Marrying George Clooney

okay, the phone rings, this is not an unusual occurrence in my home, except of course, when we have brown-outs and black-outs or full blown power outages which do occur often. more often then not. living in the country, the woods, has both major advantages, and major disadvantages, depending solely on my mood.

today is don’t fuck with amy day. my back hurts. it’s raining. i have tons of work to do and many virtual crops and animals to purchase on FarmVille.

Back to the phone. I answer it.
Hello, she says, is Ken home?
Yeah, who’s calling?
Well, she says, I can’t tell you.
Well, I say, then you can’t talk to him.
Well, she says, I’m calling from an organization that he belongs to.
Well, I say, is it an organized religion or a cult?
Well, she says, no… no… oh, god no, it’s a woman’s organization, and I’m not allowed to say which one.
Oh, I say, that organization, the one that doesn’t allow a woman to tell another woman which organization she’s calling from. oh, i say, that’s very cool, a secret women’s organization. huh. ken’s not here.
oh, she says…
oh, i say… would you like to leave a message with his wife?
no, i can’t, she says, i’m not allowed.
asshole i say under my breath, with a hint of nasal so it sounds like askhole.
bigger, much bigger asshole she undoubtedly thinks, no doubt, she’s not allowed to say asshole, even though she thinks that, she’d get fired from her telemarketing political job and god knows no one wants to lose their job now, in this day and age, because god forbid you lose your job, you end up living in a car, if in fact you own a car.
ken overhears – eavesdrops on – this conversation, and grabs the phone from me, and i stand with hands on hips, and i say out-loud so all the neighbors can hear:
i want a fucking apology from whoever that woman is who isn’t allowed to tell me, your wife, me, who the fuck she is and what organization she’s calling from and belongs to.

ken pulled an apology out of her. karen from emily’s list apologizes to you, he says to me.
Emily’s list?
i am shocked.
dis-fucking-mayed.
honest to god that would have been the last organization I would have thought would ever pull that kind of crap.
Snooki’s list maybe, definitely, but Emily’s list?

fine, fine, fine, I accept.

accepted.

and we’re now all going on a cruise together.

true story.
well, okay, not the cruise part.

I am grateful.
The good times.
The not good times. (they make me stronger, more thoughtful, dig deeper).
The good friends.
The not good friends. (they make me stop, and think, and re-assess, and re-evaluate: am I a pleaser, co- dependent, too eager?)
The good moods.
The not good moods. (Mine. Ken’s. Others. Strangers. Friends.)
The good neighbors.
The not good neighbors. (loud, unkind, environmentally thoughtless)
The good family.
The not good family. (I’ve learned to love and value myself more, appreciate myself more, stand tall and stand up.)
The good work I do.
The not good work I do. (so i can be a better writer, a greater writer, a brilliant writer. less critical and less judgmental of myself.)

I am grateful for the kind ones, the generous ones, the ones who stand up while shaking in their boots, the ones who call and say, ‘I love you,’ the ones who forgive, who believe, who root me on and lift me up, the ones who dance with me, who wait until i get inside so I can turn the porch light on, the ones who call to see if I need anything, the ones who send cards and flowers just because, the ones who cry on MY shoulder so I can feel and be needed, the ones who cook and clean and care for others daily, the ones who serve our Country and the ones who buy American.

I am grateful for the mistakes I’ve made. Each has become a mission.
I am grateful for the men I dated. Each got me to Ken.
I am grateful for the books I’ve written, and tossed aside. They got me to write from my soul and heart, to step out of my comfort zone.
I am grateful for the friends who came and stayed. New and old friendships. They circle my heart.
For the family who visits.

For the town I live in. The car I drive. The money I saved. The food I eat. The talent I have. The house Ken built.

I am grateful.
Oh so grateful.

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, 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 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, very, 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 with pro-golfers and/or Politicians 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.

It’s 2:30 in the morning and I am awake. Wide awake. This is what’s on my mind:

I remember something my mom said to me when I was a little girl.
I was tiny and little and I thought my mother was God, or at the very least, related to God, and my ice cream cone was dripping all over me and on the car’s upholstery – new car, new upholstery – and she turned, and screamed at me, SCREAMED AT ME: “look at you, what an ugly mess you’re making, you are not my child, no, and I just want you to know that I can return you to the gypsies that left you on the doorstep. just look at you.” i was a little girl mess. ice cream on my nose and chin and on my clothes and up until that moment, i was such a happy little girl mess. but then she yelled at me. making me sad, and ashamed, and took away all the joy out of that little girl messy moment. she did not talk to me for hours and hours. i was messy, and messing up her new car. whenever I did something she didn’t like, or didn’t approve of, or annoyed the shit out of her, she would say awful awful horrible things to me. I would cry, and shrink inside. I would lose a piece of myself, and her words and her actions replaced any good I felt about myself.

Her disapproval – that voice – replaced any sense of self I had.

Penn State. Children. Abuse. Violation.
Grown ups. Little boys.
Fear, pain, silence, being quiet, keeping quiet, saying nothing, cowering.
I think about little girls who are coddled, and wooed, and promised candy and dresses and nights out, and days away.
I think about little boys who are promised scholarships, money, cars, toys, God’s love and approval.
I think about how this happens all the time.
All the time. Everyday. Someone somewhere is getting hurt, abused, raped; told to keep quiet, shhhhhhh, god will punish you. SHHHHHHHH.
Remember this is our secret.
You know what happens when you keep secrets?

Yes.

We find corners to hide in.
And bad friends to play with.
And drugs to take, and alcohol to drink.
And… we believe we’re bad, so we make bad awful shitty choices.

I think about my mom, and how she always said, “children should be seen and NOT heard.”
Children should be seen and not heard.
Not fucking heard.

No wonder.
No wonder we have reality shows like toddlers and tiaras.

We, all of us, we need to start listening, and we need to be heard.
We need to come out of our closets, cocoons, safe houses… and we need to stop this violence, this abuse, this that is causing so much pain and shame and hurt and sadness and fear, and self-hatred and self-loathing.
We need to break the silence. crush it.
We need to be the voices for these children.
Our children.
A strangers child.

School. Church. Cars.
Backyards, showers. Bedrooms.
Organized religions, organizations, gyms, home.
Fathers, uncles, coaches, priests, rabbis, teachers, the kind quiet man next door, the family friend with a promise of a ride in his convertible.

Children – little boys and little girls – wooed and forced into doing sad, sorry, painful, god awful things. God. Awful. Things.
A promise of toys and gifts and good times. Lots. And Lots. Of. Good. Times.
Men who are bigger, and stronger and more powerful. They. Are. Bigger. Stronger. More Powerful.

Shhhh.
Quiet.
Do not say a word.
Our secret.

CHILDREN MUST BE HEARD.
Their silence, their cowering, their shame, their fear, their crying, their weight loss, their weight gain, their sad eyes, their walking alone, their head hanging down, becoming loners, their words, their art, the songs they no longer sing, the cars they no longer want to get into, the men they no longer want to be alone with.

Hear that.
Pay attention.
HEAR THE SILENCE.
It’s what they are not saying that needs to be heard.

“Please,” they’re saying, “Please, please, please, please… stop the hurt.”

Well, it came and went and there was some, okay more than some, damage done.
I have to be honest, I’m not used to this kind of thing.
I’m not talking the Hurricane, or the snow storm… I’m talking local politics.

Everyone who knows me knows I’m a Democrat. On a few occasions I have stepped out of my party comfort zone. On those occasions that I supported a few friends, I did so because I not only like(d) them as human beings, but I felt they were qualified, good strong choices. The first time around I didn’t do it so openly. I hardly told anyone I was supporting the person. But I did, and I was proud.

Quiet and proud.

This election season, I came out and supported Pam Lutfy. I didn’t know Pam very well, but I got to know her. We had coffee, we had chats, we talked about the issues that were important to us; as women, as Pike residents. We didn’t see eye to eye on everything. But I felt (as I still do) that her voice – that of a woman – was needed and vital. Through dialogue and numerous conversations, I got to know her history, and she got to know mine, and we became good friends. Girl friends.

I used to think the definition of “good friend” meant that all parties -people – agreed, and when you didn’t agree, well, you just turned the other way, or walked away. It’s easier to walk away. You leave intact. But I learned something profound this election year. I learned that good friends, those who argue, those who disagree, those who fight for something they believe in, those who stand their ground even in the face of differences are the best kind of friends because you learn something new. You grow. You become a better person.

Let me share with you what I learned these past few months:

I learned that standing up for what you believe – whether someone agrees with you or not – is what makes for a great role model.

I learned that a community is like a quilt, made up of many different threads and colors and pieces, and the best communities embrace the diversity and the uniqueness of each thread to create something gorgeous and stunning.

I learned that there are tons of women in my community – Pike County – that are true angels, and Goddesses. They are strong and mighty and vital and have opinions and make choices that yes, are different than mine, but what we share and want for our community is (nearly) exactly the same. For our Community – Pike County – to prosper, and grow, and for it to be a safe, loving haven for our children, our women, our boys and men, and our elders. These women are now my friends and for that I am forever grateful.

I learned that nasty and cruel and unkind can and does last much, much longer than election years, and that we mustn’t be unkind to each other. We mustn’t. It serves absolutely no purpose at all.

I learned that Sean Strub, who I have always loved, and admired, is a man of his word. He often takes a very unpopular stand for the people and issues he deeply believes in. He has proven to me over and over and over again that standing for what and who you believe in takes guts. Oh my goodness, does it take guts. And he does so with everything to lose. I have known Sean a long time. And what I know of him is that many, many people are alive today because of his courage. He created an entire world – through both his publications and activism – where shame is no longer worn on a daily basis. It is no longer an accessory. He turned a health epidemic and human crisis into a fighting, worthy invaluable issue that has changed and transformed millions and millions of people’s lives.

It’s not so much that he took a different side in this campaign, it’s that he stood up for what and who he believed in and believes in. Standing up for something is much much different than standing on the same side of something. Standing up requires thought. It requires time and effort. It requires weighing the good and the bad, the losses and gains and mostly, mostly, it requires being willing to be humiliated and disregarded when the chips don’t fall in your favor.

I learned that that’s the kind of human being I want to be when I grow up. To stand up even if it’s unpopular.
And who doesn’t want someone like that on their side?
Don’t we all want someone catching us if and when we fall?

I learned that elections bring out the very best and the very worst in us. It can turn friends into enemies, it can afford acquaintances the opportunity to know & respect each other more, it can turn a civil disagreement into a holy war, and it can make you shy away from speaking up and standing up. It can also unite folks, not because we believe in the exact same thing, but because we wish and hope for better.

And what I truly deeply learned is that I live in a community that needs desperately to be nurtured, loved, coddled, held, treated with dignity and respect. That our differences, our diversity, are the very foundation of dialogues. We are – each one of us – the community that we live in, and we all – each one of us – want and need to be thought of as invaluable.

Our community is filled with great, passionate, diverse, unique, determined vital human beings.
Democrats, Republicans, Independents, Left, Right, Gay, Straight, Men, Women … boys and girls.

I learned that I love my community.

I love being praised. oh, come on, who doesn’t? who doesn’t love the oooh’s, and ahhh’s and oh my god this is the best thing ever … ever… written, sung, painted, acted, created, baked.

yesterday was not one of those praise days.
nope.
it was filled with oh my god, maybe i oughta get a job at florsheim (shoes).

you know what i’m talking about. i know you do.

but being praised, i have found out, doesn’t get you to go down deep. it doesn’t get you to take stock. it doesn’t get you to crawl into a ball and rethink your entire life. it doesn’t get you to sit in silence — while other folks are speaking your words — and ask/beg silently for another life skill, one that includes healthcare and a pension plan, and if not that, then at least a cafeteria where one can sulk into their dispensed warm coffee and powdered milk. being praised doesn’t get you to think about how much you love, or don’t love, what it is you do.

yesterday, sitting next to ken in the car, heading uptown in unbelievable NYC traffic – i thought about what i can do with the rest of my life since i felt like a complete and utter failure as a writer. it was not – i repeat NOT – a good writing day. it was definitely one of the worst i ever had. it washed over me like bad shampoo – leaving a film and frizz. i stared out onto the streets of new york city and looked at all the folks who were on their way home (or going somewhere) from their 9 to 5 jobs. out of say, a couple of hundred folks, a few seemed absolutely content. most seemed pre-occupied, disinterested, unaffected, bored, self-centered. i sat there, staring, watching… and thought about how many of them had dreams they probably gave up because they hadn’t been afforded the opportunity to pursue their passion. how many of them tucked their creativity in the back of the drawer, deep in. how many folks wished and prayed and hoped to find a few hours to explore what’s buried inside them, but don’t out of complete and utter self-rejection.

which brings me back to praise.

it’s like someone telling you they love you all the time. even when you say something awful, or shitty, or mean spirited. it doesn’t help you grow. it doesn’t make you a better human being. it keeps you off the hook. it keeps you from being bigger. smarter. brighter. alert.

for about a good few hours i wallowed in this ‘oh my god what am i gonna do with my life now since i’m not a writer, i’m a make-believe, fake, oh yeah sure i had a chance once or twice or three or four times but that’s over now writer, and god only knows i have no skills whatsoever, none, zip, zero, no ‘job’ skills anyway, what am i gonna do with the rest of my life if i live to say 97?’ this truly occupied my mind, this ‘what am i gonna do thing/scenario/drama.’

i did what i always do when my mind is racing, i took an ambien and went to bed. upon waking this morning, after i fluffed/spiked my hair – i was about to head down the what am i gonna do with the rest of my life rant – i stopped cold.

holy shit, i thought, i get to write every single day.
i get to do what i love.
i get to wear pajamas.
i get to fart out-loud and then point to bella and say things like, ‘uh oh smelly cat.’
i get to tell ken things like, ‘please don’t disturb me, i’m trying to download the new improved solitaire app.’

the aha moment, the oh my god, i get it moment: being praised is all about someone else loving me/you. all you have to do when someone praises you is say, thank you so much i’m so glad you love me.

being criticized, disliked – squirming uncomfortably in a chair with no cushion – is all about falling madly in love with what it is you do. writing, painting, bowling, singing, dancing, teaching, nursing … falling in love with you/yourself; not giving up on you. not losing faith in you/yourself. it’s the moment you take a deep breath, swallow hard, and determine that you will win the pulitzer. or nobel prize. or booker. or academy award. or tony. or emmy. or peabody. or best teacher of the year. best nurse/doctor/bowler of the year. and it isn’t about proving something, anything to someone else. it’s not about someone else loving what you do, it’s about loving what you do.

oh. my. god.

i get to be the best at something for me.
i can not tell how how relieved i am.

i get to praise, honor, love, appreciate, approve of me … to me.

ps: never give up on yourself. that has tragedy written all over it.