So… you can practice acceptance like I suggested to help you cope or you can thank Adele.
Happy Thanksgiving!
xox
It’s Tuesday morning.
The start of day three of my sort-of-self-imposed green drink fast.
My stomach is growling so loud it woke up the dog.
It sounds like the insistent, angry growl of a lion eyeballing a Gladiator like a pork chop.
I would kill for a pork chop right now. A thick juicy slice of pig-on-a-plate.
Or bacon.
OMG. Don’t get me started on bacon. If I smelled the savory aroma of bacon cooking right now I would drown in my own saliva—I just know it.
Instead of a mass of bloated puffiness, after two days I am now all gaunt and boney.
Seriously.
Okay. Not really. But anyway.
“Feel that!” I urged my husband last night in bed, taking his hand and rubbing it down my right side.
He humored me with a couple of hand passes before rolling over.
“Those are my RIBS! I can count them. Do you know how long it has been since I could count my ribs? I am literally wasting away.”
I heard him snicker from his side of the bed now to be referred to as Outer Siberia.
On Sunday night, that same guy stood in the kitchen and finished off two pieces of cheese pizza and half bottle of wine while I stood feeding kale into the blender.
“It doesn’t count if you’re standing. Everybody knows that” he responded to my dirty looks. “But in solidarity I’ll eat power bars and protein shakes for the next three days.”
What a guy.
As of this morning, he’s lost seven pounds. SEVEN POUNDS! In TWO days!
I have never weighed myself. I go by how my clothes fit. Besides, for me this is about finding clarity, not weight loss.
Yeah, right.
But my gaunt and boney self wants to hurt him—just a little.
I can’t lie. I’m too hungry to lie. It takes too much energy to lie.
My dreams have changed. They have been colorful and epic in their scale and scope.
I dreamt of swimming and running and laughing and drums.
And so has my sleep.
When my eyes opened this morning, BAM! I was awake. Wide awake.
No sluggish slugginess, no urge to meditate or ask questions.
Just BAM! Up and Adam. Protein shake, here I come!
It’s now 9 a.m. and I’m going out to run all my errands. Too Da Loo!
It is now after three and I ran every errand with the speed and efficiency of a woman in labor on a scavenger hunt.
Then I came home and chopped up some shit, made my mom’s sweet potato soufflé and baked a pie.
I also garlanded a wreath within an inch of its life and planted some white poinsettias while the pie was in the oven. I even found my smile—it was hiding in the kitchen junk drawer.
Who am I? I don’t even recognize me.
So clarity…
It is clear I have waaaaay more energy That is for sure.
And I’m not hungry anymore.
And I may be taking this whole thing a tad too far. I accidentally licked some baked sweet potato off the spoon and promptly spit it into the sink. Crazy, right?
It’s a Decathlon people, not a sprint, and I must not cheat—tomorrow is the home stretch.
Okay, enough chit-chat, it’s time for tea.
Lots of love from your gaunt and boney, seriously delusional, green drinking, whirling dervish, pie bakin’ friend—me.
Carry on,
xox
I am so screwed.
On Sunday morning, during meditation, the voice in my head, THAT voice in my head, suggested in a strong tone that I needed to start a minimum three-day green drink fast.
Shit. You’ve gotta be joking.
I knew the voice who was doing the talking and it’s not a prankster.
Part of being intuitive is recognizing the different voices in your head. It was not my Muse, the bossy pants who writes, nor was it the tender-hearted poet. I’m still getting them all straight.
Some would call it my imagination—or even mental illness I suppose. But I love them all as they come to the forefront of my mind and until one of them commands me to rob a Seven-Eleven—I trust them.
This was the wiser, more tuned in presence that resides somewhere close by—always guiding me. An expert at the spiritual heavy lifting that is required in order to keep me on my path. It was that same voice that suggested I could be happier, that maybe I needed to leave my husband back in ’84—it was also the voice that told me I’d live after the devastating loss of my store.
It also guided me toward writing.
It is the steady voice that takes the bull out of bullshit and turns things around. It has steered me right so many times. Too many to mention. So I listen.
But they know who they’re dealing with when they make their suggestions so naturally I struck up a negotiation. It’s what I do. It’s my superpower I suppose. I never take anything at face value, and I most certainly never take NO for an answer. I really should work for the U.N. or the State Department.
The voice said a green drink fast meaning NO food, but first things first—No coffee?
No way.
Not gonna happen.
A compromise? I MUST have my coffee! I yelled in my head. I didn’t hear any argument so I took that as a yes.
Negotiations complete. Now I’m happy to do the fucking fast.
I am SO accommodating. And enlightened. Are you getting that?
Deep down I knew why the fast had been suggested.
Because Isis makes me eat.
Not terrorism as a whole, and not even Al-Qaeda
It is Isis.
Last week was the worst. Isis threw me into an epic food-binging blur.
It made me reach for the wine on a weeknight. We try not to imbibe on school nights, you know, so we can feel disciplined.
All bets were off. As the coverage of the attacks in France escalated, instead of curling into the fetal position and crying I dove into the Triscuits. Fucking Triscuits and cheese! Like, crack cocaine. And wine. Did I mention the red wine?
Also…last weekend…my husband’s ex-wife killed a man.
Yep.
As if the energy wasn’t batshit crazy enough, we heard that his ex-wife had committed first-degree murder. What do you do with that information? How do you process such a thing?
You add meat to the cheese on the Triscuit. Then you throw in some sort of fried food. And wine. Have I mentioned the wine?
So it appears I have developed an Isis and first-degree murder inspired eating disorder, which is redundant if you think about it and the all-time weirdest sentence I never thought I’d write. But I’m guessing you have too.
By Saturday night, I was in a food frenzy coma. Feeling bloated and angry with myself, I said a little prayer as I rolled like a Weeble into bed.
Let me receive clarity, I asked. Clarity on all of it—Life, death, Isis, stress eating—all of it.
I’m not sure, but I think I feel asleep with a Triscuit in my mouth.
Do a green drink fast for at least the next three days was the first thing I heard the next morning in that place between asleep and awake. That’s my sweet spot, that place. I’ve heard amazing things there from the part of me that has my well-being at heart. Life changing things. Hard things. Things that terrified me in—a good way.
So I assumed that was the answer to my query.
Remember me? I’m the one practicing surrender. Fucking surrender. To what life offers and where my intuition guides me.
So here I am, late Monday morning, a little over twenty-four hours in and I am suffering! The timing of this is a cruel joke.
We shopped for Thanksgiving yesterday, so not only are there Triscuits in the house, there are Ruffles with ridges. And dip. And the ingredients for pies. Pies that I will have to make during this green drink thing.
Lord help me.
There were so many delectable holiday food commercials on television last night that I put myself to bed at 8:30. I couldn’t stand it. Even the Denny’s commercial had me salivating. I think I have to give back my foodie membership card for saying that.
This morning I’m hangry (anger brought on by hunger). I almost killed a man with my bare hands at the car wash. I see you there, you man. Enjoying your Power Bar. Asshole.
I’m coming unhinged.
Pray for me. I’m winging it here and have clearly lost my mind. I’ve decided to go all the way through Wednesday, making this a four-day green drink fast.
This is noteworthy. I am someone who only dabbles in green drinks. I am an amateur and an all time whining wimp. This is the Olympic Decathlon of green drinking and my hope is to medal because I’ve been told by the bravest part of me, the part that knows no fear, that after such a systemic detox—then I will find clarity.
Until then…
I am so screwed.
I’ll keep you posted.
xox
Hi guys!
Last week a friend posted this adorable little video, with an animated mouse teaching meditation, narrated by Dan Brown and that got me to thinking about his book 10% Happier and how he discovered meditation and it changed his life, and the fact that I wanted to recommend his book a while back, but I spazzed out and forgot and how helpful this could be in the week that follows with family, and you know, how timing is everything —oh well, this is a glimpse into how my mind works and the fact that I’ve had too much caffeine…oh yeah, have a great Sunday!
Carry on,
xox
Have you been a victim of Family Holiday Dysfunction? Yeah, me too.
That’s why they call it Turkey Day.
Here’s a reader’s holiday favorite NEW and revised on the Huffington Post.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/hard-feelings-with-a-side_b_8612360.html
Hang in there—it’ll be over soon!
xox
Change. Who likes it? Nobody.
Who does it? Everybody.
How does it work?
Badly for those who fight it—better for those who go with the flow.
This is for me I’m Always learning!
Carry on,
xox
I don’t want to harp on it, but hey, after the atrocities of this past weekend, I was reminded of the brevity of life and how many things still linger on my To Do List.
So, if I knew the world (or my life) were to end tomorrow, what would I regret not having done?
Walking the 500-mile pilgrimage of The Camino to Santiago de Compostela, through France and Spain. (My guess is that the success or failure of this undertaking rests solely in the choice of shoes).
Cleaning out my closet and giving away everything I haven’t worn in a year—which will leave me five pairs of black yoga pants and a tattered Oprah t-shirt.
Go somewhere remote and take a two-week vow of silence. Seriously. (Not the Camino, I may need to ask for directions).
Write everyone that I love a letter expressing my deepest, most heartfelt feelings and use the nice stationery that’s still wrapped in tissue paper in a sealed box.
Write one New York Times Bestselling book—or five.
Order dessert.
Take dance lessons.
Learn Italian.
Cut my hair short and spiky.
See Pompeii.
Speak at a TED TALK.
Sing Karaoke in a foreign country.
Wear the gorgeous gown I wore at my wedding again (which by-the-way was not a traditional bridal gown).
Along those lines: Stop saving anything for a special occasion.
Open that bottle of wine, use the good dishes, wear those diamond earrings, dance in those insanely expensive shoes with the three inch Swarovski crystal heels.
Eat my favorite meal, Thanksgiving dinner, more than just once a year.
Bake more pies.
Start telling stories onstage.
Disclose all of my secrets. Then make sure I die. Immediately.
Sell a screenplay.
Spend more money. Yes, you read that correctly!
Walk among pine trees more often.
A pine forest is my favorite smell on the planet, followed by melted chocolate, puppy breath, and onions and garlic sautéing in butter.
Smile more at strangers.
Hug my dog and my husband more often. I can’t imagine how that is possible, but I’m going to try.
What’s on your list? Care to share?
Carry on,
xox
After years of exhaustive, mind-numbing, soul-crushing research and a lifetime’s supply of tears—I have found this to be true.
Sadness is pretty much at the root of anger. And jealousy. And insecurity. And, and, and…
Are you mad? What are you sad about waaaay underneath all that rage?
What is anger protecting?
What is so raw that you’ll pick a bar-fight in order NOT to look at it.
Hey, listen, don’t kill the messenger!
Tell your bodyguard to back off.
Love you,
Carry on,
xox
On Sunday and Monday, the weather seemed to mirror the energy of chaos that’s rampant in the world right now.
Isn’t that interesting how the weather mirrors energy? I remember 9/11 was a bright and sunny Indian Summer day in New York City with beautiful clear, blue skies, and the next day the skies turned grey and gloomy as they opened up and cried all of our collective tears.
I find that fascinating.
Anyhow, on Sunday, as the cold winds whipped our yards into a frenzy, tipping over pots and tearing branches off of the mature trees we have surrounding the house, and chucking them onto patio furniture, our cars in the driveway and turning the path to the front door into a sort of hero’s journey of leafy obstacles, I decided to do what I do best: hide in bed with the dog, a book, and some movies on TV.
Reading and watching TV at the same time is a habit I acquired as a teenager in high school.
It serves no purpose other than to keep every quadrant of my brain activated and occupied—so I’m unable to dwell on any of life’s other distractions, like personal hygiene, eating, or worrying about whether a terrorist sleeper cell exists in my neighborhood.
When I finally did decide to assuage the loud rumblings of my stomach by enjoying some cheese on a Triscuit and cup of Earl Grey—hot—I turned my full attention to the movie since it was nearly impossible to hold my book and a cheesy Triscuit at the same time.
It turns out the film was fairly recent and was only about ten minutes into the plot, which meant that now that I had given my body some brain food (as I like to call complex carbohydrates), I would be able to catch up quickly with what was happening on screen.
The movie was Invasion, a current-ish, snazzy remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers with a younger Daniel Craig (yum) and an actress whose face is Botoxed so heavily that NOTHING moves. I found this incredibly puzzling since the only way those infected with the alien virus (that has turned almost the entire population of earth into emotionless robots) can identify those who have yet to be “turned” is their show of emotion.
When an uninfected person would run or scream or cry, they would stick out like a sore thumb and get apprehended and infected into compliance.
Yet here’s the heroine of our story looking like a gifted ventriloquist, her mouth stuck in an insipid grin while out pours the sound of full monologues of terror and grief. “I can’t find my son!” she wails in agony while her face maintains the serene mask of a woman getting a pedicure.
Interesting casting choice.
But that’s not what I wanted to focus on here.
As I sipped my tea and snarfed my carbs, despite the sketchy casting choices, I started to marvel at the synchronicities the movie was bringing up as it drew me in.
I’d spent the morning getting caught up in the atrocities in Paris, vacillating between feelings of disgust and pity toward humanity.
What a fucking mess we’ve made, I lamented. Look at all the pain and the sorrow caused by a few people’s feelings of deep despair and hatred.
Human emotions run amok. What in heaven’s name is the answer?
In the movie, an alien species had devised an answer: Remove all those troublesome emotions from humanity and then have the wiped out, robotic humans clean up all of their messes, leaving Earth a sort of over sanitized, completely passionless and uninteresting version of itself. Like Disneyland or Switzerland on steroids.
In the background of certain scenes was TV coverage of wars ending, peace accords being signed and walls coming down.
Neat and tidy with a handshake and minimum of fanfare.
Sounds great right? Especially after the events in the past couple of days.
But along with the absence of hostility, there was a complete lack of joy, or passion, no relief or cause for celebration.
Worst of all—there was a complete absence of love. If you showed compassion or love—Busted! They’d catch you and infect you into a robotic shell of your former self.
Supposedly it was all done for our own good. A wiser species trying to save us from ourselves, but, um no thanks guys. We will deal with the emotional lows if you’ll leave us the highs of love, joy and caring—thank you very much.
And therein lies my cheesy, frozen-faced, synched-up Sunday afternoon movie revelation.
“Humanity is capable of such horrible nightmares and such beautiful dreams” to paraphrase a line from the movie Contact and as empty and fed up as I can feel after horrible things happen— if we try and force change—or wish the world were different—we unleash a whole slew of unforeseen complications and lose sight of our greatest gifts.
Freedom, Compassion, and Diversity.
What do you guys think?
Carry on,
xox
Me and Ruby watching TV and being Sunday bed-slugs.
Hey guys,
Here’s a holiday favorite that this year I’ve been able to put on the Huffington Post.
Take a look. If you know him you’re going to smile and if you don’t, well, I think you’ll want to.
The big French guy who stole my heart — and then hijacked my favorite meal!
Cheers!
PS. REAL men use pink rubber oven mitts! Bam!
xox
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/how-my-french-husband-hij_b_8547286.html
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