One of many lovely blogs

I was experiencing that prickly feeling in my fingertips due to blog neglect. I have left you wanting, and it was time for me to put out. I may not be the sharpest tack, and I might not be the most diligent housewife, but one thing I am consistently capable of doing is putting out. It’s a gift and a curse.

I had a new entry all polished and ready to go when I checked into my traffic situation and noted that numbers were awfully robust today. What could it be busting out my ro? What could be at the source for this spike in readership?
Turns out, I’ve been awarded. I’ve received the coveted One Lovely Blog Award from Vikki Reich at Up Popped A Fox


And if you haven’t heard of the One Lovely Blog Award, well, I don’t know under which rock you’ve been living...but it must have been right next to mine because it was a new one to me. I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth, mind you. I’m humbled and honoured to receive the nod.

What makes it especially delicious is that it comes from a tremendously talented blogger. I’m not just paying lip service. I’ve already got the award, people! If I were a musical kind of gal, I might praise her wit and creativity in song. Lucky for you, I can’t sing, AND I won’t. But because I’m a writer, I’ll scribe for you the conversation I had with my anti-blogger sister the other day to illustrate my point. And it goes a little something like this:

Rachel: You haven’t posted anything new.

D: Nope. I’ll have something up there soon. Thanks for pretending to care.

R: No problem. In the meantime, I clicked on a link from someone who comments on your blog-that Vikki one.

D: You DID? I thought you didn’t like blogs.

R: Well, you keep telling me about the people who love to read yours, and I thought that if I read a few other blogs, maybe I’d understand it more.

D: Maybe you’d come to appreciate blogs?

R: No, maybe I’d discover that all blogs were as, well, were like yours. Then I’d see that the bar is pretty low, and that your blog is, in fact, good in comparison.

D: Nice. And?

R: She’s funny! That part where she ran up the slide and fell down? I laughed out loud.

D: That WAS funny. And did you see the video of her daughter with the bunny?

R: Oh that was really funny, too!

D: Huh.

R: I think it’s just that I know you so well, and...

D: Never mind! It’s ok. I’m glad you like Vikki’s blog, and I’m happy you can appreciate blogging even if it’s not because of mine.

R: Have you seen I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant on TLC? Now THAT’S funny!

D: You should have a blog.

Congratulations to Vikki for touching my sister’s cold and hardened heart. You are clearly working miracles, one anti-blogger at a time. The added benefit of winning this award is that I am now required to nominate 3 additional winners of the One Lovely Blog Award. It is my pleasure to pay it forward and dub the following blogs the esteemed award.

A Brown Girl: Just as Vikki and I discovered each other thru The Lezzy Awards, I discovered Alix. She’s a Brown girl in the South, and I’m her number one White, Jewish girl fan in the North. I live vicariously through her blog as I read about her life and loves during Levi’s nap time.

The Sock Drawer: Originally from the Midwest, I can’t help but take a shine to other ladies of the corn. She’s funny and sweet and trying to make babies. Wish her well on her journey.

Shamim Sarif: Can’t shout out without sending some caramel covered love to my friend and my family. Everything she does oozes talent from her novels to her films and now on to her blog. JAI HO!

If for any reason, you choose not to accept the award or you are unable to carry out your duties and nominate 3 more blogs, well, that would suck. We’re all just trying to bring a little joy into the world and keep the bloggers blogging. How do we help each other cut through the clutter? How do we encourage each other to keep on doing that thing they do? How do we spread the love without spreading crabs? That’s right. Send money. But if you can’t do that, go forth and reward. And when you do, write them a comment or send them a tweet and let them know that there’s something special for them on your blog. Then, sit back and watch the love flow.

Change of address

Last week was Disco Week on American Idol, a.k.a. The Adam Lambert Show.

Well, Gabriella was in heaven. No, not because of Adam Lambert though we are both fans. The girl cannot resist singing along to music of yesteryear, and she particularly enjoys good disco. I know that some may feel it appropriate to share their opinions on the subject of disco. “Good disco? That’s an oxymoron!” you may say. I have only one reply to those lifeless duds of humanity who hate disco and most likely hate puppies and eat ham and cheese sandwiches on white bread with mayo. In the words of Travis Tritt, “Here’s a quarter, call someone who cares!”



We recorded American Idol on the DVR – the only way to watch a 1 hour program with 15 minutes of content hosted by one of the most irritating television so-called "personalities". Ryan Seacrest makes my skin crawl. It is during this program that I reminded how much I love Kathy Griffin for despising Seacrest.



As I was saying before I rudely digressed, Gabriella was getting into the disco tunes. As she was dancin’ and singin’ and movin’ to the beat... I turned to her as she hit a wonky note and said, “Kinda pitchy, dawg. Keep your day jo.... oh, never mind.” She laughed. That’s why I love her. She can laugh at herself even during times like these. Besides, I know that when Gabriella reads this paragraph, she will not be able to resist singing the rest of the referenced song and will have forgotten all about the fact that we’re staring right into the black hole of poverty and despair. She’s easily distracted. Bless her cotton socks.

Others might be hurt by that kind of cruel insensitivity. The girl deals with the pressure of the job search in this crippled economy (or should I say fiscally challenged economy?), and the last thing she needs at the end of a long day hitting the pavement is a reminder that she is still unemployed. She deserved a little mindless entertainment to escape the worries of the day when her adoring partner chose to shove reality right in her face during Earth, Wind and Fire’s September. That’s cold, dawg. I do love my bum of a partner, I do! And she knows it.

The job thing is starting to disturb us a wee bit. It’s not pretty out there, people. She’s out there working it, but pickings are slim. I’m doing my part, of course. I’ve been scoping out bridges because I know we’ll be living under one, soon. I’m trying to find an under-bridge that isn’t too dank or dreary. A cheery nook if possible with limited cross-winds.

In the meantime, we’re in bomb-shelter mode. We’re preparing for the end of the world as we know it: an existence supported by income and health benefits. I’ve made dentist appointments for the children and for us. Appointments for the girlie-bits doctor for the annual shmear. Physicals for the boys. A trip to Costco while we still have money in the bank for essentials. Had to load up on tissue, detergent, enormous cans of Roma tomatoes and batteries...for the all the boys’ toys, of course.

On the To Do List:

• Plant garden so we can live off of broad beans, carrots and rhubarb
• Order rain barrel to score points for being green when, in actuality, we’re going to need that water after the town shuts us off.
• Cancel HBO and Showtime...because The L Word and Big Love are over-otherwise we wouldn’t make the sacrifice.
• Apply to various medical institutions interested in purchasing a kidney or lung.
• Post on Facebook that we (that would be the royal “we”) will cook and clean and provide childcare in exchange for shelter.

Plan B is to register at Secret Arrangement and find a Sugar Mommy or Daddy. According to the New York Times Magazine, even 40 year olds can be kept. Seems like the perfect revenue stream for me. Meet interesting people, no strings attached and flexible hours. Gabriella is not in favour of Plan B. I figure, one more month of this unemployment shite, and I’m investing in some push-up bras and going for it. It’s either that or relocate to the under-bridge or live in our little Grey Gardens in New Jersey until someone decides to film a documentary about our riches to rags story and make us famous.


When I dropped off Asher at school today, I had to fight the urge to go into the bathroom and nick some rolls of toilet paper. Of course, I could NEVER do that to a school and a synagogue, no less. (Note to self: carry larger handbag to school.)

I’m sure it will all work out. What else are we going to say? We’re fine. We’re fine. We’re just a little FREAKED OUT at the moment. Don’t you worry about us. Don’t even give us a second thought while you’re throwing out those left-overs that could easily feed our family of 4 for a week. We have neighbours with bountiful rubbish bins filled with yesterday’s dinner. You just relax and have a great night! I insist!!

Porch season

Sunday, Gabriella took the boys to Queens to hang out with Zia and Zio gifting me an afternoon alone. By myself. With no one around. Sola. Does absence make the heart grow fonder, or is a single afternoon an insufficient amount of time to allow the heart to pine? Answer: insufficient, but I’ll take what I can get!

My neighbour called me at about 4:30pm with news that she, too, was on her own that afternoon. The rest of her family was out and about, and she wanted to know what I was doing. She had left-over food and champers from a brunch she hosted earlier, and she insisted, nay, FORCED me to come over and partake. I tried to resist, but she reminded me that she knew where I lived, so I had to surrender and drink with her. Well, I couldn’t have her drink alone. That wouldn’t be cricket. Besides, I had enjoyed a few good hours on my own and didn’t mind making the spontaneous decision to drop what I was doing and join my neighbour for a tipple. Children are the number one killers of spontaneity, so it was imperative that I do something spontaneous while I had the chance.

I arrived as she was struggling with a champagne cork that she had been working on for ten minutes. “Cheap champagne. Hard cork. I hate to say this,” she confessed, “but we need a man. I can’t get this open, and the damn thing’s gonna blow if we don’t get some fella to pop our cork.” So, the two of us skipped out on to the middle of our little road and announced:

“We need a man!”

My straight lady-friend did not appreciate the humour in this scene as much as I did and was frustrated that we sisters weren’t doing it for ourselves. Straight girls are such earnest little feminists. I don't mean to sound condescending. Some of my best friends are earnest, straight feminists. When it comes to alcohol, I don’t care who opens the box - - I mean the bottle, let’s just get the job done. Can I get an “Amen”?

As luck would have it, a man-folk neighbour was home with his wife and infant twin babies. “Let’s get Pappa to do it!” I suggested. “He’s probably feeling particularly emasculated these days having to change diapers and swaddle. We’ll tell him we need the brute strength of a real man and make his day.” We practiced a few Wilma and Betty titters, added some coquettish eye-bats and then made our way to his house.

The Mrs. answered. “We need a man!” No questions asked. She paged her husband and delivered him directly to us. My neighbours are good that way. We subscribe to “what’s mine is yours” round these parts.

He got the job done, and the first neighbourhood porch session of the season commenced. You can’t ask your neighbour to open a bottle of champagne and not invite him and his family over for a drink. That wouldn’t be cricket, either.

After a drink or two, we spied another young man-folk neighbour coming home from a wedding he had just crashed. He was in a jolly mood (must have been an open bar) and thought it best to join us. At some point, our host referred to my blog, and our wedding crasher needed to reacquaint himself with it. “What’s the name of your blog, again?” he asked sipping the Pabst Blue Ribbon beer that he brought himself. “Is it Peaches and Cream?” “That sounds dirty,” giggled our host. “Well, it’s not exactly written for younger readers,” I admitted. “And because I don’t always use the most wholesome of language, a lot of internet surfers find my site because they're searching for dirty words and dirty people doing dirty things.” “Really? How do you know?” “Occasionally, I can see the exact words or phrases that people google when they accidentally trip over my site. I’m getting the sloppy seconds of another peach named Peaches."

At that very moment, our host’s family returned home and joined us on the porch. With children present, I had to speak in code which was a fun little exercise. Brought me back to those more closeted days. I had to come out so I could stop skirting around pronouns.

"You know that industry made popular by magazines and hotel pay-per-view?” ”YES!” shouted our recently-single, jolly neighbour who seemed to be well acquainted with said industry. “Does it start with a ‘P’?” “Yes, that’s it. There is a star within that industry who plays on my team...apparently. Because we both um, enjoy sushi, and because of our identification with the peach, and because I use a bit of bedroom language, many fans of said industry star find their way to me looking for all sorts of interesting activities. I’m sorry I ever blogged about my thumb is all I’m going to say.”

I let my neighbours imagine for themselves the kind of results that could come from searching for lesbian, peach and thumb. I think they may have come up with some doozies by the looks on their faces.

I watched Gabriella pull up in our driveway, and it was time for me to take leave of my neighbour’s porch. A fine day, indeed. A long walk. A long, hot shower. Some delicious nibbles. A bit of reading. A bit of writing. And spontaneous drinking and dirty talk on my neighbour’s porch. The world may be crumbling around us, but all is well in my little pocket of suburbia.

It's not pretty, but it's funny

WARNING: USE HEADPHONES! LOTS OF F-ing and blinding. Sorry family.



Thanks, Rhea for tipping me off to this clip posted on Defamer Australia.

The story of Passover: the finale

Passover has passed, but I still need to tell a bit more of the tale. More journaling. My sister Rachel, the anti-blogger, prefers these kinds of entries. She is a good aunt who loves to read stories about her nephews and watch them in action whenever there’s a video. There are those who prefer a sweet video of an adorable child to meaningless potty talk and sexual innuendos. Rachel is one of them. She scrapbooks. I blog. Need I say more? Yes, yes, lots of bloggers with lovely blogs about scrapbooking. Very nice. What? No! I wasn’t being facetious, and I absolutely was not rolling my eyes. That was an acid trail I was following on the ceiling.

So, this will be the last of the Passover entries where I throw together all the remaining highlights of our visit to Boston and dedicate this blog to my scrapbooking sister and her family for hosting a wonderful Passover.


Thank you to Ron for the delicious feast. He prepared a gorgeous meal that Bubby would have praised. And then she would have said, “Rachel, you know it wouldn’t kill you to learn a thing or two while he’s cooking so that he doesn’t have to do that all the time.” We miss you, Bubby.

Rachel set a beautiful table complete with a Passover-themed colouring station for the boys should they become bored. They didn’t actually do much colouring. We’re a pretty entertaining crew. There were new haggadot supplemented by the original, one-of-a-kind haggadah created by Asher at his Jewish pre-school. And Passover treats that only a child could love. I gag at the thought of these jellied candies. Easter definitely scores over Passover when it comes to treats.














Thank you to Evan and Joshua for the amazing piano recital. Asher was so blown away by your talent and your posture that he insisted on taking about 35 photos and then begged Auntie Rachel to teach him some piano, too. He left with a couple of exercises to practice until the next visit, and he has been at the piano every day-fighting off his brother who insists on joining him in a duet much to Asher’s chagrin.

A round of applause to Evan who wowed us with The Announcer’s Test made famous by Jerry Lewis.



For those of you who would like to keep the cobwebs out of your brains and the marbles out of your mouths, here is the script for you to commit to memory.

• One hen
• Two ducks
• Three squawking geese
• Four limerick oysters
• Five corpulent porpoises
• Six pair of Don Alverzo's tweezers
• Seven thousand Macedonians in full battle array
• Eight brass monkeys from the ancient sacred crypts of Egypt
• Nine apathetic, sympathetic, diabetic, old men on roller skates with a marked propensity towards procrastination and sloth
• Ten lyrical, spherical diabolical denizens of the deep who haul stall around the corner of the quo of the quay of the quivery, all at the same time.

You may have noticed that Evan did not recite #10. Apparently, Evan has not yet committed #10 to memory because, he says, “I’m not ready.”

Thanks to Joshua’s Chinese Dwarf Hamster, Fat Choy, for putting up with Levi’s heavy hand against his cage. I am not purposefully being politically incorrect (this time). It IS a Dwarf Hamster – not a Little Rodent Hamster or Vertically Challenged Hamster. It’s Dwarf. Joshua named him Fat Choy because he learned that Fat Choy means new year in Chinese. I can’t tell you whether it does or it doesn’t, but that’s what Joshua says. Levi couldn’t tear himself away from him trying to wake him up. “Bok Choy!! Wake up, Bok Choy!!”

















We also managed to get out and enjoy a bit of Boston. The New England Aquarium, The Museum of Science and a stroll around Faneuil Hall Marketplace where Asher was able to pick up a souvenir.



Thank you Rachel, Ron, Joshua and Evan for a Passover to remember.

I appreciate you

If you are reading this blog, I appreciate you. Thanks to the OTHER mother for hosting the annual Blogger Appreciation Day. In the words of my celebrity alter-ego, Sandra Bernhard, without you, I'm nothing.

No, really. It's not the money that keeps me posting. Your readership is my salary, and your comments are my bonus checks. I may not be able to pay the rent, but this is the best job ever - thanks to you.

I'm sending out a Mexican Wave to you in the spirit of the first documented audience wave at the World Cup held in Mexico in 1986 though its actual origins are disputed here.

The Story of Passover: Mishpucha (family)

This one is going to have to flirt with the journal side of blogging so that I can record our trip and shout out to our family members. If you did not sign up for the Mommy Blog Ramblings, you may want to skip it. Regarding ramblings, I promise that this will be the last time you will read rambling or any of the following blog terms: rants, raves, musings, reflections or anything that is supposedly random. I can’t guarantee that I won’t refer to diatribes, hyperboles or blasphemes, however, unless they become overused blog terms down the road.

On to our continuing story of Passover. A bit of relevant background about the exile of my own little family from the greater, extended family of Chicago.

My mother’s side. There are few remaining members of my mother’s family. Her family has been fractured beyond repair for as long as anyone remembers. Squabbles over the family business and peculiar personalities divided and conquered. I have vague, snapshot memories of certain great aunts and uncles, but most of my relatives on her side were lost to me before I was old enough to register names or faces.

My father’s side. Large and tight-and I don’t mean overweight or frugal. They are actually a very handsome and generous lot. By large, I mean great in numbers, and by tight I mean close. Most people have extended families, but few are as connected as this particular crew. I’m related to approximately 1/3 of the Jewish population in Chicago. That’s not really true, but it feels that way whenever I’m at a family function.

Family history. When we were young children, my parents, in their infinite wisdom, decided to completely sever ties with my father’s family. To this day, no one knows why. And because my parents do not speak to a single relative, we’ll never know why. Every birthday, holiday, graduation and recital was an event reserved solely for my parents, my siblings and me. Our grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles lived in spitting distance from us throughout the suburbs of Chicago, yet we never saw a single one of them. While we were holding our own, private seder, the extended family gathered to celebrate Passover together. 40, 60 sometimes 80 people breaking matzah together wondering how and why my parents had denied us our own family.

And so it was until my sister, Rachel, decided enough was enough. She wanted her children to know the family she never knew. She managed to contact my aunt, my father’s sister, and they began to rebuild the bridge. When I moved to the UK, I said good-bye to my sister and brother, but when we moved back to the U.S., I was reunited with hundreds. We were a part of something now, and we had no intention of letting go. Passover in Chicago would be our new tradition, and our children would know their family.

Sadly, none of us Goldsteins were able to make it to Chicago this year. My brother, the math teacher, was a chaperone for the high school trip to Japan. My sister’s family and mine could not swing the trip-casualties of the economy. We were disappointed that we would miss out on family time and that our kids would miss out, too. Gabriella was particularly disappointed to miss the annual gefilte fish making. Each year, the women of the family gather and make hundreds of gefilte fish-enough for everyone’s first and second night seders. It’s quite a scene, and the gefilte fish is fantastic.


The upside was that my sister and I were able to spend Passover together in Boston and pass on to our children some of the Goldstein traditions - silliness and laughter at inappropriate moments throughout the seder. My mother is a master of inappropriate behaviour, and Rachel and I have inherited the same inappropriateness. We do our best to use our powers for good over evil – comedy over cruelty, but we haven’t completely suppressed our mother’s madness that lies beneath. It’s a journey.

This year’s seder was small but special in its own way. Rachel and I revisited our childhood, and our children took our places at the table. Joshua, the older nephew, is learning to read Hebrew. Evan, his younger brother, read the translation of the 4 questions. Asher was able to sing the first question after learning the song at pre-school. Levi was a proud brother and cousin and occasional heckler. They might not have been able or so willing to shine as brightly at the larger Seder. Big fish, small pond.

With that, I bring you Scenes of Seder. Appreciate please.

Asher sings the first question


Joshua singing the Hebrew (Levi causing trouble in the background and Asher admiring his cousin)


Translation by Evan


And for those of you who were so deeply concerned about the washing machine that broke down Erev Road Trip (the night before our trip), I am happy to report that the washing machine is now fixed. Lesson learned. IF you have a front-loading machine AND small children with small feet, place small socks in mesh lingerie bag before washing as small socks are prone to plug up drain pump. It happened to us just as it had happened to our plumber and father of four. Which reminds me that I need to go do another load – or two – or seven.

The Story of Passover: The Exodus

Home after a road trip to Boston to spend Passover with my sister and her family. I'll be telling the tale much as the Passover story is told at the seder - in parts. This is the story of our journey. The Exodus to Boston.

Our travels were thankfully uneventful aside from a couple of squabbles surrounding which DVDs the boys would watch in the car. They disagree - loudly - for sport. I guess it is because of the lack of excitement on our trip that Mianus stood out. Mianus is, in fact, a destination. “One where the sun don’t shine?” you ask. “A destination many have visited?” you nervously wonder. A) No. B) No comment. Let’s be clear. I have not misspelled my anus or written my anus as if spoken in a foreign tongue. I’m not sure that I should refer to my anus and foreign tongue in the same sentence. I do apologise for anyone who might be offended. The fact that Gabriella is, in fact, foreign has nothing to do with why I might have partnered the two.

Mianus, Connecticut is a neighbourhood that sits in the center of Cos Cob and Old Greenwich. Mianus Pond sits at the northern tip of the Cos Cob Harbour which separates Cos Cob and Old Greenwich as a crack separates two cheeks. Apparently, the name honours the chief of the Native American Tribe, the Siwanoy Tribe that lived there when the first European settlers landed. I can only assume that the meaning of the name had little to do with the rectum and therefore, he was not the butt of jokes as he would be today. Of course, one can never assume for when one assumes...do I have to spell it out? You make an ASS out of U and ME.

Unfortunately, I do not know the Native American meaning of Mianus amongst the Siwanoy people. It could have meant Man who Follows Hawk to Fresh Water or Warrior Whose Bow Hangs to the Left or Man Whose Pungent Under Arm Odour Wards Off Bears. Names had meanings then unlike today. My last name is Goldstein, but I’m not German. My kids have Italian last names, but they are not biologically Italian. They’re Shania-Italians. Like Shania Twain, they’ve been adopted in to the heritage their surnames suggest. Shania Twain is not Native American by blood, but her step father was Ojibwa. He adopted her and raised her as Native American. The Native Americans accept her as a part of their community despite the stir it caused when it came out that she wasn’t a half-breed by blood. Gabriella is doing her bit to surround her boys with unconditional motherly love, a smattering of Italian phrases and homemade sauce-NEVER jarred. They’ll feel as Italian as Shania does Native American.

Speaking of anuses and half-breeds, what about the name origin of the American Idol Glam Rocker Adam Lambert who is the love child of Cher and Dr. Frank-N-Furter?



If his name reflected his persona, it would have to mean something like Rhinestone Cowboy of Pop Music or Prime Time Entertainer Who Adds Glitter and Spandex to Song. I decided to do a little research (and I do mean little). Adam means man in Hebrew. Lambert is an occupational name from the Old English for shepherd, lamb + hierd. As you can see, our fabulous singing super star has come a long way from his roots; Man In Robes Who Follows Sheep With Long Staff.

As we drove past Mianus on our way to celebrate our freedom from slavery and exodus into the desert, it was Gabriella who called attention to our entry into Mianus.

G: Did you see that sign? Mianus?!? What an unfortunate name of a town. If I lived in Mianus...

D: If you lived in Mianus, you’d have to get your head out of your ass!

G: No because I’d be living in your anus.

D: What?

We were off to a good start. We were no longer slaves in Egypt. No longer roaming the desert. And we don’t have to live in Mianus.

The Story of Passover - To Be Continued

Is there a plumber in the house?

How many lesbians does it take to fix a washing machine? I know the one about the light bulb. It takes 3 lesbians to change a light bulb. 1 to hold the ladder, 1 to change the bulb and 1 to write a folk song about it. Yeah, well, there will be no folk songs written about our f-ing High Efficiency, front-loading, fanchy-shmancy, 3 year-old washing machine. The ditty I’m composing is more along the lines of a heavy-metal piece, as it were, which features a healthy amount of cursing, angry screaming and a grand finale beating with a pipe that I’ve ripped out of the insides of my washing machine...with my teeth. For an encore, I’ll take all the clothes that were left sitting in the puddle of cold water at the bottom of the drum before break down and twist them into sopping wet whips which I shall unleash in a public flogging upon the salespeople who sold us this lemon in the first place.

Overreacting? It’s true. My stress levels are high. Surely, there are more horrible fates than a defunct washing machine. Bad timing. We’re off to Boston tomorrow morning to visit my sister in Jewton for Passover (That would be Newton for any of you unfamiliar with the high concentration of bagel shops and Chinese food restaurants in Newton). And, before every trip, I do all the laundry. It’s what I do. It’s all I do, actually. I’m a shite housewife. I hate cooking and cleaning and most things associated with house-care except for laundry. While it would be a stretch to say that I enjoy laundry, I don’t mind it. The house may be littered with toys, but we always have clean towels and clean underwear.

Gabriella and I just spent the last half hour in the basement wringing out cold, wet clothes so that we could throw them in the dryer. Boo hoo. Poor me. You can put away your violins. A little manual labor never hurt anyone. But my hands are frozen and I’ve used muscles in phalanges that have not been used since, well, I don’t know that they have ever been used, and I’ve used many a phalange in my day. And let's not forget that I'm not operating at 100% thanks to the nail incident.

It’s during moments like these that I have to take pause and be grateful that I don’t have to carry laundry in a basket on my head and wash my clothes in a river.
First of all, I have a very small head. Second, that would just plain suck. I’m also thankful to Gabriella, my little peasant bride from the hills of Sicily, who is a much better wringer-outer than I am.

I don’t apologise for my lack of physical skills. Not my fault! My people weren’t allowed to own land. We were forced to become merchants and bankers and handle the dirty money no one else wanted to touch. True story. Point being, we’ve not been in the proverbial fields for ages, and, therefore, I’m not very handy. So sue me.

We should have been packed by now. Instead, we’ll be throwing everything in the mini-van in a mad panic hoping to make good time. We’ll have to call the plumber from the road to make sure that he can squeeze us in as soon as we get back. He’s Italian. We’ll be in good hands.

Spring at last

Since when did Turkey in the Straw become the official ice cream truck theme song? Whatever happened to The Entertainer or this other tune that I cannot seem to source online but I will always associate with ice cream on wheels. Anyone? I wonder if tunes vary by region. What a horrible job. It’s bad enough I’d have to constantly dip my hands into a freezer, but if I had to listen to that music for hours on end, I’m sure I’d end up running over a small child or two.

When Gabriella and I were in London, we spent a weekend visiting friends in Switzerland, as you do. There’s a connection, I promise. We wanted to “climb every mountain” to get the full Swiss experience, so our friends dropped us off at the foot of a hill and told us to meet us at the top at one of their favourite restaurants for lunch. We were climbing higher and higher into the grassy hills, and the sound of bells got louder and louder. We looked around everywhere, but all we could see was hillside, and yet the bells were sounding all around us. “Do they pipe these bells in for the tourists? It’s so LOUD!” “WHAT?!?” “Exactly!”

So as we hit the last few yards of incline, the path lead us around the hill where all became clear. There were cows peppered all over the side of the hill-grazing with enormous cow bells around their necks. Every time a cow bent over to take a bite, those bells would clang. And because each chime bounced off of every hill, it was true surround-sound at full volume. It honestly sounded as if bells were piped into the hills it was so loud. I was amazed that these cows were so plump because if those bells were sounding off in my ear every time I took a bite, I’d be udderly emaciated...sorry. Now I've got Climb Every Mountain stuck in my head!



Today was first day of the year of door-to-door ice cream delivery. Somehow, our little, dead-end road made the ice cream route. Sadly, the boys missed it. Levi was napping, and Gabriella had taken Asher to the garden center to buy seeds for the vegetable garden we’re supposedly planting. Not to sound negative, but we’ve imagined this garden in summers past, and we’ve yet to sow the seeds-literally.

Garden or not, I was grateful for a bit of quiet time. We had a late night last night with friends who plied us with drink and forced us to eat bowl after bowl of hot pot interrupted only by numerous rounds of Briscola until we finally rolled home at an ungodly hour.

It was a beautiful spring day, and the boys loved being outside. I'm hoping for more of the same.

The 11th commandment-summer camp

I haven’t been as proactive about booking play dates for Levi as I was with Asher. Levi often tags along to my coffee mornings with other mom friends who have dropped their older children off at school or else we just hang out. He’d enjoy a music class or something, I’m sure of it.

I wouldn’t mind meeting some more stay-at-home mothers with kids. Many of them have husbands who work long hours or travel and leave them at home all alone to raise the children and manage the household. I know they work hard to keep it together. They’re unappreciated and lonely. They could use a sympathetic ear. A glass of wine. A small but meaningful compliment. A full-body, hot oil massage. I’m just the girl to help. It would be my way of giving back to the community. I’m sure Gabriella would approve of my altruistic campaign to rescue my sisters in the suburbs from despair when I have so much to offer. But I digress.

When I received an email from a mom I have only just met asking if Levi and I would like to come over for a play date with her toddler, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to book something specifically for him. She greeted me at her door with what has become the standard protocol. “Hi! Come in. So sorry for the mess!” We all say it though we don’t really mean it. Who are we kidding? It’s enough to dress and feed the little buggers let alone clean up after them throughout the day.

Two minutes into the play date, it was clear that Levi had absolutely no interest in this new friend. He followed their cat around for a while and then sat himself in front of the toy storage bins and proceeded to pull everything out of each bin and bury himself in a pile of toys. “Levi! You’re making a big mess. Are you going to help me clean it up?” “No!” No surprise there. I had to say it, anyway. It’s part of the same mommy protocol as “Sorry for the mess.”

Eventually, the mom and I were able to chat here and there in between toddler interruptions.

Mom: What are you doing with your kids this summer?

D: Asher’s going camp, and Levi and I are going to hang out at the pool.

M: Which camp? Yids-R-Us?*

*There is no camp called Yids-R-Us (that I know of), but there is a Jewish day camp around here that is well-attended and in no need of PR.

D: No, he’s going to stay at his pre-school’s camp. You?

M: My older one is going to go to Batik-in-the-Woods**.

**Um, there's no Batik-in-the-Woods camp, either.

D: That’s not a Jewish camp, is it?

M: No, but it may as well be. I don’t know a single Jewish family that doesn’t send their kids to camp.

And neither do I. What is it about Jews and camp? Is it because of the law in the Talmud that tells us that we must teach our children how to swim? No, I’m not making that up. But the fact that you even question whether or not it’s true leads me to believe that it is not a very well known law, and, therefore, that is probably not the primary reason for sending Jewish kids to camp.

Perhaps, we Jews all have some sort of cellular memory of camping out in the desert after we were slaves in Egypt- living in tents, cooking over an open fire, whining “when can we go home?”
Passover is next week, and we’ll all be sitting at our seder tables retelling the story of our escape from Pharaoh and our 40 year stint as refugees in the desert. Is it a coincidence that camp registration begins at the same time that we Jews are reconnecting with our camping roots?

I don’t know why the rest of my people do it, but I will send Asher to camp because that is what I know. It’s tradition! That and the thought of 3 months of unscheduled and unstructured time with my kids all day, every day is enough to make me want to pack up and head right back to the desert.

Happy Passover, and don’t forget to submit your camp applications!

My husband went to London, and all I got was...

I met my friend Ellen in London, and we hit it off immediately. Unsurprising, I guess. We’re both American, Jewish, mothers and, it turned out, we went to the same high school-different years. What are the odds? Somehow, we both ended up in Muswell Hill hanging out at the playground in Highgate Wood.

The last time we spoke, she caught me at an off moment. I’ve tried to stay positive throughout Gabriella’s unemployment, but it’s been a long few months, and I’m not always such a happy camper. Being the peach that I am, I reserve my real feelings of stress and anxiety for those who know me best. I don’t like to be a downer, and I don’t want to admit how tough it has actually been on us. Ellen is one of the lucky few, and she got an earful during our last conversation. She called me today to check in. She was worried.

E: How ARE you?

D: Same ol’, same ol’. Today’s a good day, and that’s about all I got for you at the moment. You tell me something good.

E: Ohhh, I've got something good!

D: Excellent. Lay it on me.

E: John was in London for work, and he went into Boots. (Boots is the equivalent of Duane Reade in the UK.) Guess what he bought there?

D: Nurofen? Over-the-counter codeine. Yummy!

E: He bought a cock ring!

D: What?!?

E: It’s a rubber ring that he puts on his... on him...

D: I KNOW what a cock ring is...because it’s so GAY!


I just can’t believe John bought one .... at BOOTS of all places!

E: AND it VIBRATES!

D: Are you making this up? He got a vibrating cock ring at Boots?

E: No! This is true. He follows all the marketing trends for his job, and there have been all these articles about the rise in condom sales, KY jelly sales, and the pharmacies want to get a piece of all of it. So, Boots has been dealing sex toys.

It's actually not a new product, and you can get them in the U.S. Guess I'm just not up on my cock-wear.

D: Why are condom sales on the rise? No one can afford children?

E: No one can afford to go out. Everyone's at home trying to find things to do.

D: Huh. We just watch tv until we can’t keep our eyes open anymore.

E: Well, we have not been watching tv, and we’ve had a pretty good time. I mean, sex has always been good and all, but this added a bit of spice. And we both got to enjoy it at the same time. He’s wearing it while he’s in...well, we’re both feeling the love. I call it the Magic Ring.

D: Ok, and is it battery operated? Where do the batteries go?

E: Oh, you only use it once. It’s good for 20 minutes, and then it’s done.

D: It’s a DISPOSABLE vibrating cock ring?!? I love it. I hope he bought a supply.

E: He only bought a couple, but he’s going back next month. But he did manage to pick up another toy at Walgreens of all places. It’s a finger vibrator. It’s like a rubber condom for your finger that vibrates. I call that one the Magic Finger.

D: And you get it at Walgreens?

E: Uh huh. And this one uses those watch batteries. I’m so psyched that I’ll be able to recharge.

D: I’m so impressed with John for buying those toys.

E: So, how are you really?

D: Hanging in there. This was a happy call. Can’t be sad when my friend wants to talk dirty to me.

E: No problem, babe. Gotta run. I’ll check in again soon.

D: Love you! Bye.