WheatFieldstoWonderland

Have you ever made a wish by tossing a coin into a fountain? There are famous fountains all over the world people have traveled to, for the sole purpose of throwing in a coin while simultaneously making a wish, hoping that wish will come true. One of the most famous fountains is the Trevi Fountain in Rome, a fountain that gained international attention with 20th Century Fox’s release of the movie called ‘Three Coins in a Fountain’, filmed in Rome in 1954. That movie revolved around three female-roommates who all tossed coins into the Trevi Fountain, hoping to find love. Although I have never seen the movie (but I will watch it now lol) the film’s legacy has become part of the history while visiting Trevi Fountain. When I was in Rome, I remember my tour guide pointing out to me—not only the historic significance of the very famous fountain—but also the fact that the famed film, ‘Three Coins in a Fountain’, was filmed there.

As a child, I remember tossing coins into a well on my farm, making grandiose wishes, expecting miracles to happen. Unfortunately for me, not one of my wishes was ever granted—the only result being a dwindled allowance short a few cents. Now that I think about it, not only were my well-wishes never granted, I don’t think that anything has ever transpired from one of the wishes I made after blowing out my candles on my birthday cake either. Maybe I am not a good wish maker? Regardless, I don’t think my lack of successful fountain-coin-tossing and cake-blowing wishes will result in a hopeless Janell. I still hold the fairytale-like belief that someday my Prince will come and that, if I desire something, I can manifest it. I guess no one ever told me that the manifestation would happen through hard work, and the magic in miracles comes from perseverance, effort and well, luck.

However, there is an undeniable beauty to a fountain, and there is something sweet about making a wish, to put a positive vibe out into the universe. Perhaps just taking the time to think about what you want, or the kindness in sending a heartful wish for another, might be all the magic that one needs to start to make the wish materialize. After all, everything is just energy in motion, so perhaps positive thoughts can actually manifest into reality?

Well, you can imagine my surprise, when I stumbled upon my very own Roman ‘Trevi-esque’ Fountain right in the heart of Beverly Hills. In between Crescent Drive and Rexford, just south of Burton Way, is an historic office building with a beautifully designed green space, complete with Roman Columns, and a magnificent round fountain whose basin is scattered with coins from local fountain-wishers.

One night my girlfriend and I were walking home from a party on Rodeo Drive. It was a warm summer evening so we decided to walk the mile home as a refreshing alternative to crawling into the backseat of an Uber. As we were walking up Crescent drive, I noticed a small green space just before Burton Way, and I reasoned we could likely cut through it and save a bit of time. I never imagined that I would stumble upon a magical Roman enclave in the heart of Beverly Hills. The fountain had small lights illuminati

Emoticon! Emoji! Emoticons! The world of texting has been taking over by Emoticons. Just when texting has taken all the fun of actually speaking with a person, the emoticon has made it even easier to relay a feeling, a desire, or a need, simply by locating the happy face button

Do you remember the infamous party crashers—Michaele & Tareq Salahi—who, in 2009, ‘gate-crashed’ a White House State dinner for the Indian Prime Minister? The Virginian-socialite couple managed to not only enter a private event—uninvited, of course—but bypassed two secret service checkpoints, one which even required a photo ID. Their scandalous and brazen actions resulted in a Formal Investigation, and left a nation shocked and unsettled as to the efficacy of our national security.

The Secret Service eventually issued a statement saying they were embarrassed admitting that certain protocols had not been followed. You see, it was raining that night: so, in an effort to quickly expedite guests into the event, security protocols—like checking IDs—were overlooked, and it was surmised that the Salahis were admitted simply because… they looked like they belonged.

While sneaking into a black-tie dinner with the President seems unfathomable, ‘gate-crashing’ and ‘party crashers’ are more of a common thing in Hollywood. With a plethora of events going on in town 365 days of the year, there is no lack of people trying to get into events that they were not invited to.

As I have never wanted my five minutes of fame to be seen on TMZ as a party crasher, I hold out for actual invitations, hoping the universe will be kind to me and invite me to enough things so I don’t die of single-girl-boredom.

It all started with a delicious invite from a girlfriend of mine who works for SBE Entertainment Group. In case you don’t know who SBE are, they own a multitude of cool, high-end restaurants and hotels worldwide; basically, they are huge. I am always so grateful when my friend includes me in something they are doing, as I know that—not only will I have a blast—I will also enjoy quality food, high-end drinks, an upscale crowd— and most likely—a gift bag to take home. Basically, a winner-winner-chicken-dinner of a ‘free and fabulous’ night for a single-chick in Hollywood.

So, one Wednesday, when my SBE girlfriend sent me an email asking if I wanted to pop by Hyde on Thursday night, I emailed her back straight away saying I would love to come, and asked if she would mind if I brought a friend. My friend Carrie was in town from Seattle, so I thought it would be something fun for the two of us to do. Carrie, a busy mommy and wife, was more than happy to have a glamorous girls-night-out instead of the happy hour at Pizzeria Il Fico, which was our original plan.

February nights can be cold in Los Angeles, and on this night, the temperature was going to be dipping down into the low 40s. Okay, not Canada cold, not -40 below Manitoba Celsius cold, but cold for LA. Carrie, who had not anticipated attending a swank soiree when she left Seattle for LA, was concerned that she hadn’t her sexy-LA-attire in tow. I told her, as it was fucking-freezing outside, that I would wear jeans or pants or something, so not to worry.

Girls, we worry about everything, why????…. be

Therapy, that time of the week when you get to unload all of your feelings, your anger, your hurt and your pain of the past seven days; or time to deal with the trauma that has built up from a lifetime of chaos having lived—and survived—in a city like Los Angeles. I never thought that I would find myself sitting on a sofa, spilling my guts out and divulging my best-kept secrets to a highly-paid virtual-random-stranger. However, in the past two years, after having endured—what could only be called—a rough patch of grass from hell, I have found myself getting quite cozy on my therapist’s sofa and unleashing all of my thoughts and feelings to my very own highly-paid virtual-random-stranger who I affectionately call Gayle: affectionately, because, duh, that is her name.

I cannot begin to tell you what a tremendous relief it is to be able to speak freely and openly to someone who can give you unbiased advice, whose job it is to listen to whatever you want to say—while at the same time managing to reassure you that you are not crazy, or that you have not completely lost your fucking mind—as you make huge life transitions and changes. My friends who are reading this are likely thinking: ‘Damn Janell, we thought you should have checked therapy out 15 years ago. At least now we are no longer forced to listen to you whine and complain about the same crap over and over again. Finally, you are paying a professional to help you navigate the rough waters of LA life instead of driving us crazy with your litany of shit.’

Therapy is like a confessional; in a confessional, you unload all of your sins to a Priest, who—even though he may not like what he hears, or what you have done—has to forgive your sins, wiping your sin-slate clean, leaving your soul and your spirit ‘un-bogged’ from your own demons or crap. As I am not Roman Catholic and therefore have no right to sit in a confessional baring my soul, I chose the route of a therapist to help me navigate the choppy waters of my Hollywood life.

So, you might be asking, what prompted you now, after all this time of living life in the Bubble of Beverly Hills, to finally ‘girl-up’ and try therapy, allowing someone—other than your well-meaning friends—to help guide you when you hit, ONCE AGAIN, another rough patch on your Hollywood road of adventure.

Well, it was all because of my writing. I have been writing for the past 17 years—ironically, not long after my feet landed in LALA Land; as the crazy shit that was happening to me, or my dates from hell, were so outlandish that writing them down not only clarified things for me, but the process of writing a story became a tremendous release. I soon realized that

What is a Good Egg? It’s almost Easter, so is an Easter Egg considered a Good Egg? Easter does make me think about Easter Eggs, which in turn reminds me of my childhood. Of course, the Easter Bunny always came to my house leaving all sorts of fattening and tooth decaying chocolate and candy treats, chocolate eggs amongst them. However, when I think about eggs, more specifically I remember picking eggs with my father.

I grew up on a farm, and at one time my father was in the egg-producing business. We had a chicken barn with 10,000 chickens—NO EXAGGERATION FOLKS—and that meant that the 10,000 chickens laid about 9,900 eggs every day of the year. Can you imagine picking close to ten thousand eggs a day? Well, we did.

Every summer I had a job picking eggs with my father, and every weekend during the school year, I was at the chicken barn working away with my dad. I actually loved picking eggs! I used to walk down the aisle and talk to all the chickens, listening to their clucks and imagine that they were talking back to me. Mainly, I liked picking eggs because it meant quality time with my dad; plus, he paid me. Money has always been one of the driving forces in my life, as I have always loved the art I call ‘shopping’. Chickens do not take a vacation from laying eggs, so there was always work to do,  eggs to pick, and money for little Janell to make!

As a consumer, you have probably never thought very much about egg production. All you look for is the size of the egg, or the color of the egg, or if it is organic or comes from Free Range chickens. There are many eggs to choose from when you go to buy your eggs, and I am sure that you have never thought about it much more than that. However, in the egg producing world, there actually is such a thing as a good egg.

Other than the small, medium or large sizes of the eggs that we have to choose from at the grocery stores (and FYI brown eggs come from brown chickens – duh if you didn’t know that), I want to let you know that eggs are as different and unique as people. Some eggs are born without a hard shell, they have just their embryo of a soft shell and obviously are not for sale. Younger chickens sometimes lay eggs that are very tiny, smaller than the size of your thumb. And some chickens have multiple births, laying double and triple yolkers. Of course, there are some eggs that come into the world in a traumatic way, and they are covered in blood or in feces.

Picking eggs was always an exciting adventure for a young child, as my father turned egg-picking into a game. I would pick eggs and be on the hunt to find all of the peewee eggs, and the double and triple yolkers, separating them into a special container and leering over my loot of misshaped eggs each day. My dad was smart to turn this into a game for me, as these eggs had to be separated from the rest, since they were not saleable.

We didn’t waste these eggs, we took them home and ate them. And, as you can see from the picture below, my mom didn’t waste these eggs either, as she painted beautiful paintings on many of these eggs, making Easter Egg gifts for her friends and family. My basket of my mom’s homemade Easter Eggs is one that I treasure and proudly keep out on display all

Transparency implies that the information, communication, or the accountability of ones’ actions are, in effect, basically easy to see and understand. In other words, transparency points towards full disclosure. I’m not sure how you feel, but the word transparency was one I’d hoped would be shelved in 2018 as it was so overused in 2017 that—had the word an expiration date— it would have perished long before the ball dropped in New York City this past New Year’s Eve.

Politicians love the word transparency. Obama once claimed that he had the most transparent administration in history. Donald Trump likes to complain about the lack of transparency of past administrations, yet he was beyond non-cooperative about sharing his own taxes when asked. In fact, when you search the internet, there are tons of articles about how Trump is the least transparent President of all time.

Politicians overuse of the word transparency has—in my opinion—basically saturated our brains to the point that it has become part of our ‘urban’ language. All of a sudden, the word transparency is popping up in everyday conversations as the new ‘catch-phrase’ of the moment. Personally, I am so sick of hearing the word, especially when it is misused and misrepresented.

So how do you know if you are Transparent, exhibiting Transparency… or if you are just full of BULLSHIT!

If I am dating you and you say to me that ‘you can ask me anything, I am so transparent’, so I decide to ‘brave-up’ and ask you—hoping the answer is going to be NO—if you are dating anyone else. When you answer me with something to the effect of ‘No, I only date one woman at a time’ I, for a minute, am grateful that I ‘braved-up’ and asked that ‘oh-so-sensitive’ and awkward dating question, now loving your transparent handsome self.

So, when I have lunch with a single-girlfriend two days later, telling her how ecstatic I am to have a transparent ‘boyfriend-in-the-making’ who confirmed that he is only dating me; she in turn is happy for me, and it makes her optimistically-hopeful that there are still good men in Los Angeles.

So, when my single-girlfriend is at the bar at Craig’s later that night, and she spots YOU canoodling in a booth with some other chick, not only does she text me straight away blowing your lying-not-so-transparent-ass out of the water, but captures the public snogging on her iPhone rendering your changes of ‘worming your way out’ of this situation – impossible.

News Flash – YOU are not transparent, you are full of BULLSHIT!

If you are my friend, and

Hypocrites generally act in contradiction to their stated beliefs or feelings, or they pretend to possess virtues that they do not have. If you are scratching your head and need an example as to what I mean, imagine this scenario:

Then, not only are you a cheater, a scumbag, and a louse – you are a hypocrite. Your wife and your family are truly not as cherished as your proclaimed and pronounced; rather, your penis’s sense of satisfaction, or the desire to chart some uncharted territory, or a drunken-random-stranger-quickie, are all— at least momentarily— more important than your declaration of devotion.

The world is full of hypocrites, but as I live in Los Angeles, I decided to focus on, well, the things I Know… so here goes!