Write to marry

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I tend not to focus on the gay part of my life. I like girls. Do I have to shout about it? I do as much as I am excessively proud of my family. But you might not call me a flag-waver. I’m more lesbo-lite. I’m a paying member of HRC. I’ve written to my government representatives about gay initiatives and issues. I’ve marched for rights in Washington. And now, as a stay-at-home mother of two small children, my focus is providing a solid, loving foundation for my boys and trying to get some sleep when I can.

Having said that, when called upon to act and oppose something fundamentally wrong, I will and I do-especially if doing so takes the shape of the written word. I’m all over it. Today all bloggers (gay, straight or otherwise) have been asked to blog in opposition to Proposition 8 in California-the ban against gay marriage. It's WRITE TO MARRY DAY!

Our wedding was the happiest day of my life. I know people say that all the time about their own weddings, and now I know why. There’s a natural high that comes from spending time with a whole bunch of people who love you and want to celebrate your relationship. I hope everyone experiences that love-high at some point in their lives.

There were family members who didn’t attend. They were conflicted at best about it. You know what? They’re still married. Our wedding didn’t change a thing about their lives. If you don’t like it, don’t marry a gay. You have to ask why it is that some people are so opposed to gay marriage. Because it undermines the sanctity of heterosexual marriage? Can anyone give me an example of how gay marriage has undermined the sanctity of marriage? I realize civil union is only available in a handful of states, so you might have to look outside of your own to find an example. While you’re at it, you can look at the entire populations of Canada, Spain, Denmark and Holland where it is legal.

The highest rates of divorce in the world? The United States of America. As far as I can tell, the only way is up for the sanctity of marriage in the U.S., so to all those who feel irrationally threatened by gay marriage, get off your high horses because you’re bound to fall off soon. I wouldn’t look down if I were you.

But for all of you voting in California, look down--all the way down. Apparently, the proposition is way down on the ballot, so you need to “go down” on proposition 8 and VOTE NO. One day, gay marriage will be legal. I don’t care if you’re for it, conflicted about it, ambivalent about it or against it. It’s going to happen. Think of it as the slavery or interracial marriage issue of the day. And some day, the films and books and documentaries will out those who fought it. Which roles will you play in the making of this history? Please get the word out to everyone you know in California to VOTE NO on PROPOSITION 8.

Village People

It takes a village. That’s for sure. Two women raising two boys. We need help. Neither one of us would define ourselves as handy or outdoorsy or sporty. I know you lady-couples have been there when a straight acquaintance asks, “But who’s the man?” Really? Do you mean “Who wears the strap-on or who wears the trousers?” Well, in the case of the former, that’s none of your bees wax, and frankly I don’t even know where we put that thing. Accessories can be so inconvenient at times. I guess that what Levi Johnston said about condoms. In the case of the latter, it’s difficult to say. I know that in my parents’ relationship, my mother wore the slacks-because women of her generation wore slacks-never pants. My mother was/is the quintessential, Jewish matriarch. Gabriella and I are both Jewish, but Gabriella converted to Judaism. Does that mean I wear the pants? Does she wear culottes? Did anyone really ever wear culottes? Gabriella can hook up all the audio-visual machinery in our house, but she also does all of the cooking. I’m the stay-at-home mother, but Gabriella is the nurturer. I kill the spiders, and she kills the bees. Such a conundrum!

What we do know is that neither one of us is going to take the boys camping or build a tree-house or teach them how to ski. Call in the village! It is my humble opinion that every family, be it a same-sex parented, hetero-sex parented or singleton parented should have Village People. No, I don’t mean that you should figure out which of your friends would be the Policeman. We do have a friend who is definitely the Biker. I mean you need your Village People to guide your children in those things you’re ill-equipped to teach. So, who are our Village People? Newmie is godmother to our boys. She is going to take the boys golfing and skiing and camping. When it’s not snowing in the U.S., Bobby will take them to the slopes of Switzerland. Auntie Rachel and Uncle Ron have been recruited for music tutelage, and Uncle Benjamin will be our distance education instructor-teaching mathematics and science over Skype. We’ve got many other Village People who are on call for electives such as glass-blowing, gardening and rock-climbing just to name a few.

Tonight, our dear friend Shamim came to dinner. She is in town from London briefly for private screenings of The World Unseen before its theatrical release on November 7th. Warning: I will be shamelessly and relentlessly promoting the film until its close, and it would behove you to see it if you live in or around Toronto, San Francisco, Los Angeles or New York.



Shamim and her partner Hanan can teach the boys everything they need to know about becoming entrepreneurs. They can teach them how to publish books and direct films. All in good time. For now, Shamim is on Shakespeare detail. I’ll think you’ll agree that Asher is taking to it quite well.



My parents were not of the mind that they needed Village People to raise children. Growing up, we did not know our grandparents, our aunts & uncles or our cousins-and my family is massive. My parents had no friends, and my mother despised all the friends my sister, brother and I brought home. Eventually, we stopped inviting friends to our house. No Village People. I know for a fact that that we suffered for it. Before you get out the violins, I’m not looking for sympathy. I turned out just fine. But I do wonder how my life might have been different had I been influenced by all the amazing people my parents chose to shut out. Forget about music, scienc and rock climbing. Let's talk about giving your kids role models, new persepectives and a greater sense of community.

My parents. Straight couple. Still married. Dad's a doctor. Mom stayed at home to be with her children. Two conventional, traditional, upstanding citizens raising 3 children without any help or guidance from anyone else. My opinion, bad idea. I don’t care who you are or what your family looks like or what religion you follow or what your values are, you ain’t all that! Tap into your Village People. Your kids need them. 3 snaps, Z formation!

Sunday Bubby Sunday 3

9:43pm here, 6:43pm in San Diego. No answer when I call. She must be drugged on sleeping pills.

10:02pm. I try again because I don’t like to let a Sunday go, and I can’t stay up much later. We had a late night out with friends last night and a busy week ahead. It’s possible I missed my window. I think they serve dinner at 5pm there, and then she probably downs a pill and is out for the night.

10:30pm. 1 ring. 2. 3. 4. About to hang up. B: Hello?

D: Were you sleeping?

B: Yeah.

D: Sorry! Do you want me to call another time?

B: No no. It’s alright. She actually sounds more awake than usual. What’s new?

D: What is new? I should have prepared something before I called. The fact is that I do need to prepare things to say before I call because there is little she can tell me about life at the nursing home. Unless she’s in a particularly talkative mood, the body of the conversation rests on my shoulders. Well, we’re going to see friends of ours in town from London tomorrow. They made a movie, and we’ve been invited to see a private screening of it.

B: That’s good news! I’m not going to get much further on that one, so I change the subject.

D: We went out with friends last night for dinner.

B: Where?

D: In Manhattan.

B: Who stayed with the little ones?

D: Asher’s pre-school teacher from last year. He was so excited. He absolutely adores her and misses her.

B: I bet.

D: We didn’t get to bed until about 2am, so we were pretty tired today.

B: Wow!

D: We went to an Argentinean restaurant.

B: A what?

D: (louder and slower) AR-GEN-TIN-NEE-AN, from Argentina!

B: What’s that like?

D: Delicious! Fish, steak, nice. And then we went to a comedy show.

B: Oh, that’s nice.

D: It was. But it was a very late night.

B: I’ll say.

D: We took turns with the boys today so we could nap.

B: That’s good.

D: Tuesday, I have my monthly meeting with my mother’s group. We have speakers who come and inspire us. And, we donate time and money to a local charity.

B: You do such interesting things. I wish I could say the same.

D: You did do interesting things. You had your own business! I wouldn’t mind having my own business.

B: Well, maybe you will some day. It has its good points and bad points.

D: What were some good points?

B: Well, you are your own boss and all that. But the bad point is all the pressure.

D: Did you enjoy it?

B: Not particularly. Cue subject change

D: The exciting news of the day is that we get a company to blow our leaves off of our lawn. They came the other day and made a huge leaf pile at the curb. The boys had a ball diving into and playing in the leaf pile.

B: Oh, I’ll bet.

D: I’ll have to send you some pictures of that. Did you eat already?

B: Yes.

D: How’s the diet going?

B: Oh, it’s not really a diet. The only thing that’s different is that I don’t get concentrated sweets. The rest is the same. You know I can’t lose weight on that. But, they stand on their own, and you can’t move them.

D: We went to services on Saturday. You’ll recall that it makes Bubby’s day when I tell her what a good Jew I am. Levi sang all of the songs. He’s officially brainwashed.

B: Laughing I’ll say!

D: I have a childhood friend who made an album of all Jewish music, and she sent us all the songs over email. The boys want to hear all the songs every night so they can dance around the kitchen.

B: I tell you. It’s worth a million dollars to witness all that.

D: Yes, it is.

B: Alright. Keep in touch.

D: Oh, I will.

B: And know that I love you.

D: We love you, too.

B: Ok, bye.

I tried to get a good video of the boys singing and dancing to said tunes, but by the time I thought to take out the camera, Asher was a bit wound up from an after-dinner treat, and Levi was too preoccupied with his challah. Yes, music AND videos on Shabbat. What if I told you we did all that stuff before sundown so the kids could have Shabbat before bed? It might be true.
Thanks to Liz and Jessica Zoller for the songs which have been a source of hours of entertainment.

BE THERE OR BE SQUARE

Wouldn’t it have been amazing to meet Spike Lee during his path from creative novice to commercial success? Can you imagine being so passionate and driven about filmmaking that you put everything on the line to follow a dream that is unlikely to pan out? Who goes out and makes a movie? Writes, directs, produces a film AND gets distributed theatrically? Spike Lee is one of the more well-known success stories. He wrote and directed She’s Gotta Have It – maxing out his credit cards – and managed to get it into theatres. And so did Shamim Sarif and Hanan Kattan. WHO?? Shamim Sarif and Hanan Kattan are the female Spike Lees of our generation, and you need to know who they are and how you can be a part of their inevitable success.

We met Hanan & Shamim when we moved to London in 1999. Hanan had her own toiletry and hair care line, and Shamim was putting the finishing touches on her first novel, The World Unseen - think The Color Purple meets apartheid South Africa in the 1950s. We went to their flat in Chelsea for our first date. While their 7 month old son, Ethan, was sleeping, we ate a phenomenal Middle-Eastern meal, drank delicious wine and got to know each other. Molokhia has become one of my favourite dishes.

Hanan is Jordanian, Palestinian and Shamim is British and of South African Indian descent. We talked about everything you’re not supposed to discuss on a first date-religion, sex, the Middle East, if a hand shake is more effective than a contract and whether it’s better to use a known donor or a sperm bank to make babies. What? You mean most people don't talk about sperm banks with their friends? Huh. The conversation was lively to say the least. We definitely did not see eye to eye on most things, and we learned quickly that the Middle-Eastern approach to debate is slightly more, um, aggressive than the midwestern, American why-can't-we-all-just-get-along style. By the end of the evening, I was sweating. As we walked out of their building, I turned to Gabriella and said, “I’m still shaking, but I think I like them.” And that was that. Family ever since. Never a dull moment with these amazing women.

We were there when The World Unseen was published. When it won The Pendleton May First Novel Award and then The Betty Trask Award. When Shamim was invited to read at the Edinburgh Book Festival and Hay-on-Wye Book Festival in Wales. When Hanan decided that they should make a movie out of the book having never made a feature film before. When the movie was picked up at the Toronto International Film Festival and at film festivals all over the world. When it premiered at the NewFest Film Festival in New York. When they succeeded where so many others had failed. They did it, and they did it good. Note: I used bad grammar for effect-not because I don’t know no better.

So, our dear friends have made this movie, and it will premiere in New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco and Toronto on November 7.



Hanan and Shamim will be at the New York opening, and so will we. We’d love for you to join us. Share in the excitement and show your support. If The World Unseen is not in your town, it most likely will be IF the movie does well in these initial markets. Spread the word!

The World Unseen is showing at The Quad Cinema located at 34 West 13th Street. Show times on the 7th are 1pm, 2:55pm, 5:25pm, 7:25pm & 9:25pm. You can purchase tickets in advance on the site thru movietickets.com, and you can find information about other show dates and times if you can't make it on that first night.

But wait! There’s more!! While they were at it, they made another movie from Shamim’s screenplay, I Can’t Think Straight, which is based on their relationship. THAT film is going to be at The Quad Cinema starting November 21st. We'll be there, too, of course.


I can't think of anything more amazing things to tell you about Hanan and Shamim. Well, they are also the proud mums of two beautiful boys, Ethan and Luca. And I thought my days were busy! I hope you're able to see the films whether on opening night or at a later date. I thank you on their behalf for supporting them and their films. Hopefully, they'll be able to thank you themselves.

If you have read the book or seen the film or know how inspirational Hanan and Shamim are from personal experience, please comment here so that everyone else who reads this blog doesn't think I'm some sort of pathetic sychophant. Cheers.

How many days until summer?

Baby, it’s cold outside! I really hate the cold. You’d have thought that a Chicago native who is of Russian and Polish descent would be made for cold or at least used to it by now. Nope. Hate it. I’m always cold excepting in the high heats of summer. My hands are cold. My feet are cold. My nose is cold. You get the picture.

It used to be that at night I could look forward to spooning up to my heat emanating, hot-blooded partner and together we would find a happy temperature between us. Now when I dive under the covers, she forbids me from touching her bare skin with my ice cold extremities. I’m that cold. I tell her that her heart is as cold as my hands, but she ignores me. I think the key to a good marriage is the ability to ignore your partner.

This house is cold. Gabriella and I each sold an internal organ so we could afford to replace every single one of our 33 windows in this house. Still cold. We had the chimney and the damper and whateverthehell else you’re supposed to fix related to the fireplace so that heat would not escape. Still cold. On sunny days, it’s warmer outside than it is inside. Do you know what it costs to heat this charming, old home for two women? Is it wrong to look forward to the hot flashes of menopause? There is no man walking around our house lowering the temperature on the thermostat. The heating bill last year was high enough to make our blood boil, and now we’re turning down the heat, layering and saving our pennies for underfloor heating . mmmmmmm underfloor heating. How's that for product placement? Yeah, I can be bought-cheap!

I know. It’s only going to get colder. I don’t even want to talk about snow. Can you believe I’m whinging and it’s still in the 60s? (whinging-not a typo, thank you very much) Why, that’s probably a balmy summer’s day in Palin country where the temperature is usually so low that everyone’s brain has frozen. That’s the only way I can account for the severe retardation of brain cells up there in Alaska.

When we moved to London, I thought we were going to be so grateful to escape the cold of Chicago. I wouldn’t miss winters that lasted until April. Nostrils sticking together every time I breathed in through my nose. Ignoring all semblances of fashion – dressing purely for warmth. Dry, cracked skin and static that literally made my hair stand on end. Then we moved to London. “Welcome to London!” said the cab driver as we piled our 7 suitcases into the car. “Do you know what the difference is between summer and winter in London? No? In the summer, the rain is warm!” We were too jetlagged to absorb or care about what he said. He was the oracle, and we were the oraclees. Oraclees? It’s Greek.

It rained and rained and rained. And when it wasn’t raining, it looked like it was going to rain. Or it was misty. Sometimes, it was sunny, but it was never bright. There were always clouds interrupting sunny days and occasional rain showers throughout the summer. We were there for 7 years, and I recall 2 warm summers. The winters were never as severe as they were in Chicago. There was hardly any snow at all. But the damp got right into your bones. And it was never bright. I remember coming back to the States to visit and deplaning into a bright, sunny day. I had to cover my eyes and squint my way into the airport like some sort of vampire because I was so unaccustomed to light. True story. Grey and gloomy was the weather and often the population of London. I will gladly endure each and every winter on this side of the pond because the sun abounds and the summers are glorious. I do not miss London weather.

I do not miss London weather, lime scale forming on every freaking surface in the bathroom and kitchen, self-hating Jews, pathetic Gay Pride Parades, bad dental care-it’s true what they say, British people.

I do miss self-deprecating & politically incorrect humour, life completely void of mosquitoes and Christian fundamentalists (blood suckers & mother fuckers respectively), socialized medicine, midwifery, liquid lunches, British people.

I do miss the mums who kept me sane during the first year of motherhood. I miss the sweet playground set in Highgate Woods. I miss our friends. I miss the songs we used to sing at playgroups that will always remind me of my first year with our first child. I’ve attached a video of one song from Asher’s toddler days that Asher and I decided to teach Levi. APPRECIATE PLEASE (see previous post reference): Sleeping Bunnies.



Big, wet juicy kisses to all of our peeps in Blighty! We miss you, and we may be back sooner than planned if the election goes tits up!!

I DO love the boys

It strikes me that I may have sounded slightly derogatory when referring to gay men in previous posts. In an effort to clarify my position on those fabulous boys and to experiment with vids, I offer you this video that I caught on another blog. By the way, there's a very funny clip from a recent ELLEN show that I'd recommend watching on this blog, too. Thanks, Sara!

When we were in Marrakech, we went to a carpet shop. Lesbians, carpet - you make the joke. And the very nice man at the shop laid each and every rug in front of us. He poured us some Moroccan tea while we examined at least 50 rugs. And before he presented each of the beautifully handmade carpets, he would exclaim: APPRECIATE PLEASE!

Meat lady

I blame my family. One of my relatives gifted Gabriella the book The Omnivore’s Dilemma by Michael Pollan for Chanukah last year, and she read it. Mid way, Gabriella says to me, “We have to become vegetarians.” Gabriella is not one to be rash, and she does love a good steak, so I had to take her seriously. After everything she had read about the industrial farming industry in the U.S. since the 1950s, she had come to the conclusion that we were poisoning our bodies and wreaking havoc upon the earth by eating meat. I’m not about to go into the details. There are plenty of blogs, articles and books out there that can tell you more than you ever wanted to know about the evils of industrial farming. This blog is not one of them. I like to keep it light. That’s just the kind of superficial gal I am. I did need to lay the foundation for the next bit, however, so you’ll have to put up with the toe-in-the-water do-gooder scene-setting.

Days passed, and Gabriella continued reading that damn book that would change the path of my life for better or worse. The conclusion she reached was that we could still eat meat but that we would have to scale back and the animals we did eat had to be locally raised on a sustainable farm where they are grass-fed in pastures as opposed to feed lots. Hmm, I wonder which aisle at Whole Foods carries the organic, grass-fed, pasteurized beef from New Jersey. We started talking about splitting a cow from a local farm with friends of ours and keeping it in our chest freezer. Whole Foods was no longer an option.

Meanwhile, back at the proverbial ranch, I had not yet let go of the notion that we would one day have a kosher kitchen. I’m not actually into the following the rules bit, but I think that keeping kosher would allow me to connect to my religion and have a Jewish home without outing myself as religious. I’m a tattoo-on-hip Jew. It’s there for those who are invited to see, but I’m not waving the flag. FYI, I do not have a tattoo on my hip. I can neither confirm nor deny whether I have a tattoo elsewhere.

I was raised in a kosher home with loopholes. My mother wanted our home to be Jewish. She didn’t care if our intestines were kosher. We could eat whatever we wanted when we went out to restaurants, but our home was strictly kosher. As we got older, my parents eased up at home, too. We ordered in, but we could only eat the treif food on paper plates in the dining room. The kitchen remained pure. It wasn’t difficult to stick to the rules especially because I wasn’t the one grocery shopping or cooking. Now that we, well Gabriella is cooking, we need to figure out if we can really sustain a kosher kitchen. You can’t just say a few prayers and BAM, you’ve got a kosher kitchen. Keeping kosher requires thought before, during and after every meal. Conceptually, I wanted it, but I was concerned that the task would be too much to take on. Truth be told, I was looking for a way out. Ah ha! Sustainable farms!! Here’s my way out of kosher, I thought.

I went to talk to our Rabbi. I explained that if I had to choose between kosher meat and meat that has been butchered from animals on sustainable farms, the choice was easy. I could not in good conscience keep kosher and deny the evils of industrial farming. And shouldn’t kosher meat be everything that sustainable farming supports, anyway? I preached on my soap box as my Rabbi listened intently to my rant. “Well,” she said, “perhaps you would like to speak with someone at the forefront of the eco-kosher movement.” Eco-kosher? Really? Rats! A way in.

Sure enough, Devora Kimelman-Block founded KOL Foods in Maryland for the very reason that all animal farming – kosher or not – should be ethical. I called Devora and asked her when KOL Foods was coming to New Jersey. She told me she’d be happy to expand as long as there was someone who would be the New Jersey representative. What was I supposed to say? I invited Devora to speak at our synagogue. The New Jersey Jewish News ran a couple of articles about it. Our synagogue became the New Jersey distribution center for KOL Foods, and I became the contact. And then, the October 12 edition of The New York Times Magazine – the same one that ran Michael Pollan’s letter to the President - published an article about the eco-kosher movement and featured KOL Foods as one of the more established sources of ethical, kosher meat.

When you go to the KOL Foods website and select the contact person for New York and New Jersey-yup, yours truly is the email contact. Since that article in The New York Times Magazine ran, I’ve been receiving emails from every Channa, Rifka and Shlomo in the tri-state area with questions and holiday wishes.

Takes me right back to university. My Orthodox Jewish roommate showed up with her suitcase in one hand and a mezuzah in the other. She had requested a Jewish roommate, and I’m sure the folks in the admissions office saw “Deborah Goldstein” on their list and thought, “A shidduch for sure!” Who knew that they were pairing up the Orthodox Jew with an angry, militant feminist lesbian? Note: I am no longer angry and not nearly as militant as I should be.

I’m the Jewish mother version of the phone sex operator. Instead of a 20 year old playmate in a string bikini sucking on a cherry lollipop, they’re imagining that I’m a 20 year old woman with a hat covering the wig on my head, basting my brisket while my 5 children tug at my skirt. If they only knew.

So I’m the meat lady at my synagogue AND I’m leading the children’s Shabbat morning services. I guess I’m coming to terms with my inner Deborah Goldstein. Such a nice girl. With a name like mine, I couldn’t have avoided it. It’s definitely not the name of a surfer or a rock star, but I’m rockin’ the Jew world with my meat, baby! Jewtastic!!

Sunday Bubby Sunday 2

Me: How are you?

Bubby: Ok.

Me: Were you sleeping?

Bubby: Mm Hmm.

Me: Do you want to go back to sleep.

Bubby: I don’t care.

Me: Do you feel like talking?

Bubby: I do if you do.

Me: Ok. Gabriella’s family came over today to celebrate Levi’s birthday.

Bubby: Oh how nice. I’m sorry I missed it. How old was he?

Me: 2.

Bubby: I’ll try to catch up next time. Hug him and kiss him for me.

Me: I will.

Bubby: Did Gabriella cook?

Me: Yup. She made pasta, a roast, vegetables and a salad.

Bubby: She’s really good.

Me: Yes. We’ve had dinner in 2 different sukkahs this week. (A sukkah is like a hut that you build during the Jewish holiday of Sukkot)

Bubby: Oh! Oh! How nice! (She loves it when I talk Jewish.)

Me: Looks like Obama’s going to win.

Bubby: I don’t know much about him. Who are you for?

Me: Obama.

Bubby: Well, let’s hope he wins.

Me: Were you always a Democrat?

Bubby: As far as I can remember.

Me: You know there are plenty of Jews who don’t want him to be President.

Bubby: Really, why?

Me: Because they’re not sure if he’s pro-Israel. And some because he’s Black.

Bubby: That I don’t understand too well.

Me: Me neither. Do you think there will ever be a Jewish President?

Bubby: Oh, I don’t know. You?

Me: Never.

Bubby: That’s what I was thinking. Well, maybe Joshua will be. (Joshua is my sister Rachel’s freakishly smart 9 year old pictured above.)

Me: I think he’s too smart to be President.

Bubby: Laughs

Me: I don’t think Mom will vote for a Black man for President.

Bubby: Really?

Me: Have you heard from her?

Bubby: Are you kidding? You think I ever will?

Me: Who can say? What do you think?

Bubby: Honey, you know as much about it as I do.

Me: The nurse called me to say that they’re putting you on a diet to lose weight. Why do you want to do that?

Bubby: Are you kidding? Do you know any other funny stories?

Me: How much weight do you want to lose?

Bubby: Let’s not talk about it.

Me: Ok.

Bubby: To be honest, I’m not in a very talkative mood tonight.

Me: Are you ok?

Bubby: Just tired.

Me: Ok.

Bubby: But I love you.

Me: I love you, too.

Bubby: I love you love you love you.

Me: Me too, you.

Bubby: Ok, Sweetheart.

Me: Talk to you soon.

Bubby: Ok, Bye.

Birthdays in the Mist

I have carpal tunnel from writing out invitations and envelopes for Asher’s birthday party. Such a stressful event. We’re still at that age where we invite everyone from class regardless of compatibility. That might not be how it’s done in your neighbourhood, but there are strict rules one must follow in these parts. Lord, have mercy upon you if you disregard Birthday Party Protocol! You should have received the manual upon the birth (or adoption) of your first child.

There’s one child Asher asked me not to invite to his party, and I had to explain that we could not exclude anyone from class. He felt better once I clarified that they didn’t have to play together on the day. For any of my regular readers from pre-school, I can almost guarantee that you don’t know which child it is. I was more than surprised when he asked me not to invite this child, and I’m pretty sure he’ll change his mind, so don’t hurt yourselves trying to figure out who it was.

I wouldn’t mind paring down the guest list. It’s not that I don’t want to pay an outrageous amount of money per head for a party no one will remember in 2 months time, but Asher just doesn’t like that many people. And when the Reciprocity Rule comes round (Paragraph 12, section E: “you can’t receive without giving-again and again and again”), I’ll be dragging him to each and every birthday party to follow under protest. The only consolation for him is the cake, and he can only have some if he stops whining about how much he doesn’t want to go. Such a mean mom am I to force him to go to a birthday party! But that’s what you do, damn it, because Mom is representing.

I was not a happy camper when Gabriella dropped the birthday party ball and completely tainted my Mom-Cred. Asher was invited to a party on a weekend when I was going to be out of town. I told the birthday boy’s mom that we’d be there, but I didn’t tell her that Gabriella would be bringing Asher. Day of the party, Gabriella makes an executive decision not to attend and doesn’t call the host. Paragraph 9, section C of the manual clearly states that, “it is categorically unacceptable to miss a birthday party for which you have already secured a place excepting n the case of lice, fever or loss of a family pet. In an event of a no-show, a phone call is required and delivery of a gift the next day is highly recommended.” Working parent error. Until you’re living in the mist with the gorillas, you can’t be expected to understand. It’s a jungle out there!

The whole megillah is a test for parents. We are the ones planning the parties, inviting the guests and buying the gifts. Kudos if you RSVP within two days of receiving the invitation. Extra credit if you ask a parent what the birthday boy or girl would like for their birthday before you actually buy the gift. Bonus points if your child crafts his/her own Happy Birthday card. And now we’ve got the added pressure to do Good!


“Little Amber requests that you bring a gift that we can donate to in order to give to those less fortunate than we are.”

“In lieu of party favours, our Brian will plant a tree in the rainforest in the name of each of his guests.”

“Given that we will be taking blood instead of accepting gifts at Max’s party, please wear comfortable clothing so we can easily pull up sleeves to access veins. Bandages will be provided.”

Screw it! Asher has a wish list a mile long, and we’re going to get him a few things that are on it. Let the kid enjoy a few presents before we saddle him with the weight of the world, thank you very much. He sacrifices every day when he has to share his trains with his brother. Shees!

Invitations are ready to go. I didn’t get thank you cards just yet. The very helpful woman at the stationary store suggested I buy pre-printed thank you cards. “I’m so glad you came to my 5th birthday party. Thank you for the _____________”. You just fill in the blank with the gift item. Convenient, simple, but I couldn’t do it. Until Asher is writing his own cards, I’ve got to make the effort to pen a few words of thanks. “No thank you,” I told her, “My son has the first birthday party of the school year, and I’ve got to set the bar high.” We both had a good laugh, but I was only sort of kidding.

Lessons in bits

Some parents bath or shower with their kids. We were never so inclined. The thought of my kid poking and pulling at my parts just never appealed to me, and being the micro-thinker that I am, I can’t get past the technicalities. How do we both get out of the tub and dry off and dress in a quick and easy fashion? Another reason I chose to shower by myself is that it used to be the only time of day that I could guarantee that I’d be alone. I could run through my list of things to do or come up with brilliant ideas for new inventions or just be with myself with no interruption. I’d share some of my amazing inventions with you, but I’ve got to find a patent lawyer, first. This was all before Levi came into the picture.

It’s 7am and the boys are still sleeping. Such a rare treat. Asher was our uber sleeper, once upon a time. He went to bed at 7pm, woke up between 8:30 and 9am and napped for at least 3 hours in the middle of the day. I confess that when he was awake, I counted the hours before he would be asleep again. The first 3 years with Asher were rocky but that’s the stuff of another blog. We’re good now.

I’d wake up each morning at about 7/7:30 so that I could take a shower, dress and make breakfast for Asher before he woke up. Sometimes, I could even do some reading. I was never a morning person, but I did learn to appreciate my quiet mornings alone.

Levi wakes up between 6 and 6:30am which I do understand is an absolutely normal time for a kid to get up. I try not to complain, but it’s an adjustment. Our schedules never changed much with Asher because we were able to stay up late at night watching really bad reality tv and still get enough sleep. I know, “bad reality tv” is totally redundant. My mornings are no longer my own. I know that a few minutes into my shower, Levi will appear and pull the shower curtain back and say, “Hiiiiiii!!!!!” Too cute to be irritated, I say, “Hiiiiiii!!!!” And I take my shower with the curtain pulled back, the cold air hitting my skin the entire time while the rest of the family sleeps.

L: “Bubb – o!”

Me: “Yes, bubbles from the soap! All clean.”

L: “Ah-keen. Weh”

Me: “Yes, wet! The water is wet.”

L: “Ca-foo”

Me: “That’s right. Be careful. Don’t slip!”

L: “Wii-iiiii”

Me: “No, that’s not a willy. Mom has a vagina.”

L: “GI – NA!”

I know it’s not PC to say, but I’m embarrassed. I should be one of those moms who displays her body proudly and teaches her children that their bodies are beautiful and that there is no reason to be ashamed. But that’s not the way I was raised. I don’t want them to be ashamed of their bodies, and I don’t want them to feel that there is something taboo about their bits. I compensate by smiling and allowing Levi to point and move dangerously close to my parts. Truth be told, I’m somewhat relieved to get this biology lesson out of the way.

As far as I know, Asher still does not know what a vagina is. I don’t know how this happened. It’s not as if he doesn’t have vaginas around him. We always dressed in front of him in order to give him the opportunity to ask. No questions about boobs or vaginas. Nothing. We’re a don’t-ask, don’t tell kind of family. When our children are ready to learn about something, they’ll ask, and we’ll give them as much honest information as they need to know. But at 5 years old, we’re thinking maybe we missed an opportunity. Now he’s going to have to learn it on the streets from some 5 year old whore who wants to show him hers if he shows her his. Do I really need to stand in front of my kid, knickers at my knees, bush exposed and say, “Hey, Asher. When you’ve got a minute, I was wondering if you could tell me what THIS is.” I think not.

We went to a friend’s house the other day where there was a painting of a nude woman. Levi spotted it from a far, walked right up to it and proudly said, “GI-NA!” So proud. But that’s life with a toddler who watches you shower. The 5 year old who slept through biology will just have to learn it from that whore down the street.

Humblest apologies

Tonight at sundown, Yom Kippur begins-the Jewish Day of Atonement. It’s a difficult one because we’re supposed to atone for all of our transgressions against God and humankind during this past year. I’m thinking, that’s a whole lotta sinning. Why, this blog alone has probably irritated, bothered, offended enough people to keep me atoning for days. If I had recorded each and every wrong-doing over the course of this past year, how long would my list be? I can’t imagine what that list would look like if I added all the wrongs committed that I didn’t even realize I’ve committed. Is it really fair to expect me to atone for something that no one bothered to tell me was offensive? Don’t I have enough on my plate, already? It’s a rhetorical question, and I thank you for not responding.

I’ve got to think about this long and hard because this is for real. It’s arguably the most important of all of the holidays. You know it’s a big deal when the most significant holiday in the Jewish calendar involves fasting. We’re a food-loving people.

I do take this holiday seriously as many Jews do regardless of how “Jewish” they are during the rest of the year. I figure, if someone asks you to define yourself, and “Jew” makes the top 10, you’re all over Yom Kippur. Even if “Jew” falls after your sun sign or your birth order or your political party affiliation or even after your general state of being, if you’re a Top-10 Jew, I’m guessing you’re acknowledging Yom Kippur in some way. So you’re fasting until sundown...in Israel! So you’re “breaking the fast” with friends and family without having fasting at all. So you’re taking the day off of work, but you’ll be at the mall buying a new pair of shoes. Maybe you’re not able to take off the day from work, but you’ll attend a service. It’s possible you do none of the above but you wish all your observant friends and family members an easy fast. A Top 10 Jew isn't necessarily a religious one, but you can't deny the connection you have to the culture or the rituals or the community or the humor, and you just can't ignore Yom Kippur.

So, to all those reading this blog, I do sincerely apologise for anything I have done or said that caused you pain. If you’re fasting, I hope you have an easy fast. If you’re breaking the fast with friends and/or family, I hope someone is providing a great spread. If you’re at the mall tomorrow, I hope you find fabulous new shoes--on sale. If you’re a Jewish Pre-school parent, I hope you’re able to keep the kids occupied while school is closed.

And if you’re a Top-10 Jew, I’d like to know where “Jew” ranks on your list. If you’d like to share your “Here’s Who I Am” List, please do. Top 5? Top 3? My list changes all the time, and I’m defined by things that range from profound to ridiculous. Today, right now my list includes:

1. Woman
2. Jew
3. Mother/Sister/Partner – too easy to divide them up for a top 10 list
4. Late bloomer
5. Writer/Entertainer
6. Registered Democrat. Closeted Socialist.
7. Lover of food, drink and merriment
8. Networker
9. Gemini (Gemini rising and moon in Sagittarius)
10. List maker

Asher is playing with his trains while I write this blog. He just told one of his trains that he is going to lock him away, and his train sounds very sad. I hope he apologises before sundown.

Sunday Bubby Sunday

Coming out to my Bubby (my mother’s mother) was an incredibly emotional experience for me. My mother and father had already cut me out of their lives, and I had no other family outside of my sister and brother. My sister has since reconnected with our extended family on our father’s side, but at the time, Bubby, and only Bubby, was our family. I was afraid that after I explained that my life partner was a woman, she’d also turn her back on me, and that would be that. After all, she is my mother’s mother. My mother always said, “The apple never falls far from the tree.”

I won’t say that Bubby was jumping up and down for joy when I told her, but she did surprise me. We’ve been talking on the phone at least once a week ever since. She’s 92 and lives in a nursing home, now, and her husband (not my biological grandfather) of 30 years, Hy, passed away a couple of years ago. She’s in San Diego, and it’s difficult to go visit her very often. The phone is our lifeline. We try to speak on Sundays. Sometimes she’s too tired to talk. Sometimes, she’s popped a few sleep aids, and she’s tripping a little bit. And every now and then, we have a great conversation like we used to have before she suddenly surrendered to age. I'm always prepared to answer most questions because most of what we discuss has been covered already-numerous times. She's still with it. She's just old.

I caught her on a trippy night tonight, but I want to start recording some of our chats. She’s a big part of my life, and I want to share her with you. Hopefully, over time, you’ll learn to love her as I do though you’ll have to wade through the depression and meds occasionally. She means well, and she loves her grandchildren and her great grandchildren very much.

D: How are you?
B: Uch, ok.
D: Just ok?
B: I had a rough day. A little headache, a little cold, a little constipation. Did you know that Hy’s family was here to visit? They’re out with Hy for the day. I don’t know where they went, but there were a lot of them. And Steve my former neighbor was just here. Do you remember him? He lived across the hall from us in the apartment. He’s 60 years old now. Retired. But he belongs to a gym nearby, so he comes to visit occasionally. His mother used to be here before she died. So what’s new with you?
D: Well, we’ve got a lot of holidays coming up.
B: When is Rosh Hashanah?
D: You just missed it. We called to say Happy New Year. Do you remember?
B: Oh yes, I remember. What’s the next one?
D: Yom Kippur.
B: Are you going to services?
D: Yes.
B: Where?
D: Our synagogue. Where Asher goes to pre-school. Pre-school is closed 2 days every week throughout this month because of the holidays.
B: That’s nice.
D: Not really. I’ve got to make sure Asher is entertained.
B: There could be worse things.
D: That’s very true.
B: What else?
D: We had friends over for dinner last night.
B: What kind?
D: What do you mean what kind?
B: Male, female?
D: Oh! A married couple-man and woman.
B: Are they Jewish?
D: The wife is Jewish.
B: Do they go to temple.
D: They do.
B: Uh huh. What else?
D: We have a few dinners planned and friends coming to visit from out of town and Rachel and her family will be here for Thanksgiving.
B: Will they stay with you?
D: Yes.
B: Do you have room?
D: Yes.
B: How many bedrooms do you have?
D: 4.
B: 4?!? I’ve never heard of such a thing anymore.
D: It’s very common out here.
B: Huh. I wish I could tell you something exciting. I’ve had a lousy day. Luckily, Hy took his family out for the day, and yesterday…honey, I think I’m losing it.
D: That’s ok. I can’t remember what I did yesterday, either.
B: What else?
D: Levi’s birthday is coming up.
B: What should I send him?
D: Your love.
B: You know I can’t really go shopping much these days.
D: Not to worry. He’s only 2. I’ll tell him that you love him.
B: Who’s the first one again?
D: Asher.
B: And the younger one?
D: Levi
B: Asher and Levi.
D: We’re not there enough for you to remember.
B: Did I tell you my old neighbor came to visit? He’s 60 and retired. He teaches one class a week and belongs to gym around here. He stops by when he goes to the gym. He’s kind of an old woman, though.
D: What do you mean?
B: He talks and talks and goes into detail about a lot of things that are inconsequential. Not typical of a man.
D: Nice that he visits. Has Rachel called you?
B: I think so, but you can’t prove anything by me. I wish I had something inspiring to tell you.
D: What’s the most important thing in life?
B: I don’t know. What?
D: I’m asking you. I thought maybe you’d know by now and you could tell me.
B: No. Did you talk to your Mother?
D: We don’t speak.
B: Ever?
D: No.
B: I don’t like that. She hasn’t spoken to me in a long time, either.
D: Oh well. Her loss.
B: Asher and Levi. Levi’s the younger one.
D: Very good. And Levi is blond and blue-eyed. He looks like my mother.
B: She would like him. I don’t think she likes herself.
D: Pity.
B: Well, that’s all I have right now. Know that I love you and the chillins and Gabriella.
D: We love you, too, Bubby.
B: Something good will happen soon.
D: Looking forward to it.
B: Love you.
D: Love you.

Rachel and Ron

My sister called me while I was writing the last blog.

Me: “I’m mid-blog.”
Rachel: “Ok but let me give you some material.”
Me: “Do I need to take notes?”
Rachel: “I will repeat it all later for you if you like.”
Me: “Can I call you back in 5 minutes because I’m literally on the last paragraph.”
Rachel: “How many minutes because I’m mid-movie”
Me: “What movie are you watching that you can’t take a minute?”
Rachel: “27 Dresses”
Me: “Oh dear God.”
Rachel: “It’s not about the movie it’s about Ron and the popcorn!”
Me: “Ok, shoot.”
Rachel: “Ok, so we’re watching the movie, and I stop in the middle of…”
Me: “Wait, I’m writing.”
Rachel: “I don’t know how to tell this story and stop every 3 words, Deborah. Do you have a tape recorder? Ron, get your recorder!”
Me: “Never mind. I’ll write faster.”

Rachel: “Ok, so we stop in the middle of the movie, and I look at him and he says, ‘What?’ I’m waiting for him to say that it was time for popcorn, but he just says, ‘What?’ I just kept staring at him, and when he couldn’t figure it out, I pressed PLAY. 10 minutes later, I press PAUSE, and I look at him and he says ‘What? Do you need to go the bathroom? Use your big girl words.’ I pressed play again. I told him, ‘I’m going to keep doing this until you figure it out.’ He said nothing, so I pressed PLAY. 10 minutes later, I pressed PAUSE again, and he says, ‘You’re really starting to bug me!’ And I said, ‘Well, good! Now you know how I feel. Really, Ron, you want for nothing? And he said, ‘Rachel is there something YOU want?’ So I said, ‘Never mind. I don’t love you. I hate you. And we’re not having sex.’ I pressed PLAY again. So I thought we were going to move on, but I really wanted the damn popcorn. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. And I pressed PAUSE again and I said, ‘Seriously? Seriously? You don’t want popcorn? Last night you wanted popcorn, and we didn’t have any, and NOW we’re watching a movie that begs for popcorn and you don’t want any? Are you trying to mix things up a little? This is where you choose to insert variety in your life?’ He’s laughing at me the whole time, and he says, ‘I win. I knew you wanted popcorn, but I was waiting for YOU to say it.’"

Me: “Good for him. You’re so passive-aggressive.”
Rachel: “I hate you, too.”
Me: “So what did you do?”
Rachel: “I PUNCHED him so hard that he fell on to the floor."
Me: “I don’t know if I can use this. So how’s the movie?”
Rachel: “It’s cute.”

Shabbat Shalom

How have I been spending this erev Shabbat (evening of the Jewish Sabbath)? Well, I’m obviously not that pious if I’m writing my blog on the computer, but I was inspired. Or it could be that I’ve had a bit too much Shabbat vino? Sometimes, that happy buzz can be confused with inspiration. In either case, I’ve got that Shabbat feeling, and I need to share the love.

So, how have I been spending my evening? I’ve been running through the Shabbat Family Service because I’m just a girl who can’t say ‘no’, and when they asked for volunteers to help lead the Shabbat Family Service at our synagogue, my hand shot up into the air while my brain said, “What in God’s name are you doing, hand?!? You don’t even know if you buy into all this melarchy and you’re going to start indoctrinating small children with this mythology about this great, all-powerful, all-knowing Ruler of the Universe? Ruler of the Universe? That’s rich! Let the power of gravity suck you down, hand, and let some other do-gooder volunteer, you twat!!”

But my hand ignored my brain. It happens all the time. I’ve tried to tell Gabriella over and over again that when I’m poking and pinching and grabbing at her because she is just gosh-dern grab-able, my hand is actually ignoring my brain. She is less than understanding when she decides that her hand is going to ignore her brain and retaliate. It’s not pretty.

So, the fate of a certain someone who loves to entertain but doesn’t want to deal with the pressure of entertaining professionally is to “perform” once a month to a room full of pre-schoolers and their parents singing prayers and songs praising God, Ruler of the Universe. Can I get an “Amen”? Go ahead, say it! I know Kevin is out there letting the spirit lift him from his seat in order to Holla Back, “Amen”!! Thank you, Kevin!

A couple of weeks ago, we all boarded the ol’ MV (mini-van) to head to Shabbat services. I was headlining that morning. Gabriella started the car, and I looked at her and asked, “Why am I doing this?” And she said, “Because you’re a great role model to your children.” And that shut me right up. I want my kids to love who they are and love the community to which they belong. I want them to find joy in the traditions and the rituals. Who can do that better than their Mom? I know what entertains them and makes them laugh, and maybe I can entertain a bunch of other kids who might not otherwise find the fun in Shabbat. Maybe my hand really did know what was best. I’ll have to let Gabriella know. If she’s got a problem...she can talk to the hand. Sorry-couldn’t help myself.

Gabriella is old

Gabriella just got a letter from Social Security outlining everything she needs to know about retirement and how much money will NOT be available to her by that time. Apparently, by 2041, the Social Security Trust Fund will be exhausted. But even more important than how much money we will not have in a few short years is the fact that my dear, sweet beloved Gabriella is as old as dirt. A letter from Social Security? Really?!? It won’t be long until AARP is sending her discount subscription packages for their magazine. I wonder how much it would cost to install a ramp outside our door. I’m not ready to change bedpans!

It’s not that I mind that Gabriella is ancient. She has always been older than I, and I suspect that she will always be. But if she’s been around since year dot, than that means that I’m no spring chicken either, and THAT is a bummer. Once upon a time, I was the youngest in each of our social clusters-always receiving that metaphoric pat on the head with one simple smile. No longer. Now I’m the one who sighs when we discuss age, and I try not to look as if I’m saying “ahh, youth” with my eyes.

It’s not Social Security’s fault. I blame our high school aged babysitter for ripping the rug out from under me. She left me without words and without breath for a traumatic moment when we were discussing Asher.

Ellen: “I noticed that Asher talks about himself often in the 3rd person.”
Me: “Yes. We don’t make a big deal about it because we figure he’ll grow out of it soon enough. For now, it’s kind of cute. We refer to him as our little Bob Dole. You know who that is, right?”
Ellent: “Yes, I think so. I believe we studied him in History class.”
Me in my own dark mind: “Get out!”

A completely separate occasion
Ellen: “I forget what Levi’s middle name is.”
Me: “It’s Giacomo which is the Italian form of Jacob. Works for both his Italian and his Jewish mothers. And, Giacomo is also Sting’s son’s name.”
Ellen: “Who?”
Me: “Sting?!? The singer? The Police….no? How about David Bowie, do you know him?”
Ellen: “I think I heard him on my Dad’s ipod.”
Me in my own dark mind: “You’re not welcome here anymore, devil’s spawn.”

For the most part, I’m protected. This town is filled with older parents of young children. That’s what I am-an older parent. Hey, it’s not our fault! We had things to do. Places to go. Biology to manipulate. I know a fair number of older parents who grew up on the same television shows and started voting around the same time as I did. They help me feel like I didn’t waste my child-bearing years away. Who cares, right? Right. I’ve got my Pinot at my side and my ol’ lady lover trying to fix my computer. Doh! Just ran out of Pinot. Must refill before the happy buzz fades and I start staring at my age spots.

Is it wrong to wish that my boys sire children before they’re 21 so that I can enjoy grandparenthood?