Spiritual Humor

“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

Friends, 
Angels? Do you believe they walk among us? I sure do!
Read this and see what you think.
xox

As we rushed out through the smokey maze of the Casino at the old Sahara Hotel in Las Vegas, it suddenly hit me that he had once again forgotten to give me my show bonus. The monetary incentive he used to physically wring me dry.  

The realization stopped me in my tracks.
F*#&!

We had just finished a week-long, Estate Jewelry Show.
I was bone tired from being on my feet for over twelve hours a day—in heels, and to add insult to injury, our plane reservation left us no time to eat before the flight home, so to top it all off—I was hangry.
In other words—I was in NO mood for any fuckery!

We had grossed over one million dollars—in a week. The two of us. And I was about to fly home empty-handed, once again.

You see, I had a boss who hated to pay me. He just did.
And no carefully scripted notes or heartfelt talks, or angry outbursts on my part had done anything to change that.

I had coached him repeatedly on the merits of showing respect. It wasn’t difficult, all he had to do was pay me. And not make me ask for my money, which I HATED.

What would this be, the third time that day I’d had to ask him for my money? I was quite familiar with this humiliating power play, and I was sick of it! Listen, I had done everything I could think of to sidestep this idiocy! Even after years of his bonus structure consisting of whatever loose cash he had in his pocket, not his fat, overstuffed money clip mind you—but his pocket change, I had won one hard-fought battle by finally getting him to agree to a pre-set bonus amount.

“Why are you stopping?” he bellowed back at me impatiently. His aluminum wheelie suitcase, a rectangular R2D2, skipped from wheel to wheel, trying to keep its balance. I could’ve sworn it looked in my direction with a help me face.

He continued his frantic march through the casino toward the door.

“I’d love to get my bonus before we leave?” I asked for the third time, running to keep up. I knew that if I let it slide, even for a day or two, the odds of getting it would become so slim even a Vegas bookie would pass on that bet.

I wasn’t sure he’d heard me until in one fluid motion, he swung to the right, deftly executing a wide, sweeping, u-turn back in my direction. Still in motion, he reached into his murse (man purse) and dumped a handful of gambling chips in my direction. Surprised, I reached out with both hands in time to catch most of them. Several of them did make a break for it, the slippery little buggers rolling on their sides underneath the dollar slots nearby.

“That should cover it,” He insisted. “Now hurry up, we don’t want to miss our plane.”

I stood there red-faced and flabbergasted, knowing that he’d left me no time to cash them in. Quickly, I shoved the chips in my purse and proceeded to get down on my hands and knees to see if I could retrieve the ones that had made their escape.

A pot-bellied, middle-aged woman, with a cigarette with two inches of ash precariously dangling from her lipstick-stained lips, was straddling two stools in front of three slot machines. Without ever looking away from the rapidly rotating numbers she was counting on to change her life, her foot kicked the chips my way, like a bedroom-slippered hockey stick.
“Uh, thanks” I mumbled, crawling around on the ground in my skirt and heels, totally in awe of her unbroken focus.

“Janet, let’s go!” He chided from inside the automatic revolving glass exit doors before turning right to join the cab line.

I could hear the damn plastic chip clattering together in my bag as I ran to catch my flight back to LA.

In the hour it took to get from Vegas to Los Angeles, I began to seethe with rage.
Not only had he made me repeatedly beg him for money he had literally thrown poker chips at me in lieu of my bonus! I had never felt so disrespected. In. My. Life.

I don’t know about you, but when I get in touch with that level of anger, I have a tendency to burst into flames tears.
Hunched down in my middle seat toward the back of the plane, I cried and cried and cried. Big, wet, sloppy tears.

I decided I would rather die, covered in honey and tied on an anthill than take the prearranged ride home to Park La Brea with him and his wife. What I knew for sure was that someone was going to die if I got in that car with him. And I was way too overdressed to spend a night in jail.

As we exited the terminal, the crowd spitting us out onto the curb, I spotted his wife’s car to the left. Without making a sound, (or so much as an indecent hand gesture) I made a beeline to the right, jumping into a single cab that just happened to be waiting there for me.

The moment the door shut and we pulled away—I freaking lost it.

I began to ugly cry, complete with gasping for breath and rivers of snot running down my face.
There I was, trapped in a horrible working situation with no solution in sight. What do you do when you ask someone repeatedly to treat you with respect and they blatantly disregard that request?

I know what you’re thinking, quit! But I couldn’t. I had the kind of career everyone wanted. Travel, great pay, jewelry, prestige. Which led to a lot of financial obligations, AND I was thirty-seven and single. Wahhhhhhhhhhhh. That sad truth made me cry even harder.

As we wound our way through the late-night traffic on LaCienega, I spotted the dark, soulful eyes of the cab driver, staring at me in the rearview mirror. His deep brown skin, white turban, and singsongy accent gave away his country of origin. India.

“Beautiful lady, why you cry?” He cooed.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, I’m just feeling so sad,” I boo-hooed. “I don’t know what to do.”

I watched his eyes search my face in the mirror as I inadvertently wiped snot into my hair with the back of my hand.
“Beautiful lady, don’t be sad, it can’t be that bad,” he murmured in his soothing, heavily accented voice.

“Ohhhhhhh it is, I think I hate my boss…he doesn’t show me any respect…he paid me with…”

I started to wail. Loudly. “With, with, poker chiiiiiiiiiiiiips!”

I grabbed a couple out of my bag and tossed them onto the front seat for dramatic effect.

“Beautiful lady, you have God’s respect and that’s all that matters.”
“Really? I  mean, I guess…”

At that moment, the cab came to a slow, rolling stop in front of my high-rise apartment building.

Since I had cried the entire ride home, he had to wait as I scavenged around in my bag for cab fare. In the meantime, the lovely man retrieved my suitcase from where I had launched it, the driver’s side backseat, opened my door, and wheeled my bag inside the lobby, depositing it in front of the elevator doors. When he returned to the cab, I had composed myself enough to hand him his fare, including a generous tip for being such a good listener.

“Here you go, thank you for being so kind to me,” I said sheepishly through the tissue that was attempting to wrangle my false eyelashes back into place.

“Oh no beautiful lady, you keep that. This ride is on me.”
And before I could even argue with him, he pulled away into the dark Los Angeles night. As I watched his tail lights fade into the distance, I realized a couple of things that were not normal. And they gave me goosebumps.
They still do.

Number one: I never told him where I lived!

I just got in the cab and fell apart while he drove me home — to Park La Brea, a literal labyrinth of apartments, turnabouts, and one-way streets. My friends refuse to pick me up lest they never find their way out. Even with my best directions, many a cab driver has made a wrong turn and been spit back out onto Wilshire Boulevard.

Number two: There are ten high rises inside that complex. How is it that he had managed to navigate all the twists and turns and one-way streets and deposit me right at my door?
I’ll answer that. He was an angel. My angel. Plain and simple.

When I finally managed to come out of my stupor, slowly walking inside the lobby, I noticed he had propped the elevator doors open with my bag. Getting inside I was stunned to discover he’d also pushed the button to the ninth floor!

My floor! How did he know?

I really, truly believe that angels are everywhere and only show themselves when we need them.

THAT is the story of my Angel in a Turban.

Carry on,
Xox

“Miracles can happen, even to those who are small, flammable, and dressed all in black.”
― Lemony Snicket

Friends, I just found out like, last week, that my life fits into a literary genre — Magical Realism.

And being someone who never wants to fit into anything, ever—as it turns out, I may have to admit that the writing world may have figured me out. You see, within a work of magical realism, life is still grounded in the real world, but fantastical elements are considered normal in this world. Magical realism blurs the line between fantasy and reality (with a straight face—my words).

See what I mean? Then when you add some snark and a bit of humor you have…well…me.

Most of the writers I know write memoir. When I thought about my memoir, I was immediately reminded of this blog and all of the posts about the crazy shit that has happened, and continues to happen to me. And you know what? Those damn genre mavens were right!  My memoir would actually sit comfortably on the shelf next to any work of magical realism!

I’ve been working on two magical realism novels, and much to my own amazement, all I’ve had to do is draw on my own experiences to give them the magic. 

Looking back has given me the opportunity to recall all the events, places, people, and thousands of essays from my past. And when I sat down to remember, this was just one of many wild stories culled from my own life of mystical realism that came to mind.

Stay tuned, I’ll post more…

If you recall, I was having a hard time of it back in the early nineties.
I had a good life. Great job, money, travel, the whole shebang, but I had opened myself up to a very life-altering spiritual experience – awakening is a better word, and it had knocked me on my ass in every way imaginable.

With one foot on terra firma and the other one in god-knows-where, I was having a hell of a time staying grounded. Which has its own set of problems. Lost and alone in a world of my own making, I was completely void of humor, whimsy, or any other emotions besides fear and loathing. In other words, I found NO joy in life.

“If this is enlightenment, you can have it!” I’d yell to anyone who would listen. 

It is my belief, garnered from the very extensive and exhaustive study of ME and my years of data; that in the midst of an up-leveling (as I like to call it) the Universe, in order to keep you in the game, lays a red carpet studded with mystical miracles at your feet. And in a blatant display of showoffery, these mystical experiences are so IN YOUR FACE that as whacked out and pissed off as you’ve become – you can’t miss them.

So, here’s how this one went down: I was a wacko with a big job, on my way to work a weekend jewelry show. Seeking joy in whatever way I could,  I stopped at a drugstore along my route to get some Carefree peppermint gum, my favorite at the time,  It came in a hurt-your-eyes, bright yellow package, with twenty-four sticks of minty yumminess. It was one of the few things that made me happy, so of course, the drugstore was out of it. Deciding nothing else could assuage my surly disposition, I left, gum-less and grumpy.

I pulled onto LaCienega Blvd. and waited at the light directly across from the Beverly Center. As I sat there, stewing in my own misery, I heard the radio blaring in the car to the left of me. Even with my windows up, it was unmistakable. Rod Stewart’s song Have I Told You Lately That I Love You. Annoyed, I shot the two young men with questionable musical taste, my best exasperated, too cool for school, are you fucking kidding me, stink eye. In response, the one sitting in the passenger seat motioned for me to roll down my window.

Did I mention they looked like a couple of angels who’d walked straight out of the pages of GQ?
It was West Hollywood in the nineties. All the men who looked like that batted for the other team, so, I just assumed they were going to ask me for directions.

Deciding to comply, I rolled down my window at the longest red light in history, and the beautiful GQ model/angel reached out to hand me something. I know I was wearing my resting-bitch-face as I pulled my whole body halfway out the window to be able to reach my arm far enough to take what he was so intent on giving me.

And there it was. Wrapped in a bright yellow wrapper. A stick of my favorite Carefree Peppermint Gum!
I kid you not.

I sat there slackjawed, holding the gum, while the drivers behind me began to honk. Apparently, in magical realism, life goes on. The light had been green for a second already. These real people were very important. And my magic was making them late.

The two smiley guys pulled ahead, the Rod Stewart song still hanging in the air like cheap perfume.

If you know that section of LaCienega heading south, you know there are several lights in quick secession that are synced up in such a way that they are perpetually red. It’s a sadistic joke, and if I hadn’t been on my quest for joy via some gum —I would have avoided it at all costs.

So, in less than a minute, I find myself stopped next to my new best friends. I glance over to find them still smiling so broadly, the whiteness of their teeth hurt my eyes. Meanwhile, Rod was still singing about how much he wanted me to know he loved me, and the entire scene was so ridiculous I’m surprised I was composed enough to remember my manners and mouth a quick Thank You while holding up the gum.

For three lights we stopped next to each other and they smiled and Rod sang. Until they finally turned left. Either the song had finished or they were embarrassed that they had given me their last piece of gum.

Okay, so, I added that to my growing list of things too weird to mention—and told no one. Which was no big hairy deal seeing that I had turned so dark and flammable at that point, dressing all in black with pennies in my shoes to ground me, that I don’t think anyone was taking me or anything I had to say very seriously anyway.

And here comes the plot twist.
After doing the show in Santa Monica for three days, when I got back to the shop I went about my usual mindless tasks, one of them being to check the answer machine. It was the early nineties, remember? Cell phones were the size and weight of bricks. We all had answer machines and the one that day at work told me it was full.

Machine Full—73 messages, it read for the first time ever.

Jeez. Okay. Must be some kind of jewelry emergency!

Press Play.

Have I told you lately that I love you?
Have I told you there’s no one else above you?
Fill my heart with gladness
Take away all my sadness
Ease my troubles that’s what you do

Yep. Rod Stewart, THAT song. Every message. All 73. Until the tape ran out.

Explain that away. You can’t because it’s magical realism! Boom!

Xox Carry on

Tell me about your miracles!

 “What beliefs of yours are running your show?” ~ Somebody smarter than me

He snuck up behind me, his footsteps muffled by his baby blue crocks.

“What makes them magic wands?” He asked in an accusatory-tone more suited for a courtroom. Startled not only by his stealthy approach but also by the question, which oddly enough had, up until that moment gone unasked, I was unsure of how to begin. I mean, much like the punchline of a joke, if you have to explain it—the funny or the magic in this case, is lost.

“I suppose it’s the belief that they are that makes them so,” I replied, arranging the brightly painted pink and red wands of magic in the bucket.

He mumbled a few more pearls-of-jackassery like, “you’re crazy,” and “there’s no such thing,” as he shuffled away.
“Just so you know, dude, I’ve been called gullible, woo-woo, or a Pollyanna my entire life so you’re coming at me with a dull knife when you call me crazy. And for someone like me who’s spent most of their adult life believing in the unseen, things like magic wands require no explanation. They just are. Besides, folks who wear crocks outside of a hospital, restaurant kitchen, or garden have lost their right to judge others—I don’t make the rules!”

THAT was my imaginary response. In reality I said nothing.

So that happened three years ago when the bucket of wands was a summer staple in our front yard.

Kids and their parents would come from far and wide to take home those spiky little reminders of magic in the world. And because magic pays dividends, they left sweet cards and homemade thank you notes scribbled in crayon and all was right with the world, that is, until some soulless, shell-of-a-human-being took umbrage and stole the entire bucket of wands—not just once—but three times!

I tried like hell to remain not bitter but I failed. For three years, I refused to wand-up the hood.

Fuck it! I thought. Besides, all the kids are grown (they weren’t), all the magic is gone (it wasn’t) and anyway, I’m too busy for this shit (straight-up lie). But y’all, by the time the unreasonable facsimile for summer 2020 rolled around, I decided that if any year needed a bucket of fucking magic wands, it was this one! Only this time I went old school, leaving them in their natural state because I was out of paint and I think it was Jesus who once said,

“Wands are magic, no matter what color they are… Amen.”

Cut to: a couple of days ago, while I was in the front yard cutting the last few remaining stalks, a lovely, middle-aged woman tapped me on the shoulder interrupting the podcast about love, (yet another unseen force I fully subscribe to) that was playing in my ear. “I love that you’re doing the wands again!” she said, “I still have mine from a few years back!”

“You do?” I was truly impressed. Many others who’ve been gifted wands from me, told me that they eventually wither and die—albeit a very magical death. I’ve been told that if you mulch them the dust grows a unicorn. Again, I don’t make the rules.

“What do you call these flowers?” she asked.

“Agapanthus,” I replied.

“And is this the color they turn when they die?” She was twirling a green one in-between two fingers, admiring it like a fine glass of wine.

“Uh, well, they start off with blue flowers on the end and when those fall off I cut them and make them a wand…and then they die,” I answered.

“Well I have to tell you,” she moved closer to me so I could hear her whisper through her mask, “I don’t know if you believe in this kind of stuff, but I’ve experienced a miracle with my wands.”

I tilted my head to the side, not sure if I’d heard her correctly. Don’t believe this kind of stuff? Lady, I fill a bucket with dead agapanthus stalks and label them magic wands, I think that puts my freak flag about as high up the pole as it gets. 

“Tell me more!” I said aloud.

“So, I have two of your magic wands and I’ve kept them alive for three years in a vase of water. The color hasn’t faded a bit which I’ve come to believe is a miracle, don’t you agree?”

I nodded. OMG. Was she for real?

“I’ve been so impressed by the fact that they’re still alive that I even took the purple one to Cedar’s when my mom was getting her chemotherapy. She improved so dramatically that everyone, even all of the nurses and doctors, were convinced it was the magic wand!”

Is she serious, she really thinks the purple and red are the natural colors? Colors like that are found in spray cans, not nature! How do I tell the crazy lady that it’s PAINT. Not a miracle. PAINT! 

Holy Tin Foil Hat, what a nut!

“Anyway, I love that I got to meet you and thank you personally,”  she chirped. And with that, the mother ship shot down a beam of light and transported her back to…wait, would you just look at me—I thought she was a kook because she believed in miracles! Nevertheless, I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth.

I can’t be sure, but it appeared her belief in the extraordinary eclipsed even my own—and I’d turned into the crocks guy!

Carry on,

xox JB

“I’m not falling apart, but I’m perpetually not okay.” —Brene Brown

Hello Observers,

Soooooo great to be back, it’s been too long.

If you’ve been inhabiting the planet for the past two years, you’ve probably uttered that phrase. Me? I’ve mumbled it into my pillow, the hood of my sweatshirt, and the empty vat of raw cookie dough at least a dozen times.

This month.

Besides all the global fuckery, (and oh, for the love God, please, please make it stop) many of us have been grappling with intense, personal issues. And while ‘getting a grip’ has previously been our super-power, I can’t help but notice friends (mostly women) experiencing an emotional unraveling.

And who can blame us?

IT’S 2022 = The Year That Broke The Camel’s Back.

I think I speak for all of us when I scream into the void:

I CANNOT HANDLE ANOTHER VARIANT. THIS WHOLE TWO-YEAR, HYPER-VIGILANT-PANDEMIC STORYLINE HAS FRAYED MY VERY LAST NERVE!

I CANNOT HANDLE ANOTHER EMERGENCY SURGERY HEALTH SCARE!  SO, HUSBANDS, KIDS, PARENTS, DOGS, CATS & FRIENDS—CHEW YOUR FOOD THOROUGHLY, WATCH YOUR STEP, STAY OFF YOUR MOTORCYCLE—AND CONSIDER YOURSELVES FOREWARNED. SERIOUSLY.

I CANNOT WATCH THE CARNAGE IN UKRAINE. IT GUTS ME AND RENDERS ME USELESS. I WILL CONTINUE TO PRAY, JOIN GLOBAL MEDITATIONS, AND DONATE MY ASS OFF—BUT I MUST UNPLUG. I MUST.

“Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you.” ~ Anne Lamott

If you’ve been following me for any length of time, you know that when I unravel emotionally, it’s usually because being a Pollyanna is freaking exhausting and like you, my adrenals are shot from holding up the sky. You also know the priority I place on finding balance—and that includes hormones because stress burns them away like a goddamn fiery Super Nova.
Everyone I know is depleted.
Misfiring.
Out of whack.
So, I partnered with a friend and got to work.

The other day I got busted—

“Are you sending this to the entire world?” a friend asked.
“Uh, no.”
“Why not? The women of the world are FRIED! They’re asking for this!”
“Mmmmmkay, but how do I do that?”
“Your blog, duh!”

OMG.
Women, in over 100 countries.
Of course, The blog!

*If you’re a woman who’s feeling FRIED —or, you know and love someone who is—check this out.



WE’RE HAVING A HOT FLASH -
AND THIS IS THE KIND YOU DON’T WANT TO MISS!

We’re positively on fire about this new way to experience Croneology! It will have the same Croneology snap and crackle, with one interesting difference—these recorded calls will be stand-alone Q & A’s—with a guest expert—open to women of all ages.
Experience Our First Flash!
Thursday, March 24 at 5pm PT / 7pm CT, with Dr. Christine Farrell—A renowned hormone and wellness expert, and Croneology round table favorite, Christine has a talent for making the complicated not only easy to understand but relatable. She blew our freaking minds with her knowledge of all the latest data, recent hormone advances, and the sage wisdom she delivered with empathy and compassion. Christine is a fierce advocate for women’s health and the education of women (and their doctors) about everything hormone-related. You can find her at www.bioidenticalwellness.com

Who can join? 
Women. Of any age.

How much? 
$55 per flash.

Do I have to ask a question?
Nope. While we’d love to see your face, camera-on is not required, and mics will be muted. You’re welcome to ask a question and share with the group or simply be there to listen and take notes. You’ll also have the option to email your questions to us in advance or type them in the chat during the call.

How do I sign up for a Hot Flash?
Respond to this email with “hell yes!” and we’ll send you the payment options.

Can I share this with my friends?
YES! Please! Spread the word!

With love from your Croneology guides,
Janet Bertolus + Geraldine De Braune

P.S. head over to www.croneology.net to learn more about us and give us a follow https://www.instagram.com@croneology444 on Instagram.

This podcast is for anyone of any age who is having trouble finding joy right now:

Brené with Karen Walrond on Accessing Joy and Finding Connection in the Midst of Struggle

Okay, I know this was a lot and I apologize for being so long-winded, but it’s been a while and I had so much to say!

I love you.

Carry on,
xoxJanet

A bit of Wednesday Wisdom from me—via the School of Hard Knocks.

When Having Something Is Better Than Nothing

A number on a scoreboard.
Dust at the bottom of a bag of potato chips.
Flip flops on hot sand.
A single match.
A piece of shit car.

Tits.

A thimble-full of milk for a bowl of cereal.
Crooked teeth.
Cankles.
A light sweater in a blizzard.
An ancient, stretched-out bikini in a hot tub full of strangers.

Common sense.

A hand towel after a shower.
Somebody’s toothbrush.
Map folding skills.
A bottle of Vodka in the freezer.

Talent.

But never, ever, under any circumstances do these apply:

Any man/woman/dog who you no longer care for—in your bed.
A crap-ass, dead-end, bridge-job.
A rat-infested, rent-controlled apartment.
An abusive partner.
A cubic zirconia.
Mean friends.
Moldy cheese.
A Toupee.

Are we clear?

Carry on,
xox

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Hey there, and happy December, otherwise known as the last month of 2020 fuckery—and the portal to some other dimension.

I spent Thursday morning on the phone with the bank which for me is tantamount to a root canal without Novocaine.

To be completely transparent, I was on the offense when I started the call. You see, SOMEONE had made a big mistake, making overdraft transfers to cover two checks paid out of an account that had carried a balance of $2 in it for like, ever.

Just for context, that account has been dead to me for years.

It was from days of yore, from an old life when I was fancy and moved money around from account to account because that’s what I was taught you do with money— you move it around. You have the bill paying money, money saved for Europe, money set aside for property taxes.

You get the gist, blah, blah, blah, never mind, it is what it is.

Anyway, there it sat that ancient account, out of sight, out of mind. Occasionally, with its staggering $2 balance, I could feel its audacious Judgy McJudgerson attitude toward me—slow-blinking its disapproval at the mundaneness of my current life. So I just ignored it, like it didn’t exist.
Except it did.

In a parallel universe where I go by the name I had before I got married! A universe where I have literally $2 in my account, but I still have checks so I write them out of phantom checkbook books that aren’t real and haven’t been for twenty years!

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

If you’re at all like me (and I know you are) not only have you spent 2020 baking too many cookies, you’ve also Hazeled the shit out of your respective domiciles because let’s face it—you didn’t have anything better to do.
The one drawer I never got to was the one that houses my outstanding bills and my checks. It is seldom used because… it’s the twenty-first century and most of my banking is done online. And since my house is as old as the lint in Noah’s navel and because that drawer is so ridiculously deep it can’t be used for anything you don’t want to send a search party after—I have organized it in a way only I understand.

The newer used checks live in an open box in the front. Duh.

The older used ones exist in the middle. A metaphor for life.

Boxes of new unused checks line the sides of the drawer. And I have to tell you, they do it in the most embarrassingly satisfying way that it leaves me breathless. It’s like the drawer was made for them! There they sit, perfectly fitted pieces of a deep-drawer-puzzle. If I ever finish a box and have to throw it away I will probably panic and have to seek professional help. (That last part, that is called forshadowing).

That brings me to the checks I take photos of for mobile deposits. Those buggers are free-range, loose and unencumbered, inhabiting the dark unreachable recesses of the back of the drawer. (Have I mentioned that the back of the drawer resides in a different zip code? It does. Don’t challenge me on that.)
Folded in half and left to their own devices, the mobile deposited checks wander this bad neighborhood like pirates and I only mention this because I’m convinced that at some point this year when I was busy not living my life—they managed to open a portal to another dimension thereby sabotaging the check drawer.

Here’s what happened: The nice lady from the bank insisted that those two checks were written from an old account.

I insisted, using all the best adjectives, that that was impossible.

She read the numbers on the bottom to me and asked me very nicely to match them to the ones in my checkbook.

I mumbled obscenities, went and found my checkbook, and just about died when I saw the name at the top (see picture above) because that is not my name and it hasn’t been for twenty years!

Then I ran, like a hobble-footed, older woman wearing shearling Birkenstock sandals, a gazelle, over to that check drawer to somehow prove to Belinda (the nice bank lady’s name was Belinda) and myself, that something supernatural was afoot because even though I was holding a book of time-traveling checks in my hand—they couldn’t possibly exist.

Belinda was gracious in that way mamas teach their kids to be in the mid-west. And Canada.

She hardly laughed at all as I proceeded to toss that sinister, trouble maker of a checkbook back into the drawer while pawing through boxes to look for accomplices. But things took a turn when she asked me the simple question, “Do you want to close that account?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then can you tell me if there are any other checks that need to clear, or was it just those two?”

“I can’t imagine, but lemme look.”

“No problem.”

But there was a problem. As hard as I looked I could NOT find that phantom twenty-year-old checkbook!

“You’ve gotta fucking be kidding me!” I said, pulling the drawer all the way out of the wall, tipping it upside down, and spreading it’s contents onto the floor with my foot.

“Pardon?”

“Oh nothing, its just…I can’t seem to find that book…”

“But you just had it.”

“Right. I did. Didn’t I? I mean, shit, am I going crazy?”

“Noooooo…you’re not crazy,” Belinda replied unconvincingly, folowed by a long, uncomfortable pause. Then finally, “It is 2020, who isn’t a little crazy?”

Poor, sweet, Belinda. Now she was so far down my rabbit hole she was pretending I was sane so I wouldn’t feel bad. I hoped for her sake she wasn’t moonlighting as an actress—because she sucked. Bless her heart.

I spent the rest of the afternoon shredding things that should have been shredded years ago, and finding things I didn’t know were lost. Like an old silver dollar, an address book from 1999, and ticket stubs from a museum in Italy.

But still no checkbook. It has literally vanished. If you can explain that to me I’ll buy you a puppy.

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

This is from back in 2015 when all we had to worry about was the threat of a nuclear holocaust. Awwwww…the good old days! But it’s still really good advice.
Stay well my dear friends.
xox

It never occurred to me that I might die in a thermal-nuclear holocaust. 

A motorcycle accident, sure. Choking on my gum or a large mouthful of  Raisinettes, huge possibility. But turned into toast at the hands of two man-babies with weird hair? Not so much.

I grew up during the Cuban missile crisis, we had “duck and cover”  drills twice a week in an effort to convince us we’d be safe under our desks. Like radiation and fire would skip over our grade school. Or Catholic kids dressed in their Gawd-awful uniforms with their hands clasped tightly together in prayer wouldn’t die. I knew even then that the whole thing was bullshit. I also knew that if the bomb dropped I’d die without ever kissing a boy, getting boobs or being allowed to order Coca Cola at a restaurant. 

You wanna know what really scared me as a kid? Nuns, clowns and math tests. The end.

So, now what? What if Kim Jong What-the Fuck picks California to nuke? Will the world even care? Will it miss Kombucha, man buns, and hot yoga? I tend to think not. My guess is that us whiny, liberal, coastal elites will not be missed.
At first.
I can only imagine how the political pundits will spin it once the radioactive dust has settled. “Good riddance giant blue state.” the headlines will read.  “One less thing to worry about in the 2020 election.” 

I bring all of this up because I read this recent Facebook post by one of my favs, Anne Lamott, who wrote about her concerns starting off with “We are so doomed.”

Are we?

My immediate thought: “Well, if that’s the case I’m done shaving my legs.” 

Then I remembered being a kid and watching all of the grown-ups wringing their hands with worry and how I knew, even five decades ago, that worrying wasn’t going to make anything better. So, instead of joining the hand wringing circle,  I grabbed my “bug jar”, ran outside to the field on the corner, and looked for more ladybugs. Because ladybugs are good luck (especially the rare ones without any spots) and being a kid gave me permission not to worry. To not know how to fix things. To just be in the moment, enjoying life.

That’s what Anne is saying below, and seriously, you guys, I know it sounds trite and you probably want to pummel my face—but that’s all we can do. 

Well, that and bury ourselves in a giant puppy pile while wearing that expensive dress we were saving for a special occasion and eating any carb that isn’t nailed down.

I give us all permission to be childlike.  Innocently oblivious. Also, it feels like the right time to tell anyone and everyone that you love them.

Now. Don’t wait. 

xox Love you guys. Who’s with me?

TAKE IT AWAY ANNE…

“We are so doomed. There is nothing we can do. We are at the mercy of two evil ignorant syphilitic madmen, the two worst people on earth. I mean that nicely.

Where do we even start?

We stop trying to figure things out. “Figure it out” is not a good slogan. We practice trust and surrender, and attention to what we know is beautiful: dogs, art, the Beatles, each other’s eyes. And we don’t give up hope. Emily Dickinson said that hope encourages the Good to reveal itself. We need all the Good we can summon in these Locked and Loaded days.

So what do we hope for?

Pivot! A perfect time for the Pivot.

Just kidding.

We hope and pray for the return of sanity, or even sanity-ish. I do not hope for a successful Trump presidency or failed Trump presidency. I hope that he does not blow up the whole world.

Is that so much to ask?

What if he accidentally blows up a little bit of the world?

Well, these things happen. We’ll stick together. What has always lifted my spirits is a promise that I made to myself, that if it looks like the end of the world, I get to eat every single thing on earth that can’t outrun me: the last few days, I will only eat nachos and creme brûlée and Safeway carrot cake. Oatbags of M&M’s. No vegetable matter!

That’s something to look forward to!

One more question: how do we get to hope in these dark ratty days?

We don’t think our way to hope. We take the actions, and then the insight follows. The insight is that hope springs from awareness of love, immersion in love, commitment to love. This begins with radical self love: to save the world, make yourself a lovely cup of tea. Put lotion on your jiggly thighs, clean sheets on the bed, the most forgiving pants you own. On the possibly last day on earth, you do not want to be wearing pants that pinch or tug, or ride up your crack.

Trust me on this.

Radical self-love means you treat yourself the same way you would treat your favorite cousin, or even cranky old mealy-mouthed me. Watch the self-talk. You would probably use a sweeter tone of voice with the cousin or me, that you would with yourself. This will change the world.

Get outside, even just to the front porch, and look up into the sky and into the tree tops, and say the great praise- prayer: WOW. Listen for the sound of birds–or bird. Surely there is one lousy bird somewhere in the vicinity. Close your eyes and really listen. If birdsong was the ONLY proof we have that there is a bigger deeper reality than what transcends what we are seeing on the news, it would be enough for me. Eyes closed, breathe, listen: secret of life.

And lastly, take care of the poor–right now. In Hallelujah Anyway, I wrote that when I got sober, I was taught that happiness lay in going from big shot, to servant. If you want to feel loving feelings, which is hope, do loving things. Send a donation to a group that feeds and shelters and clothes people, in your neighborhood, or Syria. Don’t tell yourself you have no money–pack up clothes and shoes to take to a shelter. Or cash in the money in your laundry room change cup, and give it to people on the street. Give away three dollars to moms on the street with kids, and give the kids colored pencils and journals, or index cards, and say,”It is good to see you,” even if you have tiny tiny judgment issues involving bootstraps and combed hair.

If you have time, register a few voters. Also, maybe a ten-minute nap–the writer Robyn Posin says rest is a spiritual act. Father Tom Weston urges, “Left foot, right foot, left foot, breathe.” Ram Dass tells us that ultimately, we are all just walking each other home. Let’s get started.

Am sending you love, whoever you are, and as pastor Veronica says, God bless you good.”

When you’re touched by magic, nothing’s ever quite the same again. What really makes me sad is all those people who never have the chance to know that touch. They’re too busy, or they just don’t hold with make-believe, so they shut the door without really knowing it was there to be opened in the first place.

~CHARLES DE LINT, What the Mouse Found and Other 

I don’t think it’s a secret to anyone that I believe in magic. 

That I have a facility for “holding the make-believe”.

That I live most days steeped in my overly vivid imagination. Now, that being said, it doesn’t mean I don’t like to test magic which I do with nauseating frequency. It’s called discernment, and if you are a friend of mine or you live with me—you frequently have to fasten your seatbelt because, when you goad magic? 

MAGIC SHOWS UP!

Case in point:

I’ve recently become obsessed with manifesting, which, if you think about it is just magic we’ve all agreed is real. 

You know, first, there’s the desire—then there’s the waiting period—and then, as if out of thin air—it shows up—Magic! 

Anyway, I’m interested in the in-between part. The waiting. The span of time where the money isn’t quite in the bank yet. The days, weeks or months between wanting a new lover—and seeing him lying naked and unashamed—in your bed. 

In my quest, I’ve been taunting magic to show me more of the process. “Show me the energy dynamics behind getting an idea—and making to real!” I yell into the void…

Often, on the free-range, off-leash hike with Ruby, we meet up with a woman I will call writer lady (because we only know the names of the dogs) and her dog Betty. Betty is a scruffy faced mutt who thinks she’s a show dog, finicky, ill-tempered and not at all interested in being seen with the likes of Ruby. 

Yesterday, when we walked with Betty and writer lady, Betty yapped incessantly and nipped at Ruby’s Achilles while writer lady wove a tale of terror about her experiences as an actor and writer in Hollywood. 

Gee, I’ve never heard that one…

Just at the point where I thought my ears might bleed, writer lady suddenly became exuberant, pointing to a knee-high, scraggly looking plant to our left.  

“Look, a sunflower!” she managed to fit in-between complaints. 

“Really?” I asked. “Are you sure?” I didn’t mean to be a Doubting Debbie but I’d never seen a sunflower on the hike before and I think I would have remembered because I’m unusually observant and I have a thing for wildflowers.  

“Yeah, I usually see one or two, a result of the birds you know.” 

Still unconvinced, I played along. 

“Will it live?” I asked, looking at the dry soil. 

“Oh, yeah! Sure!” she replied with a sense of optimism I wished she could transfer to an IV drip and infuse straight into her career. “It will get a lot taller and then, in about a month, it should bloom.” 

She was a horticulturist at heart—obviously.

“Huh.” was my profound response. 

Today as we were walking, I blocked out her depressing stories and went to my magic place. Literally.

I started thinking about the manifesting experiments I’d been doing while my hubby and I played cards on the weekends. Cards are easy for me since I literally give no fucks about winning. The object of the game, in a nutshell, is to collect three of a kind or a straight—and on Sunday I had two magical experiences that blew my mind!

I’ve always been told the key to manifesting is ”Keep it light.”

No striving. No begging. No bargaining. No kidding. 

Just ask for something with words like ”Wouldn’t it be great if I picked an Ace,” or “A three of clubs would be delicious right about now.”  You know, easy, peasy, Parcheesi. 

“Oh! Ruby’s pooping!” writer lady exclaimed with the same enthusiasm I reserve for animals shitting on the toilet. That pulled me out of my day dream and it also meant I had to carry a bag of dog shit for the rest of the hike, about 2.5 miles. 

I hate that. I make a point of carrying NOTHING of my own so that I can walk, free and unencumbered and then she poops and I’m Queen Elizabeth with the ever present blue plastic “purse” on a hike.

Ruby, feeling instantly free, unencumbered, and ten pounds lighter took off running toward the silhouette of a woman walking toward us, apparently without a dog. 

Ruby finds that suspect. She always has. 

People on hikes without dogs is an abomination as far as she’s concerned. Assuming they must be lost, she’s only too happy to find them by frantically searching in the bushes and under large rocks.   

“God, wouldn’t it be great if someone came along and collected our poop bags?”  I said to writer lady, not kidding at all.

Walking toward the dog-less woman who was grinning from ear to ear because she didn’t have to carry a bag of shit for two miles, I apologized for Ruby who was fixated on her fanny pack like a bomb-sniffing dog at the Tel Aviv airport.

Ruby’s law—any human wearing a fanny pack, with or without a canine—has treats.

“Hey, no problem,” she said, petting Ruby’s ears like a bona fide dog person, “Why don’t you give me that?” she motioned toward the bright blue plastic poo-poo bag.

“You…mean…this?” I stammered, trying my best not to shit my own pants.

“Sure“ she chirped, “I collect all the dropped and discarded ones and throw ‘em in the dumpster.” She held up a large garbage bag I hadn’t noticed until that moment.

“Huh,” I responded, after realizing I’d blown one of my three magic wishes on a bag of shit. 

Then I practically genuflected and kissed her ring with gratitude.

Our enthusiasm restored, Ruby and I took off on the rest of the hike while the Poop Saint, Betty, and writer lady decided to walk back to the dumpster together.

The minute they were out of sight I yelled at magic in my outside voice, “Oh, my Gawd you’re such a show-off!” 

Then I remembered Sunday, the cards, and the time slippage. 

“A ten would be splendid,” I’d asked, after noticing a pair of tens. Remember, I needed three of a kind.
My husband picked a card and discarded a Queen. I looked back at my own hand, suddenly, out of the seven cards there were now three tens!

How could that be? 

I picked a card and looked again. Now, only a pair of tens stared back at me. What the fuck?  But the card I picked was a ten! NOW I had three tens!

My heart was running a marathon in my chest but I didn’t say anything. I’d been messing around for weeks, asking for a certain cards, very specific cards, and the results had been nothing short of remarkable (you can ask my husband) but I’d never seen the cards change in my hand! 

It was probably a fluke, so I asked magic to show me again.

The next game, I asked for an ace of spades to complete a straight. “An ace of spades would be delicious,” I said to myself as I picked a card. It was a Jack, which I discarded, but when I looked back at my hand I saw the ace of spades right there with the two and the three! 

Wait, what?

Now, I know what y’all are thinking, “Janet, you have got to stop that day drinkin’!” But I can swear to you that I was stone cold sober. 

I touched the ace with my thumb to prove to myself it was real, nevertheless, when I picked a card and looked again—it was gone, back to some other card.  My face got hot and I started to sweat but I kept it on the down-lo, watching and waiting for what would happen next and you guessed it— the next card my husband put down was the ace of spades! That’s when I almost threw up.

It was like the universe was giving me a “preview of coming attractions”.  Hey, I’m the one who wanted to see what happened in the void and you know what? MAGIC SHOWED UP!

Today, toward the end of the hike, I thought about the sunflower. Was it really a sunflower? Had we passed it? A few minutes later the bright yellow petals caught my eye. There was the sunflower standing waist high and in full bloom! How could that have happened in a day? I screamed inside my head as Ruby danced around me, happy as a clam with her chewed-up tennis ball. This was the part where I just about shit all over my Lulu Lemon.

Just to prove it to myself I took the picture above. I can’t wait to go back tomorrow and see if it’s still there. 

Below are some quotes about Magic that I love. I’m starting to believe that the more we marinate in it— the more it shows up for us.

Stay tuned & Carry on,
xox

I would not want to live in a world without dragons, as I would not want to live in a world without magic, for that is a world without mystery, and that is a world without faith. ~R. A. SALVATORE, Streams of Silver

Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it. ~ROALD DAHL, The Missing Golden Ticket and Other Splendiferous Secrets

Scientists have calculated that the chances of something so patently absurd actually existing are millions to one. But magicians have calculated that million-to-one chances crop up nine times out of ten. ~TERRY PRATCHETT, Mort

The universe is full of magical things patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper. ~EDEN PHILLPOTTS, A Shadow Passes

A little magic can take you a long way. ~ROALD DAHL, James and the Giant Peach

Books are a uniquely portable magic. ~STEPHEN KING, On Writing

If you choose magic you will never be able to return to the life you once lived. Your world may be more … exciting … but it will also be more dangerous. Less reliable. And once you begin to walk the path of magic, you can never step off of it. ~NEIL GAIMAN, The Books of Magic: The Road to Nowhere

And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it. ~ROALD DAHL, The Minpins

I don’t want realism. I want magic! ~ TENNESSEE WILLIAMS, A Streetcar Named Desire