Marrying George Clooney

one/one/one one

a grand year.
it will be. i just know it.

here’s to:
joy.
love.
happiness.
more joy.
great sex.
believing in the power of our lives: individually & collectively.
righting (writing) our lives.
helping & championing others.
living our lives fully.
friends.
great men.
great women.
husbands, spouses, partners…
children.

beauty. inside and out.

peace of mind.
kindness.
generosity.

art. all and every.

and here’s to saying no when we mean it. saying yes because it matters, taking better care of ourselves, CARING FOR OURSELVES & OTHERS, being kind to a stranger, and NOT SETTLING FOR MEDIOCRITY in any area of our lives.

and here’s to the women who have graced my life this year.
you are each a miracle.
may we all fly in 2011.

I never for the life of me thought I’d become a woman who talks about her life in terms of dosage. As in, “Oh, no, no, I’m not that depressed, I’m on the pediatric dose,” or “Well, I start with 5mg and then work myself up to oh, you know… maybe 7.5mg, but that’s only when I’m terribly overwhelmed,” or “Hmmm, really? You’re on 20 mg of Lipitor, I’m only on 10. I wonder if that’s why I still feel, you know, clogged?”

My husband made a comment the other day which drove me completely nuts, drove me to 0.25 mg of Xanax. He said, and I quote, “Hey babe, your night table reminds me of my mother’s night table, with all those pill bottles.”

Oh my god. Holy shit. My night table – MINE – reminds him – HIM – of his mother’s – HIS MOTHER’S – night table.

That was it. That was all I needed to hear.

“First of all,” I said in a very calm yet irritated voice, “Mr. Hey Babe, first of all… first of all… those pill bottles that remind you of your mother, one is filled with Black Cohosh, and Kava Kava for my never ending hot flashes. And this one, this one… is filled with Vitamin C, and D, and E, and ALL the other letters of the alphabet because of that horrible vile cold and sore throat that you gave to me thank you very much. And this one, this one, right here, this one, this pill bottle is so old, it could be your mother’s. It has a refill date going back to … what does that say? Oh yeah, yeah 2002. And this pill bottle is filled with kosher salt for that neti-pot that I use when I have a sinus headache in the middle of the night. And this pill bottle – THIS PILL BOTTLE, Mr. Know-it-all, is filled with medicinal marijuana that I will try ONLY when they pass the marijuana law.”

“Medicinal marijuana?”

“Okay. Fine. You win. Valium. From the valiumitis plant.”

And with that, he took my face in his hands, looked me in the eye, and said, “I’m so crazy about you.”

I asked him how crazy, and he said, without missing a beat, “Oh, about a million milligram worth…”

That’s a whole lot of crazy.

And with that, they lived happily…

(And the Princess decided for various reasons, none of which had to do with her (deceased) mother-in-law, that combining all herbs and pills into one pill bottle was both aesthetically pleasing and much, much better for the health of the planet.)

see ken.
see ken shovel.
see ken say SHIT.
see ken pee in the snow.
see ken make the snow yellow.
see ken wipe his forehead and get hit with a bunch of falling snow from a tree.
see ken put his shovel down.
see ken get on his knees.
see ken scream to the heavens.
see ken look just like willem dafoe in platoon.
see ken get up.
see ken pick up the shovel.
see ken shovel.
see ken say FUCK YOU.
see ken say FUCK IT.
see amy waving to ken from inside the warm toasty house, where both kitties rub up against her and give her kisses.
see ken give amy the finger.
see amy blow ken a big kiss.
see ken misinterpret that gesture.
see ken walking toward the house.

see amy.

see amy shovel.

I do not matter.

I am nine, maybe, ten years old.

My neighbors, Eddie and James, come over and want to play Doctor.

They are twins, and they are my age, and so, we play Doctor in my backyard. They crack and snap the branches off from the tree and stick the branches up my vagina. I am the patient. They are the Doctors. They tell me that Doctors can stick branches and stuff up a girls “thing” so that they can take her temperature. My mother doesn’t take my temperature in my vagina I say. They say, no, no, you can do this. I know they’re wrong. I don’t tell my mother that Eddie and James came over to play doctor. She’s watching The Mike Douglas Show, and she does not want to be interrupted when she is watching television.

I am burning. My vagina is burning. I am scared and in pain and it is the middle of the night and I start to scream. My vagina is on fire. It burns and I can feel like my insides are exploding. I have an infection. I have many infections since I can remember. My mother doesn’t come into my room right away. She is right across the hall, a small narrow hall. She can hear me. My dad can hear me.

Finally. Finally. She comes into my room. I calm down.

I am eleven years old.

I have an infection. I am peeing and it is burning and I am in pain. I am back at the Pediatrician’s office again, and she tells my mother I have a urinary tract infection again. She tells my mom I need to take cool baths. Not hot, cool. My mother is impatient. Irritable. Smoking. I am in pain. Antibiotics and a soothing cream and cool baths. I am sad and unhappy and in pain.

We stop at Orbach’s so my mom can go shopping. She tries on shifts and shoes and sweater sets. I am in pain and I am uncomfortable and I smile at my mom so she doesn’t get upset with me. She tries on clothes and I sit on a stool and I keep my legs wide apart, so I don’t rub my thighs together because that will irritate my burning vagina more.

We go home.

My mom tells my dad she didn’t find anything at Orbach’s. He asks how I am, she says, she’s fine. She is fine.

I do not matter.

My finger doesn’t heal. It is crooked and bent and misshapen. I was running and playing, whooping it up with my friends when Andy fell on me by accident and I could hear the snap and the crack, just like a tree branch snapping in half, and it hurt and I ran up the hill and screamed, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, but Mommy was playing mah-jongg and she shooed me away and I went into the Bungalow and she came in, and pulled open the metal ice tray and wrapped my hand in ice, and made me promise, “cross your heart,” that I would sit there like a good girl, and she went back to finish the game, and I heard the ice cream truck, and I heard my mom and my aunt ask for “creamsicle pops,” and sometime later, my mother placed the two perfectly clean licked pop sticks on my middle finger and taped it with scotch tape and that was that.

My finger never healed.

I do not matter.

She gave my brand new Barbie, my brand new “still in the box,” Barbie to my cousin Debbie. She forgot, she said – it slipped her mind – to get my cousin a gift for Hanukah. So when she asked my Aunt what Debbie wanted, it seemed that she wanted what I had. She gave Debbie my brand new, still in the box, Barbie Doll and promised she would get me a brand new one, “Cross my heart,” she said. I never got the new one, the one with the black and white two- piece. Maybe she didn’t look hard enough, or maybe she went to a store that didn’t have Barbie dolls, like Orbach’s. I must have asked a million times but she did not like my asking over and over and over. It annoyed her.

I do not matter.

Awful horrible, bad, first time, painful, eyes shut, squirming sex. He didn’t love me. He hardly knew me. We had sex. I was 14, he was older and while he was moaning and groaning and saying please, baby, please, oh, yes, baby…. on the Zenith black and white television that was tucked in the corner of the room, Janet Leigh was getting bludgeoned to death in the shower while I was losing my virginity at the exact same time. He was older, an artist and he hung out at Max’s Kansas City and the Ninth Circle, and he wanted to paint me and told me I looked like, reminded him of …a younger, much younger, Ultra Violet, an Andy Warhol starlet. I was fourteen and lanky and had curly sexy mop-y hair and wore lots of make-up and mascara. He was my friend Stephen’s older brother and …

I. Gave. It. Up. For. Him.

I do not matter.

I sat there with a few other girls my age. None of us talked. Names were called. Forms were filled out. Money was exchanged. Names were called again. Nurses took your vitals. You were given a robe. You undressed. You waited. You were asked, “Are you sure?” You said, ”Yes.” More waiting. Then you get called. Rolled in. A needle. The anesthesia kicks in. Count back from one hundred.

Ninety-nine.

Ninety-eight.

Ninety seven, Ninety-six. Ninety-five. Ninety-four.

Nine. Ty.

Thr. Ee.

Ni. Ne. Ty.

Ni.

Ni.

You wake up. You think it’s been forever, but it’s only fifteen, twenty minutes later. Groggy. Alone. Scared. The gown is bloody. I’m wearing a kotex napkin. Bulky. I ache, and I’m empty. Sad emoty. Alone empty. And I look around, and see on either side, the same as me. Bloody gowns. Groggy. Scared, and the nurse comes in with some juice and offers a sip, “here the straw, your lips are dry, sip…. sip… lift your head, sip. Atta girl.” She takes my pulse and checks my vitals and says everything is fine. “Everything went fine,” she says. I didn’t think to ask “boy or girl?” or did you know? Or could you tell just yet?

You lie there.

You wait.

No one is coming to get you.

You’re young.

You had secrets.

Scary, lonely, shameful secrets.

You get rid of those secrets.

You get dressed.

Fill out more forms.

Atta girl, one more time.

You leave.

You are empty.

You are head to toe fucking empty.

You cry and cry and cry, snot nose cry.

You are young and scared and you didn’t say no.

No, I can’t. No, I don’t want to. No, I don’t like you. No, I don’t want to have sex. No. Thank you. No.

I do not matter.

And I leave home.

And fly away.

I am young and scared and have no sense of myself, and I am filled with shame and guilt and make up stories about my life because god forbid I should tell the truth and then NO ONE WILL EVER LIKE ME. No one. I will say I am this and that and come from here and there and no one will know. No one. Because no one will care enough to ask more questions.

I am young.

I am lost.

I say yes again, and one more time.

One. More. Time.

This time the pain is unbearable because of the constant bladder and urinary infections and pelvic inflammatory disease and a rupture and tear and holy shit, I HAVE ABUSED MYSELF.

I HAVE ABUSED MYSELF.

I have hurt my own body. I have torn my own body. I have given it away and tossed it away and I have stood naked in front of a stranger and I have said, here… here… here… and now I am in pain, excruciating pain, and the doctor asks me if I am sure, ARE YOU SURE, and I say, YES, and he says fine, and I am given a Demerol, and a drip, and I am asked to count backwards from 100 and I count to eighty two because I am so ashamed and frightened and then I wake up and I feel so completely alone.

Some juice, some warmth, some compassion, a soft smile, a nod, a comforting hand. “Take care,” she says, the nurse. “I don’t know how to,” I tell her.

You start with NO, she says. Mean it. Say it. Repeat it. No. No. NO. NO. No.

I try. I slip.

I do not matter.

More lies, more doubt, more shame, more guilt, more drugs, more men, more to store away and hide.

I am pinned against the wall.

He is angry. Enraged. Vile. Mean. It’s in his eyes. They are bulging.

He tells me he doesn’t love me. I tell him I don’t care.

Period.

End of story.

End of bad story.

I do not love him.

I do not want to spend one more moment lying in bed next to him, fucking him, sitting in a restaurant with him, sharing popcorn with him, driving in a car with him, waiting on line at the supermarket with him, ordering sushi with him, going to the movies with him, watching TV with him, cooking a meal with him, giving him a blow job, getting on planes and trains with him, visiting our families – his family, my family – with him.

I do not love him.

Why did you stay so long he asks me.

I was lazy I tell him.

I say it.

I say: I DO NOT LOVE YOU.

I grab hold of his hands, which are pressing down on my clavicles, and I say to him: I do not want to be with you any more. Not one more day. Not one more minute. I am not staying here.

I AM OUT OF HERE.

I AM LEAVING.

I grab a few things. Small things. Personal things. Enough things. I grab my purse, my cash, my jewelry, my beads from my altar, a couple of tee’s, and jeans, and the clothes on my back.

I get in my car and I drive and drive and drive.

And I drive.

And that day, at 7:52 PM

I BEGIN TO MATTER.

I begin to matter.

No going back.

And yes, oh god yes, I slip sometimes.

Backwards. But I catch myself. I grab the railing, or the step, or the handlebar… or my husband.

And I feel scared and ashamed and shameful and doubtful and the self-loathing bubbles up, I am sometimes, but not often, brought back to moments. Memories, times that hurt so deep, that cut so fucking deep that I can actually feel as if my ribs are cracking. I can barely breathe.

I am sometimes, but not often, reminded of that young girl filled with such god-awful pain, crippling self-doubt, no self-esteem what so ever. None. She wanted … to be included, to please someone, to fix someone, to make it better, to mend someone’s heart and soul.

To be seen. To be heard.

To be visible.

To belong.

To fit in.

To be loved.

Please. Oh please. Please. Please. Please.

Please.

Here. Over here. Yes, Me. Here. Yeah, me. Love me. Please. Pretty please, with a cherry, man, on top.

She did not believe she mattered.

She was wrong.

Everything she did – EVERY. SINGLE. THING. SHE. DID -mattered so that someone else, another human being, could feel that they matter.

I matter.

i heard a wonderful story. not a christmas story, per say. but a good happy ever after kind of story.

guy had everything. wife. job. two cars. house. a cat.

he was married ten years.

he was, you know, happy. well, not fully. not totally. but okay. he was okay happy.

and then one day his wife left him.

and he lost his job shortly there after.

and then, he sold a car to give his ex some money.

and then he decided time to move out of the 3 bedroom/2 bath. so he moved into an apartment.

small. tiny. cramped.

and for a few weeks he was so fucking depressed. sad. feeling sorry for himself. couldn’t turn left or right.

and then it hit him. HIT HIM HARD.

no, he didn’t love his wife anymore – he hadn’t loved her in really long time. he hated the house they lived in – he didn’t even want to buy it, but she did. he didn’t like the second car.

he wasn’t happy for a long time. he wasn’t content. and for years, there were signs. little signs, big signs. he didn’t pay attention. he just figured, you know, this is okay. life is okay. not great. but okay. okay is okay.

and then…

(and I LOVE THIS)

he realized that when the shit hits the fan – that’s the opportunity, the moment – the go for it. you get to be huge. you get to be who and what you were meant to be. you get to breathe deep and exhale deeper. you get to BECOME ANYTHING & EVERYTHING you can dream of being.

it’s not about being smaller.

it’s about BEING HUGE.

I frickin’ LOVE THAT.

to be bold, audacious & HUGE.

merry christmas people.

i. do. not. matter.

(Righting My Life)

by Amy Ferris

(this is my story, my truth)

I do not matter.

I am nine, maybe, ten years old.

My neighbors, Eddie and James, come over and want to play Doctor.

They are twins, and they are my age, and so, we play Doctor in my backyard. They crack and snap the branches off from the tree and stick the branches up my vagina. I am the patient. They are the Doctors. They tell me that Doctors can stick branches and stuff up a girls “thing” so that they can take her temperature. My mother doesn’t take my temperature in my vagina I say. They say, no, no, you can do this. I know they’re wrong. I don’t tell my mother that Eddie and James came over to play doctor. She’s watching The Mike Douglas Show, and she does not want to be interrupted when she is watching television.

I am burning. My vagina is burning. I am scared and in pain and it is the middle of the night and I start to scream. My vagina is on fire. It burns and I can feel like my insides are exploding. I have an infection. I have many infections since I can remember. My mother doesn’t come into my room right away. She is right across the hall, a small narrow hall. She can hear me. My dad can hear me.

Finally. Finally. She comes into my room. I calm down.

I am eleven years old.

I have an infection. I am peeing and it is burning and I am in pain. I am back at the Pediatrician’s office again, and she tells my mother I have a urinary tract infection again. She tells my mom I need to take cool baths. Not hot, cool. My mother is impatient. Irritable. Smoking. I am in pain. Antibiotics and a soothing cream and cool baths. I am sad and unhappy and in pain.

We stop at Orbach’s so my mom can go shopping. She tries on shifts and shoes and sweater sets. I am in pain and I am uncomfortable and I smile at my mom so she doesn’t get upset with me. She tries on clothes and I sit on a stool and I keep my legs wide apart, so I don’t rub my thighs together because that will irritate my burning vagina more.

We go home.

My mom tells my dad she didn’t find anything at Orbach’s. He asks how I am, she says, she’s fine. She is fine.

I do not matter.

My finger doesn’t heal. It is crooked and bent and misshapen. I was running and playing, whooping it up with my friends when Andy fell on me by accident and I could hear the snap and the crack, just like a tree branch snapping in half, and it hurt and I ran up the hill and screamed, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, but Mommy was playing mah-jongg and she shooed me away and I went into the Bungalow and she came in, and pulled open the metal ice tray and wrapped my hand in ice, and made me promise, “cross your heart,” that I would sit there like a good girl, and she went back to finish the game, and I heard the ice cream truck, and I heard my mom and my aunt ask for “creamsicle pops,” and sometime later, my mother placed the two perfectly clean licked pop sticks on my middle finger and taped it with scotch tape and that was that.

My finger never healed.

I do not matter.

She gave my brand new Barbie, my brand new “still in the box,” Barbie to my cousin Debbie. She forgot, she said – it slipped her mind – to get my cousin a gift for Hanukah. So when she asked my Aunt what Debbie wanted, it seemed that she wanted what I had.  She gave Debbie my brand new, still in the box, Barbie Doll and promised she would get me a brand new one, “Cross my heart,” she said. I never got the new one, the one with the black and white two- piece. Maybe she didn’t look hard enough, or maybe she went to a store that didn’t have Barbie dolls, like Orbach’s. I must have asked a million times but she did not like my asking over and over and over. It annoyed her.

I do not matter.

Awful horrible, bad, first time, painful, eyes shut, squirming sex. He didn’t love me. He hardly knew me. We had sex. I was 14, he was older and while he was moaning and groaning and saying please, baby, please, oh, yes, baby…. on the Zenith black and white television that was tucked in the corner of the room, Janet Leigh was getting bludgeoned to death in the shower while I was losing my virginity at the exact same time. He was older, an artist and he hung out at Max’s Kansas City and the Ninth Circle, and he wanted to paint me and told me I looked like, reminded him of …a younger, much younger, Ultra Violet, an Andy Warhol starlet. I was fourteen and lanky and had curly sexy mop-y hair and wore lots of make-up and mascara. He was my friend Stephen’s older brother and …

I. Gave. It. Up. For. Him.

I do not matter.

I sat there with a few other girls my age. None of us talked. Names were called. Forms were filled out. Money was exchanged. Names were called again. Nurses took your vitals. You were given a robe. You undressed. You waited. You were asked, “Are you sure?” You said, ”Yes.” More waiting. Then you get called. Rolled in. A needle. The anesthesia kicks in. Count back from one hundred.

Ninety-nine.

Ninety-eight.

Ninety seven, Ninety-six. Ninety-five. Ninety-four.

Nine. Ty.

Thr. Ee.

Ni. Ne. Ty.

Ni.

Ni.

You wake up. You think it’s been forever, but it’s only fifteen, twenty minutes later. Groggy. Alone. Scared. The gown is bloody. I’m wearing a kotex napkin. Bulky. I ache, and I’m empty. Sad emoty. Alone empty. And I look around, and see on either side, the same as me. Bloody gowns. Groggy. Scared, and the nurse comes in with some juice and offers a sip, “here the straw, your lips are dry, sip…. sip… lift your head, sip. Atta girl.” She takes my pulse and checks my vitals and says everything is fine. “Everything went fine,” she says. I didn’t think to ask “boy or girl?” or did you know? Or could you tell just yet?

You lie there.

You wait.

No one is coming to get you.

You’re young.

You had secrets.

Scary, lonely, shameful secrets.

You get rid of those secrets.

You get dressed.

Fill out more forms.

Atta girl, one more time.

You leave.

You are empty.

You are head to toe fucking empty.

You cry and cry and cry, snot nose cry.

You are young and scared and you didn’t say no.

No, I can’t. No, I don’t want to. No, I don’t like you. No, I don’t want to have sex. No. Thank you. No.

I do not matter.

And I leave home.

And fly away.

I am young and scared and have no sense of myself, and I am filled with shame and guilt and make up stories about my life because god forbid I should tell the truth and then NO ONE WILL EVER LIKE ME. No one. I will say I am this and that and come from here and there and no one will know. No one. Because no one will care enough to ask more questions.

I am young.

I am lost.

I say yes again, and one more time.

One. More. Time.

This time the pain is unbearable because of the constant bladder and urinary infections and pelvic inflammatory disease and a rupture and tear and holy shit, I HAVE ABUSED MYSELF.

I HAVE ABUSED MYSELF.

I have hurt my own body. I have torn my own body. I have given it away and tossed it away and I have stood naked in front of a stranger and I have said, here… here… here… and now I am in pain, excruciating pain, and the doctor asks me if I am sure, ARE YOU SURE, and I say, YES, and he says fine, and I am given a Demerol, and a drip, and I am asked to count backwards from 100 and I count to eighty two because I am so ashamed and frightened and then I wake up and I feel so completely alone.

Some juice, some warmth, some compassion, a soft smile, a nod, a comforting hand. “Take care,” she says, the nurse. “I don’t know how to,” I tell her.

You start with NO, she says. Mean it. Say it. Repeat it. No. No. NO. NO. No.

I try. I slip.

I do not matter.

More lies, more doubt, more shame, more guilt, more drugs, more men, more to store away and hide.

I am pinned against the wall.

He is angry. Enraged. Vile. Mean. It’s in his eyes.  They are bulging.

He tells me he doesn’t love me. I tell him I don’t care.

Period.

End of story.

End of bad story.

I do not love him.

I do not want to spend one more moment lying in bed next to him, fucking him, sitting in a restaurant with him, sharing popcorn with him, driving in a car with him, waiting on line at the supermarket with him, ordering sushi with him, going to the movies with him, watching TV with him, cooking a meal with him, giving him a blow job, getting on planes and trains with him, visiting our families – his family, my family – with him.

I do not love him.

Why did you stay so long he asks me.

I was lazy I tell him.

I say it.

I say: I DO NOT LOVE YOU.

I grab hold of his hands, which are pressing down on my clavicles, and I say to him: I do not want to be with you any more. Not one more day. Not one more minute. I am not staying here.

I AM OUT OF HERE.

I AM LEAVING.

I grab a few things. Small things. Personal things. Enough things. I grab my purse, my cash, my jewelry, my beads from my altar, a couple of tee’s, and jeans, and the clothes on my back.

I get in my car and I drive and drive and drive.

And I drive.

And that day, at 7:52 PM

I BEGIN TO MATTER.

I begin to matter.

No going back.

And yes, oh god yes, I slip sometimes.

Backwards. But I catch myself. I grab the railing, or the step, or the handlebar… or my husband.

And I feel scared and ashamed and shameful and doubtful and the self-loathing bubbles up, I am sometimes, but not often, brought back to moments. Memories, times that hurt so deep, that cut so fucking deep that I can actually feel as if my ribs are cracking. I can barely breathe.

I am sometimes, but not often, reminded of that young girl filled with such god-awful pain, crippling self-doubt, no self-esteem what so ever. None. She wanted … to be included, to please someone, to fix someone, to make it better, to mend someone’s heart and soul.

To be seen. To be heard.

To be visible.

To belong.

To fit in.

To be loved.

Please. Oh please. Please. Please. Please.

Please.

Here. Over here. Yes, Me. Here. Yeah, me. Love me. Please. Pretty please, with a cherry, man, on top.

She did not believe she mattered.

She was wrong.

Everything she did – EVERY. SINGLE. THING. SHE. DID -mattered so that someone else, another human being, could feel that they matter.

I matter.

(oh my fucking god it’s christmas)

okay, here’s my wish list:

peace. of mind. on earth. of ass (ken’s very favorite christmas wish).

forgiveness. self. others. estranged family members (this you can do in the privacy of your own home, and while operating heavy machinery – release them in love) michael vick (hey, redemption –  if we all want it, we must learn to give it, and I know some of you can’t forgive Vick, i know that…)

pro-choice. (aka FREEDOM). all the pro’s: personally. professionally. sexually. creatively. spiritually & of course, pro-sports.

kindness. give. give more. offer a hand. give a shoulder. let someone lean on you. lean on them. kiss them hug them. THANK THEM (e-mails, cards, phone calls).

love. straight. gay. (DO TELL. CONTINUE TO TELL. SHOUT LOVE. SHOUT IT. LOUD CLEAR TO THE MOON & BACK!)

joy. to the world. to our neighbors. to those less fortunate. to those whose hearts are heavy. to those who feel lost, sad, unloved. a smile. offer a smile. tell them they matter.

abundance. emotionally. financially. spiritually. intellectually. creatively. sexually.

my big gigantic wish is that every person know they matter. that their life is of value. that they can make a difference. that each one of us has a purpose, a mission. that every single human being feel warmth, and love, and believe in the greatness and beauty of their own life.

and a special shout out to lindsay lohan:

hey, you: YOU WERE/ARE SUPPOSED TO BE A GREAT EXAMPLE FOR ALL THOSE YOUNG WOMEN OUT THERE – so, please, SHAPE THE SHIT UP. we need role models for our girls & boys. now.

which brings me straight back to forgiveness.

full disclosure, this is just my opinion, maybe not your opinion, which is fine, because god knows we all have CHOICES to make (hello!!!!)

my opinion: i believe that forgiveness – both giving it to others and ourselves – is the greatest gift we can give.  it allows another person to shed that layer of shame & guilt & self doubt. it offers them the opportunity to step into their own greatness. i think when we don’t forgive someone – when we hold onto that grudge, we keep them mighty small and we keep ourselves even smaller.

i’m all for huge, people.

so, here’s to a peaceful, loving, generous, forgiving, abundant and joyous MERRY CHRISTMAS.

i am a firm believer that everyone should have their own space.

room.

closet.

car.

you know, a pair of UGG boots big enough to crawl into.

i believe that everyone should be able to get away, if only – if only – for a few moments.

to breathe.

to meditate.

to write.

to cry. to imagine. to make-believe.

to dream.

to get away from someone (husband, spouse, partner, friend, child, pet, imaginary friend) that is annoying the shit out of you – if only ONLY for a mere few seconds.

and this morning, i too decided to get away. if only for a moment. not far mind you, just a hop skip and a jump from the bedroom.

at this very moment, right now, i am in my room. my very own room. at my desk. my very own desk. typing away at my own MAC computer with my own password and pin-code and no one, not one soul – well, with the exception of a few hackers – can get into. i am trying to keep a happy face smile plastered as I type these words.

i have my own room.

i’m gonna say it one more time.

I HAVE MY OWN ROOM.

and at this very moment, right now, because 24/7 doesn’t seem to be enough time together – ken is sitting on the floor, indian style, a HAMMER IN HAND, pounding the living shit out of the wooden frame that holds the futon that is in MY ROOM – he is pounding. i smile. i type. i don’t look up at him. i can’t. i pop a tylenol for headaches and think bad thoughts, and type. apparently, maria (our friend) told ken that the frame was broken, and so… today, TODAY, this day, as i sit in my room, at my desk, trying to write, my sweet kind gorgeous ken is right there – RIGHT THERE – A BLINK AWAY – with me.

i want everyone to repeat after me:

RETIREMENT IS NOT FUN.

okay, one more time:

retirement is not fun.

okay. i’ve talked about this ad nauseum. MY COMMUNITY. milford, pa.

i’ve talked about goddess rebecca lindsay. i’ve raved about florin, and nancy isola. i’ve swooned & dribbled over sean strub. i have barely kept my clothes on for patty & arnold & fabio &  the upper delaware GLBT (or lgbt, i always get that confused…).

i live in a small town.

which means: small town politics, small town gossip, small town christmas decorations (you know: santa red & grass green, but very, very, very lovely).

but tonight i wanna talk about someone i have fallen madly, deeply, truly in like with:

XAVIER.

oh. my. god.

he is sweet. kind. generous. beautiful (both inside & oh my frickin’ god, outside). he is funny. smart. and charming. he makes everyone – EVERYONE – feel as if they swallowed the sun.

i mean, really, how many people can do that? raise your hands. know someone? come on…

exactly, THANK YOU!

i met him years ago. years ago.

i met him through sean. (yes, that sean. my sean. MY. SEAN. not your sean. MY. SEAN.)

and when i first met him, i thought, okay, maybe a little reserved… you know, distant. arms length.

and maybe, just maybe, when i first met him our town was a bit more energetic. a bit more progressive, cool, groovy.  a bit  more rock n’ roll, and far less country. and so, when i met xavier, i thought he was one of the hippest guys i ever met. like SINATRA cool.

like BONO cool.

like… JAGGER COOL.

and i didn’t get to know him. because truthfully, i thought he was much much cooler than me. oh my god. MUCH COOLER.

turns out: BIG FUCKING MISTAKE. he’s not only cooler than me… he’s cooler than anyone.

and you wanna know why?

because:

he’s all KINDNESS. inside & out.

i heart xavier.

and i have news for you, he’s turned this little town – my little town – MILFORD, PA  and the HOTEL FAUCHERE – into a BIG SEXY GORGEOUS VIBRANT AMAZING HAPPY (& here’s a HIP word) JOINT. he adds sparkle and joy and oh… good, good love. hey, you wanna feel good, catch his smile. holy mother of god.

i caught his smile tonight, and boy oh boy did my heart change.

i’m pro-choice. i’m all for people making choices in their lives.

and, you know, they don’t have to make the same choices as me.

they can have their OPINION.

i love that i have choices. i get to choose friends, and partners, and clothes, and food, and furniture, and politicians, and hair salons and doctors and restaurants and medication and pets and cars and all sorts of things, i get to choose where i live and what i say and who i love. my choice. and i just love that. and sometimes i make choices and wow oh fucking wow are they the wrong choices, so i get to make new choices, and hopefully i get to learn from my mistakes, and if not, well, then i get to make more choices.

and it seems to me that those who are so clearly pro-life get to choose too. boy oh boy do they choose. they get to choose who they love and what they wear and who they don’t like and what they say and who they vote for and where they eat and where they picket and what they burn and what kind of cars and houses they buy and what news and radio they listen to and the company they keep. and you bet a lot of their choices i don’t agree with. not my choices.

so, it looks like everyone is choosing. holy shit … everyone  it seems is pro-choice.

and to clarify, i’m pretty pro-life also, i love (okay, maybe not every single day….) waking up in the morning, i love that i get to kiss my husband and friends (yes, on the lips, thank you very much!), that i get to watch the sun rise and set, that i get to write and speak and share my thoughts, visit my friends, go to the movies, and theater and laugh and cry and help someone else get through a day. i’m pretty found of life. i think life is extraordinary, even in the worst of times. i’m all for life.

yep, yep, that sounds pretty pro-life to me.

someone said to me yesterday that she was pro-life and … tada.. “didn’t think i was,” which by the way, i can understand, so, i kinda looked at her and asked, well, why, what makes you think that? and she said, well, because you’re clearly pro-choice, and i said to her, well yes, I am pro-choice, and she asked, well how can you be “pro-life and pro-choice” and i said:

well, you know, i’m also all for pro-bowling, and pro-tennis, and pro-golf, and all for pro-bono work (which is very different than sonny bono work), and pro-skating and pro-duce, and pro-phylactics, and pro-mo and pro-ton, and pro-baseball…

and she kinda looked at me and said, yeah, well, what about an abortion, you think that that’s okay? is that what you’re saying?

and i looked right at her and said, “you my dear are trying to kill my opinions, wouldn’t you call that an abortion?”

i left it at that.