Marrying George Clooney

okay. i have spent a good portion of the last 3 days dealing with AOL TECH people. all of AOL, every single AOL PERSON IN THE WORLD. the entire world. apparently, although one is never sure, AOL is having some tech difficulty and depending on who you frickin’ talk to they will either tell you that your personal computer sucks big time and you should throw it away and get a brand new one, or that AOL is updating and there by screwing up all your mail and data.
i am not a patient person, never have been, and i do hope & pray daily to the buddhist gods, that someday i will be patient. but on the list of shit i want to change about myself, patience goes well below — well below –unwanted chin hair.
once again at 4:45 pm yesterday, i was on a phone with an AOL TECH woman in yes india, who A) i didn’t understand one word she said “excuse me, can you say that again…” b) confirmed my greatest fear — AOL STANDS FOR: ASSHOLES OFTEN LAUGH: she laughed, giggled, tee-teed me to death for 2 hours while trying to get me to reboot, re-calibrate, re-organize, and re-launch my computer, which i had done the day ebfore because some other tech fool made me go through every single application and reboot… and being that I am a tech moron, i did and obeyed, and then she – this NEW TECH PERSON – put me on hold so i could speak with her supervisor, who… hello: TURNED OUT TO BE HER, THE SAME EXACT PERSON I HAD JUST SPENT AN AFTERNOON WITH, she was the supervisor, and i said to her, excuse me, aren’t you the same frickin’ person i just spent the day with? and she said, yes, I am the supervisor. WELCOME TO HELL. and then i pushed ken away, and told him if he took one step closer i would push his face into the wall.
this all… ALL… after being on the phone the day before with another AOL TECH person for, oh a good part of the day.
i need to start an AOL-O-NON GROUP.
i told hollye in an e-mail the night before that there is no therapy out there for this kind of shit.
there is none.
there should be.
we’re addicted.
i am a middle aged women who spends hours upon hours talking to either automated fake people who keep asking me DID YOU JUST SAY NEWARK, or women & men in india who call me mamie.

i want real.
i want women with real boobs & cellulite.

i want real women & real men & no more of this fake make-believe i live in Indiana in a small village and this isn’t an accent it’s a lisp.

gimme real.

I feel like I’m living in a town called CheezWhizVille, with truth be told … virtually no one.

i have spent hundreds & hundreds on face cream. hundreds, fucking hundreds of dollars on this shit that promises me tight and firm and a sexy youthful glow. a promise. i have purchased ReVive, LaMer, and La Prairie and La fucking Shit cream … serums & all sorts of cream and gels and de-puffers that promise promise that within a 30 day period you will not recognize yourself. that when you look in the mirror, you will say, OH MY GOD WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?
Honest to god, I have stood at the ReVive Bergdorf counter feigning poverty & homelessness just to get a sample (and i love samples…) of ReVive mega size sample cream. I have tried — no shit — freezing eye cream, and refrigerating tonic, and icing aloe green ginger eye pads. thousands upon thousands i have spent.
thousands. enough to put any kid through private school.
and then it happened… a miracle.
a frickin’ miracle.
actually a desperate miracle. i was in Duane Reade in new york city picking up some preparation H for ken (shhhhhhhhh) and realizing that I had run out of my OMG extraordinarily expensive face cream, on cue, the perky DR person came over to me and said “Hi, care to try a great new product?” i am such a sucker. Yes, I said, yes, yes yes … give it to me in globs. sit me down and coat my face with cream. and she swore in both english and french that this product was superior to any and all other products. of course, i am such a sucker for any… and all…..and then she applied VICHY MOISTURIZER on my skin and in one moment, in one flash, one simple teeny moment … my skin felt renewed & fabulous – sexy clean. she said it was the best cream she ever used, of course she being 12 years old and having the most gorgeous skin i had seen … but she wasn’t 12, she was a bit – much – older, but she swore on a stack of eyepads that her skin had never looked or felt so good. so… i bought it. Ca-ching. the moisturizer, and the eye cream, and the serum. and i have to say, hands down, 30 days later … no shit… wow. save your money! do not spend 200 plus bucks on face cream ever again, do not, and do not spend 100 bucks on eye gel… no no no. NO! never again.
VICHY.
my skin has never looked so good.
i’m saving you a ton of money, a ton. A fortune. So …  go buy my book! actually you know what, buy 2 or 3 copies and send one or two to some friends that could use a laugh. and tell them … no one will even notice the laugh lines again  … that’s called a two-fer.

you can thank me later.

okay. round up.

the quaids — randy & evi – are in jail. i am betting right now that in three years from now, randy quaid will be the guy to beat at the oscars. it will be his comeback film: MY LEFT FOOT JAMMED UP YOUR ASS,  he will play a quadriplegic country western singer who also had an illegitimate child with a stripper named OREO.

lindsay lohan is no longer bankable. oh wait…. wait.  a psychic moment: maybe she’ll play the stripper. oh…. come on. come on. that’s perfect … unless of course marisa (I heart marisa) tomei wants the part. then forget lindsay. she’ll be a hostess at perkins or applebee’s.

whitney houston can no longer sing AND I- E-I-E-I-E-I E-I – WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU -WHOOOOOOO. well, hello, that makes sense. i get it. she will not always love me or you. it’s impossible. and,  by the way, word is, she can no longer dance with somebody.

jesse james is no longer wearing his wedding band. FUCKING PIG ROT IN HELL, MAN. and no, i have not changed my mind about The Blindside.

lesbian love is forbidden at certain bowling alleys in the northeast. oh my fucking god  … lesbian love is forbidden at bowling alleys??????!!!!!!!!!! why do you think it was called a gutter ball for god sake! it had nothing to do with the eight to ten pounder sparkler with finger holes. girls frickin’ rule!!!!!! what should be forbidden – truly – are the hotdogs & burgers sold at these bowling alleys. schmucks.

and my last round up.

i heart my women friends each and every one of them. some have gorgeous CD’s out, some write books & plays, some sing songs with their daughters, they edit books, they publish books, they’re agents, and performers and teachers and nurses and mom’s and daughters and sisters, and doctors, and deacons, and design FABULOUS plastic jewelry, and some are having babies, and some are becoming grandma’s, and some are adopting pets and some are leaving their husbands and finding new love, and some are helping their husband’s with retirement & transistions, and some are standing tall, and some are going on book tours, and some are overcoming cancer and some are lifting us all, and some… some… are writing plays that will save many other women’s lives, some live in houston texas, some in santa monica, brentwood, maine, new hampshire, some in virginia, some in washington dc, some in miami, some in arizona,  some in los angeles, some in northeast pennyslvania, some in berkeley, oakland, san fran-cisco!!!!!  some in new mexico, some in nyc: upper east & west,  lower and chelsea.

and some … some are living in portland oregon making us believe truly believe that we are enough, we are enough.

a gracious plenty.

oh, and some … of my friends are named richard.

and ken and peter. and david. and michael and bob and robert and frank and tommy.

when i started writing my book a few years ago my husband asked me point blank, “baby, whatdya want from this?” i didn’t blink or hesitate. i knew. i said: I WANT WOMEN TO AWAKEN TO THEIR GREATNESS.
i know, bold, audacious. HUGE .. but oh so, so, so spot on.
to me there is nothing more powerful than realizing that your mission is to help other folks walk through theirs. their mission.
that’s it. not flowery shit, no moments of revelation. simple. pure. i want women to awaken to their beauty and greatness, i want women TO STOP COMPETING WITH EACH OTHER, AND COMPLETE EACH OTHER. i want women to stop feeling threatened, or “less than,” to stand tall, be courageous, i want women to be generous beyond belief. if you get pushed to the back of the line, for god sake DO NOT TRY AND SQUEEZE yourself in, start another line!!!! start another line! don’t take the short of of the stick — throw the frickin’ stick away. START ANOTHER LINE.
if we women don’t support and inspire each other,  put our proverbial money where our mouth is, then we are no better than any man who tramples on his employee out of fear of losing his job.
we have got to stop making promises of gifting when we don’t mean it, we have got to stop manipulating to get our way. we have to stop thinking that if one gets something, others will not. it’s hard to switch gears, it’s hard to stop pushing your way past others. it doesn’t make you better, or bigger…. it only makes you more competitive. we have got to be generous with the absolute belief that paying it forward is about opening our hearts.

one of my closest and dearest friends told me recently of a woman who needed to be praised, needed to be rewarded’ for introducing her to another woman. she, this other woman, needed to be credited for making that introduction. you know, kudos to her. hmmm. i go right to the ick factor on that one. icky shit.

here’s the deal. the real deal. if one of us succeeds, chances are MANY MANY MANY doors will open and others will succeed. if we push and scratch and feign generosity, doors will close, and keep closing. it’s a miracle how genuine breeds genuine, and manipulaton breeds manipulation. it’s simple cause & effect, i didn’t make this shit up.

I LIVE IT & PRACTICE IT.

we women deserve better from other women. we deserve to be treated with gratitude and kindness and appreciation because we would want and expect that from anyone, and we in turn must lift and support and inspire and encourage all women to rise. to be huge, to go beyond our own limitations and we must root them on. and there will be days when we feel jealous and envious, and no i will not help this person. but i promise you, CAT SCRATCH FEVER is no fun.
simple.

powerful.

makes you think deeply think.

this is a clue, the deal, the absolute:
every woman i know who has genuinely deeply truthfully paid it forward, played it forward  –  her life expands beyond her wildest expectation. beyondo. BEYOND-OH. big wonderful amazement is now on your radar…
it’s an absolute.

a given

we don’t wanna play with the big boys.

we wanna play with the gorgeous, amazing, brilliant, holy shit, smart as whips, fast as kites, kind,  generous — the wow oh wow WOMEN.

this is a team you don’t wanna miss out on.

i couldn’t help but notice.

we were at a dinner party last night, and i couldn’t help but notice how stunning the women looked. i often check out all the women at parties, full disclosure, i often check out women in grocery stores, at the bus stop. i happen to love women. i am a woman’s woman. i admire all these amazingly perfectly exquisite creatures, these gorgeous humans that walk this earth, as vibrant powerful beings that oh yes make a difference – A MAJOR FUCKING HUGE DIFFERENCE every single day that we breathe. i love women. no doubt. last night as i stood & stared in awe at the beauty in this one room this is what i saw:
i saw women wearing not a stitch of make-up looking ravishing, i saw women dressed to the nines wearing one piece of jewelry that took your breath away, i saw women wearing high heels that made their legs look long & lean and muscular, i saw women wearing white on white and looking angelic, i saw women wearing black with opera length pearls looking like goddesses, i saw women wearing tailored slacks and tailored shirts looking sexy & content.
but the thing i noticed last night, which i hadn’t noticed at first blush, aside from the fashionista moments, i noticed that most of all these women we wearing gorgeous smiles.

and tucked in a corner, his eyes dancing with delight, his white shirt crisp, his hair short & sexy, his eyes bluer than blue… a glass of red firmly planted in his hand, stood my guy. my ken.
he was watching me watching them.
i walked up to him and he said, and i quote:

nothing like a room filled with joy.

and then i stood with ken, sipping my white wine, twirling my pearls, and for the first time all evening… i noticed all men in the room who were either husbands, or partners, or friends.

but no george.

this was after all a grown up party.
no one was carded.

okay, i don’t even know where to begin. not a word, not a peep, nothing…NOTHING from you. not a thank you, not a card on my birthday, not a piece of jewelry from italy with a note that says: amy, gracias, gracias. so much gracias.
no no no.
i wrote a book, included you in the title, gave you some extra ummmmmmmpppph during academy award season slash time when it appeared by the way that jeff bridges was stealing your thunder. i was schlepping around copies of my paperback telling women all over the country that johnny depp was not the coolest or sexiest guy in america. that yes jeff bridges was cool and sexy, and oh so fabulous, but oh so not you… that you were you. huh? that sounds odd. i had sleepless fucking nights, i took ambien, i became an addicted menopausal woman for you and NOTHING. NADA. not even a chocolate bar from rome with a note attached saying SO SORRY I MISSED ANOTHER BIRTHDAY, HOLIDAY, LAZY DAY…
so here i am. sitting in my living room in pennsylvania with a pinched nerve in my neck because i BLOG ABOUT YOU ALL DAY & all NIGHT, LIVING WITH HOPE AND A CROOKED NECK, and i am waiting to hear about getting a massage (and yes, it would be nice if could pay for one… even ANONYMOUSLY, although that would really suck) and book clubs are starting, and campaigns are happening (thank you MELODY GEORGE!!!! and KRISTINE AND… ohohoh…my girls, my girlfriends who are old enough and mature enough to be your friends ) … to be on The Ellen Show, and one woman plays are being bandied about (AND NO YOU CAN’T PLAY THE WOMAN) and you keep avoiding me.
Maybe, maybe… i haven’t tried hard enough to get you, keep you. maybe i’m being coy and playing hard to get (although, truth be told, I have to say for 55 years i have never not once played hard to get and maybe that bothers you, that at one point in my life i was cheap & easy & loved quaaludes… well, now i’m sounding rather yummy!)
george. give it up. call me. make me believe that loving you in the middle of the night while my husband slept was worth the humiliation and torment from women who yes think johnny & jeff & ethan coen (yes that ETHAN) & robert downey jr. & sam shepard & woody allen & sean penn & jeff beck & moby & stephen hawkings & gabriel byrne & joe cocker (yes that cocker!) and meryl streep & angelina jolie & YES YES YES YES BRAD FRICKIN’ PITT were all so much sexier and funnier and more appropriate for me & my memoir.
and you know what i said to them george, i said fuck you. he’s mine.
i want him.
i love him, he will be good to me, and love me back, and write me love letters in both english & italian, and my book will become an international best seller and I WILL GIVE WOMEN HOPE IN EVERY LANGUAGE.
but no.
nothing.

and you know what george, i am one good frickin’ woman, so out of the goodness of my heart, i’m giving you one more chance. i’m giving you one more chance to prove to me that all the sweating & mood swings & anal leakage & heart burn & loss of nerve endings & marital woes was worth waiting for you.
don’t me me beg. i have crippling arthritis, i would never get up off my knees.

and i know that might be appealing.

love, amy

i have this really neat great woman friend, who happens to be a really amazing writer, who wrote this stunning blog and i just read it, and i have to share this because we’re all struggling with faith, and belief – both in ourselves and the universe. and we wait for the shoe to drop, or explode and we wait for the heart to break and when she says (and yes, i’m paraphrasing) that she doesn’t quite know how to embrace joy… OMG. well she said it right there, right there, you know that FEAR that we all feel and don’t often say let alone outloud. she said it outloud.

the fear of joy and happiness and believing that it can stick. holy shit. she said it. i read this and thought, oh yeah, i have to share, I HAVE TO SHARE THIS ONE.

Truth and Consequences
by Hollye Dexter

Don’t mind me, I’m just sitting here trying to unravel the meaning of life, wondering if there is a god, if there really is purpose in everything or if it’s all just random chaos. In other words, just a typical Tuesday morning for me.

I’m a preacher’s daughter who is struggling with her faith. I guess my heart has been tainted by the ugliness I have seen in the world. I am not unique. Like many of you, I wrestle with questions like: If god creates us all, why are there child murderers and rapists and nazi rallies and priests who abuse children and christian militias and the crusades and witch hunts and people who say they love you and then try to destroy you and on and on…Yeah, I’m jaded. And I’m still hopeful.

Because I have been delivered from life-or-death situations in ways that could be described as nothing less than miraculous. There have been moments that I knew I had an angel on my shoulder. Like the night that my husband, son and I slept in a burning house, drugged by carbon monoxide poisoning. That voice that kept on in my ear “check on the baby, check on the baby”. That voice that wouldn’t stop until I dragged myself out of bed, groggy and weak to his bedside. That voice saved all our lives.

I don’t know what was going on thousands of years ago, but these days, miracles aren’t these big Technicolor Charlton Heston-parting-the-Red-Sea kind of events. They are small and understated, but powerful no less. And they usually happen when you take one baby step over the threshold of your personal fears to venture in a new direction. They happen when you have the courage to walk toward what your heart has always wanted but you were too afraid to admit to yourself, because maybe you wouldn’t get it.

I took one of those scary steps. I dared to write and tell my truth. On my last birthday, I put a little snippet of it out into the world (and then gorged on TUMS all week and gave up sleeping), which started a chain reaction of these little miracles.

One of my writing heroes took me under her wing and championed me.

A random email arrived from a literary agent in New York.

And then there was yesterday.

All week I’ve had a nervous feeling in my stomach that some major change was about to take place. I could feel a trembling of tectonic plates shifting underneath the landscape of my daily life. As I stood washing dishes, folding laundry, driving my son to school, it was brewing just under the surface. I swear I could feel it. I told my husband about it and reminded him that the last time I felt this, I had no idea I was one week away from finding my father and the three brothers I didn’t know existed. The rumbling beneath me was happening then, too.

Yesterday. Wow. This phone call from another of my writing heroes (who I am lucky to call my friend) brought this rush of good energy that came at me like a tidal wave. She, in the role of Charlton Heston, parted the Red Sea of my fear, clearing the way for emails and phone calls from this circle of amazing people who reached out to support me on my new journey. I was…..shell-shocked. My dear friend Cindy reminded me…just last week you said you needed mentors. She’s right. I dared say it out loud even though a part of me said who are you to ask for such things. I said it. And it rushed in at light speed.

There is still that part of me that is always waiting for the other shoe to drop. The part of me that has seen the ugliness and lost faith in god and people. That part that doesn’t want to let me feel deep joy, but instead says….we’ll see.

But I remind myself…there was that voice. Check on the baby. That voice that saved us.

And there were the prayers of 47 friends on facebook last week, holding my father up as he went through this awful series of tests, and I felt it. I felt my worry and fear lift from me.

And there were the many times throughout my life that I walked through terrible danger, unscathed.

And then there was yesterday.

now that the sandra bullock jesse james “horr-affair” has somewhat calmed down, i decided to finally, finally watch the blindside.
let me preface this:
i really like sandra bullock.
i think she’s a really cool woman.
i’m not a huge huge fan of her movies. but i like her. she’s always seemed so kind and funny, and humble, but… but…
BUT…
i do not think the blindside was an oscar worthy film.
I do not.
okay, fine, stone me, throw eggs at me.
go ahead.
wanna know what i think: it’s a good TV movie.
from the first moment to the last moment, i kept thinking, “no kids are this good, this accepting, this perfect, where’s the tension?” “no husband is this non judgmental, this sexy and sweet. where’s the tension?” “no woman would pick up a 500 pound kid and let him stay in her home, say to her sexy and patient beyond words husband, “oh god, what if he steals everything?” and then sleep soundly and realize the kid is so kind and good and would never steal from them because he folded the very sheets he slept on.
excuse me, i know kids who would WASH & FOLD sheets and come back and rob you blind. folded sheets does not mean you’re not calculating. okay, minor detail.
maybe it’s me. maybe i’m tainted. maybe i’m the kind of person who needs a bit of drama, uneasiness.. conflict as in real conflict, maybe i would never not in this lifetime show up at a really bad drug infested neighborhood wearing a low cut, cleavage showing, hot skintight beige dress and high heel mules in the middle of the afternoon and ask the meanest toughest guy sitting there who also happens to reveal that yes he in fact is carrying a gun, and say with hands on hips, and perfectly coiffed hair and make-up, “hey, where’s big mike.” i would have worn the baggiest of pants and a sweatshirt and i would have never flashed my cleavage. this was hell, not hell’s wearhouse. there were no bargains.
maybe i’m nit picking. that’s possible. i’m a nit picker. maybe many many women would show up in chanel or barneys ny or versace having just come from a mani/pedi and hence the open toe shoes.
i just don’t think she deserved an academy award for her performance.
there was a moment when meryl streep as julia childs was pacing on the porch — a letter (rejection, acceptance?) having just arrived in the mail from a publisher was clutched to her chest – the agony, the doubt, the excitement, the worry, the yes the no… the “will they won’t they,” pacing, pacing…closing her eyes, imagining… that smile, that fear… that moment on that porch where she was hoping hoping that her book would be bought, published … that moment alone beat out sandra bullock stomping onto the field, grabbing her now or soon to be adopted son and telling him that he needed to protect his team just like he protected his now brother BJ or DJ or SJ in the car accident … and then sashayed off.
i like sandra.
i like her heart & soul.
and now that i’m much less emotional about the whole jesse james tattoo sex jamboree, i’m sorry…
maybe it’ll be another blow, maybe i’ll be asked to return my “two weeks notice” baseball cap … but no no.
today, this moment in bed, writing this…
i feel meryl was cheated.
come on sandra, text her and tell her you’re sorry.

I AM JUST COPYING &  POSTING THIS. FROM THE NCLR POST/BLOG

THIS IS VITALLY IMPORTANT. AND SAD, AND HORRIFYING.

SO VERY HORRIFYING SAD.

Here goes:

Today, NCLR launched a national media campaign to bring visibility to a tragic new case where Sonoma County, California officials separated an elderly gay couple and sold their worldly possessions despite the measures the men had taken to protect their relationship.

“In the 33 years of our organization’s history, this case is perhaps among the most tragic NCLR has ever been involved in,” said NCLR Executive Director Kate Kendell. “Clay and Harold had taken all of the necessary precautions, including living wills and powers of attorneys, to protect them in a time of crisis. Not only were their relationship and legal documents ignored, Clay and Harold literally lost everything. These appalling events demonstrate how urgently same-sex couples need full equality rather than a patchwork of rights that can be dismissed and ignored in a culture that still treats LGBT people as second-class citizens. This never should have happened to Clay and Harold.”

Clay Greene and his partner of 20 years, Harold Scull, lived in Sebastopol, California. As long-time partners, they had named each other beneficiaries of their respective estates and agents for medical decisions. As 2008 began, Scull was 88 years old and in deteriorating health. Greene, 11 years younger, was physically strong, but beginning to show signs of cognitive impairment. As Scull’s health declined, it became apparent that they would need assistance, but the men resisted outside help.

In April of 2008, Scull fell down the front steps of their home. Greene immediately called an ambulance and Scull was taken to the hospital. There, the men’s nightmare began. While Scull was hospitalized, Deputy Public Guardians went to the men’s home, took photographs, and commented on the desirability and quality of the furnishings, artwork, and collectibles that the men had collected over their lifetimes.

Ignoring Greene entirely, the County petitioned the Court for conservatorship of Scull’s estate. Outrageously referring to Greene only as a “roommate” and failing to disclose their true relationship, the County continued to treat Scull as if he had no family. The County sought immediate temporary authority to revoke Scull’s powers of attorney, to act without further notice, and to liquidate an investment account to pay for Scull’s care. Then, despite being granted only limited powers, and with undue haste, the County arranged for the sale of the men’s personal property, cleaned out their home, terminated their lease, confiscated their truck, and eventually disposed of all of the men’s worldly possessions, including family heirlooms, at a fraction of their value and without any proper inventory or determination of whose property was being sold.

Adding further insult to grave injury, the county removed Greene from their home and confined him to a nursing home against his will—a different placement from his partner. Greene was kept from seeing Scull during this time, and his telephone calls were limited. Three months after Scull was hospitalized, he died, without being able to see Greene again.

“Because of the county’s actions, Clay missed the final months he should have had with his partner of 20 years,” said Greene’s trial attorney Anne Dennis of Santa Rosa. “Compounding this horrific tragedy, Clay has literally nothing left of the home he had shared with Harold or the life he was living up until the day that Harold fell, because he has been unable to recover any of his property or his beloved cats—who are feared dead. The only memento Clay has is a photo album that Harold painstakingly put together for Clay during the last three months of his life.”

Greene is represented by Dennis along with Stephen O’Neill and Margaret Flynn of Tarkington, O’Neill, Barrack & Chong in a lawsuit against the County, the auction company, and the nursing home. NCLR is assisting Greene’s attorneys with the lawsuit. A trial date has been set for July 16, 2010 in the Superior Court for the County of Sonoma.

The case is Greene v. County of Sonoma et al., Case No. SPR-81815.

it was horrific.
like something entered my body and grabbed hold, and went into every muscle and bone and nerve, and on top of that i was doubled over in pain. and IT said: GOTCHA. and I said: OH NO, FUCK YOU.
my best friend or BFFTAAOMGLOL amy litzenberger had caught this horrific god awful bug. some stomach flu intestinal thing and she thought she was going to die, and because we share just about everything, she gave it to me. and it crept up. and then it hit like a mofo, and last night at 2 am, while my darling husband slept with his ear plugs and eye mask and farted his way — little putters than a BANG, little putters than a BANG… straight into dreamland, i was doubled over thinking, “my god what awful awful farts…and… okay this is it, the end, the last moments of a life well lived…” and then i had this thought, what if what if… it’s something worse, incurable, something that will cripple me and leave me with one left foot? I didn’t even have the ability – OH MY GOD – to google “diseases that start with a minor sore throat and travel into every pore and cell of your body and leave you completely incapacitated.” and of course, FYI, DO YOU FEEL LUCKY would come up after i googled that and good god did i not feel lucky… so i just lay there (or is it lie there, or laid there…) and thought…as my left side was beginning to go numb and my face began to droop and my head began to throb (i’m NOT exaggerating) i thought, ice or heat? i never know, if it’s an ice-pack or a heating-pad. and this went on until i completely frenzied myself into some hypo-tension HOLY SHIT I’M GOING TO BE BLIND hell, and then… then … i remembered about my friend who just had an awful twisted neck and nerve thing and her physical therapist told her to use moist heat. MOIST HEAT. and so i put the heating pad on full hot blast and an ice pack on my throbbing head and my husband continued his rhythmical god awful farting… and i thought as i began to dose off…
this is not how it’s gonna end.
nope.
last moments: paris.