Marrying George Clooney

it all began a couple of days ago. i have met the most amazing woman because of my book. women from all over the country, telling me how much they love MGC, and how i have given them courage and hope, and the gift of laughter, and now they don’t feel alone in the world, and all that great good stuff that makes you feel like you’ve done something of unbelievable value.
and then there’s the other stuff that bubbles to the surface.
a couple of new friends asked what they can do to help get the book out in the world in a big gigantic HUGE way… and i have to admit (full on) that what came up for me was a profound uncomfortable feeling mostly the shame of “i can’t ask for help.” i’m not sure where this all originated. most certainly when i was a kid, a young girl, and no doubt some event or moment planted that seed in the forever cellular body. asking for anything is excruciating for me. excruciating. most women i know suffer from the same pain, the inability to ask for, to feel comfortable on the receiving end, to put out in the universe what it is you want… oh, god i could go on… but i decided in that moment of frozen, i would ask these new friends, these gorgeous amazing women for help.
one wrote to oprah telling her how much she loved this book, and it changed her life and even posted a wonderful THE BOOKS THAT CHANGED MY LIFE post on vibrant nation. thank you melody!!!!!!
julie and jesse put a list together of the most amazing folks to write to, and started a viral campaign telling folks how important this book is for women in midlife.
and kristine & molly offered to do everything and anything to help get the book out in the world in a huge way.
i took a baby step.
i did.
i said yes, please, help me. and i only felt a teeny bit of nausea, not the full on “oh my god i’m going to get sick” feeling that often accompanies my fear of asking for what i want.
so, with open arms and a massive amount of tums, i welcome any and all help, suggestions, and offers.
or as my wonderful delightful therapist said, look upward and say in a clear crisp voice:
I AM READY TO RECEIVE.

i love the academy awards. i do. i have always planned “my year” around that evening.
in the past i would actually get dressed, put on make-up and only get up to pee during musical numbers.
and like most folks, i am hopeful that there will be one or two surprises during the evening.
the big surprise for me this year was not that the writer of PRECIOUS won — HOW FABULOUS WAS THAT — but the fact that speeches were cut to a minimum – that that was where the producers decided to cut. the thank you’s were cut to a nano second. literally. cut to what, 45 seconds. i can’t do anything in 45 seconds, let alone string a sentence together. and it pisses me off beyond words.
and the reason is simple. i am a writer. i am a person who writes.
as a writer, as a person who has in fact written a couple of (yes, produced) screenplays, as a woman who values the written word… it shocks me that we – writers – are constantly written off and written out. cut out. that words are the first to go.
you wanna cut something, cut the frickin’ fluff. cut the bullshit.
give folks an opportunity to say thank you, to speak. to use their voice for a cause they’re touting, or a person that needs to hear they’re loved.
i’m not supporting the rambling 3 minutes. i’m supporting a strong well written, THANK YOU SPEECH that lasts 90 seconds. a minute and half. i am not supporting a rambling off the cuff wild ride of thanks.
it takes years and years to make films, movies. and yeah, sometimes decades.

it all begins with a few words on a blank page, a person – or a few people, or a writing team – staring at their computer screen, or their tablet, or their notebook… or an old typewriter. it begins there.

words deserve better.

and a good “thank you” is something i don’t think we ever get enough of.

ok. my two cents.

it’s monday.
i have a massive hangover.
we drank like foolish fish last night. white, bubbly, more white… something that looked like white but could have been a yellow, lemony color. so my head hurts.
a couple of months ago four of us – amy litz, karen, frances and myself – went to DC to march in a demonstration to end the war. Of course we stayed at the St. Regis and ate fabulous food and limited our marching because well, we had spa treatments. but none the less we showed up. showing up is important. but the thing that was the miracle of miracles and trust me i don’t use that term lightly, we were four women in a car driving to DC, each one of us have husbands that when they drive over the speed limit by say 10 miles, a full out nut-dance can be heard in all other lanes. i have witnessed each one of these women turn into the devil doll when their husbands were behind the wheel. not to mention my own personal front row theatrics.

frances and karen were comfy in the back, eating chips, and knitting, i was sitting up front listening to music, munching on apricots and pita chips, and amy was driving with the bluetooth firmly planted in her ear, ordering furniture and firing contractors for a good two, two and half hours.
she was also driving. amy is a take no prisoners, good aggressive driver.
now i just wanna say for the record, not one woman made a comment when amy drove way over the speed limit. not one. we ate, we laughed, we munched, we read and knitted and got to washington in a little over 4 hours.
when amy drove up on the sidewalk because the traffic was annoying, not a word, not a hiss, not a roll of the eye, not a “oh my god what the fuck…”
when she drove through one or two stop signs, not a comment, not a word. it was as if it never happened.
and when she made an illegal u-turn because we missed our exit, complete quiet. i don’t think fran even noticed she was so busy knitting and purling.

i’m here to say without a shadow of a doubt that had ken been behind the wheel you could bet your life that i would’ve had laryngitis and divorce papers in my hand by the time we arrived at the hotel.

but not one of us, not one woman said a word. we felt safe and comfy and for whatever reason we completely and utterly trusted her & trusted us in her hands. no fear, no worry, no “oh my god if you don’t slow down i’m gonna slam my foot through the dashboard….”

i’m wondering – and i’m wondering this out-loud because i have such a throbbing headache – whatdya think? is it a man/woman thing? a control thing? a trust issue? i know tons & tons of women who don’t really like women, who are so competitive with other women it’s almost sad – and so, i’m veering away from the trust issue. gotta be something else.

or maybe it’s just a DUI-ORGW thing:

driving under the influence of really good women.

marrying jeff bridges.
having an affair with johnny depp.
thinking of angelina jolie.
writing for meryl streep.
singing with bruce springsteen.
coffee with angelica houston.
smoking with sean penn.
schmoozing with bette midler.
laughing with john stewart.
writing with amy friedman.
biking with lance armstrong.
working with lee daniels.
dinner with michelle obama
chatting with oprah winfrey
meditating with pema chodron
meeting with the dalai lama
chanting with peter werner
dancing with mick jagger
traveling with frances naftal
getting mani/pedi’s with amy litzenberger
painting with joann greenbaum & joyce weinstein
knitting with terri johnson
performing with CAP 21 theater group
jumping with bella & lotus
and…
living with ken ferris

i’m on a campaign. i started it after i talked with barbara hannah grufferman (my fearless, gorgeous brilliant new friend & amazing author!)
i often think of myself as bold and audacious and even– on some days — awfully courageous. i speak my mind, i say fuck you often, and i am not very shy when it comes to expressing my opinions. but that doesn’t necessarily make me fearless. i’m comfortable speaking my mind. i’m very uncomfortable asking for what i want. i’m comfortable saying fuck you to someone who hurts me or attacks me verbally, i am not comfortable saying “that’s unacceptable, you can’t treat me like that.” i am comfortable giving someone else praise, and offering them the floor, i am wholly uncomfortable being the center of attention even at an event that is in fact revolving around me. i am comfortable picking up the phone and praising someone about a friend’s book, or film or CD, but i am profoundly uncomfortable about pushing my own creativity, art, work… writing.
so yesterday i decided to start a FEARLESS @ 50 campaign. do something everyday that scares the hell out of me, or at the very least something i have put off, tucked away, let slide, given up on…

and just for clarification sake, i am not going to bungee jump. that doesn’t go under the category of fearless for me, that goes under “fiercely, uncontrollably bouncing up and down in mid air while being somewhat attached to a rigged device.”

but for those of you who put bungee jumping on your list… i say JUMP.

and as i reminded myself yesterday, it isn’t about getting a yes or a no … it’s about taking an action, doing something that scares me.

so, here’s to us women who are standing on the edge of the cliff, looking down and wondering…

i’m here to tell you – everyone of us — we’re all gonna fly.

okay…
this is what’s on my mind today.
THE ACADEMY AWARDS.

i know, i know, i know…kathryn bigelow. amazing. truly. i mean not only is she a great director, she is gorgeous, funny, talented, smart, witty, brilliant, sexy and can pack a punch.
wow.
how frickin’ cool is that?
and i don’t want to go on and on and on about how amazing it is that she directed a film that for all intents and purposes is a guy, male driven film. no doubt about it.
so…
whatdya think the movie would’ve looked like had a man directed it?
well, for starters i think the title would’ve changed: “oh no no we can’t call it the hurt locker that sounds like a cheap shoe store in a fuckin’ mall, how about we call it, STRAIGHT TO HELL, or B IS FOR BOMB… or i got it, i got it…BLOW UP.”
and then of course there would be a sexy brit in there somewhere – maybe a bar scene, or maybe in the hummer… but there would be hot steamy “oh my god i miss my girlfriend back home so bad i can’t stand it one more day” kinda sex.
and i’m pretty sure joe pesci would be in the movie.
and the scene at home, back home, when he’s in the supermarket, indecisive … this cereal, that cereal…i’m pretty sure had a man directed that scene, the guy would have such a meltdown in that aisle – in that cereal aisle — that the entire supermarket would end up being under siege, and men in hazmat suits would be surrounding the shoprite, and the last scene, the very last scene… would be the husband and wife in therapy.

but then again, it takes a woman to cut through much of the bullshit.

“Utah lawmakers have just passed a bill that would charge a woman with criminal homicide for obtaining an illegal abortion or inducing a miscarriage, whether intentionally or through “reckless” behavior. There are a few narrowly defined exceptions, including failure to comply with medical advice, refusal to submit to a physician’s recommended treatment, and negligence (which in legal terms is apparently a less serious crime than recklessness). Otherwise, the law holds women accountable for criminal homicide if they intentionally, knowingly, or recklessly “cause the death of another human being, including an unborn child at any stage of its development,” outside the parameters of legal abortion.”

“Criminal homicide.”

oh my god.

i don’t know about you but i am horrified. i am more than horrified. i am thoroughly outraged & disgusted.

girls & women, women & girls–  from time in memoriam — have been violated, abused, beaten, mistreated, discarded, dismissed, ignored, raped, bruised and impregnated daily –DAILY — all around the globe by boys and men who have no value — none what so ever – for their own lives, let alone someone else’s.

i would bet the house that these acts of violence against women & girls were not the choices these women or girls would have made GIVEN THE CHOICE. i would wager, given the choice – along with the deep, and profound desire  & need to be heard – they would have stopped the violence, the rape, the abuse, the beatings, the pregnancies with one word: NO. NO, you can not rape me, NO, you can not beat me, NO you can not batter me, NO you can not fuck me over and over and over again, NO you can not mistreat me, you can not hurt me, you can not abuse me. not one day longer. NO YOU CAN’T.

given the choice, along with the voice to be heard, women & girls would say loudly and clearly and with every fiber in their being: I HAVE HAD ENOUGH. NO MORE. NO. MORE.

why oh why do some people feel and think that it is their choice, their right to choose the fate and destiny of someone else, instead of the woman or girl who has a tight male hand gripped and wrapped around HER throat?

why oh why do some people feel that it is their choice, their right to choose the fate and destiny of someone else, instead of the woman or girl who has the man or boy on top of her, covering her mouth with one hand, while raping her over and over and over again?

the idea, the thought, the notion that a woman or girl who chooses to terminate her pregnancy (illegally no less) could be charged with, and punished for a criminal homicide seems outright barbaric.

while I am certainly not a right to lifer (in it’s now popular definition), i am most certainly a woman who is wholeheartedly pro-life, I would never say i was anti-life. and in terms of pro-choice i am a diehard pro-choicer, and i don’t understand why that is a term that somehow contradicts loving and valuing and appreciating and honoring life.

abortion. now that’s a hard choice.  a difficult choice, and on most occasions a truly tragic choice. these are not choices that seem parallel with taking an aspirin for a headache, or gargling with salt water for a sore throat. having an abortion for many, many, many girls and women is a hard, excruciating, horrific choice. and it often — usually — begins with fear and escalates: the fear of not being loved, or liked, someone will find out, the guy doesn’t want the baby, the parents will kill her, or make her have the baby … then it requires much thought, much discussion, (or not depending on the circumstances). feeling invisible and ostracized, and depending on the time of day, all can seem overwhelming and frightening.

I have had a few abortions. I felt all alone and frightened. back then, i had no self-esteem, so i didn’t use protection and i didn’t ask the boys (i say boys because we were all so young) to use protection. it wasn’t a conversation that was easily had, so, i saddled up my lack of confidence right next to the guy whose sexual excitement was peaking. I didn’t have the self-esteem to say NO. i didn’t realize how powerful the word NO was back then.

i wanted to be liked, loved. i gave it away.

Yes. Yes, I said yes, take it it’s yours. Take it, here. take it.

you say yes when you want to be paid attention, liked and seen. YOU CAN NOT SAY NO.

you say yes, sure. you don’t see or think about consequences.

you don’t think.

you say yes.
a baby is made.
a choice is made.
a tragic horrific choice.

i find it despicable that folks sit around talking about abortion as if the decision is as easy as popping an aspirin for a headache. IT IS NOT. and for those who think tossing a woman in prison for (illegally) terminating her pregnancy is going to fix a problem, or alleviate the problem, or is a fair means of punishment — think again.

criminal homicide?

please, think again. and again. and again. and again.

please.

please.

please.

i have numerous fears. i can even list them alphabetically. but i won’t bore you. suffice to say some are very small, teeny…. borderline insignificant, and some are larger… more meaningful, like the one i’m dealing with now. right now. this very second.

i am afraid – petrified – of heights.
i am not afraid of tall men or women, but i am afraid of standing on the observation deck of the empire state building. i did that once and boy oh boy — the unbelievable physical and emotional fear that enveloped me was outstanding. i felt as frail and as fragile as a piece of paper.

right now, i am staring out the window of an apartment on the 43rd floor.
the windows are massive.
ken and i stayed in nyc last night so that we could be in the city today. we have generous and gracious and loving friends who offered us their apartment.
the thing about fear is that sometimes i think we try and get rid of the fear, so we do things to push the fear down or aside, or in a drawer. thinking if we cover it up, it’ll disappear. it doesn’t for me — it always seems to re-emerge. like a bad date. there is no where for me to push this fear. this place is wall to ceiling windows. the only place i wouldn’t feel scared is if i stayed in the bathroom, but that just doesn’t feel like much of an option.
so i sit here, writing this blog, staring out the huge window as the wind blows and hollers, and i can even see a few birds that obviously have no problem what so ever with height, snow seems to be falling, and the window is huge and i can hear my heart beating.

but today i did something i wouldn’t normally do with something i’m afraid of. i looked it smack in the face, and thought, hmmmm…. i’m gonna sit real close to this window, and i’m gonna write my blog, and i’m gonna share my fear, and i bet someone out there is gonna say: “thanks, amy” for pressing your face right up to that looking glass and cracking it just a teeny bit.

and isn’t that what it’s really all about — giving someone else courage.

it seems to me there’s this never ending chatter about tiger woods losing and now regaining his buddhist faith — and now that he’s re-introduced himself to buddhism and shakyamuni and all the buddhist gods of the sun and the moon, that hopefully, maybe he won’t have such a passionate uncontrollable sexual desire. that it will melt away like dew in the morning sun.

well, i say buddshit.

i am a buddhist for almost 38 years. and as most who follow or study buddhism know there are many, as in thousands, of buddhist doctrines and teachings and rituals and studies. i’m not particularly sure which buddhist doctrine tiger follows. it could be mama-sutra for all i know, but one thing … having faith, losing faith and regaining your faith is not a journey or destination or a stop on the train, it’s a daily inner battle with your own demons, your own habits, the very causes you make that make you and others both happy and suffer. and tiger wanted more — he had an insatiable, overwhelming sexual drive and appetite and desire, and add that with the combo of money and fame  -  that’s a difficult ride to get off of. and as he said, he felt entitled. entitlement, by the way, has nothing to do with faith. it has to do with superiority. and god knows, or buddha knows, that tiger has been the center of attention since he’s 6 years old. but something that i think of often because i do practice buddhism every single day – at least for me, for what it is that i have come to realize within my daily life  – it isn’t about being perfect, it isn’t about sinning, it isn’t about giving up your dreams or desires, or attachments to externals – it’s about awakening. awakening to my faults, my weakness, my strength’s, my own beauty and abundance. It’s about awakening to life fully.
and more than all of that, it’s about awakening to the truth that has always been in your life, that you are in fact the buddha, you are in fact the very person you pray to every morning and evening. we make causes, we get effects, we fuck up, we learn lessons, we apologize, we are forgiven, we make more mistakes, we apologize again, we learn finally, we grow, we awaken. it’s called life. and we are in complete and utter control of our daily actions and causes and effects. sometimes we’ve got it under control and sometimes not. It takes effort and patience, and trying one more time, and not giving up. it’s fucking hard.
tiger is a brilliant golfer. on the golf course, he’s focused and precise and perfect most of the time.
in daily life. he’s less so.
i think the truth is when someone like tiger gets caught, or any famous person gets caught it stirs something in us that we hate stirred. it brings it all straight home, clobbers it home, even more so. I know someone who is having an affair. Every time Tiger’s name comes up, or when he did his mea culpa on TV, this guy  - this guy who is having an affair – acted with such contempt, with complete and utter disgust, and it dawned on me … sure, if he acted sympathetic, that would be the give-a-way… his wife would suspect that he was having an affair, so he has to attack tiger in order to keep his own indiscretion from blowing up in his face.
and maybe that’s the whole shabang right there.
The senators who vote against gay rights are the first to be caught in the mens room playing footsie, and the women whose husbands are cheating on them hated hillary, despised her, demonized her … and the husbands that have girlfriends waiting for them in cheap motel rooms, have to demonize Tiger.
And all the religious fanatics who think unless you repent and get on your knees and tithe to “their God, their faith,” your prayers are ineffectual, useless.
we are constantly tested — all the time, our fortitude, our commitments, our vows, our love, our devotion, our determination, our honesty, or courage, our strength, compassion and wisdom. Faith is the result and reward of winning over yourself.
And the thing about golf, it’s all about keeping your eye on the ball.

For those of you who live in glass houses, i say … keep an eye on your own balls.

last night a lively discussion took place at a dinner party at our friends house.
pre-dinner. we were in the cheese & wine & appetizer phase.
a bunch of interesting conversations took place: art, photography, families, being a vegan (not a topic i involve myself in), the falling in love with another woman vs. the stay with the wife you no longer love topic came up (which was quite the interesting conversation piece), and my favorite conversation:
having spent 27 years in solitary confinement in the marion prison (yes, same prison that gotti was in) the guy/inmate talked about how he crochets and does yoga on a daily basis and has numerous conversations in HIS HEAD. hmmm. that’s a shock. the crocheting and yoga i can understand — but the internal 24/7 back and forth in the head i can’t relate to (joking….), and my guess, pretty soon, because this has become a hot topic news item, my guess, his crocheted hats and doilies will be sold online and he will become a multi millionaire, and then eventually, when he dies, he will have left his entire fortune to the prison, which in turn will become a condo and his 10 X 10 cell will sell for a record 2.5 million…
but i digress.
this led to the topic of being in your own head for any amount of time (let alone 27 years).

as a writer i am in my head all the time. i could actually have myself arrested for verbal abuse.  but that’s another day, another blog….

ken was out snow shoveling the other day (as you all now know) and what started out as a couple of very simple conversations slash dialogues in his own head, turned into a (make-believe) violent boxing match by the time he was finished shoveling.
many things were floating through – one was a relationship he has with someone that makes him feel very sad and unsettled and at odds with himself, so he played that one over and over and over until both parties not only cried uncle, but were thrown into solitary with the crocheting, yoga guy. the other disagreement he had with himself was about getting in touch with the plow guy who promised he would be here, but never showed up, so ken was having an internal disagreement with the said plow-guy, “you said you’d be here by 3,” “I said i’d try and be there by 3,” “liar. you said 3,” “fuck you. i said maybe MAYBE 3,” until the plow-guy in ken’s mind plowed over ken. and another internal dialogue … we’re in the process of trying to do a renovation, adding a dining room. so we have x amount of money that we’re willing to spend for this addition. to me it seems like a substantial amount of dough. enough to build a dining room AND have a private chef. but then again, i’m a bit of a dreamer. i still think i can go to the post ranch for 200 bucks a night. hmmm. so frickin’ deluded.
so there was my ken, unbeknownst to me, having the battle of his life in his own head. back and forth back and forth…
and by the time he came into the house i asked him what was up since he looked a bit disheveled, and he said he had had so many disagreements and felt so completely frustrated and friendless, that’s he’s thoroughly exhausted and needs to nap.

why oh why oh why do we do this shit to ourselves? has anyone ever had a dialogue that went like this:

“hey, how you doing?”
“good. good. and you?”
“fabulous.”
“well, you look fabulous. rested, happy… i’m so glad i live in your head.”
“me, too! i never feel alone with you. let’s kiss.”

but then again, that would be so boring.