Marrying George Clooney

I am not shocked that her name is amy … not one bit that a woman named amy (bishop) shot and killed three people in alabama.

and i am aware. fully, that she had already shot and killed her brother way back when and AND there is some talk about pipe bombs and college, and being somewhat on the defensive a great deal of the time. i get it. i am not at all condoning any or all…

i’m just sayin’

i for one believe she was menopausal (either peri or full on meno), and i for one can relate to waking up one morning, looking out at the gorgeous sun and the beautiful sky and the stunning landscape and walking into my sun drenched kitchen and pouring myself a cup of fabulous coffee (with just a hint of sweet n’ low) and walking into my large, uncluttered closet and picking out a pair of perfectly pressed black slacks and a crisp white shirt with just enough collar to hide the first signs of turkey neck, and putting on a pair of louboutin flats, and getting into my car, and smiling at the crosswalk guard, and waving to all the sweet and kind neighbors, and listening to laura nyro, and singing along …. emily and her love to be her love to be carved in the heart of a berry tree, and parking my car in the university parking lot (BUT not for tenure professors, that’s a special parking lot… because… well, i wasn’t given tenure.) and going into the university and smiling at the lovely young “they have their whole life ahead of them” students and then
whipping out MY SEMI-AUTOMATIC THAT i KEPT IN MY PRADA SHOULDER BAG RIGHT NEXT TO MY CHANEL NUMBER “11″ LIPSTICK, WHICH, BY THE WAY THE SHADE IS CALLED “SURPRISE”

and…

I WOULD START SHOOTING AWAY. and when i finally had enough cramps in my arm and shoulder blade, I would put the weapon down, and wish i had taken more yoga classes.

there are days i feel exactly the same way.

i am not shocked her name is amy.

okie dokie.
full disclosure. (check previous blog….)
the morning was, well, almost fabulous. coffee, NY Times, & yoga class. i had an awful, hideous dream last night, hideous, so hideous i woke up on the freaked out side. there were all these midgets (ok, small people…sorry) and blood, and everything was like in 3D, except not in 3D, and long shots and strange little weird troll folks.
very wizard of oz like without the music and shoes.
so i was in a good mood with just enough bad mood thrown into the mix.
and when i’m in that kinda mood, you have to stay back a few inches.
i know, i know… get to the fucking point.
we – ken & i – come home from yoga class. life is good, except for my neck which hurts like a mofo because of a bad yoga pose, and then ken goes out for a while, and i’m feeling less physically fit as the moments pass, and i return a call, and speak to my friend, and then ken comes home with a dozen roses — YAY — and then i mention something to him that my friend said, and what starts out small & trite, turns into a massive blow out on the fucking highway called life. we get into a huge massive:
FUCK YOU
NO NO NO…
FUCK YOU.
and he grabs the now cut (yes, on the diagonal) cleaned roses, and marches out of the house and says, you don’t deserve these roses, and i say, fine fine, you don’t deserve dinner & sex, and he continues up the path to the garage, and i continue on my path – the internal storm path, and ….
and….and…
a half hour later….
he comes home without the roses, and i swear up & down in my head NO SEX EVER AGAIN BUDDY.
BUT we’re having friends over for dinner tonight, so i storm off and start making the vegetable lasagna, and all the while i’m thinking divorce lawyer, and then ken comes into the kitchen and i tell him, as i hold up the sauce ladle, don’t come any closer or i’m gonna fling homemade red tomato with a hint of basil lasagna sauce all over you. and then he smiles, and he’s so, so, so, so sweet when he smiles, and then we kiss, oh, what a good kiss, and i tell him i’m sorry and he says i’m sorry and then i ask him what he did with the flowers, and he says, i gave them to our neighbor (no names…. i don’t want to disclose TOO MUCH) and i start to cry and the reason i’m crying isn’t that he gave them away, it’s because she would never ever, ever, ever get a dozen roses for valentines day. never. ever. and i thought:
our fight, our fuck you fuck you fight made someone feel so very, very special and loved today.
what a guy.

okay, so happy valentines day.
i’m toasting a few folks today and giving a sentence or two why:

my ken. my sweet funny gorgeous delicious delightful patient husband, for giving me kisses and coffee every single morning.

my amy friedman, for being the swellest most amazing woman and writer (her book the murderer’s house is BRILLIANT BRILLIANT BRILLIANT!!!!!!!!!) and champion of all and everything women-centric and for going the extra mile every single day and for having a heart the size of the universe.

kisses & hugs to my peter werner for being such a good guy, great friend, great father, great husband, great all around buddha-full man, and for every bit of unconditional love.

a tight squeeze for my amy litzenberger, for being the best kisser. and for all. and everything. for listening when i need to talk.

a big hello & thank you to meredith resnick for posting such an amazing interview– yay oh yay — and for making me blush….check it out
www.writersinnerjourney.com

petting bella & lotus for giving me/us so many smiles every single day.

my krista for being such an amazingly generous brilliant gorgeous joyous woman & partner (to brooke) & collaborator (to me).

and debra s. kent for asking me questions that made me seek and dig a bit more than usual and for being such a huge huge treat on a cold friday morning. you made the day sweet.

i heart you all.

today’s my mom’s birthday. i’m not convinced one iota she’s in heaven (mostly because i believe that heaven & hell are right here on earth, in a person’s heart & soul… but that’s another blog, another day – today is her day).
i think she’s in bloomingdales, in the shoe department.

years ago, i remember we were sitting around the kitchen table, my mom & my dad & a few other folks, and she said to my dad, sam, when you die i’m gonna sprinkle your ashes in front of bloomingdales, that way you know i’ll visit you everyday.

i don’t know where my mom is. i just know there are days i miss her awful, and there are days i miss her being awful and then there are days like today, when i’m awfully glad she was born and gave birth to my brother and i.

today i’m gonna put on a pair of heels, and celebrate her life.

happy birthday mom. wish you were here.

okay, so, i got the snow i prayed, begged, hoped for. i got it, it came — 12, 13 inches worth. for a few hours, a white out. it came. it stayed. now for the fun part … ken putting on his pillsbury doughboy outfit and snow-blowing us out of here. i mean, we do have a snowplow guy who had to come twice to plow the driveway, but still… ken has to do this, it’s part of the ritual.

which brings me to valentines day – a lovely, sexy ritual. ken asked me a while ago if there was anything i wanted. a trinket. flowers, a night away, new pajamas… he said, and i’m quoting, anything you want … so, of course, i gave it some thought.

this is what i want, i want an entire day where everyone – every single person – forgives one person for having wronged them, hurt them, made them feel small, made them feel insignificant and invisible; and i want one person who hurt another person, who broke someone’s heart, who slammed a door, or walked away to say i’m sorry.
for one full day.
it’s really quite simple, you can even cut and paste this:
i’m really so very sorry i hurt you, and/or… i just want you to know i forgive you.
and then i want you to look in the mirror and do the very same thing. say to yourself: i forgive you, and i am sorry.

you gotta heart your own life.

if you’ve read my book, you can skip to paragraph two, otherwise, please indulge me… my husband, my good, kind talented, funny, charming husband is now retired. or as someone so brilliantly said to me, rewired. i prefer that. it feels a bit, although not a lot, sexier. rewired. actually come to think of it, now that i’ve written it down, it sounds very robotic. i’m gonna stick with retired, i can work with that.
okay, so ken loves the weather channel and the new york giants and gardening, and pesto and driving his little sports car very very very fast, and … there’s so much i can list… but a new habit, a new little love bubble, since he’s retired/rewired, he likes to talk a lot about joint pain. not joint as in “sharing,” or in “co,” but as in oh my god my knee, oh my god my thumb, oh my fucking god everything aches. and i can handle that, i can. i tune him out, and i start thinking about vacations and floral arrangements and next years thanksgiving, and what to wear at the tony awards, and how can i be a bit taller than krista & brooke, and my mind wanders and by the time he’s done with all his aches and pains, i can have sympathy. it’s when he complains about the knees and the shoulders and the back and the arthritis and the carpal tunnel and then says in a west side story kinda way:
“hey, maria, wanna rumble?”
that’s when all the sympathy i had goes straight out the window and i say in my amy tone, have you no compassion or sympathy for my vaginal dryness, my arthritic neck, my irritable bowel syndrome, or colitis depending on the webMD information i get in the middle of the night.

and i say in my new midlife abbreviated lingo:
LOL
and he says with great confidence:
laugh out loud?
and i say:
no.
LOTS OF LUCK.

i’m waiting by the phone.
i hear you’re making a visit.
i’m giving you one more chance.
i can track you.
we’re all ready, waiting for you.
snowsuits, snowblowers, water, food… chips & dips.
come on baby… come on…
don’t be a pussy.
be a man of your word.
come on mr. snowman…
i’m waiting.

and do me a favor, okay, if you’re not gonna show, call.

some days, honest to god, feel like a country & western song. you know what i’m talking about. you do.
a couple of days ago the weather channel (full disclosure, my husband loves – as in sways to the theme music – the weather channel) was filled with ominous information. anywhere from a dusting to 44 inches. anywhere from 2 to 3 inches to 45 inches. anywhere from a half an inch to two feet, anywhere from a frost to hell freezing over. and like everyone else within a 200 mile radius, my husband and i went to the market and stocked up. by stocked up i mean canned goods and water and pasta and cheeses that had no expiration date because it’s not real cheese, it’s more like cheese whiz without the ‘real cheese’ color and so we wouldn’t go too crazy being holed up for a month or two, board games. ken strategically placed the snow blower so he would be able to find it just incase we got hit with 100 inches, which was also predicted. the biggest storm in history. the most white you’ll ever see. i was excited. i was. it brought me back to my childhood when a snow day was like winning the 300 million powerball, or at very least, watching TV all day long. i can still remember the day i watched CAGED on the million dollar movie — it played 24/7 — and after watching that movie over and over and over again, i stopped wanting to be a professional bowler, and i wanted desperately to go to an all girls prison and say shit like: “come any closer, i’m gonna rip your heart out with my tongue.”

it didn’t snow. not one flake. everyone else was getting snow. my friends in DC were trapped. my friends in virginia were without electricity. my friends in jersey were walking around in snowsuits and goggles. but not me. we didn’t get anything. nada. ziltch. and yes, yes… i was jealous. you betcha.

and so when i woke up on sunday morning with a hangover, i felt like i had been waiting for the phone to ring for an entire day. waiting for the snowman to call … i felt cheap and used and humiliated.

but that didn’t stop me. nope. i did what any tough girl does, i went to the local mini mart and i bought a huge, massive piece of ice, and i made my own snow.

these are the three things that annoy the shit outta me today, right now:
automated people. my husband, at this very moment, is on the phone and has said at least 22 times:
“i’d like to speak to a representative.” he has said that phrase in all different tones, in all different voices, extremely slow, very fast, and i believe, even in another language… although i’m not sure, he mighta been saying shit very very very fast a hundred times.
and the automated person says, repeats: i’m sorry i can’t understand you, please tell me what you’d like to do?
and again…
and again…

number two:
wayne dyer. he’s always telling people to look for signs. i want him to be more specific. what kind of signs? are they on the side of trucks? are they in the sky? are they in the snow? are they on food labels?

and third:
any and all eye creams that say on the label that they will in fact reduce & diminish lines (fine & deep) and circles (dark & long) and crows feet (self explanatory). it isn’t true. i have an entire collection of eye creams ranging from uber expensive to cheap cheap cheap. and none of them — NONE – reduce the puffiness. none. and no, it has nothing to do with age. it has to do with alcohol intake, which by the way is a prerequisite in order to deal with the automated people, who i am thoroughly convinced are real live people who have had a variety of voice & singing lessons.