My harshest critic

I call my sister after I write every blog, and she reads them while I’m on the phone. I don’t know why I do it. She doesn’t care for most of them, and she has no idea why anyone blogs at all. Maybe it is because she is the anti-blogger that I call. If she likes the post, I know it’s a good one. I’ve learned not to ask anyone else for their opinion, but for some reason I can take it from Rachel.

Then there’s her husband, Ron. He’s a fan of the blog, so I enjoy getting his feedback though he’s a man of few words. He’d have to be a man of few words in order to be married to my sister. She talks a lot. I think it’s a disorder of some kind, but I find it incredibly amusing. I know I can call her with absolutely no news of interest, and we’ll have a great conversation-or more accurately, she’ll talk at me for an hour. Either way, always entertaining.

Last night, I wrote my blog (see last blog) and called Rachel.

Rachel picks up the phone.
Rachel: "I'm confident we discussed earlier that tonight is the premier of Grey's Anatomy."
Me: "Sorry."
Rachel: "Is everything fine?"
Me: "Yes. I blogged"
Rachel: "ok. Bye"
Me: "Bye"
I surf the web. I drink some tea. Phone rings.

Rachel: "Ron gives it the thumbs up, and I give it the thumbs down."
Me: "Grey's Anatomy?"
Rachel: "No, your blog."
Me: "You give it a thumbs down? Just like that? You didn't like it? Why?"
Rachel: "Grey's Anatomy's back on. Gotta go."
Me: "That’s harsh. Can you tell me why you didn't like it?"
Rachel: "I didn't get the dialogue. I'll call you later."
Me: "Fine."
I reread the blog. It’s not my finest work, but I’m happy with it. As long as there are one or two sentences that still make me smile, I feel it’s worth a read. Phone rings.

Rachel: "I think you just caught me off guard. We never talk about our kids that way except for the times that I'm convinced Joshua is gay."
Joshua is Rachel’s older son. He’s uber smart in a freakish kind of way, but I can’t figure out why she thinks he might be gay.
Me: "He's not gay."
Rachel: "And you know how literal I am. I couldn't get past the fact that you didn't actually have that conversation with Asher."
Me: "I was imagining the kind of conversation I might have with Asher. So you couldn't find the humor in any of it?"
Rachel: "Ron thought the dialogue was funny."
Me: "And you couldn't get past the fact that it was a hypothetical conversation."
Rachel: "But you know this about me. I'm reminding you that I'm very literal, so you can't be upset about it."
Me: "I'm not. Your comments amuse me much as the innocent barbs of our 92 year old Bubby who has never learned the art of tact.”
Rachel: “Why are you so mean to me? Did I tell you that I’ve started to call Ron ‘Ronnie Ronniekins?”
Me: “Instead of ‘douche bag’?”
Rachel: “He doesn’t like it.”
Me: “Which one?”
Rachel: “Ronnie Ronniekins. I only call him a douche bag when I’m upset about something, and then I don’t care if he likes it or not.”
Me: “Nice.”
Rachel: “Ok, Deborina. I’m going now.”
Me: “Tell Ronnie Ronniekins I love him.”

Que sera, sera

I know this woman whose 4 year old son insists on wearing dresses and fairy costumes and all things pink. Being a modern kind of gal, she encourages him to express himself, and he wears what he likes. Occasionally, she manages to convince him to shake things up a little and wear jeans and a shirt, but she doesn't want to make a fuss. "Maybe he'll be an interior designer. Or maybe he'll be the next Michael Kors." She says hopefully. What she doesn't say is, "Maybe he'll be a mincing queen who hisses when he speaks and takes it up the bum." It certainly does give me cause to think. Does any parent, gay or straight, wish for their sons to be gay? Before Michael Kors was a brand name, did his mother wonder what was going to become of him?

I hope it goes without saying that the love I have for my sons is unconditional and boundless. I would never turn my back to them, and I will always be as supportive of their lives as I can possibly be. But there are certain paths I would prefer they not take. I prefer that they not be right-wing evangelicals. I prefer that they not enlist in the army. I would prefer that they not join a cult. I don’t want my babies to grow up to be cowboys…and I would prefer it IF they do choose the path of gay love, that they check the hissing, lisping, bitching and snapping in Z formation at the door.

There are many different flavors of gay, and I don’t care for all of them. I’m sure that I’m not going to be voted most politically correct at the next Rainbow Families Potluck Picnic when word gets out that I don’t love each and every one of my brothers and sisters equally. Truth be told, there are very few flavors of people I DO love-gay or straight. I feel a tiny bit bad that I can’t get past the swishing to appreciate what lies beneath. But I can’t help but wonder if I’m capable of mothering a screaming queen.

Me: “Asher! I don’t care how ‘fierce’ you think you are, I’d appreciate it if you could please ask my permission before you raid my make-up bag. This stuff is expensive. I’m going to have to take all lipstick privileges away for a week.”

Asher: “Oh no you di--in’t!”

Me: “Don’t you wave your finger at me, Mister!”

Asher: “That’s Mistressss to you. Ms. Ashah if you’re nasssssty.”

Me: “Asher, can you please be serious for a minute?”

Asher: “I’m sorry, Mom. Tell you what. Why don’t you go change into something a little less….um….hideous, and let’s go get manis & pedis together. After that, we’ll come back home and watch the Project Runway Marathon. I’ll whip us up some tea cakes, and we’ll spoon on the sofa.”

I know. So cliché! I’m just trying to come to terms with the possibility that one of my boys might flame a little bit. I don’t have any reason to believe they will. I certainly don’t believe that gay parents raise gay children. Look at all the gays produced by straight parents. There was the time when Asher was 2 ½ when we brought home a red boa from a bridal shower, and he insisted on wearing it for weeks. The color did suit him, truth be told. And though he loves trying on our high-heeled shoes, he is obsessed with his trains and race cars. If he scores a 2 on the Machismo Scale - 10 being John Wayne and 1 being Richard Simmons, I’ll have to find the silver lining. In this case, however, that lining is sure to be gold lamé.

Tea time

I’m a tea addict. I love a hot cup of tea even on a hot day. Perhaps you are imagining me sitting in front of my computer stopping occasionally to enjoy the pleasures of a hot cup of tea. While it’s unlikely that when you read this entry, I’ll actually be typing up another one whilst drinking tea, it is true that I’m working on a cup right now. ….. Just took a sip. Delightful.

My love of tea transcends the simple pleasures of taste. There is something so comforting about holding my hot tea cup on a cold day. Something satisfying about proof reading the latest blog entry while letting my tea steep allowing the flavours to mature and the tea to cool to the perfect temperature. The act of tea drinking provides me with something to do with my hands and something that keeps me from inhaling all the treats we’ve hidden away for the boys. Knowing that there is a Costco size bag of chocolate kisses in my pantry is far too tempting. So I drink cup after cup after cup of tea.

The downside of drinking cup after cup of tea is that I often have to run to the loo. The downside of drinking cup after cup of tea after having birthed 2 children is that I’d better be really close to a loo or there’s going to be trouble. That’s trouble with a capital T that rhymes with P that stands for, well, P! Let’s review the image you have. I am, indeed, sitting in front of my computer. My hot cup of tea is to my immediate left. And the lav is literally 4 steps away. I just got up and counted, so I know it’s true. After my count, I took advantage of my new destination and used the facilities.

It is not true, however, that I am writing dressed only in my lacy black bra and g-string panties, so you can just wipe that image out of your head this very instant. Screw it, imagine what you like. If you must imagine me in my lacy black bra and g-string panties, please imagine a flat stomach and toned thighs. Wherever else you take this image is your business and I would appreciate it if you kept it to yourself. Thank you very much indeed.

I used to be able to go the distance. I never had to worry about how far from the nearest restroom I was or how long it would take to unfasten the buttons on my trousers. Those days are over. I can no longer sneeze without first crossing my legs-just in case. Sadly, I had to learn the ol’ cross & sneeze from experience. The most humiliating experience occurred the day Asher asked me to show him how to jump rope, and I obliged. Suffice it to say, I won’t be doing that again.

Now you know. Birth has rendered me incontinent. If we ever cross paths and I seem distracted or distant. If you ever catch me mid-contortion breathing in and out furiously, know that I am trying to prevent what Kegel exercises could not. To be fair, I never really did the suggested number of Kegels a day to prevent incontinence. But don’t be all high and mighty and all “I don’t need to be doing those funky exercises!” Did you know that 5.2 billion dollars are spent on adult diapers each year? It's true that John McCain alone is resposible for a significant percentage of that total. It is also a fact that doing your Kegels also heightens sexual satisfaction. Of course, it helps if you’re actually having sex. That’s the stuff of another entry…so to speak.

See how many sets of 10 Kegel contractions at 10 seconds a squeeze you can accomplish whilst rereading this incredibly informative and entertaining blog. Still have more to do? Go read another one of my incredibly informative and entertaining blogs. It’s important to work your body and your mind. It’s also important to enjoy a little bit of down time. Time for a spot of tea.

Ivy pre-schools

We spent the last weekend with a couple who is in the process of choosing pre-schools. The pre-school that they are considering is an Ivy League feeder pre-school. No, really. We discussed the merits of said pre-school and its traditional approach to academics. I think I remember most of the conversation, but at one point, I started to glaze over as I drifted away and led myself to my happy place. In my mind, my fingers were wedged into my ears, and I was singing “La La La – I can’t hear you!”

Last night I had the strangest dream. I sailed away to China in a little row boat to...no, that wasn't it. I dreamt that Asher was in high school, and he was dating this Jewish girl, but the girl’s parents were none too pleased.

Parents: “What kind of name is Di Maggio for a Jewish boy?”

Girl: “He’s Jewish! Both of his mothers are Jewish AND the donor is Jewish!”

Parents: “Both mothers?! Donor?! What in God’s name are you talking about?”

Girl: “He has two mothers, and his birth mother used an anonymous donor from a sperm bank, and the donor is Jewish.”

Parents: “Sha! What are you meshugena? Your future in-laws are gay homosexuals, and your future husband and father to your unborn children is from God knows where?! Could you break our hearts into smaller pieces? Next, you’ll be telling us he didn’t go to an Ivy League school!”

Girl: “He didn’t go to an Ivy League school.”

Mother grabs her heart and collapses into her chair. Father clutches Mother’s shoulders to keep her from losing consciousness altogether.

Girl: “He didn’t go to any ivy league school because he didn’t go an Ivy League feeder pre-school.”

Parents: “What kind of Jewish parents – gay homosexuals or not – do not put their Jewish children in an Ivy League feeder pre-school? Why, it’s practically criminal. And the boy? Is he some sort of charity case to you?”

Girl: “He’s the love of my life. He is good and kind. He is charitable and learned and well-travelled. He treats me like a queen. He loves me so much that he cut my name into his forearm with a razor blade. Do you know how much he must love me with a name like Shoshannah Rivka? So he’s a cutter. So?! Ever since his mothers moved to the suburbs of New Jersey and forced him to go to public schools, he has suffered. But he has learned to manage his pain. He sees his cognitive-behavioural therapist twice a week and he’s on Wellbutrin and Cymbalta. As long as he can spend a few hours each day in a dark room with his guitar, he’s able to work through his depression through song. He’s written me the most beautiful ballads.”

I wake up in a cold sweat. I run through the list in my head. I list all the famous people I know who credit their success to poor beginnings. I breathe in. I breathe out. I make a mental note. Deposit more money in the children’s therapy fund. I go back to sleep. Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride.

Babysitter blues

My babysitter cancelled on me AGAIN! It has taken me 4 ½ years to even consider hiring someone to watch my kids for one morning a week. If you know me well at all you know that it’s not because I feel the need to be with my children 24/7. And you certainly know that I’m not very picky about caregivers. Thank goodness for Gabriella, because if it were up to me, I’d walk up to any random vagrant sitting on a park bench and ask if they wanted to earn a few bucks. Gabriella requires nothing less than an interview, 3 references, and a police check. She’s a tough interviewer. No question is inappropriate, and she never cracks a smile. I’d be willing to administer the cavity search, but she doesn’t think we need to be concerned about drug mules. I bought some rubber gloves in case she changes her mind.

I joined a mother’s group that meets once a month during the day. I’ll write more about the group in time but suffice it say that I needed to find a way into this group. Getting someone to babysit part-time is challenging, but finding someone to babysit once a month is next to impossible. These people want regular gigs with contracts and vacation time and someone else’s car to drive. My 5 hours a week is not so attractive unless they’re supplementing another nanny job. Not only is it next to impossible to find someone who is available once a month, but how could I possibly expect my children to feel comfortable with someone they hardly ever see? Wouldn’t it better for them if we had a regular, weekly sitter? And don’t I deserve a little me-time, anyway? To whom am I pleading my case? Not to Gabriella. She’s all for it--mostly because if I don’t get time to myself, she bears the brunt of all my frustration. It’s not pretty.

I’m the one who feels guilty about spending the cash. We’re a single income family living beyond our means. I’m home full-time, so we don’t have to pay for childcare. What am I doing looking for a babysitter? What exactly am I going to be doing every week morning that she’s here? Spend more money shopping? Spend more money on a yoga class or a gym? Spend more money on lunch with friends? I’m total output. We’ve got to budget better. We’ve got to be more frugal. I’ve got to pursue passive revenue streams. I’ve got to cancel HBO. I’ve got to clean my own hou….Snap out of it, Deborah! You’ve gone mad!

First thing in the morning, I get the call and I know she’s bailing. She turns on a groggy “Chello?” She’s from Costa Rica. I know the entire conversation in my head before she’s able to force the sickly words out of her mouth. “De-vra, I’m so sorrrry, but I’m been trowing up all morning, and I cannot stop. Maybe it’s food poisoning or someting. I tink I’m going to the doctor.” I don’t think she’s making it up, but sympathy is a struggle for me because she cancelled on me last week at 10pm the night before she was supposed to come.

“Don’t apologise! I’m just so sorry that you’re not feeling well. Of course you should stay home and take care of yourself. Please call me later and let me know how you’re doing.” A small part of me is grateful that I don’t have to part with the cash.

It doesn’t look good on a spreadsheet, but I do need that sliver of time. I can get things done in record time without schlepping the boys with me. I could probably get even more accomplished if I could count on someone showing up every week. I can listen to the radio station of my choice and have an uninterrupted conversation on the phone. And I don’t have to listen to my 2 year old’s piercing siren whine. Is that so much to ask?

I drop Asher off at pre-school and see my mom-friends. “Hey Deborah. What are you doing this morning?” “Well, I was supposed to go to the grocery store and meet a friend for lunch, but my babysitter cancelled on me for the second week in a row and I….” My throat seizes. Am I about to cry? I hold it together, but my eyes have already given me away. “I need to find another babysitter. If you hear of anyone...”

Back to the drawing board. Must find a sitter. And this time, I’m pulling out the rubber gloves.

Getting my drink on

We’re in the Hamptons, dahling, staying with friends for the weekend. It’s mid-day, and I’ve got my drink on. Rosé at this particular moment in time. I never used to drink-ever. Drink was not a part of my upbringing, and I never cared for the taste of alcohol. When did I start enjoying the drink? You might think that it was my children who drove me to it. Anyone with children would be able to understand the need to take the edge off every now and then. But I can trace this love of wine and the sweet, happy buzz that accompanies it to a time long before the high-pitched whining of small children started fraying the ends of every last nerve in my body.

My mother always told me that Jews don’t drink. Obviously, it's not true, but I know what she meant. If we’re going to assign habits to various cultures as I’m want to do, we can divide ethnic groups into food or drink categories. We’d classify the Brits, the Aussies and the Scandinavians as lovers of drink, for example, and we’d say that the Spanish, Italians and Jews are all about food. The Scandinavians drink because it’s cold and dark most of the year--that and the food, well, how many Michelin star restaurants do you know in Scandinavia? The Brits drink because it’s cold and dark and they don’t believe in therapy.

The Jews live for therapy, so we are clearly not turning to drink as a method of escape or comfort. And, with so many of us with houses or relatives in Florida, we can easily escape the cold. But any good therapist can trace alcohol aversion amongst the Jewish people to event that occurs during early childhood that is sure to put any Jew off the liquor. One of the most celebrated events in Jewish life is the mitzvah that occurs 8 days after the birth of a Jewish boy. While the non-Jewish population hands over their sons to doctors who perform circumcisions in a far away room returning the boy to his parents in perfect condition with a beautiful, helmeted shvons, the Jewish people have a party and invite everyone to come eat lox and witness the removal of the baby’s foreskin.

It’s supposed to be a happy occasion, but I’ve never met a mother who wasn’t beside herself throughout the whole thing. You spend 9 months avoiding foods, drink and medication that might cause harm to your child and praying for a healthy baby each and every day. And right out of the womb, you hand over your son to an old man with a very sharp knife- hormones raging-and try not to make a spectacle of yourself while your unsuspecting, helpless child is cut in the most vulnerable place imaginable. I’m sweating just thinking about it.

A good mohel (pron. moil - the guy with the Exacto) is able to educate and calm whilst performing the circumcision. He includes prayers and rituals and readings that convince you that this is a religious milestone as opposed to something right out of Lord of the Flies. While he removes the foreskin from the boy, gauze soaked with wine is placed in the baby’s mouth. It takes the edge off. This is the Jewish male’s first experience with wine--the removal of his foreskin. And we all watch in horror. No wonder Jews don’t drink.

We moved to London and that was the beginning of the end. During my first week on the job, my boss offered to “take me to lunch”. I didn’t realize that he meant a liquid lunch. 2 hours and countless glasses wine later, I finally stopped looking for a menu. It didn’t take long before I started to opt-in, and now drink is my friend.

So we’re enjoying a weekend away with our non-Jewish friends. It’s the perfect combination. Gabriella, the Jewish Italian, is the guest chef-cooking up a storm for us all. The Protestant hosts have stocked the house with a variety of fine wines, and we brought a few nice bottles, of course. Parents over the age 40, waistlines expanding in spite of best efforts, we do try to eat healthy food, and the fact that we all have to wake up at the crack of ass with our children prevents us from drinking to the point of no return.

I’ve embraced the happy juice into my life, and it seems the perfect complement to good food and great friends. It also hits the spot on an overcast afternoon when I can steal a quiet moment to write.

What's one more

“Are you going to have a third kid?”

“It’s possible…if we have another wild, drunken night where we just get stupid and sloppy…and I accidentally slip and fall – legs akimbo- on a syringe of semen!”

I don’t mean it. We’ve been contemplating a 3rd ever since Levi was born. I wasn’t actually sure that I wanted another, but I knew that it would take ages to sell it into to Gabriella. I had to start then even though it was the furthest thing from my mind. I knew I could do it. You can’t take the salesgirl outta this girl. When I met Gabriella, she was Catholic, straight and she didn’t think gay people should have children. Done, done and done! Gabriella is now totally on board to have a 3rd if I want to go there, and now the ball is in my court. Tick tick tick tick

There is no rational reason to have a 3rd. We’d be outnumbered. We’d need more space. We’d have to sell organs to send them to college. And I can’t think of one more biblical name that I like. Tick tick tick tick

Then there’s the little matter of supply. It was short-sightedness on our part and there’s a long, protracted story about how long we both actually tried before we became pregnant with Asher. The bottom line is we have one vial remaining from the same donor that brought us Asher and Levi. Ideally, we have a 3rd by the same donor. How do we increase the odds using the one shot we have left? IVF. I’m not wildly excited about the idea. I know IVF is as common as Botox these days, but I was so happy to have avoided it until now. We all know that IVF is short for “so, you want twins, do you?” I’d definitely have to sell one. Tick tick tick tick

I’m 40. Turning 40 was no big deal for me. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t wait to turn 40 because I knew we’d be celebrating for days-weeks as it turned out. I never experienced the 40-freak out; never got depressed about all the things I haven’t done yet. Gray hairs don’t bother me – no matter where I find them. But when I realized that those large freckles on my hands were actually age spots, I started researching long-term care insurance. Gross! That is when I thought to myself, “I can’t have a baby! How can a woman with age spots have a baby??” See photo above of the oldest mother in the world.

Because getting knocked up is not a matter of carelessness for us, we have to really want this. We’re going through the motions as if we’re driving in a high-speed game of chicken. We either tear down the road until my vagina collides with a vial of sperm or we suddenly come to our senses and veer off the road just in the nick of time sparing us from falling pregnant with the twins-Zilpah and Bathsheba. Does this thing have air-bags?

Born again

Can I be born again? Relax, I’m not talking about religion. I’m talking bodily functions. It has come to my attention at recent dinner parties that friends of ours refuse to relieve themselves or even pass wind in front of their partners. Some of these friends have been with their partners for decades and still insist on visiting the lavatory at separate times. A few friends even divvy up the bathrooms in their own home for their own personal and private use on any given occasion. As far as any of these friends are concerned, their partners’ orifices are reserved for making love (an expression only these couples would use) and birthing babies – and the lights can be off in both instances.

Upon first learning of these strange and unusual practices, I thought, “How sad that these couples have not yet arrived to that place of ultimate closeness and intimacy where they feel completely comfortable with each others’ bodies and its functions.” But then, while Gabriella and I were reposing on our sofa after enjoying some Indian cuisine, I changed my mind. Gabriella and I have long ago arrived at that very place of extreme comfort, and I can honestly say that I think we have gone too far. When you’re with someone for a while, it becomes more and more difficult to keep the romance alive. Well let me tell you, there is just nothing titillating about the words, “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”

Perhaps I’m too late after all those years of damage done to be reborn. It’s possible we know too much. It was during the birth of our first born that we crossed a line that can never be uncrossed. I’m not alluding to the standard mess a girl makes whilst pushing out a baby. I’m talking about an occurrence we hadn’t anticipated-one that was not discussed in our ante natal classes or in any birthing books. What Gabriella witnessed may have scarred her for life-forever preventing us from sewing up the proverbial hymen of bodily functions and delivering us to the kingdom of i-always-smell-good.

Ladies and gentlemen, what I’m about to share with you is not for the faint of heart, but it happened. I think every pregnant woman should know that it could happen to her, and I think anyone who’s planning to be at a birth should be prepared. 33 ½ hours of labour and 2 hours of pushing, and I had to get that sucker out of there. Once I realized that the only way to end the pain was to push as hard as I could, I pushed. And I pushed. I pushed my heart out. In fact, I pushed my ass out. That’s right ladies and gentleman, according to my dear partner who witnessed the entire event; I pushed so hard that I blew my anus inside out. “It sort of looked like a monkey’s butt,” she explained tenderly. Oh, dear Lord. Unlike my inflated anus, there’s no going back, is there?

If we had been a couple with Hers & Hers bathrooms, would she have shared that information with me? I knew something was going on back there, but maybe I wouldn’t have inquired had I been that kind of girl. Too late. It’s out there-so to speak. Yet I still want to be reborn. I want to keep my functions to myself and pray that the memories will fade in time. I want to rediscover the mystery and the romance. So, I’m reborn. My bodily functions are mine alone, and I pray that Gabriella joins me down this righteous path and that we are reborn together. Let us all pray.

Shoot, Shag or Marry

Shoot, shag or marry. Hillary Clinton, Michelle Obama, Sarah Palin? Discuss. If you are not British and you’ve never seen an Austin Powers film, shag is a colloquial term for a bit of rumpy-pumpy, rogering, nookey or horizontal hoolah. Remember, you don’t have to talk to the one you choose to shag. Let’s be thoughtful about this very serious question. All answers require explanation.

If you haven’t read the preceding blog post, please do. This is a follow up response to some of the comments I received from it.

Please continue this game at home with other characters of the RNC & DNC – but only after you’ve got your drink on. Have plenty of water in between your drinks. Some of the imagery might make you quite ill. If you’ve had enough to drink, do try to mix up the genders. Throw in some news anchors, political pundits and late night show hosts. And if you’re really clever, you can use actors who played the roles of Presidents, Vice Presidents, candidates or spouses of the afore mentioned in the movies or television. Here are some suggestions to get you started.

- Joe Biden, John McCain, Barack Obama
- Laura Bush, Carly Fiorina, Cindy McCain
- Joseph Lieberman, Rudy Giuliani, Levi Johnston (Bristol Palin’s baby Daddy)
- Stephen Colbert, Charlie Rose, Jon Stewart

- Robert Redford, Joan Allen, Stockard Channing

You get the picture. Enjoy! I never said I was high-brow.

Nothing sacred in this house

4 September 2008: Post Sarah Palin’s speech at the RNC. Early morning before Gabriella leaves for work. The Exchange:

G: You’ll never guess who I dreamed about last night.

D: Sarah Palin?
I figured she had some sort of nightmare after staying up too late to watch Sarah Palin go on and on about….I’m not quite sure while panning a not-so-attractive audience dressed head to toe in political costumes.

G: Close. I dreamed about Hillary Clinton last night.

D: Was she naked?
That’s my standard question I pose to anyone who dreams about anyone, by the way.

G: Practically.

D: What do you mean?

G: She was coming on to me.

D: And how did that make you feel?
When you have a dream, it doesn’t matter what the dream was about even if you dream that someone you love is trying to kill you. Apparently, the only important bit is how the dream made you feel.

G: What do you mean?
What do you mean, what do I mean? I forget that English is not her first language. She’s only been speaking English since she was FIVE!

D: I mean, did you like it?

G: OH YEAHHHH but we kept getting interrupted.
Oh yeaaahhhh like OF COURSE I liked it. Who wouldn’t be turned on by Hillary Clinton?

D: By whom?

G: There were lots of people around who all wanted to speak with her.

D: Did she ask if you could pick it up later?

G: We didn’t talk much. She kept trying to kiss me. She was making all the moves.

D: Did she go for the hooters?

G: No, no hooters. What are you doing? Taking notes? You can’t write about this! My family reads your blog! Your family reads this blog!

D: But it’s just an innocent dream. And it’s funny! And you told me when I started blogging I could embarrass you because I can’t embarrass any other friends publically. Look how well Joan Rivers did humiliating her husband.

G: Did you forget to put away this orange juice carton? You know, orange juice is perishable.

D: So is my love for you.

G: I’m ignoring you.

D: Have a nice day, dear.

G: Bye, honey.

Why don't we value education?

Why don‘t the Jews value education? Why is it that all the other children have started pre-school, and I am left agonizing through another long week of unscheduled, “quality” time with my children? Do you know how many holidays there are from September through November alone? Well let me tell you. Not only are there 4 Jewish holidays that fall between September and November, but every holiday requires at least 2 days off… each! And just to add salt to the wound there are 3 days off for Teacher Conferences! In your own time, people! My kid is trying to get an education, and I’m trying to enjoy a few hours of silence. Not that I’m counting, but that makes a total of 12 days off out of a possible 60. 20% of the first quarter of school-blacked out! I just spent the entirety of August entertaining a pre-schooler and a toddler. Must you torture me, so?

Why don’t Americans value education? Wouldn’t Martin Luther King want kids in school learning about his dream? 3 days off for Presidents Day? According to the U.S. Office of Personnel Management, Washington’s Birthday fell on one day. I guess I should be pointing the finger at state and local governments who have decided to rename the holiday, deny our first President’s birthday and to allow 3 days off of school. Wouldn’t our forefathers have wanted our children to be in school, as well? Aren’t we insulting the likes of Abraham Lincoln who had to walk to school in the snow without anything close to Uggs on his feet? Mother’s Day is not a federal holiday. Father’s Day is not a federal holiday. Where’s the justice in that? But I won’t be fighting for additional week days off for those. We need a break!

Educators, pious Jews, friends without children, I don’t want to hear it. Of course I know WHY our Jewish pre-school is closed for the Jewish holidays, but I don’t have to be happy about it. So I don’t need you telling me to go find another pre-school or better-than-thou Jews telling me to pray during each and every day off. And I don’t need friends without kids telling me how lucky I am to have my children. I certainly don’t need you Martha Stewarts of Motherhood telling me about all the wonderful activities I could be doing with my kids during those days off to nurture the bonds between us whilst developing their little minds. To all of you even thinking any of these things, I’m making a gesture, and I’m allowing you to imagine which gesture it might be. I’m sure your creative, little minds can conjure an image that is far more effective than if I were to describe one of my own.

I’m at home full-time. That’s my choice. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Having said that, after a month of day-in, day-out with the littles, I am ready to go back to work-just to get some time away from them. Am I a bad mother? It’s during moments like these when I have to take a deep breath and ask myself, “What would Britney do?” Then I feel a lot better.