Perception

I couldn’t figure it out at first…

Apparently, Maria, our beloved, devout Catholic, long suffering housekeeper of over twenty years, who has tolerated, but WILL NOT touch, move, or dust our collection of nudes, or fish with tits—has somehow, just learned the word FUCK.

And since, as a friend of mine observed, our house is an actual fuck store, Maria is APPALLED—as evidenced by her silent protest which I’ve immortalized on my Insta page — @jbertolus.

Mia Culpa dear Maria

All of this reminded me of her backstory, a viewer favorite from 2017.
xox
Enjoy!

Our house is a maze of contradictions so, how can I blame Maria for being confused?

Maria is a our once-a-week housekeeper. 

She came along with all the motorcycles, cars and dogs; in other words, the menagerie that was my husband’s dowry of sorts when we got married.

Now, after all these years of cleaning my toilet, and going through my medicine cabinet, and that drawer next to the bed—Maria qualifies as family.

She has to be. She is the keeper of all of our secrets.

And like any self respecting family member, she screws up and I want to kill her—here’s why: For the life of her, she cannot tell the difference between trash and a treasure.

I collect little pieces of nature which I’m lucky enough to find all around our property. Assorted nests, abandoned beehives in the eaves, fallen branches filled with hummingbird nests, heart shaped rocks, found scraps of paper, and even dollar bills with cryptic messages scrawled on them that I’m sure are just for me. I’ve stumbled upon old skeleton keys, petrified tree pods, pinecones, old worm wood, even animal skulls, bones and teeth. 

Then I go out to flea markets and various other secret haunts to deliberately look for this kinda stuff.  Afterwards, I cart home my finds to live among the seashells and rocks, beach glass and mermaids. 

I also collect cool, rusty old metal mermaids.

And shiny. I can’t resist sparkly, shine stuff. 

A sparkly mermaid would render me speechless with joy.

Then I go about artistically displaying all of my found treasures around the house on tables and bookshelves—as art. 

I found them, I love, them, and I want to look at them everyday.

Saturday is the day Maria comes. It is a day of bittersweet agony. 

The house smells of lemon pledge, Murphy’s oil soap and all things holy. It is spick and span’d within an inch of it’s life. 

THAT is the sweet.

Now for the bitter.

Maria does not appreciate my taste in art. The woman is convinced I am batshit crazy.

For instance, I have the most realistic looking pair of ceramic fortune cookies displayed in my kitchen. I used to move them around at will. Sometimes they lived on the shelf next to the cookbooks, other times over by the oils and salts next to the stove. 

Then, one Saturday night, I noticed they were missing. Did she break them? She has broken so many things—irreplaceable, expensive things—yet, she remains—because she’s family. Her habit, after she breaks something into a million pieces, is to put all the bits on a napkin, or if at all possible, prop it up, waiting to be discovered. In other words, she doesn’t dispose of it. 

Still, my instincts told me to check the trash. There they were, outside in the black bin, my ceramic fortune cookies completely intact at the bottom of a plastic Gap Bag filled with vacuum cleaner hazarai .

When I asked her in my broken Spanish about it the following week, she looked at me as if I were wearing an Iguana as a hat, and carefully chose two words: STALE. TRASH.

For weeks she threw them away, until I finally was able to convince her they were…art.

My sweet Maria tries so hard to grasp this concept. 

I get it. Nests, (even thought I’ve sprayed them with clear polyurethane) are hard to dust, animal skulls are supposed to be buried, and crumpled paper with sociopathic looking scrawl on it—well that’s just trash!

She has even put the five or six cryptic dollar bills I’ve collected IN MY WALLET. Where I’ve pulled them out and almost tipped a valet—with my own treasured art.

Last spring in Santa Barbara, I found an abandoned, giant bird’s nest. It is a masterpiece. A gift from God. Stiff with shellac, yet extremely delicate, I have it displayed in a place of prominence—as art. Nature’s art.

As many times as I’ve asked her not to, begged her to just skip over it; I know she picks it up and dusts because I find pieces of it which look suspiciously like random twigs, in the trash. 

“It’s okay” I tell her, “Please don’t touch this, I’ll live with a little dust”. 

 But she cannot help herself—it’s not art to her, it’s a table full of dirty wood. And so the nest—my treasure—is dwindling away.

My collectables have confused her to the point that she leaves crumpled paper (legitimate trash) right where she finds it, and asks if she can throw away an overripe peach. I just have to laugh.

I have to mention the real art. The nudes. I collect vintage and current photographs and paintings of female (and one male) nudes. 

To her that is Not art. It is pornography.
She does not go near them. She cannot bring herself to touch them, I can tell by the inch of dust they accumulate until I get around to dusting them.

And by-the-way, a mermaid is an abomination. It is topless fish. A dusty fish with tits.

To Maria, one thing is clear. I’m an iguana wearing pervert, who likes to collect trash, pornography, bones that should be buried, and stale food—and call it art.

And while I am certain she owns a Jesus painted on black velvet, that makes it easier to forgive her. Becuase art is subjective.
One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. 

Carry on,
xox

Tribe…Just so you know, it is now 2019—and nothing has changed.
xox

My house is a maze of contradictions so how can I blame Maria for being confused?

Maria is a our once-a-week housekeeper.
She came along with all the motorcycles, cars and dogs; in other words, the menagerie that was my husband’s dowry of sorts when we met and decided to get married. Now, after all these years of washing my unmentionables, going through my medicine cabinet and that drawer next to the bed—Maria is family.

She has to be. She is the keeper of all of our secrets.

And like any self-respecting family member, she screws up and I want to kill her and here’s why: She cannot tell the difference between trash—and a treasure.

I collect little pieces of nature which I’m lucky enough to find all around our property. Assorted nests, abandoned beehives in the eaves, fallen branches filled with hummingbird nests, heart-shaped rocks and found scraps of paper (even one-dollar bills) with cryptic messages that I’m sure are just for me. I’ve stumbled upon old skeleton keys, petrified tree pods, huge pinecones, old worm wood, even animal skulls, bones and teeth.

As if that weren’t bad enough, I go out and peruse flea markets and various other secret haunts, deliberately looking for that kinda stuff. Then, I actually pay money for it! Afterwards, I cart home my finds and carefully place them among the other seashells and rocks, beach glass, and seahorse skeletons.

It may look like a madman’s nightmare, but in reality— it’s MY carefully curated dream.

Oh yeah, I also collect cool, rusty old metal mermaids.
And don’t forget shiny. I can’t resist sparkly, shiny stuff.
Trust me when I say this: A rusty, sparkly mermaid would render me speechless with joy.

Anyhow, then I go about artistically displaying all of my found treasures around the house on tables and bookshelves—as art. I found them, I LOVE them, and I want to look at them everyday.

Saturday is the day Maria comes. It is a day of bittersweet agony.
The house smells of lemon pledge, murphy’s oil soap, and all things holy. It is spick and span’d within an inch of its life.
THAT is the sweet.
Now for the bitter.
She does not appreciate my taste in art. Better said: the woman is convinced I am batshit crazy.

For instance; I have the most realistic looking pair of ceramic fortune cookies displayed in my kitchen. One Saturday night I noticed they were missing. I wondered, did she break them? (She has broken so many things—irreplaceable, expensive things—gulp, remember, she’s family), but her habit after she breaks something into a million pieces is to lovingly arrange all of those pieces on a napkin, or, if at all possible, prop it up, where it waits to be discovered.

In other words she doesn’t dispose of any of the evidence.

Still, my instincts told me to check the trash and my suspicions proved correct. There they were, my ceramic fortune cookies, outside in the black bin, completely intact, with assorted food scraps and the contents of the vacuum cleaner at the bottom of a Gap Bag.

The following Staurday, when I asked Maria in my best broken Spanglish about it, she looked at me in complete bewilderment, as if I were wearing an Iguana as a hat, and said two words:
STALE. TRASH.

For weeks she continued to throw them away until I was finally able to convince her they were…art.

She has since, on occasion,  left me unwrapped, real stale fortune cookies on the shelf next to the…art.

But I know, in her heart of hearts, my sweet Maria is trying so hard to grasp this concept.
I get it. Nests,(even though I’ve sprayed them with clear polyurethane) are hard to dust. Animal skulls are supposed to be buried. And crumpled paper with sociopathic looking scrawl on it—well anyone can see—that’s just trash!

But not to me.

She has even put the five or six cryptic dollar bills that tell the secrets of my soul— IN MY WALLET, where I’ve inadvertanly pulled them out and almost tipped a valet—with my own treasured art!

This is a picture of a giant bird’s nest I was fortunate enough to find last spring in Santa Barbara. It is a masterpiece. A gift from God. It is stiff with shellac, yet extremely delicate.
I have it in a place of prominence—as art. Nature’s art.

She just doesn’t get it.

As many times as I’ve asked her not to, begged her to just skip over it, I know she picks it up and dusts. I can tell by the pieces of it, which I have to admit look suspiciously like dirty, random twigs—that I find in the trash.
“It’s okay” I tell her, “I’ll live with a little dust”.
But she cannot help herself—it’s not art to her, it’s a table full of dirty wood.
And so the nest, my treasure, is slowly dwindling away.

I just have to laugh. Hahahahaha!
My collectables have confused her to the point that she leaves crumpled paper (legitimate trash) right where she finds it, and asks if she can throw away an overripe peach.

I must also mention the real art. The nudes. I collect vintage and current black and white photographs and paintings of female nudes.
To Maria (Who I’ve neglected to mention is a devout Catholic) that is Not art. It is pornography.
Not only can she not bring herself to touch them, she cannot go anywhere near them which is apparent by the inch of dust they accumulate until I get around to dusting them.

And by-the-way—in case you were wondering—a mermaid is an abomination.

It is a topless fish. A dusty fish with tits!

To Maria it is clear—I’m an iguana hat wearing pervert, who likes to collect trash and stale food—and call it art. Which is only half-true…
But I’m family.

So you see, it’s easier to forgive when you realize—it’s all in a person’s perception. 

(I’m certain she owns a Jesus on black velvet.)

One man’s trash really IS another man’s treasure.

Carry on,
xox

Like many of you, I find myself crazy busy these days.

I’m currently juggling three writing projects, one deadline is contractual, the others self-imposed.  Oh, and this blog.

I love them all equally, so carving out the time to write them isn’t difficult, I just have to be careful. I can’t allow myself to get swallowed by social media, or spend too much time focused on my belly button lint. 

So it will probably come as no shock to you that  I’m about to waste the better part of an hour writing about the brilliant revelation I had this weekend—about lotion.

You guys, I’ve been wasting my life chasing the lotion with the most emollients to sooth my particularly dry skin, and I came to realize, this very Sunday, that my long-held beliefs had led me astray. 

Let me explain.

Lotions developed by dermatologists and used in hospitals – Good.

Argan Oil of Morocco – Bad.

I have friends who developed a cultish obsession with Moroccan anything. They have drunk the Kool-Aid delivered by extremely deft subliminal marketing. Me, not so much. I mean, what is Moroccan oil anyway? Not to be judgy or anything, but in my opinion, Argan Moroccan oil lotion can’t be taken seriously. It is the “Tiffany” of lotions. It’s curvy, wears bright colors, dots all of its “i’s” with hearts, and smells like something with an umbrella in it that I’d drink too many of in the Caribbean.

I tried the Moroccan oil products for hair once.
I have to say, I loved the smell but hated the product. It left my hair greasy and limp, kinda like my boyfriend at the time (cheap joke, I couldn’t resist) so I gifted it to someone I didn’t like at the time, probably my roommate. 

All of this to say. I think I need to be more flexible. Things change. 

Case in point: I sucked it up and bought this Argan of Morocco oil for about a buck at a drug store that was closing. I was down to the last few drops of my serious, dermatologist recommended, hospital tested, and of course fragrance free (because everyone knows a serious lotion can’t smell good. That would distract from how serious it’s taking itself) REAL lotion, so I thought to myself, Self, buy the slutty lotion, it’s only a dollar so no big whoop when it disappoints me—which it will.

Can I just go on record here? This Argan wtf of Morocco kicked my serious, over-tested, under-fragranced lotion’s ass!

There are SO many things about it that blew my mind!

1) It under promised and overperformed. I like that in food, men, friends, and as I found out this weekend—lotion. 

2) It says it’s Extra Hydrating but OMG! I can’t even! I’m still hydrated THE NEXT DAY which the serious lotion says it does…but it doesn’t.

3) It smells like if unicorns and puppies slept on your pillow after bathing in compliments, marshmallow, and laughter—all the good things in life. 

All this to say, I have been bamboozled by clinical testing when all of these years I should have just slathered myself in the luxurious decadence of Moroccan Oil!

 How many other wonders of the world has my judgy as fuckness kept me from? Huh?

I’ve got to go write some serious shit now, but only after I go on Amazon and buy a case of my new favorite thing. (BTW this is a totally free endorsement —just consider it a gift from me—to you.

Carry on,
xox

Besides you know, politicians, choosing people to populate your life is a heady endeavor.

It is my belief that this should apply to bosses, landlords, car repair men, lovers, and Uber drivers.

And if they appear to be a lying, cowardly, foolish thief—I give you permission to cut and run.

“When someone shows you who they are, believe them.”
~Maya Angelou

PS. And don’t forget to vote.

Carry on,
xox

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been talking to friends about perfectionism and what a soul suck it is. 

Recently, when I saw a friend spinning out of control, I sent her a “You’ve got this” text—which she promptly corrected for grammar and punctuation. So… I recognize it takes many decades and a ton of face falling before it REALLY sinks in.

Back in 2013 when I first started blogging I was too stupid to realize that anyone would ever read it, so I’d write my face off and press “Post”—spelling and grammar be damned. My compulsion to just get the words out overrode my shame.

So, I guess that was another time when I discovered that MY inner perfectionist had FINALLY left the building.

What about you? Do you freeze when faced with creating something that may not be “perfect?”

I say “Fuck it! Just do it!” (Sorry Nike.) Anyway…

Here’s an old post that explains my thought process on this very subject.
Carry on,
xox

Ah, perfectionism—you rat-bastard.

You are the behind the scenes ruin-er of every event.
You are the “I told you so” inside every mistake.
You are the “It could have been better, you should be thinner, I’m a freak, a fake and a fraud” whispered in my ear at the end of every day.

In short, you are the cause of so much grief.

I’m on to you, Perfection. Like a 22-inch waist, a man who asks for directions, and delicious vegan cheese—you are literally impossible—a myth and an illusion.

Perfectionism, you started for me in childhood.
The dolls lined up perfectly on the shelf, school papers stacked in neat piles, worn thin by rigorous erasing.

Perfectionism, you sabotaged my joy.
You’re a punk. You steal Joy’s lunch money and gives it a wedgie. I see you, Perfectionism, hanging out with those two thugs, anxiety and shame.

Perfectionism, you stifled my creativity.
I know you two cannot possibly co-exist because creativity is messy, I don’t care what anyone says. When you’re in the flow, you can just throw perfect punctuation and grammar to the wind.

Have you ever seen a painter’s studio when they are creating? It is a catastrophe! There is shit everywhere – Empty coffee cups, brushes and tubes of paint in heaps, tarps, stacks of ideas, even some paint on the ceiling (?).

I know you Perfectionism. You would never be caught dead in the swirling vortex of creativity—it might mess up your perfect hair!

When I take perfectionism to a meeting well, yeah, things don’t go well.
It is the bully in the room, taunting me with thoughts of inferiority, constantly assuring me that I’m not good enough (as if I needed the reminder.)
Work harder, be better, PROVE YOUR WORTH, it sneers.

It is my belief that perfectionism is complicit in every nervous breakdown. Most especially, the ones suffered during the holidays.

Listen, I can speak to this with authority.

I am a semi-retired perfectionist.
It started to wane when I got married again. Perfectionism doesn’t compromise, and compromise is to relationships what singing is to musicals. Imperative.

My perfectionism’s exact time of death occurred when we decided to live in our house during a remodel.
Any last vestiges that remained died, (along with the tiny bit of modesty I possessed.)
Residing in so much chaos, dirt, and destruction; I can remember wiping 4-5 inches of plaster and drywall dust off random surfaces in order to sit and drink the coffee we made in the bathroom. For long stretches, the refrigerator was in the dining room and we were sleeping in the garage.

It got so bad I actually started to throw random trash (gum wrappers, receipts) on the floor, fuck it, what’s the use, it’s a disaster, I’d tell myself. The upside was that I’d never in my life felt so FREE! So I ran with it, and I haven’t looked back!

Living in a construction zone is like aversion therapy for perfectionists.

Take off that twenty-ton shield and fly! Or at least trot toward your goals.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not completely void of my perfectionist tendencies. They torture me now when I walk down the street. No longer can I just stroll along haplessly enjoying my surroundings like I did before I turned fifty.

Nope. I worry about my gut. Is it sucked in all the way? Are my thighs going to start a small friction fire inside my jeans? What the hell are my boobs doing and are my shoulders up around my ears causing me to look like I’m doing a Quasimodo impression?

Oh well, old habits die hard.

Maybe you want to talk about how you kicked perfectionism’s ass, or how you’re still struggling? Either way, I’d love to hear about it in the comments below. Don’t be shy. It doesn’t have to be perfect. 😉

Xox

“Our self-systems are like leaky buckets. No matter how much pleasure we’re getting, we’re bleeding from our many holes” – Jamie Weil

There’s something I never really gave any thought to:  While human beings are wired for pleasure, sadly, we are incapable of collecting and stockpiling joy?

No one can argue that we are experts at doing that with fear and anxiety. It seems as if humans are hardwired to hoard all of those bottom feeding emotions. Collecting them in the storage unit parts of our brains that we visit much too often.

When something good happens I always say to my friends, “Wow! I’m going to live off the fumes of THIS for a while!” Because I have to remind myself to do that.
To inhale deeply while it lasts.
Because…Fumes!

The joy leaves only fumes while the shit sticks. It sets up camp inside my narrative complete with a big old tent, a canoe, some jet skis, a generator, and a box of graham crackers.

Am I right?

In other words, after a peak experience, we as realists go right back to chopping wood, carrying water.

“After the ecstasy, the laundry.” ~ Puritan mindset

Shouldn’t we try and change that? I think so. So does Jason. Take a quick listen.

Carry on,
xox

“What is with all those people who are shouting their shitty statistics at us? Stop it! Stop trying to convince me that the world is a horribly dangerous and massively disappointing and unfulfilling shit-show!”
~Me

The doctor stands there with his hands together, fingers interlaced, the corners of his mouth downturned into a solemn expression.
“I’m afraid your prognosis is grim”, he delivers the news in an equally grim monotone.

Then it starts.

“The odds are against you. Only sixteen percent of people with this thing you have live past a year. Eighty-five percent survive the chemo and radiation only to expire after ninety days.”

Blah, blah, yadda, yadda.

I know you’re just doing your job but I can assure you, nobody heard a thing after the word grim.

I know some really amazing doctors who have saved a ton of lives but why do they insist on immediately covering us with a sauce that smells like death?

Because they don’t want to give anyone FALSE HOPE.

False Hope
To look forward to something that has a strong chance of not happening—that you may or may not know.

Yeah, that would be awful. By all means don’t look forward to anything that might not happen.

Wait. Most things in life have a strong chance of going down the drain. We have no idea how they will play out. That’s why it’s called hope. We hope for the best. Otherwise, it would be called certainty, or ForSuresville.

I remember being a single forty-year-old when I was told that I was more likely to die at the hands of a terrorist than to get married.

What?

A very successful and famous writer, who an entire room of us not so famous and successful writers had gathered in order to hang on her every word, ended a really sweet and uplifting day with this nugget.
“You can’t call yourself a writer unless you’ve been rejected many, many times.”
That was the “let’s get real” portion of her talk. It was supposed to be motivating but for me, it was mildly nauseating because if you know her story that was not necessarily the case for her and I think, like the gloomy-Gus guy in the white coat—she doesn’t want to prescribe any FALSE HOPE.

If you beat the odds you’re lucky. I suppose I agree. Or tenacious, delusional, persistent and optimist.

Here’s the thing, this is not a one size fits all world. If it were we would all be the same color, height, and weight. We would all look like Cindy Crawford or Bradley Cooper. Then and only then could anyone tell you EXACTLY how something was going to go down.

There are as many different possible scenarios as there are individual souls in this world. So, at last count just over seven billion.

I don’t care how many people survived six months. If you tell me that, I just may believe you because you’re a doctor—and then I’m fucked. I can’t have my own journey. I won’t make my own miracles.

I don’t care how hard it is to get a movie made in Hollywood. Four or five come out every week, so I know some bozo beat the odds.

I don’t care if ninety percent of writers fail at the premise. Ninety percent of screenplays and eighty percent of novels are rejected because of poor structure.

Dan Brown’s three novels before The Da Vinci Code all had printings of less than 10,000 copies.
Other rejection counts: Gone With the Wind, 38 times; Dune, 20 times; A Wrinkle in Time, 29 times; Lord of the Flies, 20 times; Kon-Tiki, 20 times; Watership Down, 17 times; Jonathan Livingstone Seagull, 18 times; Chicken Soup for the Soul, 33 times; James Joyce’s The Dubliners, 22 times; Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, more than 100 times; MASH, 21 times.

I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care!

I believe in FALSE HOPE. I love FALSE HOPE. I spread FALSE HOPE on crackers and eat it.

All of those people had hope, false or not, that they would succeed—or they would have given up. The same goes for those who survive past their expiration date. They didn’t listen to the statistics and I can guarantee you they mainlined FALSE HOPE.

I for one, think we all should all believe in FALSE HOPE. About everything. All of the time.

I shudder at the alternative.

Carry on,
xox

Recently, a very wise woman after careful consideration, said this to my husband: What if you viewed life as a series of green lights and open doors?

My husband is a serial problem solver. No puzzle is too complex to solve. No obstacle insurmountable.

If you need any problem worked over by a pro—he’s your man.

Great quality, right? It is, with one exception: He’s never out of work! He attracts problems. He sees flaws a mile away. Puzzles with missing pieces find him.

He is the “Obstacle Whisperer.”

Since that wise woman wasn’t me, the suggestion was well received. Profound. All of you wives know how that works.

Actually, it’s better than that. He didn’t hear her say it—It went right by him!

But I did.

That’s because our intrepid trouble-shooter was in full on sniper mode, getting in position on some rooftop somehwhere—in his head—because that’s what happens when you’re awesome at something—the Universe provides, and there is always more than enough trouble to shoot. Problems to kill. Mayhem to murder.

Right?

I mean, there’s so much trouble to shoot out there that in his field, design and building—people pay him to take some off their plate.

This is also the way he looks at everything in life. Show me the problem and I’ll solve it.

That wise woman talked to him for about ten minutes and had him pegged. She totally admired that about him but thought maybe it had begun to wear on him a little. Everything had begun to feel like too much of a burden. Pretty much like it has for all of us, myself included.

Some of us are addicted to the struggle. We’re always trying to get to the “bottom of something.” Well, guess what you guys?

THERE IS NO BOTTOM.

That’s why I loved her suggestion so much I had to share it.

These days I like smooth sailing. Less complicated living. Less fucks given. Minimum drama. And it’s just a simple tweak away.

What if you viewed life as a series of green lights and open doors?

Just writing that makes my shoulders go back where they belong instead of wearing them as earrings.

My husband and I have invented a shorthand to remind each other—Green Doors.

That’s all.
Carry on,
xox

Dear Brave Ones,
Give it to m straight—Have you guys ever done this? Please tell me you have!
Carry on,
xox

As I wove around the corner, snaking my way slowly down the hill through the canyon to my hike this morning—I spotted it.

Something wounded or dead right smack dab in the middle of the road.

Immediately my heart sank a little and my body tensed as I straightened in my seat and turned down the radio in order to get a better look. That is essential. My eyes see better in complete silence and the days of multi-tasking are over for me. I can barely drive and apply mascara anymore. I used to be a pro. Now I suck.

Besides, the music was too cheery, too hip-hoppy, for such a morbid scene.

I craned my neck like Gumby or someone equally bendy to get a better look. From a distance, it appeared to be an animal. With black fur. In a pool of blood. Something larger than a cat and smaller than a dingo. Perhaps it was a skunk or a possum? They never seem to get the memo explaining how paved roads known as streets—filled with cars—lead to death.

It was often out of view, hidden by the other cars as we wound our way, bumper to bumper, to our respective destinations.

That’s when my monkey mind took over. This was a living creature. Cut down in its prime. Maybe it was a mother scavenging food for her babies in the dry brush of the drought-ravaged hillsides. Single mothers can never catch a break!

It was someone’s baby. Another animal’s friend. They had frolicked and played and in all of the excitement, it had forgotten to look both ways. It was then that its luck had run out. Splat!

There it is! I could see it again. Is it moving? Oh, dear lord, no!
Why aren’t people stopping?! Someone needs to take it for help, or drag it to the side of the road at the very least!

I’ll do it!

I was quickly working myself into one hell of a lather.

When I get close, I’ll stop my car and block traffic in order to access the animal’s well-being. Someone must! I decided.

If you hear of the murder of a woman in yoga pants in the Hollywood Hills by a mob of angry commuters in Friday morning gridlock—it’s me.

When the poor creature came back into view it looked to be lying still. “Oh thank God it’s dead”, I muttered aloud. That is not a sentence that feels good coming out. It is something you never want to hear yourself say. But I meant it. It looked like its suffering had ended.

“Why the fuck is everybody running over it?” was the next thing I heard my mouth say. Because it was true.! Forget stopping, no one was even swerving to miss it. In their rush to get wherever they were going, they were running directly over the poor thing.

I don’t care if it’s a dead possum. Swerve around it all of you accomplices to murder!

It was disrespectful, to say the least.

The time of reckoning had come. Ten minutes had passed and I was almost upon it.

Do I look and ruin my morning?
Or do I turn my head and look away?
Do steal a quick glance and say a little prayer?
Or do I stare and gross myself out?

I looked. Right at it. And I tried to swerve to miss it but I couldn’t without dying in a head-on collision—so I did my best.

Thump, thump. I cringed.

The right side of my car ran over it at the exact moment that I saw what it was, this roadkill that had sabotaged ten minutes of my morning.

It turned out to be a pile of black socks on top of a red sweater!

I know what you’re thinking and you’re right.

Carry on,
xox

On my recent trip to Canada, I was asked repeatedly if I felt any difference between the States and Canada.
You know, energetically. In other words a not so thinly veiled attempt to get me gabbing about the texting habits of our Cheeto-N-Chief.

Now I don’t know about you, but the butt cheeks in MY inner circle have been clenched so tightly since November that I for one could press a quarter into two dimes and nickel. Needless to say (so I will anyway), the discomfort caused by this collective gluteus charley horse has set everyone on edge.

And that was never more evident than when I spent a few days in Vancouver – or “America Lite” as I like to call it.

When I landed, there was a rare powdered sugar snow event happening which made the serene calm even calmer and the whole city eerily quiet. As if a benevolent snow angel was whispering a sweet little lullaby. That had the same effect on me as sucking on a chocolate covered Xanax.

Deep… exhale.

This Canadian silent night effect just exaggerated the fact that we, as a nation, are jittery, jumpy and wound tighter than a Real House Wife of Beverly Hills’ face (because we all live inside of reality show now, right?).

Right?

I mean, the past three weeks, in particular, have been a sucker punch an hour.
My guard is up.
My loins are girded.

Last week found me traveling in and out of the country during this cluster fuck immigration BAN—which I’m told isn’t a BAN—but let’s call it a BAN…because it is.

It may be on the legal ropes for the time-being.
But what time is it now?
That could change in the next ten minutes.

Listen, as you know, I’m a middle-aged white woman who lives in a blue state, one of the “coastal elites” and I was going to freakin’ Canada. Yet, I felt a bit anxious. I couldn’t help but clutch my “papers” to my chest like an early 1900’s, babushka wearing, Irish potato farmer – or a Syrian refugee. It made me distinctly aware that the only difference between them and me is the fact that through no effort on my part, I won the “uterine lottery” by having the good fortune of being born in Los Angles California, USA.

That being said Canada is looking pretty darn good to me right now.

I think Canada looks at us US citizens these days like I’ve always looked at Italians. With a mixture of admiration and pity. “What great people! They have so much going for them” I’d say. “The food, the wine, the shoes! Such a shame their “elected” officials are bat-shit crazy and their government is corrupt as fuck.”

Because I believe that a country’s moral aptitude trickles from the top down, many citizens in this new America are quite mouthy.
They have a newfound brazenness.
Sharp tongues.
Permission to carry a harsh political incorrectness disguised as “telling it like it is” as a weapon.

Perfect example:
I’ve NEVER heard the word “Fuck” YELLED in all of its many forms as much as it was on our American carrier as we sat on the tarmac for an hour waiting to take-off. Men, women, even babies. (It was so outrageous that a baby across the aisle yelled fuck, you know because they’re parrots, and even though her mother was mortified—we all laughed because a baby saying fuck in their cartoon voice is hilarious—and the tension inside that plane was absurd.)

As for exhibit B: On the Canadian carrier, it felt like I was inside of a time machine. Everyone was kind and courteous, like a flashback to 2014 before all of this mishegas started. So much so that we taxied away from the gate—then back again—to let a sick passenger get off (and her sisters and aunts and a couple of other random passengers) without any cursing. Next, the flight attendant announced that since our flight was going to be about an hour late on arrival, and since several passengers had tight connections to make, that while the cabin door was open and we were parked at the gate…anybody else who felt compelled to leave was welcome to do so!

Wait.
What?

I ducked.

I waited for the “fucks” to fly.

Nothing.
Silence.

As a matter of fact, good-natured silence.

That pretty much sums up the difference these days between sanity and the Twilight Zone in which we find ourselves these days.

What are you noticing?

Carry on,
xox