I'd rather put my foot in my mouth

I am not my best self when I have not had enough sleep or when I am sick. If you were lucky enough to avoid me last weekend, you would not have experienced my bad self. Today, I’m slightly more rested and a bit less sneezy, but I am still far from my best self.

Perhaps I should have downed the remaining outrageously priced remedy I bought last year in The City when I was definitely not my best self. I walked into one of those herbal remedy stores that hawks magical potions, elixirs and snake oil dressed in simple yet sophisticated packaging and priced for the upscale sucker who believes that a shot glass full of rare and foul tasting roots and leaves harvested in far away places will have you feeling right as rain in a jiffy.

As soon as I heard the door of Nature’s Apothecary (not actual name) shut behind me, I knew I would spend whatever was in my wallet for the promise of clear nasal passages. Having recently visited the ATM machine for a sizeable withdrawal, I was clearly fucked. The dreadlocked young man with wire-rimmed glasses and scrappy tuft of facial hair knew it, too, and made a bee-line to greet me at the door to offer me assistance.

Did he look familiar or was it the ungroomed patch of dirty-blond, wiry beard that simply reminded me of someone I dated once? Hmmm.

“How can I help you?” he asked with a sweet smile that proved he had my best interest at heart.

“I ab sick. It’s juzta cold but… (cough) (throat-clear) (cough) (sniff) I feel like a truck hit me inda face.”

He swept his dreads behind his shoulder with a flick of his wrist. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. Nasty bugs are just flying around especially in this pollutant Mecca of a city, right?” I nodded and smiled because he clearly knew that I wasn’t the fragile type but a victim of our poisoned environment.

“Any of these three will do the trick.” He said pointing to the shelf with the highest priced solutions in 2 ounce bottles.

The first one was an $18 eye-dropper bottle with a label that looked like it was peeled off a birch tree and a logo of a twig with a single berry hanging off the end-ripe and purple and perfectly round. All of the ingredients listed were exotic botanicals grown in China except the one that was harvested on the mountain tops of Peru. Next to it was the $21 bottle wrapped in yellow, recycled paper with green ink that promised its contents were organic and sustainably farmed. And finally, for $33 bottle with the stark white sticker and a line drawing of a Freud-like face and a doctor’s unpronounceable Swedish name and the claim that it was medically proven to reduce the length of a cold in Times Roman font.

Being a savvy shopper, knowledgeable in healthy herbs (and some not so healthy), I used a scientific method of selection and chose the middle priced bottle.

Dreadboy handed me my tincture. “I recommend you get some of these vitamin packets. You’ll find that this remedy doesn’t taste that great on its own, so it helps to dissolve some of the flavored Vitamin C sachets I’ve got here. I personally like the acai berry or pomegranate, and I’d just pour them into a 8oz glass of water along with the 15 drops of this.” I bought everything he was dealing and left the shop with a significantly lighter wallet and boundless hope.

I soon as I arrived at dinner with a friend, I prepared my mixture and raised my glass. “Lick hymen!” My usual toast appropriate for every occasion. A few big gulps, and I saw flashes of white light before the fire shot up from my esophagus and out through my nose and tears blinded me from the concerned look on my friend's face.

OH THE BURNING! THE IMPOSSIBLY RANCID BURNING!!

When I finally regained the feeling in my tongue, I decided to check out the ingredients.

Fresh horseradish root, Echinacea, fresh spilanthes herb, garlic, cayenne fruit, horehound herb, licorice root, boneset herb, onion and 30-40% grain alcohol

All became clear. 40 years worth of tears in the desert-horseradish, some herb named after a slag in heat and enough alcohol to sanitize and numb my brain so I wouldn't think about how much money I spent on this foul shit. I waited for hours to feel the magic that would follow the suffering, but I waited in vain.

Last weekend I went to bed at 2 in the afternoon on Saturday and woke up at 10 the next morning. When I finally shuffled out of bed, I was able to eat the chicken soup that Gabriella made for me. As soon as I swallowed that first spoonful, I was reborn.

Friends. A word. When you have a cold, get a lot of rest and eat some hot, chicken soup. And whether you're unwell or completely healthy, don't just put anything in your mouth.

Heated dreams

I had a dream that I was hanging out with Whoopi Goldberg in my house that wasn’t actually my house. She played some piano for Gabriella and me, and she talked about Bill, the man she’s being seeing. “Really?” I said. “I don’t recall ever hearing about anyone named Bill.” “Sure!” she laughed her throaty laugh. “We’ve been together for 22 years!” “Huh,” was my only reply as I berated myself for not knowing such an important detail about our good friend, Whoopi Goldberg. We hung out for what seemed like hours in comfy, lay-about-the-house clothes. We didn’t stand on ceremony with our friend regardless of her fame.

Out of nowhere (because anything can happen out of nowhere in a dream) paparazzi appeared outside the living room of not-our house. They stood on the patio pointing a camera at Whoopi through the sliding glass door. I threw myself over her in a protective and completely platonic fashion for which she was grateful. We stayed there nestled on the sofa together for a long while appreciating how friends snuggle in their comfy clothes and keep each other so very warm.

When I woke up, I realized I had forgotten to turn off my electric blanket before I fell asleep.

Some people have a Whoopee cushion, but I have a Whoopi-blanket.

You might think it odd to associate Whoopi Goldberg with a warm blanket. There may be a connection between warm blankets and a long, full-bodied hugger like Whoopi. I know a good hugger when I see one. Lesbians can tell these things because we tend to be skilled in the art of hugging. It’s a boob-on-boob thing.

Where was I?

Right. It is odd that I would dream about Whoopi Goldberg. I rarely dream about celebrities at all. There was a tawdry encounter with Madonna in a dream I had in the early 90s. She so wanted me. And after she begged, I gave it to her and she wanted more.

Wait, what?

Oh yes. There is a good reason why I cast Whoopi in my dream. The other day, Gabriella and I were hanging out in her neighborhood when we went on a tour of Thomas Edison’s house.

Edison’s house sits inside a residential, gated community where fancy people live who require privacy. I kept thinking to myself that if I were a resident of this exclusive and elite community paying big bucks to keep the great unwashed out of sight and out of mind, I would take issue with all the common folk like me forking over a few bills to traipse in and out of my neighborhood every day peeking in houses and trying to get a glimpse of my privileged self. I wondered if Whoopi knew that tourists would be driving in and around her private enclave every day when she bought her house. Living on our dead end road void of any tourist attractions, I would guess that we get less traffic in front of our lawn than Whoopi does around her shrubbery.

Gratuitous shrubbery video


I feel sorry for Whoopi, really, having to keep watch in her own neighborhood to avoid the public. The next time I’m “taking a tour” in Whoopi's wooded hamlet, I’m going to seek her out and invite her to our house where she might look out our windows to enjoy The View and where she can find some true privacy. We can all sit under my Whoopi-blanket and appreciate how friends can snuggle in their comfy clothes and keep each other so very warm.

Single Jewish lesbian mother seeks sheik for friendship and more

Last weekend, Gabriella went out in the morning for a coffee as per usual. She neglected to tell me that she would be running a series of errands that would take the better part of the morning to complete. And when I sent a “Where r u?” text, she did not reply. I shouldn’t have been surprised. This is not an uncommon scenario. I should have known that “I’m going to get coffee” actually meant “I’m going for coffee and the dry cleaner and picking up bagels and getting the car washed and possibly getting my eyebrows waxed. Oh, and while I’m out, I might hit a few shops in search of an electric pasta maker because our manual one isn’t working.”

During all of these errands, of course, her phone was set to silent and, as per usual, tucked away where it does absolutely no good – unless it’s where I always put everything for safe keeping and she’s set the phone to vibrate. In that case, it’s doing her some good but not helping me locate her.

Two hours passed. Then three. At that point, I took action. Did I call the police? No. Did I contact local businesses and inquire about her whereabouts? No. Instead, I engaged in negative visualization – the practice of anticipating the worst for the sake of practicality. Clearly, Gabriella was dead.

If you would prefer not knowing the details of Gabriella’s supposed demise, skip the next 2 paragraphs.

Gabriella was ordering her coffee with the barista when some lunatic decided that he couldn’t wait for his tall Cinnamon Dolce Frappuccino Light. He stepped out of his place 6 people back in line and stormed the counter with his .45 automatic and demanded service. Gabriella stepped out of the cue and reached for her phone so she could contact the police…or record the scene to post on YouTube. We would never know her intentions because the gunman turned to see Gabriella reaching in her pocket, feared she was packing (because I’ve seen too many movies about people who are packing) and shot.

With his back to the counter, the next person in line kicked the backside of the killer’s knee causing him to buckle and fall to the floor; his face hitting the tiled floor and his hand losing its grip on the gun. Another customer picked up the gun and kept it pointed at the lunatic’s head while the barista contacted the authorities. Gabriella closed her eyes, exhaled her last breath and imagined the Grande Skim Americano she paid for but would not drink.

What? You never imagined the scene of your wife’s or husband’s murder? Really? Huh. Ok, well, I guess I’m special that way. It’s not as if I enjoy conjuring the scene. I can’t help myself. I know it seems extreme to go from running late to murdered, but I don’t mess around when it comes to what ifs.

I appreciate that my brain is set to tragedy-anticipation because I have to be able to prepare for the worst. I don’t care for surprises. I run through the questions I’ll need to answer upon confirmation of my single mother status. Does our insurance cover the mortgage? Should we stay in this house or should we move into a 2 bed condo closer to family? Will friends bring food so that my children won’t starve or do I actually have to learn to cook? Will I be able to find a job in this economy...so I can hire a nanny who cooks? Or maybe I should marry a sheik? Wonder if His Highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoumis looking for another wife. I have to join a gym if I want to snatch a sheik. Must leave the camel toes to the camels. Do I remember how to drain the boiler every week?

Along with preparing for the worst, negative visualization helps diffuse the horror and is also a type of superstitious compulsion. If I imagine it, it will not happen. Some people are into visualization to realize their dreams. I’m into visualization to avoid my nightmares.

“I couldn’t find an electric pasta maker,” she announced when she finally appeared with the dry cleaning and a Grande Zen tea for me. “Maybe I can figure out how to fix the handle on this one. If not, I’ll have to look for the electric one next weekend.” At least, I’ll know where she is. And, we’ll have fresh pasta and sauce in the fridge in case anything happens while she’s out.

Geniuses are assholes

Often, I consider geniuses--mostly because I am not one. The recent articles following Steve Jobs’s death have only added to my on-going fascination. I’ve always been interested in people who have stood out from the crowd and made a mark. Is there such a thing as genius or do the planets align to create the right time and place for a random original thinker? What’s smarts got to do with it?

I wonder these things NOT because I feel that my own genius has gone unnoticed. No, I’m quite comfortable with my average intelligence and abilities. Intelligence is a curse, after all, and I appreciate the limitations that allow me great happiness and peace of mind. I wonder about Asher, however. It’s not that Asher is off-the-charts-smart. He’s academically suitable. But, like Jobs, he’s got a passion for invention and business. And also like Jobs, he sometimes comes across like a square peg in a round-holed world. But unlike Steve Jobs, Asher is inherently a sweet person. I wonder if being nice precludes success.

Take a closer look at Steve Jobs – well not literally because he’s dead and that would be challenging not to mention creepy. There was a guy who marched to the beat of his own drum and Honey Badgered his way through life. He didn’t give a shit that his diet created a ripe pong so offensive that he could only work the night shift at Atari. He couldn’t have cared less about earning a college degree. He chose to audit classes that interested him instead of taking classes that he considered useless. He was socially awkward on a good day and a wanker the rest of the time.

But the guy had the goods. He had vision (many visions after all the acid he dropped) and the business acumen that allowed him to focus on products and designs that would sell. Vision and business sense. Is that genius? Do the two guarantee success?

Over the holidays, a friend invited us to join her and her son on a tour of Thomas Edison’s invention factory. We jumped at the chance to bring Asher to a fellow-inventor’s lab. For a small fee, visitors can take the audio tour around the campus and then take a guided tour of his home a few blocks away.

One of Edison's invention labs

I couldn’t get over how much Edison and Jobs had in common. Neither responded well to conventional education. Neither excelled in social graces. And both of them were as unwashed as they were clever. If they were in the schools today, chances are they would both have been diagnosed with ADHD or Asperger’s or a variety of other social issues. I wondered if social deficiencies actually helped them focus on invention without having to worry about other people’s opinions. I wondered if fitting in prevents a person from standing out.

Asher has identified as an inventor for quite some time now. He loves science and studying how things work. He has an idea for a machine or gadget almost every day and includes a marketing plan with every pitch he makes. He talks about his price point for his inventions and how it will benefit people. He always offers his family mates rates, of course.

Asher’s desire to invent came from a good place. When the major earthquake hit Haiti, Asher was understandably unnerved by the unpreventable, random devastation and death. He vowed to create a helmet that would offer a force field function so powerful that it could repel falling buildings and keep everyone in Haiti safe. When my dad died this summer, Asher decided he would invent a pill that would stop us from ageing. He’s had lots of less-noble ideas, too, but everything he imagines serves a purpose and makes life easier or better.

While Asher may one day go on to invent a useful gadget or two, I don’t know that he’s genius material-or at least not the brand of genius that Edison and Jobs were. Then again, I don’t know that being a genius is all that. I’d love for him to pursue whatever career makes him happy and allows him to support himself. I’d love for him to have a family and good friends and for others to recognize his beautiful and kind spirit. Like Edison and Jobs, Asher may be an inventor, but he’ll never be an asshole. Does being an asshole separate the inventors from the geniuses?

After my unscientific research, I’ve identified the main ingredients in your typical Edison/Jobs genius. You think your kid is a genius? You tell me.

Genius Ingredients: Vision, determination, creativity, fearlessness, business acumen, intelligence, love of learning, disdain for being told what to learn, social disorder(s), bad hygiene, enabling parents.

Gay thoughts for 2012

Sunday's Style section of the New York Times. January 1 2012. One of the cover articles. Gay Marriage Shadowed by AIDS. The article focuses on our bittersweet victory in New York to extend state marriage to like-gendered couples.

A note about the term like-gendered. I grow so very weary using the phrase same-sex. I can’t help but imagine people doing the same thing with the same person in the same position every single time. We need some rebranding since the last time I heard someone refer to gender as 'sex,' Tilda Swinton was a nobleman in tights and an impossibly ruffled collar.

The bittersweet tune of state marriage is sung by a significant population in their middle years who find it difficult to celebrate that milestone when so many of the partners they would have married are long gone. Of course, that is assuming they would have taken advantage of state marriage and not turned up their noses because state marriage is but a small bone thrown to a hungry dingo. At the very least, they would have celebrated or scoffed at the new state law with people they loved before AIDS stole them away.

I’ll confess to you that before I read it, I dove into the wedding announcements. I can’t think of many Jewish girls who can resist reading the wedding announcements. Maybe it’s because we’re a small population, and the chances of recognizing someone are higher than your average gentile’s. Or possibly, we’re drawn to the stories of love and romance. Then there are those who are reading about the one who got away or the family they could have married into had they attended a different school.

Also, I like to look for the gays. In that day’s wedding announcements, there were three like-gendered couples; 2 male and 1 female. The first male couple were married in Brooklyn where, and I quote, “the couple are members of the choir.” Really? Well, you didn’t have to tell us they were members of the choir, Mary. We already figured that part out.

Then there was the lady couple. The ladies got married in the lesbian town of, three guesses. You’ll only need 1 if you’re an East Coast carpet cruncher. I’ll give you a hint. It is the lesbian capital of the United States and possibly the world and rhymes with Shmorthampton.

One of the brides is a high school counselor (You don’t say?) and faculty adviser for the school’s Gay/Straight Alliance. (Go figure.) The other bride is the senior editor for the new edition of Our Bodies, Ourselves. (Are you making this up?) Guess where they met. A potluck. True story. Guess who brought the hummus. Actually, they didn't say.

There was another couple of mens-es whose announcement read generically enough. Neither gentleman screamed homosexual in appearance (as in neither wore as ascot or submitted a photo of themselves in Speedos). But I still could not help register the fact that between the boys who sing in the choir, the dykes to watch out for and our shadowed marriage victory, the Style section carried a message to the queers for 2012. But what?

Now, I know very well from reading gay wedding announcements that it is atypical to read so many clichés in one day. But on that day, in the same section, there they were amongst the differently-gendered couples who satisfied the usual criteria of worthy newlyweds. Spouses met at school (one graduated cum laude and the other suma cum laude). Some practice law or invest for a financial institution or are in a residency program at an elite medical school while others have parents who are noteworthy enough to get their dull children in the wedding section.

So why on this day, the first day of 2012, with a cover story about bittersweet victories did the New York Times publish gay clichés all over the Weddings section?

Maybe it was a warning to all of us that the nation still sees the LGBTQ population as separate and second-class? Perhaps it was a reminder that if we accept the perceptions of others, we will continue to live in a false state of comfort as opposed to a true state of equality. Or, it’s possible that the New York Times was using those gay tags to say, “Do not be fooled by this marriage-mirage! Start singing about a healthier body of laws that re-choir a federal commitment to civil rights!”

On the other hand, it could just be that there are a lot of gay people who sing in choirs and work for women’s health organizations. There certainly isn’t anything wrong with that. Happy New Year.