writer

“Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

I won’t sleep a wink. Not this week. That’s because this week ends on December 1st and besides starting the most stressful month with an “R” in it—December 1st means only one thing to me and my sister. 

That is the date we attempt to make our yearly reservation for Christmas Eve dinner.

I cannot be held accountable for the lengths I will go to secure a reservation at this famous, Beverly Hills, Prime Rib establishment which I shall not name (but it starts with an L and ends in a WHY?)

For reasons too numerous to mention, (okay, it’s cheaper and so much less work than hosting at home), dinner here has become a tradition in our family and I am not about to disappoint the entire family which at this point consists of a bunch of eighty-something’s who look forward to this all year long—by fucking it up. 

Let me be clear, a Christmas Eve reservation at this place is as coveted and hard-to-get as they come. You are more likely to book lip injections with the guy who “refreshes” all the Kardashian lips, (not that I would EVER! I read somewhere there is a five-year waiting list) than you are to get a table for ten, on the night before Christmas. 

Back in the day, I had no problem playing the absurd LA reservations games that the hot, new places put you through to get a table. It was all about seeing and being seen. But that ship has sailed. I don’t give a rip about getting a table if I can’t book it the same day on Open Table. Not to be indelicate but I don’t care how good a restaurant is—it all gets pooped out the next day, so why bother?

That being said, regarding Christmas Eve I have learned that you MUST make the reservation for as many people as you can. You over-book. You add two extra chairs just to play it safe. We generally have eight people but god forbid somebody unexpectedly brings a date or decides at the last-minute, as a Christmas miracle, to reconcile with their ex. I have learned the hard lessons that are still—years later—too painful to recount, that you may absolutely, positively, NOT ADD A PERSON TO YOUR RESERVATION! 

Apparently adding one chair will tip the balance of the universe and all life will cease to exist—or a least that’s how serious this place is about that rule. (If you subtract a person they’re not happy about that either, but a death certificate usually gets you off with just a stern warning.) 

You see, the problem is the restaurant. They have become heartless savages. They know they have you by the short hairs so as far as holiday reservations go—they keep moving the goalpost. For years the date to call-in was October 1st. Easy, peasy Parcheesi—no sweat! I got all kinds of time in October! 

That morning I would set my alarm for 6AM which gave me plenty of time to stretch and do my vocal warm-ups. At nine-fifty-nine exactly, I would sit down with my coffee and start the speed dialing. By 10:05 I would get an actual living, breathing, woman named Nancy or Carol who I could tell wore sensible shoes and was short on the chit-chat . A serious pro who was teed up and ready to book me a table. 

Oh, Holy night.

Then, suddenly, a few years ago when I called on October 1st, the woman who answered seemed startled, unprepared. She sounded…young. Her name was Tiffany. 

“Uh, Christmas Eve?” she asked a little confused. I wasn’t having it.

“Yeah! What’s the problem?” I yelled, feeling not one bit ashamed of my outburst. I had trained all month for this day and her I’m a little confused game was not about to side track me. She could save that BS for the newbies, the amateurs. This was not my first rodeo. After close to a decade of this shit—I was a pro. 

“Well  played, Tiffany,” I said with a little chortle and a hand gesture that was completely lost on her because…telephone. “It’s ten o’clock, the assigned time to book a table for Christmas Eve and that’s exactly what I intend to do!”

There was silence.

“Hello? Tiffany, are you there?” I screamed hysterically.

A minute went by. I could hear her breathing, and turning pages. It was the longest minute of my life. You know how they say that in the midst of a crisis, time stands still?

Time froze.

It ceased to exist.

All I could think of were the large tables being booked by other operators while Tiffany and I were caught outside the time/space continuum.   

“Oh yeah”, she finally answered. “They moved the date for Christmas Eve reservations to November 1st.”

“Novem…wait. What? You can’t be serious!” 

“Let me check.” Then he put me on hold.

ON HOLD!

An instrumental version of Feliz Navidad tried its damnedest to soothe me while I waited.

For a goddamn table. On Christmas Eve!

After speaking with the manager and the manger’s manager, I was convinced this was not some cruel tactic to put me off. It was a fact. The date had actually been changed. Again! 

November 1st dawned dark and dreary that year. A cold rain fell as I cracked my knuckles and cleared my throat waiting to commence the speed dialing. Just to be sure we got a table, my sister was calling and checking the internet at the same time. We would enlist the old “double team” tactic and if one of us got through we would text the other immediately. 

Listen, if our family wants over priced Prime Rib on Christmas Eve, no one is going to keep my eighty-year-old mother from her Diamond Jim cut of beef!

My sister got through first. It was 10:10 AM and the only tables they had left were for 3:30 in the afternoon.  That seemed…asinine. What should we do?  

“Tell them your Sandra Bullock’s assistant and the table’s for her and she can’t eat solid food before 5PM!”

“Too late.”

“Shit!”

But in the end, after dropping every name I could think of, we took our allotted thirty-seconds to decide that maybe the old people would actually love it. You know, a real early, early bird special. Dinner not only started but completely finished by five! No heavy meal sitting in their stomachs at midnight. No meat sweats. No indigestion. No Alka-Seltzer. No Tums needed. Everyone would have plenty of time to digest. And if I knew my mom, by eleven-thirty she’d be back out in her kitchen, like Henry the Eighth, gnawing happily on that enormous bone. 

Grateful, we booked the damn thing, profusely thanking them like idiots for allowing us to basically spend north of a $1000 for lunch. 

This year, November first, we coordinated by text before the 10AM call in time. I had a jam-packed day and so did my sister, but we knew that in a few short minutes the suspense would be over. Even though we might be eating Prime Rib for breakfast we’d have our table for nine and all would be right with the world. Let the speed dialing commence! 

I put my phone on speaker and set it on the table next to me while I ordered Christmas wreaths online. 

“Hello, this is Barbara.”

I texted my sis, “Im in.”

“Good morning, Barbara, I need a table for nine on December 24th…”

“That’s Christmas Eve, right?” 

Uh oh. Barbara was clearly not the brightest crayon in the box. I tried not to lose my patience.

“Uh huh. Every year.”

“The day to call for that has been changed to December 1st.”

I took the phone off speaker and put it to my ear. 

“Don’t you fuck with me Barbara,” I hissed. “It’s now November 1st, which after a generation of being the date to call was changed from October 1st. I get it. You want to separate the wheat from the chaff, cut out the riff-raff. But if you look up my phone number you can see that we book a large table every…”

“I see that Ms. Bertolus”, she said. I could tell Barbara was used to being cursed at, my f-bomb rolling right off her back. I felt bad. This was about Christmas after all. 

“So call back at 10AM on December 1st?” I changed my tone and I didn’t insist on speaking with her supervisor.

“Yes. I know it feels like they change it every year,” she laughed a little, so I did too.

“Okay, I’ll talk to you then…happy holidays.”

I will not sleep a wink this week. December first is cutting it really close. By that time we won’t be able to book another place and it’s not fair to have one waiting in the wings only to cancel it of we get in. And if we don’t get a table?  I see a Google search for “How to cook a prime rib” in my future. 

Or my husband’s future.  Same thing. 

Explain to me how any of this makes sense? It doesn’t. It’s a Christmas nightmare, tradition that will most certainly die when my mother does just like all great but totally annoying traditions do. I’m sure a small part of me (maybe my spleen) will miss doing this when she’s gone. But who knows, by that time they might make it first-come, first-serve, and half of LA will stand in line all night like we do outside the Apple store for an iPhone.

Carry on,
xox

The holidays can be haaaaard you guys. And as much as I’d love to sugar coat it—I can’t.

I know, they can also be full of joy and wonder.

But when they’re not—when you’re just struggling to keep your head above water because of a health crisis, or a death, divorce, or something else unimaginable has you down for the count—it is helpful to remember (at least it is for me) that no matter how famous you are, how much money you have, or influence you peddle, or how many self-help processes you keep in your back pocket, at some point, THEY WILL GET YOU DOWN.

Here in California, the wildfires that raged a mere two weeks ago have left a literal shroud hanging over the state. So many people have lost so much it’s hard to fathom feeling much Ho, Ho, Ho.

My BFF is navigating a mother who is deep into her Alzheimer’s long goodbye, and although she’s maintaining a stiff lip and a brave face, I can feel her sadness all the way from the Great Northwest. 

I’ve felt wonky for the past few months which led to me seeing a cardiologist about an arrhythmia caused by a jacked-up thyroid. As somebody who usually runs circles around the holidays, this “health situation” had made me feel anxious, vulnerable, and introspective. The old adage, “If you don’t have your health, you have nothing”, has turned from a blah, blah, blah thing that old people say—to the god’s honest truth.

So, in a nutshell, I’ve really had nothing funny or uplifting to say. (As a sidenote it must be said that if I lose my sense of humor, it’s time to take me to the doctor.)

Then, the other day, I came across this picture on Liz Gilbert’s social media and it gutted me. This is her first holiday season without her beloved Raya, and it shows her seeking solace in the lap of her friend Martha Beck.  I stared at it for a long time, crying the ugly cry because, number one—I’d been holding onto a lot of fear around my health and it felt good to let it all out, and number two—when I saw it, it reminded me of pretty much everyone I know right now, including, perhaps, The Statue of Liberty. It reminds me of exhausted surrender. A place I initially have a hard time finding–but know well.

Then, on Wednesday, Liz wrote this and I wanted to share it with you.

THIS I can do. I can hold the hearts who are hurting in my heart ( just as long as y’all don’t mind a bumpy ride!) You are not alone. You are not misunderstood. We can do this.

Let’s all hold each other hearts. We’ll know when it’s safe to let go. We’re gonna be alright.

I love you.
Carry on,
xox

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving after the death of a loved one.

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving after a divorce.

Holding your heart in my heart if you can’t be with your family this year.

Holding your heart in my heart if you are estranged from your family.

Holding your heart in my heart if you have a family member serving in the military, or if you yourself are serving.

Holding your heart in my heart if you have to work today.

Holding your heart in my heart if you a missing a loved one at your table today because of addiction or mental illness or sickness or anger.

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving in sobriety.

Holding your heart in my heart if you struggle with food, and you feel like nobody understands.

Holding your heart in my heart if family holidays bring up nothing but memories of suffering for you.

Holding your heart in my heart if you are alone, or if you are just feeling alone in the crowd.

Holding your heart in my heart today, all day long. Holidays aren’t always easy. But you are loved. Please know that you are loved.

Unclench your fist and lay your hand on your heart. It’s all gonna be alright.

We love you.
❤️LG

Hey guys,
I get texts and emails all year around requesting this post which is consistently in the top five most viewed every year.  “Re-post the one about your husband stealing Thanksgiving from your mom!” They’ll write. Or, “What is the name of that one about your husband and his disrespect for the turkey?” 

But mostly they request his recipe for the leek bread pudding (Which, unfortunately,  I am not at liberty to reveal since that recipe resides in his head and that is a neighborhood too dangerous for me to visit!)

Anyhow, I like to wait for the appropriate time of year‚ which is now, to lovingly harass the big guy.  So, take a look. If you know him you’re going to smile and if you don’t, well, I think you’ll want to.

Here’s to the big French guy who stole my heart — and then hijacked my favorite meal!
Cheers!

PS. REAL men always use pink rubber oven mitts! 

Carry on & Happy Thanksgiving!
xox

JB

It happened over several years, with the subtle finesse we’ve come to expect from the French.

He entered our family just under fifteen years ago.
He is a gourmand extraordinaire and an accomplished cook in his own right; but he ingratiated himself in the beginning, acting as the sous chef for my mother who is the culinary queen of our family—then slowly, skillfully, and sneakily—He hijacked Thanksgiving.

The only demand he acquiesces to is that it must be an ORGANIC turkey.
“No antibiotics, no hormones…no taste” he sing-songs sarcastically under his breath as he places the order every year.

I suppose we should be grateful that he hasn’t decided to switch fowl on us yet. Next year it could be pheasant or duck in the center of the table.

See, that’s the thing, we, my siblings and I, we LOVE and crave all year ‘round, my mom’s traditional Thanksgiving feast. The one we ate as kids. The meal whose perfection is so sublime it should never be messed with. EVER.

Yet…the now reigning chef in our holiday kitchen—the one with the red passport—HE  little by little, year after year, has modified each dish so completely that it bears little if any, resemblance to the original.

And my mom doesn’t give a hoot!
She’s just so thrilled that someone has taken over the culinary heavy lifting; along with the fact that I finally found a husband—and he’s French—that she sits back and happily eats what she is served; doling out the compliments like Tic-Tacs at a cigar shop.

Benedict Arnold.

This European guy feels no sense of urgency—he doesn’t start the turkey until late morning.

I remember waking up as a child, the entire house already heavy scented with the aroma of a turkey that had been in the oven for hours. Now I sit and watch the Thanksgiving parade, eyeing him suspiciously as he lingers over his coffee and Sudoku.

You can’t rush the French—about anything, most especially cooking—it shows disrespect and they just won’t stand for it.

And yet…he shows the old hen no respect. He’s rude to her, slathering her with butter and olive oil and then flinging her, breast down, legs in the air (the turkey, not my mother) into a 500-degree oven for the first twenty minutes.

His mashed potatoes are loaded with creme Fraiche, truffle salt, and a pound of butter…yet oddly enough—not a single calorie. Oh, the French.

His vegetable of choice is the brussel sprout. The recipe is so elaborate, with shredded bacon and Gruyère in a balsamic reduction; that he’s only allowed to make them every other year.

That allows us to have the green beans in mushroom soup with the dried onion rings on top for the alternating years. He would never deign to eat that slop. We, on the other hand, squeal with delight in gleeful anticipation of this mushy mess of soupy goodness while his face assumes that pinched look of French disapproval.

Maybe the worst atrocity against the holiday is the stuffing; or lack thereof. He was raised in France. They don’t know from stuffing. They have bread pudding.

This year he is repeating the mushroom and leek bread pudding that he served last Thanksgiving. It really is delicious, don’t get me wrong, it’s just not my mom’s stuffing and it doesn’t go well with gravy – if you can imagine that.

As long as we’re talking gravy. His gravy is ridiculously smooth and savory, I’ll hand him that. No one can figure out how he does it and I still haven’t caught him in the act of making it. I’m convinced it is delivered by Trappist monks to the back door just before we sit down.

Yams and sweet potatoes are not his things either so he’s given us the okay to make my mom’s killer Sweet Potato Casserole. It is heart-stoppingly delicious. La petite mort— it is THAT good.

“Fire is a double edged sword. It can give us warmth and cook our food, but it can also burn us.”

I have  a complicated relationship with fire and by that I mean I love it. Maybe a little too much. 

Since I was born an Aries, which is a fire sign, that really shouldn’t come as any surprise, but recently— like this week—our relationship had been tested. I have to admit that it’s strained and like any other relationship that is fraught with turmoil, I guess you could file it under the heading of a love/hate sort of thing.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a thing for fire. From Girl Scout campfires that imprinted me with happy childhood memories tied to the smell of burnt hickory in my hair and gooey, marshmallow-chocolately graham cracker goodness, to warm, cozy, afternoons reading instead of skiing because—why not? 

It has always held me under its spell; a mesmerizing force of nature that can purify or destroy, cleanse or choke with its smoke, and perform its own special brand of alchemy by reducing the solid to ashes. 

As an Aries, I may have been known to maniacally stoke the “Witches” bonfires that my tribe and I gather around whenever we’re together. Under that spell, I stand a little too close, blindly feeding its ravenous flames with twigs and sticks for hours at a time. Oddly impervious to the smoke, my eyes don’t burn, and I feed the flames with the same single-minded love and devotion I usually reserve for truffle almonds and my BFF. 

All I’m saying is, I’m weird you guys. 

By design, I have three fireplaces at my house and I if I had my druthers, or if I lived in Sweden or Buffalo New York, a fire would roar happily 24/7. But I don’t, I live in freaking Southern California so I can only light them MAYBE ten days a year. 

I also have a thing for candles and staring into their flames as a form of meditation. Like I said, I find fire mesmerizing. 

So, you can imagine my conflicted confusion when giant wildfires broke out in California on Thursday. I sat glued to the news reports, staring at the flames, but this time it wasn’t due to my fascination with all things hot and fiery—it was because one of them was a little too close to home. It was licking at the doorstep of a neighborhood I know well. My sister’s to be exact. It was threatening the warm and homey haven where she’s raised her kids. We’ve held family Christmas festivities there every year for as long as I can remember. She’s hosted birthday barbecues, post funeral gatherings, anniversary parties, and taco night. And it was where we all gathered and sat in a stupor the day after our dad died. 

It’s our family “go to” hang out.

And to add a bit of insult to injury—after fifteen years she just remodeled her kitchen, and it’s so beautiful it would make Martha Stewart weep with envy.

But let’s get real here. My heart aches as I write this. These fires have been relentless in their destruction. Animals were killed and people have died. And THAT is unforgivable.

I have come to the realization that fire is a dangerous obsession. It shows up without knocking, sucks all the oxygen out of the room, and it can burn you and the things you love to ash in an instant. I suppose I knew that on a subconscious level but now that I’ve witnessed its handiwork up close, this has become very personal to me. 

In the end my sister’s home was saved. Thank God for all of the extraordinarily courageous fire fighters. They are a very special breed of human being. They are the ones who run toward the flames as we run away and I cannot stress our gratitude strongly enough.

I remember hearing once that most firefighters also have a real fascination with fire. They too are mesmerized by its mysterious flames; its amber glow. But they’ve also borne witness to the destructive nature of this untamed beast. Its impulsivity, and unpredictability. The lives it takes so indiscriminately. The forests, homes and businesses it devours without rhyme or reason. The lives it takes. The lives it ruins.

So, their fascination is tempered by a healthy respect. 

Not me. I feel burned.  I feel sick for all of the people who have lost so much. I’m pissed. This feels personal. Maybe I’ll get there. Just not there yet.

Please, if you get a second, send California some love. We could use it. And if you have a fire story, feel free to share it here. Believe it or not it helps to vent.

Carry on,
xox

“Are you waking up feeling overwhelmed, anxious, and insecure for no apparent reason?
A nagging knot in your gut, a panicked feeling rushing upside you, an unpleasant heat flushing your cheeks?
Yeah, well, you’re not alone.

The period from October 31-December 31 is the darkest time of the year, when the veil between Earth and the Spirit World is at its thinnest…

Forcing you to confront what your soul truly needs to thrive as we close out the year.

It’s a beautiful and natural process in our evolutionary spiral upwards. 

We’ve been sitting in this shadowy energy for a week and while it may feel a bit intense and uncomfortable now…

Just. You. Wait.”*

OR, or…

Is your Apple iwatch, with all of it’s good intentions disguised as motivational “nudges” feeling more like a relentless bully— or your mother? Here’s what I mean.

Breathe. (Uh, I am. I least I thought I was. I am watching Black Mirror so maybe I forgot.)

Time to stand Up. (I’m pooping, so no. And I’ve noticed your timing is a bit sinister. Do you have a hidden camera that I don’t know about?)

But my all-time favorite is: Close Your Rings. (I don’t know who set my rings, but if I find that sadistic triathelete—I will hide their spin-bike shoes and force-feed them carbs.

You’re usually further along by now. (I know! But today I’m sitting on a plane. I have a leg cramp, the guy next to me is Ebola patient zero, and I have to pee but my husband, who is seated next to me on the aisle, just fell asleep. But hey, thanks for the reminder—asshat.)

Keep it going. You did better yesterday. (Really? I did a lot of things better yesterday. Yesterday I made a pot roast, booked a mammogram, and shaved my legs. Yesterday will go down in the record books as a banner day. Not all days are as stellar as yesterday and life is full of disappointments so, back off—or I will cut you.)

Janet, you’re so close. A brisk 16 minute walk should do it. (Okay. I hiked 3.5 miles this morning. Up hill. With the dog. You can just kiss my ass you judgy fuck—no brisk walking will be happening for the rest of the day. Get over it. And don’t call me Janet like we’re friends or something.)

I know I seem testy but these motivational reminders are relentless. And irritating as hell, reminding me several times an hour what a dismal failure I am at standing, moving, even breathing!

I don’t know how you guys feel but I cannot express my feelings strongly enough.

You’re a damn watch! Mind. Your. Own. Business.
Nobody wants your special brand of “motivation”. And if you can’t say anything nice, how about if you don’t say anything at all!

Oh, and maybe for the next two months, you know, during these darkest of dark times, with the air already thick with anxiety, we should all ditch our iwatches—at least until we feel emotionally strong enough to fight back. 

Carry on,
xox

*From https://numerologist.com

“Who would be stupid enough to think that there’s such a thing as a pure race.”

SO important. Today more than most.

An Open World Begins With An Open Mind

Carry on,
xox

Today, while going through some old posts, I was reminded of this 2015 chant for peace—and the most beautiful Buddhist meditation/prayer for fear.

It is recited by Colleen Saidman Yee at the end of her yoga classes.
I just love it and I thought you would too.

Here are her words.

“It goes something like this: Sit down and notice where you hold your fear in your body.
Notice where it feels hard, and sit with it. In the middle of hardness is anger.

Go to the center of anger and you’ll usually come to sadness.
Stay with sadness until it turns to vulnerability.

Keep sitting with what comes up; the deeper you dig, the more tender you become.
Raw fear can open into the wide expanse of genuineness, compassion, gratitude, and expectancy in the present moment.

A tender heart appears naturally when you are able to stay present.

From your heart, you can see the true pigment of the sky. You can see the vibrant yellow of a sunflower and the deep blue of your daughter’s eyes.

A tender heart doesn’t block out rain clouds, or tears, or dying sunflowers.
Allow beauty and sadness to touch you.
This is love, not fear.”

Isn’t that beautiful you guys?
Happy weekend,
xox

Colleen’s new book:
Yoga for Life
A Journey to Inner Peace and Freedom

http://books.simonandschuster.com/Yoga-for-Life/Colleen-Saidman-Yee/9781476776781

https://youtu.be/g-jlQaYKN9M

This is a clip from the movie First Man which chronicles the life of astronaut Neil Armstrong in the years before he becomes the first man to walk on the moon. I saw it this weekend and this is one of the scenes that stuck with me because this is how I felt Saturday morning.

Spinning. Wildly. Uncontrollably. Completely untethered.

That’s a thing for me. I hate feeling out-of-control. And I hate it even more when the world feels like it’s lost its mooring.

Another mass shooting. An antisemitic hate crime. After a week of pipe-bomb mailings. When will it end?

All of my teachers and just about every spiritual book out there drives home the fact that “We cannot control the uncontrollable. We can only control our response.” Well, I want to go on record as saying that seems like the suckiest of all arrangements—and I’d like to speak to the manager.

If you’re too squeamish to watch the clip (and I don’t blame you) here’s what happens. It’s the 60’s. The infancy of our burgeoning space program. Gemini 8 is practicing docking with another vehicle in space. This is the dry-run these guys need to be able to leave the command module while it orbits the moon, go down to the surface, run around and gather rocks, and then re-dock with it and come back to earth. Piece of cake, right?

All goes well—until it doesn’t. You have to remember, all of this is unprecedented. It’s never been seen or done before.
Unprecedented. I know that word gets overused these days but I’m being deliberate when I use it here. Because when we’re observing things at a level we’ve never seen before—it feels pretty freaking out-of-control.

Okay, so our heroes have docked, and unexpectedly, the whole thing starts to spin. Like a carnival ride gone ape-shit. The revolutions (over 250 per minute) make it next to impossible to problem solve, let alone stay conscious.
And that’s the key.
Caught in this runaway spin cycle, these men have to maintain consciousness (through training and breathing) in order to gain control of an uncontrollable situation.

And that’s when it hit me!

Wait. Just. A. Minute. Here. (Insert foehead slap) I may be able to stop my own spinning! I have the training! I know about the breath and how it can calm down the “fight, flight or freeze” reaction my body has when everything seems out of control. The part I struggle with is staying conscious. And by conscious, I mean awake. Present. In the moment.

Just like those astronauts, a part of me wants to close my eyes and go to sleep. To slip away.

I want NASA, or Glennon Doyle, or somebody else much smarter than me to figure this shit out. I’m too busy spinning to be of any help, right? But I can’t, WE can’t lose consciousness. Not right now, it’s too important to stay awake. To breathe and remember our training.

We may not be able to stop the spin entirely, but we can’t slow it down at all—not if we go to sleep.

We can do hard things you guys. We trained for this. Let’s stay awake.

Carry on,
xox

I’m someone who likes transitions. At least I like to acknowledge that they exist. 
Beginnings, endings, even milestones.

Like a big birthday. Or that launch, manuscript, or presentation that finally finds its way from your imagination—into the “real” world. 

Those things are important. 
I think attention must be paid.
A glass of wine or some pink champagne perhaps?
We can probably all agree on that, right? 
Hell, you’re probably toasting that idea right now!

But what about the less exciting transitions? The ones that are more mundane? Not sexy at all?
Like, let’s say, returning from a vacation?

Do you give yourself a few days to rejoin the rat race, or are you more like me, committed to “hitting the ground running”?

I suppose the problem lies in the fact that I think I’m brilliant at cutting myself some slack. 

I might take a nap to circumvent all the bad decisions I’m about to make and blame on the jet lag. 
I may wait a day to get out of my pajamas. 
I may even leave the enormous pile of mail that is taunting me, unsorted (gasp) and unread (snort).

That’s just an ordinary act of self-care, right? Because, I mean that mail will do its best to kill me the first day back. Bills are staggered throughout the month for a reason. They are NOT meant to be handled all at once. That ‘s just cruel and inhumane.

Anyway, I may do all of those things—but I still feel like shit. Not only because I’ve had wine for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the past week, but because the fucking guilt is eating away at me.

Is it really beyond me to cut myself a break and give myself the “soft landing” I deserve?
Apparently.

It’s a character flaw I must come to terms with. Something, that when corrected I can only assume will add to my quality of life. But it’s gonna be uncomfortable, I’m not gonna lie. 

Turns out I do this to my post-surgical self too.

I went to a Oprah event with my sister (a commitment I made months in advance) three days after I said adios to my uterus. There may have been a ton of eye-rolling while I argued my case while everyone in my circle advised me not to go.
“What else am I gonna do all day, sit around? I declared. “I may as well sit in the same air that Oprah is breathing. It probably has healing properties!” (I know, strong argument.) 

So, against everybody’s better judgement, I showered, did my hair and make-up, ignored the flop-sweat, pushed through the mind-numbing fatigue, gathered up whatever stamina reserves I had left, and schlepped my carved-up nether region to a full day of events at Royce Hall.

Then I died. Well, not really but it sure felt like it. And although I also felt like real a boss, pushing myself to get out and do that, it was not helpful to my recovery. And it left me no other choice than to land softly the following ten days.

So, why am I so resistant to “soft landings”?
I have no idea. I wish I did.

Maybe it was the way I was raised?
Past perfectionisty issues raising their ugly heads?
The fact that “things gotta get done and who else is gonna do ‘um?”

You know what I DO know for sure? I’m not alone in this affliction.
I was just chastising my BFF for not taking the time to let one thing end before she dove into the next. I think I may have even used the term “soft landing”. 

“Take some time for yourself to process things”, I said. “You need to rest and recover.”

Geez. Take much of your own advice, do ya?

Daylight savings time is ending soon and that always kicks my ass. I think I’ll take a nap.

Carry on,
xox

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We just returned from a week in Paris and my brain is addled from jet lag and partaking in too much rich food because, Paris. It feels like if churros and beignets had a baby—and then covered it in Nutella. Yeah, like that. So…

1. Plaid does not exist as a wardrobe staple outside of the US. Well, except for Scotland and kilts of course, but I’ve always considered them to be a centuries-long practical joke gone awry.

2. Whatever shoes you pack— they’re wrong. And since sneakers are like wearing a Kick me, I’m the worst kind of tourist sign on your feet, you will never be comfortable. The women there have it all figured out. Me? Not so much. Mine are either too fancy or not fancy enough — too pointy, too dated, too blistery, or too…what is the word I’m looking for here…slutty, to be taken seriously or worn with any confidence outside the U.S.

3. Whatever shoes you finally DO decide to wear will be eaten alive by the cobblestones and the street grates. Europe is a death camp for shoes. One pair of mine didn’t make it out alive—and the rest have PTSD.

4. Their local “Pharmacies” are equivalent to the best Sephora you could ever imagine! Like the flagship store in Manhattan, only it’s been condensed down into a space the size of a broom closet. Besides that, when you’re walking around they’re every few feet, like a Seven/Eleven, and the flashing neon green cross has hypnotic qualities, I swear to god. It lures me in with the promise of blister guards and laxatives, and the next thing I know I’ve spent 150 euro on some French eye cream that promises me that I will have hot-monkey-sex every night if I apply it regularly—to my eyes—let’s be clear. At least that’s what I THINK the small print says. Nevertheless, I fall for it every time.

5. The toilet paper is atrocious. It is ridiculously thin and so rough you can file down a chipped nail or take some home and use it to sand down that one bad spot on the corner of the dining room table that keeps snagging your sweaters. And don’t get me started on the size of the beds.

6. Oh, hello, as it turns out, I’m lactose intolerant in Europe. I’m just one gelato away from spending the night in the bathroom. Which comes in handy because without it—I don’t poop in Europe. It’s like the food is so clean my body doesn’t produce any waste… right, anyway, I’m as regular as rain in the States so this always surprises me…in a bloaty kind of way.

7. There is no such thing as a cold drink. Or ice. But I’ve never stopped asking! I keep waiting for our obsession with tall, cold drinks to catch on, but alas, water, wine, even beer is served at room temperature and you had better get used to it ‘cause it ain’t changin’ anytime soon.

8. The sun is wonky. In the summer it stays up waaaayy past my bedtime, and it’s pitch-dark until almost 9am in the winter. It’s fucked up! Which leads me to…

9. I never pay one lick of attention to my circadian rhythm. Ever. I live in the perpetual light-box that is LA, so mine stays regulated all-year-round. But between the weird hours of daylight, the nine-hour time difference, and the mutant jet lag—my circadian ain’t got no rhythm. It’s like the fifth Pip, the one who couldn’t dance; and no amount of sunlight, exercise, sleep, or wildly expensive, overpromising eye cream can make it better. It just takes time.

10. Speaking of time—that place is old. I mean really, really, old. The stone is ancient and worn smooth. The wood is cracked and bent like my feet, and if the walls could talk they’d tell the tales of a thousand other starry-eyed visitors who walked the streets, drank the wine, cavorted, laughed, and ate more cheese than any human has the right to eat— and they loved. You can’t help but fall in love with Europe. There’s just something about it. It might be the color of the light or the air…I think it’s in the water.

Carry on,

xox