Oh, Canada!

Wednesday 29 July 2009. We may be driving to Canada tomorrow. Friends of ours relocated to Canada in June, and we threatened to go visit them at their summer home outside of Toronto. They called our bluff. Normally, a trip like this would have been well-planned months in advance. Instead, I was an idiot and left Asher’s passport renewal until it was too late. And even though I threw in handfuls of money to expedite the renewal application, I’m afraid I cut it too close. I have spent the day trying to find out what an American child with a British birth certificate needs to get back into the U.S.

3PM: Asher can travel with his British birth certificate and documentation that he was an American citizen born abroad. Actually he was born of two broads... I call our hosts to tell them the good news. While we’re on the phone, FedEx arrives with Asher’s passport. We’re definitely going to Canada tomorrow. EEK! Must do many loads of laundry, book a hotel for the pit stop in Niagara Falls, and make at least five lists to organize the packing. Boys clothes, D&G clothes (not Dolce & Gabbana sadly, Deborah & Gabriella), Items to have handy in the car, Electronics and their various cords and accessories, Admin/bills to pay before we go.

11:40PM final load of laundry dried bar one tank top that I absolutely must take with me or the entire trip is ruined, so I hang it in front of a fan until morning too precious to put in the dryer. Check weather forecast before going to sleep and discover that it’s supposed to be frickin’ cold in Toronto despite what our host told us. Surge of frantic energy leads to over-packing in case of arrival in frozen tundra.

Thursday 30 July. 4:30AM: Shower with my eyes glued shut. Pack dry tank top. Throw in yet another sweater for the anticipated summer snow storm.

6AM: We depart an hour later than planned but with everything we could possibly imagine loaded up in the mini-van. Today, I love the mini-van because it allows me to indulge in every fashion possibility. When we travel by air, I collect all the clothes and toiletries, and Gabriella packs. She is good at it. For this reason, I do not balk when she insists that I only bring 2 pairs of shoes-including the ones I’m wearing to travel-and regardless of the climate or occasion for which we are travelling. Cruel, isn’t she? What can I say? She’s the packing mistress, and what she does, she does so very well. But today, I am bringing THREE pairs of shoes including the ones I am wearing! I know, I’ve gone mad, and somebody should stop me.

We could have been those parents who packed arts & crafts and games and books and a myriad of other creative, mind-expanding activities for the boys. Instead, we packed every DVD we could find. Gabriella even downloaded television shows and audio books (a tip gleaned from Dana at Mombian) on to the video ipod so that Asher could watch/listen to his very own programming should Levi’s choices annoy him. She managed to find classic episodes of the Electric Company with Rita Moreno, Morgan Freeman and a pre-pubescent Irene Cara.
Have you seen the new Electric Company? It’s unrecognizable to old folks like me, and its disregard for the original, ‘70s psychedelic format makes me grumpy.

The boys watch video after video. Levi could not be happier watching Cars for the 50th time and wrapping himself up in his blankets; Mimi and Blue.

Asher is initially excited by the prospect of his personal entertainment center but quickly becomes irritated by the fit of the headphones and opts for the communal video. It’s a little head thing. Headphones never fit properly. I know this to be true. I watch an episode of classic Electric Company, and I feel whole again. Serial DVDs, a couple of rest stops and the worst junk food imaginable, and we arrive in Niagara Falls at 12:30PM.

12:30PM: We are unable to check in until 3PM. We are exhausted and sweaty. 68 degrees, my ass! It’s hot!! Why are weather forecasts so very wrong? Cranky. Time to rally. We have no choice. Let’s go see Niagara Falls, family! And yes, we’re getting on a boat. Asher is not pleased at the prospect of abandoning terra firma for the raging seas. Gabriella is also less than thrilled. See entry explaining emotional scarring from her passage from Italy. Luckily, no one has the energy to veto what will certainly be a memory in the making. We board the Maid of the Mist and the view quickly becomes what I imagine utensils see from their basket throughout the heavy load cycle in the dishwasher. Luckily, we got a few good shots of the falls before we entered the eye of the tsunami.



We disembark. The boys are not sure of their mood after the carwash at sea. Nothing that a little ice cream followed by gaming & gambling won’t fix. Asher discovered "the game place" on The Midway during our short walk to the falls, and he couldn’t wait to get lost in the indoor city of flashing lights and useless prizes. He skipped around with his huge cup of tokens and begged to play every game. It was not a pretty sight when the last token was spent on the Shoot the Giant Spiders in the Safari Adventure.

Tired and over stimulated, we decide that dinner at the Rainforest Cafe would be a good idea. Someone should just call Child Services right now. We are clearly unfit to parent at this particular moment in time. Somehow, the boys manage to eat dinner while interrupted by the wild calls of the elephants and the bravado of the gorillas and the mock thunder storms. We, however, have had quite enough. Gabriella passed out at 8:45PM. Snoring. Don’t tell her that I told you that she occasionally snores...loudly. Deviated septum. Yeah, whatever. This Jew has heard that prognosis one too many times before all those girls got their noses done in high school for their 16th birthdays.

Tomorrow, before we head out to see our friends, we’re going to try to get married if paperwork and advanced planning doesn't get in the way. We'd like to break a record for the most number of times a couple can commit to each other. Wedding in London, Domestic Partnership and Civil Union in New Jersey. It’s time to get married across the globe. Vamos a Espana por un otro matrimonio!

Blogs soothe and relieve

About a year ago, I recognized my need to write. While I had occasionally shared tales of our life abroad and a few observations about our repatriation, I had not committed to writing on a regular basis until last summer. Even at that time, I had no intention of becoming a blogger. At home with small children, my brain slowly atrophied from its already slim/depreciated? state. I needed a creative outlet. I needed time on my own. I needed an excuse to pour a glass of wine at 4 in the afternoon that exceeded the limits of what is most definitely considered lady-like in any one sitting. A year on, blogging is my happy hobby, and I’m a little less cranky for it. Wait a minute; I’d better do some fact-checking. “GABRIELLA!!!”

I went upstairs to find Gabriella flipping through channels in search of something good to watch. I had already forbid her from watching a Netflix film without me.

Deborah: Would you say that I am less cranky than I used to be?

Gabriella: What do you mean? Less cranky than when?

D: Say a year ago. Am I less cranky than I was a year ago?

G: Ok, yes.

D: What are you watching?

G: Nothing. I’m just trying to find someth....Oh!! A French film!!

D: How does anyone squeal with delight upon the prospect of watching a French film? I have more fun at the dentist. I think I need a second opinion.

G: Well, it’s this or The Women.

D: Hmm, tough choice. I’d rather make out with my incredibly hot lover. Too bad she’s really really busy writing her blog.

G: Too bad. Can you move? You’re blocking the subtitles.

Well, until I can research the question properly, you’ll just have to take my word for it. That’s not to say that I’m not cranky at all, mind you. I’m just less so. I’ve got my blog. My readers are ichiban and keep bring out the best in me. I’ve contributed to other sites. And yesterday I had the pleasure of passing on the baton to a fledgling blogger. Our friends Daniel and Ian are moving their family to Israel while Ian pursues his rabbinic studies. Daniel asked me for some tutelage in setting up his own blog to document their Israeli detour. While I am absolutely not the authority on blogging by any stretch of the imagination, I was able to help him get a blog up...and I can’t remember the last time I helped a man get anything up. What? It’s hot, and I don’t have central air.

What’s there now is a place holder during this last week of frenzied packing. I’m sure what will follow will be fun and thought provoking, and I hope you check it out in the weeks and months to come. Mazel Tov to my blogging grasshopper on the birth of Chesir-Teran Chavayot & Raayanot.

Swimming, swimming

Gabriella put her foot down and proclaimed that the boys would not live through one more summer without learning how to swim. Perhaps the root of her insistence stems from her own lack of confidence in the water. Gabriella may be off-the-boat, but she stepped off that boat right on to dry land and never looked back. She was only 5 when La Famiglia came over, so she has few memories of the journey. She does have a vivid memory of being tied to the boat as a safety measure while sailing through rough waters. It was all very harrowing for her, and she is forever scarred by the experience. There are no Olivia or Sweet cruises in our future, and my childhood dream of racing with my lover in the America’s Cup – forever dashed.
I agreed that lessons were in order. We figured Levi would set the stage for Asher. He maybe the younger of the two, but he’s fearless compared to his risk averse older brother. We were at the beach a few weekends ago with our friends, and while Asher hung out in the sand and baked in the sun, Levi insisted on jumping up and down in the cold, ankle-numbing seas for what felt like hours. We booked an hour for swimming. We had a plan. Levi would start things off to show Asher how much fun it is to swim, and then Asher would reluctantly follow suit so as not to be outdone by his baby brother. As per usual, our children proved to us that we know absolutely nothing.

The instructor, Lisa, was in the pool waiting for Levi. She is a teacher at our pre-school and has also babysat for the boys a few times. Levi knows her well. But, the minute Lisa reached for him, he screamed and cried until his shift had ended. Lisa held on to him and tried her best to comfort him. She spoke to him gently, slowly bobbed up and down and even sang a song or two. She checked in with us to make sure that we sanctioned the trauma. We gave her the nod and tried to praise and encourage while the torture continued. We clapped wildly for our inconsolable child in an effort to drown out his deafening screams.

“NO CLAPPING! NO CLAPPING!!” he commanded through his tears. We were only making things worse. So what did we do? We stuck to our guns. Obviously, if we continued to praise him, he would become so distracted by our boundless love and support that he would stop crying and enjoy the swim.

“GOOD JOB, LEVI!! GOOD JOB!” We yelled loud enough to cut through his cries to which he responded, “NO GOOD JOB! NO GOOD JOB!!”

I had to agree. “Well done” sounds much better than “Good job”. We immediately made the correction. “WELL DONE, LEVI! WELL DONE!” During our life in London, our American accents softened ever so slightly, and we picked up a few phrases here and there. Our loud, wide-mouthed American accents are back in full Glory Glory Hallelujah, but there are words and phrases I refuse to drop because I simply prefer them. At the risk of sounding totally affected, I can’t help but refer to pants as trousers, to garbage as rubbish and to the bathroom as the loo. When I mention that our kids slept late, and we hadn’t been so lucky as to have such a lie-in since we were at university, we are met with blank stares. I could go on, but you get the picture.

Unfortunately, for our boys, we learned all our baby vocabulary in the UK. We don’t say nappies anymore, but Asher and Levi each have a willy, and Asher wees in the toilet. I’ve met one other American woman who refers to her son’s penis as a willy, but she is the same woman who introduced me to her children as Mrs. Goldstein which is wrong on so many levels. Gabriella takes the cake by insisting on pronouncing the ‘h’ in herbs. I’ve let that one go because it sounds totally weird-ass here.

I surrendered to the U.S. date format which drives me round the bend! It doesn’t make any sense whatsoever to lead off with the month followed by the date and then the year. It’s illogical. Date, Month, Year. Is it so difficult to opt in to a system that is used all around the globe...because it makes the most amount of sense? Don’t even get me started on the Metric System. So there are a few generations of people who are confused and frustrated for a bit? Perhaps a check will bounce because the date is incorrect or someone will miss a dentist appointment. I think it’s worth the humps in the road to get to where we need to be.

I’m yanked out of Blighty and back to the swimming pool to hear Levi protesting very loudly. “NO WELL DONE! NO WELL DONE!!” Clearly Levi is not feeling particularly British on this day. We cut his lesson short and hoped Asher would make the best of the remaining time.

Asher loved every single minute. Lisa led Asher up and down the lane in the pool with various floatation devices. Toward the end of the lesson, she let go and had Asher paddle towards her. We watched him laugh nervously as he frantically “swam” back to her arms. I have never seen Asher more proud of himself as I did that morning, and Gabriella and I admitted to each other later that we welled a little bit watching our timid boy surprise himself with his own bravery.


After a few minutes wrapped up in his towel, Levi pulled himself together and watched Asher have the time of his life. When our hour was up, I turned to Levi and delivered the good news. “We’re finished with our swimming lesson now, Levi. We can go home.”

With that, Levi dropped his towel and screamed his loudest, longest scream of the day, “THAAAAAANK YOOOOUUUU LISA!!!!” He may be terrified of the swimming pool, but the kid’s polite. I’ll give you that.

The next week, Asher took the entire lesson. He had been counting the days until Swim Day, and Levi would start screaming at the mere mention of swimming. “NO SWIMMING!! NO LISA!!” We have time. Asher had a great lesson of firsts. He blew bubbles in the water (a minor miracle for the boy who hates water in his face as much as the Wicked Witch of the West) and he jumped into the pool. Levi prefers to be in training for now. He’s observing his brother and building up his upper body strength in preparation for the butterfly stroke.

Levi is much happier on land for now. Playing with his big brother provides him ultimate happiness as shown here during a session of pillow-fort. This photo makes me shnort every time I look at it. I hope it brings you a bit of joy, as well.

I needed a sign

I realize my foot has been off the blogging pedal. The warm weather has kept us all outdoors and my brain slightly fried. Even more significant is the new schedule Gabriella and I have adopted in order for her to optimize job searching time. I haven't been very good at focusing on the blog in the new times allotted.

Here is what I've learned about myself. I get super irritable and crotchety when I haven't written in a while. Writing has to be a regular activity for me-like a bodily function, and I feel like I haven't been eating enough literary roughage. I'm inspired by the world around me constantly, and yet I'm all stopped up. I put undue pressure on myself to write funny or thought-provoking entries when, in fact, I'm sure a sweet photo of the boys or an occasional entry about our last weekend at the beach or the book I just finished might be just as interesting to you. I need to slap something up here to clean out the blog-pipes. I need some divine inspiration. Someone show me a sign!!

I dedicate this entry to my dear lady-friend Gabriella who puts up with me when I'm crotchety and pulls an illegal U-ie over 4 lanes so that I can take a photo with my mobile phone because I found exactly the sign that I needed.

I do believe conversion is in order - at least for one day a year:


I Googled VAG Church Picnic just on the off-chance that I might find some information about this event. What I found was a fabulous letter published in the Texas National Press. The what?

The Texas National Press is a private partnership business established under the venue and jurisdiction of the Republic of Texas. It is dedicated to bringing to Texans the goals and progress of the Texas Independence Movement and bringing forth the official voice of the Interim Government of the Republic of Texas. While that is our primary goal, we will also publish articles, news, and exposès that are of interest to all Texians.

The letter, written in 2004, condemned the actions of once Texas Comptroller, Carol Keeton Strayhorn for denying tax exemption status to a Unitarian church. Regardless of the fact that Presidents John Adams and John Quincy Adams were members of the Unitarian Church, she could not find credence in a church that does not believe in a supreme being or in any one set of beliefs.

The author, L. Savage, illustrated the flaws in Strayhorn's requirements for tax exemption by offering to found a new church that would meet all of her tax exemption criteria, The Church of the Vagina.

I'm thinking of starting a church that worships the vagina, similar to the ancient phallus worship.

Texas allows a tax-free exemption to churches. Would my new church be exempt from taxes? Our creed will be "I love Vagina" and our supreme creator and being is the Vagina. Oh holy Vagina, we seek thy wisdom.. Your holy Yoni wisdom.

Under the Strayhorn 'theology' my new church is exempt! I have a supreme being.. I passed the test! I have a creed - another stipulation from the Office of the Comptroller. We will dress up in our Vagina T-shirts and Yoni hats and parade on Sixth Street on Halloween as we 'spread our message' of love and vagina. The vagina is our creator. My god deserves all the attention and honor I can bestow up on it.

Yes under the Strayhorn definition, I get to be tax exempt!

Pantheism qualifies under the Strayhorn requirements, so perhaps my new religion should have two gods. The Church of Yoni and Lingam will worship both the penis and the vagina.

Now let's get it on Strayhorn!

As a father and a grandfather, I hate to see this woman running for Governor of Texas. Her policies and opinions smack of religious intolerance and bigotry. Our future generations do not need to read about these embarrassments to Texas in the history books.

I ain't the smartest turnip on the truck, but this seems as transparent as crotchless panties. (a symbol of our new church)

As a father and a grandfather, it is regretful that such ignorance, intolerance, bigotry exists in Texas. Our children should not see a money-wasting, grandstanding politician running for Governor of Texas!

Paraphrasing the great Texas Senator Lloyd Benson…

'Strayhorn--- you're no Ann Richards'

With Vagina's help, you will never be governor.

The entirety of L. Savage's letter can be read HERE.


If you're out there, L. Savage, I'd like to support you in your efforts. I share your love of the great and all-powerful vagina, and it would be my honour to help others worship the vagina outwardly and proudly. I'd be more than happy to sell the Vagina T-shirts and the Yoni caps here on the site to raise money for the cause. Thank you for helping me find religion. Who knew it was up my vagina all along?

Sometimes, it pays to start writing about nothing. I'm a cat bounding out of a litter box after a successful session, and it feels goooooood.

Blog spurning: a family affair

Rachel: I liked the comment on the last blog about the snake choking on a Pet Rock.

Deborah: You’d like his blog. You should read it.

As we all know, my sister Rachel is not a fan of blogs, and she finds my blog to be especially unpleasant and unnecessary. She reads all of the comments posted in an effort to comprehend what others could possibly be getting out of it, and occasionally she’ll select the link of a clever commenter and compare blogs. Rachel likes to do the required research in order to confirm that my blog is, in fact, the least inspiring of blogs. She phoned me back as soon as she was able to scroll through the afore-mentioned commenter’s blog.

Rachel: You’re right, he’s good. Vikki’s funny, and this outnumbered guy is funny. Makes you wonder...

D: Makes you wonder why I bother because I’m not funny? Why do you hate me?

R: The thing is, Deborah, I think you’re very funny...in person. And I’ve always had the greatest respect for your ability to make people laugh.

D: But the blog sucks.

R: Guess what. Benjamin quoted your blog today.

Benjamin is my brother. He’s 10 years younger than I am; 7 years younger than my sister Rachel. He was our plaything as children, our boy toy if you will. He’s all grown up now, a responsible member of society. Of course, he’ll always be our little brother. The three of us are close, but my sister and I grew up together while my brother was pretty much an only child by the time he could hold a conversation. We’ve all grown closer with age and shared experience; the most significant being the Parental Shunning. Because our parents have severed all ties with each of us, we are committed to each other no matter how different our lives, how quirky our personalities or how much everyone hates Deborah’s blog.

Me, Rachel and Benjamin during a Passover seder. Benjamin doesn't usually sport the kippah (Yid Lid); not that there's anything wrong with that!

R: We were on the phone, and he referred to Pet Rocks, and I said, ‘Benjamin, you read her blog?’ And he said, ‘Don’t tell Deborah.’

D: He reads my blog, but he doesn’t want me to know?

R: Yeah, and he mentioned another article he read online, and in the same breath said, ‘See how bored I am?’

D: What is wrong with you people?

R: Aren’t you happy that he reads it?

D: But he doesn’t want me to know he reads it. What’s up with that? He doesn't have anything nice to say, so he won't say anything at all?

R: I don’t know. Don’t tell him I told you.

D: It was so nice of you to share that the fact that Benjamin reads the blog in times of lonely desperation. I’m so lucky you’re in my life because every now and then, I really need someone to kick my teeth in. I’m going to blog all of this. I hope you don’t mind.

R: Well if you’re that desperate because you don’t have any other material for your blaaahhhhg....

D: That’s right, I am. And I’m going to write that you said that, too.

Who needs Twitter?

My sister Rachel works for an insurance company. When I asked her if I could share the name of her employer, she said, “Yes. And be sure to mention that it would behoove everyone to have insurance through Aflac.” “But I thought you could only have insurance from Aflac through your company, and not every company offers Aflac coverage.” “Everyone can have it. It may be less expensive through an employer, but it’s available to everyone.” This promo has been brought to you by the letters W,T, F and by the number 4 as in 4get that I ever plugged an insurance company.

The fact that she works for the duck is significant because she fields a lot of questions about claims. And in fielding a lot of questions about claims, she learns about one tragic event after another. And in learning about one tragic event after another, she feels the need to share. She calls me regularly to unburden herself with these terribly sad stories usually involving a small child, and the conversation usually ends with my futile pleas to allow me the bliss of ignorance.

Once Rachel realized that I reacted with a satisfying blend of shock and horror, she decided to call me with news of accidents and deaths outside of the insurance sphere and all over the globe. She is most always the first person to tell me the latest grim, disturbing or sad tale that is hot off the presses. I don’t need CNN or Twitter or E! because I’ve got RachelNews 24/7, and I’ve got a lifetime membership for absolutely no service fee. As you can imagine, Rachel has been on fire this summer. I was the first one on my block to learn about the deaths of Ed McMahon, Infomercial King (a.k.a. Oxy Clean Guy) Billy Mays and Dr. Jerri Nielsen FitzGerald the woman who treated herself for cancer in the South Pole. Where was I Michael Jackson died? That's right. I was on the phone with Rachel. Karl Malden and defense secretary Robert McNamara? RachelNews. She was practically giddy when she called me to report that Steve McNair was shot 4 times by his mistress and then the mistress killed herself. It was especially satisfying for her because I had no idea who Steve McNair was. Shocker!

I was the one, however, who told her about Farrah.

Deborah: Farrah Fawcett died.

Rachel: I didn’t know that! Was she sick?

D: Rachel! She’s had anal cancer since 2006.

R: I didn’t know Farrah Fawcett had ANAL CANCER!

D: What?!? You of all people didn’t know that Farrah had anal cancer?!? Where have you been?

R: I know! Where HAVE I been? That’s really awful.

D: Not to mention that she’s been the butt of so many jokes.

R: aaa haaa haaa.

I know-bad joke. Forgive me for being a little cheeky.

D: I’m so happy I could tell you bad news for a change.

R: Oh yeah? Well, I’ve got a doozy for you. Are you ready?

D: Ok, yes.

R: It seems that you should not have a Burmese Python as a pet because when the python becomes 8 ½ feet long and 50 pounds and slithers into a baby’s crib, it will most likely strangle a baby to death.

D: Is that what happened really?

R: Yup. It was on the news. The python bit the baby and then strangled it.

D: Lovely. Thanks so much.

R: I know. I can’t stop thinking about it. Horrible.

Serves me right for trying to out-scoop RachelNews. I do apologise for doing to you what my dear sister constantly does to me, but I felt it my duty to get the word out that Burmese Pythons are not exactly the most family-friendly of pets. If you have been considering adopting a Burmese Python, might I suggest a Pet Rock, instead. It won't strangle your baby, and you can also beat yourself stupid with it for even considering owning a Burmese Python in the first place...though you're probably pretty stupid already.

Phone’s ringing. RachelNews calling. I wonder who has died. Yup. Oscar Mayer. Dead at 95. Note to self: Eat more bologna.

Good guys and bad guys

Asher: Was George Washington a good guy or a bad guy?

Deborah: He was the first president of the United States.

A: But was he a good president or a bad president?

D: Good.

A: Who was a bad president?

So tempting. A slide show of evil plays before my very eyes. I used to imagine the unlikely scene in which I am meeting George W. and Dick Cheney. Bush extends his hand to me, and I freeze not knowing whether or not to take it. How disrespectful to refuse to shake hands with the President of the United States-even if he’s a wanker. But then I remind myself about all the ways the two of them have disrespected my people, my nation and the world. I imagine myself talking through my smiling teeth so that the news camera capturing this fictitious meeting doesn’t hear me say, “I’m shaking your hand to be polite, but I’m actually throwing up a little in my mouth right now.”

A: Mom! Who was a bad president?

D: Why do you think there was a bad president?

A: Because there are good guys and bad guys.

D: Some people like what the president does and some people don’t. Remember when we voted for Barack Obama?

A: Yeah!

D: Well, even though he became president, some people like what he’s doing as president and some people don’t. A president can’t make everyone happy, but it doesn’t mean he (or someday she) is bad.

A: Oh. Was there ever a bad president?

D: There was one president who broke the law, and he had to leave before he was finished being president.

A: What was his name?

D: Richard Nixon.

A: Why did he break the law?

D: He thought that he didn’t have to follow the rules just because he was president. But everybody has to follow the rules in the United States; especially the president. (supposedly)

A: What did he do?

D: Well, he didn’t respect people’s privacy, and ...

A: And then after he wasn’t president, could he be president again?

D: Nope. Once you break the law, you can’t be president again.

A: And after he wasn’t president any more, was he good?

D: No, he was a sour old man who was just as misguided as he always was. Hmm, he tried to be good.

Asher leans in and takes in my entire face.

A: Mom?

D: Yes, Asher.

A: I think that ear is bigger than that one.

D: I think you’re right.