A happy mistake

I was having a conversation with a friend recently whose daughter is in the same pre-school as Asher. We were talking about how parents hold kids back in school so that they will be ahead of the game in their classes. In our school district, October 1 is the cut-off. Asher was born in November, so he is usually the oldest in his class. I’ll admit that I was happy he was on the older side but not because I thought he’d be at an academic advantage. It’s all about height. Life is tough for a short, introverted boy, and my people are not known for stature. If he’s a little bit older than the rest, maybe he won’t wrench his neck looking up at everybody. Maybe they won’t steal his lunch money on the playground if he’s got a few inches on them.

This friend of mine has a PhD. I mention this because I want to point out that she’s no dummy. I mention that because in the course of our conversation, she made a mistake that made me smile big. I told her that it was good for Asher to be older so that he could be tall for a Jew. She said, “But he might be tall, anyway. Gabriella is tall, right?” I smiled and let her observation sit there while she took that beat in the middle of the conversation to think about what she had said. It was such a beautiful mistake to make. My friends know that I am the biological mother, and the boys do look like me. But, people forget about the mechanics and just think of us as a family.

There are and will be many things that the boys inherit from Gabriella. While they don’t have her angular nose or her high cheekbones, there is no doubt that they are her children. Maybe it’s the fact that every time I try to take Levi out of the car or put on his coat, he’ll scowl at me and start screaming, “NOOOO!!! MOMMY DO IT!!! MOMMY DO IT!!!” Thanks a lot, kid. Mommy, he’s all yours.

Free to be

Thumb watch. 2009. Thanks to all those who have wished me and my thumb well these past few days. I’ve now released my thumb from the humangous beast of a bandage that imprisoned her a week ago, and I’m now operating at about 85%. Only a plaster is visible to the naked eye, but what lies beneath is fairly Frankensteinian.

Until the stitches heal and the nail starts to grow again, I need to keep the thumb dry which I do with various forms of latex such as the finger cot
and the latex glove. I asked Gabriella if she we wanted to play airport to which she replied, “What??”

“C’mon, Gabiella! I’m ready to perform cavity searches!” She was not so keen. Perhaps she was simply concerned that I might further damage my already vulnerable thumb. Hopefully, I’ll still have some gloves left over after the thumb has healed. She might be more amenable then.

Enough of my pain and suffering. I should carry on...with some more pain and suffering. Shabbat services with our young, uncooperative children. Weekly worship is always a better idea in concept than in reality for my little family. These are the weekly services that we attend more often than not that are choreographed for the younger audience. It’s Shabbat with happy-clappy songs and movement and a few abridged prayers in the space of an hour. We go because we’re building that Jewish foundation and sense of community for our children. I go because I got sucked into leading it every few weeks, and because it’s only an hour, and we don’t have to be there until 11am. Our kids are our ticket to Shabbat-lite. As long as we have young kids, we get a pass from earnest grown-up prayer that begins at 9:30 AM and carries on until noon. I’m thinking that after our children are older, I might rent someone else’s just to get a few more hours of sleep in the morning.

Asher sits down and within 2 minutes whines that he is hungry. The exchange is the same every week.

A: I’m huuuuuuungry.

D: Well, you should have eaten more at breakfast.

A: I’m huuuuuuungry.

D: You’re not hungry. You’re just looking for something to do instead of paying attention. Why don’t you sing some of the songs with me, and then you won’t think about food.

A: NO! I want to eeeeeeeeaaaaaat something.

D: Can you wait? The service is very short, and then we’ll have Kiddush at the end of the service. (Kiddush is the spread after services. Cookies are standard offerings.)

A: But I’m hungry nooooooowwwww!

G: Just give him something.

D: Fine!

The lesser of two evils. If I bring in the magic bag with the cheddar bunnies, fig bars and raisins, then the boys are munching throughout the service which means they are not singing along with the leader and definitely not doing the movements that go along with the songs and clearly not connecting spiritually to their faith. If I don’t bring the magic bag with us, then we are without any kind of snack distraction for the entirety of the hour and the alternative to snacking can take the form of high pitch whining to running around the room to bouncing off walls and creating a general ruckus that distracts and annoys everyone else. At least when they’re eating, they stay in their seats.

Yesterday, after I gave-up trying to convince Asher that Shabbat songs were fun, I surrendered to his pathetic pleas for animal crackers and gave him a container full enough to keep him busy for at least 15 minutes. Gabriella and I were able to focus on Levi who was obsessed with the little girl sitting next to him and her baby doll. The minute the girl put baby down to dance to one of the many jazzy, Jewish songs, Levi made his move. He abducted that baby doll and refused to let go even when baby’s mummy was finished moving and grooving to the Jewish beat. He wasn’t trying to take what didn’t belong to him just for the sake of it. He wanted that baby. He became Edwina McDunnough in Raising Arizona before my very eyes. He wanted to hug it and hold it and poke at its eyes-out of love, of course.

It was a struggle, but eventually baby was returned to its mummy. Levi was devastated. Gabriella could not wait to get to the store to get Levi his own baby doll. We had no baby in the house. Asher was never interested in dolls. Gabriella took her mission seriously and was home before Levi awoke from his afternoon nap with an Unbelievably Soft Air Baby whose stomach gets blown up like a balloon for that soft, pillow like feel all newborns apparently have. And no baby doll could ever come home without her accompanying push chair. I’m assuming she’s a she. The packaging shows a little girl cuddling her Unbelievably Soft Air Baby dressed from head to toe in pink and a headband worn across her head a la 80s aerobic style with a big flower attached to it.


I know that there are baby dolls dressed in blue packaged for boys. I know that there are blue push chairs for the discerning boy baby doll. Gabriella said the toy store only had pink on offer. It was obviously more important to bring home baby – any baby. Why should it matter? Why shouldn’t Levi have a girl baby doll? Why shouldn’t his push chair be pink? Who cares? I know that it’s only because Levi has 2 moms that I even think about it. If I were parenting with a man, I’d thumb my nose at gender stereotyping, and I wouldn’t think twice about buying dolls dressed in pink. But, we are 2 moms...and my thumb is currently out of commission. And I think about these things.


So, I’m in the process of getting over it. Levi loves his doll, and he has no idea that the baby is a girl or that he’s pushing around a girlie-man stroller. Most of the time, he’s ramming stroller and baby into walls which is clearly manly behaviour. Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus on more important things like doing some laundry before I have to start choosing between turning my underwear inside out and going commando.

William Wants a Doll - From Free to Be, You and Me. If you subscribe to the blog and receive only text, I hope you'll take a few minutes to log into the site and enjoy this childhood favorite reminding us all that it is just as valuable for boys to learn how to be good fathers as it is for daughters to learn to be good mothers.

Thumbs up!

Didn’t win a Lezzy Award...this time! 2nd place. Not too shabby for a newcomer. I want to thank everyone who voted and spread the word. I was truly touched by the number of votes...and I love to be touched. Thank you ALL for touching me so often. I hope I have the opportunity to touch you all some day, too. In the meantime, I'll keep writing.

Peaches & Coconuts received 534 votes and 252 unconfirmed votes-unconfirmed meaning some voters forgot to select the link sent to email addresses which would have, well confirmed votes.

Given all the cross-promoting going on between the winning bloggers who have been at this far longer than I (drumming up between 1200 and 2000 votes each), you all delivered a truly stonking performance and proved that Peaches & Coconuts is a blog to watch...and read. Congratulations to all who participated for putting P&C on the map! Well done, you!!

I’m so glad all that vote-begging is over, and I promise to leave you all alone...until next year. It’s really not my style to solicit. Call me passive. Call me lazy. Just call me.

I’m writing this entry totally stoned on some sort of pain killers that I downed an hour ago. Long story that I’ll try to keep short because, well, I’m stoned. And also, I’m in pain, and I can’t type quickly or accurately. I lost part of my thumbnail. Not that I can’t find it, it’s just not there anymore. That white bit at the bottom of my thumbnail, which I learned is called the lunula, is gone. My thumbnail had been rippled for a long time. There was probably some sort of fungus or something us-gusting going on that I ignored...and ignored...and ignored until that bit at the bottom picked up and peeled off leaving me with an exposed nail bed where the lunula should be and a very disgruntled thumb. It was not happy. I had to go to the doctor. I was not happy.

It’s too gruesome to talk about everything that had to be done, so I shan’t. You may thank me later. I will tell you that I got 3 shots of Novocain in my thumb in order that the doctor could slip a bamboo shoot – or something equally as medieval – in between my nail bed and what I have also learned is the eponychium in order to allow the new nail space to grow. The result is a very sore thumb and a tripping patient.



I was not prepared for the procedure. I thought I was going in for a consultation. I had 40 weeks to prepare for childbirth but I had 2 minutes from assessment to big, numb thumb and a tray of Marathon Man instruments ready for torture. Was it safe? I didn’t think so, and I couldn’t help making nervous small talk.



Dr M: I’m going to take a biopsy because I can’t figure out how your nail got this way just from a fungus. You haven’t suffered any kind of trauma?

D: Trauma? You mean, in my life? Well, my mother...

Nurse P giggles

Dr M: You didn’t catch your thumb in a car door, and you weren’t in an accident of any kind?

D: I don’t even hitchhike.

Nurse P laughs some more.

D: Guess this means I’ll have to cancel my piano concert tonight.

Nurse P: Ha!

D: It was either that or tell you I had to put off operating heavy farm equipment this afternoon.

Dr M: I’m finished. Do you want to see what I’ve done?

D: No! Wait, um, Nurse P, do I want to see?

Nurse P: It’s not bad.

D: Ok.

Dr M: You see here is where I’ve put the (I don’t know what he called the bamboo shoot thing), and I’ve put one stitch on either side of your nail to keep it in place while your nail grows back.

D: Nice work. (and it was)

Dr M: I’m going to wrap your thumb.




D: Wow! All that? Keep wrapping!! I can milk this for days!

Nurse P: You’re funny. Can’t wait for your follow-up visit.

D: You and me both,sister. (Ok, I didn't call her "sister", but I thought it.)

Gabriella had driven me to the appointment to get out of the house and get some breakfast with Levi. Thank goodness she did because driving home would have been more interesting on my own. I got in the car and showed her my poor, poor hand. I described the torture in detail as best I could so she could feel my pain to the fullest.

D: As you can see, I’m going to need a little help around the house.

Gabriella: Now THAT’S funny!

D: We’re going to have to swing by the pharmacy and pick up the pain killers he prescribed.

G: Whadja get?

D: Uh, let me look…Hydrocodone.

G: That’s too bad. Thought you’d get Percocet or Vicodin or something good.

D: Well, it must be a derivative of codeine, right? Codone?

G: How often can you take it?

D: Says "1-2 tablets by mouth every 4 hours". Can’t be that good.

G: Why? Because you can take it so often?

D: No, anything that isn’t supposed to be inserted rectally can’t be all that.

G: You’re high.

D: It also says, “For best results, achieve orgasm within 1 hour of dosage.”

G: Yeah? What else?

D: “Preferably, with a partner.”

Turns out, Vicodin is a brand name for Hydrocone. Probably should have researched that before I popped two of them thinking that they were like aspirin. Gabriella did not do her part as the label prescribed and left me to suffer silently on my own while she helped me out around the house. Frankly, the pills made me high and then they made me sick. I started this entry last night but couldn’t finish until this morning. Still feeling dizzy but had to shout out and thank you all for your Lezzy help. A big THUMBS UP to you all – literally.

Loving me, loving you. Uh-huh!

Voting for THE LEZZY AWARDs is almost over, and I’m trailing at a woeful rate. The current leader has 544 votes followed by Peaches & Coconuts at 190. The gap is wide but not impossible, and I don’t feel like giving up without a fight. VOTE HERE for Peaches & Coconuts: Best Personal Blog. Harassment ends Wednesday.

And now back to our regularly scheduled blog. February focuses our attention on Valentine’s Day whether you participate or not, I thought I’d include an entry about love. As the fabulous Rupaul said on Rupaul’s Drag Race, “If you can’t love yourself, how the hell are you going to love anyone else? Can I get an Amen in here?” And because I love Rupaul and because I do agree that it’s always best to start with a solid foundation and work your way up, it would be irresponsible and unprofessional to talk about love without talking about self-love. Those who know me know that I am nothing if not responsible and professional.

Once upon a time, I may have shared with you my experiences with self-love. I may have talked about early explorations and pleasures, but I have family reading this blog. Whether or not I had a special pillow as a child is not anything they would want to know, and therefore I refuse to confirm or deny its existence. Suffice it to say that my foundation of love was a solid one from an early age.

Our boys have encountered no obstacles in their paths to self-love. Who is ever surprised to learn that little boys play with their bits? I don’t know a single boy who wasn’t tempted by their willies. Difficult for any little boy to ignore that dangling bit that’s so accessible and available and begging for attention. And I don’t know very many mothers who are embarrassed by their sons’ activities. We were a little concerned initially with Asher’s fervor when he first began to engage in the sport. We had to consult with a male friend who assured us that even though it looked as if Asher was going to rip it right off, he was, in fact, causing himself no harm and probably would be able to reproduce one day should he so please. He has since softened his technique and has become more private about it which is a good thing at the age of 5.

Daughters are an entirely different subject. I remember an outing with some other mums in the early days of our weekly playgroup meetings. We decided to venture out one chilly morning and take the tube to a park. The kids were layered and coated and secured in their prams when we boarded the train. It wasn’t long into our journey when we noticed one of the little girls writhing around in her pram. At first, we thought she might be uncomfortable-too restricted in her seat perhaps. Too layered? Too hot? Nope.

Catalogs descriptions do not do the 5 point harness justice. Safety is clearly only part of the picture. The additional benefit of the 5 point harness is the built-in self-love feature. Who knew that crotch-strap could provide both safety and stimulation? The tighter the better on both counts.

It was our first exposure to the discoveries of daughters, and we all came face to face with the fact girls like a little fiddle just as much as the next guy. Story after story support what all women know but are often too embarrassed to admit. Girls love to love ourselves. There’s the 4 year old daughter who wouldn’t leave the house until she was “finished” with the door knob. Or the 9 year old girl who takes inordinately long baths in which the tub never seems to fill. Then, there’s the 12 year old daughter who insists on borrowing her mom’s back massager without a single complaint of back aches.

So, to new mothers of daughters, do not be alarmed if your daughter exhibits tendencies toward self-titillation. It’s just as natural for the girls to explore as it is for the boys. And don’t we want our daughters to be just as fluent in love as their brothers? When was the last time you carved out a little time for yourself? That’s a rhetorical question. I’m just saying, put together your own stimulus package and celebrate the month of love-whether you have a partner or not. Enjoy!

Kids are fun, funerals are not

Where to begin? What to even share? As you know by now, I’m not one to get too heavy. It’s not that I don’t like to bear my soul and share my moments of deep reflection or sorrow with you. I am not afraid to be vulnerable or to expose myself to you. (Steady!) I have no shame. I’m not even afraid to walk down the street with my butt-floss knickers hiked well above the waist band of my jeans. But, I choose not to share stuff that brings me down. For however long it takes me to pen an entry, I’m a writer. An entertainer. A humorist. This girl just wants to have fu-un, and she wants you to have fu-un with her.

Alas, I was just in Chicago for Bubby’s funeral, and my fun-tank is low. The flight alone was enough to send me into a mega-funk. Newark. No additional words are necessary if you’ve ever had to travel in and out of Newark...to and from Chicago...in the middle of winter. Even though the flight was delayed for 3 hours after I checked in and even though we sat for an additional hour on the tarmac once we boarded, I tried to convince myself that every minute spent travelling without my children was a gift.

There was one unfortunate trip we took with Asher when he was 3 (and 3 is the new 2, you know). He was so out of his mind tired after hours of delays on a cross-country trip that half-way through the flight he began to shriek. A lot. And wouldn’t stop. And wouldn’t stop. And wouldn’t stop. Until. Until David Banner got a little too angry and The Incredible Hulk exploded out of his Gymboree blue, green and white train-themed ensemble, roared a mighty roar and grabbed the portable DVD player that was no longer amusing him and chucked it in to the aisle of the plane with the force of a thousand pre-schoolers-in super slow-mo, of course. He killed it.

After 4 hours of travel time out of Newark, I’m ready to grab the person’s laptop next to me and chuck it into the aisle, too. I would never sacrifice my own laptop. First of all, I didn’t bring my laptop. Secondly, the difference between small children and grown-ups is that millisecond of assessment before destruction of personal property. I wouldn’t have thrown mine...unless of course I was unable to repress the MacBook envy that metastasizes inside of me every day until my PC somehow found its way to the floor. Does the word “MacBook” register as misspelled on a Mac as it does on Microsoft Word?

I was alone with my book, and that should have been a pleasure. It was the man seated next to me that ruined my flight. After hours stuck on a plane, most passengers get around to exchanging pleasantries with the person sharing that inhumane feed-lot of a space. He volunteered that he was originally from Ann Arbor, but his job transferred him and his wife and 2 kids to Naperville. He works with a consultancy firm that guides companies through the procurement and implementation of software systems...or something. “What do you do?” he asked. I told him I was at home with the children. “That’s the most important job there is.” When a guy under 60 feeds you that line, you have to factor context and tone before deciding whether the statement is coming from a sincere person who loves his mother or an absolute tit. This guy was an absolute tit.

AT (ABSOLUTE TIT): What does your husband do?

D: My partner -SHE- is in technology.

AT: Oh! Wait, didn’t you say you had kids?

D: Yes.

AT: So, did you adopt?

D: No. That’s awfully personal, don’t you think?

AT: What? In this day and age? It’s not a secret is it? Do you know the father?

D: The donor? No, but I think that this is really personal. How about you? Don’t you think you should share something equally personal about your life? Have you ever cheated on your wife?

AT: No.

I opened my book and vowed not to look at this guy again. Obviously, Absolute Tit didn’t feel that Pride and Prejudice was worth my time and he interrupted me with, “Sperm bank, huh? Did it take you a long time to get pregnant?”

D: Really? I’m not answering that question.

At that point, I realized that I had to commit to Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy for the duration so as not to give Absolute Tit even a hint of a window. Don’t think me high-brow in my choice of literature. It’s a book club selection. True to his name, Absolute Tit interrupted once again minutes later. “Do you have the time?” He was looking for a way back in. I showed him my watch without making eye contact, and finally Absolute Tit got the message and addressed me no more. I’ve become too comfortable in my little village where the population consists of civilized people of various backgrounds who comprehend boundaries. I need to collect some comebacks for the simpletons in the world who think that it's ok to ask a lesbian how she makes babies. Suggestions welcome.

The funeral story is material for the memoir-not the blog. Suffice it to say that my brother, sister and I were happy to see the other side of it given that our parents refuse to acknowledge any of us as their children. We did manage to make each other laugh and we did hold each other close when we let our guards down long enough to be comforted. I am grateful to my siblings, their spouses and the extended family that nurtured us throughout our visit and is a source of great strength and love.

The plane to Newark landed at 12AM--3 hours late. I had a middle seat in the back of the plane, and I made sure not to make eye contact with either passenger beside me. I’m so happy to be home with Gabriella and the boys. Tired emotionally and physically. Need to find my happy place. Hoping that a good night sleep will get me there. I know my little family will help get me there, too.

Cyndi Lauper - New Music - More Music Videos

BEST LEZZY - Without you I'm nothing

We did it!! We nominated Peaches & Coconuts for a BEST PERSONAL BLOG LEZZY on TLL! I thought it was a long shot at best. Most of the blogs that have been nominated in all categories have been around longer and have a large, loyal readership and deservedly so. Clearly, I owe a huge thanks to the readers of this blog-my fruits and nuts-who deemed it readable and took the time to nominate. I write, you vote. Great team work, indeed. But now, the real work begins. Well, actually, it’s the same work. I write some more, and you vote some more. But this time, it’s for the win. I’ve got to bring my A-Game next to the likes of A Brown Girl Gone Gay and This Girl Called Automatic Win - fantastic blogs I've already started following.

The top 3 blogs in each category are now up for the vote beginning Wednesday the 11th at 9AM ET through Wednesday the 18th. To vote click HERE or vote on The Lesbian Lifestyle site. You and your friends and your family members and your colleagues and your neighbours and your acquaintances are able to vote once each day-every 24 hours- for my blog and the other blogs you would like to support in the other categories. It’s a numbers game people, and I can’t make it without you. Put it in your calendars. Post it on Facebook. Shout it from the highest mountain.

“Why should we keep doing this, Deborah? Our fingers hurt from typing your url address! Do you know what it means if our fingers are out of commission? We just can’t go on!” I realize that I need to inspire you. When I sat down to put my thoughts to “paper”, I couldn’t quite figure out how I was going to motivate you to keep on voting. I mean, my friends will vote for me because I will harass them each and every day. But what about those of you who are just tuning in now? You have no idea who I am or what this blog is all about. The name of the blog is random. The layout is strictly amateur. The recurring characters are strange and a bit queer.

I’ll require a multi-level marketing campaign to appeal to the widest audience. I begin with the Heartstring Campaign. Please find it in your heart to vote for Peaches & Coconuts for BEST PERSONAL BLOG because:

• My Bubby just died.
• My mother got all Amish on me and denies that I am her daughter.
• My partner of 14 years, Gabriella, is a victim of Bushenomics and was laid-off in December and is still on the dole.
• I have mitral valve prolapse like my father who also went Amish on me.
• I always wanted a pony, but I never got one.

That’s not enough to penetrate your cold, black heart? Ok, how about the Under Dog Campaign? I’d be ever so chuffed if you voted for Peaches & Coconuts for BEST PERSONAL BLOG because:

• I’m new in the blogging community, and my readership is small. Without you, I’m nothing.
• So many trip over my site because they google words like Camel Toe or Muff. You can help me reach out to the community looking for much more than a cheap thrill (though I do tend to provide the occasional cheap thrill, too).
• Because I am oh-so-small, I will be exponentially grateful for the support and will promise my readers things that I most likely will not be able to deliver. That being said, I would like to start doing some give-aways which my readers deserve with or without the Lezzys but I may initiate upon my unexpected and tremendous win.

Then there’s always the Quality Campaign. Vote for Peaches & Coconuts for BEST PERSONAL BLOG because I write a pretty good blog. I don’t get paid to do this, so my blog runs on the fuel of comments and praise. The more readers I reach, the more I want to write. You complete me. Too much?

And for my “I’m not queer, but my blogging friend is” friends, family and readers, I offer the following facts stated previously in the nomination round:

• You don’t have to be a lezzy or a gay homosexual or anything else on the queer menu.
• You don’t have to like hummus.
• You will not be outed as a gay-lover.
• No one will try to lure you to our side-unless you would like them to do so in which case you can comment below to see if there are any professional recruiters out there who can help. Sadly, I’ve had to retire from that particular career since hooking up with Gabriella – my last recruit.

I’m going to leave you to it for a couple of days. I fly out for Chicago tomorrow to go to Bubby’s funeral on Thursday. I doubt I’ll be able to write much though I’ll be graveside at the muddy cemetery thinking, “I’d rather be blogging.” I hope you’ll take a moment to vote for the blog and vote for other blogs in OTHER categories.

Congratulations to all the other nominees! Even if P&C doesn’t win, just the thrill of being nominat...screw it...let’s go for the win!

Sunday Bubby Sunday #8

A good friend of mine asked me recently why I hadn’t blogged about Bubby in a while. She missed reading about her “zesty” personality. I had to confess that Bubby had not been that talkative for the past few months. She was often asleep when I phoned, and when she was awake, she was not up for a chatting much. Blogging about our conversations would have been nothing more than a journal entry when all I did was tell her what we were doing each day. Not very interesting.

It’s such a shame that I hadn’t started recording our conversations earlier when Bubby was truly zesty. I’m pretty sure that the phrase “with friends like her, who needs enemies” was inspired by her. She had a sharp tongue and never hesitated before hitting below the belt. She was a loner-not interested in community of any kind and, therefore, never was very concerned about alienating anyone. My mother and my bubby are cut from the same cloth. This is why they don’t care for each other, and that’s putting it politely. She gave great phone, and I’m sorry I never documented the many hilarious calls.

Bubby passed away this morning at 3:30am Pacific Time. She was 92. The spirit of Bubby possessed our garbage disposal today. It died, too.

The doctor called me this morning at 7AM. I had to get the boys dressed. Had to make breakfast. Had to get Asher’s lunch bagged. Had to sub at the pre-school this morning. Levi required my attention. I knew this because while I was in the kitchen fixing breakfast, Levi was at the top of the stairs right outside Asher’s bedroom door yelling “MAAAAAAMAAAAAA!!!!!” Asher was still asleep, so I ran up the stairs to fetch him. I plopped him in his chair and tried to keep him entertained while I went about my morning ritual.

I called my sister mid lunch-box packing. It was a quick chat. Lots to discuss. Lots to plan. A few questions about the next few days. We are both planning to be at the funeral in Chicago.

R: Glad she waited until midnight. (Her son Joshua’s birthday was the previous day)

D: Glad I got my hair cut last weekend.

R: Should I tell the boys?

D: I think so. Here. I’ll go first. LEVI! Bubby is dead.

Levi didn’t acknowledge the information. He was too busy grating the cookie I had given him with his finger nail.

D: He doesn’t seem to be too upset. I think we’re in good shape.

My Bubby spent the last week of her life in the hospital. She had developed kidney stones and while she was in hospital, she contracted pneumonia. The doctors called me every day to tell me how she was doing. Dr. M told me that she had been very co-operative and amenable while he was on call which he understood was not her normal behaviour. I verified that she could be unhelpful at times. I knew she wasn’t well. She had lost her fight.

The day has been one of phone calls and emails. Tony at the funeral home is holding my hand over the wires. “This is my first one,” I told him. He walked me through the next few days with sensitivity and efficiency. This man is in the right business. He asked me if we should submit the obituary the day after the funeral. “She says here that she wanted her service to be PRIVATE PRIVATE PRIVATE!!” “Yes, that’s my grandmother. She didn’t care for too many people, and she was a, well, private person. We’ll put the notice in the day before just in case there is anyone around who cares to attend.”

It’s been business as usual for now. I’ll save my tears for the funeral when I have a chance to say good-bye. I have my moments of mini-break downs. I had to explain to the woman at AT&T that I had to cancel service because the customer had passed away. She was very sorry, and when she finished closing out her account said with feeling, “Have a wonnnnderful day.” I almost lost it.

Rachel told me that if I didn’t milk this with Gabriella that I was stupid. I didn’t really have to say anything. Gabriella did not need to be asked to keep the boys busy while I made phone calls, and she did not need for me to ask her for the loving hugs. I did ask for lentil soup. I love her lentil soup. She didn’t skip a beat. Like magic-lentil soup. mmmmmm. I also did tell her that the doctor told me that Bubby’s last wish was that Gabriella should put out more. I think she might have bought it.

My eye is twitching. My thumb is throbbing from the cuticle I pulled. I have mitral valve prolapse. Bubby died. She will be missed, but I’ve missed her for a long time now. We love you, Bubby!

TWU sweeps SAFTAS

VEELS GELUK, MABROOK and CONGRATULATIONS to our dear friends and filmmakers, Shamim Sarif and Hanan Kattan for the 11 awards they won at the SAFTAs this year for THE WORLD UNSEEN.

The SAFTAs are the local version of the Oscars where South Africa promotes the best in film and television. Cast and crew and everyone who made The World Unseen possible are surely flying high today.

The World Unseen wins for:

Best Director Feature Film (Shamim Sarif)
Best Writer Feature Film
Best Editor Feature Film
Best Supporting Actor (Daniel Dennis)
Best Supporting Actress (Natalie Becker)
Best Ensemble (Acting)
Best Cinematographer (Michael Downie)
Best Production Designer (Tanya Van Tonder)
Best Costume Designer (Danielle Knox)
Best Sound Design
Best Hair & Make Up

On her way to Cape Town, Shamim was kind enough to provide some thoughts about the film's much deserved wins. "Winning these in South Africa is extra special for me because of my family’s history here, which formed the backdrop of The World Unseen. The book and the movie are about passion and integrity and I was privileged to work with a cast and crew who embodied those qualities themselves. Starting with my wife, the producer of this movie and the reason we were all able to get those awards – Hanan. She flew out to be with me for that one night. And had I been able to receive the award in trousers and flats instead of a dress and heels, my joy would have been complete..."

If you are like Gabriella and me then you are incredibly clever and astonishingly beautiful. Um, no, that’s not what I meant to say…out loud. If you are like us, you are inspired by Hanan and Shamim, and you can’t get enough of them. If you are on Facebook, you can join groups for either or both The World Unseen and I Can’t Think Straight. Shamim has also started writing a behind-the-scenes-of-her-life blog.

You can buy books and cds here (over there to the right) and dvds are due to be released this spring at which time they will be available here, as well. In the meantime, you can check out the making of the music video, Broken written and sung by Leonie Casanova.



If you want more than that, you’ll have to audition for their next film. I do believe that Shamim’s novel Despite the Falling Snow will be under production soon. In the words of our prolific friend and godmother to our children, they’re “hot like fire!”

Knead to know

I finally got in to see a very sought-after massage therapist in town. I waited three months for this massage. The waiting list is long because of her particular talents. This masseuse gives her customers much more than your standard massage. Hands up. How many of you are anticipating (or hoping for) stories of brothels fronted by massage parlours? Sorry-not this time. I’d be happy to write dirty for you – for a fee. This particular post is not about physical pleasures of massage. The talents to which I refer are more spiritual in nature.

This masseuse, I’ll call her Nadia, reads energy, diagnoses health issues and reports on your past lives and future opportunities. I guess she’s a psychic, but there is probably a more modern word for it. The minute you arrive, she dives right into your life. The fun doesn’t end with a psychic reading. After she has violated your unconscious and exposed all of your thoughts, fears and hopes, after she has fondled your soul and become more intimate with you than any lover or gynaecologist has ever been, she provides a relaxing massage.

I’ll admit that I want to believe in all of that stuff. I want someone to invite me to that mysterious dimension and show me that life isn’t always as it seems. But I’m not as open as I used to be. I learned my lesson my first year of college when I was out with friends bopping around Manhattan. Just for kicks, we went into a Psychic Reading shop thinking we were going to learn something about our futures. I’m not sure what secrets we thought would be uncovered for $5, but we were young and open (read stupid) and looking for new experiences. The fortune teller took my cash, grabbed my hand for a quick peek and said with what I’m sure she thought was an eastern European accent, “You will travel, and you will marry the man of your dreams.” “Where does it say that?” I asked. With her index finger, she drew spirals around the circumference of my palm and said, “Here.” Alrighty then.

Bad businesses fail in this neck of the woods. Word of mouth can make or break you, so you’d better be worth your salt. And when I heard about Nadia again and again from friends whom I trusted and respected, I couldn’t help but take notice. Could Nadia be the chaperone to my future?

I can tell you that she is certainly intuitive and is most likely able to read people better than they are able to read themselves. As far as the future goes, I’ll just have to wait and see. The future has yet to unfold. She didn’t mention whether or not I would win a LEZZY, but perhaps that is because my future is very much dependent on the future of my readers and whether or not they will choose to nominate the blog HERE....once a day through the 9th.

She did start the session with a big truth. I had just taken off my coat when she asked, “WHO is so judgmental in your life?!? A woman. Your mother! And she is so very critical. And you walk around with her weight on your shoulders.” She nailed that one. I’ve been trying to pull my shoulders back ever since to get that infernal woman off my back.

I don’t know what I think about past lives. At the very least, these characters provide ample dinner party conversation. Apparently, I have been a Native American archer who taught my tribe how to fight with bows and arrows. I have been Freud’s assistant. And, I have been a member of a harem. Are you finished laughing? There’s more. Gabriella was my spouse in my Native American life. While it’s difficult to imagine myself an Indian Brave, I don’t have any difficulty imagining Gabriella with a papoose tied to her back while she grinds corn (which we called “maize”) in a wooden bowl in front of our tee-pee. Nadia told me that Gabriella was also with me in the harem. I just can’t seem to shake her.

Look, I can’t prove that any of this is true or false, so I choose not to suppose either. It does provide me with food for thought. Nadia told me that I’m a teacher in many lives starting with the Native American archer. Maybe I should be a teacher when I grow up? I’ve been helping out at Asher’s pre-school, and I have to say that I’ve enjoyed it. Or maybe I should just stick to wearing moccasins or hunting beaver. Did you beat me to the punch line? That’s right, I’ve already had plenty of beaver.

Nadia also told me that she was surprised that I wasn’t a therapist or psychologist due to my tutelage under Freud. Did I miss my calling or is it enough that I play armchair therapist with friends and family? Would I make a good therapist or would I be far too tempted to tell everyone to “get over it”?

I’m thinking Gabriella and I made the best of our lives in the harem. I’m sure we weren’t just lying around on pillows all day if you know what I mean. And what’s wrong with polygamy anyway? Perhaps, Big Love is too good. I’m just about convinced that there is nothing wrong with polygamy between consenting adults. Why should it matter to me that a guy hooks up with a few willing women and has lots of children with all of them? It takes a village, right? The 3 sister-wives on Big Love do love and support each other and keep their 3 households running smoothly in the face of ignorance, hatred and fantastic made-for-television drama.



As long as all parties are of age and no one is being coerced, I say go for it. As a matter of fact, I’m going to ask Gabriella when we can take a sister-wife. I’m guessing Gabriella will oppose my request initially, but I think I picked up enough from Freud to help her work through her fears.

I booked another appointment with Nadia. The massage alone was worth the price of admission. And the rest, well, we’ll see. I do need to ask her when we can expect our new wife. I’ll need to clear out some space in the closet.

2 - 4 - 6 - 8, Spread the word and NOMINATE

I’m relatively new to this blogging thing. I mean to say that I’m new to this blogging lifestyle. I’ve always written-even before blogging was in fashion or even referred to as blogging by mainstream society. Diverted and Rediverted were my blogging babies. Then, blogging exploded all over the world, and everyone was doing it. I didn’t notice that blogging was such a phenomenon until we moved back to the U.S., and by then, blog communities, blog speak and technical wizardry became the norm. I was out of it before I was ever in it.

I’m slowly catching up, and now I’m officially a blogger. I’m still woefully behind on the technical stuff, and the blog could use an overhaul. I always hoped that the content would overshadow the under-stylized design. I’m envious of those who are able to play with format and gadgets and make their blogs sizzle. But it seems my material alone has actually managed to convince a select few that content is king because I’ve been nominated for....wait for it....

A LEZZY!!

The LEZZY AWARDS are sponsored by the site The Lesbian Lifestyle. TLL is a blog comprised of over 250 lesbian authors who post their stories and tackle monthly topics. The Lezzys are a great way to highlight lesbian authored blogging. And what if I win? What do I get? I get the satisfaction of knowing that my little hobby here is not just blogsterbation, and I can tell Gabriella that I NEED time to write in order to share the love with my readers and that I just can’t give the boys a bath just now.

HOWEVER, one nomination is not enough to make it to the final round. From now until the 9th, TLL will be accepting nominations. Numbers count.

EVERYONE can nominate. You don’t have to be a lezzy or a gay homosexual. You don’t have to enjoy watching girl on girl porn. You don’t even have to like hummus. You just have to go to the TLL site each day, and nominate Peaches & Coconuts. You will not be outed as a gay or a gay-lover in your community, schools or places of worship, and no one will harass you to join the site or even become a gay homosexual-unless that’s what you want. For those of you who do play on my team, spend some time on the site, read articles, participate in conversations and perhaps even register to contribute entries.

I’m small potatoes compared to most blogs, so this is my appeal for help to get P&C on the ballot. If you enjoy the blog, take 5 seconds each day to click on The Lesbian Lifestyle widget/banner/button on the right hand side of the page and select the NOMINATE button on the TLL website. Or click HERE. You must confirm your nomination via a link that will be sent to your email address, so please check your mail.

You can nominate Peaches & Coconuts for one or more categories. I’m thinking Best Personal Blog and/or Best Parenting Blog though I wouldn’t stop you from adding P&C to more categories. And, if you know of other blogs that you want to identify as Lezzy-rrific, go for it! It’s all about promoting each other. Thank you.

Nominations: Begin on Monday February 2nd from 9:00 am EDT through February 9th at 11:00 pm EDT
Voting: Begins Wednesday February 11th 9:00 am EDT through February 18th at 11:00 pm EDT
Winners Announced: On Monday February the 23rd at 9:00 am

The Categories
Best Lesbian Culture/Entertainment Blog
- Blogs that focus on lesbian culture and the entertainment world
Best Lesbian Humor Blog
-Blogs that take a humorous spin on lesbian life
Best Lesbian Parenting/Wedding Blog
-Blogs about lesbian parenting or lesbian weddings or engagements
Best Lesbian Feminism/Political Blog
-Blogs that tackle feminist and political topics
Best Lesbian Personal Blog
- Blogs written like a journal about an individual’s life experiences
Best Lesbian 50 and over Blog
- Blogs written by lesbian women over 50 in all categories
Best Gender Bender Blog
- Blogs that discuss gender topics and challenge gender as a whole
Best Lesbian Sex/Short Story/Erotica Blog
- Lesbian blogs that talk about sex or publish any form of erotica
Best Overall Lesbian Blog of the Year
- The best of the best in lesbian blogging spanning all genres

Rachel loves funny lesbos

Deborah: So, aren’t you happy your substitute teaching job is over? You don’t have to get up at 5 in the morning and go to school.

Rachel: I just watched blind-folded musical chairs on Ellen. It was funny, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.



D: Ellen, huh? You used to love Rosie, too. You just love the Lesbos.

R: Yes, I do.

D: But you don’t love Rosie anymore, do you?

R: No.

D: What happened?

R: I don’t like her anymore because she got on her high-horse and tried to use her fame for good. Just stick to being funny, Rosie. But have you seen Whatever, Martha?

D: I have no idea what that is.

R: OH MY GOD! It’s so good. Martha Stewart gave all of her old shows to her daughter Alexis, and Alexis and Alexis’s friend watch all of her shows toegether and mock her. It’s like Mystery Science Theater meets Martha.





D: What channel?

R: No idea. We found it by accident. We were flipping through channels and landed on it and said, ‘What the hell is this?’ And Ron said, ‘Isn’t that Martha Stewart’s daughter?”

D: Wait, how did he know that she was Martha Stewart’s daughter?

R: Because Ron is a reality tv whore and saw her on Martha Stewart’s Apprentice.

D: Can I publish the fact that Ron is a reality tv whore?

R: Sure. It’s on his 25 Random Things list on Facebook.

D: Oh yeah.

Gabriella is upstairs and yells down: DEBORAH! I’m taking a shower now.

D: I’m talking to Rachel!

G: Yeah I know, but I’m taking a shower. Levi is up here.

R: This is a great excuse for when we talk on the phone all the time. You have to tell her that you have to talk to me because you never know when our conversation is going to be blogorific!

D: I’ve gotta go. Levi has been watching television for an unprecedented amount of time. Good thing both of his moms are at home so we can spend quality time with him.

R: I have to put a new load of laundry in, anyway. Gotta take off my pants.

D: Really?

R: Yeah! It’s my last load of colds. Hope I’m not mooning the neighbours. I can never show my face in New Jersey now, can I?

D: Oh, they’ll love you in New Jersey!

R: You’re funny.

D: You’re funnier.

Walking in a fog of wrong

Gabriella has posted a comment on my blog only once, I believe, and that suits me just fine. I have the benefit of standing over her shoulder while she reads. Whenever she so much as twitches, I force her to stop reading and explain her reactions to me. It must be incredibly annoying, but she’s a good sport. She usually laughs at everything that is supposed to be funny, so I can’t help but monitor.

My sister refuses to post comments on the blog. I’m not bothered by that either. I prefer hearing from her directly as she often has so many colourful things to say about what I write, AND she allows me to publish many of her comments of color on her behalf. As a matter of fact, my dear sister had quite a few things to say about the previous post. Who knew that the subject of toilet tissue hanging could be so controversial?

Rachel called me after sledding with her boys. She decided to wait on making hot chocolate until after she had logged on and read the most recent entry. I’m thinking she might have been less bothered by toilet paper had she chosen to have some hot chocolate first. She logged on while I was on the phone with her, took one look at the picture of the “right” and “wrong” way to hang toilet paper and said, and I quote, “I am vehemently opposed to this blog. I can’t even continue reading.”

Deborah: Are you serious?

Rachel: Yes! Everyone knows that if you have cats or small children, you have to hang the toilet paper the supposedly “wrong” way so that they don’t spin all of the paper off the roll. Didn’t Levi used to unroll all the toilet paper?

D: Yes, but he doesn’t do it anymore. You don’t have cats, and your kids are too old to unroll toilet paper anymore. Why do you insist on hanging it the child-proof way?

R: I guess it’s a habit now. Besides, aren’t grown-ups able to sit next to a toilet roll and make a conscious decision to rip off only as many squares as they need?

D: Why don’t you comment then? Perhaps you need to let people know that they should be more mindful of their actions and take responsibility for their overly zealous toilet paper ripping.

R: Your friends are freaks and they won’t understand. “Kindred spirits”? Where did you find that stupid, crunchy granola article anyway? Ron! Did you read her blog?

Ron: I’m writing a comment on it now.

R: He’s writing a comment. He knows you’re wrong, too. (see Ron’s comment)

D: I can’t wait to read it.

R: The problem with looking for facts like this is that you can always find articles that will prove whatever you believe, and you end up walking around in this fog believing that everyone else believes what you believe, too.

D: So, why don’t you post and offer a different perspective? I’m sure there are others who share your point of view and would be grateful for your comments.

R: I'm over it. I obviously need some hot chocolate. It’s a nice page. I liked the picture.

Why Gabriella needs to get a job

Gabriella: Deborah!! Can you come in here and hand me a new roll of toilet paper?

Deborah: Are you stuck in the lav without toilet paper?!? I should make you get it yourself for all the times you have left me with 2 squares of toilet paper left of the roll.

G: Can you just--

D: Yes, but you’re just going to have to wait. You can air-dry while I’m getting dressed. (I walk into the bathroom and show Gabriella how I slowly and methodically thread my arm into the looooong sleeve of my shirt)

G: Can you please?

D: Yes, but not only do I have to fetch a new roll AGAIN, but I’m going to have to physically replace it myself as you insist on ignoring my requests to insert the roll so that the paper is dispensing from the top of the instead of from the underside of the roll.

G: What?

D: I know that when we first got together, I was a proponent of the under-sided hang, but I have learned the error of my ways and have tried tirelessly to convince you to follow suit.

G: I don’t pay attention to how I insert the roll when I...

D: But you so RARELY actually replace the toilet paper yourself that I can confidently report that you hang the roll the wrong way EVERY time. I have no choice, therefore, but to believe that you are purposeful in your defiance. I can also tell you that you have never replaced a roll AND separated that first square from the roll. It’s a matter of courtesy to lift the toilet paper from the glued strip before anyone else has to struggle with that first square. Would you replace the tape in its dispenser without feeding the tape to the blade? Most likely, you would not.

G: Uh huh.

D: And it’s not enough that you completely discount my repeated petitions, but I’ve told you time and time again that hanging toilet paper so that the top sheet hangs over the roll prevents paper wastage and is, therefore, economical more and green.

G: Can you please hand me the toilet paper.

D: Yes.