Marrying George Clooney

Life. Part 7.

these are the things on my mind today as i am about to get up and meditate, or more precisely, make believe i am meditating. it is very hard for me to sit in one position and be mindful for twenty minutes. it is very hard for me to sit in one position period. and i am going to digress for one moment, please indulge me… because as i write this a wonderful & silly and truly fucked up memory pops up. i was maybe twelve years old, and i had a girl crush, not a lesbian crush, but a girl crush – an older girl who was just so cool. i mean, so frickin’ cool, but the thing was she had a facial tick … she was so beautiful, but had this tick, this facial tick and because i wanted to be her, i did the whole facial tick thing. i mimicked her. i did. for like months and months and months. and i’m sure because she was older and wiser, thought, hmmmm, crazy, man. i know, i know. I KNOW. it was crazy. crazy love.

okay. back to today.

first: gary coleman. i mean really, whatdya say? i don’t even know if i’m supposed to feel sad or upset about this. i mean, i never watched the show dif’frent strokes, or is it d’ffirent strokes and so i’m not approaching this as a TV watcher … and, HELLO.. hello, the fact that he abused his wife (and she him, by the way), that he was arrested, which i have to say, the guy is what, 4 feet 3 inches (oh my god i’m being so fucking petty), and his wife is what, like, 5 feet 8, (again, petty) and couldn’t she just put her arm out and say, “hey buddy, i’m gonna fucking cream you.” and yes, yes, yes i know, i know, and i’m sorry, i’m gonna get completely black listed for saying this, but the guy came up to her vagina. okay, obviously, obviously … this is much more upsetting than i thought it was. and i know there are folks out there who love him, and really liked the show, and my rant probably has nothing to do what-so-ever with his TV show slash brilliant acting talent and everything to do with his behavior, and abuse. however, the fact that this is news – HEADLINE NEWS – at all, given the god awful, horrific oil spill and all other sad tragic world news. CRAZY.

second: friends who keep me on hold when they get another call. for god sake. three times today. three different women. and then, then after holding for what feels like months, they come back on the phone and say: hey, listen, gotta go. i have another call. excuse me. that is rude crazy shit. no more. you keep me on hold for longer than 30 seconds, i’m hanging up… bye bye. i mean, you just can’t keep someone on hold forever and then come back and basically say, “hey… someone else is more important than you.”

oh. that makes me crazy. and yes, it makes me feel diminished & small … which now makes me realize, this very minute, that i in fact have an inner angry gary coleman.

welcome to CrazyVille.
but the good news… it’s only two stops before CandyLand.

okay. as i sit here in my overwhelmingly attractive moo-moo dress, hot as can be, i am wondering — outloud – what life would be like with central air conditioning.
hard to envision.
hard when it’s hot.
really frickin’ hot.
hot as hell.
dripping wet.
i look like a contestant for AMERICA’S MOST PISSED OFF MENOPAUSAL WOMAN

the buddha is in a bad mood.

i’m a reactor. truly. i like to think of myself as someone who can breathe in & out, breathe in & out and then offer a pithy comment, low key. quiet. thoughtful. enlightened a bit.
but i am not that person.
i imagine at times that i am that person, but that’s when i’m in an altered state.
i am sharing a story that i am both amazed to share, and also somewhat anxious to release. on the glint of it, at first look, this is not a very good story. but if i dig and breathe, i will find a nugget. i will. that is the purpose.

ken and his son have been estranged for the past year. and depending on who you speak with, the story is shifted, re-aligned, told from a different point of view. or as my grandfather so wisely said, there are three sides to every story. yours, theirs, and the truth.
word is – from his son’s point of view – i am much too powerful, controlling, overbearing, and his son doesn’t like me. at all. apparently an incident happened many years ago and his son was unable to let it go, and forgive my overbearing behavior. he is holding a grudge against me, and because of that the threads all unravel. the relationships become thread bare at best. and my feeling about that, holding on to a grudge … when you hold on that tight to some event or moment and never share it with the person who hurt you, or did you dirty, or said something to make you cringe, or cry … by not saying something you never ever give that person the opportunity to say, “i’m so sorry, or, i didn’t mean to hurt you, or … hey, fuck you, you are so fucking wrong about this…” a couple of scenarios, options. but when nothing goes said, and years go by and then an argument bubbles and all those icky bad thoughts come back up and you decide to cut all ties and never see that person again — wow – that is the behavior of a coward. you severe, you run, you say it with a bitterness that leaves a bad taste, the “i never want to speak or see that person again” taste, and life as you know it changes.
my husband is a good man. i think that’s pretty clear in my yearly blogging. a complex kind good sweet funny passionate man. and his relationship with his son has been difficult at times, joyous at times, profound at times, a gift at times, horrific at times, and filled with years & years & years of all sorts of memories, moments…a bunch of unforgiveness (hmmm, that word doesn’t look right)
and so now i am the bad, mean, overbearing step mother influence and yes it bothers me terribly, but some men just don’t like strong willed women. it’s a fact.
and a few days ago, while in florida, i found ken ‘cheating’ on me with his son. he was sneaking a phone call. hiding all messages, reading text messages in a corner.
and i find out, and boy oh boy oh boy did it sting. big time — OMG! OH WOW, THE BEE, A STING…HOLY SHIT, IT ALL COMES FULL CIRCLE. ohhhhhhh. woo woo.
okay, i digress.
i was angry, confused, hurt… i felt a bit betrayed, and mostly i felt deeply sad that he – ken’s son – was unable to forgive something i did years and years ago (and trust me, it was a small incident, two personality clashes, and yes, there are probably 3 sides to that story – how can there not be?) and now ken feels that he can’t have an open relationship because he thinks that will hurt me more.

wowee zowee, how fucked up, how sad.

this is what happens when shit festers, when words are kept secret, when folks don’t speak the truth in the moment out of fear that there will be a confrontation of sorts.
we’re guilty of it. oh, no, not all of us, but some. it’s the crazy glue that binds so many of us. better to sever ties, run… hit the road, make someone the bad guy. keep yourself at arms length so you don’t have to engage.

it doesn’t shock me one bit that folks are raging at each other, that violence is erupting all over the place, that intolerance is now a way of life and that folks who can’t seem to see eye to eye bolt and leave a mile of tire tracks. we hurt each other consistently. repeatedly.

there is nothing noble – nothing – about holding a grudge.
nothing. it should be banned, like off shore oil drilling. it leaves a horrible mess, destruction all around and it goes so very deep, cuts to the core, and then bubbles up to the surface, leaving debris for the next generation to clean up or … repeat, which seems to be the trend.

do you think it’s possible we can leave them something kinder to remember us by?

days 3 and 4.
so much happened.
nothing happened.
everything happened.
nothing happened.

it was florida. everything & nothing happens at the same exact time. some folks, swear to god, manage to eat and die at the same time. miami. a twofer city.
the big event, the big icky painful event: i was stung by a bee while lounging by the pool. i never lounge at a pool. the bee went right for my hand, my palm to be exact, stung me, decided to attach it’s stinger into my palm, and after i screamed “holy shit this burns like some hot hell joint,” ken, my ken, wanted to know what i did to provoke the bee.
that was not a good moment.
not for ken. not for the bee.

but then the good news:

i had an amazing, extraordinary massage.
chelsea, the massage therapist, was also an intuit & psychic & looked very much like an etherial being. she told me that i was not only on an amazing, brilliant NEW LIFE path, but she could see — ABSOLUTELY SEE — that i was about to have A PRETTY OFF THE CHARTS PHENOMENAL career experience, oh my god, she said: HUGE HUGE and she knew that i was a writer. she saw it, she knew it. she felt it. she did. which i always find pretty amazing. i mean, afterall, i could be taken for a high fashion model slash leading lady, (why not? halle meryl berry streep ), i could also be taken for a waitress or an overbearing sales clerk, or a slightly demented girl on the loose. but she chose writer and that was a definite BINGO. she also saw me accepting an award which she believed to be either a pulitzer or a tony. slightly curious and to make sure i was on the right track i asked her if possibly she meant a tony perm (as in hair), and she giggled and said, oh no, no silly, it’s a tony award. you are wearing a gorgeous sleek black suit, maybe even armani, opera length pearls, diamond earrings — definitely sleek and stunning and black heels. hmmm. that’s a pretty amazing psychic description moment. down to the armani suit. she knew i was a writer. she knew. and you are a brilliant writer, a healer. you are healing women with your words she said, tons and tons AND TONS of women. i asked to elaborate since this was a much better life experience than getting stung by that little creepy yellow jacket that clearly had a vendetta. i asked her if i would be attending the ceremony with ken or george clooney. she said ken, definitely ken.
i believed her. and yes, i believe i will win either a pulitzer or a tony award (not perm) and yes, i will be attending the ceremony with ken. mr. clooney is on my shit list, he doesn’t call or write. and yes, i’m through begging.
totally. a girl can just cheapen herself so much. one must hold on to some dignity.
my one hour massage turned into a 2.5 hour massage with many more intuitive enlightened moments (some shocking enough to make me both hold my breath & then catch it — how do they know this stuff?) coupled with an entire chakra cleansing and rejuvenation.

i advised ken he needed to start thinking about buying a tux.
he felt that the bee sting had clearly affected my logic.
uh huh.
i told him to forget about the bee. the bee was dead, no need to beat a dead bee into ground,
and then he said with just a hint of cute mixed in with some old useless dreck, “you know what, maybe you just fucking irritated the bee.”
oh yeah, that’s gonna work, that’s gonna win points and sexual favors. “really,” i said, “you know what, fuck you, you irritate me.”
and then he said, “see, that’s what i mean.”

need i say more.

my hand was somewhat swollen & throbbing. the benadryl had not kicked in yet.

“listen ken,” i said, you’re gonna have to get a tux, i saw this woman and she was just brilliant, clear, precise, very goddess like, she twinkled.” a word that always gets a rise, twinkle?

“did she know you were gonna get stung?”
“hmmm. I don’t know”

Well, if she was a really good psychic she should have envisioned the bee stinging you.

But that was after the point. I had already been stung.

I wonder if she can envision me losing my patience with you. i wonder if she’s envisioning that? Whatdya think the odds are, of her envisioning that?

“Predictable.”

oh. wow. and with that, I made a life changing decision, “to be more than. To aim higher, shoot higher, go for the brass ring.”

Period.

all in all a few really good days.

well. not much happened.
the sex (from the night before) knocked us both out. this is what happens when you’re in your 50′s and 60′s respectfully and there is NO, absolutely NO frickin’ air-conditioning in the apartment that we’re staying in down in south beach. you’d think for the kind dough that this place costs per minute they’d have perfect air flow. but no. not even close. so it’s hot & sticky. and hot & sticky can be a major irritant for cranky & amy. let’s say that one more time: CRANKY & AMY.

for an activity, we went to the cuban nostalgia fair. uninspiring, unimpressive. and the GPS girl was so snarky it’s a miracle we made it to the fairgrounds. after a few re-calibratings, i swear to god, she just about lost it. so, that particular ‘day trip’ was a bit shaky from the get go. and i often long for cuba, so i was not at all impressed and yes, somewhat dissapointed. all i yearned for, truly, after spending a good few hours there, was air-conditioning, and a really good mojito, but on the bright side i did win 25 bucks with a scratch and snif ticket. so not all was lost. i gave the money to ken with the instructions to take the 25 and make it grow into 2.5 million. he’s such a good guy. let’s see where that goes.
and then back to the apartment where we popped open a very good bottle of champagne, toasted each other, fran, marvin, ken & i, and all our friends….and i made a special toast to liz, krista, brooke, eliza, melody, kristi, kristine, molly, hollye, linda, amy, holly, maxee, carol, barbara, karen, et al, saying: TO GIRL POWER MAY WE LIFT EACH OTHER ALWAYS. and i also noticed that i had a couple of kris’s in my life: kristine, krista, & kristi… and two HOLLY/HOLLYE’S. how cool is that?
and then i drank like a fucking fish – silly as can be – and with my head throbbing, i turned and looked at my husband, who hours earlier had gotten the best sexy buzz cut, and boy oh boy did he look hot & sexy, as opposed to my day state: CRANKY & BITCHY, and i thought as i looked at his baby blues when he asked me: “Baby, whatdya want for our anniversary? Is there anything you want”
yes, ken, i want peace on earth, and no more bullying, and a full 24 hour kindness day, and enough money for all and everyone, and great health care, and less illness, and understanding of the human condition and a ban on beck and o’reilly and i would like very much for palin to stop pretending to be a smart woman and come out as the skank gold digger she really is, i would like all of the mistresses of tiger & jesse & john & charlie to donate ALL OF THEIR lawsuit winnings to GEMS, or Women for Women Intl, or any organization that helps rebuild women’s lives. and my fervent wish: i’d like all women to wear the same size shoe so we can always ALWAYS have enough shoes to go around so no one has to ever be barefoot without it being a choice….
but here’s what i said: “Nothing. I have everything I could ever want.”

and you know, i really truly deeply mean it.
I got it all.

nothing matches kindness. nothing.

day two. check.

friday.
anniversary weekend.
17 years.
holy crap.
17 years.
like that. faster than a speeding bullet.
this is the first time in 17 years that my husband did not, i repeat did not, misplace his wallet and or his cellphone, or the car.
this is the first time that he didn’t do his wallet nutdance: “HOLY SHIT, IT’S GONE, DID YOU SEE IT? DID YOU SEE IT? OH MY FUCKING GOD, I CAN’T FIND MY WALLET… MAYBE IT’S IN THE GARBAGE. IT WAS HERE, NOW IT’S GONE, NOW. IT’S. GONE.”
none of that on my “anniversary … about to get in a car and go to the airport and board a plane so we can go and visit our friends” anniversary weekend.
none of that.
a great fucking start.
and no fighting in the car.
none.
not one “fuck you, no no no no fuck you.”
and then, then, we made out in the parking lot at stewart airport after we parked our car — get this — 4 feet away from the terminal.
no lost wallet. no fighting in the car. making out, with yes, a little copping a feel, and… cherry… perfect parking spot.

i am so fucking suspicious, you have no idea.
i will spend the rest of my anniversary weekend looking for clues. and i will find none.
none.
and you wanna know why?
because ken & i promised each other that this weekend, the 17th year weekend, would be filled with joy and love and SEX AND laughter and good food and SEX, and good friends and tons of wine, and QUIET CHATTER.
and i have a sneaking suspicion (yep, there it is… the suspicion) that we will wish for the good old days, you know, the fuck you, thank you so much days.
because they always, always led to great, hot passionate sex.
on MAP QUEST, that’s called “the shorter route” which by the way, always leads to the same destination.

day one. check.

A is for Ambien.
Mommy loves her sleep.
Mommy loves sleeping eight to ten uninterrupted hours a night.

Mommy “hearts” Ambien.

B is for Benadryl.

Mommy takes this when her allergies kick in. Like during the Spring and Summer months when there is so much pollen and crap in the air that her head throbs, and her throat closes and her nose gets all runny and itchy and this makes Mommy a little itsy bitsy cranky and that’s why Mommy tells you to go outside and play with your friends so Mommy can have some “quality” quiet time.

Mommy likes her quiet time.

C is for Cialis.

When Mommy is horny and Daddy can’t get it up, this is what Daddy takes and this helps Daddy make Mommy happy and when Mommy is happy, Daddy is very, very happy and when Daddy is happy, Mommy is very happy and then you get toys, and then everyone is happy.

D is for Demerol.

Mommy takes this for pain, like when she’s playing golf with Daddy even though she absolutely frickin’ hates golf because Mommy has carpal tunnel syndrome, but she plays golf anyway because Daddy likes golf, but Mommy deeply, deeply resents it, so Mommy takes this medicine because it gets rid of both the pain and the resentment.

E is for Effexor.

When Mommy gets depressed or anxious or suicidal and has one of her panic attacks in the middle of Barneys 70 % off everything sale, or in Bergdorf’s, this medication, this little tiny pill, helps Mommy get through the rest of the day with a plastered fake smile, and some free samples from Chanel and ReVive.

“Light a candle for one, and then everyone can see the shoes that are on sale.”
-Anonymous Shopper

F is for Flonase.

Mommy uses this nasal spray when the Benadryl isn’t kicking in, and it makes a funny loud swishy kinda sound, and sometimes Mommy does this in a public place, like in a restaurant or at the theatre and this always, always embarrasses Daddy. And then Daddy yells at Mommy in a public place and then they don’t talk to each other for hours and hours.

And when Mommy sees a pair of lovely earrings in the window of the Jewel Box on Madison Avenue, she grabs Daddy by the arm, points to the earrings and says, “You can apologize now.” That’s why Mommy always has such nice jewelry and someday all of that jewelry will be yours when Mommy dies.

G is for Gas-x.

Mommy takes this so her stomach doesn’t extend or bloat because then Mommy would look pregnant or worse, fat, and Mommy doesn’t want to be pregnant or fat, but Mommy loves you very, very much, and she’s very, very happy that you’re an only child.

H is for Habitrol.

This is so Mommy can stop smoking, even though Mommy doesn’t want to stop smoking. Mommy likes smoking because it calms her nerves and when Mommy is calm, everyone is calm, and when Mommy is crazy, everyone is crazy. But Daddy, and Grandma Syl – that fat unkempt fuck – both hock Mommy to stop smoking, so Mommy uses this patch. It’s an ugly patch and Mommy has nothing to wear with it, and it’s not helping. It’s ugly and useless. But the Demerol helps. So Mommy chips off a little teeny piece of Demerol with her teeth, just a smidgen, and it melts in her mouth, and pouffff, then mommy is happy.

I is for Ibuprofen.

Mommy takes this when she has a headache. And she can buy it at any drug store over the counter.

And Mommy can drink alcohol and operate a car and/or even dangerous machinery while taking this medication.

J is for Jolivette.

Mommy uses this to prevent estrogen from thickening the lining of her uterus, so that she’ll never ever have pain that is related to endometriosis, which is a nasty, and unpleasant pain, the “stay the fuck away from me” kind of pain, because if that were to happen … she and Daddy wouldn’t have sex because the pain would be too excruciating and that would make Daddy very, very, VERY cranky and unhappy, and then Mommy will have to take more Effexor.

K is for Klonopin.

Mommy takes klonopin when she has to get on an airplane so that she doesn’t have a severe panic attack and scare all the other passengers, because Mommy is prone to do that, and because you’re much too young, you’ve never seen Mommy on an airplane, but someday you will, and hopefully by that time Mommy will have either gotten over her fear of flying, or there will be a much stronger drug.

L is for Lorazepam.

Mommy takes Lorazepam when Daddy is driving.
It keeps her from screaming out loud.

M is for Morphine.

Sometimes late at night, when everyone is fast asleep, Mommy gets down on her hands and knees and prays to the almighty God, or Goddess that someone will bring her Morphine as a present in a real Prada handbag, unlike the black market kidneys that were coming into the United States in faux Prada bags.

“It’s called a twofer. It’s not just a handbag – it’s a handbag plus a kidney.”
-Anonymous Israeli Shopper

N is for Nicoderm.

Mommy started using this when Habitrol became completely useless.

O is for Omega-3.

Mommy takes this so she doesn’t have coronary artery disease, heart disease, or a stroke. But sometimes Daddy does or says something that makes Mommy go completely frickin’ nuts and it feels like she’s at the beginning throws of a cerebral hemorrhage.

P is for Percodan.

Mommy takes this after she bangs her head against a brick wall over and over and over again because no one — not one single frickin’ person — is listening to her.

Q is for Quaalude.

Mommy used to take this when she was much, much younger and didn’t care who she was sleeping with. This was mommy’s very favorite drug and if she had a choice between a perfectly cut flawless 10-carat yellow Diamond or two Rorer 714 Quaaludes, she’d take the Rorer’s.

R is for Retin-A.

This helps keep Mommy’s skin looking much younger, and radiant and a lot less wrinkly, this way Daddy won’t leave her for a young hot chick with big tits and no brain.

S is for Stool Softener.

Mommy uses this so her poop is smooth and silky soft when it’s eliminated from her system. Mommy doesn’t like to squeeze too hard when she’s pooping, it makes her ass hurt, and her lips pucker, and then little tiny lines appear around her mouth, and that puts mommy in a very foul and retched mood as you can just imagine.

T is for Testosterone.

This is something both Mommy and Daddy are taking so that their sex life has a little more UMPHHHH to it.

But it’s all a crock of bullshit. The reason Mommy and Daddy aren’t having sex is because your Daddy is an asshole.

U is for Ultracet.

Mommy gives her co-worker Toby all of her ultracet’s because Toby is addicted to pain pills, and Toby gives Mommy her Ambien, because Mommy “hearts” Ambien. That’s called a drug trade.

And someday you’ll be doing that with a friend too.

V is for Valium

You know when we’re stuck in traffic, or we can’t find a parking space and Mommy screams at the other drivers, and you say, “Mommy, please, that’s so icky and embarrassing,” that’s a good time for Mommy to pop a valium. It makes her feel more at ease, and then she doesn’t give a shit about anyone else on the road.

W is for Wellbutrin

Mommy takes this so she doesn’t feel unhappy and psychotic all day long. And sometimes Mommy takes a little bit more, and sometimes Mommy takes a little bit less, but … and this is very important for you to know for future reference incase you ever have to call Mommy’s doctor … Mommy must never ever do that without asking her doctor first about upping or lowering the dosage. So put Mommy’s Doctor’s phone number on ‘speed dial’ on your brand new shiny sleek iPhone (with every APP known to man) that you got for being such a good little girl.

That’s D for Doctor, honey.

X is for Xanax

When Mommy runs out of Lorazepam, and she has to wait for her Doctor to call in a new prescription, she takes a Xanax.

Mommy likes Xanax, but not as much as Lorazepam.

Did you know the generic name for Xanax is Alprazolam?
Can you say Alprazolam?

Y is for Yodxin

Mommy doesn’t take this drug.
It’s for infections.
Mommy doesn’t have any infections. But Sara our neighbor does have an infection because Sara is a lying cheating skanky whore. She has a lot of infections. Never ever have unprotected sex because then you’ll end up like Sara, lonely and bitter and infected.

Z is for Zoloft

Mommy takes this
so we can all live happily ever after.