Because sleep is overrated

I just ate one too many fig newtons. If I had to do it over again, I would not have eaten that last one. That has absolutely nothing to do with anything, but I was in a sharing kind of Facebook status mood.

How I wish we could take full advantage of New York City with the boys. It’s not always so easy to co-ordinate schedules around naps or find a museum or activity that is worth the cost of admission and even more daunting – the schlep. That’s not to say that we don’t hit the occasional museum, but we certainly are limited in what we can do especially given that they have the attention span of ... wait ... what was I saying?

I remember what I thought family life would look like before I had kids. Gabriella and I would travel with the kiddies all over the world, meet people from every walk of life and taste every flavour of culture and activity. I believed that our days would take the form of whatever kind of life we designed. We’d do anything and go anywhere the wind took us and not conform to a regimented and oppressed existence. Not so much. I’m not saying it isn’t possible for some, but routine has been paramount to our sanity, and naps are sacred.

The cost of pushing Levi through his nap so that we can spend the day out is exceptionally high. The child who is deprived of his nap is a child possessed by a demon of mythical and monstrous proportions. One minute you’re enjoying a wonderful day out with your sweet angel, and the next minute – without warning - Satan’s spawn is screaming and contorting and spitting fire in every direction while you curse the day you imagined being a parent and pray you can get home in one piece so that you can throw Rosemary’s baby in bed. We don’t get out much...during the day.

Mom and Mommy go to sleep when the boys do, and Deborah and Gabriella come out to play. We have a reputation of being quite social. Unlike Blagojevich, we are unable to deny the photographs, voice mail recordings and videos that prove that we are, in fact, a social team. Nightlife for me is a necessity not only because it allows me to wear lipstick but because I can take off the mom-hat and relax. I don’t have to think about the imprints of my every word and action. That mom-hat gives me the worst hat-head which is a serious problem for a girl who likes hair product as much as I do.

Perhaps I’d feel different if I worked outside of my home each day. I might long for my house and my family and a cozy night at home. But after 8PM, I’ve punched out, and the anti-mom comes out of hiding, and she wants to play. I love spending time with friends and taking advantage of our proximity to New York City. A night out in Manhattan requires far more planning for parents in the burbs than it does for singletons in the city, so we don’t go in nearly as often as we would like.

The downside of nightlife is that I’m toast during the day. I forget appointments. I’m cranky. My eyelid twitches to the beat of a random disco song that I can’t get out of my head. I forego the gym because I just can’t imagine running on the treadmill when I can barely hold my head up. But I’d rather all of that than giving up grown up time. That being said, we are careful to plan evenings we know are going to be worth the cloud in which we’ll be living the next day. Luckily, we have friends who make it all worthwhile.

And the shows we’ve seen? Well, there’s one in particular that is so good that we have seen it more than once....on a Sunday night....in the city....and it doesn’t start until 9:30PM!! If you are a parent you are either thinking that we have absolutely lost the plot or that this show must be the most amazing experience since ... well, I can’t think of another experience that would be worth the painful sleep deprivation of the morning after with small children who wake up at 6AM. It’s true that the rest of the week is a wash, and we do try to avoid operating heavy machinery. But you know what? It IS worth it.

The show is CASHINO - a lounge act performed by the loveable Johnny Niagra and Pepper Cole who have married classic pop tunes and Broadway hits in a medley that can only be described as genius. We laugh until our faces hurt, but we try to come up for air long enough to appreciate the artistry. Read more here. There are 4 versions of the show which means you can appreciate their talents again and again...and we have. And every time, we invite newbies to join us so we can spread the gospel. So, I tell you here, and I’ll it on the mountain: See Cashino. It hurts so good.

Sunday February 8th: “Casino Classic”
Monday Februray 9th: “Dueling Duos”

Laurie Beechman Theatre in the West Bank Café, 407 W. 42nd St. (betw. 9th & 10th Aves.), Reservations: 212-695-6909; 9:30PM, $15/$20 food/drink minimum.

Whoopi couldn't make it

(Jim Horton, Wayne Pollard, Helena Holgersson-Shorter, Yours Truly, Doug Perkul, Sarah Lester)

Forgive me for allowing you to wait this long to hear about my moment in the spotlight-my moment of glory and fame. Some of you were unable to attend the Local Writers' Panel at the Maplewood Library last night and you were deeply missed. Perhaps you had nothing to wear to such a grand occasion. It’s not every day that renowned authors and pundits gather to share profound learnings, pontificate on the future of the written word and compare war stories that take us from humble beginnings to the very heights of celebrity. Those who were able to attend are most likely thinking at this moment, “Were we at the same event?”

It’s true that the Writers Panel was not produced with quite the same budget as The Oscars. And it’s true that Whoopi Goldberg was unable to make it-something about conflict of interest with The View or something that didn’t seem to make any sense given that there is no interest in The View. In any case, what we lacked in superfluous glitz we delivered in wisdom and experience that surely was worth the price of admission. “Deborah, there was no price for admission.” Whatever, people, it was my 15 minutes, and I’ll imagine whatever kind of event I please, thank you very much.

It’s very fulfilling, albeit delusional, for me to imagine the masses tuning in each day to see what I have written. I try to ignore the fact that a significant percentage of my readers have stumbled on to my blog after googling “camel toe” and choose not to return when they find only one or two references to “camel toe” and not one single image of midget wrestling (their words not mine). In my world, readers all over the globe find a bit of happy with every visit, and I choose to keep living in it. In my world, I was one of 4 keynote speakers at a scintillating literary event that informed and inspired, and it felt good.

“When are you going to tell us what really happened, Deborah?” What really happened is that I got out of the house for an evening. The next best thing that happened was that friends came to support me and our mutual friend, The Head of Adult Services at the Maplewood Library, who orchestrated the series of Writers Panels. Also, Gabriella booked a babysitter (Hi K!) and took numerous photographs, shot video and clapped the loudest and longest at the end of the event. She’s a keeper. “No, seriously, Deborah, how did it go? We'll lose sleep if you don't tell us all about it!”

If you’ve made it this far, I suppose I could give you a snippet. Jim Horton, our moderator, posed questions to our prestigious panel of 4 regarding the what, how, when, why and for how much of blogging. There were some facts and recommendations and a bit of humour which made the evening an overall success. Did you know that there is little to no money in blogging? No surprise for me, but perhaps it was news to our hopeful audience. Of course there are exceptions, but it would be a bad idea to quit your day job and expect to retire early on blog revenue. I did suggest that if you were to sell things on your blog, you might have a fighting chance of making some money. I believe I recommended selling organs online. It was an easy laugh. I’m not above it.

We talked about the fate of newspapers and whether or not blogging would replace published news. We didn’t think so, but it doesn’t look good for newspapers these days. I learned that Adolph Ochs, son of German Jewish immigrants, bought The New York Times in 1896 and saved it from going under by introducing a new kind of reporting – objective reporting. Before that time, all news was opinion and hearsay, but Ochs realized he could make money by offering something completely different-facts. I also learned that Adolph had a daughter named Iphigene; a name I would like to file away for one of our pets if ever we decide to have one.

Jim asked us to share our motivation for blogging. Blogging can lead to paid work for other sites or even commissions in print. These days, there are many journalists who are out of work due to the economy and have turned to blogging as a way to stay busy and earn a bit of cash. Some blog to connect with communities-locally and globally. Some blog to share information and advice. I blog because in a house of two small children, the only space that is mine and only mine is in my head. When I blog, I may be in a public space of the house, but what goes on between me and my computer is deliciously private-until I post and I’m instantly sharing my privates with you all.

I think what came across loud and clear is that anyone can blog. You don’t need to be technical and you don’t need a degree in English. It may not pay the rent, but it can serve many purposes and provide great satisfaction. So, join us!

For those of you who missed out, I will let you know as soon as Whoopi invites me to appear on The View. I’m sure she’ll give me extra tickets to the show given how gutted she must feel about missing last night’s forum.

The color purple

Asher: I want to play bowling but I can’t find the pins.

Mom: They are in the play room somewhere, Asher. You have to look for them.

A: But I did. I looked EVERYWHERE!

M: You couldn’t have looked everywhere because if you had you would have found them.

A: I did look everywhere! Pleeeeeaaaaaasse help me find them!

M: It’s no wonder you can’t find anything in there after you and Levi trashed that room last night. You would probably have better luck if you cleaned up all the toys that are on the floor.

A: But Levi did it, too. Is Levi going to help me clean it all up?

M: Levi will help you after his nap. Why don’t you start now, and he’ll do his share later. In the meantime, you’ll probably find your toys while you’re cleaning up.

A: I don’t want to do it all myself. Can you please help me?

M: Look, if you can’t find the bowling pins, why don’t you just play with something else?

A: When can I have my own house so that I can paint it all purple instead of just painting one of my bedroom walls purple?

M: When you grow up and have enough money to buy your own house.

A: I’m going to live in a house right next to yours.

M: That would be very nice.

A: That way, I will always know how to get there.

M: Good thinking. Your bowling pins are in the box under the window sill.

A: Oh, thank you Mom!

D: You’re welcome.

No Parking for U-Hauls

Lesbian bed death. It’s what we ladies looking for love fear when coupling with a lady friend. We start hot and heavy and then the roar of the fire dies down to a low flame and then eventually the embers cool until nothing is left but ash. Fire to ash in about 6 months. Why does this happen? Is it inevitable? Is it just a girl-thing?

We all know the old joke “What does a lesbian bring on a second date? A U-Haul.” How is it that this joke has come to define lesbian relationships? It’s not that funny. It’s certainly not as funny as “What did one lesbian frog say to the other lesbian frog? You’re right! It does taste just like chicken.” The U-Haul joke has withstood the test of time because girls rush in. They want more than love. They want security. I’m referring to “they” because I no longer feel that I fall into this camp. My U-Haul days are behind me, thankfully. The U-Haul lesbians are the girls who would rather dive into a relationship than suffer life without a partner. I don’t judge-been there, done that. I’m just happy that I made it to the other side and only have a few, small scars to show for it.

This need for security is evident when couples stay together for 3 years or more even though they know the relationship should have ended after 6 months. They know it in their hearts, but they are frozen in this perceived state of safety. They master the art of justification until they are convinced that this relationship is healthy and right. Did I touch a nerve? Too close to home? To all my lady friends out there who recognize themselves in that description-it’s always best to rip the band-aid (plaster) right off. Slowly peeling it off, ripping out hair by hair, is far more painful in the end. But my point was not to discuss first-aid. I’m calling attention to the fact that we must not confuse love with security.

Gabriella and I participated in a day-long workshop with celebrated psychotherapist and relationship counsellor, Esther Perel, author of Mating in Captivity: Reconciling the Erotic with the Domestic. The workshop was sponsored by our mothers group, MOMentum. We wanted to support our group, get a relationship tune-up and, most importantly, spend the day together without the littles. We accomplished all three. We dropped the boys off with Gabriella’s sisters the night before the workshop and spent the evening with friends in the city. Thai food, wine, music and our girls. Pure joy.

I could tell you all about what I learned about our relationship, but this is where you meet the pit of my peach and I say, “None of your business”. Suffice it to say, we learned loads and we continue to figure it all out the more we discuss the day. We didn’t leave with a handbook on “spicing up your marriage” or reviews of vibrating toys. This was an academic experience where we were challenged to change the perceptions we have of our partners and ourselves and take responsibility for the roles we have created. And how I enjoyed being challenged by this stylish, smart Belgian in high-heeled boots. Hey, if you’ve got to be stuck in a room with someone for an entire day, it doesn’t hurt that she happens to be hot. Ah, and here’s the lesson sneaking up on us while I tell you about the Belgian who was easy on the eyes.

Why is she hot? Yes, she’s attractive, but beauty alone does not elicit desire. She’s hot because I don’t know her. She is a mystery. I see only the surface. I like what I see – intelligence, impeccable style- and I am intrigued. That’s where it ends for me as a married gal. But in other instances of intrigue where both parties are willing, the dance begins. It’s that dance you do when you’re getting to know someone for the first time. It’s electrifying because you could be rejected at any turn. You succumb to desire and muffle the voice crying out for safety. You take the risk and it’s exciting. And if you’re lucky, you fall in love and enjoy the comforts of a committed relationship with your best friend and confidant. The dance is over. And desire? According to Esther, desire exists in separation and in insecurity. How can there be insecurity with your best friend?

Gabriella and I are best friends, partners for life. We know each other like the back of our hands. Such an odd expression. Is the back of my hand the body part I know best? If I were presented with 100 photos of backs of hands, would I be able to pick mine out without fail? Every now and then, I’ll ask Gabriella if she thinks she’d be able to pick out my tush in a line-up of 100 tushes. She ignores me. I think she could. Point being, there is little we don’t know about each other. We trust each other entirely. Safe. Secure. Doomed? I think I should take a lover to spice things up-to foster separation and uncertainty. Gabriella disagrees. Apparently, there are other ways to rekindle that spark with your partner of many years without having to take a lover.

Here is where I leave you, my friends. It would be irresponsible of me to hand you answers. It’s not that simple. Every relationship is different. There is no Cosmo Top 10 list of Things To Do. You must figure it out yourself, grasshoppers. Read Esther’s book. Visit her website. Know that all is not lost. In the meantime, I might insist that Gabriella start learning Flemish.

Obligatory inauguration post

What was Potter doing there, and why did everyone keep referring to that “warped, frustrated old man” as Dick Cheney? And if it was, indeed, Dick Cheney and not Mr. Potter, why didn’t anyone push him down the steps of the U.S. Capitol in that wheelchair? Well, because that wouldn’t be very Christian, would it? And everybody knows that there is no country more God fearing than the United States of America where church and state are so clearly separated. HA! Rick Warren didn’t have to say anything infuriating as we feared he might. He just had to be there along with all the other clergy to remind us that God is still alive and well in politics.

Lucky for me, all the prayer did not take away the joy of the day. First black president-emotional and thrilling for all to witness. There was an announcer on MSNBC who talked about the significance of this day in history when a black man can become president. He referred to the injustices of the past and the opportunities of our future, and, I kid you not, he said that black people all over the nation now feel that “they finally got a piece of the pie.” Weezie? Did you hear that? I wonder if his co-anchor kicked him in the shin before he was able to refer to the White House as a deee-luxe apartment in the sky. Well, the only fitting response to his reference is, "DY-NO-MITE!"



Just as exhilarating as the inauguration of the first black president, was the fact that this was the first time in 8 years I was not embarrassed by our president and constantly apologizing to friends abroad. “Honestly, we didn’t all vote for him! We’re not all religious fundamentalists who vote for leaders based on whether or not we want to party with them.”

There is intelligence in the White House now. You know that change is finally here because at the exact minute that Obama was sworn in as President, the official White House website was re-launched with the new administration and its agenda. Any administration capable of re-launching a website on time is capable of achieving the impossible. The economic crisis should be a doddle after that.

Will all our problems be solved? Will Obama save us from economic ruin, terrorism and environmental disaster? As my Sicilian lady friend would say, “Bo.” (That’s ‘you got me!’ in Sicilian) But with Obama in office, I find it much easier to hope. Buh-bye, Bush. Don’t let the door hit you on the way....oh, fuck it. I don’t care if it does hit you on the way out.

Deborah: Asher, today is an exciting day. We have a new president.

Asher: New?

D: Yes, and his name is Barack Obama. Remember how we have been talking about him?

A: Why do we have a new one?

D: Well, every 4 years, a new president is elected. (I figured I could hold off on the 8 year foot note).

A: Next time, will it be John McCain?

D: Maybe he’ll try again, yes. Or it could be someone else. We’ll have to see.

Asher has never forgotten that Obama had to square off against an opponent in his bid for the presidency. I mean the one AFTER Hillary. During this election, he has been acutely aware that when one candidate wins, another loses. And when we expressed our support for Obama, Asher would always ask after the other guy. “What about John McCain? Will he feel sad if he doesn’t win?” Asher loves to play games and loves to win even more, but he is not a bad sport. “I’m sorry you didn’t win,” he’ll say after clobbering us at a game of UNO. He cares about the losers, and he cares about John McCain. I have a lot to learn from him. God bless him-Asher I mean. Can I get an “Amen”?

Obscure title that makes you say, "Huh?"

My sister, Rachel, and I speak every day. She is often the first person I notify that my blog has been updated. She doesn’t have the desire to subscribe, and I don’t mind having her read it while I’m on the phone with her. More often than not, she doesn’t care for it, and yet, I’m never upset by her lack of enthusiasm for my writing or the act of blogging in general. I find her criticisms to be amusing, actually, and she doesn’t mind that I out her as the anti-blogger. I couldn’t help enjoy our most recent conversation about the preceding blog entry. In the words of the rug dealers in Morocco who presented us rug after rug for our consideration: Appreciate, please!

D: Did you read the latest blog?

R: Yeah. I didn’t care for it.

D: Really?

R: It wasn’t your best work. I told Ron to read it, and I explained to him all the things I didn’t like about it. But then, he kept laughing while he was reading. I don’t know. I asked him, “What’s so funny?” but he kept reading and laughing.

D: Not my best work?!? I always knew I liked Ron. I’m ready for you. What didn’t you like about it?

R: Well, the title for one. Usually, I read the title and I think, “Huh? But then I know that by the time I’ve reached the end of the blog, all will become clear. But this one was a stretch.

D: What? This title was probably the most obvious of any of them.

R: Yeah, and I didn’t get the point.

D: Are you kidding? It’s all about how I humorously complicate life by not providing answers fit for a 5 year old. That’s the point.

R: I just didn’t get it. Maybe it’s because it didn’t flow.

D: It didn’t flow?

R: Maybe I didn’t get the point and the title was confusing because of the flow. When you told Gabriella that Asher liked her better and went on to talk about how you could teach him dirty jokes and “teach him a thing or two about the ladies (should he swing that way). Laugh if you will, but I didn’t do too badly, you’ll have to admit. ‘You knew it was coming, right?’” That was a confusing transition. Who was saying what to whom? That’s what I mean about not flowing and being confusing.

D: I get it. It’s your Thelma & Louise critique.

R: My what?

D: Those random criticisms you have about things based on the most minor and irrelevant details that have nothing to do with the bigger picture. It’s just like when you had seen Thelma and Louise. You didn’t like it. Do you remember why?

R: No. And why do you?

D: I remember because it was 1993, and I was all out, loud and proud and all about gay rights, women’s rights, everybody’s rights and Thelma and Louise was just about the most kick-ass movie, and I couldn’t wait to bond with you about it, and you completely and totally yucked my yum. Our conversation went like this:

D: Didn’t you love that movie?
R: No, I really didn’t.
D: What? You didn’t get swept away by the story and the characters and root for Thelma and Louise? Why didn’t you like it? Was it too feminist for you?
R: I didn’t think it was realistic.
D: It's a movie! It's NOT real. But ok, I'll bite. What part wasn’t realistic? You don’t think that anyone could ever get into that much trouble? You don’t think that people would feel so helpless that they’d rather end their lives on their terms rather be judged by the very society that rendered them helpless in the first place?
R: No, I just didn’t think any of it was believable.
D: But what wasn't believable?
R: Ok, you know the scene when the truck driver is making obscene gestures at them and they get him to pull over and get out of the truck?
D: Yeah.
R: And you know how they’re miles away from the truck, but whichever one of them pointed her little gun at the truck and with one bullet blew the whole thing up? That could never have happened. You can't blow up a truck with one, tiny bullet.
D: That’s it? You didn’t like Thelma and Louise because you don’t believe that a bullet could blow up a truck?
R: Pretty much.

D: And that’s why I can discount your opinion of this entry. In the meantime, I’ve had more unsolicited comments from friends about how much they enjoyed this particular blog. And, might I add, a professor of English friend asked me if she could direct her students from her Fiction and Personal Narrative class to the blog to use as an example of, and I quote, ‘complex, tonally as well as emotionally, hilarious and engaging writing.’ So, I got your “it’s not your best work” right here (I'm grabbing my crotch).

R: The boys are just coming in from playing in the snow for 15 minutes, and they want hot chocolate. I told them they have to be outside for a half an hour before they get hot chocolate. Hello? Are you writing?

D: mmmm hmmm

R: You’re funny.

D: You’re funnier.

White House Press Secretaries have it easy

Asher has never been an inquisitive child. He’s never asked why the sky is blue or where milk comes from or why poop is brown. He’s never been that kid who follows every answer with “why? ” until you run out of answers – or patience - and throw your hands in the air and finally say, “BECAUSE!”

All of a sudden, our quiet little 5 year-old dispenses with the questions all day long. He’s clearly been saving them since the age of 2. “Why does that sign say ‘NO’?” “Will I be bigger than you?” “Is Mommy still on vacation?” “Why do birds suddenly appear...every time...you...” No, not really that last one.

A minor complication to having both Mom and Mommy at home is that Asher has two sources for information throughout the day, and we’ve come to realize that he has been asking us both the same questions. Not a big deal, right? The most recent question was, “Why does that smoke come out of the cars?” Well, Mommy (Gabriella) kept it simple. “The car uses gas, and when the gas burns, the smoke comes out of the exhaust pipe.” When I was asked the same question, I responded slightly differently. “You know how you eat food and drink water to give you energy? A car needs gas to have the energy to run. And you know how your body doesn’t need everything that you eat and drink so it gets rid of what you don’t need in your wee and poop? A car doesn’t need everything either, so it gets rid of the waste. The smoke is the waste. We flush our waste down the toilet, and the car’s waste is blown into the air which is not very good for the earth.” Of course, our flushed waste is not very good for the earth, either, but I chose to save that lesson for a later date.

Can you guess which mother Asher asked first? Yup, he asked me. He asked me, listened to what I had to say and was categorically unsatisfied with my blathering description of the inner workings of cars and their relationships to mammals and the world around them. Go figure. “What’s that smoke coming out of the car?” “Burning gas.” That’s all the boy wanted.

This morning, we hurried into the car to get to school. We weren’t late-it’s just f-ing freezing! I had started the car a few minutes before departure time to warm it up a bit. The smoke was blowing away when we arrived to at the side of the MV ready to climb aboard. “Do we need more gas, Mom?” “No, we’re good.” He didn’t ask if we were polluting the environment or if the car had enough energy to run. He didn’t liken the smoke to bodily waste. But he knew what smoke was, no thanks to Mom.

There are moments when I stand by my more complicated explanations. Bath time. Gabriella is giving Asher a bath, and I’m eavesdropping. “What are these?” “Those are your nipples.” “Does everyone have nipples?” “Yes.” “Are your nipples bigger than mine?” “Yes.” “Do girls have bigger nipples than boys?” “Yes.” “Are you a girl or a boy?” “A girl.” “What’s inside my willy?” “You’ll learn all about that in school. Now, get out of the tub before you get cold.”

I definitely would have made the distinction between nipples and breasts. Furthermore, she did not choose to explain that if you watch The Biggest Loser then you know that girls do NOT always have bigger breasts than boys. And I definitely would have told him that he’s got a urethra in his willy. But Gabriella is old-school. She’s peasant stock from the hills of Sicily and what you need to know, you’ll know some day-now shuddup you face!

There was one question that came without warning when we were all in the kitchen one day. Asher pointed to Gabriella’s tummy and asked, “Did I come out of your tummy or Mom’s?” Of course, we knew we’d have to field that question one day in addition to many others that will be much tougher to answer. But this was the first, and it came out of nowhere. I could feel her throat tighten. “Mom’s.” She whispered. She started to tear. But, that was it. There was no follow up question and there was no further explanation provided. Burning gas causes smoke. Mom carried Asher in her tummy. Next! Asher moved on to the next topic without skipping a beat.

We had to face the fact that now Asher was old enough to distinguish between his birth mother and non-bio mother. “He likes you better, anyway.” I told her because it’s true. Just wait until he can appreciate a dirty joke, though. And I think I can teach him a thing or two about the ladies (should he swing that way). Laugh if you will, but I didn’t do too badly, you’ll have to admit. “You knew it was coming, right?” “Of course. I just didn’t expect it to hit me that way.” She dabbed her eyes with a tissue, cleared her throat and shook it off.

It has been months since that particular inquiry was made. I’m absolutely sure it made no difference to Asher whatsoever, and I’m pretty confident that it never will. We should probably have some more answers at the ready for those questions we know are looming. And, I’d better research why poop is brown, too.

Are you still here?

It’s happening. Gabriella is officially getting on my nerves. I think we did pretty well considering she’s been unemployed for 47 days...but who’s counting? Having the two of us home full-time seems like the ideal set up. It’s true that there are many benefits for which I am grateful. I know I’ll miss having her around when she gets a job-eventually. Then again, we don’t really have that much to do with each other during the day. We’re leading separate lives as we make arrangements for one parent to be on child duty while the other is running errands or going to the gym or earning extra cash as I’ve been.

As soon as she was laid-off, I signed up to substitute for teacher aids at Asher’s pre-school. I’m now earning a small commission from KOL Foods. And, I’ve been offered a chance to earn a few dollars each month working with a local community service organization I joined. If I play my cards right, we’re talking cable bill covered every month. So I says to Gabriella, I says, “So, when are you going to start pulling your weight around here? I’m tired of holding down 3 jobs!” Lucky for me, she understands my sense of humour and thinks this is hilarious. I picked the right girl.

On a good day, our paths cross occasionally. On a bad day, Gabriella is in my way! I may be conflicted about life as a stay-at-home mother, but while I’m here, this is my ship, and I’m the captain. We’ve got a thing going, my boys and I. We operate a certain way and within a certain schedule. That schedule may alter from one day to the next, but it’s my schedule to control. I said it. The C word. And I don’t mean the “see you next Tuesday” C word which I’m not at all shy to say, but I wanted to be poetic about it. The C word to which I refer is CONTROL. I’ve lost control, and I don’t like it.

I’ve had a cold on and off for the past month which is not the norm. Usually, one cold per winter and I’m sorted. Sure, I don’t get enough sleep and I don’t eat right, exercise enough, drink enough water, blah blah blah. But that’s not unusual. What is unusual is that Gabriella has moved in on my turf and is undoing my doings and muscling me out of my job. I’m tempted to provide you with a list of things that illustrate how she’s stepping on my toes. We all know how I appreciate a good list. But that would be petty and unkind. The fact is, Gabriella is an infinitely superior housewife. This is no secret to anyone who knows us even a little bit. Our kitchen is stocked. The dishes are clean AND put away. And, I’m able to take time for myself...to work at my many jobs, of course. Instead of enjoying the flexibility I've got, I'm lost without my routine and my way and my autonomy.

As mothers, we are equally as good or bad as the other, but our priorities differ. When her name points to child-care on the job-wheel at Camp Goldstein Di Maggio, she’s in charge. I willingly and gladly hand the baton to Gabriella, but it’s probably best if I’m not at home when I do. Again, I won't name the transgressions committed against my established and logical house rules, but enough of them are made that I find myself often asking Gabriella, “Are you new?”

I used to think that Gabriella’s unemployment was a blessing in disguise for her. Now, I realize that it is a blessing for me, too. It’s as if that angel Clarence from It’s a Wonderful Life is showing me what life would be like if neither one of us had to work. We all get to be at home together. Every day. All day. Get me out of here Clarence! I want to live. I want to li....ok, over the top, but you get the point. Apologies for making a reference to It’s a Wonderful Life after only a month. It’s one of my faves.

4PM. Gabriella took Levi out shopping with her. Asher is coloring rainbows. No, it’s not a gay thing. He likes rainbows! I’m eating her amazing tomato, lentil soup that she made just for me to nurse my cold and to say in her wordless way, “I love you.” I need to find my happy place and appreciate what I’ve got because it won’t be here forever. We need to leave Levi with a sitter for a morning while Asher is in school and do something together-just us grown ups. We need a schedule. Well, I need a schedule. “Are you reading my blog over my shoulder before I publish it, Gabriella? Are you still here? Go get a job!”

And I need to enjoy moments like this one.

Spooners and spoonees

Are you a couple that spoons? Who spoons whom in your relationship or are there no spoon roles? Does the answer lie solely in biology? Is the outside spooner the taller or the larger of the two of you or are there other considerations to be made? Do real men get spooned? After almost 15 years together, it suddenly struck me the other night that Gabriella has become the spooner in our relationship and I the spoonee. I don’t believe we had ever established spoon roles until recently, and I’m trying to figure out how it came to be.

In the early days, we’d fall asleep in each other’s arms and pay little attention to position or placement. It didn’t take long for us to surrender to our individual sleep requirements. We claimed sides of the bed and untangled ourselves out of our late-night pretzel cuddles in order to sleep the way we were most comfortable instead of in a configuration that would have made for the perfect romance novel cover. I need to face outwards so that I could breath the freshest air- -non-recycled by my partner- -and tune out any sounds of breathing that were not my own. I can’t fall asleep to the beat of someone else’s heart and definitely not to the occasional shnorts of almost-snores. As much as I wish it were otherwise, we sleep like bookends, facing out and away from each other.

I guess I hadn’t noticed our spoon roles because we haven’t had much opportunity to spoon. Lately, it has been cold outside and indoors. The first few minutes in bed are torture as we try to warm up against the sheets that have been refrigerated by our house all day. Body heat is required. I’m not hankering to spoon as much as I am to defrost my feet against Gabriella’s toasty tootsies. She is less than pleased. But when finally my feet have reached a human temperature, we have taken to warming up and spooning. Did I skip the sex part? Oh yeah, every night, we get into bed after a long day with the children and after staying up way past our bedtime doing absolutely nothing of value just so that we can have some grown-up time. When we start to see double, we realize that it might be time for bed. So we get into bed, moan about how late it is and then make wild, passionate love for hours until we are pasted to each other’s bodies-panting and parched yet too spent to even think about getting a glass of water. And THEN we spoon. As if!

So I asked a few friends how spooning plays out in their relationships. I started with the boy-girl couples because my assumption was that boys spoon girls. Au contraire! The first married girl I asked told me that she was more often the spooner than spoonee. I figured they were the exception to the rule. Turns out, my sister is a proud spooner because, and I quote, she “likes to grope her husband’s ‘chest puppy’.” Thanks, Rachel, for that delightful image which is now seared into my brain with the additional detail that Ron is an occasional manscaper, as well. She’s groping a groomed puppy--from behind.

And what about that old adage “butch on the streets-femme in the sheets”? Does a butch girl or a gay boy top always do the spooning or are roles reversed in bed? Our post-menopausal lady-friends admitted that there was no spooning now that their shared body temperature combined with the comfortable but heat retaining Tempurpedic mattress was high enough to set off fire alarms. But when they did used to spoon, roles were determined by who snored in whose ear. In our relationship, my requirement for fresh air and quiet determines our positioning. I can’t say that my research has been very scientific, but I have determined that spooning roles may have less to do with the relationship of a couple and more to do with the practicalities of sleep. I’m going to continue my studies on the subject, and I’d like to suggest that you do some of your own research. You might be surprised what you learn about people you think you know.

Reading, writing and wank words

I’ve been invited to participate in the Local Writers Panel -The Bloggers at the Maplewood Library in New Jersey on Monday, January 26th at 7:30 pm. This event will be the 3rd in a series of panels where local writers have discussed what they read and how reading influences their writing. The creator of this Local Writers Panel series is the library’s Head of Adult Services. Now, that’s a title worth having! It’s especially wicked for me to call attention to such a salacious title because the Head of Adult Services is actually a wonderful person for whom I do have the greatest respect. She also has a very keen sense of humor. Henceforth (because how often do you get to use the word "henceforth"?), I will refer to the Head of Adult Services as Madame Head which is, I’m sure, exactly the title to which she aspired whilst working towards her degree in Library Science.

When Madame Head first presented me with the invitation, I thought she'd eventually forget that she approached me. She didn't. I was a wee bit anxious about it. The tushies that have warmed the panel seats in the past have been the tushies of novelists, biographers, poets and journalists. My writing resume pales in comparison. A girl might feel a bit intimidated sitting amongst the experienced and the published. I've written a few blogs for pay, but perhaps I don't belong on the panel.

Had I not attended a writer’s workshop lead by Victoria Rowan of Ideasmyth, I might have graciously declined and kicked myself every day thereafter. One of the many lessons learned at that workshop was that you are what you do-not what you aspire to do. The follow up lesson, of course, was that if you don’t like what you do, do something else. And if there is anyone in the tri-state area who requires help doing something else or evolving what you already do, I highly recommend calling on Victoria. Lesson learned. I write, therefore I am a writer – even when and especially when I don’t get paid to write. I'm sitting my tushy down on that panel seat.

As often as I may chant, “nam-myoho-renge-k—“ no, not that one. As often as I may chant, “I am a writer. I am a writer”, I don’t think I’ll ever feel fully-fledged until I can pay the bills with words-even if it’s just the phone bill. I’m looking forward to sharing my thoughts on reading and writing on the night, but I’m also eager to be in the company of pay-the-bills writers who will no doubt inspire me and our audience to pursue our crafts and to fortify ourselves with the writings of others.

I don't care what you believe, it's worth a viewing if not only to watch a bit of Tina.


I’ve got a trick up my sleeve to quell the nerves and keep my mind off of the accomplishments of the esteemed panel, as well. In addition to wearing my lucky thong, I’m going to call on my experience in advertising sales in London. I had the opportunity to work with a breed of a lesser-evolved human known as the lad. The lad is the UK’s version of an American frat boy; a skirt-chasing, alcohol-drinking, sport loving, completely politically incorrect wise-ass. Come to think of it, I may have just described myself bar the sport loving. Does it count if I do watch curling during the Olympics because it completely confounds me? It may seem that I’m berating the British lad, but I’ve often been accused of being a lad trapped in a bird’s body. Working in the U.S. can be terribly dull what with the pressure to be politically correct and all. Inappropriate and immature--I gotta be me.

One of the many juvenile activities of a sales lad is the Wank Word Challenge, a spin-off of Wank Word Bingo. Just before leaving the office, colleagues give you a word or words to gracefully slip into the very important and serious presentation you are about to deliver. The more creatively the word is integrated, the more praise and admiration you receive. And nobody needs praise and admiration more than a sales person. Gusset. Lemming. Clogged pores. Rope burn. All examples of wank words past. I’m not denying the occasional suggestion of a naughty word, but that’s strictly amateur. I’m sure you would agree that working "uni-brow” into a sales presentation professionally and seamlessly requires a certain finesse.

I’ll be reviewing your nominations for wank words up until the 26th. I hope that you will be able to join Madame Head, the distinguished panelists and me for an evening devoted to reading & writing. And you just might witness a master of wank words at her finest.

Asher got run over by a table

The coffee table attacked Asher. He is running around the house-without slippers, and the coffee table gets in the way of his accidental slide into its corner. All I hear is the screaming, and I run to meet him underneath the table. Parents will live my horror when I tell them that my kid is lying on the floor, screaming, holding his face with both hands as blood pours from some unidentifiable source. Before I go on, I’ll skip to the last page. He’s fine...ish.

I stand him up and hold him as he watches the blood drip on to the floor. I don’t know which one of us is more freaked out about the horror-movie scene playing out. You can imagine, I’m sure, how long it took to establish the origin of the blood. We were operating in super slo-mo as I tracked the blood to the bridge of his nose. So close to the eyes and yet...

Gabriella is upstairs with absolutely no knowledge of what is happening. It’s a good thing. Bugs and blood-she don’t do. When we first moved to this leafy village, we were taking a leisurely walk down the street. A ginormous cicada landed on Asher’s head and covered-I kid you not-3/4 of his face. Rather than deal with the incredibly large insect on Asher’s face, I immediately turned to Gabriella and stopped her from completely traumatizing him. We were a few paces behind him, so he could not hear her quaking voice muttering, “Somebody get that off of him!! What IS that?!? Do something!!” With a wave of my hand, the bug was gone and Asher had no idea what had happened. Gabriella was in shock for the remainder of that day and will be the first to tell you that she is no friend to nature.

Luckily, I had a few minutes to slow down the bleeding and wipe the evidence of haemorrhage from the floor. I heard Gabriella starting down the stairs, and I called up, “We’re all fine down here, so we need you to be calm, Mommy!!” “What happened?” “We had a little spill, but we’re going to be fine, Mommy! Just please be calm because we’re all still a little, um, surprised.” The blood is still coming. Asher is still crying-mostly out of fear and the fact that he can see his blood on my sleeve. “That was quite a fall, Asher, and you’re being very brave. It’s ok.” Mommy arrived and did her best to feign calm. She took my cue and reassured Asher with the same measured tone I used albeit an octave higher than usual.

You know what’s really going through my mind? I’m thinking I haven’t showered yet today. Am I supposed to take him to the ER without taking a shower first? What would happen if I told Gabriella that I was just going to hop into the shower before we took our bleeding son to the ER. She'll slap me with her eyes and forever be disgusted by my existence IF she doesn’t leave me. But I can’t help think it. Only serious illness has ever kept me from my daily shower. I have bad hair, and I feel like some sort of crack addict delinquent without a shampoo and dry. I curse myself for falling into the trap of winter vacation as I put off bathing until mid-morning. I put the images of crack houses and the great unwashed out of my mind while I finally assess the damage.

It’s not so bad, really. Rather than a deep cut, it’s more like a scoop. I don’t know that stitches would help when the sides of the divot are so far apart. Maybe we don’t have to spend hours upon hours at the ER and subject our 5 year old to stitches in the face. Is it my greasy hair talking or my pediatrician father? Everyone who has a doctor for a parent knows that children of physicians get the worst care. No matter what kinds of illnesses or injuries we incurred, as long as our heads were attached to our necks by at least one thread, we were fine. As a result, I rarely ever go to the doctor and I dismiss most of the ailments of my own children. Thankfully, the hysterical nature of the Italian mother living in this house provides the perfect balance. We just couldn’t decide whether or not stitches were in order, but Gabriella did decide that she absolutely would not go to the hospital. She had been once before with Asher and rightfully felt it was my turn to suffer at the ER.

So the greasy haired daughter of a doctor whipped out the digital camera and sent photos to 4 doctor friends and asked for their opinion. Thanks to the 3 out of 4 doctors who recommended a butterfly bandage in lieu of a trip to the ER. Thanks to the 4th doctor, as well, for responding to us so quickly and whose opinion I do value but chose not to take that particular day.

So he might have a scar. Stitches would not have guaranteed otherwise. Maybe the ladies and lads will consider it sexy. Or maybe it will always be covered by the coke-bottle glasses he’ll probably have to wear eventually. Maybe and most likely it will not be the only scar he earns. I’d rather not think about it. I do know that I will never again put off my morning shower, and I’m going to get Asher some new slippers immediately. It’s a slippery world out there.

Cap on Hairspray

I remember being in a few musicals in school. I was a dancer in each. I can’t sing to save my life, and I don’t have the confidence to act though my mother always praised me (read accused me) of being highly dramatic. Pot, kettle, black. My mother takes the cake. She came this close (index finger and thumb-very close together) to attending the drama school at Yale but decided that she “just wanted to get married and have children.” The performance gene was passed on to her children who have all experimented with the life on/behind the stage in one way or another but have not the talent nor the drive to make a life of it. We’ll see if any of our children have inherited that gene and if that gene has mutated in such a way to include some talent.

Alas, talent has eluded me, and my performance gene lies dormant. Those that can’t do, write about those who can. So, today, I give a personal standing ovation to the cast and crew of Hairspray. Why Hairspray, Deborah? What about all the other shows that are closing on Broadway because of this Bushconomy? Spring Awakening, 13, Grease, Spamalot, Young Frankenstein, Gypsy? I stand for Hairspray because, well, we’ve got peeps in it. Hi Peeps!! And, I was invited by the Stage Manager to spend an entire show backstage to see what all goes on back there.

You know, it’s not as simple as throwing together a show in the barn, Mickey! A musical is like the ocean. Oh that’s rich, Deborah. What on earth are you going on about? Well, you look out at the ocean, and you see the sandy beach and rolling waves, and, depending on the beach scene you’re imagining, it’s pretty or hypnotic or even a bit ominous. But what you see is only a fraction of what makes the ocean such a beautiful and powerful part of nature. I’ll spare you the list of all the things you can find in the ocean. You get the picture. Like the ocean, behind and under and around the stage is a crew that makes the magic we see from our beachfront seats. Wow, it’s late.

The performance backstage is just as choreographed and finely tuned as the show on stage-except that it’s dark and death-defying. Thank goodness I had my guides to push me out of the way of oncoming sets that motor on and off stage regardless of whether or not your foot is in the way. And with every scene change, the folks back stage strike a new pose in a new spot to keep themselves out of view of the audience. There were times, when we had to scurry behind, through and even under the stage to get to the other side for the next scene. Occasionally, I’d remember that there was a show going on, and I could peek around a curtain and catch a few minutes of a song.

Even though I was neither crew nor cast, I did catch a bit of the buzz. Or maybe there was a short in the headset I was wearing. Thank you to everyone in the cast and crew who made me feel incredibly welcome, kept me out of harm’s way and allowed me to step into the machine and experience the whole megillah. Congratulations on an amazing show and the best of luck to you talented lot.

Thanks to Lois, my guide and friend.




This video was shot at an after party the week Hairspray got its closing notice. Behold Susie Mosher from the cast of Hairspray doing her thing. Hope she gets to do it more often!

A mom by any other name

Recently, Asher has taken to calling me Mamma. Levi has followed suit. I don’t know how I became Mamma. I’ve always been Mom, and Gabriella has always been Mommy. How the unborn children will refer to parents of the same gender is a conversation that most opposing-gendered couples do not have upon planning a family. We have to think about these things and co-ordinate properly. Gabriella and I shopped for wedding dresses together so that we wouldn't clash. I mean, a snow-white dress next to antique white? It's simply not done.

Initially, Gabriella wanted to be Ma because that is what she called her mother. As much as I respect her background and for as much as I cared for her mother, I could not bring myself to live with or refer to anyone as Ma. I can’t help but imagine Gloria Bunker in All in the Family whining a high-pitched MAAAAA to Edith in their sepia toned house in Queens that most likely smelled of soup. There cannot be a Ma in my house.

In my mind, Mommy is the ultimate nurturer. Tender love and sweetness ooze out of her with every full-bodied embrace. She makes the chicken soup and kisses the owies (I hate that word. Boo boo isn’t much better. I have found no acceptable alternative that is child-friendly and not completely irritating. I welcome suggestions.) A Mommy cannot find any greater joy in life than that of being someone’s Mommy. I’m not that kind of girl. Not fishing. I’m just telling it like it is. I’m not a nurturer. But even more obviously, Gabriella is. She embodies all that is the Italian mother, and we only need one of those in the house. That’s one of us sorted.

I could have been an Ima-the Hebrew word for mother, but I’d feel like I was putting it on. I’m not Israeli, and I don’t speak Hebrew. It’s my own hang up, I know, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t name a child of mine Joaquin or wear a sari, either. I just couldn't pull it off. Ima was not an option for me. How about Mamma? As in “Just killed a man.” More than images of Freddy Mercury, I see some woman from the Old Country-any Old Country-matronly, stern and definitely not fun because - let's face it, it’s tough living in the Old Country. Can’t do it. My mother was always Mom. It’s what I know and what I’ve adopted for myself.

It took us months to get used to our names. Even when Asher was an infant and unable to speak, Gabriella and I would practice calling each other Mommy and Mom just to get into the habit. Referring to each other that way certainly did not enhance our romantic life. Nothing kills an intimate moment more than your partner whispering, "I love you, Mom" unless you’re into that sort of thing, and that’s your business.

Your kids might end up calling you whatever they please despite best efforts. There was one day when Asher was about 2 that I recall too well. Gabriella and I walked into Asher’s room to get him from his nap, and he pointed to Gabriella and then he pointed to me and dubbed us Big Mommy and Little Mommy. Well, Gabriella was none too pleased. We knew that he was only referring to her height, but when I started to laugh, she shot me a look that said, “Shut your pie hole! And if you know what’s good for you, we’ll never speak of this again.” And I haven’t-until now. But it’s for art’s sake!

And while your kids might cotton on eventually to the names you have assigned yourselves, it’s virtually impossible for your friends and family to get it right. We live in Gayville, U.S.A. There are gay families all over this town, and for every gay family, there’s a different set of names to remember. It’s confusing for everyone-even us gays! Dad and Pappa. Mommy and Ima. Mom and Mommy. Daddy A and Daddy J. And who’s who in each household? It’s virtually impossible to keep them all straight...so to speak. In this particular instance, there is something to be said for being the only gays in the village.

Little Britain: The Only Gay in the Village

Happy 2009

The perfect snow. Big, meaty flakes collecting on the trees and cars that insulate our peaceful, village road. Cold enough for the snow to stick, but not so cold that your nostrils stick shut when you breathe in. I don’t normally appreciate much about winter, but I do love these moments – before the streets become too harrowing and before civilization leaves its mark and turns the snow the color of water after too many paintbrushes have rinsed themselves clean in the same bowl. It’s a beautiful snow globe scene and a day that begs for hot chocolate.

It’s New Year’s Eve. We have reached the end of our season of celebrations. Gabriella, Asher and Levi’s birthdays. Thanksgiving with my sister’s family who finally lives in the same time zone that we do. Chanukah in Chicago with our family. A bunch of other Jewish holidays that pepper the fall and kept us in dry-clean-only fancy clothes. This autumn, we also had the pleasure of sharing in the successful launch of our friends’ films; The World Unseen and I Can’t Think Straight written by Shamim Sarif and produced by Hanan Kattan. I know the ladies have lots still cooking so watch this space for news of future projects. The sound track and the novel of I Can’t Think Straight are now available, and I’m happy to offer them to you here. To the right -->

We’ve faced some challenging times as well these past few months. The hand of the economy did not pass over our house despite the blood of the kosher, organic, grass-fed lamb over our door, and Gabriella was laid off (it’s a Passover reference which is funny because I am simultaneously alluding to the kosher, organic, grass-fed meat that I have been hawking). She is one of many who have been affected, of course. The Broadway community is disproportionately represented in this town, and I want to extend special New Year’s wishes to all those in my town whose shows have closed this year. I hope you are, indeed, able to open a new window and open a new door this year. In the meantime, we’ve got a piano, fresh eats and an open bar. Come on over! This year can only be a year of change for us, and we’re looking forward to it. Bring it on!

It has all been a roller coaster of a ride, and now we are spent. It happens every year that New Year’s comes and goes with little fanfare or fuss. Home with the family and a few friends in front of the fire, cocktails in hand. That’s all we need to quietly usher in the new year.

I’m not going to go on about resolutions just as I never refer to my blog as a collection of musings or rants & raves because all of those things are a bit bloggy for my liking. Instead, I wish you all a happy new year. May 2009 bring joy and health and maybe even a few happy surprises to you all. And may I provide a bit of levity along the way. Please stop by every now and then. Bring a friend. And if you have an adorable, Italian au pair living with you, bring her, too. No, really.

Making hot chocolate on New Years Day