Marrying George Clooney

Promises made…

Ken and I went away for 4 days. Four very needed get-a-way days. We – okay, I – didn’t want to fly anywhere since A) I’m not a good flier, and B) I don’t like taking off my shoes unnecessarily in front of strangers. So we drove to Montreal, where we come once, twice a year and yes, it’s a sexy lovely city that only requires Ken and I being in a car for 6, 7 hours.

We’ve been bickering a lot lately — over many small, tiny, insignificant things. For example: the cat litter, as in who gets to clean it daily (Ken, NOT AMY), over the dishes, as in who washes after Amy cooks (Ken, NOT AMY), and over sex, as in why have it? Menopause, for those who haven’t had the pleasure yet, does strip of you sexual urges. And for the record, I’ve been having sex since I’m a very young woman so I’m thinking – along with all the other menopausal symptoms; vaginal dryness, sluggishness, too tired, too hot — possibly my legs are just plain tired. Good thing I was never a ballet dancer. So, yes, Ken and I are bickering a lot these days.

After a lovely dinner at one of our favorite restaurants in Old Montreal, we decide what a lovely night to take a stroll. And then it happened: the casual throw-a-way, the misinterpreting, the fuck you, no, no, no fuck you moment. We had a fight. It was just around midnight and Ken said something that I took the wrong way, and so there we were standing on Rue Place D’Armes on a cobblestone street, and I turn to Ken and say, “I don’t think we should be married anymore.” This took him by complete surprise, since the comment that precipitated this was “We should have the continental breakfast at the hotel, it’s included.” So, I said, “You know what, I am so fucking tired of you being cheap.” For the record, Ken is not cheap. He is not at all frugal, and one could even say he’s generous to a fault. But for whatever reason, this is what I heard, “Let’s not go out to breakfast when we can get soggy croissants and bad coffee with half and half for free.”

So, we fought, and had there been a referee, I’m guessing Ken would have been declared the winner in the fifth round. We usually go the full 10 rounds, but since it was late, and standing on cobblestone streets are not the most comfortable in heels; regardless of 2 inch stack or 5 inch stiletto. So, I threw the fight and Ken was declared the middle-weight champion of our world.

That night in bed, after I begged for him to please slide over just a bit closer so I can apologize… we made a few promises to each other that we were going to keep for a whole two weeks and see how it works out.

Here are the promises we made:
1) To love better
2) To forgive faster
3) To hear each other, not just make believe when we’re looking at each other with glazed over eyes and not hearing a frickin’ word the other one is saying.
4) To let each other finish a complete sentence before we judge, comment, lash out, criticize, add our 2 cents, think we know how the sentence is going to end, and/or laugh at the sheer absurdity of what the other person is saying.
5) For only one person to be driving the car at a time, regardless of who is in the drivers seat, the passenger seat or the proverbial backseat. (Yeah, good luck on this one!!!!)
6) To keep the sexual window open at least a few extra minutes before declaring “I am not in the mood, get off of me now.”
And last but not least – coffee in bed. That’s called inter-