight in the morning, the streets are lined with construction trucks, roach coaches…and men. Lots and lots of virile young men.

Now, as a woman, I have a kind of built-in shame meter that makes me automatically cross the street when I see men in tool belts and hard hats. All those years of wolf whistles and cat calls have trained me well.

The thing is, I am no longer the age where I elicit that sort of display of machismo. I am just south of sixty, and even though I am still technically a woman, I’m sure I am older than most of their mothers.

These days they are polite, they smile at me and say “good morning” like I’m their fucking grandma in yoga pants. I haven’t heard anything resembling a cat call in over ten years  (she says with immense resentment) yet, still I run. Middle aged wishful thinking I suppose.
Anyhow…
This cruddy, yellow flash card caught my attention as I jumped up on the curb after sprinting across the street to avoid a construction crew and their catcalls.

I actually ran past it in my zealousness to escape the nonexistent wolf whistles, but once I had seen it I knew I had to take my chances and double back around to find out what it was. When I bent over to retrieve the card I made sure my ass was pointed in the opposite direction of the men—you know, so as not to tease them.

It was the flash card pictured above. It has the word “befall” in middle-school-aged boy scrawl, with a couple of the definitions on the back.

It was trash day yesterday so I’m pretty sure the card had just escaped its fate by falling on the ground. I have to tell myself that to override any guilt I have about sabotaging some kid’s English final by hijacking card #2 with the word befall on it.

Technically I was picking up litter, so calm down.

Befall. What an old-fashioned, Elizabethan kind of word.

“What fate will befall you Janet Bertolus?”
Can’t you guys just hear those words spoken by a handsome King, who wants me to be his Queen (naturally) as I ride off into the sunset on a white horse with a young construction worker who has found me irresistible? Yeah, me either.

My immediate reaction? Foreboding. Like it was a warning.
But when you throw down a word like BEFALL Universe, you get me thinking. And then I remembered the bird strike, and omens, and the fact that sometimes things that SEEM awful…aren’t.

What if it’s foretelling something magical that’s going transpire by chance or fate? What if befall means: to come as if by right — like I’m entitled to everything wonderful?
Much better, right?

“Great success was to befall Janet Bertolus in the very near future.” Oh, I like that one.

So you guys, what if you were as big of a pain in the ass as I am, and you asked for a sign from the Universe? What word do you think you’d get? Remember, these guys are tricky — nothing is ever obvious.

What fate will BEFALL you this fine weekend? A trip? A graduation? A great meal? The time to curl up with a good book?
More importantly, what are you entitled to?

Aren’t you liking the word BEFALL more and more? I am.

Carry on,
xox

So… here I go again, back to the land of a thousand mosquito bites, unlimited guacamole, and full body rashes.

My destination is a writing retreat (which my husband is referring to as the seven-day long  “girls night out”), and my intention is to work on my screenplay, which is a comedy—about death (because death is fucking hilarious).

As luck or fate or whatever runs the works behind the scenes would have it — the timing is perfect, and I am giddy excited.

I will always marvel at how perfect the timing is when your collaborator is a disembodied dynamo who isn’t subject to the limitations of space and time.

Nevertheless, I’ve been informed that the internet is sketchy at best, so starting Tuesday, for a week, the posts will be…reprises. (I just hit the deck because my brother just chucked his laptop across the room from 1500 miles away! He is one of a group of you that has been kind enough to let me know that you despise reprises).

I’m flattered and scared to death of you, all at the same time.

Anyhow…I’ve got to do it this way so; there will be some that I liked, some that you guys liked, and a couple that no one liked because I like to give those posts the chance of a new life.
Here’s how it’ll work:
Read ‘um, don’t read ‘um, (Jim).

Catch up. There’s probably a few that you’ve missed.

Browse around the page, there are over 1,000 posts, come on, you can’t remember them ALL!

If you’re new, welcome! Have fun, get to know me, and when I come back I’m sure they’ll be no shutting me up.

If you’re like my brother and you’re thoroughly disgusted, go make yourself a sandwich and check back here on February 2nd for what I’m sure will be the start of some crazy-ass stories of my adventure in screenwriter-ville

Love you guys & Carry on,
xox

Hahahaha. Snort-laugh! I swiped this from a friend of mine and a reader of this page (thanks, Ernie!).

It almost caused a stream of coffee to shoot out of my nose like a fire hose because, well, because…it reminded me of that bad habit I have of offering unsolicited advice and how it has bit me in the ass.

It also reminded me of braking suddenly (Hypothetical Situation Alert), for a decision impaired squirrel who was standing upright in the middle of the street with a peanut in his mouth (pure fiction), which may or may not have been the cause of the car who was following too close behind me to swerve up and onto the curb.

It also, also, reminded me of a blog post from last year on this very subject which explains my predicament addiction and its consequences.

Is this a reprise you ask?
Why yes, yes it is.
But don’t blame me it was prompted by a funny meme, a snort-laugh, a squirrel, and nose coffee.

Happy Saturday & Carry on,
xox

ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER BAD HABIT

Bad habit #319 – I offer unsolicited advice.

I know! It sucks—big time.
I’m working on it, but sometimes I can’t seem to help myself.
I write a freakin’ advice blog for God sakes!

It’s a very masculine trait, problem-solving, one of the last remaining vestiges of working in a male dominated career and making it a priority to develop only the male side of my personality.
But enough of that, that’s a huge generalization and an exercise in stereotyping. If I try to reverse engineer how I became this way…well…
…I’m the eldest of three, and the younger kids would often need my help with…stop it, Janet!
Enough!

You see, if presented with a dilemma I will chew on that bone, sucking out the very marrow of it until I’ve come up with a plan.
Make that three plans.
Usually, a Plan A which is the best, (of course), to Plan C which I recommend only as a last resort.

From directions in the car—to what to order at my favorite bistro—to how to dump the chump, if you seem…uncertain—I’m your girl.

But you see, that’s the thing. I haven’t paid enough attention, or taken the time (a minute and a half), to distinguish what’s going on with you.

Is that look on your face the I’m working this out, I’ve got this look? Or, are you lost in a fog of uncertainty only wishing I would open my mouth and help you out? (No one has ever gotten that far so we’ll just have to imagine that one.)

Or this, right out of left field—maybe you’re just making conversation!

It’s a subtle difference (not really), and once I started to observe THE MASTER—I understood, and I decided to take a page out his play-book.

My husband has developed a sort of super power.

It was acquired and has been honed after years of having his head bitten off.
Like an exasperated praying mantis after yet another beheading, he started to pay closer attention. He learned how to read me and slowly but surely he has become the Master of Silent Advice.

Now you may be wondering what the hell I’m talking about.

He has mastered the skill of silence. Not indifference, make no mistake—the two can be easily confused and he’s lost his head a few times over that one too.

No, in the fifteen years we’ve been together he’s had the opportunity to be able to observe me closely when certain situations have presented themselves and then he listens —waiting—because honestly, whether I’ve got things covered or I’m lost in the fog—I look the same.
Like a freaking deer in the headlights.

You see, it’s a nuance thing.

And here’s the key, the Golden Ticket so to speak:
He only extends me a hand or offers me advice—when I ask him.

What?
If you wait, someone will ask you?
What a concept, that is genius!

So if you’re around me these days you may notice a strange look on my face as you tell me about your day. Oh God, don’t mistake it for disinterest—I’m literally biting my tongue…listening.

Waiting for you to ask me what I think.

You’re gonna ask soon—right?

Because I’ve got this.

Plan A is genius (if I do say so myself, humility is my next hurdle).

So ask me already!

Being aware you have a problem is the first step…right?

Carry on,
With big, big love and buckets of gratitude for putting up with me,

Xox

I love this post by Liz Gilbert.
I was going to write a similar one (ya huh, yes I was, she just beat me to it—with a catchier meme and a better graphic that’s all).
Anyway…it was going to be based on this quote: “If you ask someone for something, make sure they are the person that has the power to give it.”
Which has a similar connotation (yes it does, quit arguing), that being: GO TO THE RIGHT SOURCE FOR WHAT YOU WANT (yes, that was yelling—no, I’m not mad, it’s meant to make a point).
Oh for crying out loud you’re so feisty for a Friday!
Take it away Liz~
xox

Quote of the day: STOP GOING TO THE HARDWARE STORE FOR MILK.

I was introduced to this expression the other day by a friend of this page (thank you, Kim!) and I’m in love with it already. Please interpret as you like, as it applies to your own life.

Is there a love relationship that isn’t working out for you, because you keep trying to get milk from that hardware store — and all they offer is hammers and drills?

Is there a job that isn’t working out for you, because you keep wandering the aisles of that hardware store, looking for milk, and coming up with…well…screws?

Is there a spiritual or religious path that has become frustrating for you, because every time you ask them for sweet, sweet milk, they merely direct you to the section of the store that sells plumbing equipment and padlocks?

Is there a city that you can’t stand living in anymore because they simply don’t sell the kind of milk there that you need?

Do you find yourself getting angry at the hardware store (whatever “hardware store” may represent for you) for never having milk — instead of asking yourself why you keep searching for milk at a place that never gives you anything but cans of pain-thinner and turpentine?

Is it maybe time to stop going to the hardware store for milk?
Is it time to admit this isn’t working?
Is it maybe time to find your nourishment elsewhere?

DISCUSS.

ONWARD,
LG

One of the magazines I read, (it must be a shelter magazine because I’ve let all of my other subscriptions lapse), has a column I love called, Things I Can’t Live Without where a famous designer gives a glimpse into their daily life.
I’m nosey as shit and I’m assuming since you’re here that you are too, and while I’m no famous anything, here’s a list of some of the favorite things inside of my little world.

Deva Premal Gayatri Mantra Chant
I play this every morning. It’s 2 hours long so I just let it run in the background and I swear to god it shifts even the worst morning’s energy from crabby-pants—to tolerable.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BSmToj9VZ4s

I play the chant and anything else worth listening to on this baby The Bose Bluetooth Wireless Speaker. The sound quality is amazeballs.
http://www.amazon.com/Bose-SoundLink-Bluetooth-Speaker-III/dp/B00HWSXVDG/ref=sr_1_15?ie=UTF8&qid=1453319528&sr=8-15&keywords=bose+wireless

Trader Joe’s or TJ’s as it’s affectionately known. If you don’t have one in your town you should start a petition. My friend calls it “the poor man’s Whole Foods”, I call it Mecca.

Chocolate anything. Preferably dark. The darker the better. There have been studies done that suggest that consuming chocolate makes you clever. Who am I to argue with science?
“To win a Nobel Prize you have to produce something others haven’t thought about – chocolate that makes you feel good might contribute”
~Prof Christopher Pissarides

I’ve mentioned these before but Dental soft-picks have saved my life on numerous occasions. No one wants a smile full of kale.

Nag Champa incense. Me love mucho. I burn it all the time mostly because it is brilliant at covering the smell of dog farts.

Trader Joe’s Organic Corn Chips. They are my writer’s crack. I was once caught by surprise on a LIVE Blab Chat fishing one out of my bra. No, I don’t keep them there, I just missed my mouth. #brasnacks

My prescription cheaters. I have about six pairs scattered everywhere. I’ve lost more glasses than Elton John owns.They are 2.0 and I can’t read shit without them because of the other thing I can’t live without—my contact lenses for nearsightedness. I love you eyes but honestly, you suck at seeing.

My half down, half other stuff (I suspect spotted owl feather), pillow. I can’t leave home without it.

MAC Plushglass lipgloss in bountiful. And any good black khol eye pencil to line the inside of my eyelids. This is no run-of-the-mill need. This is a serious “stranded on a desert island” kind of can’t live without it kind of thing.

The Chinese chicken salad at Joan’s on Third. With its perfect ratio of chicken to crispy won-tons and a not-too-sweet dressing, it is a large bowl of deliciousness that I manage to devour at least twice a week. http://www.joansonthird.com

Writing in my dining room surrounded by all of the accumulated art.(photo at the top)

My MacBook Air, iPad and iPhone. I am seriously addicted. “Hi, my name is Janet and I’m an Apple addict.”

My morning meditation. Without it, I suffer. I am a short tempered, maniacal mess with no sense of direction and a complete lack of imagination. Yikes.

The YMCA or the ghetto gym as I call it. Cheap and cheerful, it has all the machines, free weights, lots of parking and absolutely NO attitude—and the boy at the front desk calls me “miss”.

False eyelashes. All day, every day. They are my obsession. The spiky ones make me giddy. I’m convinced I’m Korkie, the missing Kardashian sister—Don’t you dare judge me!

White Phalaenopsis orchids. I have them in the bathroom all year ‘round. They are much easier to maintain than people think, they actually thrive on neglect which makes them the perfect plant for me, AND the blooms can last for up to three MONTHS! Whaaaaat?

The Gap 1969 medium rise/skinny jeans. I’ve tried all the rest, but these fit me the best.

You guys and this blog. I LOVE writing this blog, it makes me so happy. You know it’s mostly for me, right?…and maybe a few of my friends (wink).

I am SO freaking curious about y’all. What can’t you live without? Care to share?
Carry on,
xox

How many of you are with me on this one? Come on, a show of hands!

How many of you guys thinks that’s an understatement? I know I do.

How many of you have a five-year plan? How about a ten-year plan? (Really? Wow.)
Now, let me ask you this and remember, don’t kill the messenger—how do you handle changes in those plans? Do you go with the flow, or hunt down and kill whoever fucked with your brilliant plan?

I’m getting better with the flowing thing (it’s about time!), although I’m still not great, and I can totally relate to the murderous thoughts at the slightest whiff of a plot twist.

Here’s the thing, we think we have life all figured out. We leave minimal if any room for improvement. That’s right, I said improvement.

Not every plan we make is foolproof—in retrospect, most plans of mine have been foolhardy.

I have actually come to not so much welcome, (I’m not that good—yet), but to be curious about why my plan was foiled and where in the hell LIFE thinks it’s taking me.

Yesterday, as I was talking with a friend, I was encouraging him to be more curious as to why all his plans had gone to shit and where he was be directed. When we brainstormed his shitstorm (whaaaaat? Best sentence EVER!), we both came to realize how many opportunities lay hidden (like little dolphins, or Nemo) just below the surface.

Was he really in the midst of a calamity—or was an unseen opportunity unfolding?

Next time you’re unleashing a long string of obscenities ( have I told you how much I love you?), while you shake your fist at the heavens, remember this blog, unclench your fist and blow me a kiss. (Is it too soon to say I told you so?)

You’re welcome,

Carry on,

xox

The other day when I was feeling emotionally pushed and pulled every which way, subject to the whims of every jackass on the planet, it was then that I took a moment to find solace by having a chat with my dog.

Ruby, our boxer-shark puppy is now two years old which is the equivalent of fourteen in dog years and in that respect, she does not disappoint.

Every bit the bitchy, whining, sassy teenager, she is a walking contradiction: clingy yet distant, anxious but chill, a confusing mix of stupidly goofy and wise. She is utterly and completely dissatisfied in every moment—and she has no problem letting you know. She has a way of looking at you as if you just asked her for a ride to the airport. Perpetually disgusted.

If she’s at home, she’d rather be out. If she’s in the car she’d prefer to walk on some grass. If there are two dogs to play with, she’d hoped there would be three—and all boys. She searches frantically for food the minute she finishes eating. Being that I, her mother, am the model of moderation (and obviously, a master of bullshit), I have NO IDEA where she picked up this behavior. I’m thinking she’s modeling her dad.
Anyhow…

You can imagine my state of mind if I was seeking comfort and advice from this spoiled, over-indulged, canine equivalent of Kylie Jenner—big lips and all.

I sat down next to the sleeping princess and heaved a giant sigh, you know, the universal signal for I need to talk.

She barely stirred.

In order to get her attention I did what always works with my husband— I started petting her.
I rubbed her floppy velvet ears and moved down to her belly which caused her to roll on her back, legs languishing in the air (okay, what’s wrong with this picture? I was the one in dire need of a belly rub!).

She seemed open to dialogue so I started the conversation: “It must be so great to be you. Not a care in the world, no worries, just play and sleep, sleep and play. What does it feel like to always be in an attitude of trust? Trust in your wellbeing and that fact that all of your needs will be met? Huh? Tell me, what’s it like being you? YOU,  little dog, you are so lucky”.

With that, she opened her eyes just enough to make out who the fuck was interrupting her nap, tilted her head back, streeeeeeeetched her legs further into the air, yawned and farted.

And in that moment, the clarity I received was as overwhelming as the stench that filled the room.

I knew she was right. About EVERYTHING.

Yep. I told you she was wise.

Carry on,
xox

Everything comes out of nowhere. It starts as an inspired idea. Everything.

The pizza joint at the corner, your relationship (remember, the day before you met—you were complete strangers), where you live, the iPhone…

Jason makes a good point.

Some ideas are sold to us. Our perception is altered. Good ideas spread.
But so does herpes.

In the current political climate, we have to pay close attention to who and what has our ear, try to ignore the rhetoric, be discerning and then decide for ourselves—what makes a good leader.

Happy Sunday!
xox

Oh, I know (Jim), you don’t like reprises! Don’t get your panties in a bunch, maybe you missed this one and besides, a couple of readers requested it in lieu of the surprising exits of some beloved public figures this past week.

“It feels like a gut-punch,” one of my friends wrote me in a text on Monday. And it did.
Why do you suppose that is?

I guess it’s because neither Bowie nor Alan Rickman gave us any warning— no pale and sickly paparazzi photos or death vigil countdown after a prolonged hospitalization.

That sucks AND good for them!

My friend and fellow blogger Angie and I were writing back and forth about that yesterday. What a wonderful example they left us of having a conscious death. Creating all the way up until the end.

Happy, Healthy, Dead.

It may leave the rest of us reeling a bit but, come on, isn’t that the way we all want to go?

Happy, Healthy, Dead.

That is the clarion cry of the spiritual community I belong to. The one that lost Wayne Dyer this weekend. By the way, he isn’t really lost…but that’s another story.

I can’t remember where and when I heard it first, but it made one hell of an impression: happy, healthy, dead.

Irreverent I know, but just irreverent enough for me to embrace it wholeheartedly.
A new idea about the transition of death and how you want to leave this earth. The day you depart you want to be healthy, happy, dead. Lights out. Just like that. In a chair in front of the computer (right after you hit “send” on the best thing you’ve ever written), in your sleep (hopefully in clean pajamas, or at least pants), or sitting at a stoplight singing to your favorite song on the radio (at the end of an amazing road trip).

Boom. Gone. Sayonara. That’s that!

And that’s exactly what he did.

Transition. Why is it so fucking hard so goddamn always?

September is a month full of transition. Fall begins, the days get shorter, the nights get cooler (in theory), my big, fat, flip-flop feet have to squeeze themselves into shoes; and as the summer begins to wind down we all get a little bit squirrelly.

School starts. The nest empties. The time changes back to whatever the hell it was in May, and fucking Christmas decorations show up in the stores.

I like to say I’m pretty good at transition. But I also like to say other things that I know deep down aren’t completely true. Like: I’ll only take a couple of bites of your dessert or female politicians don’t lie.

I’ve discovered I’m okay with transitions as long as they look, feel, and taste EXACTLY like what just ended.

When I move, the joke is that my new place will be unpacked, with pictures hung, and fully decorated within twenty-four hours of receiving the keys. Everything will be in its place and it’ll look as if I’ve lived there for a decade. I even break down the boxes and drive around until I find a back alley dumpster. Anything to keep the place from looking chaotic and temporary. THAT my dear friends is not an example of someone who has a facility for change.

It is the white-knuckled fingers of control around the neck of my anxiety.

Why can’t transition be easy? The next logical step? The next great adventure? And since it’s a necessary part of life—why can’t we just chill?

How come we can’t remember what it felt like to graduate? To get our first job? To fall in love that very first time? Those were all transitions. Big ones. Ones that formed us. And they were pivotal in the unfolding of our life’s narrative; they were uncharted territory; fresh, new, and exciting!

Have you got an empty nest? Fill it with all the things you’ve been putting off for…Oh, I don’t know, almost twenty years!
Listen, now you get to look forward to college graduations, foreign travel, potential new family members, and maybe, eventually, the patter of little feet that go home when you’re tired of them.

I love me some summer and dread its ending, but then I remember that I also love fires in fireplaces, the smell of burning leaves, cozy sweaters, hot mint tea and rainy days. So what’s the big deal?

Transition. Happy; healthy; dead. Easy, peasy, Parcheesi.

Excuse me while I go wedge my paddle foot into some sexy black boots.

Carry on,
xox