I’m still getting used to the fact that in the suburbs, my doorbell rings unexpectedly. Sometimes, it’s the UPS man, Walter, who’s delivering yet another household item that I bought online. Why schlep? Yesterday, Walter brought me my woven rope mahogany wastebasket for our powder room. The day before yesterday, he delivered the most perfect salt cellar I ordered from Alton Brown’s website. Our mailman, Kevin, makes up reasons to ring the bell and chat-especially on Saturdays when Gabriella is home. Hmmm. We also get the occasional visit from our neighbors-delivering baked goods or loaning us movies or just saying “hello”. I always feel like I’m in some sort of sit com when that happens. Who just stops by? Suburbanites. That’s who.
Today, the doorbell rang and it was not Walter nor Kevin nor a neighbor but a young woman canvassing for HRC, Human Rights Campaign. HRC is a civil rights organization that lobbies for gay rights. Many of us throw a little cash their way in order to support the cause and get a sticker with a smart, understated logo for the car- for those of us who are out, loud and proud but don’t want to invite unwanted attention.
Stacey introduces herself and starts to explain what the HRC is. I cut her off. “Yes, I know HRC. I’ve let my membership lapse. Would you mind coming in so I can watch my kid?” I lead her to the kitchen where Asher is eating cookie batter off a spoon. “Hullo,” he says, “Want to come to Asher’s room?” He likes to entertain company. I wonder what she’s thinking. “How does this stay-at-home mother making Nestle Toll House cookies know about the HRC? Have I entered the Twilight Zone where June Cleaver supports gay rights?” Then again, I have to remind myself that we’re now living in Gayville, U.S.A. There’s a gay family around every corner. There are probably hundreds of homosexuals in South Orange baking cookies with their kids at this very moment!
I ran for my check book before Stacey had a chance to run through her schpeel. What was my hurry? Of course, it’s important to give to charity and support worthy causes. I hadn’t been very charitable lately. It had been a long time since I became a monthly contributor to Adopt A Granny in the hopes that karma would save me from a fate of diapers and senility. My first Granny came from the Philippines. She sent me a photo of herself in an oversized Adopt A Granny T-shirt that covered most of her dress. She died a month after I received her letter of thanks. Grannies are like goldfish. I got a replacement Granny immediately. She sent me her photo, too, but I refused to look at it. I filed it away so as not to get too attached. As far as I know, she’s doing well.
I used to consider myself somewhat of an activist. I went to college in New York City where the student body preferred protests to football games. I couldn’t even tell you where our football stadium was. There was always a march or rally to attend if you had passion to right the wrongs and an appropriate catalog of march chants. “What do we want? [insert want here] When do we want it? Now!” “Get your rosaries off my ovaries” etc. Those were the days when angry was hot – for collegiate lesbians anyway.
I ran for my check book because I wanted young Stacey to know that Betty Crocker here was once an angry, hot chick who marched and chanted and was passionate about causes. (ok, call it creative license on the hot part, but I was definitely angry) She could only see an exhausted mother who still wears maternity clothes 5 months after giving birth and who is in desperate need of a hair cut and some lipstick. And she probably saw the mini van parked in my driveway. (Yes, I’m still obsessing about the mini van) But she would surely see the passion in my pen stroke if I write that check with conviction. And if I write that check fast enough, she might even see that angry, hot chick beneath my cookie battered nursing shirt.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m very happy to be a mother and I would not want to go back to that delightfully bitter age when I thought everyone was offensive, unjust or ignorant. I was hardly the life of the party. It’s just that I know how I would have seen me if I had been in Stacey’s shoes 15 years ago. How can you be baking cookies when our country is in crisis? If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem and all that. But at the risk of sounding like I’m justifying my life, I now realize that parenting is part of the solution. Gabriella and I are guiding two boys on their path to manhood. I think the world could use a few more mensches. I hope we’re able enough to make a mark.
“What, no sticker?” I ask Stacey as she takes my check and gets ready to go. She rifles through her backpack and hands me what she claims is her last one. I don’t know why I asked. I have no intention of putting it on my car.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Saturday, March 17, 2007
BlogHer '10 Community Keynote Address
The highlight of my blogging career was and may always be reading from Peaches & Coconuts at BlogHer 2010 in New York City during the Community Keynote Address. I had diarrhea for weeks leading up to my 5 minutes of fame, but it was worth every second of cramping and dehydration. To blog is human. To read your blog in front of hundreds of magnanimous bloggers who clap and cheer and validate you is truly divine.
Do yourself a favour and spend some time with all 15 of us HERE. But if you only have a few minutes, and you simply must see the face and hear the voice behind Peaches & Coconuts, I bring you Divorce is So Gay at BlogHer 2010.
Friday, March 16, 2007
The first Rediverted
I really enjoyed writing the Diverteds and apparently there are a few people out there who enjoyed reading them. So, back by popular demand...and the need to have a quiet hobby that I can do while my kids nap, Diverted is back. Given that we have since moved back to the US from London, I've named these blogs Rediverted. ...and the name Diverted was taken. rats.
So where to start? It's been 10 months since we moved back. In that time, we've bought a house, had a baby and traded in our sedan for a mini van. Our house is a diamond in the rough-very rough. The electricians, plumbers and builders all agree that it has "good bones" though they tell us that only after they stop laughing at the state of whatever it is that needs fixing. I have not enjoyed acting as contractor and living on a construction site while dealing with a newborn. Somehow, we survived 6 months without a kitchen. Somehow, sleep deprivation seemed more manageable this time around. And somehow, we have been able to hold our heads up high when we tell people we live in New Jersey.
I can't, however, come to terms with the fact that I own a mini van. I swore I would never own a mini van, but all our friends knew better. They smiled knowingly and waited patiently for the day when we confessed that we caved. There is nothing sexy or sporty or fun about a mini van. I can not get excited about 72 cup holders or cargo space large enough to transport farm equipment. And what good is a 6 CD stereo when it's filled with toddler music and irritating enough to drive any adult completely mad? I blame the car seat industry for forcing me to drive this monstrosity. Car seats are enormous, and you have to keep kids in a seat or a booster until they're 23...or can drive their own cars. Gone are the good old days when we all piled into the car and sat wherever and however and on top of whomever we liked.
It seems to be the required car for all parents in Essex county. We all have a Honda Odyssey. I mean, when I drop Asher off at school, I actually have trouble finding my car after the 5 minutes it takes to bring him to class because the lot is filled with Honda Odysseys. Looking at the roads out here is like looking at the baggage carousel at the airport. You try to find your black wheely bag amongst a sea of black wheely bags. You might tie a ribbon on the handle or put a sticker on it so you can identify your black wheely bag. You might put a bumper sticker on your Odyssey that says Visualize whirled peas or Jesus is coming, look busy. I considered getting a ruby red mini van to be a little different. My friends tell me that only lesbians and black people drive red mini vans. Not wanting to fulfill a stereotype, we went with a metallic shade of a non-identifiable color.
A note about word choice. After 7 years in the UK, I do not say African American. Most black people in the UK are not American. Furthermore, the Brits pride themselves on being politically incorrect. When I swore my allegiance to the Queen, I swore that I would always be just as insensitive and rude as my fellow Brits. To be honest, I'm way behind on what is considered politically correct these days. And I say this to apologize ahead of time for anything that I might say that comes from a good place but sounds not-so-nice. Where was I? Oh yes, blacks & lesbos in red vans.
I do need to get over my internalized vanophobia. It is a very practical car, and I don't know where I'd be without the satellite navigation-literally. Clearly, the van is just a symbol of my life as a mother in suburbia. As we settle in and find our groove, I may come to embrace the van and all that it represents. But until then, I'm a reluctant housewife. And if you don't want to get hurt, you won't ask me if we're getting a dog.
So where to start? It's been 10 months since we moved back. In that time, we've bought a house, had a baby and traded in our sedan for a mini van. Our house is a diamond in the rough-very rough. The electricians, plumbers and builders all agree that it has "good bones" though they tell us that only after they stop laughing at the state of whatever it is that needs fixing. I have not enjoyed acting as contractor and living on a construction site while dealing with a newborn. Somehow, we survived 6 months without a kitchen. Somehow, sleep deprivation seemed more manageable this time around. And somehow, we have been able to hold our heads up high when we tell people we live in New Jersey.
I can't, however, come to terms with the fact that I own a mini van. I swore I would never own a mini van, but all our friends knew better. They smiled knowingly and waited patiently for the day when we confessed that we caved. There is nothing sexy or sporty or fun about a mini van. I can not get excited about 72 cup holders or cargo space large enough to transport farm equipment. And what good is a 6 CD stereo when it's filled with toddler music and irritating enough to drive any adult completely mad? I blame the car seat industry for forcing me to drive this monstrosity. Car seats are enormous, and you have to keep kids in a seat or a booster until they're 23...or can drive their own cars. Gone are the good old days when we all piled into the car and sat wherever and however and on top of whomever we liked.
It seems to be the required car for all parents in Essex county. We all have a Honda Odyssey. I mean, when I drop Asher off at school, I actually have trouble finding my car after the 5 minutes it takes to bring him to class because the lot is filled with Honda Odysseys. Looking at the roads out here is like looking at the baggage carousel at the airport. You try to find your black wheely bag amongst a sea of black wheely bags. You might tie a ribbon on the handle or put a sticker on it so you can identify your black wheely bag. You might put a bumper sticker on your Odyssey that says Visualize whirled peas or Jesus is coming, look busy. I considered getting a ruby red mini van to be a little different. My friends tell me that only lesbians and black people drive red mini vans. Not wanting to fulfill a stereotype, we went with a metallic shade of a non-identifiable color.
A note about word choice. After 7 years in the UK, I do not say African American. Most black people in the UK are not American. Furthermore, the Brits pride themselves on being politically incorrect. When I swore my allegiance to the Queen, I swore that I would always be just as insensitive and rude as my fellow Brits. To be honest, I'm way behind on what is considered politically correct these days. And I say this to apologize ahead of time for anything that I might say that comes from a good place but sounds not-so-nice. Where was I? Oh yes, blacks & lesbos in red vans.
I do need to get over my internalized vanophobia. It is a very practical car, and I don't know where I'd be without the satellite navigation-literally. Clearly, the van is just a symbol of my life as a mother in suburbia. As we settle in and find our groove, I may come to embrace the van and all that it represents. But until then, I'm a reluctant housewife. And if you don't want to get hurt, you won't ask me if we're getting a dog.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
ABOUT PEACHES & COCONUTS
What’s with the name Peaches & Coconuts?
My lady-friend, Gabriella, got a job in London in 1999, so we packed up and skipped town. The company moving us over there insisted we take a 2-day Cultural Awareness Class to prepare us for life abroad. It was two days out of the office which was just fine by us. One of the few lessons that stuck with us was the perception that Americans are like peaches and the British are like coconuts.
Americans, like peaches, are easy to penetrate (HEY! I resemble that remark), but that stone in the middle represents their true selves and is reserved for only those closest to them.
The British, on the other hand, have a hard exterior and are not easy to penetrate (unless you are a young lad in private school where buggery is commonplace). Once past the cold, reserved exterior of the coconut shell, you know Brits as well as they know themselves-which does not say that much considering their aversion to therapy.
Female, male, butch, femme, gay, straight, trans, queer (et al) - I reckon we’re all a bunch of fruits and nuts no matter where we live or how we live or which bits are attached.
I am most definitely a peach which is why I'm exposing myself to you all over this blog. My lovely lady-friend is my coconut who puts up with my peachitude. After all our years together, I'm still not entirely sure I've gotten past her shell. I try to penetrate her a little more each day.
Is this a Mommy Blog?
I have birthed a couple of kids, it’s true, but this isn’t the kind of blog where I kvell about my children and wonder what I did before kids. I remember what life was like BC (before children), and you know what? It didn’t suck.
My kids make appearances occasionally, and parenthood is one of many recurring themes. But, I’m also a bunch of other things besides a mom like Jewish and gay and respectfully outspoken. There’s a little bit about a lot of things which means you can avoid all posts regarding children and still find this blog incredibly entertaining.
Gay? I'm not gay-not that there's anything wrong with it. I'm thinking I shouldn't read this blog because I might turn gay. What do you think?
If I've done my job here, then yes, you will turn gay. If you are somewhat secure in your non-gay sexuality, I might have a tougher time of it. But really, some of my best friends are non-gay, and they seem to get a kick out of all the posts - gay or otherwise.
Is there anyone who would not like this blog?
My sister, Rachel, subscribes to the philosophy, “Love the sinner, hate the sin”. She reads every post because she loves me, but blogging confounds her at best. She doesn’t understand why anyone would put themselves out there for the world to see. Clearly a coconut! Rachel also believes that my friends are at fault for enabling my blogging habit. They are clearly just being kind by telling me that I write well and that I am funny.
Other than my sister Rachel, I don’t know of anyone who is a card-carrying Ps&Cs hater. It’s not entirely fair to imply that she hates the blog. She is a very good sport for allowing me to write about her in this way, after all.
What else?
You want more? Dive right in. I don’t bite...unless you like that sort of thing. I will tell you that we moved back to the U.S. in 2006. Writing this blog has helped me through the most difficult transition of my life to date - moving to the suburbs. I'm working it all out and taking you along for the ride in my mini-van.
My lady-friend, Gabriella, got a job in London in 1999, so we packed up and skipped town. The company moving us over there insisted we take a 2-day Cultural Awareness Class to prepare us for life abroad. It was two days out of the office which was just fine by us. One of the few lessons that stuck with us was the perception that Americans are like peaches and the British are like coconuts.
Americans, like peaches, are easy to penetrate (HEY! I resemble that remark), but that stone in the middle represents their true selves and is reserved for only those closest to them.
The British, on the other hand, have a hard exterior and are not easy to penetrate (unless you are a young lad in private school where buggery is commonplace). Once past the cold, reserved exterior of the coconut shell, you know Brits as well as they know themselves-which does not say that much considering their aversion to therapy.
Female, male, butch, femme, gay, straight, trans, queer (et al) - I reckon we’re all a bunch of fruits and nuts no matter where we live or how we live or which bits are attached.
I am most definitely a peach which is why I'm exposing myself to you all over this blog. My lovely lady-friend is my coconut who puts up with my peachitude. After all our years together, I'm still not entirely sure I've gotten past her shell. I try to penetrate her a little more each day.
Is this a Mommy Blog?
I have birthed a couple of kids, it’s true, but this isn’t the kind of blog where I kvell about my children and wonder what I did before kids. I remember what life was like BC (before children), and you know what? It didn’t suck.
My kids make appearances occasionally, and parenthood is one of many recurring themes. But, I’m also a bunch of other things besides a mom like Jewish and gay and respectfully outspoken. There’s a little bit about a lot of things which means you can avoid all posts regarding children and still find this blog incredibly entertaining.
Gay? I'm not gay-not that there's anything wrong with it. I'm thinking I shouldn't read this blog because I might turn gay. What do you think?
If I've done my job here, then yes, you will turn gay. If you are somewhat secure in your non-gay sexuality, I might have a tougher time of it. But really, some of my best friends are non-gay, and they seem to get a kick out of all the posts - gay or otherwise.
Is there anyone who would not like this blog?
My sister, Rachel, subscribes to the philosophy, “Love the sinner, hate the sin”. She reads every post because she loves me, but blogging confounds her at best. She doesn’t understand why anyone would put themselves out there for the world to see. Clearly a coconut! Rachel also believes that my friends are at fault for enabling my blogging habit. They are clearly just being kind by telling me that I write well and that I am funny.
Other than my sister Rachel, I don’t know of anyone who is a card-carrying Ps&Cs hater. It’s not entirely fair to imply that she hates the blog. She is a very good sport for allowing me to write about her in this way, after all.
What else?
You want more? Dive right in. I don’t bite...unless you like that sort of thing. I will tell you that we moved back to the U.S. in 2006. Writing this blog has helped me through the most difficult transition of my life to date - moving to the suburbs. I'm working it all out and taking you along for the ride in my mini-van.
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