Lament of a house frau

Someone asked me recently if Gabriella and I ever wanted our set up to be any different – other than having Gabriella work full time while I stayed home and played house frau. No, I said. It just sort of worked out this way. But then I thought about it. It does seem that our set up is flawed.

Gabriella is Mommy, and I am Mom for good reason. A mommy is someone who has endless patience and empathy and who never runs out of hugs. She never wishes that her children would stay out of her personal space and stop touching her, and she never resents her sick children for staying home and ruining her day, and she hasn’t started an overnight camp fund – fantasizing about sending them off far away for weeks at a time with every deposit.

Gabriella loves to cook, and she cleans without complaint. She’s that person whose desk at work is never cluttered. Nary a pen nor paperclip nor even a daily calendar of words you should know to sound smart defiles the uninterrupted, unsmudged glass surface of her workspace. If she were at home, our house would be spotless.

Instead, there are piles of crap everywhere. I can’t seem to find the right home for all the miscellaneous papers. It’s a problem, really, because I love the idea of being organized and I love all the organizational systems and containers and accessories that promote organization.

My qualifications lend themselves to running some corporate company somewhere because I am not a Mommy. I am an ENTJ in Meyers Briggs speak which means I have no heart but I do have the ability to lead and make practical and objective decisions without getting tripped up by mawkish sentiments. I have little tolerance for people who cannot or will not find solutions to their own problems.

So how did it come to be that the Italian peasant from the hills of Sicily with a nurturing heart and a soothing tone and a comforting bosom found herself working full time? (For some reason, Gabriella asked that I not include a photo of her comforting bosom.) And how did it come to be that the heartless manager who despises all things housework ended up in the house managing small cretins who cannot and will not find solutions to their own problems?

Furthermore, how is it that neither Gabriella nor I would prefer to walk in the other’s moccasins? I owned a pair of moccasins in college. They offered no support and haunt me to this day as one of my more misguided fashion choices.

The simple answer is that this arrangement made sense once, and we’ve bought into that justifiable logic over time. I was unemployed when I got pregnant with Asher, and Gabriella was on a solid career path. I loved my job when I was there, but I wasn’t gagging to go back. We both liked the idea of having a parent at home if we could manage it. And if I’m going to be really honest, I’ll confess that I didn’t like the idea of having anyone else minding our kids. I mind them just fine…

By the end of the week, however, I’m cranky from the monotony of preparing meals, doing laundry and schlepping here & there. And I’m frazzled from all the meltdowns and behavioral transgressions. A single dish left in the sink for me to wash by my hard-working partner sends me into a rage. By the end of the week, I scroll through want ads and imagine myself getting a job – any job – just so I can say that I simply don’t have time to pack one more lunch.

I know if I get closer to that green grass over there, I’ll find weeds and bugs and a pile of dog poo. I know I’d miss the wonderful aspects of being at home – being my own boss and not worrying about job security and finding time to write this blog. And I am grateful to go to school and participate in Levi’s preschool Seder and hear Asher read a book to his classmates.

I’m lucky. I know. I just wish this job came with a paycheck and vacation time.

Sad sack no more

I never dread meeting new people. I love a party where I don’t know a soul. I have no problem walking into a room filled with folks who are richer, smarter or prettier than I am...primarily because that would describe me walking into most rooms. But few people intimidate me. It’s not that I have such an inflated view of myself that I assume everyone’s going to love me. Oh cunt-rare! (That’s French, for nu-uh!) After all my elementary and middle school years positioned me securely at the bottom of the social totem pole, I learned how to appreciate the few friends I did have and focus on my own shit. I learned to love myself - and not just under the sheets. People didn’t scare me because I felt good about who I was. It also helped that I was (and remain) a first-born.

Overgeneralization Alert! When someone is the object of hostility, a second child may say, “Why was that person so mean? What’s wrong with me?” A first-born child is more likely say, “What’s wrong with that mutha fucka?” Of course that’s not always the case, but I find it true enough to explain how I was able to rise above the mean-spiritedness that surrounded me in those formative years, bar the occasional sob in the pillow.

I did well in school, and I participated in various activities that convinced me that I had some talents. And then in college I learned how to read palms which is the best thing I ever learned there. Reading palms always comes in handy.

But throughout my journey to self-love, my friends, I never wrote. I never took a creative writing class. I never joined the newspaper or literary magazine. I loved writing. I felt most at ease when I could express myself in words. I wrote stories with my best friend when we were young, but that was a very private activity between the two of us, and I couldn’t possibly put myself out there beyond that. I didn’t want to know that the thing I enjoyed the most – the thing I knew defined me – might not be any good. So I avoided doing it. It was safer that way.

Fast forward, we moved to the UK in 1999, and I had a lot to say about our lives abroad. I started writing little stories to friends back home in mass email messages – before blogging had really caught on. I wrote to tell stories and to entertain without realizing that I wasn’t just sending emails. I was writing creatively, and it felt good. Emails led to blogging and blogging led to a column and more blogging and that led to BlogHer and Voices of the Year, which led me to Ann Imig and Listen To Your Mother. Whew!

My point in telling you all of this is to tell you that I’m a pretty confident person...until I meet other writers. And then, I’m that sad sack again trying not to feel self-conscience and trying to remind herself that she’s good enough doing what she loves to do.

At the first rehearsal of Listen To Your Mother a couple weeks ago, I tried to suss everyone out while muffling those internal voices yelling, “How did YOU get here, Deborah? You must be the token lesbian,” I tell myself. Or, “If I made it, they must all suck.” I try to figure out how I ended up introducing myself to these other writers sat on folded chairs who seemed far more accomplished and interesting than I was. “Remember when being a lesbian was interesting?” I told myself. “That was so Y1K.”

There were academics with impressive degrees, actors with professional headshots and SAG memberships and award-winning bloggers with massive followings and authors of published books then there were the few who said, “I’ve never really written before. This was my first try.” And I hated them through my smiling nod for their natural gifts.

By the end of rehearsal, I must admit, I loved them all. Not like I wanted to be BFFs and invite them all home to meet the family kind of love. And not like I wanted to love them up in a salaciously sweaty kind of way, either. Well, maybe that way a little bit, but what I mean is I loved them for their stories and how completely lost I was in each one and how I could connect with every single piece in some way. Most of all, I loved how they reminded me that great writing evokes emotions because it is raw and vulnerable and not necessarily because you have an MFA or a professional headshot or a published book.

There was no need to feel uneasy or sad-sacky (not to be confused with Coxsackie) because there was no competition or totem pole. There was only the captivating exchange of experiences and a mutual respect for our honest stories. I was proud to be sat amongst them and confident that I belonged.

Neat, huh? I wish you could have been there. But wait! You can be there!!

Tickets are on sale now for Listen To Your Mother NYC on May 6th at 2pm right HERE. Come see!

Keep checking the site for cast bios. I provided a headshot for mine. It was not a professional headshot. It was also not this one:

Happy Dong Day

‘Tis the time of year when the crocuses are blooming and robins make their first appearances of the season. It’s not necessarily time to store the winter clothes just yet, but we’ve tasted spring, and mmmm child (pron. chahyl), it tastes good!

All around the globe, people are celebrating the denouement of winter. The Chinese host their Spring Festival at the end of January. In Poland, people prepare for the return of the storks and attach wagon wheels on their roofs where the storks can build their nests.

The Hindu Spring celebration, Holi, is a colorful nod to spring during which people parade down avenues and chuck colored powder (or powder of color) at each other until the streets are rivers of personified, Technicolor pixels. What an amazing homage to the rainbow flag it would be if we could do the same during the Pride March.

Spring is a festive time, indeed. And it’s also a time of reverence for all that is miraculous about the cycles of the seasons and the reJEWvination* of nature.

*Rejewvination: When winter first abates and springtime’s high pollen index reminds Jews to stock up on Claritin.

No one does springtime reverence, however, as significantly as the Japanese – particularly the people of Komaki when they celebrate Japanese penis festival. For real.

Japanese penis day comes once a year (insert rim shot) on March 15th. A parade of locals schlep an enormous two and a half meter wooden shvonz around town, and everyone carries objects that resemble the male member. You’ve heard of tchotchkes? They’ve got cock-chkes.

The history is long and girthy having to do with the worship of kami, a local deity who was once a feudal lord’s daughter widowed by her warrior husband. Her father-in-law built up the area where they lived, and got more than just a street named after him. He got a Shinto shrine where his house used to be and divine immortality for his daughter-in-law. Not too shabby.

During the phallus festival, townspeople and visitors carry an array of penis shaped items from kami’s shrine to another building that sits just a dildo’s throw away adorned with all-things-penis. Locals would take issue with the implication that they are willy-worshipping. Apparently the sacred day is all about nature and renewal and regeneration, but it all comes down to the schlong.

Dignitaries, government officials, priests and locals take part in the penis parade. Young women carrying wooden penises follow musicians playing historic tunes such as the Buddhist favorite:



On the same day in another village, Vag-Day is alive and well at the Ogata Jinja shrine. Their reliance on agriculture generates a reverence of lady bits and the obvious connection to fertility.

Unsurprisingly, March Muff Madness just doesn’t get the play that Dong Day does even though the growing and birthing is all about the vagina and everything she’s got going up there. I suppose representations of labial loveliness just can’t compete with this:

Is that a penis on your nose, or are you just happy...nope, that’s a penis on your nose. More pictures and background information HERE.

On this day of Genital Exhaltation, may your penises be erect and your vaginas moist with creative juices!

Diversity Fair Take 3

Today was Diversity Fair Day at our elementary school. On this day, over 200 people, old and young, tall and short, well mannered and delinquent celebrated the many ethnicities, cultures and family designs our student body represents.

I represented and pushed the gay agenda for the 3rd year. You can read about the Diversity Fair in 2011 HERE and 2010 HERE. Sure there were others who wanted to do it, wished they could do it, prayed to their higher power of choice to do it. The competition to be the face of gay was stiff (ahem).

There was a lengthy vetting process. Applications. References. Headshots. (ahem again) All the candidates had to meet with the Diversity Fair Board members and prepare a presentation outlining qualifications; experience and a mission statement identifying proposed strategy to best represent the LGBTQ community. After the presentation, the panel interviewed the candidates to determine how we would field such questions and comments from the public such as, “What IS this table?” or “You know, I was a lesbian in college.” or “Do you know Connie Lingus?”

I’m not gonna lie. I had a leg up on the competition being the incumbent resident gay. And when I say leg up, I may or may not be referring to a casting couch situation. Whatever it takes, I say. I also have a crackerjack PR team that campaigned on my behalf throughout the selection process. I had to dip into the boys’ college funds to meet their fees, but it was money well spent, clearly. I mean, what an honor it is to sit in the cafeteria all afternoon on a sunny Saturday in spring and hand out anything I can find with a rainbow on it to greedy children who couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the kind of families I’m representing while my own children are making scratch art bookmarks completely uninterested in visiting other tables. That’s not entirely true. The boys found the tables serving the best treats and hurried back to their own rainbow table where they could create an abundance of bookmarks.

Fact is, no one else volunteered, and the organizer happens to be a friend of mine. So I confess that there was no panel or interviews or casting couch (sadly) – just a supply of rainbow peace necklaces from last year and my inability to think of an excuse to get out of it.

Of course, it was a worthy event, and I was happy to be a part of it. There were maps and books and food and games and all sorts of ways to learn about different countries like Turkey, Morocco, Ecuador and Mexico just to name a few. The Korea table gave everyone a nametag with their name in Korean. The Norway table scored with lefse bread covered in butter and cinnamon sugar.

There was a table exhibiting photos of bi-racial families and a table decorated with hearts representing families created via adoption. The adoption table completely out-crafted us as children decorated felt hearts with beads and markers and love.

Our visitors were just as diverse as our table reps, which didn’t surprise me and always makes me proud of our little school in our happy hamlet in our uber diverse district.

When we got home and unloaded the car, Gabriella and I spent a few minutes with our New York Times. She claimed the Magazine, and I skimmed the Real Estate section before diving into Arts & Leisure. Short Hills was the hot spot of the week – our neighbors here in New Jersey where wealthy white people go to give their kids the best public school education.

“It’s kind of a melting pot,” Short Hills resident Mr. Grossman said. “It’s not as diverse as New York City, but it’s pretty diverse.” Is that a fact, Mr. Grossman? How diverse is a town where no house sells for less than $500,000 and where 36 were listed above $2 million? Not exactly economically diverse. And as far as racially diverse, the town is proud of the fact that, according to the article, 3.6 percent of its population speaks Mandarin and 2 percent speaks Korean. I’m not feeling the diversity. I’m not dogging Short Hills. The schools are fantastic, and the Short Hills Mall offers the very best in upscale shopping. I’m just saying be proud of what you are and don’t pretend to be what you are not.

Maybe we’ll take all the bookmarks the boys made and gather some of the giveaways from the other tables and donate them to the Short Hills schools. It sounds like they’re in need, and we do love giving to the needy.

Good news, kennahara

Rabbit rabbit rabbit. I fucking forgot. The first day of every month, you’re supposed to say, “rabbit, rabbit, rabbit” before you say anything else. If the rabbits are the first words out of your mouth, you will have good luck for the rest of the month. I believe the first words out of my mouth on the 1st of March were, “No I don’t know if I washed your jeans. If they’re not in the hamper and they’re not in the closet, then they’re in the dryer.” Followed by, “DAMMIT! Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit. Shit.”

I curse my friend for introducing me to this onerous and frivolous superstition years ago. I don’t believe in any other superstitions. Hopefully my friend doesn’t believe in curses. I walk under ladders and yawn in front of cemeteries and I enthusiastically break every chain letter/email I receive. I don’t know why I chose to subscribe to this one. I guess I figured implementing this custom would be my way of starting fresh every month. Twelve times a year, I could say, “Ok, last month sucked or it was good, but this month is going to be better because I’m going to be mindful and purposeful and make things happen as easily as I can remember to say, “rabbit, rabbit, rabbit” when I wake up in the morning. But mostly I forget. And I forget because by the end of the month, shit happened that I could not control and there were ups and downs and I did the best I could like any other month. I know in my heart that nothing had anything to do with those stupid rabbits. And yet.

On the 26th of February, I auditioned for Listen To Your Mother in NYC; Ann Imig’s brainchild and annual event, which gives motherhood its due via local spoken word performances in honor of Mother’s Day. Auditions were held from the 26th through the 28th and I had to sweat it out until the first week of March. I forgot to chant the rabbits on the first of March, which was one of many pieces of evidence I had collected to prepare myself for bad news. I made a list of all the reasons that my piece, my performance and I were not right for the show. Nothing like convincing yourself that you suck to bring out the behemothian beast that lies beneath. I was not my best self.

I became more and more ornery with every day that passed having berated myself for not only for presenting an inferior piece but for not stalking the judges on Twitter or commenting on the LTYM Facebook page and doing all the things I should have done to express how much I wanted to be a part of LTYM and everything that Ann Imig touches. The wait was excruciating. Any news would have been better than no news.

Finally, I am happy and relieved to report, I did get an invitation to read at this year’s show on May 6th which makes a girl feel real good, you know? You know what else feels real good? Kicking those fakakta rabbits to the curb once and for all! They don’t do shit. Of course, we’re only a week into March. I could trip over a rock tomorrow and knock my teeth out on the pavement while simultaneously twisting my ankle, touch wood. So, barring all natural disasters and freak accidents, I will be reading at Listen To Your Mother’s NYC performance on May 6th at 2pm at the JCC on 76th Street. Tickets go on sale soon (watch this space), and 10% of ticket sales go to Room to Grow. Hope to see you locals there!

Matrimonial memories

Prior to our wedding on 3 March, 2001, Gabriella and I held a rehearsal at our flat. Our rehearsal was more than just a wedding run-through. It was a reunion. There was one couple who had relocated to the UK a few years before we did, and we had seen them often, but some we hadn’t seen for the 2 years since moving to London. Others were friends who lived far away from us in the U.S. and hadn’t seen us for far longer. It was a chance for us all to reconnect and share in a celebratory (pron. seh-leh-BRAY-tree) moment, and it was an opportunity for everyone in the wedding party to get to know each other better.

My brother Benjamin would walk me down the aisle. Neither Benjamin nor I had ever walked down the aisle prior to that day, and I felt it necessary to give my 22-year-old brother a few words of advice that a rabbi or a wedding planner might not have thought to provide. You see, my siblings and I are not a very sentimental lot, and I thought it appropriate to script it out for Benjamin. “So you take me down the aisle, Benjamin, and just before you leave me under the chuppah, you give me a kiss on the cheek and whisper something nice in my ear.” I know it seems a little bridezilla of me to do, but I couldn’t leave it up to chance.

During rehearsal, everything went according to plan. Everyone knew where to be and when and what to say on cue. As planned, Benjamin walked me slowly down the imaginary aisle and leaned in to deposit a sweet peck on my cheek. He found my ear beneath my hair and quietly whispered his private message to me, “...you have a big ass.” It was perfect actually. He took the piss, made me laugh, and I retaliated with a vice-like pinch under his arm that he gracefully accepted.

Not to fear, readers. On the evening of the wedding, Benjamin did not deliver the same message. Instead, he chose his words wisely and framed them positively and still managed to retain the Goldstein sentiment. “Gabriella has a nice ass,” he said before he left me with my bride to be. He couldn’t have been more spot on, and he couldn’t have set the stage more perfectly for the entire wedding. Ours was a wedding that was elegant and rich in tradition and busting with a whole lotta fun. I bring you some of the highlights today.

We were petrified that we’d embarrass ourselves reciting Hebrew blessings, so we practiced whenever we had a moment. Note that I’m not too embarrassed, however, to share this photo with you.

It is a tradition in Jewish weddings that the groom stomps on a glass or light bulb placed on the ground wrapped in a napkin. The traditional explanation is to remind us of the destruction of the Temple – even during our greatest joy. Some also say that we break the glass because the glass is as fragile as love, and we should remember to treat each other with care. I’ve also heard that the breaking the glass is akin to popping that hymen. That explains why as soon as everyone hears the POP of the glass, they all shout out, “LICK HYMEN!” At least I think that’s what they’re saying.

We decided we’d both symbolically break each other’s hymen and each stomp on a glass. What no one anticipated, however, was the challenge of nailing that glass without being able to take aim underneath layers of tulle, and after a blind first go and a echoing thud alerting everyone to the fact that we had missed our target, we managed to make contact the second time.

I was opposed to throwing bouquets into a sea of ladies presuming them desperate for marriage, but our guests demanded it and were excited about the odds given that there were two bouquets. Who knew, however, that the men who had always been left out of this antiquated tradition until that very night would be so motivated to catch those flowers that they would elbow and/or body check the ladies out of their way to finally win at sport denied them for so long.

We are grateful to everyone who celebrated with us that weekend and made our wedding absolutely spectacular. We love you and wish you a Happy Our-Anniversary.