I am NOT Lolo Jones

I went running this morning.  I hate running.  There were two motivational factors that inspired me to unearth my old running shorts –like Y1K old.  They are so tight - how tight are they?  And no, I’m not going to insert a Catholic schoolgirl joke here.  They are so tight that as soon as I put them on, the force of the waistband pushing into my bladder had me running to the bathroom to relieve myself.  They are so tight that I knew they’d ride all the way up my crotch in a matter of minutes to display the most stupendous camel toe my fair town has ever seen. 

Why did I choose to go running if I despise running and if doing so would most likely result in a monstrous yeast infection?  If you guessed that I was being chased by a wild boar, you are imaginative but incorrect. While I would agree that that would, in fact, do the trick, the chances are slight that I would find myself in the path of a wild boar, and though some people I know are wildly boar-ing, I would probably not run away from them at the risk of seeming rude.

2 reasons to take up a loathsome sport.

1.  Financial.  The truth is, I hate spending money on gyms or exercise classes more than I hate running.  Running is free of charge, and I don’t feel like I’ve flushed money down the old crapper if I don’t go for a run.  Furthermore, I need not purchase any additional accessories like yoga mats or free weights as long as I can find a way into my too-many-sizes-ago work out clothes.  We are also spending a heart-palpitating amount of money to send both of our kids to a day camp whose name is Most Expensive Camp In All The Land Camp...or something.  Some people are house poor.  We’re camp poor.   Why we chose to financially strangle ourselves at MECIATLC is another blog post about the specific needs of our kids and too much of a tangent to address.  Suffice it to say, we opted in to this particular burden, and I have absolutely no cash to shell out for yoga or the bar method or whatever else my suburbanite friends are doing to keep from personifying the infinite expansion of the universe as I have.

2.  People.  I don’t like taking classes with people I know for the same reason I don’t like playing Words with Friends.  I suffer from a profoundly disproportionate ratio of competitiveness to skill, meaning that I want to be the best, but I suck.  So, I don’t spin with my neighbor, and I don’t play Words with Friends. When it comes to exercise, I need to suck myself.  You know, on my own.

So how did my first pass at running go?  Well, I did not appreciate the gasping for air, the bouts of nausea and the unfulfilled urge to spit out the viscous globule of phlegm in the back of my mouth.  I kid you not when I tell you that I experienced all those things from my house to the end of my block...the end of my block being 4 houses away.  There are some steep inclines in my hood, yo.

After I hit a level patch, I felt less ill and found my stride to some Pitbull.    There was enough shade along my chosen route to keep me from deep-frying in my own sweat, but that same shade protected all sorts of bugs from the sun, too.  There was one gnat that followed me for at least 10 minutes flying directly into my face over and over again.  I tried to convince myself that I was getting an upper body workout from all the swatting but it didn’t prevent me from whimpering occasionally.

Eventually, I made my way up and around and down and through town and though I was clearly going to be hyperventilating for hours after this torturous run, I felt good … until I got about 2 blocks away from home.  That’s when I realized I shouldn’t have had that green tea before I left.  The combination of the diuretic beverage and the 45 minutes of bowel jostling left me in a dire-etic need for a bathroom.  I spent the last excruciating 5 minutes of my run doing anal-kegels and chanting, “almost home.  just hang on.  almost home.” 

You know, I wasn’t going to put it out there, this running initiative.  I didn’t want to face the, “So how’s the running going?” Or the thoughts that go unsaid like, “Wow, she’s running and she still looks like that?”  And the truth is I might not keep this up.  I just don’t know that running is my thing.  My knees hurt.  Must be that old war injury…   I just find running to be a bit like hell.  Hell is for children, Pat Benetar?  No.  Hell is for runners who hate running. Heaven, however, is watching Lolo Jones run.

Ode to vaginas and Downtown Lisa Brown

I get by with A LOT of help from my friends – particularly the ladies in my life.  I become all weepy just thinking about where I am today and the writing trajectory I’m on and how I would not be on this path if it weren’t for my lady friends who big me up and give me just the right combination of encouragement, praise and critique that I need to go from one challenge to the next. 

Last night, I threw my name in the hat at our local story slam hosted by Studio B, purveyors of culture, arts and good times.  I’ve read in front of people – not so many times that it has become old hat and certainly not often enough to avoid dry mouth, knee-shaking and overall horror.  This particular event made me particularly terrified.

I was nervous because this is my town, you know?  These are people whom I know and love … or people who despise me from afar and send telepathic hexes, willing me to suck.  There aren’t that many people in the latter category that I know of, but I’m sure they're out there. 

Furthermore, these sister towns are brimming with talent.  You’ll recall that we’re a 35(ish) minute direct train ride into NYC, and house prices are down right dirt-cheap compared to Manhattan real estate, which means that many performers or producers of art who prefer a bit of lawn or a bit of space land here.  Point being, the bar is high, and looking up at it for too long gives me a searing pain in my neck.

I did it.  I took a deep breath and reminded myself that even if the hexes took effect, I had cleaned up good - sporting the necklace Gabriella gave me for Mother’s Day.  

Fabulous jewelry makes me so very happy! 

Here is where I plug our dear friend Lisa Murray (not literally of course though she is a beautiful gal with a heart as big as her glorious rack).  If you’re in the market for stylish and funky jewelry or artful housewares, do give Lisa at Mia Cose Bella a shout!

Once I got that first laugh, I settled in to the piece and had my way with it. I was shaking for about 20 minutes after I read it, exhilarated and still completely freaked out.  Some of my ladies were there in the audience parked right up front for moral support.  At the end of the reading, Gabriella cheered the loudest, her voice traveling to the stage convincing me that the entire room was on their feet in wild applause.  They weren’t, but it was a good feeling nonetheless.

And by the by, I WON!!!

I bring you my story slam piece, Ode to Vagina inspired by our boys and Michigan House Representative Downtown Lisa Brown and dedicated to the phenomenal vagina-owners in my life.

A note about the video quality.  It was dark.  And also, there was no A/C, and we’re in the middle of a heat wave, so there were industrial fans pointed at us from every direction.  I recommend headphones and jacking up the volume.  And also, Gabriella is a fine videographer but she is an even finer partner who laughs at my jokes no matter how often she’s heard them.  Her unsteady hand reflects as much, and I love her for it.

Please to enjoy:

Living with diversity

I opened our change drawer in the car to grab a quarter for parking, but the quarters were gone.  I considered only briefly that we had a full stash of quarters in there only yesterday.  I thought maybe Gabriella was caught without cash and dipped into our quarter reserve for a Starbucks fix.  I scraped around my bag and found enough for 30 minutes of parking.

The next time I opened up the change drawer expecting to find the quarters that I had restocked, it was empty again.  This time I knew something was fishy.  Long gone were the days of spending all our accrued quarters on laundry.  Could it be that Gabriella was shacking up at pay-by-the-hour motels and feeding the vibrating bed meter with some whore on her way to Whole Foods? 

I called Gabriella who was at work.

Deborah:  Did you take all the quarters out of the car?

Gabriella:  Are they gone again?

D:  Yes.

G:  You have to remember to lock the car at night, Deborah. 

D:  What?

G:  Always remember to lock the car when you get home.

D:  Someone’s taking the quarters out of our car?!?  They’re in our car...in our driveway...right next to our house??

G:  Just lock the car.

How stupid I was not to have realized the obvious.  I turned around in my seat and scanned the crime scene.  There was a local newspaper folded over in the third seat.  The News Record.  We don’t read The News Record.   There didn’t seem to be any other sign of our visitor.  There was nothing animal, vegetable or mineral left behind other than the newspaper.  I don’t want to tell you what I imagined might have been deposited in the car along with the reading material.  Needless to say, the visual made me throw up a little in my mouth.  I restocked the change compartment, took the paper and locked the car.

As luck would have it, that particular News Record was chock full of interesting reading.  For one thing, I had written a small blurb about the SOMA Pride Fest that was published that day.  It was a straightforward article less than 500 words and not exactly worthy of scrapbooking – mostly because I do not scrapbook.  How kind of our thief to have left the memento for me.  

The phone rang, and it was a friend of mine gasping for air and choking on her words. 

Deborah, do you get the News Record?!?

No, but I happen to have it today.  Funny story...

Turn to the Police Blotter!!  Read the first entry!

There it was.  Our neighbors across the street reported to the police that their anti-abortion sign had been stolen off of their property.  Remember this one?

My friend knew how distressing it was for me to stare at that sign every day.  She was horrified on my behalf and couldn’t wait to tell me the news.

It was true that I had noticed the sign was gone a few days ago, but I figured they were making room for a new sign for the upcoming elections – something about Obama being the antichrist or Mitt Romney saving the world from commie, pinko queers or something equally as intelligent.  I did not consider foul play (though I admit I had wished for it), and I was absolutely sure that there the empty spot would not remain empty for long.

For all of you suspicious types, my alibi is airtight as we were hosting a small dinner party the evening the theft allegedly took place.  And while we will all attest to each other’s innocence, it’s worth mentioning that my anxious, risk-averse nature prohibits me from taking the law into my own hands.  

I’ve often shared how diverse we are as a block population in color, economic status, religious beliefs, politics, nationalities and family make-ups.  While I’m mostly very proud of our little paved version of It’s a Small World, I do have to accept the good with the bad. 

When our neighbors across the street sunk an anti-abortion sign into their front lawn, they sunk a stake in my heart.   I knew they were anti-choice and anti-just about everything else I supported, but we all respected each other enough to act neighborly.  I believed that our neighbors were good people underneath their misguided politics.  But that sign.  It was just so hostile.  That sign did not fit in with the positive messaging posted elsewhere on our block. 

This car was only parked on our street for one day, but I wasn't surprised to see it here.

I wrote a letter to my neighbors I never delivered because I knew that people who happily let their young grandchildren run around their house and all around their yard would disagree that the sign was inappropriate for kids.  I called the town in search of ordinances that might prohibit family un-friendly signs hoping they would take action in my stead.  I called three times before anyone ever followed up to tell me that it was a tricky situation what with free speech and all.  I gave up and resigned myself to the fact that the best way to respond was not to respond at all, though it never stopped me from muttering unladylike commentary under my breath when I drove by their house.

There’s a new sign there now.

I can barely read it from across the street.

Its pro-life message neatly stands in the way of bushes.  Hmm.  There is no picture of a baby or word of abortion.  I don't mind it so much.

We continue to nod and smile and wave to each other in passing trying hard, I’m sure on both sides of the street, to observe some sort of neighborly love.  No block is perfect, I remind myself.  I love most everything else about our neighborhood, and I do still appreciate our unique collection of peoples here on this dead-end road.  Even the quarter bandits are considerate - not making a mess and leaving behind periodicals.  Even though I now lock my car every night, I stand by my block where true diversity lives and we all learn to live with it.  I can honestly say my nest is best.

Marathon Ham in a Plastic Bubble and other movie references

June is busting out all over.  That would be a reference to the musical Carousel for those of you who are not gay, Jewish or Broadway inclined.  My mother used to belt out that line and just that line and thrust her shoulders back as she sang it to call attention to her own abounding bust providing a visual I can never un-see.  It happens to be true, of course.  June IS busting out all over in my world with spring blossoms, baby birds and happy milestones in our household.

Levi graduated from preschool.  While he was adorable, and Gabriella and I were quite proud, I cried more watching So You Think You Can Dance auditions.  I can't help it. There's something about the combination of gymnastics and mime that touches my soul.

Asher completes 2^nd grade next week.  He had a good year – the only academic year since preschool that he has ever described as good, which means, because I am who I am, that rather than delighting in his satisfaction, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop.  It’ll happen.

In addition to finishing out the school year, we agreed to foster the preschool hamster, Simon, for the summer.  Well, I agreed to foster Simon.  Gabriella is less than pleased.  And when I say less than pleased, I mean to say that she is livid.  “I’d rather have a snake in my house than a smelly rodent.” 

It has become more than clear that had I asked her for her thoughts about housing a hamster prior to volunteering our home for Simon, we would not currently be in possession of said rodent.  Gabriella would have put her foot down…hard… and she would have aimed for the hamster. 

I told her that Levi would love having a pet for a short while and that the boys would learn that caring for an animal is a big responsibility.

“First thing we’re going to do is clean the cage,”  Gabriella announced in a less-than-friendly tone.

“You can’t use house cleaner,” instructed the preschool teacher.

“What do you mean I can’t use house cleaner?!?  Look at that cage!  It’s filthy!!  And it stinks!!”

“The odor from the house cleaner will kill it,” she explained

Gabriella chose her next words carefully because what she really wanted to say was, “Someone hand me the house cleaner!”

“How about if I use the house cleaner and then rinse it out with water after I disinfect it?”

“It’s a very small animal that is much more sensitive to those vapors than you or I.  You know that smell when you walk into a house that has just been doused with Lysol?”

“Yes.  I LIKE that smell.  It tells me that a place is CLEAN.”

“Kay, well, hamsters don’t like it.”

“But there poop smears all over the, oh God I can’t even look at it!”

“Well, it doesn’t mind the poop smears.  I know this because he often defecates in his own food dish.”  The preschool teacher and I started snickering, but Gabriella found absolutely no humor in fecal jokes.  What a party-pooper!

Simon has been with us for a week and a half now.  Mostly, we don’t even know he’s there.  Occasionally, I catch Levi sticking a beyblade ripcord launcher in his cage to do what I’m not exactly sure.

Beyblade essentials

In the evenings, however, he takes to the wheel.  He jumps on that thing and runs.  For hours.  Incessantly.  And when he does, it sounds like rain is falling – not misting or spitting, mind you – but drumming on our house.  For hours.  Incessantly.  Gabriella wanted him to live in our basement – our unfinished dungeon of a basement that is not inhabitable for man, woman or child.  I said that it was not suitable for a hamster either.  That was before the monsoon.

A week and a half later, and I’m loathe to confess that when I check on him every morning, I’m disappointed that he’s still breathing. 

The boys are still entertained by him.  They love watching him climb up Technicolor, plastic tubes that resemble absolutely nothing in nature.  They beg me to grab hold of him and put him in a ball so that he can roll himself all over our house.  I have yet to do so.  I cannot seem to talk myself down from the heightened sense of fear and skeeved-outedness I feel when I put my hand in the cage.  I withdraw and breathe easy knowing that I will not have to avoid some sort of hamster interpretation of the Boy in the Plastic Bubble.

He’s up all night running on the friggin wheel.  You can’t escape the sound of it.  Where does he think he’s going?  I’ve got my headphones on listening to white noise on simplynoise.com.  It’s the only thing that will drown out the sound of Marathon Ham.  I want to shake the cage and yell at him, “No!  It’s not safe!!  Go hide under your poop-infested shavings and mount your wheel never more!!

The boys are not learning about responsibility.  I am learning that I hate hamsters.  Anyone got any Lysol?  Just kidding.  Sort of.

Prop 8 was a gay plot

Throw millions of dollars into a campaign to ban equal rights, and a spotlight shines on bigotry, hatred and the need for federal protection of our nation’s individuals.  The good news is the spotlight is very, very bright. 

It’s a fact of history and human nature.  People get up off their tushies and do good when injustices are too big to ignore.  We would not be talking about marriage equality now, in 2012 if not for fly-in-your-face outrageousness of Prop 8.  Yes, there were many other factors that contributed to the surging interest in equality.  Public opinion of gays was changing slowly as Ellen came out of the closet and other celebrities followed suit…cause Ellen never wears dresses.  

except here

Philosophies of yesterday’s generation grew as old as the people who embodied them, and what is old is always perceived as out of date.  Young voters brought their new and improved definitions of equality to the table.  And then there was Prop 8. 

Moderates, liberals and conservatives who understand civil rights were shocked that people could actually vote to take civil rights away from a group of people.  Overly contented gays and apathetic citizens had no choice but to come out of the closet for equal rights.  Thank you Mormons…or should I say Gays who secretly funded the Mormon campaign to ban same-sex marriage to rally the nation in support of equal rights? I mean, really.  Didn’t the Mormons anticipate becoming the catalyst of change?  They did, right?  Must have been a gay plot. 

President Obama evolved because he had no choice.  It wasn’t enough to say, and I paraphrase, “Keep at it, Gays, and one day there will be equality (but not on my watch).”  He figured we couldn’t blame him for focusing on the economy and chose to keep out of it.  We moved on in spite of him.  One step forward, two steps back as states continued to put equality in the hands of voters.  One minute, we were dancing in the streets of New York planning weddings and the next we were agonizing the injustice in North Carolina. 

Obama could not look the other way while too many desperate youths took their lives. Not even the phenomenal outpouring of love and support delivered by It Gets Better videos could drown out the sanctified discrimination in this country that screams loud and clear, “You are not worthy.”

President Obama had to evolve with each sermon-gone-viral delivered by clergy who managed to pick and choose their bible references; piecing together messages of hatred and fear.  He learned what we’ve always known.  You can’t convince everyone to like you.  It’s a no-win crusade.  I know what I speak.  I came from parents who believed that to be gay was as criminal as being a pedophile.  It didn’t matter if we paid our taxes or raised well-mannered children or if we starred in blockbuster movies.   To give gays the right to marry was exactly like giving pro-choice advocates the right to murder or giving pedophiles the right to teach children. You can’t go Glee and belt out a song and convince them that a woman has the right to choose or that gay is normal.  You have to go over their heads.

Some, like the president, do evolve.  Many, like my parents, do not.  There will always be homophobia in my lifetime as there will always be racism and sexism and anti-Semitism.  Maybe, one day there will not.  In the meantime, we keep doing our thing to make sure that our laws protect us from all those “isms”.  Act locally, lobby nationally, love globally.

Oh and one more thing.  Never forget to celebrate every victory because it’s easy to get angry and stay angry, and then you’ll get frown lines before your time, and you'll be a real downer.  If you’re in the tri-state area, join us at SOMA Pride Fest in Maplewood Saturday, June 9 from noon – 5pm at Memorial Park.  There will be live music, lots of food, local vendors selling their wares and plenty of activities for kids and, of course, lots of opportunities to get involved in the slow but steady fight for full-equality.   Come find us and say, “Hey.”  We’ll be the lesbians with kids and a cooler full of ….juice boxes.

SOMA (South Orange/Maplewood) Pride Fest Organizers Mary Alice Carr, C.J. Prince and Robyn Brody-Kaplan 

Happy Pride Month!!

The Mayor of Maplewood proclaims June LGBT Pride Month in Maplewood.  South Orange President Alex Torpey will do the same in South Orange on Monday.  I love our towns!

C.J. Prince accepts the certificate on behalf of the SOMA Pride Fest organizers, her good self, Mary Alice Carr and Robyn Brody-Kaplan.

Not looking back - much

“Are you going to cry?” asked our preschool director when she gave me the invitation for Levi’s Moving Up Ceremony.  “About what?” I asked knowing exactly about what.  “Aren’t you going to feel emotional about your baby leaving preschool and going to kindergarten?”  “No,” I said in a slightly more dismissive tone than was necessary.

I’ve been that disagreeable mother who has aggressively and vocally balked every time anyone has implied that I should mourn infancy, toddlerhood, elementary school, etc. 

“Enjoy them while you can.  It goes so quickly.” 

“Really?  Does it?  It didn’t go quickly when Asher made his way out into the world 8 1/2 years ago and nearly ripped my vagina in half.  (It did go quickly with Levi after Asher had significantly distended the passageway.) It didn’t go quickly when they were attached to my boob for about a year while I wore heinous nursing tops that I changed frequently throughout the day due to seepage stains.  It certainly didn’t go quickly when they weren’t sleeping through the night and I walked the earth like the savage undead void of patience or humor or good grooming habits.  It didn’t go quickly when I was changing diapers and wiping poop out of anuses long after they were eating and digesting big kid food. And it doesn’t go quickly now when they’re having a bad day or when they’re sick and puking everywhere EXCEPT in the toilet or when they’re beating the crap out of each other or when I have to tell them for the 98^th time, no, you can not eat pasta for breakfast, lunch and dinner nor can you play together naked.  Quickly?!?  I think you have a short memory and a desperate need to justify why you had kids in the first place.”

“I don’t know what my life was like before I had kids.”

“No?  I do.  I was financially rewarded for my skills and I went where I wanted, when I wanted without worrying about childcare.  I took amazing vacations and dined in hip restaurants.  I always had time to work out, and I saw every Oscar nominated film BEFORE the Oscars.  AND, I didn’t have to get rid of my favorite pairs of shoes because all that extra weight during pregnancy flattened and elongated my feet like flowers pressed under an unabridged dictionary.

“I’d do it all over again.”

“Yeah.  I’m not so sure I would.”  And then I get the horrified look at which point I realize I’ve crossed some sort of sacred motherhood line, and I should have kept that particular truth to myself.  “I mean, I love them any everything, and I’d throw myself in front of a bus for them, but I’m just suggesting that if they had never been born and I didn’t know what I was missing, I might have really enjoyed my life anyway.  But the fact is I won’t know and hope never to know if I really would really throw myself in front of a bus for them.  That’s gotta hurt, right?"  I realize I just crossed another line.

Then I make the mistake of trolling through old photos and videos and hours later, I find that I’ve fallen in love with these snapshot children who ham it up in front of the camera and say cute things in baby voices.  I think to myself, man they’re adorable, and just for a flash of a minute, I mourn the past and wonder how childhood could be racing ahead so quickly.  

I select one last video to prove how insignificant all those gruesome days were along the way when I hear a thud from above that convinces me that the roof has fallen through to the floor below followed by a duet of shrill screams from one child and deep, agonizing wails from the other.

After I’ve assessed, admonished, cuddled and made empty threats to prevent the next calamity, I make my way back downstairs and shake my head at those sweet pictures on my computer.  They almost had me fooled.

I’ll take loads of pictures at Levi’s moving up ceremony so that I can remember all the joyful milestones and imagine him always as the innocent child he is--full of wonder and appreciation for life.  Every day, I am proud of him, and I celebrate each step forward.   But I don’t think I’m going to get misty-eyed.  And if I do, I’ll just remind myself how much money I won’t be paying for preschool!  Move on up, Levi!!