Norma Rae Goldstein

Just call me Norma Rae Goldstein. Ok, it’s a bit of a stretch because I am not, in fact, a union organizer, and I’m not as perky or as sweaty as Sally Field in the film Norma Rae, but I shook things up a little at WTF.com. And to the tune of Katy Perry’s profound opus I Kissed a Girl, I kicked some ass, and I liked it. For those of you who could care less about the civil rights, well you’re in the wrong place. You may stop by for a peek into the life of a suburban lesbian mother for shits and giggles, but I never promised I wouldn’t step on my soap box every now and then. And don’t try to look up my skirt while I’m up there! Strike that last bit. Look all you want. I’m packing a whole lotta happy, and I don’t mind sharing. That’s just the selfless kind of gal I am.

Last time on “I Miss Wearing My Jeans for Weeks at a Time”, our heroine (that would be me...or that would be I if you hold grammatical rules above colloquial aesthetics) was smarting from the fact that the company that hired her refused to extend health benefits to domestic partners and turned its back on civil rights. It is here that we pick up our tale of oppression and wrong-doing and start a new paragraph where we no longer have to speak of our heroine in the 3rd person.

Ah, that’s better.

I assumed that because WTF.com was a private company, I had no choice but to accept the terms or get the EF out of there. Let’s face it. I needed (and still need) a job. I sat and stewed and occasionally wrote a blog biting the hand that feeds me. One day when I was avoiding making yet another cold call, I was inspired to do a bit of research. I got in touch with someone I knew who used to be the Director of the New Jersey Division on Civil Rights. My sister and he were university chums from marching band days. Go Cats...or something. I gave my hero, Dudley Do Right, the low down and asked him if there was any hope for a girl like me trying to keep her lady friend insured.
“It’s complicated,” he responded which was heaps better than, “Sorry, you’re buggered.”

Warning: Dry and complicated bit
Turns out, in the state of New Jersey, if a company self-funds its insurance plan, it needs only uphold federal law. As we know, the federal government only affords the rights of marriage to opposing-gendered couples. According to the NJ Civil Union Act, if the insurance plan is not self-funded, companies must abide by the state law and provide benefits to Civil Union partners IF they provide coverage to spouses of heterosexual employees.

Resume uncomplicated stuff
As soon as I established that our company was not self-funded, I realized that WTF.com had to extend benefits to my civil union partner. Yippee! I jumped up on my desk holding up my CIVIL RIGHTS sign and waited for everyone join me in solidarity, shut down their computers and bring WTF.com to its knees. Unfortunately, I work at the end of the office of cubicles where only 2 people can see me. One of those colleagues was out making a sales call and the other one was, you guessed it, trying to look up my skirt. I’ve got to stop climbing on soap boxes and desks. I implemented Plan B which was to send over an email to the human resources department with all the links to New Jersey law that Dudley Do Right provided me.

I heard nothing for weeks. Not a peep.

Finally, the HR ladies invited me to a meeting. I brought my notepad and pen so that I could capture whatever rubbish they were about to spit out. I was ready to get legal.

Instead, all they said was, “You were right.”

“Well that’s good news!” I said as if they were telling me something I didn’t know when I really wanted to say, “No fucking kidding! Did you think the gays were going to accept your institutionalized discrimination and just sit back and take it up the ass?” Ok, forget the part about whether or not gays would take it up the ass. "But when it comes to our rights, you’d better believe we’re going to know the law inside and out, and you’d better catch up because we’ve got lawyers and media connections and whistles." Ooooah! Ooooah!

But the truth was, I didn’t know that Gabriella was entitled to benefits because as Dudley Do Right said, it’s complicated. Civil Union is complicated, and few of us understand what it is, and even fewer of us have a Dudley Do Right who can tell us when we’ve been wronged.

I can now cover Gabriella. WTF.com changed its policy...in New Jersey. As far as I know, WTF.com has not announced to the rest of the New Jersey employees that civil union partners are now eligible to receive benefits. In the other 7 states where there are offices, the benefits stay the same, and WTF.com will not recognize domestic partners there. Looks like I need to stand on a few more desks. Union organizer, no. Civil Union organizer...perhaps.

By the by, Crystal Lee Sutton, the inspiration behind the film Norma Rae, died in September of 2009 at the age of 68. In January 2007, Sutton was diagnosed with brain cancer. She had two surgeries and suffered a two-month lapse in treatment while she haggled over health care coverage.

Greener grass

Gabriella completed her 1st week at Shmoomberg, and she’s feeling mighty fine. This first week was more of an introduction and acclamation week. Already, she feels welcome and valued. Well, that’s different. I’m tickled for her truly. She deserves to be working for a company that recognizes talent and smarts and a nice rack. And man, does she have...talent.

She’s going to work her tushy off at Shmoomberg, and I might never see her again. No tears, please. I can’t bear it when you cry for me. We’ve had an entire year of unemployment together, and I’ve had enough of Gabriella to last me for a good long while. “Gitouttahere already,” I say. “Go do something besides annoy me for a change!” No doubt I’ll miss her eventually, but for now, I’m happy to see the backside of her. No, I’m not referring to her ass...this time. I’m always happy to see that. I mean, I’m happy that she got a j-o-b.

Now that we’ve both got j-o-bs, I can’t help but identify the marked differences between Shmoomberg and WTF.com. Allow me to illustrate.

The Shmoomberg building itself is an architectural masterpiece on the very civilized Upper East Side that is space-aged and cool and across the street from Bloomingdale’s. You know it’s all that because Beyonce owns two apartments there.

As soon as I exit the parking garage around the corner from WTF.com, I am reminded each day that I work in the City of the Great Unwashed. At about 7:30am, I must pass through an 18 inch thick wall of cigarette smoke to get to the front door of the building. I hold my breath and shield my burning eyes. Once I’ve exhaled, I greet the man behind the security desk who I assume is not dead, but I’ve never stopped to investigate. There are no smiling faces. No skips in the steps. Only miserable people loitering around the “We Buy Gold” jewelry store, vacant retail spaces, parking garages and the new 7-11 that just opened up on the corner.

There isn’t much in the way of healthy eats in the neighborhood. Shmoomberg offers free snacks and drinks throughout the day. In the morning, there is oatmeal, fresh fruit and Kashi cereal. In the afternoon, new selections are available such as crudités and dips, cookies, strawberry yogurt covered pretzels and popcorn.

This afternoon’s reply to my “How’s it going?” email to Gabriella read, “Today I got a banana, blueberry muffin and coffee for breakfast. This afternoon, I picked up some couscous, carrots and string beans. They also have assorted seeds, nuts, yogurt covered raisins, animal crackers, a vast array of chips, cookies, cup a soup, all sorts of drinks and refreshments hot and cold. There's even an espresso machine. Don't know how good it is, but it’s plentiful, and it's all free.”

“But do you have the Double Big Gulp right outside your door? I didn’t think so.”

At Shmoomberg, bathrooms are cleaned constantly and thoroughly throughout the day. The toilet seats are squeaky clean and the water in the bowl is as pure as the spring wells from the most remote mountain tops-untouched by human or beast.

“Do you sit on the seat?” I asked her wide-eyed. “Sure.” she said. “They do not stop cleaning all day long!” “I never sit. I squat,” I confessed.

At WTF.com, the toilet bowl water is an antiqued, butterscotch hue which suggests corroded pipes and/or faulty flushing systems. In the corner of each stall sits an air-freshener spray can implying that ventilation is poor and that the company is more concerned with the lingering pong of body waste than its contribution to the hole in the ozone layer. A final note on the bathroom showdown. Tampons and mini pads are FREE for the taking in the ladies’ rooms at Shmoomberg.

Shmoomberg has lactation rooms on various floors that offer privacy to nursing mamas. The attention to the design of the signage alone screams, “Shmoomberg loves boobs and all you ladies can do with them!” I told you that Shmoomberg appreciates a good rack. Ok, it’s true that there are a few lawsuits that would indicate the CEO’s appreciation may be inappropriate, but that was a long time ago….and now he’s out of the corporate world and in the world of politics where indecent behavior is expected.

On the lower level at Shmoomberg, you’ll find the Quiet Room where employees can take a minute to sit in on a bench in a dimly lit room and collect their thoughts. Also on the lower level is the Health & Wellness Center Gabriella has yet to explore.

As far as health and wellness is concerned, I’m confident that I lose days of my life each day that I inhale the environmental toxins in the City of the Great Unwashed. The building that houses WTF.com was designed in 1921 and I do believe it has not been touched, refurbished or cleaned since then. There is a wonky elevator that bounces a bit before settling on a designated floor, and then the doors open to a dark and uninviting landing-a far cry from the interior at Shmoomberg anchored by columns of beautiful fish tanks.

I just can't figure out where the grass is greener. I’ll let you decide where you’d rather work. Oh, and did I mention that WTF.com does not extend health benefits to Domestic Partners? I have? Silly me! I do tend to repeat myself…when companies institute shameful policies. But I shouldn’t complain when my surrounds are so sublime.

The first entry

The first entry of the year. I was hoping Gabriella would supply me my first entry of the year, but alas. Well, some things never change here at Peaches & Coconuts –references to the insufficient number of entries in my married life and my tired double entendres. It’s a genetic thing-the double entendres, that is. My father is a carrier of the RESH gene (Roll Eyes Sense of Humour), and he passed it on to me. I remember the day that my father and I first made the first awful pun aloud and in unison. I realized at that horrifying moment that I would spend the rest of my days making people groan with my sad excuses for jokes.

If you’re a Jew of Eastern European descent who is considering procreating, you might want to get tested for the RESH gene. It’s very common amongst our people. The prognosis for carriers is pretty bleak. There is absolutely nothing you can do about it and little you can do to suppress the tick like responses to banal comments that would normally and preferably be left alone. I appreciate all the friends and family members who put up with my uncontrollable need to have the last, unfunny word.

But the subject of this first entry is not to dwell on unfortunate humour but instead to share with you some holiday highlights. The goals of this holiday season have been to 1. keep the thermostat set to almost-humane-degrees due to the exorbitant cost of heat, and 2. to spend quality time with the boys before we’re both working full-time (given allowances for blogging, obviously). To this end, I am happy to report that we’re a frugally freezing family. Last night, Gabriella and I decided that our frugal freezing family bonding activity would be to light the fire in the fireplace and make s’mores.

If you are a parent, then you know that s’more is to a child what purple drank is to rappers. The insipid, animated rodents Max & Ruby elevated the status of s’mores from fun treat to Food of the Gods when Ruby’s bunny scout leader taught Max and Ruby how to make them. When we told Asher that we were going to make them just like Max and Ruby did on television, he jumped and leapt around the house for hours as if he hadn’t relieved himself in 3 days. Levi followed suit without really understanding why. And yet, it’s true that some things are better left as fantasy.


It all began pleasantly enough with the boys positioned closely to an open fire-flammable twigs in hand. And then, Levi’s marshmallow caught fire. Asher fah-reaked. Mommy blew out the flames and showed the boys the beautifully crisp and blackened marshmallow that survived the blazing pyre and gently pulled it off the stick with the graham crackers. Unconvinced that we were safe, Asher watched his own marshmallow hover dangerously close to the fire. When his cube of gelatine was baked just right, I pulled the stick out from the fireplace to proceed with the s’more assembly. Unfortunately, there was a single ember still lit on the corner of the marshmallow. Though it went out in a fraction of a second once it hit the cold air of our refrigerated house, Asher was convinced that the marshmallow was going to combust at any moment and turn us all to ash.

I can’t blame the kid for his aversion to fire. We Jews don’t have the best history with fire. Soaking in the sun on a tropical beach is as close to baked as we care to get these days, thank you very much. I am also uncomfortable with the high calibre of German engineering that has perfected seat warmers in their cars. I’d prefer to take the bus than to risk an electrical short in case the technology in a German car can detect a Jewish tush. All that said, I didn’t want to completely invalidate Asher’s fear of fire, so I took the first bite of his s’more to prove that it was safe. These are the kinds of sacrifices a mother makes for her children.

Meanwhile, Levi had a cow because he did not want a “sandwich” of ingredients. He screamed and cried until we successfully pulled apart each element of the s’more and removed any evidence that the marshmallow and chocolate squares and graham crackers had ever made contact. Not easy to scrape melted marshmallow off a graham cracker. Once Asher had finished his s’more, Levi agreed to taste an assembled s’more, but he abandoned it after 2 bites and ate his lone, dry graham cracker instead.

Asher managed to eat one s’more, but I don’t know that he’ll be requesting another camp fire dessert any time soon. He did enjoy the sticky goodness of the marshmallows in between his fingers. Takes me back to pre-pregnancy days when I could gauge my fertility from the consistency of my own cervical mucus. I’m sorry. Were you eating? Well, I hope you never look at a s’more in the same way again!

On a more sombre note, Curtis Allina, the man who put the heads of licensed characters on Pez dispensers, died on December 15th begging the question, will his headstone resemble Mr. Allina’s face, and if so, will we be able to pull it back to say ‘thank you’ to him for enabling us to eat sweets from the slit throats of our favourite entertainers?