writer

“Youth is wasted on the young” ~ George Bernard Shaw

I was just thinking about that today.
About youth and aging.
About perky tits and chicken neck waddle.
About going from looking in the mirror and worrying if you have enough concealer to hide the zits, to being completely helpless without the assistance of a supersonic magnifying mirror made by NASA to apply anything besides Chapstick.

By the way, what happened to my lips?

Every morning I send out a search party to find my upper lip.  It disappeared around five years ago, and I miss it.  If you see it out on the town, wearing a wildly undefined coat of Chanel red lipstick, please tell it I’m looking for it and to come home.

What I was really pondering, was my ability as a young woman, to fluctuate between being utterly fearless, to riddled with insecurity, indecision and doubt.

It was quite a swing, the speedball of emotional cocktails – and I know I’m not the only one.  You can’t hide.  I can sense you there.

Things that used to terrify me, sending me into a cold sweat, have now become second nature. And vice versa.

These days I have no problem letting someone know if they’re out of line. I have mastered the art of confrontation (which when done well, really is an art) to the point where it doesn’t even feel like a disagreement and often we all end up laughing, hugging, singing Kumbaya, and taking a selfie.

I also spontaneously hug people – in public.  Complete strangers. It can be triggered by the most random of things, a great haircut, a cool tattoo, an interesting laugh, what they’re eating, a cute dog or if I happen to see them crying.

As a younger woman I would have rather died, run over by a clown car full of disapproving authority figures.

Back then what I lacked in depth, I made up for in reckless abandon.
I was born with very little modesty.  I’d show my boobs to anyone who’d ask ( yes there were requests), pee without closing the door, and walk across a beach or crowded pool party in a bikini without a cover up.

I know! I was oblivious. There are pictures.

Now just recalling that makes me sick to my stomach.

I’d also sing at the drop of a hat.  At the top of my lungs.  That is until I turned thirty and developed crippling stage fright, which only released its grip on me after fifty when I no longer gave a fuck.

I care less and less about making a fool of myself, which is one of the HUGE benefits of getting older. I cannot overstate that.

 If only I’d felt that way back then. I’d be Lady Gaga by now.

As I established earlier this month, the older I get, the less fucks I give.  I have a limited amount left and I don’t want to waste one.
I’m a Nazi about only spending time with the people I want to see, doing the things I want to do.
I no longer give a fuck about chipped nail polish, carrying the “right bag”, who the latest, greatest anything/anyone is, how big your diamond is, how much grey hair I have, the ebb and flow of the stock market, keeping up with the Kardashians, or who wore it better.
I have bigger fish to fry.

All I give a fuck about is my health, my family, my husband and what my dogs think of me.

A friend complained to me recently, ” Oh God, I don’t need any more friends, I have forty years worth, and I don’t see enough of the ones I have!”

Not me! It seems I make new friends faster and more easily as I’ve gotten older.

Either people have become less discerning, or I’ve suddenly become much more interesting and engaging. (I’m not sure which one bodes better for me.)
Maybe it’s true that like a fine wine, I have improved with age. The jury’s still out, but what I DO know is that I’ve become infinitely more approachable.
And curious.   

I was so busy being self-involved when I was young, ( if it had been an Olympic sport, I would have medaled), that I really didn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone else.  I also thought I knew it all.  Now I’m certain of ONE thing only:  I don’t know shit about shit.

Here’s the thing,  other people seem SO frickin’ interesting to me. Everyone’s doing something fabulous that I need to hear about right now! Their lives are complex, multi-faceted nuggets of wonder and goodness. When did that happen?

In my opinion, youth is wasted on the young because of their lack of appreciation. Also, because in not knowing any better, too many fucks are wasted on frivolous shit that doesn’t matter a day, let alone a year or ten years later.

And by the fact that in the moment – being young seems like it will last forever.   Doesn’t it?

Curious to hear what you think.
Big love,
Xox

Goddamn, I love rituals. Beginnings and endings. Marking time. Rites of passage.

I figure that love seeped into my DNA after sitting in a smokey Catholic church inhaling Frankincense for pretty much my entire youth (it may also explain a ton of other crazy attributes I’d rather not go into).
What it DOES explain is my obsession with incense, focused prayer, incantations, and human sacrifice. Well, that and the fact that I’m certain I had a past life as some kind of mystical druid sorceress taken right out of the pages of Mists Of Avalon.
Or better yet, Merlin.
But more likely the medieval court jester who wore a silly hat, sported pointy shoes with bells and lived under a bridge with the trolls.

Anyhow, I decided to take everything that had to do with my failed business and burn it.
A perfectly legal Ritual Sacrifice. Of paperwork. Paperwork that held power over me.

2015 was the year of dealing with paperwork. I would have rather had a root canal without Novocaine.
I finally found it in me to throw what merchandise remained into an auction and dissolve the corporation which had been insolvent for several years but had retained a kind of sick sentimental place in my heart—like a shitty high-school boyfriend or a threadbare flannel nightgown.

I basically broke up with ATIK. It was time. Actually, it was way past time.

The relationship had become unbalanced. In a nutshell, it had become completely, horribly and totally dysfunctionally one-sided. I was doing all the emotional heavy lifting, holding the history of our love together while Atik went on an extended five-year vacation with a stripper named Trixie, forgetting my name and the fact that we once meant the world to each other.
Oh well, shit happens.

Once the litigation shitastrophy dust had settled I was left with a HUGE satchel that I’d been toting around for years filled with tons and tons of legal fuckery.
It was heavy in all the ways you can imagine and others you cannot. It lived in a shed in the backyard as physically far away from me as sadistic legal paperwork feels comfortable and even though it’s my office— I seldom went back there. I hated that thing.

So I decided to burn the contents as a ritual releasing of the old dragged-behind-a-car energy of 2009-2012 in order to move on.

2016—The Year of Unbearable Lightness. Burn that shit and get on with it!

So I did.

I had to let it go. Stop life-support. Kill it. Put us both out of our misery.

Time of death of Atik Inc. 12 p.m. December 26, 2015.

After quickly going through the toxic waste of debauchery to make sure I wasn’t, in my haste to dance naked in the flames, torching something important, I started the gas in my fireplace, set my intention “DO NOT EVER Darken My doorstep with your toxic bullshit AGAIN!” (I cleaned that up. It was much worse than that).

And then I said thank you to the worst thing that has EVER happened to me for all of the valuable insights and gifts it has delivered. I really did you guys but it’s taken me six years to get there.

Then I squealed with unabashed joy as I watched it go up in smoke. All of it.

My husband came in from outside and said the smoke smelled really bad. Oh, I bet it did.

That paperwork held so much sadness and failure and hopes dashed. It was filled with terse language and mean words. Horrible words. Words that cut me to the core. Words that human beings should never say to each other. Mad words. Words filled with rage wrapped in legalese.

I’m surprised the smoke didn’t get all Voldemort and come back inside the house and strangle me. I’m telling you, that was a satchel full of failure and it wanted to finish me.

But, I have already risen from the ashes—I am FREE.

I may have a had a little help with my pyro-ritual. There may have been a fellow recovering broken-hearted soul who was throwing his/her “annus horribilis” into the fire right beside me.

So now WE are free.

I cannot recommend this ritual highly enough.
Please, please consider doing this with anything toxic from your past. You don’t need a fireplace! I did it many years ago to free myself from a relationship whose grip I could not escape. I just put a large metal pot in the kitchen sink and lit a match burning all the old photos and letters. Many years later I did it again in my backyard on a rainy night (you may remember that post).
http://www.theobserversvoice.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=1877&action=edit

Fire is healing.
Smoke is healing.
Endings are healing.
Rituals are healing.
Starting a new year feeling lighter is healing AND freeing.

And I’ve come to realize I’m a bit of a pyromaniac.

Love you all & Carry on,
xox

Ruby supervises the process about half-way through.

~AN ALL AROUND FAN FAVORITE~(Notice how I’m not saying REPRISE)

*Hi You guys,
You may have already seen this, its been around for a couple of years, but it’s new to me. It’s right up my/our alley. Thought provoking musings about life, death and God—with a dash of humor.
As always, take what you like and leave the rest. Oh, and tell me what you think.
Oh, oh, and read Andy’s novel The Martian. I finished it in two days.
I guess that’s it.
Carry on,
xox

You were on your way home when you died.

It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.

And that’s when you met me.

“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”
“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.
“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”
“Yup,” I said.
“I… I died?”
“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.

You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me.
“What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”
“More or less,” I said.
“Are you god?” You asked.
“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”
“My kids… my wife,” you said.
“What about them?”
“Will they be all right?”
“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”

You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God.
I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe.
More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”

“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”
“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”
“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”
“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.” You followed along as we strode through the void.

“Where are we going?”
“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”
“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”

“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”

I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are.

It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.
“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”

“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”
“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”
“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”
“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”
“Where you come from?” You said.
“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”
“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”
“So what’s the point of it all?”

“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”

“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.
I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”
“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”
“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.” “Just me? What about everyone else?”
“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”

You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”
“All you. Different incarnations of you.”

“Wait. I’m everyone!?”
“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back. “I’m every human being who ever lived?”
“Or who will ever live, yes.”
“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”
“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.
“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.
“And you’re the millions he killed.”
“I’m Jesus?”
“And you’re everyone who followed him.”
You fell silent.

“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”

You thought for a long time.
“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”
“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”
“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”
“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”
“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”
“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”
And I sent you on your way.

A short film Adaptation:

*This is a…wait for it…a reprise from a thousand years ago. And in this moment, it feels apropos.

I’m reticent (translate to too chicken) to put REPRISE in the title anymore. I’ve been informed that most of you (at least the vocal majority), hate reprises. “I don’t want to re-read things I’ve already read” my brother snarked at me this week. “I mean I get that you might need a break every now and then, but breaks are for lightweights”.
Shit. That’s harsh. Tough crowd.
He doesn’t like it when I ask questions at the end either. “Okay, now you guys weigh in—what do YOU think” he sneers in a sarcastic tone that has me snort laughing my coffee and flipping him off at the same time. “It’s YOUR blog, YOU’RE giving the advice. YOU tell us what we should think!”
So, please excuse me while I chase him around the kitchen flicking him with a wet dish towel and then give him an atomic wedgie.
I’m giving the rest of  y’all a hug right now with a warm blanket made of bacon.
Mmmmmmmmmm…
carry on,
xox

On those days when you’re finding fault with EVERYTHING— the sky isn’t the right Tiffany Box shade of blue and the air conditioning is blowing too cold—how do you get yourself out of it? (hee hee, he’s seething right now).
Do you, at some point realize your ridiculousness and slap yourself across the face to snap out of it?
Or do you marinate in the fact that you’re so contrary that if George Clooney sat down beside you you’d tell him he needed a haircut and an Altoid?

I know you know when you’re being an ass – because I know it when I am.

We wake up every day and there are two sides of the bed on which to get up.
The sunny side or the dark side; the right side or the wrong side.

The question I’m asking is this: if, by some cruel twist of circumstances and hormones you put your feet on the floor when you wake up in the land of EVERYTHING’S WRONG, do you indulge and make those around you miserable, or do you do your damnedest to climb out? ( I really wanna know!)

I’ve done both. I DO both. Guilty as charged in the court of Nit & Pick.

These dark days do not come naturally to me, but when I’m under their spell – watch out – and know that I DO know what an asshat I’m being, I just can’t help myself right. this. minute.
So sorry.

Not really.

The kitchen looks the same as it did two days ago when I was feeling so grateful but today the bright summer sunshine is lighting up a couple of places that have chipped white paint. Instead of making it look charming and cozy it looks like a family of badgers had a drunken pinata party, then had trouble with the bat, (as badgers do), and turned the place into a badger-shithole.

Along those lines, the wine stains on the wood countertops that were just faded purple reminders of a really fun party last summer, have today, (wrong side of the bed day) become my reason for seriously entertaining throwing a grenade behind me and shutting the door, giving us the opportunity for a fresh start.

You’re welcome Honey, what can I say, I’m a giver.

Don’t tell me I’m acting like an idiot when I am—because that’s like taking a high-pressure hose of lighter fluid and spraying it on a fire.

I KNOW I AM. IM WORKING IT OUT.

But I will deny it….with my dying breath I will tell you I’m “fine.”
I’m sorry if your feelings and our kitchen have become collateral damage. If you want to survive this:
Don’t make eye contact and DON’T try to hug me. I have a fork in my hand.

The best strategy in the past has been to isolate myself for a while. Take a lovely walk outside in nature (I can’t today, with the heat index and the humidity, it feels like The Tropic of Cancer.)

Meditation is a good way to snap back into a loving place along with exercise. Neither of those has worked, so I’m still marinating.

Hormones, I’m blaming hormones.
I remember feeling this out of sorts during puberty, but the Good Lord had the common sense to deal me that hand when I wasn’t old enough to marry, operate heavy machinery or carry a firearm.
Whatever shall I do now? (Calm down Jim, that was rhetorical).

The trick for me is listening to my own words as they spill uncensored from my lips.
If they make even me cringe, I need to make a correction.
I need to shut up and realize I’m acting like an ass.
Is that what you do? (*snort)

Try it.
Just listen to yourself. Step up and out of your body as you berate the waiter or the lady at Ralph’s or your husband.

If every other word is a critique or fuck, chances are you’re having THAT kind of day. Or you’re channeling me.

Sometimes, what I hear myself say is so vile it makes me laugh, which then breaks the spell. Or it makes the recipient so mad they chase me around with a taser and I have to make a break for it AND get some cardio in at the same time which is just a win/win. Two birds—one stone.

If that doesn’t work puh-leeze do everyone, including yourself a favor.
Do what I do. Don’t speak TO ANYONE, go to bed early, and before you go to sleep say a little prayer for a better disposition, less facial hair and a better tomorrow.

Love you anyway,
Xox

* I love finding all these lists of things that are going right in the world (you can find more on The Observer’s Voice Facebook Page), and I love sharing them with YOU even more! Here’s one by the great Pam Grout.
Just when you think humanity had fallen off the deep end, remember that there is so much that is going right with the world‚ sadly, it just doesn’t make the 6 o’clock news.
Happy Holidays my loves!
xox

“What worn-out shticks are blinding you to the blessings that life is conspiring to give you?”–Rob Brezsny

People magazine sent me out to interview a Kansas City Secret Santa who passes out $100 bills. Twice. It was a hoot and a half to join him, to see the expression on people’s faces when he’d peel a couple hundys off his stack and hand them over.

So in the interest of continuing my long-standing journalism career, here are 20 additional reasons to be of good cheer:
1. A mystery woman walked into a Toys R Us in Bellingham, Massachusetts and paid off the entire store’s layaway balance, allowing strapped parents to pick up Christmas gifts for their kids.

1. Gas prices have dropped below $2 just in time for holiday visits to family.

2. The gorgeous beaches of Cuba have reopened to vacationing Americans.

3. Oakland Raider’s tackle Menelik Watson donated a week of his salary ($37,000) to Ava Urrea, a four-year-old girl who has had 14 heart surgeries.

4. Natalie DuBose, whose Ferguson, Missouri bakery was vandalized last year during protests, received more than $250,000 in donations from total strangers.

5. The curve is bending on new cases of HIV. More people are being treated than becoming infected.

6. Enough said. This note was left on a car in Edmonton, Canada.
   

7. Gay marriage is now legal in the United States.

8. An Ohio high school student took his 89-year-old great-grandmother to prom because she’d never been.

9. A cop in Montreal has been stopping drivers and, instead of passing out tickets, is passing out $100 bills.

10. Global life expectancy has risen by six years since 1990.

11. Nearly 200 countries signed a bill to reduce the use of foreign fossil fuels.

12. A Dallas woman has donated more than 15,0000 house cleanings for people going through chemo.

13. A 12-year-old from San Jose, California, built a Braille printer (it’s called a BRAIGO) out of LEGO Mindstorms (it’s the souped up version) that lowers the going $2000 price to an affordable $350. He even offers open source plans online for free.

14. A police captain in Omaha, Nebraska organized a Valentine’s card campaign for her sergeant who remarked that he’d never received a Valentine’s card as a kid. He got hundreds from people all over the country.

15. A former professional ballet dancer developed a dancing wheelchair so all of us can dance.

16. Michelle Obama has volunteered the last five years to take calls for NORAD’s Santa hotline.

17. A New York City software engineer gave coding lessons to a homeless man. He offered him either $100 or two months of coding lessons. After just three and a half months, his homeless protégé developed Trees for Cars, a smartphone app that helps commuters organize carpools.

18. Scientists dated a bristlecone pine tree in California’s White Mountains as the world’s longest-living organism. It’s more than 5000 years old, older than the pyramids.

19. And this video (which I already shared on Facebook)

https://youtu.be/82tAGFRiNC4

And remember, my dear friends, this is the holiday season to do more of what you WANT to do and less of what you think you should.

Pam Grout is the author of 17 books including E-Squared: 9 Do-it-Yourself Energy Experiments that Prove Your Thoughts Create Your Reality and the just-released sequel, E-Cubed, 9 More Experiments that Prove Mirth, Magic, and Merriment is your Full-time Gig.

http://pamgrout.com/2015/12/18/21-reasons-to-be-of-good-cheer/

*Hi Loves,
This is a post from Christmas 2013, but it’s a crowd favorite for the timeless reason that my man never ceases to amaze me with his decency.
Immensely grateful for all of you and your decency and continued loyalty and wishing you and yours the happiest of holidays and a fucking amazing New Year!
xoxJanet

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 an understatement!
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.
I was 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 the sex.

Anyway…
I’m pretty sure I blurted it all out on one of our early dates,
after a glass of wine, half expecting him to excuse himself, saying he was “going to the restroom”, only to discover 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 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 completely ignore me, and practically fall all over themselves, 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?
Nope.
More like the Robin to his Batman.
The Kato to his Green Hornet.
The Heckle to his Jeckle.

Well, not exactly.
He is my teacher.
I am grasshopper.

It just happened for the gazillionth time on Christmas Eve day.

He told me the story 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 to start his shopping.

So…he’s navigating an overcrowded parking lot, and he’s hungry.
You get the picture.

He finally sees a car ready to pull out of its space, so he positions himself, left blinker on, and waits…and waits…while the person sloooooowy backs out. Meanwhile, on the other side of them is a little pickup truck that has the same idea. My husband sees what’s up and aggressively blocks the spot with his black Porsche and then pulls in. (Don’t judge, just because it’s a Porsche and a pickup truck, just don’t)!

As the pickup truck drives off, he makes eye contact and flips my husband the middle finger.

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

He walks in to get a quick burger, and realizes while he’s eating,
that middle finger, pickup truck guy is eating with some friends a few tables over.

So, he gets out a pen and writes a note on a napkin.
He then attached $20 and hands it to the waitress to deliver to the guy…and leaves.

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

As he glanced back, while walking away, he sees the guy showing the note to his buddies and looking around the cafe.

He’s my hero.
He’s my teacher
He really is an Avatar.
It is an honor to be his consort.

Xox

*The gorgeous and gifted actor Peter O’Toole died this week at 81 years young which made me uncommonly sad since I’d never met the man. Then I was reminded of this post I wrote a couple of years ago regarding his wishes for his epitaph. He was uniquely ahead of his time I think. A renegade and a rascal. When reading about his passing, I also came across this quote of his, written in a notebook at the start of his acting career at 18.
“I will not be a common man. I will stir the smooth sands of monotony. I do not crave security. I wish to hazard my soul to opportunity.”

THAT is my kind of man.

In an interview he did in 2007, Peter O’Toole, that beautiful, blue eyed, scalawag actor, was asked the question, “What do you want written on your tombstone”?

He leaned back and told the story of his beloved tattered leather jacket.
He said it was soaked in sweat, covered in blood, Guinness, and cornflakes?!
Which of course made it his favorite.
Eventually, it went to the cleaners.
It came back with a note pinned to it, that all these years later still made him chuckle.
It read:

“It distresses us to return work which is not perfect”

That’s was his answer, and I couldn’t agree more!
Because otherwise, what’s the point!?

When I leave this mortal coil, I want to be “distressed.”
I want to show I’ve lived.
That perhaps it wasn’t a pure and “perfect” life, but dammit! It was a life well lived!

Just like his jacket, I want to be worn in, with the wrinkles and scars to prove it.
I want to be covered in sweat, and dog hair, with smeared lipstick and wine stains.
…Maybe even cornflakes!

I want unpaid parking tickets in the pockets.
Along with a motorcycle key and a wad of foreign currency.

I want the leather to smell like a combination of caramel,tobacco, Shalimar, and coffee,
I want it left on the back of a chair in George Clooney’s suite in a Paris Hotel.

I want to remain perfectly imperfect.

Then I want to be “returned to sender, postage due.”

How about you?
Xox

Christmas toes in Mexico!

I’m in a bathing suit—in December.
The only thing worse for me is being in a bathing suit January-June, July-November.

Remind me again. Why was this a good idea?

Because cellulite looks better tanned. Everybody knows that. Right? I mean, we can all just agree to that, can’t we?

Jiggly, white, bumpy chicken skin OR delicious, golden brown with crispy edges.

I can break everything down to a food analogy. It’s a gift.
And it helps you to understand how I think.

Remember that trip we cancelled back in September?
Well, we decided instead to run to Mexico and as luck would have it we have the resort to ourselves this week-before-the-week-before Christmas. The over-attentive staff are enjoying their calm before the storm (the place is sold out the rest of the year and into January), following us around with cold beers and guacamole, scented oils and homemade warm tortillas.

It makes me smile and squirm all at the same time.

Oh yeah, I could get used to this. And a bit of deja vu.

Ancient memory: For one week in my late twenties I had the good fortune to be taken to one of the all-time grand luxury hotels in the South of France, The Hotel Du-Cap-Eden-Roc, where besides exquisite food, surroundings and people watching, each guest is assigned a maid or valet depending on your gender.
I’m serious.

Immediately upon arrival, my assigned young woman unpacked my suitcase (while I stood there dumbfounded), and hung everything on quilted satin hangers. Then she matched each pair of shoes to the outfit (A talent even I don’t possess).

To my amazement, I watched as she meticulously laid out my beat up old Keds on a fancy, monogrammed white hand-towel.
What?
Had it been today I would have posted it on Instagram, the juxtaposition was just that good!

The whole experience of having a servant at your beck and call was surreal.
I had my very own beck and call girl you guys!
At first, I felt uncomfortable. Undeserving. Embarrassed. I was no better than her.

Quickly I became appalled.

This young woman was around my age at the time and it felt odd to have her waiting on me hand and foot.

After she laid out all of my mismatched, shabbily cared for make-up on the vanity and practically brushed my hair for me, I became indignant with my then boyfriend. The one who was picking up the enormous tab.

It was then that he set me straight.

“This is a career for her and a damn good one,” his tone suggested he was getting annoyed with me. “It’s not like in the States, she’s not waiting to sell a screenplay. She chose to work here. There is a waiting list to work here. They are heavy vetted and they only accept the cream of the crop. The best of the best.”

Now he was on a roll. “You’re the one with the attitude. You’re the one looking down on HER.”
Ouch.

As it turns out her entire family worked at the hotel. Her father poured drinks at the giant mahogany bar downstairs, her mother assisted the chef in the kitchen. It was their family business so to speak and she was very proud of that.

So I got into it, appreciating every tiny gesture. Reveling in her joy. Becoming friends.
She thought my American accent was really cool. I loved the way she called me Mademoiselle Janet.

She ran my bath. She brought me earl grey tea at 5 p.m. She laid out my clothes every morning.

Late one night she found me extra tampons which she delivered to me ever so discreetly, knocking softly on the door, averting her eyes and pulling them out of her pale pink uniform pocket tied with a blue satin ribbon. I kid you not.

When we left and I went back to real life—I missed her.
I missed her sweet smile, her heavily accented English, and how much she enjoyed her job. Oh, and the tampons with the blue stain ribbon. I desperately missed those.

So now back to Mexico and the same lesson was repeating itself all over again. I get squirmy when people are over-attentive. I shoo them away. I reek of embarrassment.

Raphael told me this story once about a riding trip he took to South Africa and how indignant he became after witnessing all the locals throw their trash on the ground.
Just like that. Drink water, throw the bottle on the ground. Eat a…something South African, throw the wrapper on the sidewalk.
After awhile his entire party started to do it. He was appalled, doling out the dirty looks like Tic-Tacs, running around picking up all the yucky shit off the ground until one of their guides informed him that the local government pays someone VERY WELL to do that very thing. So as it turns out, what appeared to be jerkishly-selfish littering was just the townspeople keeping some guy gainfully employeed—or he was being punked—I’m still not sure.

This same husband is fluent in “Mexican”, (he balks when I say Spanish so I’ll indulge him here and go along with the charade).
Anyhow, he was chatting it up with Pearla in the gift shop as he browsed for a better hat with a wider brim to protect his delicate French skin from the sun.

“She LOVES it here,” he informed me, translating their lively conversation. “She braved three interviews and waited several years to work here and when she left the other resort–they congratulated her! You know, they give her health insurance and many other benefits she can’t get anywhere else. She’s thrilled to be here. They all are.”

And you can tell.

For cryin’ out loud!
It is still and always will be MY attitude and misperceptions that get me in trouble.
They aren’t pretending I’m better than them—it’s their job to be nice!

Forever a work in progress y’all.

What do you think?

Carry on,
xox

SERIOUS F-BOMB ALERT!

On Sunday my friend Kim and I were sharing a Nutella sundae in a beautiful park in Beverly Hills and at one point she looked over at the obvious joy on my face (which went well with my vanilla gelato mustache) and asked me “If you could be any place in the world right now, where, and with whom would that be?“

“Right here, right now” was my answer and I was serious.

My go to happiness answer is always Italy — anywhere in Italy. A basement in the Vatican, some dark alley, it doesn’t matter — Italy always wins. But that day it kinda felt like Italy, what with the good company, the great weather, and the perfect Nutella gelato and all.

“Your joy ceiling is set pretty high” she said with a smile full of conviction.

I nodded emphatically, not sure what the fuck she was talking about as I scarfed all the pools of Nutella while she explained.

She proceeded to tell me about this video which explained the joy ceiling, and the fact that Jesus wept his was so low. (Don’t get your panties in a bunch, it’s a joke…or is it?)

Then she sent it to me. Thanks, Kim!

Take a look — its short, it’s hilarious, and that broad of all broads Ellen Barkin says fuck a lot. What could be better?

Now lemme know what you think about the concept of a personal joy ceiling. I think it’s genius…and accurate.

Okay you guys, where’s your personal joy ceiling? (BTW mine is not always set high, it is VERY conditional, there has to be hazelnut and chocolate and gelato involved).  

Enjoy and carry on,
xox

I was at a meditation the other day at the Self-Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine Temple.
They hold them at noon on Wednesdays and I happen to think they’re lovely. They are led by a different delightful monk who obviously drew the short straw at breakfast that morning. I say that because even though on any given Wednesday there are only between fifteen to thirty people, that is still a room full of men and women looking and listening to you, and that constitutes public speaking.

Public speaking is terrifying. It is the subject of most people’s nightmares. But when it is done well it is an art, and sadly, not one that these monks possess.

That’s okay, they’re monks for god sakes. Trying to teach an ancient form of focused concentration to twenty-first-century human beings is no picnic. There’s no slide presentation or inspirational music. There is not a lick of wit or charisma.

My guess is that if they had those qualities—they may have chosen a different career path.

Nevertheless, this past Wednesday did not disappoint. Our monk was a perfectly nice fellow, and from the sound of his accent, he was born in Germany or somewhere else in Bavaria. At one point in the meditation, just before entering the silent part, he instructed us in the droning tone of his motherland: “Jus bahsk in da peeeezeful praysence of Scott.”

What? Who’s Scott?

My eyes shot open and darted around the room to see if anyone else had heard what I had?

Scott?

His low-toned, semi-melodic droning continued and I heard it again. “Comb baaack to Scott”

Ohhhhhh… God. He’s saying God! It’s his accent that makes it sound like Scott.

Wait, I kinda like that name for God.
I shut my eyes and tried to join the flow, but my mind was reeling.

That name could really work nowadays, you know, from a PR standpoint, and here’s why:

My Three Reasons To Call God Scott—

1) There are so many frickin’ names for the Divine One.
It can be so confusing and extremely politically incorrect. Choose a religion, take your pick. Adonai, Yahweh, Jehovah, The Almighty, the Universe. Scott would tidy things up, unite everybody and keep the zealots from getting all hot under the turban.

2) Scott feels so…current. So…mid 2015. It makes God sound kinda hip; grown-up but accessible. It’s less polarizing than say, Stanley, Keanu or River and friendlier than Zoltar.

3) In the Bible, God instructed the Israelites to avoid using his name (kind of like The Artist Formally Known as Prince), in a useless, disrespectful way. Instead, the Israelites were supposed to revere the name of God and use it in a serious, considerate way. Many of the ancient Israelites were so respectful of the name of God that they would not even pronounce it or write it for fear of using it in vain.
(My first name ain’t baby, It’s Janet, Miss Jackson if you’re nasty). Those who did write it would often throw away the quill they had used because they thought that any quill that had written God’s name was holy and should not be used for regular words.

Taking this to the most absurdly literal place imaginable, Dr. John Hagee, the founder and senior pastor of the Cornerstone Church in San Antonio, Texas, not only agrees with what the Good Book says but also takes the faith to a level of fanaticism.

Asked how the situation could be bettered, Hagee replied: “Well, we’d have to start with ourselves, as with everything in life. If you’re asking about my personal opinion, there is no greater sin in terms of wrongly using God’s name than women who use it during sex. That is one of the filthiest, most derogatory and sinful uses of the Lord’s name I can think of. If it were up to me, I would put every single woman or girl who does that in jail.”

I would bet my house on the fact that Reverend Hagee himself has never heard that word used during sex, but he’s heard that it happens and he wants it stopped. Oh, and by the way, jail is not the place to end that practice. Just sayin’.
So you see, Scott would work beautifully here. All parties would be up to speed when the woman yelled “Oh Scott; go Scott; give it to me Scott!” just before reaching ecstasy. No harm, no foul, nobody’s offended, nobody has to be incarcerated.

Hey, and if the guy’s name was Scott, well, that’s just a synchronistic bonus.

I think you can agree with me, now that I’ve made such a convincing and compelling argument, that we should change God’s name to Scott. So how do we start? Does anyone know who we talk to first?

Carry on,
xox