BlogHer is not just for straight girls, anymore

Why are there but a meager handful of lesbians at a conference of hundreds of female bloggers? Where are the lady-loving bloggers at BlogHer? Are you ALL going to be at the Womyn’s Music Festival next year?

I only ask this question months after BlogHer 2010 because today is the last day for submissions for panel ideas at BlogHer 2011. Perhaps there is an opportunity for some of you wildly talented ladies to submit ideas for panels that would appeal to us lesbian-folk. Perhaps you possess the blogging power of a superhero. You are a design maven or a published author or you have organized social action thru blogging. It’s possible that you are side-splitting hilarious, and it’s time to take it on the road. Whatever your specialty, BlogHer wants to know because everyone knows that there ain’t no party like a lezzy-party! Submission information is HERE. Apologies for the short notice, but something tells me you work well under pressure. I can read people.

Regardless of how many lesbians on panels there may be, we lady-loving bloggers WILL be networking and planning and meeting in the dark corners of the BlogHer conference planning panty-raids...I mean blogging revolutions. Like the chickens on Tweedy’s farm, we’re organizing...but it’s far from foul.

So, if you’re not packing up the tent and heading out to Michigan in August, get yourself a BlogHer conference ticket and make your way to San Diego on August 5th & 6th. See you there, Ladies.

Suburban street cred

And God came to me and spoke to me through the smoldering, fiery tree and said, “Five traveling minstrels will come to you, and you will offer them food and shelter and clean, organic sheets and it will be good.”

And I said, “Menstruals?!? I need to feed my menses? I’ve already tapped the Halloween candy that we just bought for the trick-or-treaters (insert annoying sign for quotation marks that people make when they assume other people will not get the underlying meaning of quoted word). Wuddup, G?? And what’s the deal with the fire? Smoking foliage is so BCE!”

And God said, “I’ll admit that transmission can be compromised in the smoke. I said, 5 Minstrels! Musicians! Players of instruments! AN INDIE ROCK BAND!”

And I answered God, “Chill the fuck out, G. I got it. Minstrels. I will provide for them.”*

The traveling minstrels did come from the west (well Midwest, anyway), and we did provide and it was good. In fact, it rocked.

This past summer, our family spent a week in Northern Michigan with friends. Our gracious host, Nancy, invited her 20 something niece over for dinner because she happened to be vacationing in the same area...with 15 of her 20 something friends. They are all members of various indie rock bands and had caravanned it up north for some Great Lakes recreation.

In an effort to be the coolest aunt ever, Nancy invited the niece AND her 15 band-friends to come over one night for a dinner we would be making. I am never included in a “we” that has anything to do with cooking. Gabriella and Nancy did the work while I um, supervised from the other side of my vodka, lime & soda.

“You guys are wacky,” I said. “The only person you actually know is your niece. We don’t know these kids at all. What if they hate gays? What if they haven’t bathed in weeks? Even worse, what if they think we’re...old?” As per usual, I was ignored. And it was good.

The kids showed up, and we ate and laughed and drank and laughed and had a great time with these children whom we could have birthed ourselves. They were cute and sweet and did not make us feel old. We talked about their respective bands and their upcoming tours, and before I knew it we had invited one of the bands to stay at our house when they were in town. Flash forward to smoldering tree.

There’s nothing that increases a suburban housewife’s street cred more than chatting with the other moms at preschool pick-up about the indie rock band Santah that crashed at her house and are still asleep at noon o’clock. “They’re kids. They need a lot of sleep, and I guess the jam session in our living room just wore them out. I hope they’re rested for their show we’ll be seeing on Sunday. At The Mercury Lounge. Where the Violent Femmes are playing that Saturday.”

Am I trying too hard? I’m ok with that. Before you judge, please try to understand that the state of suburban housewifery is not exactly a glamorous one. I believe that my picture of suburban housewifery as one of tortured monotony of laundry, food preparation and shlepping marbled with a heaping helping of regret is not specific just to me. Ok, maybe regret is a bit dramatic. Suffice it to say that when parenting young children is your full-time job, it’s exhausting and sometimes boring and oft times isolating. We all need to get out more because when we do, we remember that there IS a life outside of child rearing.

Santah playing out of Asher's piano lessons book

“Was that really God burning your tree, Deborah?” I think not. After the last wind storm, a tree limb fell onto a power cord in my backyard. You could argue that God caused the wind storm that introduced tree limb to power cord. If you did believe that, I would have to tell you that I am, in fact, the Messiah. God moves in mysterious ways.

Tainted birthday wishes

Levi celebrated his 4th birthday earlier this month. This post will not be a letter dedicated to my child so that he may one day look back and read how much I loved him. Nor will this post describe in detail our birth story which was, by the by, a beautiful experience. I will, however, tell you that it was 4 years ago on October 14th that we were out to dinner at an intimate and classy restaurant for our last hurrah when I lost my mucous plug in the restaurant ladies’ room. I have not yet found it, but I do return to the restaurant every so often and check the lost and found box. Not there.

I will not post endless photographs of Levi as a newborn or create a video montage of the last 4 years set to Sunrise, Sunset. Instead I will share with you the murderous thoughts I’ve been experiencing for the past few months leading up to his 4th birthday. Fear not. I’m not thinking about anything as horrifying as exterminating my own flesh and blood, and if I were, I certainly would not confess it on this blog. No, the objects of my scandalous desires are two small amphibians gifted to Levi last year for his birthday.

A friend found this self-contained ecosystem in a plastic aquarium at Brookstone, and gave to Levi what would be his first pet - African mini-dwarf frogs. The shoebox sized Frog-O-Sphere is billed as an educational window to nature - if you’re looking out of the backdoor in Africa. PETA has already protested the abduction of these frogs from their natural habitats to be sold in Brookstone storefronts across the nation. Come to discover later that the Brookstone employees were neglecting the frogs and pushing them to the back of shelves if they seemed ill rather than contacting veterinarians or The African Frog Support Team- most likely based in India.

Beyond the controversies surrounding the African mini-dwarf frogs, they are just not my cup of tea. As a matter of fact, I’m sure they would be hideous in a cup of tea. They are the quintessential exemplification of nature at its most raw. These swimming amphibians do nothing but freak me out with their instinctual natures.

If they are not nipping at each other’s web-toes or bullying each other into submission, they're gagging up the food that they refuse to chew into tiny, digestible bites. One of them spent about 10 minutes coughing up food the other day. I timed it. The force of his hacking sent him hurling backwards from one wall of the aquarium to the other until the final expulsion sent it flying into a triple back flip that finally dislodged the offending chunk.

I realized just now that we’ve never named our frog pets. The boys lost interest in them weeks after their arrival, and I refuse to befriend them. I honestly hoped, I mean thought they’d be dead by now but apparently they could live for up to 18 years!

“Flush them down the toilet,” Gabriella suggests. But I can’t do it. I loathe them, but I will not kill them. I will not have frog-blood on my hands. So on this birthday, on top of all the other things I had to remember to do; organize the birthday party, order all the paper goods, the cake, the goody bags filled with plastic crap shipped from China and rife with toxins. I now have to remember to order more food pellets. The Frog-O-Sphere comes with a year’s supply of food, and we’re running low.

Yeah, so happy birthday, Levi. Your frogs SUCK!!

Levi was excited about his 4th birthday primarily because he is now old enough to have TWO vitamins each morning like his big brother Asher.

National Coming Out Day: Have you hugged a gay today?

Ah, the press. Not being a schooled journalist, I’m raw and untamed in the art of reporting. I do not regularly engage in activities such as investigative research, verifying quotations or reporting facts. I am not accustomed to watching what I say as I seem to have lost my verbal filter ages ago and have made no effort to look for it. I thought by having a column on my local news site, I’d enjoy a certain freedom of expression. I figured as long as I kept my language clean and coherent, I could say whatever I pleased. Turns out, there is, in fact, a line - even in columns. And, whenever there is a line, I inevitably cross it.

This week’s post pertained to the many ways we could all participate in National Coming Out Day on Monday, October 11th. For those of you who are unfamiliar with annual gay day, you can read about its origins HERE. In a nutshell, National Coming Out Day celebrates the LGBTQ community, raises awareness about issues facing us and encourages everyone regardless of orientation to live openly and honestly. In honor of the day, I submitted a post for the column providing readers with recommendations about how any gay or straight person could honor National Coming Out Day.

Most of the article made it to launch. My favorite bit, however, did not. My editor deleted a couple of paragraphs which were perhaps not in keeping with the earnest, positive tone. The deleted copy could have possibly been perceived as sarcastic or even mean-spirited, but there was nothing that was untrue. To read the banal, feel-good version of How To Celebrate National Coming Out Day, click HERE. While I understand why Ms. Editor shaved off what she did, I can’t help but feel like the shave was just a bit too short. In an effort to feel whole, I shall share with you the paragraphs that were scooped out with a proverbial publishing melon-baller.

If you haven’t bothered to read the post on Patch, I referred to the HRC’s Donate Your Status initiative on Facebook, the It Gets Better Project, discussing bullying with your children in light of the recent suicide epidemic and taking advantage of some local festive events. In addition to those worthy endeavors, I also recommended we all - wait for it -

Host a Thank-a-Mormon Party

Invite all your friends for dinner and libations, and ask each of them to bring a dish and Thank You cards to pen. Eat, drink and be merry (or gay--your choice) as you write a sincere note of gratitude to each Mormon who funded Proposition 8; and there were many. If it weren’t for the tens of millions of dollars the LDS church coughed up to ban same-sex marriage in California instead of promoting literacy or feeding starving children, the gay community would not be as mobilized as we are now to fight for equal rights. Thank you, Mormons. Without your efforts, we might still be sitting complacently at home. Without you, the Federal Court would not have ruled Proposition 8 to be unconstitutional, and we wouldn’t be in such a strong position to achieve equal right at home, in our schools, in our military and at the Supreme Court level. That’s what my card is going to say, anyway.



Honestly, is Thank-a-Mormon so controversial? I think not. While I was writing this entry to include Thank-a-Mormon parties, I thought of a couple of new initiatives that were not a part of the original post. Those gears in that little head of mine-always spinning, you know.

How about National Coming Out Day-Lick a Lesbian Campaign? If I know my lesbians, we can never get enough lingual loving-myself included. Sadly, Gabriella has forbidden me from taking part in this particular initiative outside of my own home. [sigh]

Gabriella was not opposed, however, to Honk If You Love Homos. She was willing to accept the noise pollution we might produce with this event so that we might all acknowledge gays on the move. Look out rainbow-stickered mini-vans in suburbia! I'll be following you with my horn a-honking!

However you choose to spend National Coming Out Day, I hope you are able to honor the spirit of the day by living out, loud and proud whatever your orientation on October 11th and every day to follow. Make it a great one!

I can't hear you. I've got an elephant seal on my head.

Last week hit me like a ton of elephant seals. That’s right, elephant seals. Heavy, ugly, vicious and wet-a killer combination that makes a ton of bricks seems like a spring rain shower.


Speaking of rain shower, anyone want to go fly-fishing in my basement? No that’s not a euphemism for lesbian “relations”. You can add my flooding basement woes to the cold or flu or virus or whatever the hell it was that socked me in the gut and left me whimpering for days. Fever, aches, chills, sweats the whole megillah. I was a mess. The weather hasn’t even turned cold, yet, and I’ve already caught the seasonal infirmity of the day.

Why does, “it’s going around” always make me feel a little bit better. It’s as if I need some sort of assurance that I haven’t caught some rare, untreatable tropical disease. Don’t worry. It’s going around. You’re going to live. And I did. Just.

One of the worst parts of being sick is the ton of stuff I have to do when I’m actually able to sit upright for more than fifteen minutes. I’m overwhelmed by the things I’ve left unattended because I was too fragile to read the recommendation dosage label for my zinc lozenges let alone pay a bill or organize Levi's birthday party.

It was Picture Day at Asher’s school on Thursday, but the red highlighted appointment on my calendar was not bright enough to cut through the haze of sick. The bus stop parents reminded me while we waited for the bus that morning, and I decided it was not worth taking a separate trip to school with a wardrobe change when I could pop some ibuprofen and curl up under my blankets and shiver myself to sleep instead. Besides, he looked fine enough. He was not wearing a ratty t-shirt with a questionable graphic on it.
We save those t-shirts for special occasions.

That morning, I laid out a collared tee which has become habit thanks to one of the bus stop moms who unwittingly infected me with her fashion policy. She shared with me that her boys only ever wear shirts with collars. In her defense, this mom works in the fashion industry, and her boys do always look smart. She didn’t mean to do it. We were having a perfectly innocent conversation one afternoon, and she confessed that she can’t help but collar them up. They never look overly proper or stuffy, so I hadn’t noticed that their shirts were always collared. I couldn’t help but consider how I dressed Asher. Graphic tees, jeans and sneakers seemed good enough until that moment. I admitted to myself that Asher could use a wardrobe upgrade.

Childhood Flashback
My mother never allowed me to wear jeans or sneakers or the fashion of the day unless it was sensible. She was particularly obsessed with proper footwear because her own feet were in such bad shape. No clogs or docksides. Just laced up leather shoes that clip-clopped down the hallway. Any time I passed a classroom, I heard children say, “Shh! The teacher’s coming!” because only teachers clip-clopped down hallways. I hated my shoes, and I hated being a fashion-don’t.

I envied my friends in their Vidal Sassons. I was going to be that mom who let their kids wear casual clothing and maybe even the passing style of the season. But my fashionista friend hit a nerve that day, and I’ve been over-thinking Asher’s outfits ever since. I haven’t been able to strictly collar him because I simply don’t have enough collared shirts to last him from one laundry day to the next, but I have been making more of an effort to spiff him up a bit. So, thanks to my fashionista bus-stop mom friend, Asher did not look like a hot mess on Picture Day.

Deborah: How was school today, Asher? Did you smile for your picture?

Asher: Yup. Did you know that some people were wearing ties? They looked nice.

D: Really? Do you want to wear a tie to school?

A: Uh, ok!

D: You could wear a tie every day if you want.

A: Naa. I only want to wear one tomorrow.

D: You know that Picture Day is over, right?

A: Yeah. I just think it looks nice.

D: Ok then.

The next day, he dressed himself, and Gabriella helped him with his tie. Of course, I thought he looked deliciously handsome. I was sorry I flaked out for Picture Day. I couldn’t help gush over him over breakfast while I tucked a napkin into his collar to protect his tie.

Levi: That looks in-ste-sting, Asher.

Deborah: Yes, he looks very handsome, Levi.

We’ll see how the actual school picture turns out. We may just have to slip a copy of this one into the frame this year, instead.

Exorcism

Why don’t I blog more often? Good question. Well, I don’t know. I used to blog all the time. It’s not as if blogging has taken a back seat to anything more worthy or more fun. What could possibly be better than blogging? Are you shouting out answers into your screen? Are you aware that I can not actually hear you? Are you finished? Can I continue? Thank you.

Once the kids went back to school, I was supposed to have so much more time to write. Then again, Levi is only in school from 9am-12pm, and going to a Jewish preschool means that he’s home more often than not due to the Jewish holidays. This is the last week of holiday madness before Levi experiences a full week of school. Can I get an 'Amen'? Again, if you are ‘Amen’ing, I sure do appreciate it, but I can not actually hear you. It’s fun to do, though, I encourage full participation regardless of who is there to witness it.

I started writing for my local news website, Patch, (for actual money-gasp!), and that has taken some - but not gobs - of time which is good because it does not pay gobs of money. The thing about making a little bit of money is that it’s much easier to spend than getting a big chunk of money. You may disagree, but....I can’t hear you....and also I’m referring to my own money habits which very well may differ from yours. I find it difficult to save small bits of money that could easily go to new clothes for the boys or tickets to Hairspray at the Paper Mill Playhouse (local plug), etc. I realize that my mad money could ultimately become some sort of home improvement fund if I sat on it - for years. But Gabriella is old, and I don’t think she should have to wait so long to see me enjoy some extra cash.

Where was I? See how easily I’m distracted. I need to find my way back to the blog and stop letting tedious parts of life lure me away from the thing that I love. I feel the void, and it’s yucking my yum.

I hereby exorcise the distractions out of my way. Facebook, food, online shopping offers forcing me to buy boat loads of crap I never knew I needed, Facebook.

LISTEN HERE, DISTRACTIONS!! Why don’t you make like Angelina on Jersey Shore and take your trashy, whoring ass out of here!! You’re a dirty, double-dipping, cat-fighting skanky pants, and I don’t need you all up in here spreading your U-G-L-Y!

What? I live in New Jersey, and my partner is an Italian from Queens. It’s required viewing in our house.

I feel better now. You?

I’ll be making my way back to you, babe with a burning love inside -- though that could be the chips and super spicy salsa I just inhaled.