It has been raining for days and days, and I’m over it. I try to tell myself, “At least it’s not snow,” because it was not that long ago at all when we were shoveling our way out of heaps of snow only to get dumped on with more snow. But it’s been so gloomy. When it is not raining, it looks like rain is looming. Gloomy loominess. So very dreary.
There was a bit of excitement on Tuesday after a particularly bad storm. A great big tree fell in between two houses on our block. The ground was too wet to hold the Silver Maple’s shallow roots, and it toppled over as if it had chosen to surrender before The Rapture took it by the short-roots and hurled it into the universe.
The neighbors all came out to celebrate the tree and the rain respite.
Meanwhile, back in my world having nothing to do with weather or the end of days, I decided to open iMovie on my Mac for the first time. I’ve had this Mac for almost a year, and I’ve chosen to ignore this application. I like learning new things when the things come easily, but I fear those things that do not. Of course, I can’t know what might come easily until I try the new things, but the thought of struggling with that which does not come easily is enough to put me off the things that may come easily should I try them. Is that clear?
This is the first video that I tried to edit. I would have liked to play with it more, but The End of Days is a time-sensitive subject, so I decided to slap this puppy up here and move on to the next video project.
Yesterday, Asher said to me on the way to the bus stop, “Mom, when they come to take away the tree, can you take a video of it? I want to see how they do it.” And I agreed that I would. Except that by the time I got home from taking Levi to school, the trucks had arrived and were filled with tree and were already on the way out.
Today, a new tree stands in place of the old. A tarp covers the roof where the old tree left its mark. And it’s raining again.
Spoiler Alert: As in, this blog and its accompanying photo may spoil your appetite.
Last Friday, we joined our friends, JerriLynn and David (aka Cupcake), for dinner in the city. For vegan food. We agreed to eat on the earlier side of evening because our lovely friend JerriLynn of JLGoesVegan had to be on a plane at the crack of ass the next morning.
“Hey Gabriella,” I said during horrific rush hour traffic on the way in to the city. (Gabriella loves driving no matter what the conditions and refused to take the train.) “Assuming we make it there on time, an early dinner is great, right? If we’re still hungry after our kale chips, we can go get sushi!”
It’s not that I doubted. Ok, maybe I doubted. I knew the food would be good and maybe even great, but I didn’t know if I would feel satiated. This girl likes to E-A-T!
“Do you think there will be alcohol there?” I asked
“Probably. How else can anyone enjoy a vegan meal?” Gabriella answered jokingly. Sort of.
The traffic was excruciating. Thankfully, we had various mobile devices to contact our very patient friends with travel updates while they sat boozing it up at Candle 79. We usually make very good time driving into the city. I went into labor in New Jersey, and we sailed into Manhattan on a Saturday night in plenty of time to squeeze out a kid.
Speaking of squeezing out a kid AND veganism…yes, I’m that good that I can tie these two topics together in a neat little bow…we got into a very interesting conversation at the restaurant.
“So JerriLynn. Is eating placenta considered non-vegan?”
Now, I have never eaten placenta. Nor have I ever wondered if placenta tastes more like mussels or mahi mahi or if it is best served with a Chardonnay or Pinot Noir. I am not aware of anyone in my social circle who has eaten placenta though they may very well have. But, when you (meaning I) have a toe or two in the crunchy-granola world, you hear tell.
At first JL thought eating placenta might be an affront to veganism considering the fact that placenta is an animal bi-product. But I think we decided that eating your own placenta did not foster a cruel exploitation of yourself and is, therefore, vegan. I say I think because I also think I was on my 2nd vodka on the rocks. I’ve recently given up the fancy mixed drinks. I find that as I get older, mixers just get in the way.
When I gave birth to Asher, I recall catching a glimpse of the placenta. I didn’t think much of it after 33 ½ hours of labor, a drug-free birth and blowing my anus out of my ass. And I was angry. Nobody told me that after surviving birth I was going to have to push out my placenta, too. After Levi’s birth however, our midwife asked, “Would you like to see your placenta? There’s a reason why it’s called “The Tree of Life.” It’s quite amazing.” I didn’t know if or when we might have another opportunity, and I was high from giving birth and all, so I said ‘yes.’ And while I absolutely agree that the placenta is amazing and even strangely beautiful, I did not once wonder what it would taste like.
Tree Of Life (The placenta turned inside-out)
Gabriella sent me an email this past Monday with a link to an article published the on the previous Sunday about The San Francisco Food Adventure club. They devoted one evening of adventurous eating to placentophagy (definition in article: "the postpartum process of eating the expelled organ that connects the developing fetus to the uterine wall." Ew). The article is fascinating, actually, covering the nutritional and emotional benefits of placentophagy in various countries around the globe, but I couldn’t help gagging on the back of my tongue while I was reading it. I wonder if placenta tastes like the back of my ton…Gnnggh…I just did it again.
On a less gagoriphic note, if you do go to Candle 79, you will not find placenta on the menu, but you will have a fantastic meal, and you will not be hungry later. I wonder if you eat vegan Chinese food, you’re still hungry later.
Sung to the tune of Let’s Call The Whole Thing Off (George Gershwin)
I say “placenta,”
and you say, “Delicious!”
I say, “It’s vegan,” and you say, “Can we just…
have some
with butter
and maybe
another-“
Let’s have placenta tonight.
My hairdresser is a man. A straight man. The first time a straight man did my hair was in London. I assumed he was the exception to the rule, and I also assumed that he would fuck up my hair. I was wrong on both counts. In the seven years we lived there, I am sure that only one gay man ever styled my hair. Not only did a straight man style our hair for our wedding, but our wedding florist was a straight man, too. England is a queer place to be sure.
When I get my hair done, I usually bring a book to read during the couple of hours it takes to make hair magic. Semi-permanent color and a cut. I appreciate the forced quarantine from parenthood and housewifery, so I use the time to read. And sometimes I’m just not in the mood to chat with my hairdresser. Yesterday, I brought my book, but we chatted anyway. It was my fault. I started it.
Deborah: Hey, didn’t you say you were going to take some hair styling classes in the city?
Straight Male Hair Dresser: Yeah, as a matter of fact I’ve been going. I’m learning a lot.
D: Oh good. I mean, not ‘oh good’ like you could really use some lessons, but I remembered that you were excited about it.
SMHD: Yeah, yeah, I’ve been picking up a lot of new techniques for coloring and highlights. I’ve been trying to find virgin hair to practice on. It’s hard to find virgin hair. I have to find college kids, you know, people who haven’t started coloring their hair, yet.
D: I’d offer you mine, but it’s clearly not virginal. My hair is slutty.
SMHD: Hyeah…
D: But she still hasn’t gone for the full-on permanent color. She’s more of a tease with the semi-permanent stuff. You know, like she’ll take it in, but she won’t swallow.
SMHD: Well, actually, your hair swallows. Hair is porous, and she’s drinking it up right now.
D: Oh god you’re right. She feels so dirty right now.
SMHD: Speaking of taking it and swallowing, I picked up a new kind of technique from a buddy of mine.
D: Yeah?
SMHD: Letters.
D: What?
SMHD: Letters. Like the alphabet. When you’re down there…you know?
D: oh LETTERS!
SMHD: Yeah, you use your tongue to write capital letters.
D: Why capital letters?
SMHD: You cover more territory and maximize the anticipation factor.
D: Huh.
SMHD: Funny right – that I’m telling you what women like? You could probably tell me a thing or two.
D: Probably.
I wasn’t surprised or put-off to be talking tongue with my SMHD. We talked about other things, too, like um, well I can’t remember “off the top of my head”, but that might be because my porous hair sucked down too much of that color, and now my brain is a skanky, bloated mess and is in desperate need of the morning after rinse.
Confession. A straight man taught me to love women.
In my first job out of college, I dealt with a number of artists and illustrators. There was one Artist Guy in particular that I saw often. He did advertising and licensing work to pay the bills, and he did his own gallery work on the side. AG was around 30 when I knew him. He was fit and pretty and looked more like a Chelsea gay than most of the Chelsea gays, but he was straight and married. AG loved women with a passionate reverence. He could see the beauty and sensuality in every woman no matter her age or skin color or body type, and I learned to see women through his eyes and find something attractive about them all.
I spent 4 years at a Women’s (Womyn’s) College waving my fist at the evils of patriarchy and the objectification of women. We found oppression everywhere. I was definitely not fun at a party. AG taught me to embrace the objectification instead of suppressing it, and I am forever grateful. Because you know what? Women are hot! And lusting after women does not make me unfaithful or disrespectful or foul. Lusting after all women makes me an artist. That's what I tell Gabriella, anyway.
Mother’s Day is a pain in my ass, and I have a very high tolerance for pain. In my ass.
Before I even get to the two moms conundrum, let’s discuss the fact that neither Gabriella nor I has a mother to pamper nor a mother who might take our children off our hands for a day. Her mother is gone – as in deceased – not as in she’s in Florida. And my mother is gone – as in barking mad – not as in deceased or in Florida. That leaves the two of us on Mother’s Day with two small children who still require a significant amount of attention and care.
Asher came home from school with one card attached to one gift addressed to Mom. I would be Mom while Gabriella is Mommy. Did he choose to make one card and one gift? Did his teachers ask that he make only one card and one gift? Couldn’t someone have suggested to him that he address his one card and one gift to Mom & Mommy? My guess, and I’m not kidding, is that he chose to address his card to Mom because he compared the number of letters in Mom and Mommy and chose the name that required the least amount of writing. Poor Gabriella. She’ll be sad that I vetoed her vote to be called Ma [shudder].
Levi planted 2 flowers and made two projects at preschool. That’s twice the work for Levi, poor dear. I don’t think he minded. When I picked him up from school, he gave me a huge hug and said, “I like making projects, Mamma.” Actually, it was more like “I like making projects, muh-MAH” as if he were some little French boy. Bizarre. That’s French for bizarre.
Then again, Levi does have an ear for other languages. The other day, I bought him a book. Silverlicious. It’s a girlie book for girlie girls, and my Levi begged me to buy it for him. And so I did, and you can find the full story HERE. He loved the book so much, he asked me to buy another book in the series. So I did. I bought it online. I did not inspect the description closely and did not notice until it arrived that the edition I bought was in Spanish. I told Levi that I would return it for the English version, but he insisted that I read it to him. And I did. Night after night. For weeks. And then Gabriella did. And then we went out a few times, and the babysitters read it in Spanish, too. Asher sat in occasionally for these readings but he only wanted to hear the translations and grew very impatient when he thought we were going on too long and adding too much emotion in Spanish. Reading a book in Spanish without emotion?!? ¡Escándalo!
I doubt that Levi picked up Maman from some French kid, however. I think he’s just a little excentrique. I have lost my train of… oh yes. Mother’s/Mothers’ Day. Bah Mum-bug. Gabriella and I agreed to ignore it. Gabriella stresses out writing cards. I stress out making breakfast. Gabriella stresses out trying to pick out gifts for me. I stress out putting the kids to work to create more projects. Who needs the stress?
It’s not as if we haven’t treated ourselves. This past week was our week of theater (pron. thee-AY-der). There was Me Julie last Saturday. On Wednesday we caught the play BENEFACTORS which was brilliant…and I’m not just saying so because our friend Stephen Turner was a principal cast member. He was, in fact, phenomenal as a bitter Brit who takes delight in destroying people for the sake of it.
Thursday night? Rated P at SOPAC in South Orange. Where do New York City show folk go after they’ve procreated? Yes, Brooklyn. But then where do they go after they’ve procreated a 2nd time and can’t afford private school for two and are desperate for space? Yes, South Orange (and sister town Maplewood). They may have moved out of the theatre district, but you can’t take the show out of show folk. So a bunch of these talented souls whipped up a sketch comedy musical about parenting, and it is fantastic! It was the perfect combination of clever, fast-paced sketches and amazing performances.
Here’s a great example of an unexpected approach to parent-teacher conferences.
After the show, I was able to meet the cast. Well, I didn’t actually spend much time with them. I just ran up to them and captured their souls with my camera.
Director Jeremy Dobrish & Joanna Young
Bradley Dean
David Josefsberg & Courtney Balan
Writer Sandy Rustin and her husband Evan
If you’re local, tickets are available Saturday and Sunday. After that, you’ll just have to wait until it hits Broadway. It’ll get there, all right.
We had a mutha of a week, and that’s enough for both of us muthas. Sunday is just another day. The boys will present us with their cards and crafts, and we’ll hug them and kiss them and go about our day.
For those of you who are less agonized about this holiday than we are, Happy Mother’s/Mothers’ Day! May you feel appreciated and supported and loved on Sunday and ALL YEAR ROUND!
Julie Goldman performed at Montclair Statue University last Saturday night, and she rocked it, mutha fuckas! Pardon me, but I’m still a little Jersey-fied after the show. On the drive to MSU, I told Gabriella that not only were we in for some laughs, but that we’d be part of a Fuckin’ Jersey Lezzy Fest. We were not disappointed. And why should Jersey lesbians be any different than Jersey straights? The Jersey girl stands out no matter her orientation. But I’ll save my thoughts on the Jersey dyke for another time. This is about Me Julie.
If you're unfamiliar with Ali G's Me Julie, click HERE.
Physically, Julie reminds me of Lea DeLaria back when we knew Lea as more of a comedian than a singer. Julie’s a self-proclaimed butch lez who likes to paint her toenails like Lea likes to wear mascara and eye-shadow. But Julie’s material is not as mean-spirited or crass. That’s not to imply, however, that Julie is wholesome. She’s definitely more Lea than Ellen on the lesbian comedy spectrum, but she doesn’t use foul language just for the sake of it. Man, do I sound like a middle-aged, suburban mother or what – “she doesn’t use foul language”? Shit.
I remember seeing Lea in Provincetown when I was a 20 something lesbian sporting a bowl haircut and Harry Potter glasses before Harry Potter made them stylish. She was particularly angry and mean-spirited, but then again, we were all a lot angrier then-before we convinced ourselves that it's ok to be almost equal. We laughed right along with her when she artfully and poetically strung expletives together when referring to George Bush, and we couldn’t get enough of the pussy-talk.
The connection to Me Julie’s comedy is entirely different. She’s a Jew before she is a butch lesbian, and that makes her my sister from another mister. My principessa Italian lady-friend Gabriella and I shared knowing looks as she talked about her aversion to camping. We share her preference to hotels with room service and indoor plumbing to bugs and wiping our lady-bits with leaves. Julie shared that most people assume that because she’s a butch lez, she must camp. She explained to all of the non-Jews in the crowd “just because It looks likes It wants to camp doesn’t mean It wants to camp.”
Julie also has a Jewish mother like many of us do who is irritated most of the time and always looks like she’s uncomfortable. Even though I’m slowly becoming that irritated Jewish mother, I still managed to laugh at the expense of us all.
I recommend that you put headphones on to watch the videos not so much because of the references to lesbians and vadge, but because the audio is pretty poor, and you’ll hear better if you do what I say. “What?” Exactly.
And speaking of mothers, here are some of her thoughts on becoming a mother.
I wish I had captured the bit about the butch in the bra shop, but I was laughing so hard, I wouldn’t have been able to hold the camera steady. Julie’s physical humor added that special layer of hilarity that made me weep.
Thanks, Julie Goldman, for the laughs! New Jersey clearly loves you because you are a butch lez comedy va-genius. Come back and see us again some time. What are you doing for Rosh Hashanah?
