Marrying George Clooney

today is one of those days when i just wanna do nothing.
ken didn’t sleep last night. he tossed and turned. tossed and turned.
he always wanted to know what it was like BEING A MENOPAUSAL WOMAN in the middle of the night.
now he knows.
finally.

so, it’s one of those days when i feel restless, bored, tired, cranky, and a general all over irritation.

but one thing is on my mind. a burning question.
what if …
what if the GPS lady married Mr. Moviefone? is that not a wedding you would want to crash?
and while we’re there, just for the hell of it, let’s go one step further, let’s go to their honeymoon night, yep, yep… their automated sex life.
Can you hear her?
i can hear her.
RE-CALIBRATE, RE-CALIBRATE.

i give the marriage six months.

i told you i was bored.

first and foremost:
women should never ever settle for anything. period.

not men, not jobs, not their personal choices, not breakfast, not lunch, not dinner, not healthcare, not friendship, not love, not religion, not spirituality, not shoes, not clothes, not pets, not furniture, not boyfriends, not girlfriends, not vacation get-a-ways, not phone service, not pajamas, not telling someone off, not plow-men, not computers, not apples or oranges or pears.

and i know i know… sometimes many times we have to take the job, we have to take what’s in front of us, i know that. it’s called survival. it’s called being responsible and grown up, i know that. i do. all i’m saying is don’t give up on wanting better, wanting what you feel you deserve. don’t settle in the long term.

i got married at 38. before ken … i’m telling you, a lot of guys, on a scale of one to ten, maybe maybe a 3… and there were minutes, actual 60 second minutes, where i thought, “shit…” but i didn’t settle. i didn’t. i waited in what i like to refer to as “the desert of my adulthood.” and then… water appeared in the shape and form of this amazing wonderful funny good guy. i didn’t settle, i went through a huge draught, and then… boom… more than i ever expected. and 16 years later, i gotta tell you, boy oh boy was the draught worth it. in those “dry men” years – my career took off, i got my shit together, i found a great place to live and call home, i was centered, creative, aware… and i met a guy that matched THOSE STANDARDS. the other guys matched the, “will i ever have a career, where am i gonna live, what the fuck am i gonna do with my life.. oh my god, who am i?” period of my life. I met men who were as lost and confused; searching for themselves and they were sweet and funny, they just weren’t right. my one night stand-up comics as i like to call them.

desperate meets desperate.
self-esteem meets self-esteem.

it’s not always like that. but for me it was. i brought into my life a guy that matched the life i had created that was filled with joy and comfort and a self confidence that i hadn’t had pre-desert.

all that to say:

women should not settle. nor, by the way, should men… or boys or girls. no one should.

and the other thing i have to get off my chest:
i had this dream that robin williams shaved his chest and he wasn’t funny anymore.

i for one will never shave my chest. but i will get everything off of it.

see ken.
see ken shovel.
see ken say SHIT.
see ken pee in the snow.
see ken make the snow yellow.
see ken wipe his forehead and get hit with a bunch of falling snow from a tree.
see ken put his shovel down.
see ken get on his knees.
see ken scream to the heavens.
see ken look just like willem dafoe in platoon.
see ken get up.
see ken pick up the shovel.
see ken shovel.
see ken say FUCK YOU.
see ken say FUCK IT.
see amy waving to ken from inside the warm toasty house, where both kitties rub up against her and give her kisses.
see ken give amy the finger.
see amy blow ken a kiss.
see ken misinterpret that gesture.
see ken walking toward the house.

see amy.

see amy shovel.

i’m pretty sure this all began with a prayer. and as a person who believes wholeheartedly in the power of prayer, i write this with an open heart and no judgement. (oh, good god, that is so not true….)
this is where it all comes together.
my friend has been praying for a ‘good 14 inches’ (*okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration…) for close to a year. she was married, divorced, dating …. single for a while. she wants a man. she wants a good solid kind funny sexually active man. there has been screaming up to the heavens, hands waving in a circle, drumming, two days of silence, bartering, offering to be good and kind and altruistic, giving up ‘family’ thanksgivings in place of a food pantry at the homeless shelter.
she has been praying to the gods of the sun and the moon, to jesus and buddha, to the gods at bliss and lancome, michael j. fox, and the entire tibetan community. she has put adds in newspapers, craigslist, and even on match.com, j-date and e-entertainment.
“I want love and kindness, and funny, and a good heart and i am a very sexual creature…”
and then she would say to herself, NOT OUT-LOUD, OR IN WRITING, “…and yes, i really, really, really want a good 14 inches.” (*disclosure… yep, exaggeration..)

hmmm.

okay, who is looking out their window right now? who on the eastcoast is staring out their window? whatdya see?

i see 22 inches and counting.

seems to me she is getting a good 14 inches (* yep yep yep exaggeration).

the problem is we’re all getting it. 14, 15, 16, 18….24 inches. non stop.

this, right here, is such a lesson in prayer.
when you’re vague and afraid and don’t want to ask the gods of the sun and the moon and e-trade for what it is you want for whatever reason; embarrassment, fear, doubt, undeserving, not good enough  … you get a frickin’ snow storm.

when you’re specific, when you can ask for exactly what you want, when you declare THIS IS WHAT I WANT, this is what i need , this is for ME THIS HAS MY NAME ON IT … then, you get the snowman.

full disclosure:
i am not an outdoor-sie type o’ gal. i’m the kind of girl who waves to her husband from inside the house when he’s in his garden. i wave and smile and give him a huge thumbs up. i knock on the window and in my own personal sign language i tell him that i love him and that he’s got some dirt on the side of his mouth and i gesture for him to wipe it off. and in the fall i watch the leaves change their color from my office, and i smile, and i stare, and i think, how beautiful autumn slash fall is. and then of course, in the dead of summer, i sit in front of my air conditioner with a fly swatter and i think how silly that everyone is sitting outside, lounging by their pools, gossiping with their friends at the beach swatting the flies and bugs away from their face, when they too could be cool and making believe their swatting flies with a fabulous handmade fly-swatter…
which brings me to the snow today.
i am sitting indian style on my bed, typing this blog while watching the snow fall outside. it’s a continual blur of white. it’s non-stop.
and even though i wasn’t really planning on going outside to make a snowman, or sled, or make snow-cones with wine, or slushies, or make snow angels face down or face up or sideways… even though i was content watching from my bedroom window.
this definitely, without a doubt, goes under the category:
LESS IS FRICKIN’ MORE.

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 or suicidal 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 Israeli 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 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 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.

and for the record…
i really truly, deeply, hope and pray to every single god, goddess, deity, clothing manufacturer – buddhist and otherwise – that brad & angie never ever ever break-up, and adopt me.

i’ve just about had it to here. first of all i have to say that in general, on the whole, we love ripping people to shreds. one of my all time favorite quotes hollywood is a town that wishes you well when you’re terminally ill pretty much sums it up for me. i think that could be said about a lot of ‘towns’ — it’s seems as favorite a pastime; the judging, the pointing the proverbial finger, the wishing well, but not TOO well, as watching the olympics and knitting. i for one have made many, many mistakes starting from when i was real young to oh, i don’t know, about an hour ago. i make mistakes even while i’m sleeping. and trust me, no one – not one single solitary human being has to remind me over and over and over about some of these god awful mistakes.

i got news for you, human beings live with their shit day in and day out. some cover it better, hide it better, adding a little more bling and jazzy clothes and they think no one can see their sadness and pain, or their past life. i’m telling you, you can get a thousand botox treatments to remove the bag and sags from your drooping eyes, you can pull and tuck as much as you want — but it’s the eye itself that tells the story, not the skin around it.

folks, especially celebrities and politicians and the madoff’s in the world, feel awfully entitled. they think they’re superior and better, and they think they can get away with all kinds of stuff, and … they can’t. it catches up. it has to. eventually.

tiger fucked a lot of women. clinton got a blow job (or two or three, or four or five). spitzer spent a ton of dough & time with call girls playing pin the tail on the donkey, sanford tangoed his way through argentina with his mistress, and lied, and rudolph guiliani was schtupping his now wife judy, while his then wife, donna, was sleeping.

none of this shocks me or surprises me. not one bit. we are afterall imperfect human beings who spend most of our lives trying desperately to redeem ourselves. from the small & trite to the large & painful.

and another human issue — we don’t know how to forgive — ourselves or others – but we certainly know how to beat a dead horse. and … we desperately want and need heroes. role models. but maybe — maybe — the problem is we’re trying to find men and women who have absolutely no imperfections or blemishes, or past indiscretions, or any such reminder that human beings are tremendously flawed. i for one believe it’s what makes us extraordinary — the winning over and overcoming of some bad and/or awful choices made.

which brings me right smack to brit humes.

he believes that tiger woods can only be redeemed if he finds god, and becomes a good christian.

HOTFLASH! I have news for you brit, tiger — like all these men (and also some women out there) – thought/think they were/are God, and there in lies the problem.

how about believing that any religion whether it be christianity or judiasm, or muslim or buddhist, can be realized – living proof – by the people who practice and live the tenets.

redemption isn’t one size fits all.

there are days that i lie in bed and wonder out-loud if there is a surgeon anywhere on this good great planet that can arthroscopically remove the fear, doubt, shame, guilt, uncompromising lack of self-confidence that seems to have found great comfort right smack in the center of my solar-plexis area. all they – the surgeon – would have to do is make a small teeny incision, and pull out all of the crap that seems to lodge itself right there. right in that solar plexis area, where it lives and thrives and loves being fed and nurtured. i can feel it. i can. and it’s not something that creeps up on me. it announces itself big and loud, like a loud loud neighbor who wants attention. you just wanna say, could you please go visit someone else.
it’s not easy getting rid of all these old old old fears and doubts and misguided beliefs, and “lack of…” feelings. it’s hard, it takes work, and energy. and we think if we cover it up, or mask it, or coat it, then we’ve taken care of it. but then… it comes back. we’re not getting to the root.
yesterday i wanted to crawl into a ball, and stay there, and feel sorry for myself, and be sad, and worried… and for the first time in a long time, i didn’t try and get rid of the pain and sadness and worry … i let it go through me like a bad flu.
but i have great hope that someday in the not so far future that one won’t need to search endlessly for themselves, or take oodles of medication, or do ridiculous yoga poses, or go on retreats, or cuddle up next to a loved one, or chant or pray or stand on mountaintops, or take long tedious walks, or get some fresh air, or drink lots of water, or eat good food, or read pema chodron over and over and over, or do reiki or get massages, and mani-pedi’s. you know, all of those things that empower us…that make us feel better, that get the juices flowing, the heart rate pumping, the life blood churning… all those things that invigorate.
i am hopeful that one day i will be able to walk into my GP’s office and say, “Ward, it’s right here, right by the throat, could ya just pull it out.”
and that it’ll be it.
so today i’ll do yoga and chant and eat well and take zoloft and hug my guy, and call some great friends, and take a walk…

and for the record, i am not a huge proponent of fresh air, i think it’s so fucking overrated, but i am a huge fan of clean sheets.

I gotta be honest.
i don’t wanna be called a cougar.
i didn’t want to be referred to as a coyote.
and no, i’m not fond of cheetah.
and i gotta be really straight – the other c word, starts with c ends with t, is somewhat offensive to me. particularly when one woman out of anger and bitterness calls another women a cunt. it sounds vulgar and mean and it isn’t a word i particularly like, and i know some women aren’t at all offended.
i know… i know.. it’s the cougar, coyote, cheetah thing.
by definition, or at least from what i understand, a cougar is a women who is older, wiser, more graceful, more charming, more worldly, more sophisticated… who is with a younger man.
perhaps the issue isn’t the age difference here … perhaps the reason younger men are attracted to older women is because younger women tend to set their role model standard pretty frickin’ low. lindsay lohan, amy winehouse… pregnant @ 16? i think you get the picture.

which brings me to pussy.
what’s wrong with being called that?
soft, proud, can be any color, short hair, long hair, sets boundaries, very independent, cleans itself, can sleep in a ball, can stretch and climb, has just enough edge – can be nasty but rarely vicious, gives a lot of loving, expects to be fed, can be left alone for a few days and has no “master” issues, and often does not discriminate, can be extremely tolerant and playful, and doesn’t give a shit how old you are, but does care deeply about hygiene.

you gotta love pussy.

please, call me pussy.