writer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My, how Field of Dreams of her.

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

The first thing I do is pee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Never mind.

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

So I axed that plan.

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

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

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

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

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

Eh Hem, I just like to call it curiosity.

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

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

Carry on,
xox

If you’re at all like me (and I know you are!), as December comes to a close, and 2018 becomes just the dumpster-fire-of-a-year that it was, getting smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror—I turn introspective. 

Introspection is great. But it’s highly underrated. The thing is, it’s nearly impossible to do in a crowd—or while chewing—and I don’t know about you but that’s where I am and what I’m doing this time of year, most hours of the day. Truth be told, it’s more like a solitary act done with your mouth closed and that can make things complicated.

But I need it you guys. Desperately! It clears out the cobwebs and it gets me headed in the right direction, otherwise I might make a somewhat unintentional u-turn and drive right back into the fire. 

As 2019 approaches, there are certain things I want to carry forward—and there are other things I want to leave behind in the “dustbin of history” as they say.

Many things can trigger introspection. This year, mine was triggered by an interview I heard on NPR with Michael Pollen. His new book, How To Change Your Mind, talks about the clinical trials being done using psychedelics like LSD and psilocybin (the active ingredient in hallucinogenic mushrooms) to help the severely depressed, treat addiction, and lessen the anxiety of individuals who’ve been given a terminal diagnosis and are facing imminent death. 

One woman he heard about had overcome ovarian cancer but was so paralyzed by terror of its reoccurrence that she was unable to live her life. As she put it, “It’s all I think about.” 

Let’s stop right here. Who hasn’t had trouble ‘getting over’ a terrifying setback in their life? I think we can all agree that’s a pretty universal fear. 
A reoccurrence? 
The ‘other shoe’ dropping? 
More bad luck?

Anyway, they had my attention.

During the study, when they gave her the psilocybin, (Which by-the-way, is not like you and a bunch of your friends taking mushrooms in Debbie’s hot tub back in 1980. In this trial they were monitored and guided by professionals). Anyway, once on the drug, she took a tour of the interior of her body and during that tour she saw a large black mass in her chest. Cancer, right? Well, that was her first impression too. She was urged to confront it, not run from it and when she did it revealed itself to be…wait for it…her FEAR. So she stood toe-to-toe with it, and screamed “Get the fuck out of my body!” And in the process, she eradicated it from her life. Entirely! Gone! Bye Bye forevah!

What she told the interviewer was this, “I can’t control my cancer, but I CAN control my fear.” and that was a revelation to her. WE REALLY CAN CONTROL OUR FEARS YOU GUYS! And we don’t need magic mushrooms to make that happen. We only need to believe it! (Insert giant forehead slap here.)

Here’s the interview, it’s FACINATING!

‘Reluctant Psychonaut’ Michael Pollan Embraces ‘New Science’ Of Psychedelics 

‘Reluctant Psychonaut’ Michael Pollan Embraces ‘New Science’ Of Psychedelics 

So, this was just a super long way to say that during my introspection, I decided that in 2019 I would control the things I can, like maybe even my fear, and leave everything else behind! 

What do ya think? Sound like a plan?

Here are a few I’ve been thinking about just this week. Maybe you can add yours below. 

Aging—Can’t control it. I can only manage my feelings around it, use a moisturizer that costs as much as a time machine, and wait for acceptance to kick in. I’m thinking any day now.

Politics—Can’t control it. But I can control my exposure to cable news and manage the stress I feel when I hear his voice saying something stupid.

Boundaries—Can’t control how people react to them. I can only control the loving but completely necessary implementation of them on my part. 

Other People’s Crazy—Can’t control it and I used to think I would die trying. I can only control my perception of crazy and I swear to god that makes a huge difference!

Let’s change our minds you guys, and march into this new year as the brave, resilient, joyful souls we really are!

Carry on, 
xox

*Hi Loves,
This is a post from Christmas past. I think it was way back in a simpler time — 2013.

Anyhow…it’s a crowd favorite, the number one most requested holiday post and you guys really know how to pick ’em because I love this one too! After all, it’s about my husband and everybody roots for my hubby. Right? I mean, he tolerates me and that is no. small. feat.

Listen, he’s no saint, believe you me. He’s a procrastinator extraordinaire as this story will reveal, and a curmudgeony rapscallion of epic proportions.  HOWEVER, all that being said, the man never ceases to amaze me with his common decency.

And here on Earth 2.0 I miss common decency. I think we all do.

So here’s a dollop of decency courtesy of my own personal Avatar. I’m immensely grateful for him and for all of you for your decency and continued loyalty.

Wishing you and yours the happiest of holidays and an amazing 2020!

xox Janet

AVATAR
av·a·tar
ˈavəˌtär/
noun
1.HINDUISM
a manifestation of a deity or released soul in bodily form on earth; an incarnate divine teacher.

I met my husband when he was 47 and I was 43.
To say I kissed a lot of frogs along the way is understating the obvious!
And since he’s French there’s also a certain irony there.

On paper, I looked über normal.
I had a great job, a house, a relatively “normal” family, lots of good friends, two Siamese cats, and a Partridge in a pear tree.

But as you all know by now, I had my dark, hidden secret.
I was a closeted seeker.
Devoutly spiritual.
I did yoga,
I meditated twice a day,
I could have been a monk.
Well, except for the red lipstick and nail polish…oh, and there’s the sex. Anyway, I’m pretty sure I blurted it all out after a glass (or three) of wine on one of our early dates, half expecting him to excuse himself, saying he was “going to the restroom”, only to discover after ordering dessert and eating it by myself—that he had made a run for it!

But he didn’t.

It ends up he was a seeker as well, having worked with
a Peruvian shaman along the way—so I should have seen this next part coming…

For years, I had sought the counsel of a channel, a friend who had the ability to call in “beings” of higher wisdom. So, I invited her/them over to “meet” my new husband. I’m not exactly sure what I expected, but what they did was to just, well, so perverse. Let’s just say they completely ignored me and practically fell all over themselves (in that way nebulous mist can) calling him “Great Avatar”.

Then they explained that I am the “consort” to this great being.

What? Really?
Like the Cleopatra to his Marc Anthony?
Uh, no. You can’t be serious! It’s nothing like that!

More like the Robin to his Batman, maybe. OR…
The Abbott to his Costello.
The Kato to his Green Hornet.
The Elaine to his Jerry.
The Heckle to his Jeckle.

Well, not exactly. I had to acquiesce to the undeniable fact that, gulp,
He is my teacher, and I am grasshopper.

I just rolled my eyes, thinking that infinite wisdom must have mistakenly ‘Avatared’ the wrong guy—but the irrefutable proof of it happened again—for the gazillionth time on Christmas Eve.

He told me the story with tears in his eyes that night on our way to dinner.

He is a typical man in the sense that he waits until 3 p.m. on the 24th of December to start his holiday shopping.

So…there he was driving while famished, navigating an overcrowded parking lot with nothing to sustain him except the remnants of a candy cane covered in pocket lint.

He was Hangry (hungry + angry).
You get the picture.

Finally, after circling eight-thousand times, he saw a car ready to pull out of its space so he positioned himself, left blinker on, and waited…and waited…while the lovely person, 175 year old woman who should have NEVER been driving in the first place, backed ever so sloooooowwwly took her ever-loving, f*c@ing time, to vacate the coveted spot. Meanwhile, on the other side of her was a little pickup truck that has the same idea. My husband, seeing what was about to happen, aggressively blocked the spot with his black Porsche and pulled in. (Don’t judge, just because it’s a Porsche and a pickup truck, just don’t do it!)

As the pickup truck realized defeat and drove off, the driver made eye contact with my husband—and flipped him the middle finger.

Oh, don’t worry, that stuff rolls off his back…he’s French, remember?
But still, it was Christmas Eve for cryin’ out loud!

No matter. He walked into a local joint to grab a quick burger and realized while he was eating, that middle-finger-pickup-truck-guy was eating with some of his buddies a few tables over.

So, instead of pounding his chest or letting his smug get the better of him, he got out a pen and wrote a note on a napkin.
He then attached $20 and handed it to the waitress to deliver to the guy…and without saying a word—he left.

The note read:
Even though you flipped me the bird,
It’s Christmas Eve.
your lunch is on me.
The black Porsche.

While walking away he glanced back to see the guy showing the note to his buddies as he stood to search the cafe for this mystery Santa.

So freakin’ decent, right? It brought tears to my eyes you guys!

He’s my hero.
He’s my teacher
He really is an Avatar.
(And said without any eye roll whatsoever) It is an honor to be his consort/grasshopper.

Merry Christmas everybody!
Xox

You are going to be so happy to know this!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This one says: “Diane, get my flute!”

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

Happy Holidays & Carry on,
xox

This is the dating “us” circa 2001.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is except for me.

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

I had decided to just be myself.

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

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

Leafy greens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Had I heard him correctly?

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

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

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

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

We have been savoring life together ever since.

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

Carry on,
xox

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But only half.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Holidays Y’all!
xox

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

Or not. 

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

They are not an inexpensive obsession.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Holidays

He was SO mad at me. Furious. How could I tell? Because he told me right to my face.

I’m glad you’re home safe,” he said. He looked stoned but I knew better. That was his sleepy face. His way-past-my-bedtime face.

“Really? ‘Cause you seem pissed,” I quipped. It was pretty obvious as he stomped around in his bare feet and blue, flannel jammie pants, slamming drawers and doors and anything within reach that he could slam on his way back to bed.

No hug.

No kiss.

No eye contact.

No kidding.

Even the little brown dog had picked sides, staying put, warm and cozy back in our bedroom, her brain having been filled with anti-mommy propaganda for the past couple of hours. 

“Wow! You’re mad?”

“Yes I’m mad!” He snapped. I think I saw smoke billow from of his nostrils.

“I can’t believe…”

“Well, believe it because I am! (Insert dramatic pause) You know I texted you…and you didn’t answer.”

“You did?” I started looking for my phone.

“Yes, I did. When I was going to bed, around eleven.”

He turned around without looking me in the eye which I took as the ‘silent eye treatment’ and stomped away. It was impressive.

But I could hardly keep from laughing. I know that sounds insensitive but this is a man who NEVER worries about me when I’m out. I suppose I should take it as a compliment but it’s always been a little disconcerting, this faith he has in my ability to make the good decisions, you know, the ones that have led me, so far, to remain…not dead. Since we didn’t even meet until we were both well into our forties, he believes me to be capable of defending myself and figuring shit out as proven to him by the fact that I rarely call him to bail me out of any jam that I may or MAY NOT get myself into. (Psssst…I have Auto Club and our friend Ernie on speed dial.)

Unfortunately, that door does not swing both ways. I make him (and by ‘make him’ I mean it’s written in Chapter One of The Husband Manual that he read and signed before we sealed the deal) I make him text me when he’s off the motorcycle.

Because that’s a fucking dangerous hobby and I have this habit of liking to know he’s still alive.

Since the scariest thing I do is karaoke in Korea town, occasionally, I think to text him when I leave because fair is fair, you know, goose and gander stuff, but he’s always led me to believe that it’s kind of adorable—but completely unnecessary. 

“On my way home,” I’ll text, letting him know that I didn’t choke on the microphone or accidentally drown on my own spit. 

CRICKETS…

Or, a simple ‘thumbs up’ emoji—meaning that I had momentarily interrupted his pizza, beer, and violent movie night by stating the obvious.

I have to admit, the evening had run later than I’d told him it would by about an hour and a half. I was at the Forum in Inglewood with my sister, having the spiritual experience of #becoming with Michelle Obama and eight thousand of her most rapturous admirers. The night was a lot of things. It was transformative. It was inspirational. But it was NOT punctual. So when I told him I’d be home by eleven and the event didn’t let out until then—and in my post Michelle-taking-me-into-her-confidence-coma, I neglected to think to correct that with a text… 

THAT was a mistake.  

As a matter of fact, unbeknownst to me, my phone, which was zipped securely inside the pocket of my purse, (because she was THAT good), had long since gone into ‘sleep mode’. 

This meant his text vibrated silently, unseen in the dark. 

TEXT: 11:09 pm — Is everything ok? It’s late. I’m going to bed
(kiss face emoji)

Holy mother of all things hyperbolic and hysterical!

You have no idea how over-the-top dramatic this is! It may seem completely innocent to you but this, you guys, this is a five alarm fire. This is a scream into the void. This is my husband absolutely freaking out! 

And I missed it. 

I was too busy fan-girling, re-living over and over every tasty morsel of juicy girl-talk Michelle had spoon fed us all night. We quoted back to each other every word. The story about falling in lust with Barack. About therapy and in-vitro. We laughed again at every joke and implied jab at the current administration as we wove our way in and out of post-Michelle traffic. It took us a good thirty minutes to find the freeway and when we did—it was choked with traffic. Don’t look at me like that, it’s LA! There’s always traffic in LA at 11pm (or so I’ve heard).

Anyway, there it sat, the unanswered text, stewing in its own juices for another forty minutes or so. And there he sat back at home—marinating in worrying. Wondering whether I’d fallen victim to a mugger in a dark parking lot, or gotten into a car accident and was lying unattended in the hallway of County Hospital. Or maybe a carjacking had occurred, or a drive-by shooting, or my sister had finally reached her limit with me, stuffed me into the trunk of her car, put it in neutral, and pushed it off a cliff.

As it turns out he’d texted a preview of what was to come. Look at that. He was all set to worry. Who knew?

Who had created this monster? In retrospect, I blame myself. Maybe it’s the fact that lately, with the whole #MeToo thing, I’d been talking to him a lot about the fact that just living in the world as a woman is akin to walking naked through a sketchy neighborhood. A lot of stuff that he never gives a thought to—is out to harm or even kill us. The fact that my guard is never down. I have to park my car in a well-lit area, lock my doors the minute I get into the car, and walk with my keys woven in and out of my fingers like a weapon. The fact that his only concern is protecting the money in his wallet and that my purse is the least of my worries when I’m out at night. That’s because my most valuable asset will always be MY ENTIRE BODY. 

Men don’t think about that kind of stuff until we educate them. And then they worry, like, all the time. They slam things and get mad when we don’t answer texts late at night—which they have every right to do because we’ve scared the bejesus out of ‘em. 

Later, when I got into bed, I snuggled up close to him, but I could feel him tense up. He wasn’t done being mad.
I know that feeling of loving someone or something (a pet) so much that the mere thought of anything happening to them shatters the veneer of complacency we all wear—and then the vulnerability leaks out all over the place like a big, wet, mess, and the only thing that can keep you from embarrassing yourself and losing your shit altogether—is anger. 

But I’m sorry, I still wanted to laugh.

Isn’t love absurd sometimes? 

Carry on, 
xox

My BFF, Steph and I caught this on the SNL Christmas Special that aired one day last week and we laughed ourselves silly!

You see, it’s about a peach candle that gets regifted around the world. I’m sure Steph was laughing at the mere concept of a peach candle getting passed around from person to person as the anecdote to “I forgot to get you a present”, or “I really don’t know you that well, Jenny!”

As for me, well, I had a dark secret and it’s about damn time I came clean.

You guys, I have an entire drawer in my house dedicated to regifting. And most of it is devoted to candles. And most of the candles are pine scented because I make it my mission all year to find the best ones and through many, many years of exhaustive research I can report to you that most of them are absolutely horrible. Like, slap your own face horrible. Like, I’m offended by you and how can you call yourself pine when you smell like moose ass horrible.

I’m not proud of this in the least, but I feel better now that I’ve admitted.  

And by-the-way, if you deny you have something similar in a closet or a drawer; a secret stash of candles whose scent is so cloying they make you want to gag, or stationery that is so old fashioned that the 1960’s called and they have no use for it either. If you even try to get all judgy on me and deny this—you have to live with yourself because YOU are a lying liar who lies.

But I forgive you because it’s Christmas. But if I see you just know that I will hang mistletoe off your nose, Pinocchio.

At work we exchanged a single Secret Santa present and the same pair of reindeer socks and box of awful peppermint candy made the rounds for about a decade. But what did I expect? The limit was thirty dollars and you can barely buy a cup of coffee or feed a parking meter for under thirty dollars in LA. Besides, I think we can all agree that nobody gives one brain cell of thought, one fire of a neuron, to a Secret Santa gift, most especially men.

I once was regifted something I had given the person and he’d not even taken the time to rip off my handwritten tags! But here’s the thing, I didn’t get mad, how could I? I actually laughed, put it in my “regifting” drawer, and gave it back to him in a different box the following year!

So, in the spirit of Christmas I encourage you to go to that special closet or drawer, and clean that sucker out! Let’s all get rid of that shit and start fresh.

I’ll start. I will give every partially burned candle (Because I burn the questionable ones to see if they get better when burned—they don’t) to my blind housekeeper, Maria, (She will never notice. Oh, don’t get your panties in a bunch, it’s the truth!) and probably most of the unburned ones as well.

The stationery I will donate to a local church. I just know the ladies there will love it, (it has ‘church lady’ written all over it).

And then I may just have to throw the rest of it away because if I take the time to do some careful self-reflection I will have to admit that I’m one shoebox away from being a…a…hoarder!

There. I said it. Now I’m going to eat my feelings. I hear pie calling!

Carry on,
xox

From the Archives:
This is making the rounds on social media and I adore it! So, of course, I had to share it just in case you haven’t seen it yet.
Big candy cane kisses,
xox