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Category: Relationships


ken-oh-pause

September 13th, 2009 — 11:22pm

sometimes when i am wide awake in the middle of the night, i stare at my sweet, gorgeous, kind, loving 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/mesh & medal department – and share it with him. or better yet, i’ll wear it, and let him touch it.

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A is for Amy, K is for Ken

September 4th, 2009 — 1:41am

A: Please drive slower, hon
K: I am driving slower, babe.
A: Slower than what, moo-moo?
K: Slower than the last time you asked me, sweetie.
A: okay. (accompanied by a deep, loud, obnoxious sigh), thanks.
K: Uh huh.
(Silence for about ten minutes… then)
A: Please drive slower, Ken,
K: I am driving slower, Amy.
A: Slower. Than. What?
K: Than. The. Last. Time. You. Asked. Me.
A: I DOUBT THAT.
(silence again for another ten minutes or so)
A: SLOW DOWN
K: Fuck you.
A: NO, NO, NO, NO….FUCK YOU, KEN…FUCK YOU!!!!!
K: OKAY. THAT’S IT. GET OUTTA THE CAR. I’M PULLING OVER AND I WANT YOU OUTTA THE FUCKING CAR. I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT.
A: Yeah. Right. ASSHOLE.
K; (mimicking me) Yeah. Right. (Ken does not say the word asshole because he finds it nasty and crude, and since he is a much better person than me, he refrains from tossing it back.)
(a beat…a long long beat)
A: Please. Drive. Slower.
K: You drive.
A: I don’t wanna drive. If I wanted to drive, i’d be driving.
K: YOU ARE FUCKING DRIVING.

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Promises made…

August 24th, 2009 — 11:46pm

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-

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promises made…

August 24th, 2009 — 11:45pm

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-

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ken-oh-pause

August 23rd, 2009 — 10:54pm

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.

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good loving

July 28th, 2009 — 3:30am

today i ache for her. she has been gone since the 4th of may. ours was a difficult relationship, but none the less, the last few years were filled with much joy and comaraderie. i missed her today for all the small things: the phone calls, the wishing me a safe flight “take a safe plane” she would say when we were traveling a bit of a distance. then the call i would make as soon as i landed, so she knew i – we – arrived safely.

She had dementia. It was cruel and uncompromising.  Grabbing you by the heart & soul and it doesn’t let you out of it’s grip. She once said she had no idea who she was any more:  like her body and her mind were taking different walks. The thing about demenia, it’s like a runaway train. There are moments, actual moments, when you think yes oh yes the breaks are going to stop. finally. there will be relief, but then it only slows down, and then… oh my god…

and coupled with that, there’s the whole sibling dynamic. which makes it all so much harder and much more painful, and so much intertwined that gets caught in the branches. the one thing i realized, that i finally understood with every fiber in my being. no one NOT ONE PERSON loves another person the same. we all love differently, and for brothers and sisters, and sisters and sisters and brothers and brothers… how we each love, care for, understand, need, nurture, fight with, argue with, make up  with our parents  …  it’s all different. we love, each of us, in our own way. and no one should judge, or at least try not to, how we love another person.

today my heart aches because i wish i could tell her that i’m having a shitty day so she could say, “you know i hate hearing unpleasant news, call me when you feel better…”

i wish i could call her when i feel better later today.

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madame reverend: psychic junkie part 4

July 25th, 2009 — 12:12am

I am a firm believer that there are no coincidences in life. And I have plotted and planned more coincidences than I care to remember. Like my serendipitous ‘run in’ with a guy I had a mad puppy crush on: “Oh my god, can you believe that here we both are in an Appalachian village in rural Virginia at the same time? Is this not fate, is this not a sign?”

Yes, it was sign that I was cuckoo.

The Ansonia Hotel sits on a corner of 73rd street and Broadway. A massive gothic building that is known for its spook factor along with its famous and infamous residents. Everyone from Babe Ruth to Angelina Jolie has lived there. It was also known for both the Continental Baths, and Plato’s Retreat. And while nudity had absolutely nothing to do with why I was there, let’s just say when you’re visiting a clairvoyant there is a sense that they are in fact seeing right through you. This was in the 70’s, and along with the whole couple swapping, orgy, free love, Bette Midler/Barry Manilow gay baths scene, there was a whole other scene taking place: clairvoyant readings, psychics, tea leaf readings, séances, and astrologers. It was the place to go for any sort of spiritual craving.

My friend – who I dragged along – and I went to see Reverend Madame, a very tall, very large woman who wore a long white robe, and turban, and wore strands of heavy necklaces that would actually clank when she walked. She was very well known among the clairvoyant set, and very particular, and folks waited outside her apartment, in the hallway, where a take-a-check not unlike the one you find in a Bakery was standing, so that each of us would have a number when and if we were called, or plucked out of the line. Chosen. This was all a part of the scene, the mystique. She could only see  – read, intuit – twenty people in one session. That’s it. No more. More than twenty would ‘fog’ her energy field and she couldn’t read, or see, or intuit anyone or anything. Her whole pricing plan was based on ‘a donation,’ because when you are a true psychic intuit clairvoyant reader, it’s a calling, and therefore one should not charge for it. But if you are paying rent, or have a mortgage, or wear a lot of jewelry, you need a little bit of dough to get you through the lean months. The minimum donation was twenty dollars. I gave the minimum, as did my friend, who begrudgingly placed the twenty on the ‘donation’ plate. I would wager that a good many of us waiting to see her made the decision to give up eating for a few days so that we could catch a glimpse of her brilliance and insight.

So, there we are, standing on a long, long line, with a bunch of other hopefuls. I felt like I was auditioning for A Chorus Line. And then my friend and I get plucked out, along with another woman who looks awfully familiar to me, like I knew her, or had seen her, but couldn’t place her. But she had that familiarity of a person long lost. We gather in a room, a living room, and candles are lit everywhere, very seductive, very moody. We sit in a semi-circle. A chair, a huge wooden chair – a throne type chair – is placed up front, facing the semi-circle. We all take a seat, and wait. We’re asked, by a small thin guy with a bad haircut, to be very, very still, Reverend Madame likes quiet and still, she needs quiet, if there’s noise it will unsettle and unravel her and then she can’t and won’t be able to do a reading. Uh oh. I can’t help it. It’s very hard for me to just sit. I am trying to be quiet, to be still. My friend is fidgety. Crossing her legs, uncrossing her legs, trying to find a place for her hands, and arms, folded, to the side, on her lap.

A few moments pass. The woman from the line, the one I felt this connection to sits directly across from me. She is very pretty, really beautiful, and there is something, something, I can’t quite pinpoint, but it just seems awfully …like I know her, or have seen her. I’m trying to place her. I ask my friend, in a whisper, if she seems familiar, she shakes her head, no.

Oh, the big moment. The lights dim, the candles flicker, and Reverend Madame walks in, followed by two very young handsome and shirtless men. Her concuboys. She sits on her throne; they kneel on either side of her. See this is what I want, I want a throne, or at the very least a big comfy chair, with two men on either side of me and they don’t need to be shirtless, they just need to be able to kneel.  She says a prayer, a few things that are in tongues, and then the shaking of the head and a couple of body spasms, and then she says we can either write down one question on a piece of paper, and yes, a pad and a pen will be handed to each of us, or we can simply stand and ask our one question. I chose the pad and pen. I write my question. My question is:

Is my boyfriend Jonnie Brenner cheating on me? And does she see an Academy Award in my future, or any gold trophy?

I know, two questions. I was pushing my luck.

Here’s the money question: What do you think the chances are that two women in that room on that day ask the same exact question about the same exact guy? One of the women lives in New York City, the other woman lives on Long Island and their boyfriend; the cheating motherfucker lives out in Queens. What do you think the odds are that both of them are in the same building on the Upper West Side, in the same Clairvoyant’s living room, at the same exact hour, on the same exact date? Slim to none?

This is what happens: Reverend Madame closes her eyes, puts her hand in the fishbowl and pulls out a question. She reminds us to please stand up after she asks the question so that she can look directly at the person she is speaking to.

This is the question Reverend Madame reads from the piece of paper in her hand: “Is my boyfriend Jonnie Brenner cheating on me?”

I stand up, and the beautiful girl across from me, the one who looks so familiar, also stands up. We are looking right at each other. The Reverend asks which one of us asked the question. We both raise our hands. There is dead silence. Well, she says, I guess your question is now very clearly answered. Yes, he is cheating on you.

There are how many women in New York City? And how many of them have boyfriends that are cheating on them? Well, I guess that doesn’t narrow the field much, but what are the odds – like twelve million to one – that the two women who are being cheated on by the same motherfucker guy are in the same exact room, in the same exact place, asking the same exact question to the same exact woman named Reverend Madame?

And because this was not the era of cell-phones or text messaging, or caller ID, we – the two of us – go down to a payphone in the lobby of the Ansonia, standing nose to nose in a phone booth.  She dials his number, because she knows it by heart, and when he – Jonnie Brenner – answers his phone, we scream in unison:

“You cheating piece of shit.”

And then we – the two of us – part ways.  I mean, really, what do you say: Gee, you’re the one he was calling every fucking twenty minutes when we went to the movies and dinner, because he told me that his mother was very, very sick, and he was just so fucking worried about her? Nah. I don’t think so. You’re the one he was fucking when I was calling him and he wasn’t answering the phone for three fucking days, and he lied to me and told me that his frigging phone was broken and he was waiting for a repairman…  for three fucking days? Nah, I don’t think so. And then I wonder what kind of bullshit excuse was he giving her when she asked the same exact questions? Nah, I don’t want to go there.

I went back to my apartment, she went home to Manhasset, Jonnie ended up in rehab for drug and alcohol abuse, and my friend, the one who I dragged with me, stayed for the rest of the clairvoyant readings with Reverend Madame, ended up having a torrid love affair with one of the shirtless men, and moved to Colorado, where they have lived together for over 30 years.

Un-fucking-believable.

Or not. Depending on how you feel about coincidences.

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dear ken…

July 24th, 2009 — 1:42am

it’s 1:17 in the morning, you’re a sleep, or at least pretending to be so i won’t annoy you with some trivial question like why is liquid soap so gooey sometimes. i know, i know, not important enough to shake you awake. but you seem to have the answers to so many of my truly peculiar questions. today when we were walking the down the street, i could feel that we were a perfect fit. not too tall, not too short … just right, as baby bear would say. What inspired me to pieces was that we’ve been walking down many streets together for over 16 years now, and i guess we’ve always fit, i just – truthfully – didn’t notice. it was the call in on NPR today that brought me to tears, the young girl from Texas, who was working two jobs, just to make a couple of bucks extra a week to buy a CD, or to take her boyfriend dinner at perkins. all she was hoping for was an extra 20. i sob hearing that story. it makes me realize the depth of fortune, the profundity of the space that envelopes me, regardless of size — it is mine and I know it, and it will not be taken for granted again. 15 million on minimum wage. going up to 7 bucks and change. I watch you sleep. you work hard,  you love me good, you take so little for granted, you give and share and create magic in your garden. you make our world gorgeous and lush and oh so comfortable, and i curl up in the big chair and I watch you in complete awe.

sometimes it’s kinda hard to figure out what you’re gonna say to the very person you see day in and day out, something that’s not a cliche, or typical. it takes effort to make something, anything have a bit of a fresh kick to it. so i move over to you as you lie down sleeping, and i crawl under the covers and I tell you that luck was only a tiny piece. the other piece was being smart enough to recognize a really truly good thing when i saw it.  you are such a good man, i whisper in your ear.

I could swear you smile.

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iKen

July 22nd, 2009 — 11:21pm

he is sleeping soundly. until i say, oh shit, then he rumbles and removes his eye mask and squints at me and asks: whatcha doing? i tell him i’m writing a blog. he says, a blog? i say yeah. since when he asks? since when i say with a hint of attitude… since this is what i’ve been doing since my book is coming out really really soon and since it’s all about my being wide awake and writing @ 3am, and then he says something obnoxious, which quite honestly, i don’t remember because, well… he started off with a comment and turned it into a weird bizarro rap song, which then became a big downer real quickly. just imagine all the words that rhyme with blog … fog, log, hog, snog, gutterbog, clog, mog, fartfog, asshog, fuckyourog…  ah, you get it.

and then then then he says: you know what i’d like to do -i’d like to spend as much time on your lap as your frickin’ computer. fat chance (i think to myself) oh honey that’s so sweet, i say. and then i say: did you just say you wanna spend as much time on my lap as my frickin’ computer? and he says, yeah.

a moment or two of radio silence.

how about tomorrow, i ask?

tomorrow’s good, he says.

my iKen.

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gimme an “r” gimme me “e” gimme a t.i.r.e.d……

July 17th, 2009 — 3:04pm

Oh my god I may just kill him.

And probably this will happen sometime between 3 am and say 5/5:30 am.

And this is what I will say, if in fact this ever ever comes to fruition:  I will tell the cops that he stabbed himself repeatedly just to prove to me that he could, and oh my god, they will take me to the police station where i will have a full out breakdown and say: FOR GOD’S SAKE HE WAS DRIVING ME FUCKING CRAZY BECAUSE HE WAS HOME ALL THE FUCKING TIME, and and and… he was watching over my shoulder ALL THE TIME, and he was listening in on my phone calls, and then… then… he would say slash ask: WHY DID YOU SAY THAT, AND WHO WERE YOU TALKING TO? And I will look at him like excuse me, what the fuck are you doing home all the time? And I will start sobbing in front of Mr. Police Officer, and Mr. Sheriff, snot nose sobbing, and they will be grossed out, and say, “Ughhhh,” and one of them (probably Mr. PO) will get me a box of tissues (the no frills brand) and I will blow my nose, and it will start to bleed, and then they will offer me a cup of shitful coffee, and I will say, “No, no thank you, can’t you see I’m fucking wired as it is,” and then…. then… they will send in a female police officer, who will weigh close to 400 lbs and sit down and ask me, “Ma’m, did you kill him?” And I will look at her and ask, “Do you like donuts?” and she will say yes, and I will say nothing, because that way I won’t be held accountable, and then we’ll look at each other for a few moments, and then she’ll ask me, “Why did you kill him?” and I will ask her why she likes donuts, and she will say, “Because they’re sweet and yummy!” Then I’ll tell her that she’s lucky because sweet and yummy is good, and then I’ll ask her – with some edge and irritation in my voice, “Why’d you called me “M’am?”  And she’ll say “Because you’re in your 50’s, and you’re much older than me, and I was told to always be kind to my elders,” and I’ll grab her by the throat and tell her to kindly go fuck herself, and I will make such a ruckus that they will throw me out of the Police Station and tell me in no uncertain terms to never ever return, regardless of the crime…

And then I’ll come home, and he’ll be there waiting for me with a glass of white wine – chardonnay , or Pinto Grigio, depending on what’s in the fridge, and say, “God I missed you, where you been?”

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