Is George Clooney to Blame?
By Ilene V. Smith
Is George to Blame?
By Ilene V. Smith
I think it might be George Clooney’s fault I’m not married.
George and I met long before he became the “Silver Fox.” Okay, we never actually met, but I first spotted George in the early 1990s when he appeared on the television show Sisters as Sela Ward’s husband. He wasn’t my usual type. He was movie star tall (i.e., short) and, despite my short stature, I like men tall IRL. His eyes were a deep brown and smoky, hooded by heavy eyebrows. I was more attracted to Tim Matthison blue. (For anyone too young to have seen Animal House, think of the eyes of any of the men named Chris who have served as a People Sexiest Men Alive. That blue). Although there was an air of mystery to George’s character on Sisters, Detective James Falconer, his oversized brown leather jacket was decidedly unfashionable. If he was still sporting the mullet he had in his Facts of Life years, I probably wouldn’t have thought twice about him. Yet, although I still unaware of the full suite of Clooney charm, there was something there. I knew this was my guy.
When he overcame the odds brought on by an extremely bad haircut and became a superstar on ER, I was no longer the only woman in love with George. But my love had become something deeper. George’s new-found fame allowed me to learn a lot more about him. George wasn’t just handsome, he was intelligent (one of the top three items on my check-off list), wildly funny (number one on that list) and humanitarian (if you can equate that with heimish, the Yiddish word for basically a good guy, then check, check, check).
Before we go any further, let me say that I am a reasonable, intelligent woman. If any of the men I had been dating had checked off that list, then I can assure you I wouldn’t have given George a second thought. Still, I knew my crush on George Clooney was somewhat irrational.
Pretty much anyone who knew me knew about my crush on George. I talked about him as if I our getting together was inevitable. I admonished my father about his bad table manners by asking, “Would you want to act like that in front of your son-in-law, George Clooney?”
When I got my new Shih Tzu puppy, his name was already picked out: Clooney. I had taken a clue from all the single woman on television, including Miranda on Sex and the City, who gave their children the last name of the baby’s father as their first name. I always wondered if Miranda’s kid became Brady Brady after she and Steve got married. Would Clooney the dog become Clooney Clooney if I married George? I went for it anyway. I took it as a sign when George Clooney, the actor, told James Lipton during an Actor’s Studio interview that his favorite word was Shih Tzu.
Having a dog named Clooney had its advantages. George’s string of long-legged but air-headed girlfriends were not the only ones who could say they shared a bed with Clooney. As I left my office at the end of the workday, I would boastfully tell my colleagues, “I’m going home to Clooney now.” And luckily for me my Clooney was always there waiting for me. George’s girlfriends couldn’t say the same about their commitment-phobic beau.
Still, I did have a personal reason to love George. One afternoon following a
chemotherapy treatment for breast cancer, I came home to find a stiff express mail envelope lying outside my apartment door. I glanced quickly to see who it was from but the return address didn’t say much. Curious, I ripped open the envelope and found one of those celebrity stills of George, signed in gold ink, “Get well soon. George.” I checked the envelope to see if there was any note but came up empty.
I laughed at what I thought was a joke, put the photo aside, the envelope in the recycling bin and rifled through the rest of the mail. Once I got settled in, I called my friend, Anna. I had put her on the top of my list of suspects because she was the one who teased me about my crush most.
“Thanks for the photo. That was funny,” I said.
“What photo?” she asked.
“The photo you sent of George Clooney. I almost didn’t recognize your handwriting.”
“That’s not my handwriting. That’s George Clooney’s. And it’s not a joke. Call Randy and she’ll explain.”
Randy was a close friend who also knew about my crush, although you didn’t really need to be that close of a friend to know about it. She also has a mischievous streak that is one of the things I love about her. She acted coy when I called.
“So I hear this George Clooney photo is from you,” I said.
“Not from me. It’s from George.” Randy said.
“How would George Clooney know about me much less have my home address?”
Randy ultimately spilled the details: as a media attorney working for a national news magazine, Randy had a strong relationship with the editors, including the entertainment editor, who had worked with George Clooney on a Hollywood round table in advance of the Oscars. Randy told the editor about what I was going through and about my crush and asked if he planned on doing the roundtable with George again. The editor said yes and asked if we wanted to come to LA to attend and meet George. Unfortunately, chemo had compromised my immune system and my doctor confirmed that I could not travel. When the entertainment editor learned that, he said, “Let me see what I can do.”
Apparently, that was followed by an email chain that concluded with George saying that he would personally send me the photo. Sharing the string of emails that arranged for all this, the editor told me, “I was happy to learn that George Clooney is every bit the gentleman he purports to be.” I had a little more faith in my George but was happy to learn that, too. I was also touched to learn how everyone had gone to such lengths to do something — however small — to bring a smile to my face at such a difficult time.
Eventually my crush faded away. It might have happened around the time he married Amal. I guess you could say that the fantasy that I would be the one to inspire him to break his vow to never marry again was crushed that September weekend as he boated around Venice with his beautiful bride and a posse of celebrity guests. Even I had to admit, she was perfect for him. Strikingly beautiful, with the long leggy physique that was perfectly suited to her impeccable designer wardrobe, she was – unlike the aforementioned airheads -- undeniably smart. She was and is a well-accomplished and well-respected human rights attorney who shares his passion for humanitarian causes. I knew I had to step aside.
I suppose looking for the Jewish George Clooney as my lifetime mate probably wasn’t the best plan. Truth be told, if the real George Clooney or even a non-Jewish proximity had come along, I’m pretty sure religion wouldn’t have been an issue. Still, if you know anyone who is handsome, funny, smart and an all-around good guy, send him my way.
As usual with your writing, I smiled ear to ear! Delightful. It’s like a sweet treat.!!
great post Ilene! - Leah