Marrying George Clooney

pow·er/ˈpouər/
Noun:
The ability to do something or act in a particular way, esp. as a faculty or quality.
Verb:
Supply (a device) with mechanical or electrical energy.
Synonyms:
noun. might – force – strength – potency – authority – energy
verb. actuate – operate

i was maybe ten years old.
maybe.
maybe eleven.
i thought my mother was god. i thought she was the most powerful woman that walked the earth.
i was ten, maybe eleven.
it was around midnight.
my folks were screaming & yelling at each other. some big loud bad fight about nothing, but boy oh boy were they loud.
my mother was amazingly loud.
oh she could carry a scream like the best of them.
fuck you, no fuck you. go to hell no you… you go to hell.
doors slammed.
she came into my room, woke me up, got me out of bed, and i followed her down the stairs.
my father was sitting in his favorite chair – in the living room – tucked into the corner, his favorite blue corduroy chair. wearing pajamas, and smoking a cigarette.
he looked so defeated.
depleted.
my mother grabbed my hand, and pushed me out of the door.
another door slammed closed.
we went to the empress diner, our local diner, where my mother ordered coffee with some cream. she chain smoked and drank coffee. women didn’t text back then, they didn’t email or have cell phones or blackberries, or smart phones. they drank coffee, and stared out big bay windows – choosing songs on the juke box, dreaming and thinking of leaving their lives and starting over somewhere else.
she drank coffee, and smoked cigarettes, and maybe read or skimmed the daily newspaper. i laid down in the booth, and tried to sleep. from under the table, which was my point of view, i watched my mother’s legs criss-cross, back and forth, and watched as cigarette ashes sprayed the floor when they missed the ashtray.
under the table everything seemed ordinary.
we stayed in the diner for a good two hours. two and a half hours. i could just imagine my father pacing back and forth as many times as mother criss crossed her legs. i could imagine him calling an aunt or two, worried sick. i could imagine him chain smoking and running his fingers through his thick gorgeous shock of premature gray hair. i could imagine him opening the front door and closing the front door and shaking his head and closing his eyes and hoping and praying for my mother to pull into the driveway.
i could barely walk up the front stoop.
“i am so sorry,” my father said with a lump in his throat.
“i’m going to bed. i’m exhausted.”
my mother disappeared into the bedroom.
i kissed my dad and he squeezed me. i could feel his heart breaking.

i believed my mother was all powerful.
a force of nature.
god-like.
she scared the shit out of me. she did.
it wasn’t until years and years later that i realized and knew that i had mistaken her loud screaming voice, her rage, her dire need to be the center of attention… for powerful.

man, oh man, was i wrong.
she wasn’t powerful.
no.
god no.
she was angry.
bitter.
resentful.

little did i know she was at war with herself.

and now… now, i truly deeply believe when women find peace within their own heart, their own soul, there will be peace in the world. make no mistake the fierce power of a woman who steps into her greatness knowing, with every fiber in her being, that yes, this is exactly where she is meant to be.

we don’t need to be like those nasty brutal cruel vile men; loud, mean, crusty, bitter, jealous.

we just need to own what’s already there.
right here.
in us.

we are nurturers, lovers, friends, mothers, daughters, sisters, partners, unifiers, creators.
and yes, yes… we are often life at it’s best.

so, lets step into our power, our truth, our greatness – with grace and dignity, with all the goodness and beauty we possess – knowing that this is exactly where we belong.

and i bet you, that simple action WILL BE HEARD LOUD AND CLEAR by everyone.

Rush Fucking Limbaugh.

“What does it say about the college co-ed Susan Fluke (sic) who goes before a congressional committee and essentially says that she must be paid to have sex — what does that make her? It makes her a slut, right? It makes her a prostitute.
She wants to be paid to have sex,” Limbaugh continued. “She’s having so much sex she can’t afford the contraception.
“I will buy all of the women at Georgetown University as much aspirin to put between their knees as they want.
So Miss Fluke, and the rest of you Feminazis, here’s the deal,” Limbaugh said on his radio show Thursday. “If we are going to pay for your contraceptives, and thus pay for you to have sex, we want something for it. We want you to post the videos online so we can all watch.”

Rush Fucking Limbaugh.

This is what I think.
I think, yes, all women, every single one of us, should put an aspirin between our legs, for oh, let’s say, a week OR SO, and say: Hey boys, NO more sex.
NO. MORE. SEX.
NO MORE.
NOPE.
NOT A CHANCE IN HELL.
You treat us like shit, the candy store is closed. CLOSED.

BECAUSE THE THING IS, THE KICKER – the real honest to goodness kicker – WE WOMEN ARE WAY MORE POWERFUL THAN MEN. WAY MORE POWERFUL THAN RUSH LIMBAUGH, OR RICK SANTORUM, or any of these right wing political freaks.

We have brought YOU to YOUR knees, we have made YOU apologize over & over for YOUR bad behavior, YOUR indecent sex acts, YOUR horrific sexual scandals, YOUR infidelity, YOUR sexual prowess, and YOUR cheating and lies.

We women have so much power.
Men cower in the corner because of us.
They feign stupidity, along with their shame, because of us.
They cover up their lies because of us.
And then they try to keep us small, invisible, unimportant.
They try to diminish us.
Destroy us.
Humiliate and embarrass us.
Try to prove over and over and over that we don’t matter.

Without us, there is no power.
We are the power.
We are the engine.
We are the steam.
WE ARE LIFE.
PERIOD.

Rush Limbaugh, I got news for you. I love being a slut. I love my contraceptives. I love knowing that I can walk into a Rite Aid, slide my script over to my pharmacist, and say to him: FILL ME UP. GIVE IT TO ME.

And you know what Rush: keep your small little unhappy penis in your pants because contrary to all rumors, it’s no longer welcome standing at attention, all red (white) and throbbing blue…

And one more thing Rush:

VAGINAS ARE GOD.

And God wants you to shut the fuck up.

NOW.

“Here on our watch we will stand, we will stand for life, we will never forget, we will never give up, and next year we will gather in a day of celebration when we have finally ended abortion in this all important election,” she said. “Join me this year. Choose life.” Michelle Bachman

Choose Life.

Oh, Michelle…Michelle, Michelle….

I choose life everyday.
I do.
I am so Pro-life, as in: I love my life.
Maybe not every single day. some days I wanna crawl into a ball and hide, and stay under the covers, but generally, mostly, pretty consistently, i am pro-life. Fuck yeah! I am all for everyone making their own decisions, their own choices for their own life. I don’t wanna make your decisions for you. I don’t wanna pick out your clothes or shoes for you. If you wanna wear pastel colors and look pasty, hey, that’s your problem. not mine.

let’s talk choices.

many years ago i had an abortion. i actually had two abortions. two that i’ll talk about. share. and on both occasions i sat alone in a waiting room with other young women who had also made bad choices, bad boy choices. and because we had made bad boy choices we were now sitting all alone waiting to terminate our unwanted pregnancies.

let me just, for a second, tell you what that feels like, sitting alone, waiting to be called, to be taken into a room where you’re surrounded by kind strangers, and filled with thoughts of great sadness. great guilt. great shame.

it all begins with wanting someone to love you. that boy over there. the cute one. you want him to notice you, love you, pay attention. good god, you’ll do anything for him. you want him to like you, to love you back. you drink, you smoke, you flirt, you tell him yes yes, please, yes… and then maybe you end up in the back of a car, or in the basement, or in his room, or in the locker room in the gym and you let him have you. take you. you give yourself away. you think if i give him this, he’ll want me, love me, want more of me. you don’t think protection, or safety or disease, or pregnancy. you only think “i want you to love me.” and then you don’t hear from him, he doesn’t call, ever. you sit and wait and he doesn’t call and then you miss your period, and feel sick and think it’s the flu, or a cold, or a stomach virus, and then you feel really sick and start to gain a bit of weight, and he doesn’t notice you, he ignores you, and then you go to your doctor, or some doctor with a friend because you can’t tell your folks, and the doctor does a blood test and some urine test and tells you that your pregnant and you’re 15. maybe 16. and the guy that you liked, wanted, loved doesn’t even care if you’re alive and god knows he’s not going to want you more because you didn’t care enough about yourself to protect yourself, use a condom, tell him “NO, you can not come inside of me,” and you find yourself sitting in a clinic with people who are kind and loving and brush your hair our of your eyes and say, “you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine,” and you want to believe them, and then someone holds your hand and says count backwards from 100 and the next thing you know that same someone is standing over you with a glass of orange juice, lifting your head ever so slightly, and saying, ‘take a sip, a little sip.” and then you get dressed and you feel shame and guilt and empty and lonely and you wish that you liked yourself enough to not have let that boy – the one who doesn’t even know you exist, who doesn’t even say hello to you in the hallways, who doesn’t even look at you out of the corner of his eyes – into your heart and soul and body. and you feel dirty, empty and dirty.

and yes, those were my choices: both the bad boy that i wanted and loved madly who didn’t love me back, not one iota, and the abortion. and that choice that i made, that one, that one saved my life, and that boys life.

and then there’s another choice… there are girls out there who get pregnant and have babies at 14 and 15 and 16 and then a year or two later, they are overwhelmed and unprepared and no longer with that boy, and those young girls, they kill their babies. their child. they murder their babies, because they can’t do it anymore, they can’t do it alone because they’re overwhelmed, and underwater, and life is a burden. life is a heavy hard burden and they’re only 18 years old, and they end up in prison.

and all those lives … all those lives… are ruined, destroyed, no longer.

there a hundreds of thousands of young girls in this country that get pregnant, have babies, and then abandon them, kill them, hurt them.

what kind of choice is that?
where’s the pro-life in that?

My choice was tragic. It was tragic from the get go. I didn’t know at the age of 15 that I could love me, love myself and that would be okay. more than okay. more than enough. i didn’t know that.

But those choices: having a baby, killing a baby – those choices are horrific.

We must teach our girls and our boys to CHOOSE TO LOVE THEIR OWN LIFE.

And that Michelle Bachman is what PRO-LIFE should be about, not this crap about overturning Roe V. Wade, or closing down abortion clinics.

How about:
CHOOSE YOUR OWN LIFE: LOVE IT, AND LIVE IT WELL.

and ps: by the way, here’s one more radical choice: same-sex adoption. i gotta say there isn’t one same sex couple that i know out there (no pun intended) who aren’t the very best parents. oh my god, talk about love and goodness and wanting – really, truly, deeply wanting – a family.

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 Rita, our neighbor, does have an infection because Rita 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 Rita, lonely and bitter and infected.

Z is for Zoloft

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

i’m sure there are going to be thousands of blogs and articles written about whitney houston. her life. her death.
her voice.

her voice.

that voice.

the one that you gave chills, goosebumps, made you wanna dance with somebody, anybody, she was always, always, always going to love you-u-u-u-u. always.

and all the stories about the drugs and the abuse and coke and crack and pills and all of that. there will be plenty of those stories.

i just wanna talk about the day whitney houston (kinda, sorta) saved me.

i had just been fired from a screenwriting job and AND i was stood up by some first class schmuck of a guy who thought he was so cool, so great, so fucking cute & sexy. he stood me up. he thought he was better than me. i was sad. bluer than blue. indigo blue. no work, no boyfriend, no lipgloss. i was driving on the long island expressway, listening to some guy on the radio (an AM station) talking about how to get rid of dust balls or some such thing, when i started changing the stations. country western, nah… opera, no thank you, classical… jazz… a little light am fm uh uh…. and then holy shit….oh my god – THAT VOICE – HER VOICE – on the radio singing I WANNA DANCE WITH SOMEBODY.

all of a sudden, honest to god, as i was singing along with her at the top of my lungs (completely off key) and dancing as i drove (one hand on, one hand off the steering wheel… yeah, that dance) – i knew i was going to be okay. i knew it. i could feel it. her voice gave me hope. it filled me with faith. i thought, ‘i’m gonna work again, i’m gonna date again and i’m gonna dance with somebody…”

i didn’t know why.
i just did.

she saved me that day.

i am blue… yes, indigo blue …that she couldn’t save herself.

“Here on our watch we will stand, we will stand for life, we will never forget, we will never give up, and next year we will gather in a day of celebration when we have finally ended abortion in this all important election,” she said. “Join me this year. Choose life.” Michelle Bachman

Choose Life.

Oh, Michelle…Michelle, Michelle….

I choose life everyday.
I do.
I am so Pro-life, as in: I love my life.
Maybe not every single day. some days I wanna crawl into a ball and hide, and stay under the covers, but generally, mostly, pretty consistently, i am pro-life. Fuck yeah! I am all for everyone making their own decisions, their own choices for their own life. I don’t wanna make your decisions for you. I don’t wanna pick out your clothes or shoes for you. If you wanna wear pastel colors and look pasty, hey, that’s your problem. not mine.

let’s talk choices.

many years ago i had an abortion. i actually had two abortions. two that i’ll talk about. share. and on both occasions i sat alone in a waiting room with other young women who had also made bad choices, bad boy choices. and because we had made bad boy choices we were now sitting all alone waiting to terminate our unwanted pregnancies.

let me just, for a second, tell you what that feels like, sitting alone, waiting to be called, to be taken into a room where you’re surrounded by kind strangers, and filled with thoughts of great sadness. great guilt. great shame.

it all begins with wanting someone to love you. that boy over there. the cute one. you want him to notice you, love you, pay attention. good god, you’ll do anything for him. you want him to like you, to love you back. you drink, you smoke, you flirt, you tell him yes yes, please, yes… and then maybe you end up in the back of a car, or in the basement, or in his room, or in the locker room in the gym and you let him have you. take you. you give yourself away. you think if i give him this, he’ll want me, love me, want more of me. you don’t think protection, or safety or disease, or pregnancy. you only think “i want you to love me.” and then you don’t hear from him, he doesn’t call, ever. you sit and wait and he doesn’t call and then you miss your period, and feel sick and think it’s the flu, or a cold, or a stomach virus, and then you feel really sick and start to gain a bit of weight, and he doesn’t notice you, he ignores you, and then you go to your doctor, or some doctor with a friend because you can’t tell your folks, and the doctor does a blood test and some urine test and tells you that your pregnant and you’re 15. maybe 16. and the guy that you liked, wanted, loved doesn’t even care if you’re alive and god knows he’s not going to want you more because you didn’t care enough about yourself to protect yourself, use a condom, tell him “NO, you can not come inside of me,” and you find yourself sitting in a clinic with people who are kind and loving and brush your hair our of your eyes and say, “you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine,” and you want to believe them, and then someone holds your hand and says count backwards from 100 and the next thing you know that same someone is standing over you with a glass of orange juice, lifting your head ever so slightly, and saying, ‘take a sip, a little sip.” and then you get dressed and you feel shame and guilt and empty and lonely and you wish that you liked yourself enough to not have let that boy – the one who doesn’t even know you exist, who doesn’t even say hello to you in the hallways, who doesn’t even look at you out of the corner of his eyes – into your heart and soul and body. and you feel dirty, empty and dirty.

and yes, those were my choices: both the bad boy that i wanted and loved madly who didn’t love me back, not one iota, and the abortion. and that choice that i made, that one, that one saved my life, and that boys life.

and then there’s another choice… there are girls out there who get pregnant and have babies at 14 and 15 and 16 and then a year or two later, they are overwhelmed and unprepared and no longer with that boy, and those young girls, they kill their babies. their child. they murder their babies, because they can’t do it anymore, they can’t do it alone because they’re overwhelmed, and underwater, and life is a burden. life is a heavy hard burden and they’re only 18 years old, and they end up in prison.

and all those lives … all those lives… are ruined, destroyed, no longer.

there a hundreds of thousands of young girls in this country that get pregnant, have babies, and then abandon them, kill them, hurt them.

what kind of choice is that?
where’s the pro-life in that?

My choice was tragic. It was tragic from the get go. I didn’t know at the age of 15 that I could love me, love myself and that would be okay. more than okay. more than enough. i didn’t know that.

But those choices: having a baby, killing a baby – those choices are horrific.

We must teach our girls and our boys to CHOOSE TO LOVE THEIR OWN LIFE.

And that Michelle Bachman is what PRO-LIFE should be about, not this crap about overturning Roe V. Wade, or closing down abortion clinics.

How about:
CHOOSE YOUR OWN LIFE: LOVE IT, AND LIVE IT WELL.

and ps: by the way, here’s one more radical choice: same-sex adoption. i gotta say there isn’t one same sex couple that i know out there (no pun intended) who aren’t the very best parents. oh my god, talk about love and goodness and wanting – really, truly, deeply wanting – a family.

when we first started the kickstarter campaign for Marrying George Clooney, Confessions From A Midlife Crisis (the Play) i wrote a blog, and I shared with everyone my absolute fear of and disdain for asking people, friends, folks for money. oh my god i would have preferred running naked through Shoprite. i can’t even begin to tell you how difficult that was for me. excruciating. i can’t even ask folks who borrowed money from me to give me back the money. i break out in hives and i just wanna hide under the covers.

but it felt like a true blue “face the fear, look in the mouth of the demon, come out of the closet,” moment.
i decided it was time to wear brave, and wear it well. Accessorize and coordinate it with all my other human flaws.

the first day of the campaign was pure magic. something like a thousand dollars was donated. people i didn’t even know threw in 10 dollars, 50 dollars, 1 dollar. it felt so fantastic. and painless. i hardly had to beg.
“oh, my god,” I thought, this is gonna be easy breezy.

Now this is where I absolutely believe that the minute you say out loud, “wow, piece o’ frickin’ cake,” the universe decides to take that arrogance down a couple of notches.

the next few days were pretty dismal in terms of contributions. i wrote a blog, i sent emails, i got down on my hands & knees (which is very painful when you have sciatica), and I prayed and I begged and begged some more. “Please, oh please, oh, please…for god fucking sake, PLEASE….”

I found that begging doesn’t work. It only made me feel more desperate, more unworthy, more shameful. I couldn’t even apply make-up because I couldn’t look myself in the mirror. So, I was pale, and desperate, and i had to raise over 10 grand. And I had a stye. So, I was pale, desperate and had this little red thing on my eyelid which made me look quasi-modo-ish.
i decided to feign the flu, and a fever. maybe if i was sick people would have pity on me and donate.
that did not work.
“oh poor puppy, poor baby, stay home, under the covers, no we can’t donate, have some soup and tea, no we don’t like going on line to donate we don’t want anyone knowing our business oh sweetness have some chicken soup no we only donate big big big money to the arts for underprivileged white children whose parents are imprisoned for ponzi schemes, take some vitamin B and C and K and F and LMNOP.”

okay, so much for those donors & friends. for feigning illness. ken told me i was being punished by the kickstarter gods. as if i didn’t have enough on my plate, now i needed to worry about imaginary gods that collect fees.

10 grand short and the days were ticking away and my asking was filled with huge limitation. personal limitation. fear and doubt and a whole lot of self-confidence waning, and tremendous self-doubt taking up residence.

i prayed some more. well, i didn’t really pray. i looked up to the heavens, and i bartered. I said: Listen if you help me get this money for the play I will take 22 kids bowling and then take them for pizza at Len and Jo’s, and then to Kohl’s.

That didn’t work either, and honestly, i was grateful. 22 kids is a lot of kids and i only have a 5 seater.

So, I wrote another blog, and Laura (Holliman) and I put our heads together and since she is so very gorgeous, i felt rather pretty that day – the day we put our heads together – and we came up with a game plan. Another blog, a few videos, a funny vimeo, and an email blast to all & everyone.

And a few more contributors, donations, backers. A teeny spike.

And then I got wholly discouraged and emailed a friend in the middle of the night and she held my (virtual) hand across the country while i vented, and soothed my battered ego and soul and told me that i must never ever ever give up. ever. and if folks don’t want to contribute or donate that’s okay, focus on the good, the kind. she threw me a virtual kiss and hug and i slept well.

And then folks started donating. Contributing, asking how they can help, and then the kickstarter campaign started showing up on their pages and websites. Day 12, 13, 15…17, 18…19, 20, 23…25, day 30, 31.
and i got good at asking, and Facebooking and posting, and reposting, and my fear about asking for money diminished a teeny bit…

and then i had an epiphany:

this isn’t about money, i thought, this is about a dream. this isn’t about asking folks for money, it’s about asking for support, this isn’t about money, it’s about going all in, going for broke (or abundance as i now like to say!), this isn’t about money, it’s all about faith. in myself. in others. in goodness & kindness & generosity of spirit.

faith.
belief.

i had a dream
a desire.
a goal.
passion.

something i had created that meant the world to me.
and there were 5 other amazing, glorious, brilliant people who joined in on this dream, collaborating – turning it into this play. and the minute i realized that this wasn’t about asking for money, it was all about creating magic, creating and manifesting the impossible, and not taking NO for an answer.

it was all about asking from my heart, my soul and saying:

Hey, I have this incredible dream, and boy oh boy would I love if you could help me, support me, lift me, watch my back, stand by me, beside me, next to me, with me, help me, push me, keep me going, hold my hand, loan me your shoulder, keep the wind on my back …

and that’s when the world literally opened up, the support came in, the friends rose to the occasion in a way that felt so magical, miraculous. stunning. that’s when every and any human being i was ever kind to came to my support. folks i hadn’t seen or heard from in years. strangers on Facebook that were rooting me on, this play on, us on. friends (on Facebook) i had never met, but who’ve been my lifeblood, my greatest champions for 2 years.

Farm animals from Farmville came out of their virtual recluse-ment to help out.

it started out about asking for money, a fear that ran so deep, it ran right down to my achilles heel; and just like all wonderful fairy tales, and magical experiences, and sweet miracles – it was really truly deeply about fulfilling a dream, bringing a beautiful, funny, extraordinary piece of work to fruition.

it was about believing.
the belief and faith and hope that if i could fulfill this dream of bringing this play to life, that i would encourage and inspire every single human being to fulfill theirs; to inspire them to be bold and audacious, to be oh so brave.

It’s was all about kickstarting my life.

And really, how fucking cool is that?

(and yes, yes… we raised all the funds, plus some!!!!!)

Dear George,
I know it’s been a while since I’ve reached out. Called. Wrote. Got in touch.
I’m hoping you’re not sitting by your iPhone waiting for that special ringtone, the Amy ringtone, the one with me giggling with excitement. Actually, truthfully… a confession…I was never fond of that ringtone, George. I much prefer the more mature ringtone … but you always liked the younger, perkier, BLONDER ringtone.
No wonder we never really deeply connected.
Okay, enough bitterness.
I forgive you.

I have a favor, a request, and yes, George, good God, yes, I will beg. I will get down on my hands and knees.
But just this once, I have sciatic problems, which flare-up when I beg.
Here goes:

On February 29th our play, MARRYING GEORGE CLOONEY, CONFESSIONS FROM A MIDLIFE CRISIS, opens at Cap21 Theater Company (18 West 18th Street, New York City, New York) and runs through the entire month of March. Frank Ventura is directing. Frank is fabulous It’s a wonderful, funny, laugh-out-loud, poignant play, and I am one of the co-authors along with Krista Lyons, and Ken Ferris! And we have Eliza Ventura (what a babe, and gorgeous!!!!) and Colleen Zenk (double babe!!!!) Really. It’s about midlife, menopause, Ambien, googling old boyfriends, siblings, mothers & daughters, forgiveness, social networking. You name it. And it all takes place in cyberspace in the middle of the night.

Three women sharing, confessing everything from googling old boyfriends, to fantasizing about you …at 3 AM!

And, that’s where you come in!
Do you know what February 29th is?
It’s Sadie Hawkins Day (and no, George, Sadie Hawkins is NOT a gospel group). It’s the one day – the one wholly, complete day – that a woman gets to ask a man to marry her.
It’s that day.
Leap fucking year!
It happens once every four years.
Talk about timing, huh?
So, whatdya say, George, please, come to New York City … come to the play.
I’m not gonna ask you to marry me… I already have my Mr. Wonderful … but I am gonna ask you to give theater-goers the thrill of their lifetime.

You can’t say no to that.
You’re George Clooney.

You’re kind, and good, and philanthropic, and a great humanitarian, and you’re rooting for older women to work in theater and film and television (i read that on Huffington post!!!) and we are those women – we are – the very women over 40… who are awake in the middle of the night who are wishing, hoping, praying – getting down on their knees – that one day you’ll slide up next to them at the local bar and say: “Hey, you’re cute, can I have your number?”

So., come on, George, make this girl very happy and say yes to Marrying George Clooney.

All my love,
Amy

marrying george clooney, the play, KICKSTARTER CAMPAIGN

you make me swoon.
you make me count my blessings.
you make me feel like i swallowed the sun.
you make me feel so proud of myself.
you make me want to be kinder, better, bigger, more.
you make me wish and pray for goodness as soon as i open my eyes.
you make me stop, and smell the roses, or coffee, depending on the time of day & year.
you make me say please and thank you.
you make me realize that nothing beats love.
you make me stop and think, and then speak.
you make my world better.
you make me appreciate the mistakes i’ve made because they got me here.
you make me treasure all our differences.
you make me believe that nothing is impossible.
you make me listen.
you make me look in your eyes.
you make me see the beauty in the world.

YOU make me feel so good and happy and joyous.

YOU … are ALL my friends.
YOU support me and love me, and root me on.
YOU are right there cheering, hoping, clapping…and wishing me well.
Every.
Single.
Day.

YOU ARE PURE MAGIC.
ALL OF YOU.
and i love YOU all.

my friends.
i thank YOU all!

ken is about to turn 71.
good news.
bad news.
the good news is that he’s here, (actually, right now, this very minute cuddled up next to me) turning 71, loving his life, enjoying every second. he’s so very good at that. he loves his life.
the bad news is that for me, he’s turning 71.
and that scares the shit out of me.
scares me so very much.
i know, i know … 70 is the new 50, the new sexy, the new levi’s, the new iPad, the new GE, the new gloria gaynor disco hit.
i know.
it’s not as old as it used to be, it’s all in the attitude, it’s just a number… i get it. I GET IT. i do.
but actually, truthfully, i don’t get it.
i’m trying desperately to get it.
i’m trying to embrace it, go with it. be joyous.
like the other day when he backed into a parked car, he didn’t look where he was going. i said, “honey, baby, uh oh whatdya think?” he said, “blindspot.” I immediately went straight to, thought blindspot? bullshit…dementia.
and when he forgot to close and lock the front door, i said, “hey moo-moo, you left the door open.” he said, “hey, shit happens.” i immediately thought huh, shit happens… incontinence. Incontinence happens.
and when the knob on the clothes dryer got all fucked up, and it stopped working and he decided a good way to attack this problem, was, well, to attack the problem with a screwdriver. i said, “baby-doll, why’d you attack the dryer knob with a screwdriver?” he said, “you know, uh, i was, uh, stoned.” huh, i thought, stoned.
memory loss.
uh oh, i thought, assisted living.
and so, these little things, small things, these new small things, the new 70 is just a number small things, scare me.
they do.
and talking about it helps me.
writing about it.
sharing it.
spilling it.
because, when i get scared, i retreat.
and when i retreat, i go to my room,
and when i go to my room, i go deep inside my head.
and when i’m deep inside my head the chatter is about dementia, and alzheimer’s, and incontinence, and i envision wheel chairs and ramps, and dribbling and more incontinence, and then i think, oh my god… oh my frickin’ god, my future is HERE, HOLY SHIT, I AM HERE NOW.
NOW.

and I gotta be honest, being in the NOW, living in THIS MOMENT is virtually impossible for me. i can recall being in the NOW once in my entire life and that had to do with a pap smear.

but, new year, new me… i don’t wanna retreat. i wanna be present. so, i leave my room, and all that nasty bad chatter behind, and i walk into the living room where ken is cozy: sitting in front of a lovely fire, reading the NY Times and I look at him and he looks at me, and i look at him… and i slide in, cuddle up, right next to him on the couch, and he laughs.
a gorgeous, hearty, sexy laugh. a ken laugh.
and in that moment, the NOW moment, what i’m scared of … is losing ken. this ken. my ken.

my iKen.