relationships

Sally: He just met her… She’s supposed to be his transitional person, she’s not supposed to be the ONE. All this time, I thought he didn’t want to get married. But, the truth is, he didn’t want to marry me. He didn’t love me.
Harry: If you could take him back now, would you?
Sally: No. But why didn’t he want to marry me? What’s the matter with me?
~From “When Harry Met Sally”

We ALL have him/her. That “one that got away.”
Even if we were the ones that broke it off, when that someone moves on – we suffer.
“That could’ve been me” we whine into our wine.

Saying they wanted to marry you or that they weren’t the marrying kind and then GETTING MARRIED. For some, this person is extremely high-profile – I can’t even imagine how that must feel. Seeing that person captured by the paparazzi, on the cover of every magazine, having the audacity to go off and be happy…with someone else. Ugh.

It’s bad enough when you just hear it from a friend or spot the happy couple at the Farmer’s Market; as you duck behind the organic apples, in order to avoid eye contact, because you still have bed head and you’re wearing your baggy sweats, and they look like they’ve just jumped off the pages of the J Crew catalogue.

A mutual friend posted something a couple of weeks ago about one of my former boyfriends.
He was no George Clooney, but he was a large liver. Large liver’s are those guys/gals that are highly successful in high-profile professions, have money to burn and style to spare.

Seems one of his country homes was published in a prominent shelter magazine, so I stupidly went to take a look.
Do you ever google yourself or people from your past?
I never have, but I did, and I can tell you – BIG mistake.

This guy is living the dream. Beautiful wife, kids, homes all over the world, tons of money.
Part of me thought, ‘Hey, that could’ve been me’ then, as I read further, the rest of me slapped some sense into me, ‘Hey, that would NEVER be you. You still have nothing in common.’
Shit. That part has an epic memory and is always right.

We met on a blind date. Fixed up by a mutual friend.
By the third date, he was professing his love. Every time he told me he loved me I’d smile and say: “well, thanks, but you don’t really know me yet.”
I was at least that self-aware; something he didn’t appreciate.

He was nouveau riche, meaning, he had gone from making fifty grand a year to well over a million – overnight.
It became his idea of fun to spend the entire day on Sunday, trying to spend all of his money. He already had a house, a boat and a couple of cars, so, hey, why not.

We did have tons of fun and laughed our heads off. Did I mention he was funny?

Oh yeah, he was handsome, smart and funny.
He had an amazing job and was the hottest new wunderkind in his profession.

And you could tell – he was wife shopping.

It felt to me like he was taking a walk on the wild side by dating me. He liked the waspy prom queen types; I was way too bohemian at the time; all blonde hair dyed red, vintage clothes, new age, alternative music – me.

The truth was – we were completely incompatible.

He had a boat – I got seasick. I was Yoshi Yamamoto, he was Chanel.
He made fun of my bleeding heart liberalism, my altruistic nature, the spiritual books I devoured and all my flea market finds; not in a mean way, but enough to keep me off-balance.

We didn’t have a thing in common besides the great sex and our senses of humor, and I was seriously considering overlooking that…for the lifestyle.

By the end of the first month together he launched the relationship into anxiety overdrive by asking me to go on a uber luxurious trip to Paris and the South of France with him for three weeks. I only had a week’s paid vacation time left, so he offered to pay my rent.
He’d also paid for my move to the city, to be closer to him. It was all making me extremely uncomfortable. He thought my squirming was cute.

One Sunday he took me shopping in Beverly Hills in that Pretty Womanish way: walking in, sizing up the joint, acting like a big shot, asking for champagne and pointing to the most expensive things in the store; while calling all the shop girls “sweetheart.”

It wasn’t sexy, or charming, like the movie. It was mortifying, and I had my first of many anxiety attacks in the dressing room, gasping for breath, watching through the curtain as the shop girls rolled their eyes at him.

Since he had Saturday and Sunday off, he immediately started to voice his disapproval of me working on Saturdays.
I was a jeweler, Saturday was non-negotiable. Hey, I was a shop girl…sweetheart.

He let me know he didn’t care for my roommate. He also disliked my friends and family, virtually isolating me from my old life. We only spent time with his friends, at his work events, on his boat or at his house.

His large life kicked my sweet little life’s ass .

Then the whispering started.
“He’s going to ask you to marry him in Paris” his friends whispered, giving me a head’s up…and a stomach ache.

Shouldn’t I have been elated? He looked amazing on paper, the anomaly every girl I knew was looking for; a wealthy, smart, thirty-something guy – who wanted to get married!

I sat in the bathroom staring at the bidet (wondering how it worked) that first night in Monaco, shaking like a leaf, experiencing another anxiety attack. I was thousands of miles from home, on his dime. All I had on me was the three hundred dollars in my wallet and a credit card with a fifteen-hundred-dollar limit. He was the only person I knew there, and not even THAT well.
ALSO
He had Henry Higgins’d me until I barely recognized myself.
I was acting like the biggest fakity-fak- fake, with the fancy clothes and the $500 bikini’s he’d purchased for me, smiling my big, white, toothy smile on the arm of this guy I barely knew, who I wasn’t sure I loved and was supposed to become engaged to.
For me, the fairy tale was unraveling.

The trip went…okay— long story.
Suffice it to say we did not get engaged. I told you, we weren’t compatible.
Yet, when things cooled off and he stopped calling and coming around – I was shocked and hurt. He was able to dismiss me as quickly as he fell for me. I kept asking myself, what had I done wrong? Why didn’t he love me anymore? It’s hard when the spotlight of someone’s affection shifts away from you when you have to return to your sweet little life, garment bags of gowns hanging sadly in the closet. I’m sure George’s former paramours can relate.

I hope they had fun and I hope they learned the lessons I learned:
1) When someone professes their undying love for you just days into a relationship – It isn’t real. I knew it, my anxiety was my indicator.
(My current husband used the appropriate vocabulary; he said he didn’t want to take me home after a date because he was infatuated with me, and that made me swoon.)

2) If your person isolates you, never wanting to spend time with your friends and family – run. He’s leading you away from all the people who take you by the arm and talk sense into you when you’re acting like an ass and a fake and making horrible decisions.
That would end up being a litmus test for future men. I would marinate them in my friends and my life and if they balked…I’d end it.

3) Really get to know someone before you leave the continent on their dime.
It’s all so romantic, but it’s a huge imbalance of power and you’ll feel it in your gut.
Don’t let the champagne override that, your gut is always right.

4) If it’s the lifestyle you miss – provide it for yourself. I realized I LOVED Europe and made it a priority to travel abroad as often as I could. On my own dime.

So, when you’re feeling that little pit in your stomach, thinking: ‘that could’ve been me’, you have to ask yourself: ‘Really? Could you have gone the distance with that person? Did you feel like the best version of yourself when you were with them?’

I believe not. Because I believe we’re always where we’re supposed to be, in every moment.

Deep down, Stacy Keibler knew things would never last. She obviously wanted to get married, which she did less than a year after the breakup with George, and now she has a child.
But when he got engaged I’m sure she thought for a second ‘that could’ve been me.’ We all did.
But, I know, just like me, she’s exactly where she’s meant to be.

xox

“I don’t trust people who don’t love themselves and tell me, ‘I love you.’ … There is an African saying which is: Be careful when a naked person offers you a shirt.” 
― Maya Angelou

And here I thought you’d all run me out of town with pitchforks and torches.

Whoa and Wowza you guys!
The post about “becoming the other woman” went viral! 

Once again it just proves my theory (which over a lifetime of study SO extensive, that I’m going to seek Government funding) is this:
There are more of you tramps out there than I ever imagined.
NO! NOT THAT ONE!

Whatever we’ve all done in our lives, the good, the bad and the ugly; there are others out there that have been gooder, badder and uglier. (Tweetable – oh maybe not)

In other words, it’s human nature.

Some of you were brave enough to share your stories with me by commenting on Facebook and the blog, while others of you are still in the Dating Married Men Witness Protection Program, so you just emailed me, using an alias, or wrote something in lipstick on the inside of a matchbook and left it on the windshield of my car. 

Hey, no judgement here.

I think the take away is that no matter at which stage you realize something is wrong; it may be being confronted by the wife, or temporary incarceration (what?) you can turn the ship around and do the right thing.

Sorry, I don’t care WHO you are. If you’ve had the privilege to live into middle age, this I know FOR SURE:
We ALL have rips in our moral fiber.

We’ve ALL made some questionable decisions that lead to some really shitty mistakes.

We’ve hurt people. Innocent, decent people; and maybe we didn’t even know it – or perhaps we did.

We’ve spent money that wasn’t ours, or pretended to be something we weren’t; we told lies.

That’s one of the biggest things about cheating and betrayal – the breech of trust.
It leads us to always wonder; ‘If they lied about THAT, what else are they lying about?’

I’m actually glad I had that experience with lying and sneaking around, so young.
After the fact, even though I could justify it to myself by thinking, ‘Oh, my husband ignores me, and I’m in an unhappy marriage’, it required me to do some heavy soul searching.

I wondered, ‘Am I someone who cheats? Am I someone to whom lying comes easy?’ and the answer was…NO.
A resounding NO. I had tried it and I sucked at it. It made me sick and a nervous wreak, THANK GOD.

I knew if I ever got married again, I would be faithful AND I could never get a job with the CIA.

I’ve met, numerous times in my life at this point, the people to whom this is a piece of cake.
It is effortless, smooth as silk.
Holy shit they scare me.

You are not them and neither am I. They don’t read or write blogs like this.
Blogs like this cause them to spontaneously combust.
So does introspection of any kind.

When you come across these people from now on…cross the street.
Save yourself the trouble.

And hey, don’t make a career out of feeling bad about the times you didn’t.

“Never make someone a priority when all you are to them is an option.” 
― Maya Angelou

Xox

“Sooner or later, everyone’s story has an unfortunate event or two…The solution, of course, is to stay as far away from the world as possible and lead a safe, simple life.”
― Lemony Snicket, The End

I was driving to the hair salon to see my beloved Reny and get my grey amped up.

Yes, you heard me, I’m embracing my inner crone, who is making her debut in my life one strand of coarse grey hair at a time.

On my drive through the canyon that morning, the traffic was light, so I was tooling along at a pretty good clip; lost in my thoughts, thinking about some drama from my past, when a motorcycle startled me – zipping past me on the left.

As you know, we ride a lot and there is a practice, splitting lanes, which is riding between lanes of traffic, and is legal here in California.

Before I rode, I used to think those riders were jerks who just wanted to get where they were headed faster than the rest of us fools, who were stuck in our cars.

Au contraire.

I got schooled by the hubby in the beginning of our relationship when we, to my horror, split lanes in traffic on the 101 freeway, and I yelled for him to stop acting like a criminal. “Let’s not be that guy, shall we?”

“Motorcycles are air cooled” he informed the very naive, backseat driver behind him on his bike, “so they have to stay moving, otherwise you’ll have a bunch of overheated bikes tying up traffic even more.”

Mea culpa Big guy, I stand informed and corrected.

Still, it hasn’t lifted the jerk stigma that I KNOW the other, not as clued in drivers, level on us as we wind our way between their cars during rush hour.
I’ve seen the stink eye they give us as we go by, so I close my eyes now.

If you can’t see people, they can’t see you – right?

As we weave in and out of the lanes of slow moving vehicles, we cut it thisclose to their rear view mirrors so I’ve asked him on several occasions: what happens if we hit someone’s mirror?
“We keep going.”

Jerk factor just ramped up several notches. Did you feel it?

We never have, thank God. I would have had to hear it, since I’m blind with my eyes closed, and I wear my invisibility cloak.

But low and behold, after I had this lane splitting flashback, I came out to my car, (with a lovely, new, fabulous silver wash over my hair) to a mangled rear view mirror on my drivers side, that I suspect was the unfortunate recipient of motorcycle karma.
As I looked for a note or flowers or some kind of clue as to the identity of the culprit, my husband’s voice echoed in my ears “we don’t stop, we keep going.”

Still Jerky.

And karma…. you have the wrong car! I’m just a passenger; a blind, invisible, unwilling participant.

When I was meditating later, and asking about the whole mirror, Karma debacle, you know what the Universe said? You’re gonna laugh, I did.

“You were thinking about some past drama too much, it wasn’t motorcycle Karma at all (besides, Karma doesn’t make mistakes) it was to get your attention and to remind you to move forward, stop looking behind you – stop living in the past.
Rear view mirror – get it?”

Ha. Got it.

What signal, signs, metaphors does the Universe send you? Do you always recognize them, or are you dense, like me?
Tell me about it. Help a girl out.

Sending love and good Karma,
Xox

https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/audio-recording-on-wednesday

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

These dark days do not come natural 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.

The kitchen looks the same as it did two days ago when I was feeling so grateful.
The bright summer sunshine lighting up the couple of places that have chipped white paint make it look charming and cozy. Our coffee maker broke, we replaced it, no harm no foul ( thank you Amazon). The wine stains on the wood countertops were just faded purple reminders of a really fun party last summer.
Today, (wrong side of the bed day) I’m 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 ass when I am, because that’s like taking a 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 awhile.  Take a lovely walk outside in nature (I can’t today, with the heat index and the humidity, it feels like Thailand.)

Meditation is a good way to snap back into a loving place along with exercise. Neither of those have 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?

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?

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.
Sometimes, what I hear ME say is so vile, it makes me laugh, which then breaks the spell.

If that doesn’t work?
Do everyone, including yourself a favor.
Be quiet, go to bed early, and before you go to sleep, say a little prayer for a better disposition tomorrow.

Love you anyway,
Xox

I wailed woefully at the top of my lungs and launched into a violent series of rapid fire kicks to the defenseless cabinetry that had the misfortune of being in line with my right foot.

Huge crocodile tears fell from my eyes into the batter, adding more salt than the recipe called for.

With one fluid motion fueled by rage and befitting a segment of one of those dumbass reality shows where the woman have major public meltdowns, I swept my right forearm along the cutting board which held the two bundt cake pans; their recently mixed, liquid contents coating the entire kitchen in one swipe; like a chocolate-chip Jackson Pollack masterpiece.

Fraidy and Teddy, my two Siamese cats who were the ever present, blue eyed witnesses to the hijinks that was my life, had been watching the whole debacle from the other side of the kitchen, atop the microwave. As they jumped down to sample the brown goodness that literally dripped from every surface, I shooed them away, remembering chocolate is bad for animals, and bemoaning that fact because I needed the help.
I had a long night of clean up ahead of me.

All the while the catalyst for the onslaught of my melt down with judo moves, the melancholy, molasses voice of Karen Carpenter played on speakers from the den nearby.

“I am dreaming tonight of a place I love
Even more than I usually do
And although I know it’s a long road back
I promise you

If only in my dreams”

If you know me at all, you know that the day after Thanksgiving, the Christmas music goes into heavy rotation – and I start baking.

Always have – always will.

It usually makes me stupid happy.
That year, 1999, it mad me sad, with a side of mad.

It had all started when I bought my house the previous April. I should have felt such a sense of accomplishment for having the courage to put my whole life in storage, save my ass off and find the perfect little house to purchase 

On. My. Own.

Just me, and my two cats.
But THAT ended up being the problem.
Huh, didn’t see THAT coming.

The day I moved in, when the last friend and family member said their goodbyes, and I stood amid the contents of my life stacked around me, along with all the empty pizza boxes; I had never felt so ALONE.

Wasn’t this a milestone you were supposed to share with that special someone?

Wasn’t there supposed to be that moment where you realize you’ve done something monumental, and you and your guy dance in candlelight with your nauseatingly cute matching pajamas (him, just the bottoms, you, just the tops) to music from a portable radio?
Then don’t you drink champagne from paper cups, toasting your good fortune, christening the house by making love on a mattress on the floor surrounded by boxes, books, bicycles and skis, while your cats have the good manners to look away?

Hey, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I wanted that.

All of the sudden at forty one, after being divorced for fifteen years, I wanted a significant other, a partner, a mate, a beloved.

I wanted a (gasp) husband with whom to share my life.

I’d often wished, late at night, for a shoulder to cry on when things were going down the toilet, but this was different, I wanted someone with which to share my – joy.
My accomplishments, the good things in life.

Oh great.

That was a completely unexpected side effect that must have been written in the small print the came with the mountains of paperwork that made up my mortgage and homeowners insurance.

Damn it, it shocked me.

My house echoed back it’s emptiness to me.
It was just me and the cats.
No matter what I did cosmetically it didn’t feel like a home.
.
Backyard lawns are there to run on, screen doors are made to be slammed, big kitchens should be hot and messy with sticky floors and the constant smell of something burning.

My friends referred to my house as “the museum.”
No noise, no chaos, no dirt. Nothing out of place.
Ugh. I didn’t want to live in no freaking museum – I wanted a home.

One week that June I went to Vegas for an annual jewelry trade show. I got a call about 9pm one night from one of my neighbors, the husband half of the lovely couple next door with two kids.
Steve was yelling into the phone over a loud siren. It was my house alarm, which had been going off for fifteen minutes.
It sounded like someone had escaped from Alcatraz.
Did I have a hide a key and code for him to go in and disarm it?
Another male voice yelled loudly in the background, “Maybe we can call her husband, do you have his number?” It was the police who had been sent by the alarm company.

“She doesn’t have a husband – she has cats.”

Steve’s voice suddenly sounded hugely amplified, as if he was yelling through a megaphone, announcing my sad predicament to everyone in earshot.
The alarm had gone silent.

Thanks Steve. I don’t think they heard you in Malibu.

I wanted to die. Kill me now. I’m the cat lady of Studio City.

This sudden urge to marry is not a strictly female affliction. I know several men who have succumbed. It is the taxi cab analogy. Men are like taxi cabs, roaming the dark streets of the big city, light off, ignoring a real fare, looking for action.

Then suddenly one day, their light goes on. Just like that.

These rogue cabs are ready to go legit. A man’s light has to go on, then he’ll settle down, until then….good luck.
Once a man’s light goes on, he usually marries the next girl he meets.

It’s all timing.

That was me. Suddenly, my light was on.

I wanted a husband and whatever that meant at that age.

I yearned for complicated, noisy and messy. No more order and no more museum. So hearing that song about love and home and Christmas had sent this Spinster Auntie (as I jokingly referred to myself) over the edge.

Isnt life crazy? Just when you think you have things all figured out…..

Sometimes you don’t know until you know.
Oh brother, we’re back to that again.

But it’s true, some seemingly innocent accomplishment, tragedy or happenstance can suddenly become the catalyst for change in your life. It happens quite by surprise, when you’re not even looking.

It’s all about timing.
BAM!
Your light goes on and changes EVERYTHING.

Tell me about the time that this has happened to you because I KNOW it has!
I’d love to hear your stories too!

Love you,
Xox

“I had this conversation with my daughter about a boyfriend after her relationship ended and I said, ‘What do you miss about it?’ And she said, ‘I miss how I felt while I was in that relationship.’ And I said, ‘Well, you can give yourself that.’ She didn’t miss him. She missed who she was. These are all things we can give ourselves. They do not depend on a man… “
~Arianna Huffington

I wish Arianna had been my mom, imparting that kind of insightful wisdom to me as I sat sobbing into a vat of Ben and Jerry’s while watching another relationship crash and burn, all those years that I was single.

I did finally figure that out, but I was around thirty and it was hard won; I had the skid marks on my heart to prove it by then.

Every man that I had shared a relationship with left his emotional imprint on my life.

Some more than others.

“Oh Ouch, THAT one’s gonna leave a mark.”

Besides the break up yuck, they very generously left me with some lovely parting gifts.
One guy had a great sense of humor and loved music, another was smart and a foodie, while another was so sensitive and loved so purely that I wanted to wrap his heart in scotch tape and bubble pack so it could stay that way forever.

Many DID make me feel like the best version of myself when I was with them; funny and smart, possessing impeccable taste and wisdom; a vixen who could recite poetry, cook and wear sexy lingerie all at the same time.
You know, THAT version.

It finally became apparent to me that it wasn’t the guy, it was the attention and energy he focused on ME.

When someone shines their light on you, when they gaze at you with eyes filled with newly minted love, you can have the biggest nose zit or spinach in your teeth, and they make you feel like you’re freaking Angelina Jolie.

I felt worthy; and I had to figure out a way to feel worthy without someone else’s validation.

Once the glare of their spotlight dimmed, I soon figured out that some of the guys weren’t all that great.

With some distance between us, I realized I didn’t miss THEM , I just missed the travel, nice restaurants, fun filled weekends, jazz tapes and smart banter that each one of them had added to my life’s repertoire.

Okay, I can do this, I thought, I won’t wait for a man to do it, I’ll make my own damn jazz mix tapes and take myself out on dates.

I unapologetically saw every chick flick I wanted to see.
By. My. Self.

I love live music and theatre, so I would buy a ticket, or two, and go with a friend.
Eventually, I purchased season tickets to the Hollywood Bowl and The Pantages and a membership to LACMA, where I would wander unselfconsciously, and watch with relief, all the other couples awkwardly navigating their first dates. The museum’s Friday night “open house” with wine, cheese, music and free art made for fantastic people watching.

I started to treat my weekend nights like date nights, only I was dating……myself.

If someone mentioned a great new restaurant, I’d grab a girlfriend and go for happy hour, or Sunday brunch.

I missed the weekend trips so I started traveling alone.
I drove from LA to Steamboat Springs Colorado to see my friends, and visited the same friends in Europe for three weeks By – My – Self.
I’d do weekend jaunts to Santa Barbara, Big Sur and San Francisco.

My days and nights were full and fabulous.

Dating myself helped me get to know me better.

Previously I would morph to please a man, not wanting to seem too high maintenance or valuing his preferences over mine.
Not any more.

I knew what I wanted to do and I went for it.

I’m pretty sure that’s when the worthiness came in.
It won’t stick if you’re not 100% authentically yourself.
You can’t be posing on some guys arm, acting as if you like Ethiopian food, violent foreign films and polo shirts.

Worthiness will evade you until you live your OWN life.

You can even carry this into a committed relationship.
My husband goes off riding motorcycles with Mad Max style gangs of middle aged men in some remote desert around the world pretty regularly; leaving me to my own devices.
This is when I take the opportunity to reacquaint myself with myself and do only the things that please ME.

At this stage of the game me, myself and I have such a long and rich history there’s no need for a ton of chit chat, we communicate telepathically.

We go buy our favorite Non-GMO cornbread crust pizza that my husband thinks tastes like drywall, and plenty of rag mags like People and US. 
We go play with our make up and false eyelashes, and cook eggs in a teddy.
We usually earmark some time for a massage, a long, turn of the century British film, and a bubble bath.

We may even go shopping and buy ourselves a little something at one of the expensive local boutiques – because, well, because we’re worth it 😉

What do you do to give yourself an interesting and full life? How do you get away from needing the outside validation to feel worthy?
I’d love to hear your stories!

Sending only love,
Xox

“If you settle for less you are making a powerful statement to the Universe about what you believe in.”
Leo Knighton Tallarico

Ouch. That’s harsh, but true.
I’ve written many a cautionary tale about about accepting the scraps.
My advice? Don’t you dare do it.

Everything you see in front of you started as dream, an idea or a fear.

Settling is safe, I’ll give you that, and that can be….nice. Not a lot of drama, but not much stimulation, growth or excitement either.

Settling is motivated by fear.
The fear that what you see in front of you is as good as it gets.
“Don’t take chances or try new things; you may FAIL“, fear leaves on post it notes all around your house.

“Oh yeah, this job or relationship isn’t what I’d hoped it would be and it feels like it’s run it’s course, but….”

Do you believe you can have or more importantly, DESERVE more?

Me being me, I can’t stand mediocrity, and settling feels like a whole lot of mediocre, TO ME.

There’s a great big, juicy, beautiful world out there, ripe with possibilities and filled with potential. The potential of more.

I’m not saying I go through life dissatisfied, on the contrary, gratitude for what I have in front of me has always been the springboard for change. Most days I’m even grateful for my “failures.” Most days.

It’s ironic and counterintuitive but true.
Bless what you have and where you are in life, then believe you can have more.

If you’re in a dead-end relationship with a descent guy, feeling kinda…meh; thank the Universe for the time you’ve shared and all you‘ve learned, including the fact that he’s just not right for you.

Same goes for a career. In the past we used to stay at jobs/careers for thirty, thirty five years, retire and die. There’s an epidemic of career professionals, not slackers, deciding “There must be more to life”, and having the courage to re-invent themselves in their forties and fifties and beyond.

Here’s the thing: It’s like that game we played as kids, where one person has their eyes closed as the other person lets them know how close they are to the desired object by telling them if they are “warmer or colder.”
You can let the Universe know if they are “warmer” by being grateful for the current man in your life. He’s kind and tall and loves his mom.
He may not be EXACTLY right, but damn, he’s a lot “warmer” than the last three guys you dated.
“WARMER” you yell, as you walk away.

Same game with that last job interview. It all sounded great on paper, but after meeting and getting more details it felt “COLDER.”
It may be too much like what you currently have or moving in the opposite direction of your dreams altogether.
“COLDER” you yell to the Universe as you ditch the pantyhose and loosen the ponytail.

Hey, it’s okay to yell, the Universe loves the feedback.

So….
You can continue your daily grind of dissatisfaction and living a life of subtle disappointment OR you can send a new powerful statement to the Universe about what you believe you deserve to have.
Start seeing in front of you, a life created not by fear, but by your ideas and dreams for more.

Words to the Wise:

It won’t be easy peasy. Pack lightly (no baggage allowed)

Things may move sloooooooowly at first so, bring some books on tape.

Circumstances may take sharp right turns or accelerate to super sonic speeds. Buckle up to avoid whiplash.

It won’t feel safe, boring, mundane, habitual, typical, ordinary, redundant, secure, normal, common, familiar or routine. 

If that’s what you crave, bravo…… just quit reading this right now and breathe a sigh of relief, because rest assured, your tomorrow will look exactly like your yesterday and today.

Can you think of any situations where you need to either yell “warmer” or “colder”?
Where are your circumstances showing you you’re headed, and is that enough?
I’d love to hear some of your insights in the comments.

Xox

This past Wednesday night, at the women’s group that I so dearly love, the topic was intimacy, and the fact that, as Brene Brown has found in her over twenty years of research:

Vulnerability is essential for intimacy.

According to BB there can be no emotional, spiritual, or physical intimacy without vulnerability. 

Well…then…… shit.

Vulnerability is haaaaaard (said in a teenage whiney voice)

It leaves you open to emotional annihilation.

We’ve all been there. You’re completely and totally won over by someone who seems to meet you at the steps of intimacy. They hold your heart with their slippery hands and you give that unreliable soul the keys to the kingdom, or as Elizabeth Gilbert wrote Friday on Facebook, the keys to a small hidden lockbox.

She writes:
My girlfriends and I were talking about how all of us have a small lockbox hidden deep inside our souls, in which we keep the most fragile, frightened, innocent parts of ourselves.

If somebody loves you (and loves you WELL) they will come to learn what’s inside that secret lockbox of vulnerability, and they will be so careful to never use that information against you — to never manipulate your vulnerabilities, or mock them, or use the knowledge of your frailty as a weapon of power or diminishment.

My friends and I were talking about times in the past when we have opened ourselves up in love (or even friendship) to the wrong sorts of people — to people who found our most secret vulnerabilities and — instead of saying, “Oh, dear one, now that I know this about you, I will always protect you so carefully” — they said, “Aha! Now that I know this, I can really start messing with you!”

Then the betrayal happens, which along with the breach of trust and connection, is one of the major blocks to vulnerability. 

I don’t think it’s any coincidence that we talked about it this week and she posted her amazing post about it today.

In living rooms, yoga classes and cafe’s all over the world right now, women especially, are craving intimacy and learning the role that vulnerability plays.

Society and certain jobs (military, law enforcement, hospitals) discourage it.

But we women are getting courageous. And we realize that we are desperately in need of more human connection.

We are ALL in this together, YOU ARE NOT ALONE.
Here’s another great piece of wisdom from Brene Brown:

When we loose our tolerance for vulnerability, we loose our tolerance for joy.

Because; we loose our courage to be joyful.
It is such a daring act, because it is so fleeting.
It is over in a minute or it can be taken away just as fast.

Think about that. We will sacrifice joy, in order to keep safe, the secrets in our lockboxes.

Bottom line…..life is fuckin’ risky.

It’s ALL a risk. Love, intimacy, vulnerability, connection, joy.

The whole shebang.

But it’s a risk I think we all should be willing to take.

Be kind to yourselves this lovely weekend.
Xox

BRAT
noun.
a child, especially an annoying, spoiled, or impolite child (usually used in contempt or irritation).

Today I had a brat attack. It is only second in its savagery to a terrorist attack.
It’s like a five-year old terrorist has taken over my emotions, behavior and mouth.
Then I blew up; all. over. my. husband.

Do you ever do that? No, I’m sure I’m the only one…..

My brat inspired tantrum, albeit short, was ugly.
I wanted to stomp my feet, throw myself on the floor and pull at my hair……but I was driving…..and talking on the phone. My five-year old annoying, impolite child, said stupid stuff using a five-year old’s limited language. When she inhabits me to that degree, there’s no reasoning with me. Have you ever tried to reason with a pissed off five-year old?

Have you ever said stuff like that? No…..I’m sure you haven’t.

Anyway…
I’m inclined to blame it on the “energy”, or solar flares, but I think the sun’s been pretty quiet. I suppose I have to take responsibility.
I have no excuse except frustration at a situation and my own bad behavior in handling it.

Do you do that? No? Hmmmmmmm………guess it’s just me…..

My inner brat doesn’t rear her wild haired little head too often in my life. I do try to embrace her ( like a human straightjacket ) when she does and I’d never want her to go away for good. She lets me know when I’ve exceeded my limit. When things have gone too far.
She is the barometer of how high my stress, shame or frustration level has gotten.
When she howls; I listen. If I resort to her terrorist tactics…..there’s a problem. Either it’s something real and I’m too tired or cranky to deal.
Or, my perception has been hijacked by my ego, and I need to just get over myself.
Then other times; she’s just plain being a bitch.

Can you relate? No? Really??

I texted my husband a mea culpa as soon as I parked. Then I laughed at the absurdity of the attack.
He’s met my brat; she doesn’t scare him. Once, when they scuffled, he threatened to call my mother and rat her out.
Today’s visit was short-lived and I got the message.

Note to self: Don’t save important things until the last-minute and learn to accept help, otherwise it’s a set up for frustration. And don’t nosedive and dial.
The call was unnecessary and self indulgent………oh, that’s so her.

You ever nosedive and dial? Don’t lie. Tell me about your last brat attack!

Xox