love

“Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world,
I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport.
General opinion’s starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed,
but I don’t see that.

It seems to me that love is everywhere.

Often, it’s not particularly dignified or newsworthy,
but it’s always there – fathers and sons,
mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends.”
~From the movie LOVE ACTUALLY (One of my holiday favorites!)

Oh, My loves, God only knows what I’d be without YOU!

Carry on and Happy Holidays!
xox

“I have a real conundrum”, was how he answered my standard nightly inquiry which goes something like this:

Me: “How was your day?”
Husband: “It was (fill in the blank).”

Usually, he says “good.” Other times I can tell by his face that I shouldn’t ask. More often than not there’s a story or a funny anecdote that starts a conversation that carries us through dinner.

But never, in the almost seventeen years I’ve asked the question has it been answered this way.

“Wow, really? A conundrum. What happened?”
He hedged.
I don’t like hedging. Hedging makes me anxious.

“I’ll feed the dog,” he volunteered.

When it comes to eating our dog is probably a lot like yours. Since she comprehends any sentence that has the word food or feed or treat in it — the “spinning around the kitchen” phase of the evening begins as she excitedly waits for her dish to be prepared.

“Come on! Tell me what’s up!” I urged as he shoveled kibble into warm water.
When he bent down to give our whirling dervish her dinner, I spotted some residual unsteadiness left over from the bout of vertigo he’s been battling for the past couple of weeks.
Slowly, he came back to standing, leaning on the kitchen counter directly across from me.

Those corners in the kitchen, those are sacred. Over the years they have become our preferred conversation spots.

If I think about it, almost every conversation, big or small, has a least started in those corners.
We may shift back and forth while we prepare dinner but it all begins in those corners.
If things get tense, we maintain our distance, like fighters in the ring.
But I have laughed my ass off and been flooded with tears (often at the same time) in the corners of our kitchen.

We hug a lot there too.I don’t know why, but kitchen corners are conducive to hugging.

Anyway, it took a while for him to explain.

“I wanted to get you a tree,” he said looking at me sheepishly.
“I wanted to surprise you…with a Christmas tree.”

“What?”

You see, since we met, Christmastime at our house can be…complicated.

For me, it is the BEST time of year. You can find me Ho, Ho, Ho-ing my way through December.

For my husband—not so much. No, No, No-ing is more like it for him.

It could be due to his horrible, Jesuit boarding school, Oliver Twisted childhood—no one knows for sure.

All I DO know is that Christmas can be a minefield, a subject we have litigated into the ground only to come away without any reasonable solution as to how we can navigate without blowing somebody up.
If you read my last blog post you know that I’ve decided to go treeless this year. It was a compromise I’ve never been willing to make—until no——made easy by some brilliantly timed post-holiday travel.

In an act of holiday self-care (which,I highly recommend for everyone) I decorated my sister’s tree on Tuesday which was a fix for this Christmas Junkie.

So, I’m good with it. Really.

And that’s the part that confused him.

He continued, “On Monday, I finally felt up to driving to that awesome nursery where we saw those live trees,” he said.
“The ones with the silver needles you like?

He could see the bewildered expression on my face but he kept going.

“So I had it in the back of my van and I was going to set it up this morning…until I read your blog.”

I still wasn’t following so he continued.

“You said you were happy that you didn’t have a tree. That you liked the ease and simplicity…”

“Well, yeah…but…”

“So I drove back there to return it, but they don’t take back Christmas trees.” I could see a look of chagrin trying to hide behind his sexy, white beard.

I started to laugh. “What? No you didn’t!”

“Yep,” he said, starting to see the humor. “You are the proud owner of a living, silver pine tree which has been driven all over hell and back the past two days and is now lurking in the back of my van trying not to feel rejected.”

“Awwwwww, come on! You did not!” My eyes filled with tears as I launched myself into his arms. I told you those corners were for hugging.

“Lemme see him!” I squealed.

“I’m sorry.” He nuzzled his face in my neck. “I just can’t seem to get it right.”

“Don’t be sorry. Ya did good.”

Sometimes when you let something go. Like really let it go with no residual bullshit–it hunts you down and lurks in a van in your driveway.

Bible.

Carry on,
xox

Hello loves,
Yesterday, the analytics informed me that the algorithms had decided, that this ranks as the MOST read post since 2020 when Covid hit—so I thought you may enjoy a reprise.

Carry on,
xoxJ

“I have been so mean to my body, outright hateful. I disparage her and call her names. I loathe parts of her and withhold care. I insist on physical standards she can never reach, for that is not how she is made, but I detest her weakness for not pulling it off. No matter what she accomplishes, I’m never happy with her.”

~Jen Hatmaker Fierce, Free and Full of Love

In the ‘before-times’, right before Covid rocked our reality, I was listening to Jen Hatmaker’s book while on my morning walks with Ruby, our six-year-old boxer who, ironically enough, has the body confidence of a super-model. Most of the book had me laughing. Other parts had me shaking my fist at Audible for the fact that I couldn’t dogear a particular page, or highlight every other paragraph with yellow marker. 

Like the one above. 

This one stopped me in my tracks. It had me fumbling to hit rewind while juggling a full bag of poop (Ruby’s) all while eliciting deep unexpected sobs of recognition—in public. Sort of. 

If you’d questioned me about my own body image a week earlier I’d have rated it as ‘pretty good’.  Then I heard Jen wrestle with her own emotions while reading her extremely vulnerable admissions without choking on her own snot. Seriously. She did a far better job at keeping the full-blown ugly crying at bay than I did. 

I too had been hateful. 

I’d set unattainable standards.

I’d done all of the shitty stuff you can do to a body and as I’ve aged, I may have even been guilty of cranking up the volume on the insults. 

Crepey skin, burgeoning neck waddle, old lady pillow tummy, ugh, HOW IS THIS MY BODY?  

The five stages of grief were quickly overtaking me.

Denial— (Catches own reflection in storefront window) That’s not me, it can’t be. That’s my mother! 

Anger— (Age spots appear as if by magic) Seriously? You’ve GOT to be kidding me!

Bargaining— If I drink the celery juice can I eat nothing but carbs on the weekends?

Depression— I feel bad about my boobs which are now a pair of 38 longs.

But I hadn’t quite gotten to the acceptance stage. Until I heard the words she wrote. THAT changed everything for me.

I apologized to my body. Profusely. Every morning and every night. 

I saw her for what she was, my ally, not my enemy. 

I looked at all the evidence and discovered she has ONLY EVER had my best interests at heart. 

So, I started to lavish her with praise, compliments, and love. After a while, it became a habit.

Then the pandemic hit and being over sixty, I was considered to be at higher risk of complications so I upped my little ritual to include extreme gratitude for my continued good health. 

Every morning when I woke up, I’d thank her for her stamina on the hikes, her cheerful disposition in the face of looming uncertainty, and her strong immune system. And as the Covid numbers in Los Angles rose, I assured her that even if she caught it, I wouldn’t hold it against her, on the contrary, we would fight it together and she would be fine. 

It reminded me of experiments researchers have done with water and plants, the ones where they verbally abuse them or shower them with praise —and then study the results—which are astounding.

https://yayyayskitchen.com/2017/02/02/30-days-of-love-hate-and-indifference-rice-and-water-experiment-1/

The ones that are praised, thrive, while the ones that are subjected to hateful speech/emotions, literally wither and die.

Which brings me to yesterday and my fall down the stairs. 

Well, I didn’t so much fall, as get pulled down the flight of concrete steps by Ruby. To be fair, she’d spotted a discarded half-eaten cheese sandwich at the bottom, and who among us hasn’t lost their mind and sprinted toward cheese? Nevertheless, it happened too fast to even let go of the leash so I was knocked on my ass and pulled down the entire flight of stairs on my back until I managed to get her to stop—by yelling STOP at the top of my lungs. I know it was loud because it echoed back up the stairs and out onto the street before waking the dead. 

Lying there in a heap, I assessed the damage. Ankle slightly twisted, elbows, ass, and back bruised and battered, but eventually, I was able to get up and walk —which I took as a good sign. Reflexively, I thanked my body for not breaking a hip or anything else for that matter and went on with my day. But as the hours passed, a deep soreness set in. At about seven in the evening I felt as if I’d been hit by a caravan of trucks carrying elephants. “Wait until tomorrow,” my husband warned, handing me the Motrin. “The next day is the worst.” Later, in bed, I tried not to move a muscle, lest I scream and wake the dog. 

“You’ve got this,” I told her, lying there together in the dark.  “Nothing is broken, which in itself is a miracle because YOU ARE A BEAST! You’re sixty-fucking-two and you fell down a flight of concrete stairs and barely missed a beat! You ROCK!” I tried to shift position and moaned. Everything hurt. Even my hair.

“I will take care of you,” I reassured her. “If you need bed rest, I will make sure you get it. If you need CBD rub or Motrin at regular intervals, you can count on me. We are in this together because I love you—now go to sleep!”

“How do you feel?” my husband asked through a grimace, expecting the worst, as I wandered out for coffee and a hug.  “Actually, I’m fine,” I responded by doing a deep lunge and a high kick, twisting and lifting both arms to prove my point. 

And I am. Fine. No aches, no pains, no bruises of any kind to speak of. I give all of the credit to my body and our recently renewed love affair. 

Not a big story, not life or death, just proof to me just the same that Love really does work miracles y’all. 

Carry on,
xox

“I will not write sales copy about the death of my mother.”

Writing, even under the best of circumstances can be an excruciating endeavor.

Authors, like most wizards, are supernatural in their ability to create something from nothing. Memoirists are a special breed altogether. I don’t know how they do it, how they manage to let us inside their lives, warts and all, literally turning themselves inside out— (I’ve seen it up close…it’s messy) and in the process wringing every emotion from their raw and ragged guts, and then managing to translate all of that pain, joy, grief, and love into words that live on the page long enough for our eyes to devour them.

It gets me all verklempt when I even try to imagine it, the tears running brown from the emotional-support chocolate that’s smeared all over my face.

Anyhow, my best friend, Steph Jagger, her life a seemingly endless series of Heroines Journeys (which comes in handy because nobody, except you guys, wants to read about a person’s mundane life) writes memoirs. Tales of courage and triumph, love and loss. Her latest,
Everything Left To Remember — My Mother, Our Memories, And a Journey Through the Rocky Mountains 
centers on her mother’s slow decline into early-onset Alzheimer’s disease and how that profound loss effects Steph and her family. Here, her editor describes it better than I ever could:

“An inspirational mother-daughter memoir that follows two women on a poignant journey through a landscape of generational loss. As they road-trip through the national parks of the American West, they explore the ever-changing terrain of Alzheimer’s, deep remembrance, and motherhood.

A staggeringly beautiful examination of how stories are passed down through generations and from Mother Nature, Everything Left to Remember brings us the wisdom of remembrance under the constellations of the vast Montana sky.”

I mean…come on!

And this is where you all come in. I love my blog community so much, wickedly loyal, you have been with me since 2012 so you know I love writing, connection, and passing along all the things I adore—And I adore my friend, and LOVE this book!

Here’s the deal, since the advent of social media, authors are expected to build an audience, publicize their own books, and endlessly pitch their stories to the various mediums. It can be soul-sucking, especially when your story starts living a life outside in the world while still inhabiting all your exposed nerve endings. There comes a breaking point. A boundary that begs to be set. I’ll just let Steph explain in her own words:

“It has been the greatest honor of my life to be able to write about my mother, to put our story into words. I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude about the opportunity I have to share that story. And I am terribly excited about the idea of those words being in your hands.

I’m also looking forward to being on podcasts, to visiting book clubs, to talking with you about your mothers, and fathers, and sisters, and friends who have been, or are on, a similar journey.

I cannot wait to weave my mother’s aliveness, all the things she has left to give, into the world at large.

I am committed to doing that by way of words, shared in as many ways and in as many places as I can.

And . . . I will not write sales copy, for my mother and I are not things to be sold, but precious beings to have and to hold.” 

So, I suppose as an author you leave that to your council of writers, right?
Your friends.
Your sisters of the pen.
You let them be your hallelujah chorus and shout your name from the rooftops, “Come, pre-order and read Steph’s book, you will be the richer for it!” 

You guys, when have I ever steered you wrong?

Carry on, xox

Pre-order made simple: Amazon link 

https://www.amazon.com/Everything-Left-Remember-Memories-Mountains/dp/125026183X/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=

Hate Amazon? Here’s a link for Indie Bound —and Eagle Harbor Books, Steph’s local bookstore, where you can get yourself a signed copy!

https://www.indiebound.org/book/9781250261830

https://www.eagleharborbooks.com/signed-everything-left-remember-steph-jagger

More Steph: https://www.stephjagger.com

The tree surgeon paused out in front of our house for a long time. Too long.

He’d been called to do a “health assessment” on our two large trees.
The one in the front is a behemoth. Big-boned, magnificent in her splendor, she’s an almost two-hundred-year-old ash tree we call Grandmother. She’s a legend in our neighborhood. Cars stop and stare. People visit her on purpose. Once, when I was watering, a man took out a tiny flute and played a song he’d written just for her. I swear to god.

The one you’re looking at now is Mother.

Mother is a Chinese elm that was planted so close to the house I cannot squeeze between them without losing a boob. But that was over eighty years ago and we’ve appreciated the shade she so generously provides our courtyard, that although advised otherwise, we’ve ignored any suggestion that she’s compromised the foundation.

Anyway, one of Mother’s roots had started to crack and lift the tile and seemed to be headed toward the house, prompting concern.

I talked with her. Everyday. “Don’t do this,” I warned, “Don’t force us to make a decision like this.”

Just to be clear, I know my role. I am just the latest custodian of these beauties. There have been several before me, and there will be more when I leave. “I know, I got a little house with my trees,” is what I tell anyone who visits us after they close their mouths.

The surgeon’s mouth wasn’t agape, he was too cool for such an overt display of awe, I mean, caring for trees is his job.
But you could see it in his eyes as he stepped back, taking in Grandmother’s canopy. He was impressed.

“She’s a beauty,” he finally said. “And she’s so happy!”

Raphael’s face broke into a broad grin, I exhale for the first time in months.
You see, California has been suffering through a sustained drought and I’ve been so worried about our trees and all the stress they’ve been under. If anything happened to Grandmother I’d just die, but not before we were run out of town by an angry mob led by a dude with a flute.

“Seriously, are they okay?” I asked.

I really wanted to know. Or did I?

If he came back with a grim diagnosis, what would we do? Cut them down? Cut them down? CUT THEM DOWN?!!!  See, I cannot even write the words. What kind of a sick Sophie’s choice was the universe handing us? Kill the tree to save the house? It was unthinkable!

“I’m not cutting this tree down!” I announced defiantly. My arms were wrapped around Mother as far as they could reach as our tree surgeon inspected the cracked tiles.
“Oh god no!” he responded in shock. I just about died of happiness. “It’s an easy fix,” he said and then went on to explain in  tree-surgeony speak, what sounded like a very complex series of steps we had to take to keep everybody alive and well.

“She hugs these trees,” Raphael told him as he wrapped up his visit.
“See, I told you. You’re gonna be okay,” I assured Mother while caressing her bark.
“And she talks to them too.” He was making that she’s so crazy face he makes when I do stuff like that in front of strangers.

“So do I,” the surgeon admitted. Of course he did.
I wanted to tell him I loved him, instead, I told him he had a good face. He took it well.

Carry on,
xox J

                                                                                          GRANDMOTHER

This post from waaaay back has been requested twice in the past few months and I keep forgetting. So Sorry.

“My fake plants died because I did not pretend to water them.”

I could have died last Thursday. You laugh. But I could have.

It was a distinct possibility. I was going to be put under general anesthesia. As dead as you can be without actually ceasing to live. The thought of my demise was planted via the doom-delivery-system otherwise known as the mountains and mountains of legalese the hospital, doctors, parking attendant, and cafeteria lady gave me to sign. This charming pre-op ritual made it clear that I was to hold absolutely no one responsible for my death—should I find myself actually dead while faking it.

Doctors make you do that just before they put you under.

“Do you have a pen?” The person in charge of responsibility-dodging asked with a straight face. “I’m wearing a paper gown, what do you think?”

Culpability. It’s a thing.

I could have choked on my pastrami sandwich at lunch today but the deli didn’t drown me in documents before I took my first bite.

Sheesh.

I get it. It’s their duty to remind you. That’s the thing about being injected with drugs that render you ‘fake’ dead so they can cut you wide open—they up your odds of becoming ‘real’ dead.

Anyhow, it got me thinking about dying.

About my “exit strategy”, which is a term my deceased friend uses to refer to death. “Everyone has one, you have several opportunities actually” she reminds me all the time. Apparently, it presents itself in the form of an illness, a car accident, an egg salad at the beach, or airport sushi.

Everyone keeps telling you that shit’ll kill ya.

So even though I didn’t have a reasonable reason to feel as if my days were numbered—I just did.

I lived as if I was going to die.

Imminently. Like Thursday.

I’m not gonna lie, my fake death made me a little fake sad. Mostly it made me crave bad food (because hey, why not)—and wish I’d had time to get my hair straightened (good looking corpse rule #2. Rule #1 – Mani-pedi.)

Oh, and it made me pay attention to my life. I was suddenly ‘all in’. No half-assing.

Everything I did I felt like I was doing for the last time, so I savored it. Kissing my dog was delicious. Ice cream tasted better if you can imagine that.

Dislikes became definitive: I can’t stand cheap vanilla candles or cologne on men in elevators.

I noticed things I tend to overlook: The sound of the rain as it hits the pavers in our courtyard.
And have you ever noticed that lots of people hold hands? Have you? I never did. And not just parents and kids. Couples of all types. Young, old, fat, skinny, young and skinny, old and fat, didn’t matter. hands were being held. I think that’s sweet.

Did you know that studies have found that holding hands is good for your heart? I looked it up.

I took my time. I dawdled. I went to the movies in the middle of the day and ate a hot dog—with extra mustard. I walked my neighborhood without my earbuds. I noticed my feet and my legs and how they move me through life and instead of run/walking everywhere like I normally do, I wandered. I looked more closely at the street art. I splashed in puddles. I said hello to strangers which isn’t new, I just noticed how often I do that.

I wondered if my fake death was making me lazy? Oh, look, a fake problem.

You wanna know what I didn’t do?
Hold on tight to anything.
Worry (why waste my time?)
Diet.
Walk on eggshells.
Work more.
Forget to say I LOVE YOU.

Saturday I came down with the flu and just like that it felt as if the rumors of my death would pan out to be true.

My surgery was canceled, and as suddenly as it had appeared, the energy of my “exit strategy” passed.

Again, just like that.

It has left my consciousness so completely that as hard as I try I can’t even conjure the feeling.

I know that when I do get this surgery the thought of dying won’t even occur to me.

I had my fake dry run and the take-away was something real.

Appreciating my life.

Carry on,
xox

“I have been so mean to my body, outright hateful. I disparage her and call her names. I loathe parts of her and withhold care. I insist on physical standards she can never reach, for that is not how she is made, but I detest her weakness for not pulling it off. No matter what she accomplishes, I’m never happy with her.”

~Jen Hatmaker Fierce, Free and Full of Love

In the ‘before time’, right before Covid hit, I was listening to Jen Hatmaker’s book while on my morning walks with Ruby, our six-year-old boxer who, ironically enough, has the body confidence of a super-model. Most of the book had me laughing. Other parts had me shaking my fist at Audible and the fact that I couldn’t dogear a particular page or highlight every other paragraph with yellow marker. 

Like the one above. 

This one stopped me in my tracks. It had me fumbling to hit rewind while juggling a bag full of poop at the same time eliciting deep unexpected sobs of recognition—in public. 

If you’d asked me about body image a week earlier I’d have told you mine was pretty good. And then I heard Jen struggle with her own emotions while reading her very vulnerable admissions without choking on her own snot. Seriously. She did a far better job at keeping the full-blown ugly crying at bay than I did. 

I too had been hateful. 

I’d set unattainable standards.

I’d done all of the shitty stuff you can do to a body and as I’ve aged, I may be guilty of cranking up the volume on the insults. 

Crepy skin, burgeoning neck waddle, old lady pillow tummy, ugh, HOW IS THIS MY BODY?  

The five stages of grief were quickly setting in.

Denial— (Catches own reflection in storefront window) That’s not me, it can’t be. That’s my mother! 

Anger— (Age spots appear as if by magic) Seriously? You’ve GOT to be kidding me!

Bargaining— If I drink the celery juice can I eat nothing but carbs on the weekends?

Depression— I feel bad about my boobs which are now a pair of 38 longs.

But I hadn’t quite gotten to the acceptance stage. Until I heard the words she wrote. THAT changed everything for me.

I apologized to my body. Profusely. Every morning and every night. 

I saw her for what she was, my ally, not my enemy. 

I looked at all the evidence and discovered she has ONLY ever had my best interests at heart. 

So, I started to lavish her with praise and compliments and love. After a while, it became a habit.

Then the pandemic hit and being over sixty I was considered to be at higher risk of complications so I upped my little ritual to include extreme gratitude for my continued good health. 

Every morning when I woke up, I’d thank her for her stamina on the hikes, her cheerful disposition in the face of looming uncertainty, and her strong immune system. And as the Covid numbers in Los Angles rose, I assured her that even if she caught it, I wouldn’t hold it against her, on the contrary, we would fight it together and she would be fine. 

It reminded me of experiments researchers have done with water and plants, the ones where they verbally abuse them or shower them with praise —and then study the results—which are astounding.

https://yayyayskitchen.com/2017/02/02/30-days-of-love-hate-and-indifference-rice-and-water-experiment-1/

The ones that are praised, thrive, while the ones that are subjected to hateful speech/emotions, literally wither and die.

Which brings me to yesterday and my fall down the stairs. 

Well, I didn’t so much fall, as get pulled by Ruby down the flight of concrete steps that lead to her daily free-range walk. To be fair, she’d spotted a discarded half-eaten cheese sandwich at the bottom, and who among us hasn’t lost their mind and sprinted toward cheese? Nevertheless, it happened too fast to even let go of the leash so I was knocked on my ass and pulled down the entire flight of stairs on my back until I managed to get her to stop—by yelling STOP at the top of my lungs. I know it was loud because it echoed back up the stairs and out onto the street before waking the dead. 

Lying there in a heap, I assessed the damage. Ankle twisted, elbows, ass and back bruised and battered, but eventually, I was able to get up and walk —which I took as a good sign. Reflexively, I thanked my body for not breaking a hip or anything else for that matter and went on with my day. But as the hours passed, a deep soreness set in. At about seven in the evening I felt as if I’d been hit by a caravan of trucks carrying elephants. “Wait until tomorrow,” my husband warned, handing me the Motrin. “The next day is the worst.” Later, in bed, I tried not to move a muscle, lest I scream and wake the dog. 

“You’ve got this,” I told her, lying there together in the dark.  “Nothing is broken, which in itself is a miracle because YOU ARE A BEAST! You’re sixty-fucking-two and you fell down a flight of concrete stairs and barely missed a beat! You ROCK!” I tried to shift position and moaned. Everything hurt. Even my hair.

“I will take care of you,” I reassured her. “If you need bed rest, I will make sure you get it. If you need CBD rub or Motrin at regular intervals, you can count on me. We are in this together because I love you—now go to sleep!”

“How do you feel?” my husband asked me this morning as I wandered out for coffee and a hug. His face was a twisted grimace, bracing for the worst. “Actually, I’m fine,” I said, twisting and turning to prove my point. 

And I am. Fine. No aches, no pains, no bruises of any kind to speak of. I give all of the credit to my body and our recently renewed love affair. 

Not a big story, not life or death, but proof to me just the same that Love really does work miracles y’all. 

Carry on,
xox

“You’re an interesting species, an interesting mix. You’re capable of such beautiful dreams and such horrible nightmares. You feel so lost, so cut off, so alone—only you’re not. See, in all our searching the only thing that we’ve found that makes the emptiness bearable is each other.”
~ From the movie Contact

When I watched this video last week I wept. Like it was the ugly cry, you guys. Because, after six months of watching the planet battle this pandemic, I’d forgotten.

I’d forgotten our greatness.
I’d forgotten our humanness, our drive and indomitable spirit.
I’d forgotten what hope feels like.
I could only see the horrible nightmare, becoming completely oblivious to the beautiful dream.

This minute and a half helped me to remember. To revel in the time before which seems so distant now, and to know for certain that because of WHO WE ARE— this incredible collective of diverse and remarkable human beings, that there are better days ahead for ALL of us.

And I figured that maybe like me, you might need a little reminder of what’s ahead.

Moments of time strung together minute by minute that will be so incredible they seem impossible to imagine.

Just like the ones in this stunning video

We ARE an interesting species, Capable of SO much.
Because nothing can stop what we can do together!

Carry on,
xox JB

“The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you’re uncool”.
~Lester Bangs, Almost Famous

I am as about as uncool of a person as they come. Seriously. And so I’m sharing some of the ‘currency of the uncool’ with y’all, my fellow passengers on this E-ticket ride called life. And here’s what I’ve noticed lately:

Every damn person, myself included, thinks they’re doing this pandemic thing wrong.

Not that there’s a “Living Your Best Life During A Global Catastrofuck” handbook, which I personally view as a terrible oversight on God’s part and I will have words with her about it when this thing is over;  but, you can get goaded by social media (which tragically, has been our only glimpse into the void) into thinking there’s a right way to be living your life right now and when I say ‘you’——I mean me.

In the beginning I pretty much winged it since it was my first pandemic and just like the rest of the world I was making shit up as I went along. I baked an embarrassing tonnage of chocolate chip cookies and distributed them to my neighbors— like life jackets on the Titanic. I mean, who doesn’t want to be discovered ten thousand years from now with the fossilized remnants of chocolate chip cookies as proof of their last meal?

It all felt very dystopian future meets apocalyptic end-of-times——if you’re living inside of a Nora Ephron movie.

Once my sweat pants got tight, I looked at Instagram and switched to gardening, and home improvement (you guys, my thumb has never been greener, my silverware shinier, or my back sorer) in-between Zoom calls.
Zoom.
Don’t get me started.
I could write an entire book on the way Zoom has simultaneously saved and ruined my life.
It has kept me connected in the weirdest way imaginable by lulling me into a false, Jetsonian sense of intimacy with one-dimensional images of people I used to be able to hug, smell and taste (don’t ask). It has introduced me, or rather my head from the neck up, to people I’ve never met; revealed my questionable taste in home decor to strangers I would never invite inside my house——and saved my ass as far as work is concerned.

Have you noticed? Some people are Zoom naturals. It’s a thing. 

They glow and effuse with breathtaking ease. Their ideas flow with an effortless acuity, in long, erudite monologues that sound like they were written by Aaaron Sorkin.
Not me.
I show up more times than I care to admit, tragically unprepared, mumbling and laughing inappropriately, with my hair styled by a helicopter, whitening strips on my teeth and an adult beverage in my coffee cup.

So yeah, Zoom.

And as grateful as I practice being for my health and life in general, I have to admit to a certain sense of Ground Hog’s Day claustrophobia. Every day has begun to bleed into the next. There’s not much to look forward to. There are no weekends anymore. Don’t ask me what day it is or the month, I do not know. It’s warm, there are flowers, and if I owned a bikini I could wear it—so I’m guessing summer.

 All I know for sure is that today ends in a Y.

Another thing I’ve noticed lately that I’m sure is probably true for you too— All I do is work.

I write, Zoom, shovel shit, paint shit, stain shit, clean shit, wash shit, cook shit, fix shit, edit shit, watch shit——lather, rinse, repeat. And if you’re someone who is home schooling kids, well, we are not in the same league, let alone the same zip code! And I thank you for your service and will insist you go straight to the head of the line at the Pearly Gates.

And all of this—since March!

My sister and I, agreed yesterday in one of our epic Karen bitch-seshes, not on the way California is handling Covid (because, oh bloody hell, we’re all gonna die!) but on the fact that we’ve forgotten how to have fun.
Fun. You know, that thing you do in-between work and more work and twice as much in the summer.
Fun. We’re not even doing THAT right!

But I am not alone. WE are not alone in our Narnia of despair. If you haven’t seen this already, it from Saint Glennon 0f Doyle, author of Untamed and patron saint of all women embracing their inner cheetah while confined to house arrest.

She gets it.

I think—somewhere in the middle of last week—I hit a wall.

I am sad. I feel lost and aimless in my home most of the day. I am cranky with my people. Even though we’re together all day—I’m somehow gone. I’m claustrophobic in this covid world. The news makes me terrified and so full of rage I want to scream. I wander around all day with this nagging feeling that I’m not doing enough writing enough helping enough creating enough parenting enough wifeing enough BEING enough—that I’m wasting my time, my hours, my days, my life.

Is it just me? And if so I was just joking I’m fine, totally carpeing the hell outta these diems and all that shit.

Crawling along.
Gonna keep going.
Love you madly.

“No feeling is final.” -the magical Rainer Maria Rilke.

~Glennon

In closing, I know this:
Stillness brings up so much shit!
Perfectionism kills.
Don’t watch the news.
You must march to your own damn drum.
Nap if you’re tired.
Try to belly laugh once a day.
And cookies and pie are essential to our mental health (which is the reason I’m telling myself I couldn’t find flour in a store until June).

And when I get twitchy and snarly, I will report myself to whoever is in charge of me (besides my husband who has been my quarantine roommate and is struggling with combat fatigue) which is usually my sister or my BFF—for an attitude adjustment and yet another virtual hug.

Find your people and report in as much as needed.

I love you. Carry on. Crawling is fine.

xoxJB

Dearest ones,

I thought you might need this. It made me cry tears that were looking for an outlet to come up…and out and I know I’m not alone in that struggle.

Music heals. So does love, and I’m send both to all of you. This is my way of reaching over 110 countries around the globe while still practicing my social distancing.

Stay well, I’m thinking of you every day.

Carry on,
xox