Marrying George Clooney

i don’t mind the dance shows, the idol shows, the singing… i don’t mind that.
those shows are filled with hope & courage & the message, “anything is possible.”
i don’t mind those TV shows.
i don’t watch them much. but every so often when i’m sitting in front of my TV, and i’m channel surfing, i catch a glimpse.

the other night i caught a glimpse of the real housewives of new jersey.
omg. i never realized that one can own/wear a diamond the same size as a breast implant.
and then, because, yes, i’m a gluten, i caught a glimpse of 16 and pregnant. or 15 and pregnant. or whatever the fuck that title of that TV show is. you know the one where babies are having babies.

and i gotta say this TV stuff, for me, oh so nauseating.

i live in a community where kids are getting pregnant by the dozens. little girls having sex, then boom… getting pregnant. they’re 14, 15, 16. they’re not using protection, they’re not using birth control. and then low and behold, they find out they’re pregnant. and they have the babies. abortion is not a choice for them. abortion is evil and horrific and yes we have billboards and information that warns and tells and reminds the importance of LIFE.

PRO-LIFE billboards.

i’m getting on a soap box here because i have just about had it with all this PRO-LIFE rhetoric. first of all any human being who has the great fortune to wake up every single day is PRO-LIFE. let’s get that straight. any human being who wakes up, breathes, drinks coffee, kisses their husband, their wife, their partner, their kids, their pets, gets in a car, goes to work, school, the grocery store, the deli, the bus stop, the train… any human being who greets the day with eyes wide open is – in my book – PRO FRICKIN’ LIFE. and for anyone to tell me that because of certain decisions, opinions, choices i make in my life, my pro-life, makes me less pro-life needs a lesson in humanity.

okay.

having a baby at 15 or 16 means, a) you are not protecting yourself from any and all possibility of disease. whether it’s sexually transmitted or HIV, you are not caring enough about your own life. you aren’t. you are not PRO “YOUR OWN” LIFE. you gotta become PRO “YOUR OWN” LIFE, otherwise you’re gonna end up being 28 years old with a 13 year old kid that you may or may not resent for the rest of BOTH YOUR LIVES. who wins in that situation? certainly not you. and most definitely – MOST DEFINITELY – NOT YOUR CHILD.
that’s called a NON PRO-DUCTIVE LIFE.

THINK before you have sex with that boy. think FUTURE. think PRO “YOUR OWN” LIFE, and think PRO “HIS” LIFE.
do not give it away.
do not sell yourself short.
do not say yes when every single bone in your body is screaming no.
do not think you are unlovable if you’re not ready to love someone.
and for god sake:
do not believe that bristol palin got drunk, had sex, had sex again, had more sex, and didn’t have a frickin’ clue that she would get pregnant. oh for god sake, she had a clue. her mother is sarah palin. bristol has to lie. and she also had to have a facelift so when she does all those talk shows and workshops and political rally’s she’s more photogenic.

she is not a role model people.
snooky is not a role model.
the housewives of new jersey and new york and hollywood and malibu and short hills, they are not role models.

hollye dexter is a role model.
marcia g. yerman is a role model.
kristine van raden is a role model.
gloria steinem is a role model.
cindy stine is a role model.
laurenne sala is a role model
tracy thomas is a role model.
erin & beth are role models.
debra de angelo is a role model.
jesse loren is a role model.
amy friedman is a role model.
denise tremaine is a role model.
melody george is a role model.
kathleen bumball is a role model.
cindy stine is a role model.
monica holloway is a role model.
hope edelman is a role model.

barbara grufferman, marianne schnall, suzanne braun levine, eve ensler… role models.
krista, brooke, sivan, andie, eva, tracy, spring, maxee, judy, georgie, kathy, carol … all role models.
VICTORIA ZACKHEIM…. role model.

madge stein woods is a role model
amy wise is a role model.
brooke elise axell is a role model.
brenda ruello is a role model.
elizabeth geitz is a role model.

julie & mary & sarah are role models.

these are women (and girls) who lead by example. they are smart & wise, & kind & generous & profound. they are stunning & vibrant & powerful & brave.

we need to educate girls and boys that life is all about choices, decisions, turning left or right, saying yes AND no, opinions, thinking for yourself, making mistakes and LEARNING from them, turning poison into medicine, good and bad, smart and dumb, right and wrong.

and maybe just maybe the reason i get so frickin’ crazy nuts about this is because i was that 15 year old.
i didn’t say no.
i wanted to be loved. feel loved. feel wanted.

to be included.

i was that girl.

and the choice that i made – MY CHOICE, MY DECISION, MY PRO “MY-OWN” LIFE decision – as a young impressionable, unhappy girl had everything to do with wanting to be able to make many, many more choices by the time i became a woman.

every child deserves to be wanted.
really truly deeply profoundly wanted.
protect yourself and them.

you both deserve an extraordinary future.

i have to re-post this blog. i have heard too many sad stories in the past few days about foster care.

It was sort of like an impulse buy. There was a two-week period when I was feeling this overwhelming need to fill a huge void in my life. I wasn’t quite sure what the void in fact was, I just knew that something – something – had to fill it. I remember that morning as if it were yesterday. Ken was reading the newspaper, drinking his hot and steamy cup of coffee, I was deciding on whether to wear the black short sleeve tee-shirt with slacks, or the white short sleeve tee-shirt with slacks. I chose the white. I walked out onto our porch, where Ken seemed so calm and peaceful and I stood there with my hands ever so firmly planted on my hips and said – or rather announced with great determination – yes, I’ve decided, I want to foster a child. Ken nodded, continued reading the Sports page and as he sipped his coffee, caught a glimpse of me over the rim of the cup. “Seriously, Ken, I want to be a mother.” This, a conversation, continuing from the night before.

Let me back track for just a moment. When Ken and I met there were two things that Ken never, ever wanted to do again: one, was get married, and two, was have a child. He had done both, and that was quite enough for him. I too felt when I first met Ken that marriage was a very iffy commitment. I mean, why? So that when you divorce, all the shit that was yours to begin with now has to get tossed into a legal heap and maybe you won’t get the CD’s and the few pieces of furniture you brought to the party to begin with. But a few months after our first date, along with the “I’m never getting married again,” lecture, we found ourselves picking out wedding rings and meeting with Unitarian ministers. We chose both within a week. Okay back to the foster children…

I had this urge, not necessarily to give birth, but to fill what felt like a unyielding emptiness. I am not, I repeat not, a nurturing kind of woman. But there was this need, this urge, this flu like symptom that didn’t seem to go away. I thought maybe instead of adopting a child, we could, for lack of better words, rent one. See if it works. I had heard both very good and very awful stories about foster care, and fostering children. I knew a couple who had brought a foster child into their home and two weeks later felt they were being tortured emotionally. I have friends who had huge success at fostering a child, ending up adopting the little girl, and another one whose child turned out to be the devil doll. But I understood that these children needed to be loved. They needed to be cared for, their place in the world was so fragile, so tentative, so scary.

And I, obviously, had an urge.

I stood there and waited for Ken to give me his blessing. “Sure, fine, you wanna do this, go check it out.” “Wanna come with me?” “Nah. I’m gonna watch football.” Ken thought, right or wrong, that it was like going to the Bide-a-wee, or the Humane Society. This isn’t something Ken cares to do, even though he is a very altruistic kind loving man. I was going to go the Children’s Aid Center and discuss the possibility of he and I becoming Foster Parents and while highly unlikely maybe come home with a happy loving child who Ken could garden with. Or at the very least, watch football with. I am such an optimistic fool.

I go to the Children’s Aid office in our very small town. I am greeted with both a lack of enthusiasm, and much paperwork. Reams and reams of paperwork. I fill out most, call Ken twice (for his social security number which I couldn’t for the life of me remember, along with some financial information) and then I’m Ied to a small empty room with a scattering of very old magazines. I for one believe any and all public spaces should keep up to date magazines. This is a cause I will champion in the future. Nothing worse than old, old news.

A young woman comes into the office. She reminds me of an Amish woman, or a Mormon, wearing a long floral schmata and a very, very bad haircut. It looked like a very, very bad helmet. She says nothing, but gestures for me to follow her. As I walk out of the room with her, I casually mention that they oughta get some up to date magazines.

As an aside, in one of our continual (I am pushy) conversations both that morning, and the night before, Ken tells me that – if in fact I actually go through with this – he would prefer a boy, if in fact there’s a choice, and a boy who can garden, weed, since it’s summertime and if in fact we are going to foster a child for two, three, four weeks than I should take into consideration that it would be great for Ken to have a weeding partner slash buddy. I, of course, would love a girl to go shopping with and go to nail salons with and someone to talk to about Ken’s – her foster father – weeding issues.

I am now led to another room where the Mormon slash Amish woman has a desk. I sit across from her and I look around the room for signs, clues of a life, her life. I see not a photo, or a calendar, or any sign of life, period. In the corner on the radiator what appears to be a dead plant. But, I convince myself, that could happen to anyone. Not everyone has a green thumb.

She pulls out what appears to be a thick binder. She slides it across the desk and motions for me to open it. I am now beginning to think that maybe she is mute, since not a word was spoken. Perhaps I should move my lips very slowly when talking to her so she can read my lips, I think, as I open the binder. There in vivid color are snapshots, photos, 8 x 10 glossies of babies, young adults, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, mentally disabled, physically challenged, older, taller, toddlers, and teenagers. Thirty, forty photos. Some take your breath away. A sparkle in the eyes, a dimple in the cheek, a turned up nose, freckles, thick curly hair, missing teeth, a lazy eye, the gorgeous skin-tone. The sadness is palpable. The joy diminished. The desperation is obvious.

Then she speaks: she tells me it’s a fairly long complicated process, could take weeks and weeks, maybe even a month or two. Yes, yes — bureaucratic bullshit paperwork – my words, not hers. She doesn’t like that I use the word bullshit, I can tell. She continues, a lot of these kids are in homes and are soon to be removed, or have to leave. I ask why. She says well it didn’t work out, there was a clash, the kids, you know, have issues. Major, major issues. The foster parents have issues. Major, major issues. Sometimes there’s no patience or tolerance. Sometimes there are altercations. But they’re getting full up and pretty soon these kids are gonna be back to square one. Her words.

I stare out the window, and think of Ken. He’s probably soaking in a tub, bubble bath and all, watching his beloved Giants, screaming at the TV set, drinking a beer, or glass of Pinot Noir, and enjoying his life completely. Not a care the world. He likes it that way.

I woke up a few days earlier wanting to have a kid, I was hormonal and lonely. Hormonal, lonely and cranky and older than the day before. Not a great combo, I want a kid!!!! Stamping my feet, I’m sure, or the equivalent. Instead of going to the Woodbury Common Outlet stores, I went to Child Services. Instead of trying on a pair of shoes, I looked through a binder of children who needed love, and a home, and a place that was safe and kind and probably, more than likely, never owned a pair of new shoes, because chances are they were all hand-me-downs. And that’s when it all came together. The words: hand-me-downs. I wasn’t making a commitment to giving them a life or a future, I was teetering on making a decision to give them a place to live for a month or two, or maybe even less. In other words, they were returnable. I felt so profoundly sad – my heart breaking. I didn’t want a child for the rest of their life, I wanted a child to take away my loneliness, my crankiness, my hormonal imbalance for a month or two. And it dawned on me in this empty lifeless office with a woman who desperately needed a good haircut and a make-over, that I was being completely and utterly selfish.

I told the Amish slash Mormon woman that I needed some time to think about all of this. I couldn’t be completely truthful with her, and tell her that I had in fact wasted her time, because that would seem even more selfish. She asked me if I wanted to bring the binder home for my husband to look at the photos. I told her, no, and she asked, “Does he like catalogues, because this is just like flipping though a catalogue.”

I stopped feeling selfish in that moment. I looked at her and said: “These kids… in this catalogue, they need love, they need care. They need shoes. They’re not pieces of clothing you pick out, thinking, well if they don’t fit, I can return them, these children on these pages in this binder were not wanted when they came into the world, they’re not returnable. You’re job is to find them a home. A loving home.”

She looked at me, her eyes already filled with sadness, fill up with tears. “I don’t like my job, it’s just I feel so empty.” she said.

We were the same woman in that moment, except I had the better haircut.

“Hey listen,” I say, “I don’t really want a kid, I want to fill a void, and I know what it’s like to feel empty. I do, but while you’re working here, at the very least, please, oh, please … when you hand the person or the couple the binder, please, tell them that the pages are filled with huge potential and an amazing opportunity to love better, love more, and if you don’t wanna do that, maybe you should quit your job and find something you love to do.”

I hit a nerve, I could tell. I hugged her good-bye, a good strong hug. I told her that she should live her life out-loud, that everyone – EVERYONE – is scared, including me, that I was very, very scared; for her to find the thing she loves to do and do it, and … although I thought it, I did not say it: please, I’m begging, go out and get a good haircut, but what I did say was please, please, get rid of the dead plant, it’s not inspiring.

And then the moment of clarity as I drove home. Absolute perfect clarity. I didn’t go there to foster a child, I went there to foster my very own spirit. To awaken to my very own life, to live more fully, to love myself better, to love better period, to stop being so selfish, and to stop thinking I have to — in this moment, right now, this very second – fill a void.

i’m not a stop and smell the roses type o’ gal.
i’m just not. why even kid myself.
i’m the type who picks out a dozen roses (and/or tulips and/or…), and pays the cashier at the local korean deli or florist. i don’t smell them. i go for color, and truthfully, i’m not a red girl. i’m more a purple girl.

and i’m definitely not a “wow, there’s a baby jesus in the foam in my coffee,” kind o’ gal.

but today, today… i saw & witnessed tiny wonderful exquisite miracles everywhere.
holy moly.

right smack in the middle of a gorgeous luscious farm i saw an old, old rusty farm truck with a small american flag – the stick tucked into the windshield – waving. majestic. extraordinary. a photo. it took my breath away.

i watched an old man and his granddaughter holding hands, walking down broad street, when out of no where she tugged on his shirt and he bent down and she kissed him on his nose. perfection. pure love.

i saw a flower pushing it’s way up out of the earth – from a crack in the sidewalk – and it just made my heart stop. how determined. how beautiful.

i saw a tree that i had never ever looked at or noticed before leaning oh so heavily because of the rain, and i knew it would never break – bend, yes – but never break. it was stunning and strong and reminded me of so many people i know who are powerful & strong & filled with hope and grace.

i saw a local man at the post office collecting mail for his elderly neighbor and watched as impatience turned to kindness. a huge heart.

and just a few minutes ago, when i said to ken, “geez, i’m awfully hungry, how about i make a frozen pizza?” he disappeared & returned with a massive bowl of fresh gorgeous delicious greens from our garden…

a gracious plenty.

i swear, it’s everywhere.

everywhere.

from now on, i’m gonna try really hard – really frickin’ hard – to stop and smell life.

i always thought of bob as one of the smartest guys in the world. literally. which, he is. literally. but this past weekend i also found out he’s one of the wisest.

wisdom has always been on top of my list. right next to kindness and goodness.

we were having a conversation this past saturday night, this, that, the other thing… when the conversation turned to ‘confidence,’ and amy (yes, his gorgeous wife) said something to the effect how we all need someone to believe in us (which is oh so very true, so very true), but then bob said (and yes, i’m paraphrasing) sometimes it’s about proving what we’re made of, proving ourselves when no one believes in us.

BINGO.

in that moment he expressed exactly what i have often felt and believed.

many, many years ago – when i had both a waistline and long term memory – i went to a ‘spiritual advisor’ for some insight & guidance regarding my career path. We are talking years ago … before there was “call waiting.” She asked me what i wanted to do, you know, career path wise. i sat there and told her how i desperately, deeply, profoundly wanted to write. i wanted to be a writer. That was my dream. i was seeking encouragement. she asked me a ton of questions, mostly regarding my education and writing skills. after an hour or so, she looked me in the eye and said, “You know, you really should become a secretary. You’ll never make it as a writer.”

oh.
kay.

I thought I would die. oh my god, a secretary? really? me?

But then … literally … something inside of me reacted to her disapproval. Her discouragement. Her lack of faith in me. Her doubt IN ME.
I could feel it.
Something woke up. Shot up. Bubbled up.
I was going to prove her wrong.
Yep.
I was.
I was gonna prove to her what I was made of.
In that moment I was going to become a GREAT writer.

nothing like someone telling you no. (right, hollye?)

and boy oh frickin’ boy nothing was going to stop me.

that was all i needed to hear: you are not good enough. you are not capable. you should be a secretary.

i now refer to it as:
the rebellion chip.

and my friend bob, who yes, is the smartest (okay, maybe not THE smartest, but he’s sure up there with other extraordinary, brilliant, amazing, fascinating men) guy in the world, has – get this – the same (okay, sorta the same, not exactly the same) chip.

THE REBELLION CHIP.

so, whether someone believes in us & inspires us & lifts us & brings out the best in us – believing in us when no one else does – THE BIG YES YOU CAN, or someone discourages us, doubts our capabilities, has absolutely no faith in us – THE BIG NO YOU CAN’T… at the end of the day we get to choose what we believe in, chose our path, we get to rise to the occasion.
rise up, stand up. be huge.
we get to prove who we are. and no one, not one person, can stop us.

and … here’s to that woman who told me 150 years ago that i would never be a writer.
i am ever so grateful.

i imagine, when all alone and somewhat bored, “what if the GPS girl was me?” Moi? What if it were me giving directions.
what if it were me directing Ken through hills and valleys and stop signs and bumpy roads and red light/green light one two three exchanges. could i possibly pull it off without a single hitch?
without nagging?
without back seat driving?
would I sound like the GPS girl?
or would i sound bitter and angry and irritated?
oh this is just too yummy to pass up.

i believe this is what our little adventure would sound like with me as the GPS girl, perky and yet with just a hint of edge:

Good afternoon, your arrival time is 4:47 pm.
Buckle up.
Proceed forward.

Coming to a stop sign.
There is no traffic.
You may proceed.

Drive 2.1 miles to Childs Park. Bare to your right, continue until you reach the fork.

Turn left.
Drive approximately 1.1 mile, and then go right on to Silverlake.
Stay on the left.

Bare to your left.

THE LEFT.

L.E.F.T.

Left.

Please, stay on your left.

Do not go over the middle yellow line. That’s for people who think they’re cool and can get away with all sorts of shit.

Stay in your lane.

At Silverlake go 300 feet until you reach Route 739.

Do not try to jump through the red light. People who jump thought the red light have unresolved issues with their mothers. This would require both therapy and traffic school.

Please, do not jump the red light.
You may now proceed.

Stay in your lane.
The right lane.
Please.
Not the center lane.
YOUR LANE.
YOUR FUCKING LANE.
Please, for god sake, get out of the center lane.
Now.

Stay in the left lane.

Jesus Christ. Okay, now go approximately one hundred feet and then at the intersection slow down.
Slow down.
Slow.
Down.
Slow the fuck down.
Ah, Geez…
Re-calibrating
Re-calibrating.
Make a RIGHT TURN ON RAYMONDSKILL Road. Stop.
STOP SIGN.
STOP.
At the bottom of the hill, make a U-turn.

Go to the corner, make a sharp left, proceed a few hundred miles.
Please, stay in your lane.
Do not tail gate.
Do not take out the joint. Do not light up the joint. HIde the joint. Drive slower. Stay in your lane. There will be no partying or marijuana smoking in the vehicle. For that kind of partying you should have rented a Porsche and or SmartCar.
Proceed a few more miles, stay on your right. Your right, Your right, Not my right, Your right.
STAY ON YOUR FUCKING RIGHT.

slow down.
re-calibrating.
make a left on Wheatley Road, watch out for the flower beds. Stay on the left side. Up ahead, 285 Wheattey Road.
stop at the red blinking light.

please, drive slower.
please, drive slower.

ooops.
fast turn.
can you please, for god sake, stay in your lane.
re-calibrating.
go 200 yards, turn in the dirt driveway.
do not drive on the flower beds.
back up slowly.
uh oh, car coming.
slow down.
car passing.
reverse.

go straight into milford.
stay milford road for approximately 7 minutes.
go slower.
slower.
drive slower.
no passing.

in two minutes you will come to a fork in the road. on the right you will have shops and restaurants and galleries, on the left side you will have the state liquor store.

you may drop me there.