I've been cleaning out my closets today, a job I've successfully put off in one way or another for years. I know this because I found skirts the waist size of which would now fit my arm. And as I mourned my twenty-five year old figure, I also took a moment amid sequin dresses I'd worn to black tie events to fondly remember some good times and days in which anything I dreamed seemed and indeed was possible. I forged ahead, making a pile to give away, but safely tucking a few dresses that I just couldn't part with back in the closet, maybe because I needed to hang on to some kind of tangible proof that these days in my life did in fact exist.
As I hauled away my past, a little misty-eyed, I found something I hadn't seen before, at least in my closets - space. Space for a future, for new things, new possibilities that would fit me now. It was a little unsettling, this void where once was crammed years of stuff. But now I've got breathing room. And that's not a bad thing.
Along with my clean closets, this weekend was about celebrating my father's birthday. He turned 82. So as a surprise I took him to see Craig Ferguson at Carnegie Hall. Now, my father (and I) love Craig Ferguson, and even though I've got my DVR set to record him every night, my father still finds it imperative to stay awake until 1:30 in the morning watching him.
So there we sat in arguably the most prestigious concert hall in the world, and out of the mouth of my favorite Scottish comedian came pearls to live by. As Craig imparted his hard earned wisdom from three marriages (with no aid from hand puppets), I realized that this would be a different world if people actually stopped and asked themselves these three questions:
Does this need to be said?
Does this need to be said by me?
Does this need to be said by me now?
Yes, thanks to Craigy Ferg (his twitter name, I think) there could be a different landscape - politically, socially, morally, you name it, if we were just to ask ourselves these three questions. And you can bet I'll be doing that before spewing forth any dribble in future blogs, too.
So that brings me to Bill Maher's show on Friday night. Bill had George Clooney, Rob Reiner, Jake Tapper, and Nicolle Wallace on. And yes, boys and girls, Ilene did her happy dance. First of all, I just want to put it out there in case Rob Reiner happens to read this. Rob, I really want to attend one of your soirees. I long for stimulating political repartee and I promise I won't steal the silverware, so please, will you invite me?
Now that groveling is out of the way, let's get to The Clooney, as I affectionately like to call him. I love that all his energies are used for doing something good with his celebrity. I love that it's always about something bigger than him, and people who would never garner the attention they need were it not for him bringing a camera crew into hellish parts of the world. I love that he's a star in the sense that truly matters.
And Jake Tapper, who, in my opinion, was robbed of the job of hosting This Week. Love him. Smart, funny, and likable are very appealing to me.
Levi Johnston was also a guest, but I really think he is in so far over his head that I have to take pity on the poor boy and save my barbs for someone with the intellectual capacity to defend himself.
So I'm off to clean out some other closets. It's time to make room for a new day.
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