Family time

I’m the first to admit when we’re at a disadvantage not having a man around the house. That being said, that particular handicap did not seem to prevent Barack Obama from getting a good education, realizing his goals or becoming the mensch that he is. So, we try not to sweat the little stuff and keep it all in perspective.

Asher is 5 and still not of age to go into a public restroom on his own. He could actually manage to get the job done, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable sending him by himself. Lately, he has become less interested in washing his hands, so it’s just as well that bathroom visits remain a family affair where he can be supervised.

Often times, nature calls for us both simultaneously, and Asher and I find ourselves in the same stall taking turns. There is no such thing as privacy when you’re a parent, and excursions to the lav are not only a team effort but have become a spectator sport as well. As I squat over the public toilet carefully balancing over the seat careful not to make contact with the germ infested ring, Asher hinges his body so that he can get a good view.

“Can I have a little privacy, Asher?” I don’t exactly know where he’s supposed to go other than the corner of the stall, but I just can’t have my 5 year old within inches of me while I wee. It’s rare that he has the opportunity to watch his moms go. There are no secrets when the boys go to the loo, but what goes on when we girls sit on the toilet is a mystery. I’d like to keep it that way. Sometimes, Levi is with us, as well, and I have the added pleasure of his cold fingers poking my exposed thigh. “Tushy!” he delights while he displaces the soft flesh of my leg. You just can’t appreciate how glorious a private moment to wee is until you have small children.

And speaking of wee. We caved and bought the Wii for the boys for Chanukah. Smooth segue, huh? I can’t even pretend that it was much of a fight. Asher had played with the Wii at his cousins’ house, but he had never actually requested it for himself. The benefit (?) of having a techie in the house is that we are hooked up! Computers, phones, games - we're wired. Gabriella introduced Asher to gaming on her mobile phone ages ago. Then, she turned him on to the games section on Noggin and Playhouse Disney on the internet. Soon thereafter, she downloaded all sorts of additional games on to the computer. Now the kid is playing the Wii.

He loves it, and that is a huge understatement. Guess what? We love it, too. I will not tell you that the games on the Wii are educational. Nor will I espouse the benefits of the Wii for both fine and gross motor skills. I won’t even tell you that you actually can get a work out on an unseasonably cold day by playing games on the Wii. I will say that we are having a great time playing together. What child wouldn’t enjoy mounting a cow and racing across the farm knocking down scarecrows and leaving Mom in the dust? He’s become quite the pool shark, as well. You could spend hours just creating your own avatar or Mii. While my Mii bears a very close resemblance to the original, Asher’s Mii looks like a Puerto Rican Weird Al Yankovic circa 1988.

We’re all having fun together which makes me think that it’s not such a bad way to spend time in front of the television. The moral of the story: A family who Wiis together, stays together.

Weird Al Yankovic - Eat It
Uploaded by -Gor-

Ding dong, our colds are gone

We’ve been home since Wednesday night and have yet to make it to the grocery store. We haven't even made it outside. The raging colds we all caught knocked us out and made these past few days miserable. When the boys are ill, we can manage though our days are more fractious. When the boys are ill, and one of us is also hit, it’s tough-even tougher when Gabriella is working, and I’m the one sick at home taking care of the boys-running around after them with tissue trying to catch the incredible amount of ick that they bionically expel with every sneeze before it hits the floor. It’s amazing how much one small child can produce with one sneeze. I’m tempted to take a picture but not only would staging be next to impossible, but it’s really and truly yucky.

Both Mom and Mommy have been sick. Gabriella is rarely ill, but she tends only to get sick when I do and somehow she always feels infinitely worse than I ever could. She can't deny it. Levi has had an ear ache that’s kept us up each night. Asher is our resident uber sneezer and also our reporter from the field. Just in case we are unaware, he lets us know about every 15 minutes with a pathetic whine, “I don’t feel weeeelllll!” Yesterday morning, I offered Gabriella $500 to get the boys dressed and take them out for the day so I could sleep. No deal. Perhaps she knew I was bluffing. Or maybe she was actually just as poorly as I. Anything's possible. The days have dragged...until today.

The clouds parted, and suddenly, we could all breathe, and no one has sneezed all morning. We celebrated (read escaped our empty kitchen) by going to the diner for breakfast. An outing! How very exciting. Good food made to order. Friendly wait staff. Activity placemats and crayons. Excellent people watching.

Deborah: Did you hear that Dad who was sitting behind us? He told his son that he’d give him a quarter for every word in the word search puzzle he could find.

Gabriella nodded approvingly.

D: You like that idea? The kid should expect to be paid to do a puzzle?

G: Incentive to learn. I like that.

D: Really? What about the incentive to learn for the fun of learning? The joy of working out problems for yourself?

G: Yes, that too, but I think that cash adds a certain fun to the game occasionally.

D: Monopoly money is fun. Cold hard cash is not.

G: What about the treats we give the boys for eating their vegetables?

D: That’s different.

G: How?

D: We’re teaching them something. We teach them that treats don’t give your body the right kind of energy, so that if they want to have a little sweet, they need to make sure that they’re fuelling their bodies with plenty of good, nutritious food first.

G: mmm hmm

D: And, when he was up to ‘a buck twenty-five’, his father told him that he was ‘doing really good’. Maybe I should have leaned back in my chair and asked for a quarter for every egregious grammatical error.

G: I’m not judging.

D: I am.

G: You go ahead.

D: I will. And I don't need your permission.

I couldn’t really be that offended by the exchange of words for cash. It was a 15 minute game in a diner that was not evidence enough that this child was learning bad life lessons. What’s an academic scholarship if not the exchange of cash for good grades? And I’m forever torn about the treats for veggies deal that I put into place. Some parents present nutritious meals and offer no sweet after the main course. If they’re hungry enough, they’ll eat something healthy off the plate even if the broccoli is forever left behind. Others hide vegetables in sauces and burgers and even in desserts with creative recipes that sound absolutely disgusting like chocolate cupcakes with cauliflower puree. Then there’s the drown-veggies-in-melted-cheese approach. Whatever it takes, right?

All I know is that we’re on the mend and that we’ve got an entire week to plan while Asher is on vacation from school and Gabriella is on leave for the foreseeable future. The time is right for dancing in the street-or at least a trip to the grocery store. Cue dancing boys! (I blame/thank our carpool mom-friend for introducing Asher to ABBA. Asher and Levi insist on listening to Mamma Mia - INCESSANTLY!)

The mile high family

Waiting to board a flight at the airport, we all learn a lot about people with whom we might otherwise have limited to no exposure. At Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, you’ve got all kinds. There are people coming in from the corn fields of the Midwest, kids flying to and from their Big 10 Universities, military personnel, corporate flyers hawking their wares, vacationers making transfers to exotic destinations and Chicagoans trying to escape the snow and ice that has rampaged the city. We’re all at the airport-where the stress is high and people-watching just happens.

There are fewer venues where a gay family is more exposed than in a crowded terminal gate at the airport. When your kids are whining, “Mommy!! Mom!!” with their outside voices and hurling their fed-up bodies on top of our respective selves, the structure of our family becomes quite obvious. When Asher was a baby and couldn’t yet talk or refer to us by name, more than one clueless baby-gazer would ask if Gabriella was the Grandmother. While I’d love to tell you that I look 20 years younger than my age and that Gabriella is a dirly old lady and a cradle-robber, in fact, people are simply clueless and had absolutely no point of reference and very little imagination.

We don’t hide who we are. We are proud of our little family, but sometimes we like to keep a low profile. I wouldn’t feel very comfortable wearing a Jewish star in certain parts of this country or many parts of the world, either. There are plenty of people who are far more out, loud and proud of their religions and family make-ups than I, I admit, but I’m also a mother who doesn’t want to put their children in harm’s way, and I don’t necessarily want to be waving my rainbow flag amongst red-state homophobes at the airport; especially red-state homophobes whose flights have been delayed for 3 hours Christmas eve; an ornery lot, indeed. Illinois is blessedly blue, by the way.

I can’t help but feel like we’re under the microscope. It could be that we are the first gay homosexual family that some of these people have ever seen. I imagine the questions they’re asking themselves when I catch someone’s lingering gaze. “How did they get these kids anyway?” “Do these boys show any signs of being gay or overly effeminate?” “Which one of them is the ‘Dad’?” or “If we crash in the middle of nowhere like on ‘Lost’, will they be uber handy and build us all houses...or at least make-out in front of us? Did I pack my video camera...”

It’s not fair, I realize. They could be staring because “some of their best friends are gay” or because they wish they were gay (hey, who doesn’t?) or because they are just grateful that they don’t have to travel with small children. And I know that I have some pretty good conversations with myself while I’m perusing the motley bunch at the airport. I’m sure the assessments I make are entirely more interesting than their real life stories. We do always end up flying with at least one Orthodox Jewish family. I’d swear that when we flew from Chicago after Passover last year, half the plane was booked by Orthodox Jews. The young mother has 4 or 5 kids. Wig often held back with a wide headband. Unflattering dress. Dad is usually bearded. And I know that I spend a disproportionate amount of time staring at this particular population. We’re the same and yet worlds apart. At least we aren’t in uniform. I won’t leave the house if Gabriella and I are dressed remotely similarly, and I don’t even like it when she borrows my lipstick.

Our flight is delayed 3 hours. Once we board, it is delayed an additional 2 hours. We are in a holding pattern outside of Newark for 2 more hours. Once we land, we wait 20 minutes for someone “to come help the pilot park the plane,” and when we do park, we have to wait 15 more minutes because they can’t open the door. After arriving at O’Hare at 10:30 for our 11:50am flight, we finally deplane at Newark at 8PM. Our children have done incredibly well. Levi slept for a bit, and Asher and Gabriella played Uno for hours. “I won so many times! It’s my lucky day!” he said. If only we could all feel so lucky after an entire day on a plane. Not one tantrum. Not one tear. They were a credit to their people.

Just before we left the plane, Rob the delightfully gay flight attendant wished us a happy new year and said, “You have a beautiful family.” So much said in those few words. After a day-long flight with two small children, he definitely didn’t mean we looked pretty. He was giving us the Gay-5. He was saying that he was proud of us and our sweet children and wanted us to know he was a fan. He was the “BEEP BEEP” to the “Honk if you love gay families” shirts we wore that day. Thanks Rob for the nod. It meant a lot to us.

Home. Back in our safe bubble where there are gay families all over the place and a straight population that is happy we’re here-or at least too polite to say otherwise. Now, can anyone please tell me how I can pop my ear that has been clogged since we landed? It’s driving me nuts. What??

Holiday wishes to all

We have been in Chicago for the past 5 days visiting family and friends, and we have entertained the question often as to whether or not we would consider relocating back to Chicago-especially now that Gabriella is job hunting. When the wind chill is -20 degrees, and there are blizzard warnings every time we turn on the news and the cumulative total thus far of snow fall is roughly 3 feet and counting, it is difficult to imagine moving here. It's f-ing freezing people! We waited for an hour at the airport for our luggage because the baggage door on the airplane had frozen shut!

Has this always been considered a habitable climate since the beginning of time? Are you telling me that the Native Americans sat around in their tee-pees all winter huddled in front of fires freezing their tushies off and didn't once think that it might be better somewhere else? Not one of them had a distant relative in another tribe in Miami (maybe someone who married out of the tribe perhaps) who sent a smoke signal or two inviting them to pack up their moccasins and move south where the weather was warm all year round? "They had a lot of blankets," Gabriella explained to me. She's got an answer for everything. In fact, there are a lot of things we could learn from the Native Americans and Eskimos about keeping warm, but I still can't believe that this was a happy time of year for everyone. Cold is cold.

Truth be told, there are probably just as many reasons we'd consider moving back to the frozen tundra of Chicago as there were reasons that people of yesteryear would never have considered leaving - having nothing to do with the Bears, deep dish pizza, Frank Lloyd Wright and certainly not leaders like Rod Blagojevich. Each reason comes complete with a name and story that defines us and connects us to this f-ing cold city forever. Each reason has a name. They are the names of friends and family – members of our tribe who make life complete especially if you are lucky to have friends and family like ours. That's not to say that we don't have other close friends and family members in other cities. But the biggest concentration is here-where I grew up and where Gabriella and I met 15 years ago. We didn't start dating until months into our friendship, but that's another story if anyone cares to hear about how she relentlessy pursued me until I had no choice but to succumb to her advances. (That's my story, anyway. She can write her own blog is she's got something to say about it.)

Normally, I dread the winter holidays. In the autumn months, we have to get through 379 Jewish holidays (more or less), both boys' birthdays and Thanksgiving. By the time we hit Chanukah and New Years, I've had just about enough celebrating. Then there's the constant reminder of Christmas everywhere we turn. I'm all for getting into the spirit of whatever holiday(s) you celebrate, but I'd have to be in a coma to avoid all the Christmas PR beginning at about Halloween and seeping into every mode of mass communication known to humankind. The minute we deplaned our aircraft upon arrival into Chicago, we came face to face with Santa Claus and his joyous lady assistant offering us a Polaroid picture with the man in red. Once I established that they weren't going to hit us up for cash, we politely obliged. The boys had no idea who this guy was but he seemed jovial enough, and we were soon on our merry way to baggage claim with a photo of the family with Santa Claus tucked into a cardboard frame that we'll display next to the photo of Asher with Dora the Explorer on a recent excursion to Mommy's office.

What I can appreciate about this time of year inspite of the gag-worthy Christmas marketing is the focus on giving to others and appreciating what you have. After the few days in this inhospitable climate, we are still grateful for having spent time with our tribe. We have an amazing family (and by family, I mean relations and friends) who constantly remind us how lucky we are. And even though both of our boys have suffered from various illnesses throughout our trip which have prevented us from getting one good night sleep and forced us to do 10 times the loads of laundry, I can still say that Chicago looks pretty good to us. It could be that we've had one too many festive drinks throughout our visit, but I'm pretty sure that after we've returned home and detoxed for a few days, we'll still feel the pull of our tribe.

Whatever you celebrate, however you celebrate and regardless of whether or not you celebrate anything at all, I do hope that you are surrounded by love as we have been this season. That kind of love gets you through just about everthing whether it's unemployment, freezing cold temperatures or sleepless nights due to sickly children. It's a powerful gift I wish for you all. Happy holidays!

(Photo from Tribune 1936)

Happy Birthday, Gabriella

Happy Birthday, Gabriella! My lovely um, partner in civil union? Domestic partner? Wife? Life partner? Special friend? Soul mate? Ack-I’m gagging on that phrase--call me romantic. Well, the good news is that we don’t need a label to know what we are to each other-though it would have made these first few sentences a lot shorter.

For those of you know Gabriella, I’m sure she’d love to hear from you via email or phone. Feel free to use the comment section below, as well. Gabriella is always the first to read my blog. Not only is it a nice gesture to deliver well wishes on someone’s birthday, but Gabriella has had a tough year and could use a little spirit-lifting. Getting laid-off is not exactly how she planned to kick-start her 44th birthday. Hey, I can't help using guilt to solicit birthday wishes. It's a Jewish thing.

Gabriella, I’m not going to use this public forum to tell you what you deserve to hear in person. Suffice it to say that Levi, Asher and I love you very much, and we hope you have a wonderful day and fantastic year. You have made our lives better, richer and funner (so?).

Like another person whose birthday is today but perhaps is a few years younger than you, you are beautiful-no matter what they say! Happy Birthday Christina and Gabriella!

Not so hot yoga

I finally made it to the gym! I’m giving myself extra-credit for going in the evening, after a long day and just as the icy snow started to fall and mess up the streets. It’s much more difficult to get it together and go when I had no intention of joining a gym in the first place. Peer pressure to join and guilt about not joining and letting my body continue to expand at its current, consistent rate of growth. It’s not pretty. Even less pretty is the reflection of my body in the mirror just before the hot yoga class I took.

Body image issues? Absolutely. Who doesn’t have issues? That’s a rhetorical question. If you don’t have body image issues, you don’t need to share. Overall, I do think I have an objective view of myself. I’m not fat, but I’ve got a few extra non-muscular (read pure fat) pounds insulating me this winter, and I’m way out of shape. I’m 40. I’ve carried and birthed two kids. But beyond the excuses, there is the fact that I eat a lot and I’m not very active. Sadly, I haven’t yet determined what, if anything, I am going to do with all that junk-all that junk inside my trunk.

People don’t always see me as the walking pear that I am because I’ve got a little head. I know it sounds funny, but it’s true. A small head is as thinning as wearing black. That same optical illusion makes me appear taller, as well. I also look good in hats though I can’t usually find hats that will fit my unusually small head, and I am prone to hat-head. Shame.

I catch myself in the wall mirror of the studio. My belly is cascading over my workout shorts as I sit in Sukhasana Pose-or as anyone with pre-school children knows is really Criss-Cross-Apple Sauce Position. My tummy is a peculiar kind of soft. It’s beyond flabby. Basically, the only thing that’s keeping my fat from oozing out of my stomach is the layer of skin encasing it. Delightful.

The room is warm but not as hot as I anticipated it would be. In the Before Children Era (BCE), I took Bikram Yoga classes. The room was 110 degrees, and the class kicked my ass for 90 minutes. After every class, I felt completely rejuvenated, detoxified and strong. I hoped that this class would give me a similar feeling.

The room was not that hot. Strike One. The class would be an hour long as opposed to the 90 minute Bikram class. Strike Two. The instructor was, like the room, not so hot. I don’t mean that she wasn’t attractive. Not my type, but she was fine. I just mean that she wasn’t very good. She didn’t help any of us correct or improve our poses or talk to us about the benefits each pose was supposed to offer. She just kind of did her thing. Strike Three. But wait, there’s more, and it’s going to make me look bad. But hey, when has that ever stopped me? I couldn’t get past the instructor’s Jersey accent. As we sat in easy pose preparing for the session, she asked us to close our eyes and “rid ourselves of distracting thu-wauts. Try to focus on your breathe and not on the thu-wauts of the day”. What? I should rid myself of distracting thu-wauts? You mean like, “How can I relax when this woman keeps saying ‘thu-wauts?”

Throughout the class, I had to keep my mind off of other distracting thu-wauts, like “How many times does the guy on the next mat have to accidentally brush my extended arm before I can be sure he’s touching me on purpose. Ew.” “I’m so glad I didn’t have to pay extra for this class.” “I really need a pedicure.” The only thing worse than trying to suppress these thu-wauts was the horror of downward dog and all other positions that forced my belly to succumb to gravity and dangle off of my body and reach for the floor. I had nowhere else to look but at the pendulous mass attached to my midriff. I tried to adjust my waistband – hiking it up to hold my stomach in place. A temporary solution at best. In those moments, I swore off chocolate and chips, and I vowed to come to the gym on a regular basis, but I’ve already surrendered to chocolate Chanukah gelt.

My tummy wasn’t the only traitorous body part. I’m just not as taught as I used to be – anywhere. The combination of birthing children and foregoing my Kegel exercises makes sneezing and yoga dangerous activities. There are all sorts of charming phrases referring to the air that is expelled out of the lady-bits during yoga or sex or hanging upside down on trapezes. (I’ve only heard tell about the trapezes. Really!) My favourite of the many terms is “queef”. I think it sounds French, n’est ce pas? And while others figure out their drag queen names by pairing the name of their first pet with the name of the road of their childhood home (mine being Mitzie Rosemary), I prefer the name Queef Latina. Admittedly, I have spent too much time thinking about it.

I made it through the class with only a few beads of sweat to show for it. There were some poses that were challenging, and I know I did benefit from the class. It was no Bikram, but it was helluvalot better than sitting at home eating chocolate. I’ll give it another go with a different instructor and see how I feel. In the meantime, I’m definitely going to do more Kegels, and I’m not going to eat anymore Chanukah gelt....because I ate it all.

Babies R Us-All of us

Lifetime Television is going to air a new documentary series focusing on women and couples facing fertility challenges. An associate of the production company contacted Family Equality Council looking for lesbian couples currently experiencing challenges with fertility. While the series is not LGBT-focused, the company wants to include the wide range of family types that could be facing these issues.

From the production company:

Be a part of a groundbreaking documentary series for Lifetime TV. We are currently casting individuals or couples who want to create a family but are struggling to do so.

We are looking for individuals or couples undergoing treatment who are willing to share their experiences with the world in the hopes of providing support, education, and guidance about a subject that many people still know very little about–infertility.

We are committed to telling the real stories of those of you that are currently navigating your way through the world of infertility treatments and we hope this will draw attention to the struggles that you endure in your journey to have a family.

We know that there are many, many eye opening stories to tell; whether you’re a single woman who has made the courageous decision to go it alone, a couple who has decided to turn to surrogacy, a same sex couple trying to build a family, or a couple about to go through their first cycle of IVF. We know that you have unique stories that have the power to inform and shed light on an issue that most know nothing about.

If you have a unique story and are currently going through treatment for infertility we want to talk to you.

If interested in speaking with the production company, please email dustin.kight@familyequality.org as soon as possible. They’d like to cast by the end of the year. Production begins mid-January.

Breaking up is hard to do

I envy the life of a working parent occasionally. When Gabriella did have a job, she would leave the house and get a grown-up cup of coffee and talk to grown-ups about grown-up things on the train and then spend the day at work with other grown-ups talking about grown-up things. She earned a respectable income working in a grown-up world. She impressed friends at dinner parties with her grown-up sounding job title. I find that the longer and more innocuous the title, the more impressive it sounds-as long as “Special Projects” is not included. “Special Projects” is another way of saying, I am involuntarily one foot out the door, and someone is going to shove me right out as soon as my back is turned. Then again, “Special Projects” still sounds better than “I’m home with the kids”. I’m not fishing. I’m just saying-

Grass is always greener, I realize. There are plenty of working parents who envy the life of the stay-at-home parent. They miss spending quality time with their kids, and they might even miss spending time with their partners. If you’re a single income family like we are, there’s a lot of pressure for that working parent to support the family-make good money-stay employ...oops. Sorry, honey. And I do appreciate the “perks” of my gig. I run my own shop. I don’t have to worry about job security, and I can wear the same pair of jeans day after day until they start walking on their own. What? My knickers are clean!

I whinge a lot about the mind-numbing day-to-day chore of raising small children. Some people thrive at home with their kids. Arts & crafts projects, field-trips, educational games, extra-curricular cultural activities-they are deliriously happy to participate in the miracle of child development with their precious children, and the things they can do with a the cardboard paper towel tube would blow your mind. I have to stay clear of these parents. I am in awe, but they make me feel bad. I choose, instead, to roll with other parents who don’t look at an over-tired, whining 5 year old and see a teaching opportunity.

Another challenge I face at home with the littles is that I don’t have my people around me-my grown up people. We moved here 2 years ago, and I had to find new people-people who only knew me as a mini-van driving stay-at-home mother. Gabriella had only to find her way to the Starbucks and the New Jersey Transit train. My problem-I’m not just a people person, I’m a People Whore. I need people, so I’ll dive right in fast and furiously. And I’m not very discerning at first which gets me into trouble. Part of my dysfunction is compounded by the fact that I’m at home with the children, and I’m desperate to have grown-up conversation. I’m thinking I wouldn’t rush in if I had the benefit of grown-up company as a working parent.

So, my first point of call, mothers. Now, just because you have kids, you can’t assume that you’ll be fast friends. It’s also difficult to ascertain how much you have in common during a play-date because it’s virtually impossible to complete a sentence when you’ve got little kids. If your kids don’t get along, you can kiss that friend good-bye until your children are in school and you can find time to meet up without them. Or you can schedule evening time with a new friend and your partners. You really have to want to make the effort if you’re going to try to co-ordinate 4 schedules and sacrifice one of your evenings for people you don’t know when the odds are you won’t all get along anyway. And, no matter how much in common you have with someone you’re first getting to know, you just don’t know who’s going to end up with the last key at the end of the day. Allow me to explain.

Everything I learned about relationships, I learned from Tila Tequila. You may have missed this in-depth look at romance and the psyche of the modern, single woman if you had mistakenly tuned in to public television. In fact, it was MTV that aired the emotional highs and lows of a young woman in search of love and the suitors who fought to win her heart. Some viewers cast aspersions claiming that the series was nothing more than an excuse to parade scantily clad men and women on national television engaging in behaviour that was arguably um, trashy and definitely not fit for viewers under the age of 16. This may be so, but there were lessons to be learned. If you missed them, you were clearly to blame for allowing yourself to be distracted by girls dancing around in thong bikinis and men whose abs were much more impressive than their personalities. Shame on you!

If you are not familiar with the program A Shot of Love with Tila Tequila, the premise is simple. All of Tila’s suitors are given a key in the beginning of the program. Over the course of the series, Tila gets to know everyone better, deeper. Her admirers compete in contests testing their physical abilities, courage and absolute disregard for their own self-respect to prove their love for her. Every week, the keys are reissued, but one contestant is not given a key and is tearfully sent home. As much as Tila grew to care for each and every person, she sought the love and compatibility of that one, special someone with whom she could grow old-or at least with whom she could look super hot. Tila broke hearts, and her own heart died a little each time she had to say, “I thought we had something, but then I realized...not so much.” And each one would leave the house of love completely gobsmacked. “This is so bogus! I love her!!” But sometimes, we all have to face the fact that just because you may hit it off with someone initially, you just might end up withholding that key at some point because you come to the realization-not so much.

WARNING: There is absolutely nothing redeeming about the attached clip.


I’ve had to make peace with the fact that some of the friends I met during “my first week of orientation” here in suburbia are not in my life anymore or perhaps don’t play as prominent a role as they once did. It doesn’t take away from the fun we had or the connection we felt that was strong and true. No matter how many dates you’ve had or how much your kids might like each other, sometimes, you grow apart. Sometimes, it's not personal. Your lives take different paths and you might get involved in various activities or causes or hobbies. Key or no key, we should all be able to move on and feel good about ourselves and the choices we've made.

I post this at the risk of sparking unnecessary paranoia amongst my friends. I did not start to write this entry with any one friend in mind. Don't ask me if I was referring to you in that blog I wrote. Give a girl a minute to write about something topical without having to worry about freaking you all out! I was actually inspired to write about the break-up phenomenon because I can’t help but notice that a number of people I know from various parts of the country and different parts of my life are dealing with the awkward, sometimes painful, experience of breaking up in the burbs. In the suburbs, you can’t run, and you can’t hide, and that makes break-ups uncomfortable at best. Sometimes, there’s a falling out. Sometimes, there’s no one to blame. In every case, my friends are hurting because they withheld their key or a key was not returned to them. I say to you all, cut yourselves some slack. Don’t discount the love you felt for these friends once upon a time. I’m sure you are all better for the connection you once shared regardless of how long it was to last. Thank you, Tila, for showing us the light.

Bits of bits

For Baby S born 17 November 2008.

You can’t fully comprehend the surreal experience of the brit milah (circumcision) until you’ve been a mother of a Jewish boy. It’s one thing to hand your newborn son over to a doctor who performs circumcision out of view – quickly, efficiently and without fuss. It’s an entirely different matter when you’re expected to throw a party 8 days after birthing a baby where everyone gathers to witness the removal of your son’s foreskin over bagels and lox.

It’s tough to be proud of ritual circumcision when so many of us these days are in the business of promoting the health and safety of humankind. Motherhood has helped me become acutely aware of health issues affecting our society. I support sustainable farming. I am a natural birth advocate. We send our children to an integrative pediatrician. The last thing you’d think we’d do is allow someone to take a knife to our helpless, newborn sons and remove their foreskins for no apparent health benefits. If I weren’t Jewish, I wouldn’t do it.

Some non-Jewish friends have chosen to circumcise their sons because they want father and son to have the same equipment. Obviously, this is not an issue for us. Of course, I could make a terribly inappropriate comment about the fact that most strap-ons are molded in the shape of circumcised willies, but then I’d be implying that a) we own a strap-on and that b) our sons would ever have the opportunity to compare their willies with the alleged strap on. As I will not confirm or deny the existence of said strap-on, I choose not to make the inappropriate comment.

I can’t intellectualize circumcision for those who rally against it. If you can suspend your moralizing long enough to appreciate cultural differences and respect a ritual that is as old as dirt, you might be able to understand the significance of the event. If not, feel free to “change the channel” and skip to another entry. I won’t be engaging in a debate about circumcision, so kindly keep your judgments to yourself.

So there we were; gathered in our lounge waiting to remove Asher’s foreskin on our dining room table. Our mohel was a star. He talked about the history of the ceremony and significance of each part of the ritual. He helped everyone appreciate that they were a part of something important. He put us all at ease throughout the procedure-walking us through every step with a calming tone. If I hadn’t been such a post-birth mess, I would have actually enjoyed the experience. Gabriella, on the other hand, was more traumatized than Asher. She stood in the corner of our flat-staring out the window weeping the entire time, bless her cotton socks.

And when all was said and done, the mohel asked us, “So, what are you going to do with the foreskin?” What?!? Who knew anyone was supposed to DO anything with the foreskin? I birthed my first baby a week ago. I’m spouting milk like an open fire hydrant in the middle of August. I’m lumbering around the house in my maternity clothes and the enormous, medieval pad stuck between my legs. Sweaty. Dizzy from not eating or sleeping and being in a constant state of new-mother shock. I haven’t left my bed since we brought baby home let alone hosted a party. I don’t even like lox. And now, this guy who knows way more about the Jewish tradition of circumcision than I ever will know asks me what I’m planning to do with the foreskin.

“What are we supposed to do with it,” we ask.

“Most people bury it.” And he handed us Asher’s foreskin wrapped neatly in gauze that was sealed with surgical tape. Because we could think of no other response, we accepted the package (so to speak) and nodded indicating that we would do exactly was expected of us. We thanked him for his help and paid him an exorbitant amount of money before sending him on his way. I guess you can’t really justify shopping for bargains when you’re dealing with your child’s bits.

When the last guest had congratulated us and gone home with the left-over lox, we lay with Asher in our bed. He was fast asleep. We agreed that it went as well as could be expected and regretted not having asked anyone to take pictures. We learned our lesson the second time around and documented Levi’s bris. “And what about the foreskin?” I asked Gabriella. “I guess we need to bury it.” “Where? We live in a flat with no outside space. You don’t want to bury it with one of our plants, do you?” “No!” “Do we bury it in Highgate Woods?” “Maybe we should wait until we’re in the U.S. and bury it somewhere there.” The conversation was absurd. It was as if we were trying to figure out where to spread our ashes. We couldn’t decide what to do. And, my friends, I must confess that we still have not decided what to do. That’s right. We are still in possession of Asher’s foreskin! I know. Bonkers. Not to worry, however. It is in a secure location and out of view.

Why haven’t we buried it in our back yard here in South Orange, New Jersey? I don’t know. Maybe because we don’t yet feel like this is home. Maybe we feel the need to identify a more significant-possibly spiritual-location. Or maybe we just like to freak out friends who come for dinner when we tell them that Asher’s foreskin may have been accidentally grated into to the marinade. Now that our little secret is out and published, it might be time to literally and figuratively bury the remains of Asher’s circumcision.

Levi was born here in the U.S. Obviously, we had to employ a different mohel to conduct the bris. He was an Israeli mohel, but the bris was strictly American. He passed out refrigerator magnets marketing his services to all our guests and boasted that he had also been the mohel for Jerry Seinfeld’s son, Julian. Levi’s mohel never asked us what we planned to do with his foreskin. I’m hoping that he took it upon himself to bury it somewhere. Maybe Levi’s foreskin is buried next to Julian Seinfeld’s and a tree is growing out of the soil that is fertilized by bits of their bits. A girl can dream, can’t she?

Celebrate not tolerate

What to do now that my partner is unemployed and home all day. Every day. Sleep late? Go to the gym? Get my nails done? Get busy with my lady friend in the middle of the day? Nope though that last one would be particularly nice. None of the above bar an aforementioned nap that was a health imperative. I still wake up every morning to make breakfast for the boys. I’m still on the morning carpool shift for pre-school. And, I continue to do laundry which is the only chore related to housewifery that I can bear to do. It’s not to say that all of those things won’t come in time. For now, routine normalcy is key to our transition to life on the dole.

I would like to take advantage of Gabriella’s presence at home, but I’ve got to ease into it. Tonight I dipped my toe in the water and left Gabriella with the boys while I attended the Garden State Equality Town Hall Meeting in South Orange, New Jersey to rally around gay marriage. Steven Goldstein,chair of Garden State Equality (no relation) hosted the evening. Stuart Milk, Harvey Milk’s nephew, addressed us along with a long list of speakers who hoisted me back in the saddle on a horse called I-DO-give-a-rat’s-ass-and-I-want-to-do-something-about-it. Bear with me as I break from my light-hearted approach to life. I need to step on the soap box tonight, but I promise not to make a habit of it.

I arrived 5 minutes before show time and got the last parking spot available. Activist gays are prompt gays. I sat in a hot, crowded room with 150+ people – gay and straight and everything else in between and otherwise – and listened to all that we are denied. Before the first speaker, we watched the trailer from the Oscar winning documentary, Freeheld - the story of Lieutenant Laurel Hester and her partner Stacie. Laurel Hester was fighting a losing battle with cancer and fighting the law in order to leave her pension benefits to her life partner, Stacie. Stacie would not have been able to keep their house after Laurel's impending death. After spending a lifetime fighting for justice for other people, Laurel - a veteran New Jersey detective - launched a final battle for justice. With the help of her fellow police officers, their community and Garden State Equality, they won the battle though Laurel passed away before their rights were granted.



Speaker after speaker relayed stories of injustice due to ignorance or, in most cases, refusal to uphold the rights granted by civil union. One woman was prevented from seeing her partner who had been rushed to the ER at a hospital in New Jersey. She got into an argument with the attending physician about whether or not she did, in fact, have the right to any information regarding her partner. Reluctantly, after a lengthy discussion about the law and the definition of civil union, the doctor, we’ll call him Dr. Bellend, gave in and provided her with information about her partner in emergency care.

According to the Garden State Equality website, at least one in five companies deny equal benefits to civil-unioned employees because the companies don’t respect the label “civil union”. To date, Garden State Equality has received complaints from 1,502 people in civil unions stating that their rights have been denied. This represents just under half of all of the civil unions in New Jersey.

Gabriella and I are partners in civil union. In addition to civil union being an impossibly clumsy phrase (are we partners in civil union? civil unionized?), I can’t tell you off the top of my head what that means and what it doesn’t. I know that it is not marriage in name or in federal law. And if I can’t rattle off all the rights that have been incrementally doled out to me by the civil union law in New Jersey, you can only imagine how little the population at large knows or even chooses to know. The few rights it does provide partners in New Jersey are not even upheld by its businesses, unions or service providers. On Wednesday, December 10, The New Jersey Civil Union Commission issued its final report proclaiming what we’ve known all along. The civil union law is a failure, and there is no equality without a marriage equality law.

Until that meeting, I didn’t quibble about the term. Marriage. Civil Union. Domestic Partnership. Coupletude. I didn’t care what you called it as long as everyone received the same rights and benefits. I’ve changed my mind. I do that occasionally. Everyone knows what marriage is and few know what civil union is including them there those who gottem. Semantics matter. I want equality, and I want marriage.

I also want an improved economy. According to Frank Vespa-Papaleo, Director of the New Jersey Division on Civil Rights, if marriage were legalized in New Jersey, the state would receive $19 million in tax revenue. He also estimated that gay marriage would inject $300 million in new commerce so desperately needed by small businesses statewide. And the way these gays would do weddings (and recalling our wedding bill), I consider that to be a conservative estimate.

Harvey Milk predicted equality. He didn’t necessarily know when it would come to pass, but he knew that it would. His nephew Stuart Milk was 17 in 1978 when his uncle was killed. He had just come out. Stuart gave the final address of the evening. Stuart is encouraged by the activism that has risen from the muck of Prop 8. He reminded us of his uncle’s message. Each of us must continue to do as Gandhi, Martin Luther King and Harvey Milk had done and stand up to fear. The fear that prohibited marriage between Asians in the 1950s and blacks and whites until 1967 is the same fear that allows us to deny equality to all our citizens today. Hey, is someone humming “America the Beautiful”? Where was I? Oh yes. There’s work to be done, and we can all do a little something – even if it’s just talking the talk and reminding friends and family that this is a civil rights issue, and we should all be in the business of protecting our civil rights.

In New Jersey? Garden State Equality has prewritten an email to Governor Corzine and legislators for you to send within a matter of seconds. I've made it nice and simple for you. CLICK HERE

Thanks to Steven Milk, Naomi Cohen and Gina Patino, Steven Goldstein and Frank Vespa-Papoleo pictured above who were some of the many key speakers working so hard to fight a battle we should all be fighting.

Can someone help me down from this soap box now? Heights make me nauseous, and I've got a bunch of legislators to call.

It's all good

I’d like to personally thank Gabriella’s company for laying her off. She still has some papers to sign-something about promising not to litigate, blah blah blah, so I think it’s best if I don’t refer to the company by its actual name. Going forward, we will refer to her previous employer as Shmiacom (pron. SHMYE-uh-COM) so that the company owned by a man we will henceforth call Shmumner Shmedstone will be anonymous. So, thank you Shmiacom for all the benefits of unemployment.

You may ask, “Has unemployment driven you mad? Should someone be escorting you to a padded, white room?” No. (That’s Italian for “no”) To date, we are still not impoverished. We have not sifted through a single rubbish bin, and we haven’t been rationing food or pawning our most valuable of possessions which is a good thing because we don’t really have any valuable possessions. It has become our mission to be ever so grateful for all that redundancy has allowed us. Par example, (that’s French for “for example”) Sunday night, friends came over to toast Gabriella’s lay-off from Shmiacom with all the fixings for Grapetinis. Had she not been let-go, they might not have come over and they might not have come over bearing alcohol. How we enjoyed Grapetinis by the fire with good friends. Thank you, Shmiacom!

MINDY’S GRAPETINIS
The recipe is so simple that you can mix it even when you are inebriated. Combine equal parts of white grape juice and Ciroc grape vodka. Shake and serve with frozen white grapes. Yum!

Monday morning, I was feeling a little weary due to the Grapetinis and the late night company. I made breakfast for the boys as usual, but I only had to take one boy to school. Until you’re a parent of 2 or more, you can’t appreciate what load-off it is to ditch one while schlepping the other. It’s the little things that make such a big difference.

When I arrived home after stopping at a Coffee Shoppe to pick up a soy misto for my lady friend, I took a nap - - a delicious, luxurious and oh-so-appreciated nap. And I would not have been able to take said cheeky nap had Miss Gabriella not been laid-off.

I woke up refreshed and ready to pick up Asher at school-but not before sampling one of the many dishes that Gabriella had prepared whilst I slept. It was as if during my few hours of slumber, wee kitchen elves had stolen into our house and, taking pity on our recent predicament, magically produced a gourmet feast for our blessed little family. Chinese chicken thighs, beef stew with butternut squash, wheat pasta ziti and flaxseed pasta in a tomato spinach sauce. Beautifully prepared dishes and the most delectable aromas you can imagine. Gabriella, our wee little cooking elf had struck. Thankfully, we have a chest freezer. I’m thinking we start taking orders from neighborhood families just to keep the little lady busy.

Last night, I joined a friend for a writing workshop in the city. My attendance was tentative due to childcare, as usual. Once again, I have Shmiacom to thank for the freedom to spend some me-time in the city with my friend hobnobbing with artists and using my grown-up words.

Most appreciated of all is the outpouring of support we have received and continue to receive from our friends and family. Look, I can keep it all in perspective. We are not living in a war-torn country. We have our health. We have a beautiful family. And it is unlikely that we will end up on the streets. But, getting sacked hurts, and our people have been our emotional rocks during these uncertain times. I know it’s corny, but it’s true. With friends like ours, we feel like the richest lesbians in town!

Ok, over the top but fitting for the holidays. Makes me tear up every time.



GABRIELLA’S RECIPE FOR BEEF STEW A LA SHMIACOM
Adapted from Cooking Light’s beef stew
Ingredients
• 4 tablespoons olive oil, divided
• 1 pound small cremini mushrooms
• 2 cups chopped onion
• .5 cup chopped scallions
• 3 garlic cloves, minced
• 1/3 cup potato flour (about 1 1/2 ounces)
• 2 pounds lean beef stew meat, cut into bite-sized pieces
• 3/4 teaspoon salt, divided
• 1 cup dry red wine
• 1 tablespoon chopped fresh thyme
• 2 (14-ounce) cans less-sodium beef broth or vegetable stock
• 1 bay leaf
• 2 cups (3/4-inch) cubed peeled butternut squash (about 1 pound)
• 1 1/2 cups (1-inch) slices carrot (about 12 ounces)
• 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
• 1 tablespoon honey
• 2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
• Fresh thyme sprigs (optional)

Preparation
Heat 1 tablespoon olive oil in a large Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add mushrooms, and sauté for 5 minutes or until mushrooms begin to brown. Spoon mushrooms into a large bowl. Lightly coat pan with more olive oil. Add onion; sauté 10 minutes or until tender and golden brown. Add garlic; sauté 1 minute. Add onion mixture to mushroom mixture.

Place potato flour in a shallow bowl or pie plate. Dredge beef in flour, shaking off excess. Heat 2 tablespoons oil in pan over medium-high heat. Add half of beef mixture; sprinkle with 1/8 teaspoon salt. Cook 6 minutes, browning on all sides. Add browned beef to mushroom mixture. Repeat procedure with remaining beef mixture and 1/8 teaspoon salt.

Add 1 cup wine to pan, scraping pan to loosen browned bits. Add thyme, broth, and bay leaf; bring to a boil. Stir in beef mixture. Cover, reduce heat to medium-low, and simmer for 1 – 2 hours or until beef is just tender.

Stir in butternut squash and carrot. Simmer, uncovered, 1 hour. Add vinegar and honey and continue to simmer uncovered for another 30mins or until beef and vegetables are very tender and sauce is thick, stirring occasionally. Add more liquid if necessary. Stir in remaining 1/2 teaspoon salt and pepper. Discard bay leaf. Garnish with thyme sprigs, if desired.

G-Watch Y2K

Yesterday, Peaches & Coconuts enjoyed the highest amount of traffic to date. It could be that word of my delightfully entertaining prose has spread across cyberspace. Or it could be that, as mentioned previously, the dire state of camel toe is reaching devastatingly dangerous levels, and our global community is researching the situation. (I use the word “situation” purposefully because a friend of ours and her entire family has always referred to lady bits as a “situation” making news broadcasts, classroom lessons and dinner party conversation much funnier given the wide usage of the term.) Or, as Gabriella more appropriately pointed out, “They clearly want to read about ME.” Me – meaning Gabriella. News of her unemployment is slowly spreading, and friends and loyal readers are tuning in to get the skinny.

G-WATCH Y2K. Gabriella seems to be holding up ok and has begun to assign herself projects around the house. Two days after lay-off, she has already painted a corner section of our bedroom ceiling that caved in while the roof was being replaced. She has also committed to fix our bed frame. Long story-not interesting. The short of it is that the day that we brought Levi home from the birth center, our globally cool but cheap wooden bed frame that we shipped from Bali to London and then to New Jersey fell apart. We had a metal bed frame in the attic, but one corner sticks out, and if you’re not careful, you’ll get speared in the leg when you’re running to the loo. Oh and by the way, she’s cleaning out the refrigerator while I write. It’s true that there has recently been a foul pong emanating from our refrigerator, and a good clean was in order.

Two days before Gabriella was laid-off, I joined a gym. I wasn’t even looking to join a gym. That’s not to say that I don’t need the exercise. Boy do I! I’m currently storing fat for the winter-eating everything in front of me and to the side of me and way over there trying to hide from me-including whatever is left of the meals I prepare for my children. The most exercise I get in a day is walking to and from the MV (mini van). Winter is not a good time for me to stay fit.

I don’t know how it happened. A friend joined this gym and proclaimed, “I have just joined Disneyland for grown-ups”. It’s a country-club without the golf course. I call it MOMMY HEAVEN. It’s open 24/7. There’s a child-minding activity center where I can drop off my kids, and they can play or do arts & crafts or use the computer lab. There are 2 outdoor pools; one shallow family pool with mushroom capped sprinkler fountains and one massive pool with colossal water slides. There’s an indoor lap pool and general family swimming pool along with 2 Jacuzzi pools. Inside the women’s locker room, there is a sauna and a eucalyptus infused steam room. There’s a rock climbing area where you can belay or rock climb and they offer lessons for kids who are 5 and older. Asher has been interested in rock climbing since visiting our friends in New Paltz. There’s a salon, a cafe with healthy meals for grown-ups and kids, all the classes you can imagine, I could go on. The pièce de resistance? The month-to-month contract! You’re not kicking yourself 2 months later when you’re sitting at home berating yourself for not going to the gym while said gym automatically sucks your bank account dry every month for a year. Bally’s it’s not.

Knowing all the features that awaited me, I knew that if made the journey, I would not be able to leave without signing on the dotted line. I was torn. I’m a stay-at-home-mother. Total output. It’s difficult, nay impossible, for me to justify spending money on myself alone. My plan was to start working out again when both boys were in school full-time so that I could at least take classes without having to pay a baby-sitter. And that would happen in about, um, 4 years. That was until I became the Meat Lady at our synagogue. Though it’s not something I plan to put on my resume, I am now earning a small stipend for my efforts to help peddle meat. It just so happens that the money I earn from hawking ethical, kosher meat is exactly the monthly fee for MOMMY HEAVEN. Maybe it’s a reward from God for supporting sustainable farming. No, I’m not serious. I call Gabriella-who is still at work and still employed that day-and I tell her about MOMMY HEAVEN and that I can cover the cost of the gym with my Meat Lady money. She says, “It’s your money, honey. If that’s what you want to do with it, join the gym.” “But, why is your money our money, and why is my money my money?” “Join the gym, Deborah.” “I’ll think about it.” I got in the car. I turned the key in the ignition, and that’s when I knew I was toast.

Now, Gabriella has no job. Oh, pickles! What to do? We’re floating on a package for the next few months, but a fiscally responsible person would save every penny for the unlikely instance that we might both end up unemployed and earning no income. Of course, I could always get a job. I might not earn as much as Gabriella given my 5 year absence from paid employment, but we’d downsize...take in laundry...sell an organ or two. Now I can realize the dream that I’ve always had. I can open a brothel! My business acumen could finally be put to good use-"where it's always a business doing pleasure with you". I have always felt that I was destined to be a Madame but silly things have stood in the way of my dream – like the social stigma and the law. I could be a bra-fitter at a fancy department store, or with a little training I’d be happy to do bikini waxing. Gabriella is not impressed with any of these options. So, I’m going to keep my gym membership and see if she’s not singing a different tune in a few months. In the meantime, I’ll be gathering names of my mommy friends who’d like to earn a few bucks on the side should my dream come true.

The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas


And for my gay homosexual boys:

From bankers to broadway

I was half-way through the follow up entry to the Prop 8: The Musical when our lives took a bit of a detour. I was going to talk about the demise of Broadway given that it was Marc Shaiman, Hairspray’s composer, who wrote Prop 8: The Musical and was the piano player in the video. I was going to talk about how sad it is that so many musicals will be gone in the new year: Spamalot, Young Frankenstein, 13, Grease, Spring Awakening AND Hairspray.

As a Jew and a gay homosexual, I'm deeply saddened for me and all the other Jews and gay homosexuals who are either out of a job or who will have only a handful of musicals to see in the foreseeable future. Oh the insanity! What's next? Chinese food restaurants? What are my people supposed to do for Christmas?

I went to bed thinking about how the economy is affecting us all from bankers to Broadway, and I was going to write some sort of deeply profound commentary about birth and rebirth and this time of change. Actually, I don’t think I’m capable of writing a deeply profound commentary, but it sounded good. The goal was to get a good night’s sleep so that I could revisit this blog with fresh eyes and new ideas, but my children had other plans. Asher had a fever and was up and down all night long. The little one was up all night, too, for no apparent reason. It was a rare and horrible night because they were both up all f-ing night. Asher would finally fall asleep and then Levi would start kicking off and eventually wake his brother. Whining, moaning, crying all night long.

I've been in a haze all day today. Gabriella was supposed to attend a meeting locally and spend the rest of the day working from home, but she chose not to go to the meeting so that she could sleep while I made the boys breakfast, got them dressed and surrendered to the television. Luckily, Asher's fever broke and Levi had a very successful poop that seemed to right whatever wrongs he had been suffering. If only I could solve all my woes with a good bowel movement.

It was after Gabriella woke up to get on a conference call that she read an email about the 850 lay-offs at her company. She called her boss and learned that after 16 years there, her last day was to be tomorrow. She was made redundant as they say in the UK. No bowel movement was going to right this wrong though it was certainly shitty news. Needless to say, Gabriella was not a happy camper. After many encouraging phone calls with friends and colleagues and 2 or 3 or…some bloody marys, Gabriella was feeling hopeful about the road ahead.

Once upon a time this company was a great place to work. Young, creative people ran the show, and employees were proud to work there. Almost everyone felt as if they were a part of something exciting no matter what their age or title. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that there was also a lot of partying and hooking up and what seemed like limitless expense accounts. Like many other successful companies, this one grew and matured and became the massive corporation it is today. It’s a solid place to work, but it’s unlikely anyone feels like they are developing professionally or learning about the industry let alone having much fun.

In many ways, we’re fortunate. Gabriella had been considering a job change for a while, and her company did her a favor by showing her the door and handing her enough change to take the panic out of the next few months. It is difficult, of course, to deal with the inevitable fear of the unknown, but we have faith-faith in ourselves to move on and land on our feet. I do NOT believe that everything happens for a reason, so don’t even think about hurling that crap at me. There is no pre-determined plan at work. Things went pear-shaped because the economy sucks, and things will work out because Gabriella has a vast amount of experience and is well respected in her industry and has fantastic friends who are already reaching out to help her find another job. (Keep it coming, friends!)

I hope she gets a job soon. It’s not that I’m worried that she won’t find anything eventually. I’m worried that she’s going to drive me nuts! I have always wanted an extra set of hands to help me out around the house, but I’d rather those hands be attached to a young, perky Italian au pair who won’t tell me what to do or judge me for what I don’t do. These next few months may prove to be a wonderful bonding opportunity for all of us. Or, I might have to take her to the train every morning and leave her at Starbucks until 5PM to keep her out of my hair.

My new favorite musical

I don't usually dedicate blog entries to one photo or video alone. But given that this particular video is a show in and of itself, I didn't want to steal the spotlight. Thank you, Kevin, for posting this on FB. I might have had a cheeky nap instead of posting this for all to see.

I bring you, courtesy of funnyordie, Jack Black, John C. Reilly, Margret Cho, Neil Patrick Harris, Kathy Najimy, Allison Janney and more in:

PROP 8: THE MUSICAL

See more Jack Black videos at Funny or Die

Because your kiss is on my list

I’m forever making lists. I’ve got scraps of paper in my wallet, in my pockets, on the side of my refrigerator, in my head, everywhere. I have a shopping list-which is different from my Costco list, a bill pay list, I must email/call list, things to do TODAY list, gifts to buy people list, things to write about list and on. And now I’ve just created a list of my lists for you. You’d think I was a very organized person. Alas, no.

The problem with my lists is that there is nothing about them that actually compels me to complete the tasks I’ve assigned myself. If I don’t get things done right away, it’s highly probable that they will not get done at all. Or, they will get done when it’s too late and I’m either apologising or paying a ridiculous late fee or just feeling really guilty that I never did whatever it was I should have done.

So when I say, “I’m so glad you called. You were at the top of my list,” I do sincerely mean it. But, you may have been on the top of my list for 3 weeks, and you may have been on the top of one of 20 lists floating around my house. I don’t know how other people keep track of things, but I certainly have not found a method that helps me. This is most likely because I don’t really want to do most of the things on my lists. I say most because obviously it delights me to no end to call/email friends. It’s the other administrative tasks that give me no joy. Perhaps if I invented an Electronic List Gadget that cheered and clapped and praised me every time a crossed off something on my list, I’d be more inclined to complete these tasks. “Well done, Deborah, you clever minx, you! Your productivity is just short of astounding!” “Don’t tell me you’ve managed to cross another task off your list! You are definitely on top of things, and I can’t tell you how hot it is to be on top!” Hmmm. Must add this idea to my Stupid Invention List.

I commend all those who are able to do what they’re supposed to do when they’re supposed to do it! I’m humbled by your efficiency.



The latest list I’ve enjoyed inspecting is not one that I’ve created for myself but lists generated by the traffic reports I can now access. It’s no secret that I’ve added Site Meter to the blog-scroll all the way down. There’s a little Site Meter thingy at the bottom of each page that lets you know that I’m checking out traffic on the site but that I’m also too cheap to actually pay for the Premium Service which would allow me to track traffic without that thingy there. I wanted to know if my audience was made up of the 10 people who share comments with me every now and then, or if I am, in fact, reaching a wider population.

Not to worry. I can’t tell if you personally have been on the site-or at least I won’t admit to you that I can. But, what I have found fascinating is HOW people come to the site. I can see if people have come to the site by way of Facebook or if they have Googled something that leads to an obscure reference on P&C. The results are in. While most of the readers go directly to the P&C site because once you’ve come once, you want to come again and again. . . . . . a good number have Googled The World Unseen and I Can’t Think Straight given all the attention these independent films are receiving of late. These readers are unlikely to return, but I welcome them nonetheless and hope they’ve learned a thing or two about the films and the filmmakers. SHAMELESS PLUG: And I also encourage fans to purchase the novels and soundtrack from my site. Over there-on the right hand side.

Even more interesting – or you may say disturbing – is how many people Google “CAMEL TOE” and end up finding this blog. I had just about forgotten the rhetorical question that I had posed in an entry about the Olympic gymnasts until I noticed the significant amount of traffic coming my way via CAMEL TOE Googles. There are a number of international readers, and I wonder if they’re looking up its meaning. Or perhaps CAMEL TOE is a serious issue in our society, and people are genuinely interested in finding a solution to the problem of the frontal wedgie. I can’t say what the intentions are of those inquiring minds, but they’ve arrived here nonetheless. And to them, I say “Welcome, but I don’t think you’ll find the answers you seek. But, can I interest you in a book? Over there-on the right hand side.”

It really doesn’t matter to me in the end who’s here. Site Meter is a fun distraction that keeps me from crossing important things off my lists. Ultimately, I write for myself. I’m keeping the cobwebs from forming in my brain. Gabriella is expected to read each entry and laughs or cries where appropriate and without fail which makes her my biggest fan and my bestest friend. The rest of the adulation and worship is appreciated but I’d write with or without it. Eventually, I’ll thank each and every one of you for all of your kind remarks. It’s on my list.

Sunday Bubby Sunday #7

B: Did your company come?

D: You mean Rachel and her family? Yes. It was a busy Thanksgiving.

B: I’ll say.

D: We tried to call you while we were all together, but you never answered your phone.

B: They never put the phone back where it's supposed to be. I can't reach it. Did you talk to Benjamin?

D: We exchanged messages. We’re crossing our fingers that Benjamin and Laura move out east for Laura’s residency program next year. Then we’d all be together again after 20 years.

B: Wouldn’t that be wonderful! But then Gabriella would really have her work cut out for her. I know she’s good at it. Her reputation precedes her.

D: She does enjoy it. She cooked up a feast for 11 this year.

B: Oh my goodness!! Oh my goodness!! It’s a good thing she likes it.

D: Cooking for all those people would be hell on Earth for me.

B: Well, you should learn to be a little more at ease around her. You might do well to let a little of it rub off. It’s always good to know even if you never use it.

D: I guess.

B: So what’s next on your docket?

D: We’re off to Chicago in December.

B: Really? Why?

D: There’s the annual family Chanukah party, but also Aunt D & Uncle D are celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary.

B: Wow! It doesn’t seem possible.

D: And there’s going to be a party, so we’re going. Hmmm, what else can I tell you?

B: Manufacture something.

D: Ok. Well, we are trying to figure out how to get to London next year.

B: Why is that?

D: Well, we have 2 new babies in London we haven’t met, yet. We’re happy to be back here, but we do miss our good friends, and it’s sad that we’re missing out on their new babies. Do you remember our friend, BW? She met her husband the day Asher was born. Asher was the ring bearer at their wedding at the age of 3.

B: How did he do?

D: No one thought he was going to make it until the very last minute. He was crying and carrying on right before we got up to the aisle. Gabriella led him to the aisle and said, “Do you want me to walk down with you?” and he said, “No. I want to do it by myself.” And he carried the rings all the way down the aisle, gave the groom a great big hug and Gabriella and I cried the entire time – we were so proud.

B: He’s an actor at heart! Moments you’ll never forget. So, are you tired after your company?

D: No. We both took turns napping today. How about you? You sound rested. Have you been sleeping?

B: Yes, fairly.

D: Did Mom call you to wish you a Happy Thanksgiving?

B: ARE YOU KIDDING?? I don’t remember the last time she called. Maybe I should be big enough and call her. I don’t think so!

D: Maybe she’s thinking the same thing.

B: Maybe. I don’t think she’s going to be happy.

D: Well, I don’t think she’ll ever change.

B: I wonder how your father feels.

D: I do, too.

B: Do you really? What do you think?

D: I think that he must support her or else he’d reach out to us.

B: I think he’s showing weakness by not calling. But your mother. Reden un kind in moich.

D: What?

B: She can talk anyone a baby in their stomach. I guess it literally means get someone pregnant, but it means she can talk anybody into anything.

D: I never heard that one before.

B: I wish I weren’t so far away.

D: Me, too.

B: What families can do to themselves.

D: But then we appreciate the ones who are always there for us.

B: When your boys grow up and find their mates, don’t you let anything separate you.

D: Never. I don’t understand how a mother can turn her back on her child.

B: I don’t either. (which is interesting because she turned her back on her son – my uncle – when he married a non-Jewish girl. They got back in touch after my uncle divorced his wife.) Well honey, it’s not for us to figure out. And all this time we’re talking, I’m on the BM pan.

D: Are you ok?

B: Yes. A little sore maybe. But he’s waiting to come and take care of me. It’s been wonderful, but I’m giving up while we’re still ahead. I love you dearly.

D: I love you, too.