Marrying George Clooney

i had a dream last night that george clooney called me and told me how much he loved my book, and he went on and on and on about how funny and charming and poignant and WELL WRITTEN it was. how he read sections out loud on the beach in lake como, and translated it into italian and i was ecstatic. EC. STATIC. and then… then… just when i was feeling the love and feeling so — oh i don’t know what the word is — thrilled, delighted… gary coleman shows up in a wheelchair. gary friggin’ coleman, and i say to him, hey aren’t you in prison for sexual assault? and he laughs like this strange weird creepy laugh, and i notice he doesn’t have a full set of teeth, and then then… george my george throws a butterfly net over gary, and says “hey kid, grow some wings…” and the next thing I know gary turns into a butterfly and george tosses the net into the ocean and he smiles at me, that clooney kinda smile, and i wake up and i think:
holy shit. and i’m everyone in my dream? wtf? what does that mean? so i’m clooney and coleman and a butterfly and an ocean and my book, and lake como…
what does it all mean.
hmmm. i guess when you have an angel watching over you, protecting you, catching you — you too can fly.
but then i think, hmmm. maybe clooney was in an episode of different strokes.
you know, bottom line:
nothing is impossible.

oh my god, what if, what if they actually broke up? what if the stories are true? what if the kids will have to schlepp between their houses… oh good god.
i’m begging… please, no!
but then i wonder, what if… what if ken & i had photographers – paparazzi – following us everywhere. the price chopper, home depot, staples, the middletown cinema, the milford diner, or … god forbid, in traffic on the george washington bridge? perhaps at a broadway and/or off-broadway show, or last but not least, the ladies and mens room in any public place?
what would these photographers see and what would the media say?
well, for starters they would probably say we were divorcing every other week. i can see the national enquirer headline:
amy goes ballistic in fairway and shoves the arugula into ken’s chest.
ken stomps out of their manhattan apartment saying he’s fed up with amy’s up & down weight issues.
amy throws a temper fit in the parking lot of walmart.
amy tells ken to fuck off at a benefit for homeless kids.
ken drives off leaving amy hitchhiking home on route 80.
ken changes the locks.
amy sends their doctor an e-mail and says for god sake, stop prescribing him medical marijuana.
ken seen with three postal workers while they’re sorting the mail.
amy chokes and ken laughs.
ken vomits on his shoes and amy forbids his shoes back in the house.
amy and ken argue in a diner, the waiter has to pull them apart.
ken is seen with a “famous” starlet behind the camera.
tiger woods text messages ken.
ken takes ambien and then drives into a tree and now the “said” tree is suing him for sexual harassment.
amy seen without her wedding band at yoga class.
ken seen leaving a bowling alley in a huff, while amy, on his tail, threatens him with a sparkly bowling ball, “i wanna be on a couples league, one more gutter ball mister, and you’ll be swallowing this baby!”

honestly, if any photographer were following us on a weekly basis…

ken is watching a thousand hours of football.
he loves football.
i mean really, he’s not all that different from most guys i know, with the exception of michael, who doesn’t like football at all.
but let me tell you what annoys the shit out of me: when ken spends a thousand hours sitting in front of our “only tv,” and doesn’t let go of the clicker, not even to pee, and i say please, can i just catch a few minutes of 60 minutes, and he shakes his head, and says, NO! so, i occupy my time reading & writing, and googling MANY MANY (ok, that’s a bold lie … some … some … many would constitute popularity) OLD BOYFRIENDS, and then after what, a thousand hours, he turns off the tv and says, “that was a fucking waste.”
oh really?
GIMME THE CLICKER BUDDY. I wanna watch 60 fucking minutes.

i have a question, query… when did we start ‘talking’ to each other online. when did we start taking our shit and airing it online. i was thinking today that my brother – for the past year and a half – never picked up the phone to tell me what he was feeling. he screamed and hollered at me all in CAPS, online. like e-mail was the place to air your dirty laundry, grievances, share your shit… but truthfully, it doesn’t take a whole lot of courage to scream and kick online. it takes a whole boatload of courage to pick up the phone and say “hey i have an issue with you, or hey you hurt me.” but to write a whole e-mail and hit send doesn’t feel all that courageous.
i have friends of friends who are sending me e-mails, sharing the same thing, so in other words, as my husband asks all the time, when did FUCK YOU SISTA become F.U.sista.com — when? when did we all become e-mail pals?
good question.
i much preferred the phone and talking the stuff through.
but that’s just me.
maybe when you get older — post menopausal — you long for a community where it really is reach out and touch someone. not so much reach out and spam someone.

i like looking someone in the “eye.” not in the “i.”

when? when did this all change?

and not so much for the better….

check out my new blog: www.asferris.wordpress.com

big girl panties!!!!

write, scream. laugh, holler… speak your peace, share your thoughts!!!!

a friend of mine calls me today and starts going on and on about how awful she feels about Haiti, but trust me, not for the obvious reasons, but truthfully, honestly, because she has a shitload of problems herself and while her heart is completely and utterly ripped in tiny little kleenex pieces over the devastation, she too is having a hard time, she lost her job, she’s running out of money, and oh my god she says i know i know i will never live in poverty or be lying in rubble, and she continues on this self reflecting journey when i finally say, whoa whoa… first of all your struggles and problems and pain and suffering is your stuff, that you deal with, Haiti is horrific, what’s going on there is horrifying… but… why compare, why go there, and she says, well i know they don’t have water and food so i should be grateful. i should be grateful. News bulletin: WE SHOULD BE GRATEFUL NO MATTER WHAT. period. One shouldn’t have to face poverty straight on continuously to have a genuine epiphany about brotherhood and sisterhood and global humanity and the need to take better care of each other and ourselves
why oh why do we feel this need to diminish our struggles and pains?
The blatant truth is that I will never have that particular struggle and suffering that the folks in Haiti have, but i can identify with their fears and doubts and worries and sorrows because human beings have the same exact wiring system. we don’t often think we do, but we do. it’s just that it’s all relative.
a short story. many years ago a friend of mine lost her husband to a brain aneurism, one day he was alive and well and they were living this great sexy love story, and yes, with everyday difficulties like all of us, and the next  minute, he was dead, being cremated. She lost her best friend of 12 years. a few days after his death, a group of women showed up to pay respects, bring food, chat, and there was a young (young? maybe she was 21, 22) girl who was rather shy and kept to herself, and my friend who had just lost her husband approached her, seeing that she was sad, and she asked her what was wrong, The young girl feeling a bit uncomfortable said “my boyfriend broke up with me,” and then started to say something like, but you just lost your husband…he died…I’m so so sorry, your loss is so much bigger, and my friend, my wonderful compassionate enlightened friend looked this young girl in the face and said, “it’s all relative. pain is pain. It’s all relative.”
so, maybe that’s the answer. instead of always berating ourselves for not quite hitting the pain ball out of the park, maybe we oughta stop, and realize that deep down we’re all exactly the same. sorrow is sorrow, pain is pain. loss is loss. love is love. and it is the glue that binds us. it’s the common human thread that makes us humble and caring and knowing, in every fiber in our being, that we are never — nor should we be — alone.

okay. this was supposed to be a couple of days of rest & relaxation, and ken’s birthday get-a-way. and yes, yes it’s been a great, delightful birthday celebration. seeing our friends who are now spending a few months in south beach – barb & al, fran & marvin…. we love them and miss them. so that has been wonderful & great…
but but BUT…
this is how we started off on our r & r trip slash birthday week:

ken lost his wallet. we were all packed and ready and the car was packed and ready and then he declared: shit, i can’t find my wallet. this is so typical. truly. last minute chaos. out flight was at 2:55, it was now noon. granted the airport is 45 minutes away, but still… no wallet, no trip. we searched, we scrambled, we went back to the garbage dumpster where just the night before we dumped our garbage, we searched under the car, in the car, in ken’s suitcase, in every drawer, in garbage cans… we searched, and it was now 1:00, and i was throwing a nut-dance, even i was shocked at the level of nut-dance-ability. holy mother of god. that was it, no more vacation. no wallet, no ID, no getting through security… and then one last look, and there it was in the back pocket of his jeans hanging in the closet HIS WALLET.
fine. scramble. hurry. get dressed. regroup. breathe in breathe out. rush rush rush…
get in the car. rush rush rush. gates closed, but…. we beg. beg. beg. please, please…. we make the plane.
heart beating & sweating. enough to raise any cholesterol a thousand percent.
then we arrive.
fran & marvin, marvin & fran. perfection. the weather is freezing. 38, and chilly. but our friends make it all better. all better.
then barbara. gorgeous wonderful barbara. what a treat.
then dinner for ken and birthday wishes all around, and then 2 nights at the mondrian, which is a bit too kitschy and modern and what’s with the seven foot lolita on every single wall? okay. a bit creepy for me. but…
great dinner, great friends.
and now today, day 4, pouring rain.
pouring. rain. rain. pouring.
ken is a year older, and i’ve probably — give or take — gained about ten years.

yesterday i made a resolution of sorts, per my dear friend darryle pollack: i started my fuck it list. the first ah, fuck it, was to revere my life this week, the entire week. this was my goal. to revere my life, every bit of it, top to bottom. the good, the not so good, the attractive, the unattractive – and you know the moment i made that determination, the moment i sent it out into the universe, a bitch slap. yep yep. you got it. a battle between revering myself, and despising myself. i felt like i was in my own personal ring, a left jab, a right hook… finally, finally — the self loathing and self deprecating needed a rest, and for a brief moment REVERING MYSELF stood center stage,
a victory.
short lived, but visible.
it’s the old adage: murphy’s law. what can go wrong does.
but i’m getting much much better at recognizing the insidiousness of it all.
i’m telling you by friday, piece o’ cake.
then i’ll go on to my next item on my fuck it list.

as of yesterday, january 1st, ken is officially retired. good news/bad news. i am both elated and fearful. and let me explain why.
i am writer, which means i’m mostly home, as in i work at home. if you can really truthfully call it work. i get to wear pajamas all day long, and some days, not all days, i kinda feel like the unawriter. living in the woods, only going out when i need to, mostly going to the post office wearing a hooded sweatshirt and yoga pants… i’m pretty sure this is how the unabomber lived. anyway, as always i digress…
ken is now retired which means on a cellular level he will be home with me. i adore him, i do. and i like him. a lot.  but i don’t really like being around anyone 24/7. maybe when i was younger and desperate, and attached myself to a guy with velcro… but that was then. i didn’t know better. i didn’t know that someone could stay in love even when they were apart. i didn’t know that i didn’t need to be in someone’s eye-view in order for them to remember me, i didn’t know that i was this wildly wonderfully independent woman. i was taught to keep myself small – neither noble or productive. i rebelled, thankfully.
so, now… ken, my ken, is retired. he’s worked long and hard in the film business. sometimes he worked long and hard for 17/18/19 hours a day. those days and nights i hated. truly deeply hated. i worried. waiting waiting waiting for him to come home. on those nights when he worked obscene hours, i often thought about cop wives who wait for their husbands to come home after some kind of drug sting (which, by the way, back then, was not that different to working on a feature film… drug wise.) they would wait for their husbands to come home safely.
and when ken came home, walked through the door… i would breathe. all was okay. and then, he would go to work the next day. and i would be alone to write.
and then i would wait, then he would come home, he would go back to work, and i would make believe that i was writing, and on and on and on… and this went on for 17 years.
and so…
in a two week period, we gave up our NYC apartment, and ken retired.
i’m kinda sure, although not 100% sure, that i may go a bit crazy nuts, which brings me full circle.
i am a writer. i’m going to write about this. it’s what i do. i write about my life: the good, the bad, the unattractive, the cluttered, the sad, the joy…i will be googling retirement probably on a daily basis, and i will be checking my horoscopes and iChing to see how i will be getting through each day and even sneak a peek at the next day. i’m sure there will be days i stay in bed, days i want to scream, days i love him more than i ever imagined, and days that i just want the fuck out.
it’s a new adventure.
and it includes sex.
how bad can that be?
and i have a car.
see that.