stories

On Sunday mornings one of my best friends since…well, forever, comes over after her hike, for coffee and a donut (the coffee is for her, the donut is for me).
Don’t laugh, it’s our thing. She’s the healthy hiker and I’m the slug who sits waiting patiently for a donut. We used to hike together, but that’s a long story about sore feet, with way too much whining (mine) for today.

Anyhow, even though she’s exhausted and I’m a donut scarfing Jabba The Hut on Sundays, we still get together for a few hours to offer each other advice on life (which if you knew us would be laughable), and we do. Laugh—a lot that is.

Lately we’ve been pondering that old idiom: Getting to the bottom of things.
Why do people say that?
Why did we do that? Why, as human beings is that something we do enough to warrant its own idiom?
We needed answers.

If you look it up here’s what you get: Getting to the bottom of things—
To discover the real but sometimes hidden reason that something exists or happens.

And therein lies the rub.
In the history of human relationships when have we EVER had a clue as to why anyone does anything?

Why does someone go out to get cigarettes…and never return?
Why do the Republicans give Donald Trump ANY airtime?
Why are some people liars?
Why are most landlords idiots?
Why didn’t he call for another date when he said he would?
Why do bad things happen to good people?

I used to believe the reason would reveal itself, like the missing piece of the puzzle, if I would just give it my undivided attention.

So I would chew on the dilemma, like a dog with a bone. I’d obsess about it, call my friends to talk about it, worry myself sick about it and cry myself to sleep over it.
Then I’d start over again the next day.
I was relentless in my pursuit of the truth, and like one of those competitive, deep water free divers, I’d put on my two hundred pound weight, hold my breath and hope not to die on my way to the bottom.

But with every trip to rock-bottom I left a little bit of myself down there.
You know, lack of oxygen, lost brain cells, and stolen time. I can never get those days, months, years back.

My friend agreed. She had done the same thing after her divorce. She was determined to discover the real and hidden reason her husband had left she and her two young sons. And just like me, (and probably you too) she was dragged to the bottom. The depths of her despair. Unable to surface, her lungs bursting, gasping for the fresh, clean air of truth.

Here’s the thing we eventually came to realize you guys.

Don’t fucking look for the bottom!

You will never find the truth, the hidden meaning as to why something happened. So don’t go there.
What you want to know doesn’t reside there, not even close. It’s not even in the same zip code.

As you dig and chew and dive below the surface with the weight of the world around your neck, you get further and further away from where you need to be:
1) Making peace with the situation;
2) Accepting the fact that you may never know all the reasons;
3) Making your way back to the surface where you can start your giant. life. reboot.

So quit looking. There is no bottom.

Yeah, we got all that from coffee and a donut (‘cause wisdom needs sugar and caffeine).
Good stuff, huh?

Carry, carry, carry on UP!
xox

Hi you guys,
Below is a recent blog post from Dr. Brene Brown who studies and writes about vulnerably, courage, worthiness and shame.
With the energy that’s been circulating around us lately, clutching at our hearts, bringing up past hurts to be healed, and in the process fucking with the stories we’ve made up about ourselves, our lives, who we’ve been, and who we’re becoming; well,this feels apropos.
Carry on,
xox

As we enter the Rising Strong launch countdown, I thought I’d share one of my favorite passages from the new book with you. Even though this is something I know in my head, it remains something I have to practice in my heart.

From Rising Strong:

The most dangerous stories we make up are the narratives that diminish our inherent worthiness. We must reclaim the truth about our lovability, divinity, and creativity

Lovability: Many of my research participants who had gone through a painful breakup or divorce, been betrayed by a partner, or experienced a distant or uncaring relationship with a parent or family member spoke about responding to their pain with a story about being unlovable—a narrative questioning if they were worthy of being loved.

This may be the most dangerous conspiracy theory of all. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past thirteen years, it’s this:

Divinity: Research participants who shared stories of shame around religion had less in common than most people guess. No specific denomination has emerged as more shaming in my work; however, there is a strong pattern worth noting. Over half of the participants who talked about experiencing shame in their faith histories also found resilience and healing through spirituality.

The majority of them changed their churches or their beliefs, but spirituality and faith remain important parts of their lives. They believed that the sources of shame arose from the earthly, man-made, human-interpreted rules or regulations and the social/community expectations of religion rather than their personal relationships with God or the divine.

Our faith narratives must be protected, and we must remember that no person is ordained to judge our divinity or to write the story of our spiritual worthiness.

Creativity and Ability: In Daring Greatly, I write, “One reason that I’m confident that shame exists in schools is simply because 85 percent of the men and women we interviewed for the shame research could recall a school incident from their childhood that was so shaming that it changed how they thought of themselves as learners. What makes this even more haunting is that approximately half of those recollections were what I refer to as creativity scars. The research participants could point to a specific incident where they were told or shown that they weren’t good writers, artists, musicians, dancers, or something creative. This helps explain why the gremlins are so powerful when it comes to creativity and innovation.”

Like our lovability and divinity, we must care for and nurture the stories we tell ourselves about our creativity and ability. Just because we didn’t measure up to some standard of achievement doesn’t mean that we don’t possess gifts and talents that only we can bring to the world.

Just because someone failed to see the value in what we can create or achieve doesn’t change its worth or ours.

~Brene Brown
http://brenebrown.com/about/

The other night, as we were getting ready for bed, my husband informed me that he was going to start his own blog.

“I’m going to call it The Mute Observer” he said, barely able to keep a straight face.
This made me laugh so hard I may have pee’d a little—and I just had to share it with you guys! (I even found a graphic online.)

He is an extremely private person. A man of few words. He holds things close to the chest, but that in no way means he isn’t noticing or feeling his way through his environment.

I can safely say that he feels things in a much deeper way than I do.

I’m guessing that he’s very much like a lot of you.

The fact that I tell our stories or mention him at all on these pages is a constant source of feigned exasperation characterized by a lot of head shaking and arm waving.

He has a hard time wrapping his brain around the fact that I share my/our life in such public way. You know what they say: Opposites Attract.

Sometimes, early in the morning I can hear him in his office laughing and I smile, knowing in that moment he’s getting a kick out of one of my many mis-adventures.

Other times he just stands silently in the doorway of the den, staring at me until I notice him there.
“Today’s made me cry” he’ll say with tears in his eyes. That’s it. Then he just walks away.
I love him for that.

He may not understand my need to use my voice—it’s not his thing—although at times I think he admires it. Thankfully,(for his own safety and the longevity of our marriage) he has NEVER tried to silence it.

He is my Mute Observer.

I don’t think for one minute he’s oblivious. That would be a huge mistake.

How many of you are Mute Observers, silently taking it all in? (oh wait—how funny! I’m asking anyway even thought I know you won’t write in the comments. Jeez, what part of mute do I NOT understand?)

Quietly Carry on,
xox

Recently, I’ve been finding feathers all over the place, so in my search for meaning I came across this handy, dandy feather interpreter. Keep your eyes open for feathers (if you pay attention, they are everywhere.) Collect them, and then consult this chart.

Carry on,
xox

*This is where I keep most of the feathers I’ve found.

*This is from last summer but they’re baaaaaack. The magic wands are flying outta the bucket!

The most charming and interesting social experiment has been taking place
In. My. Front. Yard.

About three years ago I saw a picture on Facebook I think, of a bucket full of magic wands, made from dried flowers from the garden, which I thought was so clever, I just HAD to borrow the idea, because….

That is SOooooooooo up my alley.
I’d use a magic wand AND I’d wear a tiara every day, even on a Thursday, even with jeans, if I could get away with it.
AND
We really need some magic in the world right now.

So, I cut my Agapanthus in the summer, when they’re done flowering, and I put them in a bucket marked:

FREE
MAGIC WANDS

I live on a tree-lined residential street, where contrary to popular belief, people really do walk in LA.
Neighbors walk their dogs and young families stroll with their kids when things cool down around dusk, so I had me some high hopes about the wand reaction.

The first year…meh. Reaction was tepid.
They just sat there. My wands of magic.
I was very disappointed.
Fine, more magic for me.

Last year, the wands got a little better reaction, but if ten were in the bucket on Monday, five were still there on Friday.
I saw people look at them, AND KEEP WALKING. Can you believe that shit?

Free.

Magic wands.

There for the taking.

I was gobsmacked.

When I put the bucket out a month or so ago, I had to have a little talk with myself.
I had to remind me about the nature of people, and the too cool for school factor, and how some parents don’t want their children to believe in such a thing as magic (or carry around a spiky dead flower.) But I put it out anyhow.

To my delight, this year has been extraordinary!
I can’t keep the bucket filled.

There were eleven in the bucket yesterday morning and when I went out to run an errand at three….gone.

The other night when one of my friends came by, she sat in her car and watched a family, a mom, dad and two small kids, very deliberately and gleefully choose just the right wands.

That makes me want to cry.

I can’t keep the neighborhood stocked in wands!

Magic is rampant here in the City of Angels.

I wore everybody down, until they could resist no more.

“Magic wands for everyone!” cried no one in particular – but, I understand supply and demand, and there’s a run on wands, so I may have to cut some of the neighborhood Agapanthus late at night while they sleep.

I don’t want summer to end, because that signals the end of the wands of magic.. *sniff, *sigh….

Maybe next year I’ll paint them gold or add glitter! (that just made my heart race, seriously)

Love Janet the Good Witch,
Xox

Happy Friday Everyone!

In case you’d rather listen 😉
https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/spread-your-magic

I just switched to a summer bag. I know, I’m late to the party, being that it’s the third week in July.

Nevertheless, I transferred all of my purse “loot” to a bag that is lighter in both actual heft and color. It’s a happy pink bag. One that I purchased in Santa Fe, in a snowstorm, while my best friend shopped for sexy lingerie. It was at the bottom of a sale bin for thirty dollars.
SCORE!

It wasn’t a simple task. I carry around a lot of shit on a daily basis.
Useless, out-of-date, superfluous shit as it turns out.

I don’t want to hear one man snicker. Have you guys cleaned out your wallets lately?
What about your murse (man purse)? Have you really examined its contents in the last year?
Yeah, I thought not.

My husband utilizes his entire immediate environment as a wallet. So vast is his sphere of influence that a mere man-bag or wallet cannot contain it.
His car collects business cards. Hundreds of them.
His home-office overflows with receipts and warranties, gift cards and gum. And Altoids. Boxes and boxes of Altoids bought in bulk at Costco.

Not me. I’m much more self-contained so I didn’t really anticipate the jaw-dropping magnitude of this bag and switch.

And here is what the excavation revealed:(Drum roll)

Paperclips. Just like an archeologist at an ancient burial site, I stood holding three small paperclips, trying to figure out their significance in my daily life and what in the hell they’re doing in my purse. I have a vague recollection of using one as a barrette on a bad bang day.
Here’s the thing, I don’t clip paper. Ever. I’m a computer girl, I barely use actual paper much anymore, (which is tragically sad when you think about it). That may explain why my award-winning cursive (Miss Law’s seventh-grade penmanship award) has devolved into the scrawl of a deranged serial killer.

One schmutz covered open tube of L’Occitane Shea Butter hand cream. After much digging (burial site reference again) I found the lid.
It doesn’t matter. From the looks of it, the contents dried up sometime during a road trip back in 1992.

An LED pink and grey camouflage flashlight—that actually still works. Now I can rest easy. Not as easy as a signal flare would make me rest, but easy just the same.

An Advil bottle filled with an assortment of pills.
I thought it would be a hoot to open it up and take a trip down memory lane since I can’t remember the last time I put anything relevant inside that bottle.

Contents:
One Benadryl. That was for our dog, who, when she was a puppy was allergic to bee stings. She died in March at the age of nine.

Something that looks suspiciously like a birth control pill. Wha…what? Why, at fifty-seven does an obviously lost and alone birth control still make my heart stop and my blood run cold?

Seventeen Motrin. An odd number since the recommended dose is two, and kinda an F-you to Advil. Like having Pepsi in a Coke can.

One half of a migraine pill. For those days when I’m suffering from one half of a migraine.

One half of what I think is a Xanax. First of all, half? Really? Any situation that requires Xanax—requires an entire pill. AND, Can I just tell you how many times I wish I’d known that was there?

One Midol. Awwww. How sweet. I’m going to open my time capsule and put that in there with my tampons, my flat stomach, my perky tits, and my happy-go-lucky disposition.

A Zeiss ten power bad-ass jeweler’s loop. Don’t accidentally flash your engagement ring my way—I’m trained, armed and opinionated.

One dollar and fourteen cents of loose change (which I will promptly donate to the nearest tip jar).

A package of pink flamingo tissues. I have NO idea where they came from. I know I didn’t buy them. Pink Flamingos? come on! Plus, they have the consistency of crepe paper and  I wouldn’t let them touch any part of my body on a dare.

My prescription from the Optometrist The latest one from January 2015. A girl with eyesight as diminished as mine can’t be too careful.

One fossilized Cliff Bar. In case the Zombies attack. I could throw it at them.

My sad, pebbly brown leather, Hermes wallet which has lived an abused and overstuffed life (Overstuffed with everything except cash.)
I have blatantly disrespected this beautiful, obscenely expensive, vacation purchase,(because who looks at prices on vacation), until now it is so stretched out on the sides you could store your umbrella.
I love it so…I just can’t let it go…I need help.

Inside there are tens of assorted cards, which sadly at my age have switched from the latest, greatest club, boutique or restaurant; to one for a dermatologist, my hormone doctor, a podiatrist and other assorted magicians. My how times have changed.
I did find a business card for my realtor, the lovely man who helped me purchase my home—in 1999. I wonder if he’s still alive.

An old California driver’s license which expired in 2001 after ten years of extensions. It has my old name, and a long forgotten address from the nineties, but I keep it because the picture chronicles the decade I dyed my hair bright red and…well who am I kidding, it verifies that once, after a nasty stomach flu, I was five foot five, and weighed one hundred pounds.
Sometimes, on a low day, with my grey hair and stretched out yoga pants, after snarfing down an entire bag of Fritos—I just need to see that.

A Costco, Ralph’s and Vons card (because I tend to have revolving loyalty, although I shop almost exclusively at Trader Joe’s) and a Petco card.

A checkbook. With unused checks. I can’t decide if the archeologists gets this or the time capsule.

A leather pouch containing five MAC lip glosses (which are all three-quarters empty), Bobby Brown cheek tint, and a KCRW Fringe Benefits Card (if you’re not in LA that last one won’t make sense).

Forever stamps from the U.S. Postal Service, which are even though they are FOREVER are virtually obsolete by the time you walk out to the parking lot.

Danielle LaPorte Temporary Tattoos. I think they come with like eight or nine inspirational words in her handwriting, and of those, only blissful, love and joy are left. I haven’t gotten around to those words yet. Hmmm…I wonder what that means?

One groovy rhinestone skull glass case which is always empty because the groovy skull magnate isn’t strong enough to hold the glasses in place. Which leads me to believe it was probably made in Italy where everything is stunning, but nothing does what it’s designed to do. It also explains the loose pair of designer cheaters whose lenses are so scratched it’s like looking through wax paper.

Oh, and my iPhone 6, which also gravitates toward the bottom of every bag, (or the floor of the passenger seat of my car) no matter how many specially designed pockets are sewn inside.
I suspect it’s magnetized—attracted to the earth’s core. Fucking Apple.

So lets see here, what have we determined about me?
That I have a little Girl Scout survival preparedness thing going on with the flashlight and the Cliff Bar (and the lip gloss).

That I can’t spend good money on nice things because I can’t be trusted to take proper care of them.

That rhinestone skulls are my kryptonite.

That I carry way too much make-up for a woman my age.

That I’m going to have to break down and wear blissful, love and joy on my body someday.

That it is crazy how badly I need a new wallet.

And that I’m just like you—a walking, talking, hot mess contradiction—who’s just doing the best she can—with a bright pink summer bag.

Carry On,
xox

So yeah, I’ve been writing with my new mentor—and she’s dead.
Minor complication really, especially given her big personality.

Lately, all she wants to talk about is how she died and what it’s like being dead.
I know, blah, blah, blah, who cares.
Oh wait, I do!
I’ve always been curious about the after-life and now lucky me, I have my own personal color commentator giving me her blow-by-blow descriptions of death and dying.

The other morning was typical. Another 5 a.m. wake-up call.
After hearing her “writing” in my head, (that’s how this works, she sends me these thoughts, or sentences that repeat and repeat and the trouble is they’re so great they wake me up), I stopped dreaming about the beached dolphin who was stealing the Nutty Buddy right out of my hand — and I got my computer to write her shit down.

“Woman, can’t you see I’m sleeping? It’s five in the morning!”

“Not here.”

Did I mention she’s a world-class smart-ass?

Her opening line with me a few months back was: death is highly underrated. How’s THAT for an opener?
It got my attention.

Saturday morning was no different. Her early morning wake-up line was this gem:

Death is slippery… Death is slippery…
It would never occur to me to pair those two words, death and slippery together.
That is SO her — I don’t have her facility with language. I’ve also never died, not even little bit.
So…that’s what woke me up enough to grab my computer.

She went on with her thought once she knew that I was awake and ready for dictation.

Did I mention she’s a bit of a taskmaster?

Death is subtle. It is slippery and seamless.

Huh.
I sat up (I had been typing laying down, hoping this was going to be a short session and I could go back to sleep) wiped the sleep from my eyes, the drool off my chin, and started to give that phrase some thought. Then I did what has become my habit with her. I looked up the definition of EVERY word because there are so many layers to what she’s trying to convey and her words are chosen VERY carefully.

It has been my experience that there is always a treasure of wisdom hidden inside.
This time did not disappoint.

SUBTLE: Delicately complex and understated. Really? Look at those words describing death — delicately complex, understated… A new concept, but I like it.

SLIPPERY: Elusive in meaning because changing according to one’s point of view. That’s the third definition listed, but that’s the one she chose. That makes sense to me. Your death experience would morph to your point of view or expectations.

SEAMLESS: Smooth and continuous, with no apparent gaps or spaces between one part and the next. Great word. Okay, okay, I’m starting to sense a theme here.

Eh hem, (said with the utmost respect) Madam, would you care to elaborate? (Like I could stop her).

Death is subtle. It is slippery and seamless.
One minute you’re here, the next you are not. It is not ONE BIT SCARY.
Similar enough to (life) to comfort; different enough to question.
“I’m dead, right?”
It has speed. Momentum.
Slippery and seamless—Think white socks on a waxed floor.
(she shows me Tom Cruise in Risky Business when he slides into the doorway in his sunglasses, white socks and tighty whities.)

That’s quite an entrance, don’t you agree? I suppose it’s also an exit. According to her—it’s both at the same time.

Can’t you just hear that music? That piano line? Da,da,da,da,da,da,dum.
You slide into the next life with shades and attitude, helped along by speed and momentum.

“I’m dead, right?”

At that point…does it matter?

Is it really that easy?

Apparently so.

Carry on,
xox

My feelings got hurt, lightning stuck, a miracle occurred, and I avoided a fight.

Otherwise known as Thursday at my house.

See what I did there? I copped to the fact that my feelings got hurt.
I said it.
Out loud to my husband in real-time, to my girlfriend when I relayed the story on Sunday and to you guys now in print.

I think that’s important so I’m gonna point it out. Then I’m gonna stop because…well, because I believe that the very act of saying, “That hurt my feelings” diffuses the hurt a bit; and also because that’s enough whining for one post.

Here’s the deal:
My husband and I are in the midst of planning a motorcycle trip for this September.
I have been waxing nostalgic for Italy, the smarmy southern part, the part south of Rome, closer to Sicily where my people are from DNA wise, (I have the mustache to prove it), and Pompeii in particular.

I also want to see the leaves turn color on the East coast of the U.S. I think that would blow my mind on a motorcycle.

My husband is like…meh, ambivalent. Undecided. Uninspired. Comme si Comme sa. You get the picture.

Winding mountain roads with the sumptuous scenery of Vermont, the first hint of a nip in the air and the spectacle of the vividly colored leaves surrounding us.
OR
Warm, Indian summer days, dusty, ancient, red clay roads, the smells, sights and sounds of the Italian countryside; their food, their vino—and a city full of instantly fossilized citizens struck down mid-sentence during a cataclysmic volcanic eruption.

I know!
What to do?
So hard to decide.

I let it go, and the trajectory was sloooowly, (like the Titanic turning to avoid the iceberg) headed toward New England and the leaves.
Fine with me. That trip is up there on my list.

But fate intervened.
I used to balk at any sudden change of plans. Fate—Shmate. I never saw it as fate. It was just somebody sticking their big nose into my business, messing things up. Now we just call that Sunday.

We had emailed the company that was leading those Changing of the Leaves Tours of Vermont. Crickets…
Meanwhile…Raphael received an email out-of-the-blue from one of his Wolf Pack (The guys that he takes amazing motorcycle trips with every year) asking if he was interested in joining them for a four to five day ride in Europe. It fell at the exact time in September that we were planning our vacation.

Uh…hell yah, he answered explaining the serendipity of the timing and the fact that we (he and I) would be there together.

I’ve ridden with these guys many times. Tons. In all types of terrain and weather. As far as riding is concerned, I’m a dude. I leave my uterus at home in a drawer. At fifty-seven it’s not like I’m using it anymore.

Cool! A few days riding the Alps with the Wolf Pack, starting and ending in Milan. Then he and I would continue down south.
Fossilized citizens of Pompeii, here I come!

Until last Thursday night.
“They want a definite answer about the trip so they can purchase the tickets. The only thing is…by the looks of the count, they aren’t including you. I distinctly told them it would be you and I.”

Fuck. Fuck them! Oh, what is it? AnAll boys trip? I sneered.
“Um, yeah, no wives are coming” he answered sheepishly, never looking up from the text on his phone.

“None of their wives EVER come on the trips—they don’t ride!
Besides, It’s OUR vacation, I’m not trying to tag along, I’m there because it’s our vacation…and I’m not a wife! I’m a dude!”

“I know” he answered, looking more and more confused. I was getting pissed.

“That hurts my feelings!” I announced, surprising myself with the intensity of the declaration.
I think I even stomped my right foot and did a head thing—like a three-year old.

“It just does. You’ve got to work this out. Quit telling me they’re not including me. That just hurts my feelings! Let me know what you guys decide.” I turned and left the room with a dramatic flourish in a full-blown hissy-fit.

Into the den I stomped, flopping down on the couch, arms swinging wildly then resting across my chest, crossed; my bottom lip protruding beyond the rest of my face.
Just for affect.

A moment later lightning struck (because a tropical front was wafting through LA) and a miracle occurred.

I stopped being hurt and mad. Just like that. Big lip flop-down—to clarity—in 2.5 minutes.
A record. A personal best.

I didn’t want to go ride the Alps.
Been there done that, barfed on the T-shirt.
Too twisty of roads. Not my favorite ride. Soooo 2005.

I’ll pass and I’ll meet them in Milan! Genius! Fuck the Wolf Pack and the Alps, it’s southern Italy I want to see anyway.

He can go and I’ll meet him!

I ran back into the kitchen where he was furiously stirring something delicious. “Listen, here’s my plan. Call them back…”
As we started to flesh out our new-found solution—we found the nugget. It had been there all along, we were just too…lame? Stupid? Spoiled? Short-sighted, all-of-the-above, to see it.

It never occurred to us that they (their company) would be springing for plane tickets and renting the bikes. That would be four days expenses and Raphael’s flight taken care of—we just had to pick up another week or so, and my ticket.

NUGGET! (Happy dance)

When I told my friend this story her response made me laugh. Hard.
“You’re getting really good at this marriage thing” she remarked. “It’s great to see.”

Shit! I should hope so after almost fifteen years.

Carry on,
xox

I was reminded this weekend of a Petition to God that Liz Gilbert wrote as part of her memoir Eat Pray Love.

Her intention was to ask God to intervene in the suffering and dysfunction of her contentious divorce. She finished by signing it and sending it out into the ethers to collect the signatures of other interested parties, living or dead.

She figured that if you can stop the energetic animosity—it serves the world.

That got me to thinking.
I was hanging with a bunch of soulful, heart-filled creatives yesterday, with intriguingly varied projects and books in the works, but they’re no different from all of you guys with your projects and creations, dreams, hopes and wishes. Everybody’s got something in the works.

So I tweaked (okay I totally changed it, but kept the intention) Liz’s Petition To God.

This can apply to any situation you want to hand over to a higher power than yourself.

After you read it, if it feels right to you, “sign it” with your heart. (You can also sign it by putting just your name in the comments) and invite other parties to sign it as well.
They can be people attached to your project, people you know personally, people you’ve never met, people you admire…or in my case Robert Downey Jr. — it doesn’t matter, whoever comes to mind (you’ll, be surprised at who shows up).

Like Liz says in EPL:
“and I became filled with a grand sense of protection, surrounded by the collective goodwill of so many mighty souls.”
Hey, who doesn’t need that?

This is The Petition To Our Muses:

Dearest Muse,
Please intervene and help this project in any way you see fit, and even some ways that would shock and surprise me.
I have done my part. I have shown up, been receptive, chosen your words carefully, sat in the seat and done the work. Now it is your turn.

I recognize that you may be busy with other things like keeping the earth spinning in its orbit around the sun, editing the final drafts of Pulitzer Prize winners, and other various mundane tasks; but it is my understanding that you are focused on each and every one of us and our projects at all times (because times doesn’t matter where you are) and that you can multitask like a mo-fo.

It is also my understanding that when you gift someone with an inspiration, an idea; and that person, with your help, is able to birth that creative endeavor into the world — it uplifts everyone — and isn’t that what we’re all here to do?

Well, that and drink Sangria and eat fried food?

So therefore, it is my most humble request that you help me birth this project into its most splendid and kick-Ass physical manifestation. Whatever that looks like.

You have my utmost cooperation and my endless admiration and love.

I thank you for your kind attention,
Respectfully,
Janet Bertolus

You’re my job;
You’re my beloved;
my boss;
my family;
A friend.
Or any recurring fucked up situation.

You hurt me, I hurt you back.
You know, like tit for tat and all that.
Into perpetuity.

You hurt me I walk away. Immediately.
No harm, no foul. You’re an idiot and I’m not going to stick around for a second helping.

See that thing on my shoulder? HUGE chip.
Note to self: Look into “Chip Removal”.

You hurt me, I thank you…and kiss you on the mouth.
Well, that’s figuratively speaking…and not right away.
If I got that close to you, I’d probably bite your lip—hard. I’d want to draw blood.

Back to the drawing board. Back to number one.

No, I’d thank you, but from a safe distance.
Why would I do something so asinine?

Because you showed me who you are.
You saved me from one more minute of anguish.
You stopped lying and pretending and shined the bright light of truth.
Everything became crystal clear.
And it hurt.
Like a fucking knife in the gut, it hurt.

Finally.
Clarity.
It’s not you.
Got it.
Moving on.

Thank you.

Carry on,
Xox