Marrying George Clooney

she remembers the good times. i tend to remember the sadder, more unhappy times. she remembers the bowling and the pre-thanksgiving turkey dinners, and the easy bake ovens, I remember the sitting on my stoop waiting for my mom who upon seeing me wanted to know ‘what the hell did you do wrong?” She remembers the name of all of our neighbors, I remember some, not all. I remember feeling lonely and sad and oh so friendless, for a lack of a better word. She remembers bowling and movies and laughing alot.
We were great friends growing up. she was, to me, the Angelina Jolie of the 60’s. gorgeous and sexy and had the most amazing smile and full lips and great body and could light up even the darkest room wth her smile and joy. infectious. I of course remember being skinny and gawky with frizzy hair and upper and lower braces which not only made smiling hard, it made eating brutal. I was envious of her. Being popular was not on the top of my to do list, but making it through the day was.
We hadn’t spoken in years & years. I have a book coming out. She connected to me, having seen me on facebook We’ve caught up — phone calls in the middle of the night – learning about each other, jarring each other’s memory, apologizing for some bad behavior which in hindsight was just truly all a part of growing pains.
Being in my 50’s, it sure feels nice coming home again, if for only to visit the special girl, ellyn who made me realize that having breasts was far more important & empowering in the scheme of things then ever ever having a penis. She gave great meaning to “tough titties.”

Ellyn Kline.

Hot and humid.
Weather.
Sex.
Life.
Prfect.
Ooops.
Perfect.
My life.
In a car.
With Ken.
Chtter.
Ooops.
Chatter.
Destination: Montreal.

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-

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-

sometimes when i am wide awake in the middle of the night, i stare at my husband  (who is fast asleep, thank you very much) and think to myself, ‘wow… he has put up with so much of my menopausal dreck & hell for five years i oughta just give him a medal.”

and then i think:

hmmm. i know, i’ll buy myself a medal at BARNEYS NEW YORK — you know, in their jewelry/trinket/medal department – and share it with him. or better yet, i’ll wear it, and let him touch it.

We did our very first contest for the book, and so many amazing women responded with funny, poignant and often spot on comments.
So here’s to our Marrying George Clooney women: The WINNERS are: Pegi McKee, Mary Frances Frawley, Jacqueline Korteland Boller, Renee Cramer, Mary Kruger, Susan Ann Weinman, and Andrea Eisen Thank you all so much – truly — for all your wonderful comments. You’ve made this such a funny, fabulous & inspiring experience.

Read, laugh, share and spread the word about the book!!!! Never know maybe we can create a wave of Marrying George Clooney book-club’s nationwide.

xoxox

not sure if mercury or any other planet was or is in retrograde this past week, but a couple of odd & some very cool things happened. time to share.
not in any particular order:
ken hit a little baby deer. the deer walked away. ken is still baffled by this since it had nothing to do with texting, or celling, or anything tech related. the deer came out of no where, not unlike menopause, i tell him. boom it just shows up.
all these hate filled town hall meetings. omg. what a disgrace. racism anybody? awful awful.
bravo barney frank.
my books arrived. oh so very beautiful. i am prouder than proud! my tits expanded today about a 1/4 inch.
ken lost his eye mask. both a shock and as some of you may know, a bit of a tragedy. i stay up until all hours, so he must have his mask. imagine what i thought when getting up out of bed at 3:30 AM and bearing witness to my gorgeous husband wearing a pair of my black panties dangling over his eyes in lieu of his eye mask.
and last but not least, i had the most wonderful call with ellyn last night. here we were two old friends talking in the middle of the night. what an absolutely frickin’ perfect way to end a hot & oh so humid week:

A tall glass of ice water & a friend from way back when —  who happens to be a pretty fabulous woman!

Anxious Tuesday, the 18th
Dear Bea:
Having just discovered something which, no doubt will, in future years place me in the Hall of Fame, I quickly decided that you must share this most wonderful discovery – here she be: Mr. Webster, of dictionary fame was a mere, rank amateur, but of the purest sort. For instance, he takes the word “anxious,” and places a conglomeration of words after it, and blandly states that these words … mean anxious – the guy was either crazy, a mental idiot, or never in love – “anxious” only means one thing to wit … “Wednesday. 4:45 P.M. the last car… ” or is it love? Hey monkey , did I tell you I loved you?
Sammy

oh.

my.

god.

a.

bear.

a.

big.

gorgeous (okay, not gorgeous… i just like using that word).

BIG. (okay, not too big…. small, big)

baby bear.

baby bears are bigger than cats.

this is a true story and i’m gonna keep it short & sweet.
ken and i go into our very favorite local rite-aid to pick up our prescriptions – it seems that the older you get the more drugs you need. i get ambien, zoloft, and lipitor. ken gets ambien, lipitor, some beta blocker drug, valtrex, flomax, and … yep, cialis. his very all time favorite prescription drug.
the druggist, john, says that’ll be 280.00 amy. i say, really john, 280, what the fuck? he says all the drugs are co-pay, but the cialis, the cialis is 200 because you’re only allowed 6 pills a month within the co-pay rules/law … whatever. i turn to ken who is sort of lost in thought and i can tell he’s thinking seriously about paying the big bucks for this. and with that i say:
you think we’re paying 200 bucks for you to get laid… i don’t think so.
we say thank you, john, and leave.
CUT TO: three weeks later.

CLOSE UP: on our monthly visa bill.

there it is, rite-aid, 200 bucks.
that guy of mine went back the next day and picked up his prescription, paid the big bucks, and i can tell you straight up that he was very, very VERY happy for 36 hours.