Mommy with a Penis

Free Stuff Contest #1

2012-01-23T14:37:00.000-08:00

My husband taught me to enjoy free stuff. Whether at a fudge counter in Solvang or a sex shop in Sausalito I have heard him query, "Could I get a sample of that?" This is always delivered with a smile, usually with a flirty air, and people seem to be attracted to and then comply with what I used to think was an unreasonable demand. And Michael is so good at flirt-asking that not only does he secure the taste or spritz, but I have seen him walk away with free bars of designer soap and the occasional complimentary glass of Pol Roger Champagne. Now, I'll be honest, his unabashed groveling shamed me for a while, but over the years my position has softened and I have learned to enjoy the gratis whatchamajigger every now and again.

While maintaining this blog, I have been offered free stuff from time to time, most of which I've turned down. (Although there was that extra large mommy t-shirt that looked like a extra small leotard on me...not a pretty sight.) But before the holidays I bit the bullet and accepted...free stuff.

Was I approached by one of the biggies: Microsoft or Hertz, Bufferin or Depends? No, I was not. (And don't kid yourself, I would have welcomed with open arms a lifetime supply of adult diapers.) I was approached by Juiceology, "a refreshingly pure and nutritious blend of premium juices and whole grain extracts." I'm not the biggest juice drinker. To me, they are usually too sweet. But, I reasoned, my kids love juice...so why not? I gave the Juiceology contact my address and I was sent two bottles, Peach Mango and Blueberry Açai, and the review is in...

I loved them, well the two sips I was able to secure. Sebastian and Maxwell each took one of the bottles and chugged them down like sailors on leave.

Now, I am not too much of a label reader, so I'm not sure how they compare health wise to other juices (the phrase promotes daily wellness is on each bottle), but Juiceology has a really cool website and their product has a sophisticated taste that made me suspect had I more juice I could have fashioned a kickass cocktail. Bottom line: Juiceology is worth the purchase, appealing to adults and children alike. So go out and buy some now.

PS. Michael and I both liked the Peach Mango better than the Blueberry.

apple, peach mango, pomo blue cran, blueberry açai & concord grape

Review done. Now for the contest. I'm getting giddy...

This contest is for you guessed it coupons to Juiceology. Unfortunately, Juiceology can only be found in the Los Angeles area at four of the stores listed below (it should be noted that the Famima in Hollywood has closed). So this contest might best serve Southern Californians, but if those of you from Kansas or Calcutta want Juiceology coupons to decoupage your hope chest who am to stop you from entering.

I have always loved contests where you create funny captions for amusing photos. So, that's what we're going to do. And I got it in my head that my contest picture should be of an iconic mother/daughter pairing like Joan and Christina, Debbie and Carrie, Endora and Samantha, Sarah and Bristol, Wilma and Pebbles or Octomom and a half dozen of the Octets. But the picture I fell in love with most was quintessential Judy and Liza. You may think I chose this because I'm quintessentially gay, and perhaps you're partially correct, but mostly I picked this doozy because of the priceless looks on both their faces.

Create your most witty caption to the following...

The three entries that make me laugh loudest and snort vodka through my nose will be mailed coupons for wonderful Juiceology. Oh, yeah, you have to feel comfortable enough to email me (mommywithapenis@gmail.com) or my Juiceology cohort your real name and address. (Can't hide behind that handle anymore.) I promise neither one of us will egg your house or spit on your labradoodle.

And if this turns out to be popular I'll be accepting other free stuff for future contests!

Must have your entry in by the evening of February 5th. What are you waiting for?

Bon Chance!

Ten Days in New York for Christmas with Two Children and a Working-Actor Husband: Part the First

2012-01-13T09:30:00.000-08:00

On December 19th I arrived with the children at Newark Airport around ten in the evening, got to the hotel about eleven, reunited with Michael and the four of us took our first walk to Times Square close to midnight. At one point, Maxwell, who'd never seen such hustle and bustle, slowed down to a halt and asked in a small voice filled with apprehension and wonder, "Can we just stay here?"

Ah, yes. I remember that fresh off the turnip truck feeling only too well.

The Big Apple is very special to me. It was my home for twelve years, not to mention it was also where Michael and I met and professed our undying love, so I couldn't wait to visit my old stomping grounds, walk the streets, ride the subway, see shows on the way identified as Broad, and chow down eats that are in direct conflict with my diet: pastrami on rye, late-night slices of Ray's, street-vendor falafel, and an honest to gawd toasted New York bagel with a schmear. One significant difference from my fancy-pants bachelor days was this time around I was going to spend most of my time single parenting two children under the age of ten. My husband had two shows daily (Peter Pan for those who forgot), leaving me with the (possibly?) arduous task of being dresser, personal assistant, tour guide and concierge all wrapped up in the faux-perky guise of an varsity cheerleader. Needless to say, my apprehensions matched Maxwell's as she took in Times Square and looked up at those LED screens flashing those oh-so-many ads from Army Recruiting to the M & M's store to Bernadette Peters in Follies. But when she verbalized can we just stay here there was a shift and things felt as if they just might work out. I also must admit to an immense surge of pride as I thought of my little girl some day creating her own fancy-pants adventures in the Big Apple. Pride, that is, quickly followed by a rush of dread.

Day 1: The Metropolitan Museum

The next day it rained, so I bit the bullet and took the kids to the first place I remember going in NYC those many decades ago. But first, a little back story...

At the tender age of two, my Type A mother, Sally, a woman driven by first-time motherhood, perfectionism, and a fierce need to defeat boredom, would prop me in my high chair and with the aid of a twenty-four portfolio set of Metropolitan Seminars in Art forced/slash/encouraged me to memorize prominent works of art. Each portfolio had twelve removable full-color plates and Mother would reward me with two penciled X's in the corner of each page when I successfully memorized and then recited the painting's stats: one X for the title of the piece and one for the artist's name. Being a good gay son in the making...anything to please mother dearest...I filled my little head and acquired graphite X's as fast as I could, oblivious to her (intentional?) brainwashing, and at two was able to differentiate Picasso from Pissarro, Monet from Manet. I was a savant freak show of the toddler set mouthing off, "The Toilet of Venus by François Boucher," while making a stinky in Mr. Diaper.

Madame Jacques-Louis LeBlanc (1823)
by Jean-August-Dominique Ingres

I finally made it to New York when I was a wee lad of five, and Sally took me where I most wanted to go, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which I remember uttering with a reverence I now hear my kids use when they say Chuck E. Cheese's. I packed only my favorite pictures (two of which, the Ingres and the Renoir, are represented here) and meticulously pored over them in the hotel room the night before. I was a petit Napoleon perusing schematics before going into battle. I about writhed in ecstasy...well, as much as a five-year-old is able to writhe...when I thought of beholding these spectacular specimens in their natural habitat.

By the time we got to the Metropolitan the next day, I had whipped myself into such a frenzy that I ran from gallery to gallery like a rabid kookaburra, clutching my blue hat to my head while my little-boy trench coat flapped impatiently behind me, frantically searching for my paintings.

In the Meadow - Picking Flowers (1892)
by Pierre-Auguste Renoir

I have been incredibly naive in my life. What kind of five-year-old boy bursts at the seams to go to a museum? Seriously, look at the art I coveted. Are they of fighting Trojans, or smokey card games, or haunches of beef? No. Even back then I fancied fancy ladies. How on earth did it take me so long to determine I was of the homo variety?

I felt utterly despondent when I couldn't find some of my favorites, Gauguin's Ia Orana Maria for instance, or one of Vermeer's ladies swathed in ethereal light, Aphrodite born of the surf, or Eve being banished from Eden (fancy ladies all, come to think). In my distress I turned to my mother, tears brimming in my eyes, lower lip aquiver, and in a flash of improvisation (probably setting me on my career path) she said, "I think they must be out getting cleaned."

Oddly, that worked. My vexation was quelled by the curious image of these immense, irreplaceable paintings being scrubbed like a Mazda. And to this day, even though I know better, I imagine a Seuss-like contraption, very much like a car wash, conveyor-belting masterpieces from soap to sponge to blow dry.

My choice to go to the Met with my children, however, had nothing to do with reliving childhood memories. A week before we left LA, my good buddies Carol and Milo gave me a comprehensive New York to-do list, most of which I don't remember (I blame vodka), but what stood out was their impassioned description of the annual Christmas tree in the Medieval Sculpture Hall of the Met. I'm not sure why, but seeing that tree became the key to having a successful New York vacation. All I had to do was get my kids to that hall and I would hear angles sing heavenly on high and all would be right with the world.

My children do not hide their emotions. At all! Their faces are a pair of crystal portals to happiness, fear, melancholia, tedium, or downright indignation. As we left the hotel, a bit jet lagged, a lot sleep deprived, their visages displayed restlessness leaving me unsure if the Met was going to be an adventure they'd love. And I couldn't help but blame myself, because although my mother was really quite wonderful introducing culture into our lives, I have been remiss with my children. Oh, sure, they can sing the soundtrack to Wicked and color coordinate like Martha Stewart, but our museum going has been sparse...okay, nonexistent...and I was afraid the whole day could backfire miserably.

With the rain, a kerfuffle on the subway, and then that long walk from Lexington to Fifth...just one more block, c'mon!...my little ones, accustomed to sunny skies and unlimited chauffeuring in securely buckled seats, were already teetering on cranky. But when we came upon the museum's facade, with it's audacious austerity, I believed I could feel a bubble of anticipation emanating from both Sebastian and Maxwell...it was either anticipation or gas.

Sebastian and Maxwell (in the bottom right) approaching the Metropolitan.

Admission to the museum is $25 for adults (the kids are free), but thankfully that's a recommended ticket price. If you're making plans to go to the Met anytime soon, I suggest you do as I did and throw the guy in the booth a couple of fives and keep on walking.

The Information Lady drew directional arrows on our fold-out museum map, first to medieval sculptures where the Christmas tree held court, and then...heart skip...to European masters. As an aside, she recommended the Egyptian wing for the children. Yeah, we'll see about that.

Annual Christmas Tree and Neapolitan Baroque Crèche

The tree was lovely. It's decorated with cherubs and at least fifty graceful angels. At it's base is an eighteenth-century Neapolitan Baroque Crèche, which you have to admit sounds impressive even if you're not sure what that means. The piped-in Christmas music was beautiful, the lighting exquisite, making a display that was indeed breathtaking. But when I turned with anticipation to my adopted spawn and asked what they thought I immediately saw whatever bubble had been there had long since burst. Instead I was met with a discordant chorus of "I'm hungry" with an irritating recitative of "I gotta go to the bathroom." I tried to distract them with a game of Who sees the wise man with the camel? but that lasted about all of thirteen seconds before the familiar whiny refrain started anew.

What followed was exercise in self control: traverse the foyer, cross some lobbies, grumble grumble, no bathroom, turn around, back the way we came, grumble grouse, staircase down, wrong staircase, turn around, back up, grumble gripe grouse, back towards Medieval Sculpture, there's the Christmas tree again, it really is quite lovely, grumble gripe bellyache bitch, descend the correct staircase, bathroom at last, give me your coats, give me your hats, give me your scarves, give me your gloves, (motherfuckers!), wash hands, on to cafeteria, grab a tray, grab some food, grab a much needed cawfee, fork over twenty-six dollars eighty-nine cents, must be karmic retribution for paying ten dollars at the door, balance winter clothes, balance brimming tray, balance fraying patience, plop down at a table in desperate need of a good sponging, take a deep breath, take much-needed a sip of cawfee, and feed like the undead.

Once bladders were emptied and bellies filled we were off were off to the Renaissance. But after a few galleries of beatific annunciations and gruesome crucifixions (how are we supposed to explain why people nailed the sad man to a cross?), even I was in need of lighter, less religious, fare.

It was time to move on from the meat and potatoes and go straight to dessert. I mean, who doesn't like Impressionists? The saturated color, the saucy brush strokes... One dappled sunset or speckled haystack will set these whiny heathens right as rain.

But the kids weren't having it. One refrain of I wanna go and I knew what had to be done. I allowed myself an indulgent, slo-mo glance-around, taking mental snapshots of tropical Gauguins, watery Monets, earthy Cezannes, faery-world Renoirs, cursing the fact I didn't have me as a kid, and prepared to leave. But on the way down the main staircase I found some backbone and decided to play the Egypt card. Heckle and Jeckle squawked and balked until they saw this fellow in the Great Hall...

Amenemhat II (ca. 1919–1885 B.C.)

...And their entire tune changed.

People love giving presents to Sebastian because his reaction is very much like Macaulay Culkin's in Home Alone, mouth agape, filled with wonderment. And that was my son when his eyes fell upon the impressive Amenemhat II. "That's... That's... That's the thing, you know... That's Egypt!" he announced to anyone who would listen. I was forced to admit it, Information Lady was right. Kids do like this Egypt stuff.

And their collection is amazing. To be able to touch and walk in and around Perneb's tomb is thrilling. But I don't think anything compares to the sun-drenched (odd that, since it was raining) room which held the Temple of Dendur. This time it wasn't just Sebastian's mouth that slack-jawed open, but mine as well. I felt like Indiana Jones stumbling upon an important discovery.

Temple of Dendur (ca. 15 B.C.)

More Dendur

Heckle and Jeckle and the Temple of Doom

Okay, so maybe the tree in the rotunda and the grand masters weren't yabba-dabba-doos, but I shouldn't have underestimated the wonders of ancient Egypt. My children's eyes lit up as they took in the temple, the tomb, various sarcophagi and an aging mummy. I remember thinking, "I don't want to jinx it, but perhaps all bodes well and we will enjoy a wonderful New York Christmas after all."

Stay tuned...

I must leave you with one last image of Metropolitan yumminess.

The Toilet of Venus (1751)
by François Boucher

Unlike what my two-year-old mind thought at the time, neither the reference to toilet, nor the unfortunate sounding Boucher was a command for me to do a doody in my di-di.

Take a good long drink of Dame Venus amid rococo extravagance. She's frickin luscious, she's insouciantly devil-may-care, she's peaches n' cream with a shot of Jägermeister. At two I loved this painting. And wouldn't you know it...another fancy lady!

How could I not have known sooner?

A Sparkly Pink Unicorn by Any Other Name...

2011-12-18T15:00:00.000-08:00

On many an occasion have I woken my daughter out of a dead sleep (to go to the bathroom or from a car seat nap) and after doing so she has uttered something quite unforeseen: "I'm afraid of spiders," or "Matisse is my best friend." But last night, I could not have imagined when rousing her from my bed to move her to her own room that I would hear her expound, "Princess Celestia!" Princess Celestia is a sparkling, pink unicorn from the My Little Pony series that Maxwell chose yesterday above all of the other toys at Target to be her present from Uncle Krik.

Truth be told, this is no ordinary unicorn; she is really quite...well...celestial with multicolored ringlets, and wings that light up when you push the cheeky button on her rump. As it turns out, she is also a chatterbox, spouting ear-cringing inanities. Now, I would never expect a toy with the unwieldy moniker Princess Celestia to extol the virtues of world peace or recite Portia's soliloquy or the Pythagorean Theorem, but come on, Hasbo, I about snapped a femur when the first words I heard out of the good princess's speaker box were "My barrettes look so pretty."

I immediately insisted on listening to Celestia's other bon mots and was not amused: Oh, my hair looks beautiful; My wings are so pretty (a bit self absorbed, don't ya think?); Let's fly to the castle; Spectacular! Spectacular, indeed. Spectacularly imbecilic.

I thought the dumbing down of little girls was passé. The new wave of American child rearing is supposed to be conscientiously moving away from the girls are beautiful/boys are tough style of parenting that was prevalent, oh, seven or eight decades ago. I get that kids like sparkling toys, I'm not saying Celestia has to resemble a school marm all gray and dour, but I'm pretty sure most parents would welcome this unicorn to have a more worldly view.

Also, my five year old, like other five year olds, loses shit all the time, especially if it's small. Many a vacuum cleaner has had to be unclogged because of the Barbie pump, or diminutive hairbrush that's jammed into the sucking mechanism. And the thing is, Maxwell isn't really into the accoutrement. They usually end up scattered on the kitchen floor, lying in wait for my vulnerable bare foot. Language more colorful than Princess Celestia's mane has escaped my lips when I've unsuspectingly stepped onto a mini tiara in the middle of the night. I imagine (and I haven't checked) if asked the whereabouts of Princess Celestia's rosette barrettes Maxwell wouldn't have a clue, and what's more, she wouldn't care.

Perhaps this speaks to my character, but I find it excruciating to listen to Her Highness proclaim over and over, "My barrettes look so pretty" when, in fact, she isn't wearing a single barrette! It's practically surrealism. Speaking of which, I imagine Rene Magritte would appreciate the mind bending conundrum that is the barretteless pony. It reminds me of his pipe, that he says is not a pipe, but goddamnit, it sure as shooting' looks like a pipe to me.

Come to think, if Celestia were marketed as "a surrealist unicorn" I would have more respect for the product. I could imagine her also waxing curious witticisms like, Your third nose is beautiful, or The melting pocket watches are an unconscious symbol of the relativity of space and time, or The minotaur took my fiddle! But clearly, surrealism was not intended, so to my mind the toy is a total and abject failure.

Not to mention, I've had this bizarre image niggling at the back of my mind. I can't help but compare the fancy Princess Celestia with another flashy demoiselle with feathers...a showgirl named Lola...

Still in the dress she used to wear, faded feathers in her hair

She sits there so refined, and drinks herself half-blind

She lost her youth and she lost her Tony

Now she's lost her mind!

(You may perceive my jump from Magritte to Manilow as de trop but I'm told I need to appeal to a larger audience.)

Lola may have merengued and cha-chaed, while Celsetia flew to her magic palace, but both females are full of themselves to an almost obsessive degree. Here's the bottom line, little girls are pretty. And they don't need Hasbro or any other toy company validating girl-power prettiness over more desirable qualities: honesty, integrity, intelligence, and good grooming. If from time to time my daughter's topic of conversation lists towards the inane so be it, but there must be a balance. Otherwise, if she is modeled only platitudes of beautiful hair, pretty barrettes, and "a dress cut down to there" of the me, me, me variety, she very well may end up at her own private Copacabana, pining for times gone by, and a hot, dead bartender named Tony.

As I'm cobbling together an end for this piece, my children, I kid you not, are in the other room asking Celestia, "What is two plus ten?" To which the equine responds, Flying is so much fun. Then the kids break out in fits of giggles, as if even they are aware of the foolishness that is Princess Celestia, but damn does she have good hair.

Dismembering Santa

2011-12-15T22:51:00.000-08:00

It's important to note that the following article was first published in G Man Magazine, a deliciously wonderful online publication that you all must check out. (I'm on page 36.) Just click on the Happy Holidays button. Happy Holidays!

Michael and I are scathingly honest with our kids. Well...maybe not Aunt-Bessie-got-shitfaced-and-fell-into-the-holiday-punchbowl honest, but honest in that age appropriate sort of way. For instance, Sebastian and Maxwell both know they are adopted, they also know we are a multiracial family and some of what that implies, my son understands he has learning disabilities, and my daughter is keenly aware that her black, kinky hair is a bitch for a white man with stumpy fingers to care for.

Now, I've not chosen to be honest for some principled reason. I simplyfind it's directness an easier way to motor through life. To tell alie or be decidedly vague to my kids and then have to remember andsupport that lie every time a certain potentially loaded topic israised requires more mental gymnastics than a virtual Mary Lou Rettonis capable. To my mind, straightforwardness, in a sparkly, gay way,no matter how touchy the subject matter, is far more streamlined anda helluva lot easier.

Myhonest way of life does not always jibe with my husband who likesto...shall I say...embellish. Not with the kids, but when let looseat a party with a chilled cocktail in his hot, oversized mitts I haveheard Michael regale to a rapt audience about some event, of which Iwas apart, and oftentimes his retelling is unrecognizable because itnot only borders on, but traverses boldly into utter fantasy. If youfind yourself the recipient of his highly entertaining yet inaccurateanecdotes I have developed a formula to divine simple truth; wheneverhe includes an unwieldy number or amount, simply divide that amountby two thirds. If he were toexpound “I went to six callbacks for that role in The GreenMile” do a quick calculationand realize in the world in which we live he went to roughly fourcallbacks.

Ihave learned, however, to accept Michael's misrepresentations, whichhe only lets slip from his lips in arenas where conviviality,free-flowing libation and bubbly banter joyfully collide. Truth betold, he greatly excels in the art of storytelling. And although Iinitially stepped in like a perturbed hausfrau and tried to amend hisgross exaggerations (sometimes with dire results), I have sincelearned to fade back and enjoy the show, allowing Michael free rein.

WhatI cannot tolerate is lying to kids, especially when the lie seemsunwarranted. Some parents have the misconception that children cannothandle brutal truth. I'll let you in on a secret: children face up tolife's potholes much better than adults. Sure, we don't want to seedisappointment or alarm spread across their little faces, but toenvelop them in bubble wrap, giving them no tools to deal with life'sdisappointments is a tremendous disservice. Besides little'uns don'tlug around emotional baggage like big'uns do. I would imagine theemotional baggage of a child fits into a space about the size of aHello Kitty lunchbox, while ours barely squeezes into the cargo holdof Air Force One. Thus, when a life changing event occurs, like adeath in the family or the season finale of Lost, childrenaccept the news with a simplicity and equanimity that is really quitebreathtaking, while, at least in Michael's family, I have witnessedantics at funerals that have been downright Tyler Perryesque:cursing in church, fainting in the aisle, bodies flinging themselveson the coffin. These were not children acting out, these were grownfolks, y'all.

Thisbrings me to a pet peeve... Michael and I were attracted to openadoption because we thought it healthier for our children to havepersonal ties to their biological families. This has paid off.Sebastian has forged wonderful relationships with his five halfsiblings and Maxwell's birth mom and two half sisters recently cameto rejoice at her baptism. Neither child has expressed resentmentthat they are not living with those of the same genetic makeup. Onthe contrary, they are more grounded because of these connections.Now, I understand why some adoptive parents prefer to slam shut andbolt the birth family door; it's scary to face the unknown. However,I am intolerant of, and they seem to be out there, male gay coupleswho've adopted and have flat out lied to their child that they wereever born heaven forfend from the uterus of a woman. (Theseare the queens who get dramatically pissy and start slanderous emailcampaigns if their child's school enrollment forms still have thefields mother's name and father's name.)They are so focused on making the child's world all about Daddy andPapa, and only Daddy and Papa, that they are eclipsing a wholeswath of reality that will surely backfire when the kid is taking SexEd in junior high.

“Daddy,Papa, which one of you has the vagina?”

Wakeup parents. You are not doing them any favors by cock blocking thetruth.

Sothere's my spiel: honesty, honesty, honesty.

***

Lastweek, my five year old daughter, Maxwell, asked me, “Is Santa Clausreal?”

Gasp.

Evenmy nine year old son hasn't cornered me with that one. But my Mensa-bound five year old looked at me with those purposeful,inquisitive eyes, knowing that out of everyone in her life I wouldn'tresult to bullshit.

Honesty,honesty, honesty...

Why couldn't she have asked about penises or vaginas? Or about boys who wear pinafores or girls who like U-Hauls? Or any social taboo really: the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, our country's socio-economic problems, immigration, abortion, inbreeding, Herman Cain, anything? But to debunk Santa Claus?

Inthe flicker of a hummingbird's wing I weighed my options.

***

Mythoughts quickly went to this Christmas... Michael is on tour withCathy Rigby doing Peter Pan.(I know it sounds like a punchline, but if it comes to a theater nearyou be sure to catch it. You will be charmed.) And this leg of thetour ends in New York City (Madison Square Garden, thank you verymuch) just in time for the holidays. As soon as the winter breakbegins I'm packing up the kids to join Michael for a ten day stretchin the Big Apple.

We'llbe staying in Manhattan most of the time. But for Michael's days off(Christmas Eve, Christmas day and the 26^th) we'll be inNew Jersey with our friend Erica, her wife and new baby son.

Itdoesn't matter where in the world I've christmased, the FosterFamily traditions have always come with me: Paris; Vienna; Zurich;and now North Plainfield, New Jersey. Michael has embraced and evenincorporated these traditions when we go to his hometown of Alton,Illinois; and now my diabolical plot includes indoctrinating theHayes-Bradshaw Family as well.

Thecompendium is as follows: on Christmas Eve the Christmas Fairy leavesa present on the the children's pillows, matching pajamas; of course,Santa will have visited during the night, having taken a bite of acookie, a reindeer having nibbled on a juicy carrot; presents,presents, presents all morning long; followed by the Foster FamilyChristmas breakfast, Eggs a la Goldenrod (a fancy EggMcMuffinish extravaganza using English muffins and Canadianbacon), pancakes, sausage links, and for the adults, homemade eggnogspiked with rum and bourbon. It's highly caloric and a napfollowing is recommended.

Itpromises to be a wonderful trip. Michael gets another Broadwaycredit, I get to see old friends and revisit familiar haunts, andprobably most exciting, the kids get to experience an honest togoodness white Christmas in New York City: ice skating at RockefellerCenter, buggy ride in Central Park, strolling the Great White Way,Times Square, Statue of Liberty, MOMA, FAO, BMT...all lit up,smelling like roasted chestnuts and cloaked in a thin layer of snow.I'm getting really excited...

...andat the same time, incredibly trepidatious. Sure, it sounds idyllic,but at any moment it feels like things could go terribly awry. Tostart with, I'm going to be solo-parenting on the flight fromCalifornia to New York, always dicey. Then, Michael's two-show a dayschedule is so demanding, he will be unavailable from lunchtime on.And most daunting for me, it's two children and TEN FULL DAYS. Tendays of I don't wanna and he started it. Ten days ofliving out of a suitcase, wearing that dirty t-shirt just one moretime. Ten days of possibly cold, wet, bored and cranky children. Notanother museum, Papa! All I need is an ice storm that keeps ushotel bound and I'm positive security will find a couple extracadavers this holiday season.

Christmasused to be so much easier. I remember buying the kids' stockingstuffers while they were right there with me, chilling out in theirstrollers. And there was never any need to hide the presents, theyjust had to be kept above eye level. Even navigating Santa seemedeffortless. Last year, Michael was asked by Maxwell's preschool to beSaint Nick for the Winter Solstice Carnival, which makes sense; noone resonates ho, ho, ho more than my husband. I had an initialmoment of panic wondering how the kids would interpret Daddy donningsuch gay apparel. As it turned out, there was no need to worry.Sebastian just thought Daddy was doing drag...yet again, whileMaxwell, as she tells it, knew it was Daddy but also thought he mightbe the real Santa at the same time (sort of like Vincent Price andthe fly morphing into one). Basically, it freaked her the fuck outand she stayed far, far away.

Andit was much less exhausting to appease the kids' Santa relatedquestions back then. A vague, not well thought out answer wouldsatisfy them and they'd go on their merry way. But last month, beforeMaxwell sucker punched me with Is Santa Claus real?, my stock,evasive strategies proved not to be enough. She kept pestering mewith an intense barrage:

"Howwill Santa know where we are?"

Santajust knows those things, honey.

"Dothey have a chimneys in New Jersey?"

Iimagine they do. I've not really taken a census.

"Buthow will Santa get into a house if there is no chimney?"

Don'tworry about it. That's all part of his magic.

"IfSanta has magic, why did he bring me a talking kitty last year when Iasked for a talking doggie?"

MaybeSanta wanted you to have a talking kitty.

"But whydid talking kitty say Made in China instead of Made in the NorthPole?"

PerhapsSanta outsourced and enlisted help from Chinese elves.

"Butif Christmas is supposed to be about Baby Jesus, why doesSanta..."
I don't have time for this, Maxwell. I reallydon't.

Doyou see the problem here? Lies built upon fibs supported by fallacy.It's a leaning tower of fabrication teetering on a foundation of sandand grit, and the whole thing is threatening to topple, making mynerves fray and my hemorrhoids itch.

Honesty,honesty, honesty...

Itstrikes me that part of my Christmas angst could be alleviated if Ijust tell her the truth, tell both my kids the delicious, applecrunching truth. This could be the opportunity I've been looking for.

Allit takes is the first word...

***

IsSanta Claus real? Well, Maxie dearest, let's break it down. What dowe know about him? He's a man of significant girth who may or may notsmoke a bit too much, and he makes a living, if you can call it that,squeezing his bulk into strangers' chimneys in order to give toys toall the children of the world. Inexplicably, the mode oftransportation he prefers is a sleigh of flying reindeer, one ofwhich has a shiny proboscis that glows crimson at will. And we'retold this jolly old elf makes his own toys in his own private toyfactory somewhere in the North Pole, overseen by men of diminutivestature wearing pointy hats.

Areyou honestly telling me you don't find that just a bit burdensome toswallow?

Thetruth of the matter is if you were to take a chainsaw, let's say, andslice off Santa's arms he will not bleed. No, it's not a Christmasmiracle; he won't bleed because he's made of paper and ink, and ofcardboard, and a dash of sawdust and reels and reels of celluloid. Soby all means, slice off his arms, sever his legs, pummel that fuckingdroll little mouth drawn up like a bow to a pulp, he won't feel athing. And once you rip off his beard, take the sofa cushions fromhis belly, and burn that horrendous, cherry-red, velour track suittrimmed in white fur (which was never in style, not even in theeighties) all you have left are deceitful parents and one enormouscommunal lie.

I'mnot sure why we do it. Perhaps we don't want you to grow up so fast, or maybe we have a perverse need to keep you mentally dependent onus. Whatever the reason, it now seems cruel, in hindsight. Let mebottom line it for you...

Maxwell,there is no Santa Claus!

WhileI'm at it, there is no Christmas Fairy, either. Also, the EasterBunny, a fake; the Tooth Fairy, a fraud; Kim Kardashian's marriage, asham. And as you get older you will find out other things are makebelieve as well, like a practical application for algebra or trickledown economics.

Aren'tyou finding this liberating? You are undeniably on your path tounderstanding the true meaning of Christmas. Now, it will becomeclear to you that A Miracle on 34^th Street, It's aWonderful Life, Rudolph, Tiny Tim, the Grinch, Charlie Brown'sChristmas tree, and all those other cozy, iconic Christmas imagesthat we embrace this time of year are not mere entertainment. No,they are marketing tools designed to mesmerize the masses, making usthe best doggone card-carrying Capitalists on the planet. At a timewhen we should be storing our acorns and not emptying the larder, weallow ourselves to be programmed to march in droves to Macy's andToys R Us and buy you, my darling daughter, merch you may covet butdon't really need.

Takea look outside. The wintery sky is the color of a dead moth, theground as hard as obsidian. It's a dark, cold, and scary time ofyear, and we as parents try oh so hard to protect you from the Arcticwinds that rage and the downtrodden warming themselves over sidewalkgrates by distracting you with visions of sugarplum fairies andsought after figgy puddings. But no more, Maxwell. You're a smartgirl who saw through the artifice. Brava!

Ihope our little talk wasn't too blunt, but it was honest. And youknow, above all, I cherish honesty.

***

Allthis in an instant, the flicker of a hummingbird's wing.

Thenback to my daughter's chocolatey, vulnerable eyes; eyes desiringmagic; eyes so wanting to believe. How could I not?

“Yes,honey. Santa is absolutely real.”

Simply Mari

2011-11-19T19:30:00.000-08:00

So many partially written blog entries...numerous, unformulated, yet juicy ideas bouncing around my over-crowded noggin...while visions of sugarplums danced in their heads...just waiting for me to jot them down, and still I haven't been able to write. I'll admit it, I've been stuck...like a truck in the muck...mired in apathy, self-involvement and evidently, too much children's literature...that Sam-I-Am, that Sam-I-Am, I do not like that Sam-I-Am. And then, to make matters worse, I made a sweeping, grandiose statement in my last blog entry (which was in July...yikes) that I am going to write a book. A BOOK for Seuss sake! What the fuck was I thinking?

Just as I'd make headway with a possible chapter, the kids would start reenacting an episode of Phineas and Ferb, or my ancient fourteen-and-a-half year old husky would have a seizure on the kitchen floor making me wonder whether it was time to call the kindly man with a lethal injection, or I'd have to attend a mandatory meeting at Sebastian's school because he proclaimed, "Vagina, vagina, vagina," at top volume on the school playground, possibly upsetting the tender ears of those both with and without vaginas, or one of the seven hundred thousand other unplanned things that flat out distract me from doing anything besides planning the next meal and keeping my head above water.

You see, I'm single parenting as of late. No, I'm not headed towards divorce. Michael is on tour with Cathy Rigby doing Peter Pan. (And before you ask, no, he's NOT playing a fairy: he's one of the pirates.) So to lean on someone else to cook a meal, do homework or possibly condition and comb out my daughter's head of nappy hair is simply not available. Add to that...and perhaps this is not pertinent...but I can't stop thinking about food. I am presently enduring the dreaded five hundred calorie-a-day HCG diet which makes me loopy, yearning for Cuban rice and nauseous all at the same time. So, if I come off snippy, discombobulated, or downright morose, know that there are many balls in the air, and with my husband out of town none of them are mine. (TMI, I know.)

So, I hate to say...embarrassed actually...that I'm shelving the book idea...for now.

Where does that leave me? I'm at that re-start up phase with my writing, sort of like beginning at the gym...again...after a prolonged hiatus. It's a fucking chore. Trust me, it's more than crossed my mind to chuck this writing thing all together. I seriously was about to throw out my quill...

But I made a promise...

***

When six weeks ago I heard the phrase "hospice care" I was pretty sure what was going to happen. When a hospital bed was moved into her bedroom, it seemed even more apparent that the end was near. And when I was told that she was being given morphine on a regular basis I knew the inevitable was days away. But when Michael touched me on my arm as I was cooking the kid's breakfast, just touched me and almost inaudibly said, "She's gone," I gasped at the finality of it all.

My very dear friend Maricela Ochoa-Henderson passed away on October 10th from stage four breast cancer. She was 48.

Never have I hated writing declarative sentences more.

***

Michael and I moved to our Los Angeles home on his birthday, at the end of November in 1999. Two weeks later, we went to Maricela's house, someone I had never met but Michael had known for years through the Chicago theater scene. "Call me Mari," she insisted, her 'r' sounding like a 'd', while ushering us to her kitchen, which was full of wonderful home-cooked smells and abuzz with activity. A bevy of folks were crowded around a small table spreading masa into dampened corn husks. Mari was making her family's tamales for the next night's Tamale Party.

I was to learn that The Tamale Party, which was always the first Saturday in December, was legendary. Actually, calling it party doesn't do it justice. It was an event. People cleared their calendars months in advance and selected well thought out wardrobes. Hundreds of tamales were prepared: meat, vegetarian and dessert varieties. The party was so fly, folks would fly in from other parts of the country to eat Mari's food and enjoy her hospitality. Friendships were born, relationships went to the next level and kisses between total strangers were stolen in the night. The booze flowed freely, the salsa syncopated loudly, and the tamales...well, the tamales were so amazing folks would plot how to best pilfer a dozen or two without anyone noticing.

And then, the next day, when your average host would have the common sense to hang up her apron and nurse her hangover, Mari would be busy preparing the post-Tamale Party brunch for a select few of us. The brunch was a blast because not only would we enjoy a second round of delicious food, but we also would rehash the previous night's exploits and basically...I'll say it...dish. Who made out behind the house? Who started the screaming match in the street? What time did the cops arrive? Who set the fire to the bathroom?

The laughter, the conviviality, the community...and at the center of it all was Maricela Ochoa.

And the Tamale Party is indicative to how Mari lived her life...with flair, individuality, to its fullest and with gusto. Whether belting out kd lang's Constant Craving in karaoke roulette or providing a lap dancing stripper for the Sensuality Shower she hosted for Michael and me, Mari went all out. But to my mind, what exemplifies her individuality, her attention to detail and flair, is when she spent months before her own wedding scouring antique shops, second hand stores and eBay collecting vintage cup-and-saucer sets. At a time when most future brides, myself included, obsess about themselves, Mari was more concerned that each of her one-hundred-fifty-some-odd wedding guests went home with a lovely memento. I never heard of anyone doing anything remotely like that. (I love mine and use it daily!)

At her core Mari was an artist. Her presence as an actress on both stage and screen was dynamic. For years I enjoyed her multi-layered performances as the highly stylized, comedia maid in La Jolla Playhouse's Blood Wedding; America Ferrera's domineering mother in Migdalia Cruz's The Have Little; the smart-talking maid in Lisa Loomer's Living Out at the Taper; and if you can believe it as God in an episode of Joan of Arcadia. Her characters were fiery, in your face and highly memorable.

I chuckle at how many times she played a domestic. Even on Joan of Arcadia, God appears to Joan as a uniform-wearing maid boarding a city bus to get to her drudgery day job. For someone as socially minded as Mari, as out spoken, politically on point and determined to change preconceived perceptions of Latina Americans, the business of show kept knocking on her door to play yet another toiling servant. But no matter her personal beliefs, she imbued these characters with dignity and an intensity I shall never forget.

Her artistry, however, didn't stop with acting. She cooked with ancestral fervor, worked yarn like a zen master (you should see the beautiful baby blankets she crocheted for the kids), and wrote with a poetry and ease I so admire.

Our love of writing is what brought us even closer together. In the years before she moved back to Texas for treatment, I spent time with Mari writing on a weekly basis. We'd randomly choose a prompt the week before, a title or passage from a book of Pablo Neruda poetry, say, or a juicy article from Vanity Fair; all it took was an unwieldy phrase like all bright and glittering in the smokeless air, or one nub of growth nudges the sand-crumb loose, and we were off. Pages would pour out of of us: scenes from plays, personal essays, short stories, blog entries, poems--oh, how I loved her poetry--and over time we had both collected nice bodies of work. Mari's writing was inspirational, her insights invaluable.

That was her gift to me...the freedom and support to express myself, to call myself writer.

***

To give you an idea how much this woman was loved, there were three services held in her honor. One with her family in Texas, one in LA and yet another in Chicago. Mari's deathbed wish was for Chief Norman, the person she entrusted with her spiritual life, to officiate. Chief Norman, who was described to me as a Native American pope, remarked at the memorial service, "I never thought I'd be doing this in a church." Only for Mari.

Something happened to me while Chief Norman was performing his duties. I'm not sure if it was when he was chanting and drumming, or smudging the church, or speaking his personal truth about Mari, but I felt something, sort of an emotional kick, swift and without warning square in the gut. Get off your mutherfucking ass and start writing again!

Whether I was hallucinating from the fumes of the smudge stick or Mari was really reaching out and giving me a good what for I couldn't tell you, but under my breath I said, "Yes, Mari. I promise."

And so here I stumble, my first steps in many months, remembering an amazing woman.

***

My lovely Mari,

I know it was your time. I know you were in pain. But here's the thing, your energy, your electricity, your fire was intoxicating. It was impassioned. It was foundation. It was life force. And it's hard, oh so hard, to imagine an existence without that force, without you.

I will remember your amazing generosity, your incredible talent, your infectious laugh and I will remember your prolonged hugs that I mistakenly thought would never ever end.

***

The Path

Neither family nor friend may walk with me

My footsteps tread alone

my breath runs colder

my heart beats slower

At each step I am aware

of every ounce of blood in my veins

every pore on my skin

every nerve endings' pulse

Until, at last, I recognize this place

I have been here before

Long before my adult misgivings

before my mischievous childhood

before my wide awake infancy

I've known this terror, confusion, and solitude

The immense beyond, before, and present

Time, sound and space are one

For then, like now, I was being born.

-Maricela Ochoa-Henderson

September 1997

Big News

2011-07-13T09:55:00.000-07:00

I was out with Michael and the kids at a child's birthday party when I bumped into my friend, Quinn Cummings. (Klunk. That sounded like name dropping, didn't it? I honestly didn't mean for it to, but there's just no way to nonchalantly mention Academy Award nominated actress and now humorist author Quinn Cummings without sounding like some...forgive me...star fucker.) I always love my encounters with Quinn, she's intelligent, unpredictable and very funny. She was one of the folks who encouraged me to blog in the first place. Hers is a wonderful blog called the The QC Report. (I'm not sure if like in Stephen Colbert's show the "t" in Report is silent or not.) Be sure to take a moment and check it out.

Well, Quinn noticed I had not been posting as often as I used to, which is true, and I remarked I'd been busy with my shows, however I just happened to write a post-Independence Day piece about people against New York's passing gay marriage and those who write letters to USA Today called Mommy Has Got to Speak! And in the retelling of this post I must have been very animated, because Quinn got that look a woman gets when she believes she is in possession of a simply marvelous notion, a pearl so evident, so shiny, and yet, she imagines, so completely oblivious to the man she is talking to; an absolute truth of sorts she will later define for herself as intuition.

(By the way, Quinn, I've seen the same look on Cartoon Daphne just before she leads Scooby-Doo and the gang into the henchman's trap. "I think we should go this way.")

And with the forced calm one uses on a dim child, or I imagine Charlie Sheen, she said, "I think you've graduated from blog writing. It's time for you to write a book."

This is not the first time I've been the recipient of that sentence. And in fact, if I push the demons out of the way and allow myself a peek, writing a book is absolutely in my wheelhouse and should be the next logical step. I've just never been able to pinpoint what I should write about. Everything from a gay daddy/mommy memoir, to a noir like mystery, to a combination of the two has been a possibility.

"And I think I know the subject matter," Quinn teased as she ate raspberries from the buffet table, somehow evocative of Eve and the apple. She went on to explain that every writer should write what turns him or her on, and what turns me on...the proof being that I used the word "fascinating" about twenty-three times...is the various viewpoints people have about gay marriage in this country. Then she stood back and watched as my wheels started to turn, waiting for me to concur with the suggestion she so clearly thought was a grand slam.

"Quinn, you have got to stop looking at me like Snoopy when he pretends to be a vulture." She grabbed a few more raspberries and swept out of the room.

But whether Daphne or Vulture Scooby, Quinn had every right to gloat, because the subject is a damn good fit for me. Truth be told, I'm probably more interested in the beliefs of those who voted yes for Proposition 8 (the anti gay stance), then those who like me got married and are raising a family. I ate a raspberry. Yep, I was hooked.

The fact of the matter is I am going to write a book!...well, the treatment for a book. (Quinn likes the title To Have and To Hold...I'm not sold. With the future of gay marriage being so tenuous it might need a question mark...To Have and To Hold?) And I'm reaching out to the blogosphere for help. I'm looking for people who are willing to be interviewed. Please get back to me if either you or someone you know has a unique or impassioned take on gay marriage.

I certainly have my beliefs on this issue. Being married with two children, I'm sure my stance is evident. However, this will not be a preaching to the choir book. This is a complex, national issue and I want to illuminate its many layers. Thus, I need to talk to those who carry "God hates fags" signs as well as militant gay rights activists, and everyone in between.

At present I see the book as chapters of essays; interviews inter-spliced with personal narratives, like why haven't I asked my cousin why he voted yes on Prop 8? What am I so afraid of? (This might even open up that door of opportunity.)

The interviews will be done with respect. I do not have a gay agenda, whatever that is. (But if anyone knows the person who came up with the phrase gay agenda, I'd totally want to interview him.) I will be recording interviews in person or over the phone. Those interviewed may choose to remain anonymous, and refuse to answer any questions they feel too personal. But, as you can imagine, the more candid the interviewee, the more sumptuous the material.

Here's my wish list:

-Religious leaders (Scientologists included)

-Those with and without strong religious beliefs

-Those kicked out of a church or synagogue because of his or her homosexuality

-Political leaders (especially those whose public stance is different from their private one)

-Community activists

-Chaz Bono (he's just so popular right now)

-Gay people in the military

-Gay people against gay marriage

-Proud parents of gay children

-Parents who have disowned their children for being homosexual

-Business people who would benefit from gay marriage, i.e. photographers, caterers, ice sculptors, etc...

-Anyone else with a quirky perspective

Who wants to be heard?

Contact me. I created a new email for this very project, mommywithapenis@gmail.com.

So there, Quinn Cummings! I just hope the henchman's trap isn't around the corner.

Lost and Found

2011-07-12T11:10:00.000-07:00

There is probably little more excruciating for a parent than putting the safety of your child into the hands of a total stranger only to have them not show up at the appointed time.

Bash is doing summer school this year and for the first time he gets to ride the bus to and from school. He's so thrilled at the prospect of ditching his booster seat he's pretty much forgiven us the fact he has to do summer school.

The bus takes him from our home school, which is four blocks from our house, to the summer school, and then in the afternoon brings him back to our home school. Wednesday was the first day and Michael and I met the bus driver, Grove (no, I don't know how he got his name...Grover? Mangrove?), who seemed perfectly trustworthy and told us to be waiting in front of our home school no later than 1:30, although he may be as late as 2:00 due to the fact that first days are often a cauldron of chaos and confusion.

Michael and I were a bit early for pick-up which turned out to be unnecessary. We waited...and waited...and waited. Finally, at 2:20, I could see my husband was beginning to split at the seams. Now, there is nothing subtle about Michael in a state of duress. When he's worried the entire world damn well knows it. The poor guy can't help but gnaw on every possible horrible scenario, and I see it as my job not to get sucked into his vortex of doom.

There's nothing I can do in moments like these. If I babble on and on, trying to distract him, he gets POed. If I remain silent, letting him sort out his own shit, he resents that as well. The only saving grace, and I realize how selfish this will sound, is that I deliberately focused my attentions on Michael and his irrationalities, thus was spared any pangs of distress I may have had for our son, who was over an hour late.

Finally, while maintaining a modulated calm any television therapist would envy, I offered to go back home, find the number for the bus company, call them up and see what the fuck's going on. Michael agreed that would be best.

Once home, it didn't take me long to find the Notification of Student Transportation Schedule Summer 2011. Immediately, I called the bus company and after following the prompts if this is an emergency, press one now I was unceremoniously put on hold. And anyone whose called any hot line in any American city knows the word emergency is a hoax. It felt as if I was on hold longer than it's taken Congress to figure out what to do with our debt ceiling. I waited...and waited...and waited. It was a horrible sense of deja vu, only this time indoors and with Muzak.

Michael texted me, then he called me, then he called the school and found out why Bash's bus left late, then he called me back to tell me the reason which turned out to be a missing kid (that certainly doesn't instill confidence in LAUSD), all the while I remained in that purgatory called on hold. At this point it was 2:55 and I had been holding for twenty-six minutes. After a couple more calls back and forth Michael demanded, "Go to the school, now!" Which was then followed by, "Hold on, I think I see him." Click.

About a minute after Michael hung up...you all must see where this is going...a male human from the bus service finally got on the line. And even though I knew Michael was collecting Sebastian as I spoke, I felt I had every right to say my piece and scatter a little buckshot, if for no other reason, for having to endure mind numbing Muzak for thirty-three minutes. But as I was explaining the situation, I heard the key turn in the lock and any fire and brimstone I may have had had diminished to a smouldering ash. The resounding shame on you! I had planned to say turned into a feeble never mind, thank you.

Sebastian was beaming. The bus riding experience surpassed all his expectations. Turns out the missing boy was in the bus the entire time. For whatever reason, he decided not to answer to his name when roll was taken. (I hope the kid was subjected to hours of Sarah Palin's speaking voice.)

It finally made sense why kids today have cell phones. Bash could have called us quashing any Sturm und Drang we were manifesting. Then it hit me. "What am I thinking? Sebastian couldn't have called us. He doesn't even know our phone numbers or our address."

I'm ashamed to admit, I haven't sat down with my eight year old to teach him the basic information I knew when I was five because of his learning disability.

I interrupted his chronicling of the day's events, forget about your first day of summer school, buddy. I'm going to teach you something really cool, my phone number. It's much easier than our home phone, my cell has repeated numbers and it's an easy shape to memorize on the phone's keypad. Well, guess what, learning disability be damned, that little bugger learned my number in a snap...and he hasn't stopped calling me since. My slight irritation of the constant ring tone (Janelle Monae's Tightrope) is quelled by the fact that the more he calls, the more certain I am he'll remember the number.

This proves to me that I am guilty of dumbing down my son over the years, giving in to but I can't do it, letting him basically get away with murder. So, tomorrow I'm going to teach him something else. Maybe his social.

Mommy Has Got to Speak!

2011-07-06T19:24:00.000-07:00

At the W Hotel in San Francisco the reading material is thin. There's USA Today and, oh yes, USA Today. And in thumbing through last Thursday's paper, which took me all of thirteen point six five minutes, what most grabbed my attention were the letters commenting on New York passing gay marriage.

There were four letters total, two pro New York's decision, and two anti. (Interesting to note, the dissenting voices were given double the space.) One of the naysayers was from Texas and the other Ontario.

What's wrong, Ontario, did folks stop listening to your vitriol in your neck of the woods, where gay marriage is legal? Did you so want to be heard that your only recourse was to reach across the border, finding voice in the Letters section of USA Today?

To support their same sex marriage argument, the two anti letter writers cited the Constitution, the Bible, our Founding Fathers, American values, scientific data or lack thereof, and Merriam-Webster; an auspicious grouping to say the least.

On this week celebrating our Independence, it is my intention and indeed civic duty to speak out against these recycled arguments. Mommy has sat back too long and no USA Today sound-offs are going to get the better of me.

Texas cited the following Merriam-Webster definition of marriage, "the state of of being united to a person of the opposite sex...", which firstly, made me question the decade his dictionary was printed. Then, it struck me, if the Bible and other holy books are not to hold sway in the high courts of our land when making laws that effect the human rights issue of our time, then I'm pretty certain a 1964 copy of Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary is about as impactful a mosquito bite to a rhino.

Texas continues: If other states follow [in legalizing gay marriage], our history books and our dictionaries will need to be rewritten.

I decided to do a little legwork and went to Merriam-Webster's online dictionary and what did I find? The exact definition Texas cited, with one glaring omission: a second definition, the state of being united to a person of the same sex...

Shame on you, Texas, for cherry picking definitions. It seems our dictionaries have already been rewritten. And you might want to brace yourself, Texas. In regards to rewriting history books, it's my understanding your state is in the process of doing just that.

Then Texas goes on to wring his hands, if this trend continues, America will cease to be America. Can you hear the opening strains of the Star Spangled Banner playing in the background? Can you see the fields of wheat blowing in the wind, superimposed over a waving flag? Because Texas is gearing up for his final volley, it's time to stand up for America, and the values it was founded upon - God, country and family. There it is, the tear-streaked Native American's face, the freshly baked apple pie cooling on the windowsill, the worn quill in Thomas Jefferson's calloused writing hand. Texas threw down a trump card, invoking the sage wisdom of our Founding Fathers. That must be our cue not to look too deeply. We should all just bow our heads in aquiescing silence. Right?

WRONG.

Is anyone else tired of those who hold up "American values" as a pinnacle of cultural excellence, unattainable to others? I'm sure the French, or the Japanese or the Namibian would have something to say about that. I personally cringe when either the left or right spout such platitudes. America is not a sports team that we root for with foam fingers and then once the game is over go our merry way. To quote Dorothy, "This is a real, truly live place. And I remember that some of it wasn't very nice. But most of it was beautiful." America's positive is very much tethered to its negative. Now, I love this country and I appreciate the benefits we are afforded, but to revere anything without looking at its whole is extremely short sighted.

And while on the subject of American values, Texas glaringly omitted a biggie...freedom. Freedom to live. Freedom to pray. Freedom to bare arms. Freedom to love. Freedom to marry. Freedom to raise children. Freedom to wear white after Labor Day. Freedom to let what happens in Vegas stay in Vegas. I'm as American as the next flag waving dweeb and my sexual orientation should never discount my freedoms.

Along the same lines, Ontario claims same sex marriage is unconstitutional. Have you noticed that unconstitutional is the politically incorrect of the day? With disquieting regularity, our political contenders bandy about that word without really knowing what exactly is in our fair Constitution. For clarity... What does The Constitution say about homosexuality? NOTHING. What does it say about marriage? NOTHING. (Ontario might have been confused with the time when George DubYa Bush tried to add the Federal Marriage Amendment to The Constitution, which would have legally defined marriage as a union between a man and woman, without Merriam-Webster's second definition. Had it succeeded, it would be the only amendment denying human rights. Talk about unconstitutional.)

Ontario then says, The Bible clearly and unequivocally condemns homosexual acts. Let me point out right off that I'm not a Biblical scholar of any sort. Also, I don't want to hold up the "separation of church and state" banner like Wonder Woman's deflecting bracelets without articulating any position on religion whatsoever.

Interpreting anything from the Bible and applying absolute truth to today's modern sensibilities is a tricky task. Take the following passage: If a slave owner hits the eye of the slave or handmaid and ruins it, the slave owner must let the slave go free. There's a whole bunch of wrong with that biblical wisdom, the least of which being no mention of restraining orders or health insurance premiums. Our world was so incredibly different back then. For instance, you could blithely say "slave owner" without feeling seven shades of mortification.

There are those who point to Sodom and Gomorrah as an example of how "God hates fags." They tell us He showered fire and brimstone upon the twin cities to rid them of dykes on bikes and fancy nancy boys. If this is your belief, I invite you to reread those passages. The cities of Sodom and Gomorrah were filled with greed, avarice and nasty people who were just plain mean. There is no mention of Lot and his wife living over the Pleasure Chest.

There are those who say certain biblical passages bespeak of intolerance towards homosexual behavior. After all, in Leviticus it does say, You shall not lie with a male as those who lie with a female; it is an abomination. However, if you read just a teensy bit further, you find out it's also an abomination to eat shellfish, wear garments made from two types of material, trim your beard and sport tattoos. But there doesn't seem to be a plethora of sign carriers and vitriolic Ontarians condemning shrimp eaters or those who wear mixed blends.

I don't find it hard to imagine there were those in Jesus's time that frowned upon same sex couplings, nor that these beliefs ended up in the Bible. But the Bible and other holy tomes are merely blueprints, and our interpretation of these blueprints must adapt to suit our ever-growing, ever-changing society. We no longer keep slaves. Women can be our spiritual leaders. We wouldn't think twice of denying a blind man, or a lame, or he that hath a flat nose entrance to a church. It's time for our views on homosexuality to shift as well.

I'd like to ask two simple questions. What did Jesus say about homosexuality? NOTHING. And by insisting on a gay life style am I breaking one of the ten Commandments? ABSOLUTELY NOT.

Then, without missing a beat, Ontario glissades from religion to science, which makes me snort iced latte through my nose...just a little.

I'm not saying religion and science cannot live side by side, but some Bible quoters wear their Creationist beliefs with pride, and I am amazed how they can disregard irrefutable scientific data when it suits them, and yet shout from the tallest tower when Science supports their argument.

Ontario claims scientists cannot with one hundred percent certainty point to a gay gene. Here's the thing, Ontario. Gay marriage shouldn't have to hinge on whether scientists finds homo DNA. Sure, there is a continuum of gayness. There are some, like my husband who's had that special tingle towards men since he was three. Trust me, if a gay gene exists, Michael has it in spades (no racial slur intended.) But we have to accept that there are those who might not have been "born this way," no offense to Gaga. And like my brother who became Catholic when he married my sister-in-law, I know those who have embraced a homosexual life because they chose to follow their hearts.

In a recent interview for a hoity toity elementary school, my son announced with prescient clarity, "Daddy is a drag queen and Papa is a half queen." I think what he would have then said had we not shhhed him with our eyes would have been, "And it's all okay."

People are gay, Ontario. And not finding the gay gene does not disprove that fabulous and undeniable fact.

And then, in my opinion without thinking, Ontario barrels right into the marriage is for procreation assertion. You don't need me to poke holes into that chestnut. We all know couples who got hitched who weren't going to have children. Besides which, all you have to do is read the juicier tabloids to find out marriage is also for Green Cards, and health insurance, and unplanned pregnancies, and making new Hollywood super couples, and corporate mergers, and hiding gay lifestyles, and paying the big bucks to Charlie Sheen's divorce lawyers. I'd like to add one more to the list; my personal favorite, partnership. Marriage is for good ol' fashioned partnership. But procreation? In this over-populated world, really?

In the USA of today, not the Nazareth of yesteryear, whether born this way or not, homosexuals want the freedom (there's that word again) to live with, love and marry who they choose. And when broken down to those few words it seems silly to withhold rights. Doesn't it?

Hats off to New York.

Requiem of a Five Year Old Hoochie-Mama

2011-06-17T07:40:00.000-07:00

My beautiful daughter, Maxwell, is turning five tomorrow. And if I do say, she has blossomed quite nicely in her wee time on this planet. And that's saying a lot since she started life as a wrinkled bundle of distrust. Truly, I know of no other child who could cut her eyes like my daughter at one and a half. But now, she's a loving (and sometimes goofy) little girl who can't wait to share her most prized possessions with her besties. Even this month, as if in anticipation of leaving pre school and embarking upon a busy kindergarten life, she has equally become more open, leading with a confident smile with its adorable overbite, and also more obstinate, showing a strong will and an alarming ability to spin lies. "No, I didn't take your scissors without asking and cut the fur and nose off of Stuffed Lion."

Now, this willful independence, as annoying as it can be, isn't my number one concern. As a matter of fact, I'm proud she periodically bucks the system. However, she's developing another quality that sets my teeth on edge. There seems to be a strong possibility that my little girl is somewhat of a tart.

We were watching So You Think You Can Dance and in a fit of pique, because I was focusing on the spectacular dancers this season and not bestowing my full attentions on my beloved daughter, Maxie yelled at me to pause the program. Then with the insistence of Veruca Salt she pointed to the female dancer and demanded, "Papa, I want that costume for my birthday."

Was it the frou frou, pink and lavender, princess-y confection I've gotten used to? Quite the contrary. The costume in question was more...well...take a look for yourself...

My baby is growing up and I'm scared shitless.

Suck on this, Sarah!

2011-06-07T11:42:00.000-07:00

By now, most of have heard the latest Sarah Palin gaffe. (What? Another one? Get out of town!) While visiting the Old North Church in Boston, Palin made a horse's patootie of herself when presenting her loose interpretation of Paul Revere's place in history. She insisted Revere warned the British (?) and did so by ringing lots of bells.

See for yourself...

Seemingly unrelated, on Sunday, my little family went to a fundraiser for the Pop Luck Club, which is an organization for gay dads in the LA area.

Sebastian, as usual, scored tons of tickets, sometimes by winning them at basketball dunking, sometimes by asking complete strangers for their tickets, and was able to trade them in for cheap ass candy and cheap ass toys.

Michael, however, made his killing at the silent auction and raffle winning even more cheap ass stuff. He scored a camera bag full of random Pixie Hollow items (oh, joy) with Tinkerbell's image emblazoned on EVERY SINGLE THING (double joy). Didn't matter if it was a potholder or baseball cap, cookie cutter or potted plant that facacta fairy is fucking everywhere. And if that wasn't enough, he also brought home an insulated Cars bag with a Cars baseball hat, many Cars t-shirts which fit nary a one of us, and a cherry red jacket with Rust-eze across the back, perfect for a night out with the I'm-a-geeky-parent-and-wear-cartoon-merch crowd.

The event took place at Bash's old preschool, Fountain Day, and Maxie and I spent our time in one of the rooms chatting...well, I chatted, she played with every plushy she could get her grubby little mitts on. And at one point Michael came barging in with both Sebastian's and his booty, barely making it through the door. I ohhed and ahhed appreciatively. (At least in my head I ohhed and ahhed.) But it was Bash who touched me the most. Amongst his stash were two Hula Hoops, two candy bracelets and two bubbles in the shape of ice cream cones. He used his tickets to buy crap for his sister!

My little eight year old is growing up!

I did, however, notice only one lollipop ring and sensing a potential problem I pocketed said treasure.

As we walked to the car, Bash asked where his ring was and I plainly pointed out the problem, "I have it but the second I give it to you, Maxie will want one as well."

Bash was silent for a second then said, "You're right, Papa. Maxie loves those rings. I'm sorry, I should have gotten two, but I forgot."

Did my ears just deceive me? Or did my eight year old just take responsibility for his mistake. And really, it wasn't that much of a mistake, just an oversight. Holy crap, he's beginning to realize the world does not revolve only around him. And he sounds genuinely concerned that he slighted his sister. We are heading into a new frontier. I can feel it.

I praised him for looking out for his sister, but I still wasn't sure if the lollipop should be unwrapped. So I asked if he had a solution, and he offered, "Well, we could share."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

I asked how this sharing would work and he said, "I could take a lick and then Maxie could pretend to take a lick."

So close.

They did end up sharing the lollipop in the car with some stern refereeing from the front seat, but over all, I couldn't be more proud of my son.

Cut back to Palin...

When interviewed on the very safe, "we love you Sarah" Fox News by the non-threatening, non-gotcha Chris Wallace, Palin could have amended her views on Paul Revere. She could have cited that she was tired and didn't know what the fuck she was saying. Or perhaps, it was just one of those pesky brain fart moments. Then she could accurately present the correct version of history, something her handlers could have prepped her on if she was still a little uncertain. This would make her more human in my eyes, showing that she too can be held accountable and take responsibility for her mistakes.

But nooooo...

Sebastian is entering the age of reason. Not only is he taking more responsibility for his actions, he is given more responsibilities, including looking out for his sister. It's our job as parents to help our kids through this transition of total selfishness to self awareness and placement in society. I'm sure, in her own way, Palin is instilling these very traits into her children. And yet, when backed into a corner, when a correspondent from the very network she works for asks for clarification, Sarah Palin does what she's always done, she puts on her stubborn hat and fires back rhetoric that just doesn't make one whit of sense.

"Part of his ride was to warn the British...You're not going to beat our own well-armed, ah, persons, ah, individual private militia that we have."

Well-armed persons individual private militia? Articulate much?

It is a strength when someone is able to admit he or she is wrong. Palin evidently thinks otherwise.

On the Boards All Month Long

2011-06-01T12:30:00.000-07:00

Self promotion can be so tawdry, just ask Donald Trump. However, I will brave the possible negative fallout and toot my own horn. My blogging has fallen short as of late because I am in middle of two rehearsal processes. That's right, Mommy is performing!

Opening on June 3rd is Invincible: The Legend of Billie Jean. The title might tickle a memory synapse (or whatever the fuck it is), for back in the big-haired eighties The Legend of Billie Jean was a movie starring Helen Slater. (Ah, Helen Slater...that harkens back, doesn't it? Her name brings to mind other eighties luminaries, such as Jan Michael Vincent, Judge Reinhold, Molly Ringwald and Cher.)

Well, a few liberties have been taken with our Billie Jean. Okay, maybe not a few...a whole battalion of liberties have been taken with our Billie Jean. (And no, this is not about tennis great, Billie Jean King, nor is it about the character in Michael Jackson's hit song.) Our show is...oh, what's the word...campy. Big time, slap on the shoulder pads, plop on the mullet wig, campy. Perhaps most evident in the fact our Billie Jean is played by a man. I know, isn't he gorgeous. And the cherry of our sundae...we all sing Pat Benatar music. "Hit me with your best shot..."

It is going to be a fun evening. You all got to come.

The Cavern Club Theatre @ Casita Del Campo

(Where you can imbibe some fabu pre-show margaritas)

1920 Hyperion, Los Angeles

We perform the next three Fridays and Saturdays: June 3rd and 4th, 10th and 11th, 17th and 18th at 9 pm.

For tickets, click HERE!

Next, Mommy with a Penis, my "one mom" show, based on this very blog, is back on the boards late June for the second annual Hollywood Fringe Festival.

Whereas last year's endeavor was all about whether my material works on stage (and it does), this year is all about marketing. Getting in reviewers, the GLAAD nominating committee, Michele Bachmann's hairdresser, Chita Rivera's dog groomer, Chaz and Cher. There are only four performances and I want those fuckers SOLD OUT.

Theatre of NOTE

1517 N. Cahuenga Blvd.

Hollywood

Thursday, June 16th at 10 pm

Saturday, June 18th at 2 pm

Sunday, June 19th at 6 pm

Tuesday, June 21st at 8 pm

To purchase tickets click HERE!

And for my blog readers, be sure to use the code word "Mommy" to get discounted tickets! My way of saying thank you for being so loyal.

To those of you who are planning to come out and support the theatre arts, flowers are not necessary, however they are always a lovely surprise.

Dream of Becoming a Stage Mom

2011-04-23T09:50:00.000-07:00

A couple months back when this pic was snapped, I had this crazy thought that my daughter could be a successful kid model. This is always a dicey speculation. The stories of bratty child actors/models are legendary.

But Maxie is special. She really takes to the camera. She doesn't do what Sebastian does, which is smile like a Cheshire cat gone rabid. No, Maxie actually seems to understand the nuance of posing. And her pictures are oftentimes glorious.

It did occur to me if Maxie were to be a child model then I, of course, would have to become a stage mom. I tried to put myself into Mama Rose's wedgies and pill box hat, and I began to see possibility... Swigging Chardonnay with Mama Kardashian and Mama Lohan, demanding my daughter's mini fridge be filled with Kabbalah water and diet passion fruit infusions, insisting her dressing room include tuberose scented aromatherapy tea candles, the newest set of Hello Kitty plushy collectibles and green tea Lip Smackers (it is implied that wire hangers would not be tolerated.) I would perversely enjoy elbowing other little ones out of the way so my Sunshine could rise, rise, rise to the top of the heap. And no provincial nomenclature...my incandescent daughter would go by the mononame, Maxwell. "Move out of the way, ladies. Maxwell is here! And where are her chartreuse M & M's, dammit?" Yes, Stage Mom is a mantle I was ready and willing to wear.

Then not a week after this Stage Mommy Dearest fantasy, there was a moment in the house when it was just too quiet. Parents, you know what I'm talking about. When all the kiddie chatter and electronic bleeping and pinging that you get used to as part of the constant ambient household noise suddenly goes mute.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. I had bleak thoughts that the kids made a break for it and ran off to join the circus or a Tyler Perry road tour.

I called out. No response. I went into the back yard and immediately both of my heathens look at me with eyes of guilt. It didn't take long for me to detect the kiddie scissors in Maxie's hand. Then I noticed something fall to the ground, featherlike, wafting to and fro. My eye traveled with this mote and when it touched the Saltillo tiles I noticed it landed on a pile of like members.

Realization hit me with the force of a Serena Williams backhand. Noooooooo! "Turn around," I demanded to my daughter, my stomach knotted like an overwrought suture. But it was too late. Even before Maxie did her one-eighty I knew what I was about to see. And I was right. There in the back of her head was a bald spot the size of a meaty ham hock.

Dream shattered. Mama Rose would have to wait.

Gauguin/Go Gay

2011-04-18T20:39:00.000-07:00

The facts are these... On April Fools Day, 53 year old Susan Burns from Arlington Virginia attacked the above painting, Two Tahitian Women, by Paul Gauguin at the National Gallery in D.C. She beat on the acrylic protective covering of the 112 year old painting, reportedly worth eighty million smackeroos, until some of its supporting screws were loosened from their moorings and fell to the floor. She was forcibly stopped by another museum goer and taken into custody, whereupon she uttered the following, "I feel that Gauguin is evil. He has nudity and is bad for children. He has two women in the painting and it's very homosexual. I was trying to remove it. I think it should be burned."

It's probably safe to say that Susan Burns has a few screws loosened from her mooring as well. Homophobic or not, you got to be one banana short of a split to go all Rocky Marciano on a post-Impressionist masterpiece in broad daylight and expect to get away with it.

It turns out Ms. Burns has endured a tumultuous life. She has been arrested numerous times for trespassing, disorderly conduct, carjacking and assault and battery on a police officer. And if that doesn't bespeak of lunacy constantly bubbling beneath her surface, perhaps this soundbite found on the criminal report filed in Washington, D.C.'s Superior Court will: she insisted, "I am from the American CIA and have a radio in my head. I am going to kill you."

Not the depiction of stability.

Now, perhaps it's just me, but when I look at the two ladies in the painting I do not detect a homosexual agenda. (What exactly is a homosexual agenda, anyway? That everybody bow down to patron saint Judy Garland?) Their focus seems to be on something, or more likely someone, in the distance. I imagine each of them vying for the attentions of Rahiti, the local fisherboy. They both proffer gifts of flowers, all the while checking out his stalwart ass as he hauls in the day's catch. Miri silently curses herself for choosing the demure halter half-dress, exposing only one breast. She now understands her mother's suggestion to throw caution to the wind and present her lovely poitrine in its entirety, something her arch nemesis, Orana, had no problem doing, the slut.

And yet, instead of the idyllic Tahitian tableau I present, Ms. Burns felt strongly that the canvas depicts tropical Sapphic delight.

All those art appreciation classes I took many moons ago are now a blur of sketchy information. Perhaps Gauguin did represent homosexual lifestyles in his artwork and I plumb forgot. I decided to do some research and what I came up with was Gauguin was pretty much a sexual pig. His appetites were renowned. He cheated on his wife. He slept with his subjects, some of them still in their adolescence. I would say his "evil" has less to do with anything homosexual and more to do with his predilection for pedophilia.

I did come across some scholars who believe Gauguin may have dabbled in same sex sex, citing a story he retold about a nearly naked Polynesian man with an ax, and a letter he wrote, in which he announced, "I am woman now." (I will never look at a Polynesian man with an ax in the same way.) And it's even been suggested the reason van Gogh cut off his ear was because of a lead-poisoning induced lover's spat between the two.

And yet, I can't help but wonder if instead of Susan Burns balling up her fists against any overt sexuality Gauguin brought to the canvas, she might have been railing against her own suppressed desires.

This got me thinking... If my moral compass was as skewed as Susan Burns', then which master work would I go after. I did a little digging through the National Gallery's archives and this is what I uncovered...

If I were a homophobic nutjob, I might have sauntered right on by the Gauguin and instead have pounded my fists at this engraving by Sebald Beham ...

Entitled Death and Three Nude Women, this piece seems less about Death insinuating himself onto the trio and more about the finessed fingering that is taking place.

Perhaps not explicit, but from this Simon Vouet painting The Muses Urania and Calliope, I get the sense that these two heavenly bodies have experienced bacchanalian muse on muse action many times over. There's something in the cool of Urania's eyes, the ownership of her hand. "Back off, Aphrodite. This creature of divinity is all mine."

Not a lesbian in sight, but this Quentin Messys canvas, entitled Ill-Matched Lovers, certainly questions morality. (If I could mount my high horse for just a second: it bothers me tremendously that people still equate homosexuality with immorality. Homosexuality is not one of the Commandments. It is not illegal. It does not hurt others. The only thing I can think is that it might make others feel uncomfortable. But last I looked discomfort was not immoral. If it were then dental work and Sarah Palin's voice would be immoral as well. There. I'm done. I dismount.) While Redcap fondles Vixen's breast, she slips his purse to Demonic Looking Accomplice. It's lechery, it's larceny, it's harlotry, but Ms. Burns didn't seem to have a problem with children viewing this cesspool of humanity.

I love sixteenth century, French bath paintings. This one, by Francois Clouet, depicts the king's courtesan naked in a tub, oblivious that there are onlookers. But her careless ennui is nothing compared the the wet nurse's priceless expression. While a baby pulls at her teat, she salivates with pure lasciviousness, eyes glued to the concubine's pert nips.

And you might recognize this as a moody El Greco, but for me it's "Good Times in Provincetown, Summer of '94."

And let's not neglect the Georgia O'Keeffe...

It's irrational, I know, but for me there's nothing more graphic than a Georgia O'Keeffe flower. My instinct is to cover my kids' eyes and quickly walk in the other direction. This vivid jack-in-the-pulpit is garish with carnality. Just, look at it. It's splayed open like a gynecological exam.

All these paintings are at the National Gallery. All of them, in my opinion, more explicit, more indiscreet, and in some instances more "homosexual" than the Gauguin, and yet they were all spared Ms. Burns clenched fists.

To be clear, by supplying a list of paintings one might find offensive, I am not supporting damaging these or any other works of art. Over the years, there have been too many incidents of vandalism: Rembrandt's Night Watch comes to mind, as does Michelangelo's Pieta, and da Vinci's Mona Lisa. Acid has been thrown, knives have slashed, hammers wielded, even vomit has been intentionally projectiled, all to permanently mar a master's work. But these precious gems are our history. Art is meant to provoke, not just look pretty above a sofa, so get over yourselves. If you're incensed by a lurid painting, then bully for the artist, he has done his job. Look away in disgust if you must, but don't go out and buy a blowtorch. Bottom line, the defacement of any masterpiece is not only incredibly selfish, but also undeniably reprehensible.

Thankfully, Two Tahitian Women, has been thoroughly examined by art experts and no harm has come to the painting. It is back in it's rightful place on the gallery wall.

Michael and I have collected art over the years. It's a safe bet that Susan Burns would not only be offended by our aesthetic, but also upset that two small children grew up surrounded by "evil" art. Needless to say, for our next dinner party, she most certainly will not be on the list.

All in a Week's Work!

2011-02-24T18:18:00.000-08:00

Actors, by trade, are a funny sort.

And is it any wonder? For long periods of time there will be no work, dry spells that match the breath and width of the Saraha. And then, in the blink of an eye, a tsunami of work bombards us, and we're hustling our butts from Santa Monica to the Valley to make auditions, rehearsals and costume fittings.

Last week, Michael was the recipient of one of those tsunamis. (The checks have already cleared so I know it wasn't some other sort of tomfoolery.)

First he played a fireman (as if the costume wasn't a dead giveaway) in a commercial for some sort of iPad like product. Handsome, no?

Certainly, you'd want him to put out your fire. And for those of you wondering if he had to shave his facial hair for the fireman, he did not. His smooth skin had nothing to do with that gig. No, he shaved for his second job playing a tranny hooker...

This was for Childrens Hospital, Rob Corddry's show on Adult Swim. Michael played Modesty, his actual drag queen name of yore, best friend to Megan Mullally's character.

And how did Michael get this part? Maxie goes to preschool with Rob's daughter. Never underestimate booking a gig on the playground.

And where did wardrobe found that fabulous red patent leather outfit that fit my husband's six five frame to a tee, with matching size 13 boots, no less? They actually belong to Michael. You can find them in his closet right now, next to the bag of wigs.

It should surprise no one, then, that Sebastian spends most of his waking day talking about being a fireman, and yet, from time to time enjoys dressing in his sister's dresses.

The House of Choice

2011-02-12T09:38:00.000-08:00

My mother-in-law is Choice. Now, that's not code for something. Not some nifty, new-fangled way of saying dope or all that. Although you can tell I'm far from dope since I use words like nifty and new-fangled. Choice is her given name. Choice Lee to be exact. And if you think there must be some interesting family story as to why she's Choice, you'd be mistaken. Choice is Choice and that's all there is to it.

For Christmas we went to Michael's hometown of Alton, Illinois, which is just across the Mississippi from St. Louis. Most of Michael's family lives there, in fact, Choice still resides in the house in which Michael was raised.

Now, I've done my share of traveling, and I figure outside of San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York, Chicago and Paris, major bastions of metropolis and culture, Alton, Illinois is the place I've spent most of my life. It is the antithesis of the cosmopolitan hustle and bustle I'm accustomed to. What can I say about Alton? It's high cholesterol, it's low expectations, in a word, it's Midwestern. And you can read more about my Alton observations in a previous blog entry: Alton: A Love Letter.

When in Alton, we spare no expense and stay at the plushest of accommodations, the Holiday Inn on the Beltline. It smells like chlorine and decades of cigarette smoke. And although we sleep there, it's fair to say we spend most of our time in the house of Choice...

Choice's design aesthetic is wedged firmly in 1974. From the beaded doorways to the feathered flower arrangements, the decor is an unsettling blast from the past that makes me wish I was a recreational drug user. And this blog entry is dedicated to my mother-in-law and the style she so fervently holds on to. But I warn you, the rest of this might be easier to stomach if you turn on your lava lamp and take a toke or snort of some sort.

Let's start in the bathroom. It's a kaleidoscope of pattern on pattern, black on white.

The towels, like many things in Choice's house are for show only, not for use. The seagulls are crafted out of the finest of plastique, as is the potted fern. (Actually, none of the plants in Choice's house are real. Real plants, as real Christmas trees are too much fuss. Bah humbug!)

To offset the black and white zigzag she hangs a vertical macrame wall decoration, and includes splashes of mustard yellow in the form of a radio slash telephone slash toilet paper dispenser. Whereas it dispenses toilet paper just fine, don't expect it to play music or make calls. (Don't let the antenna fool you, I doubt this thing ever worked.) If you look closely you can see the telephone coil tucked cleverly into the macrame.

Now to the living room, which is a dizzying display of sparkle and kitch. Brightly colored gold and mirrored surfaces are the central motifs.

You might think some of these things were brought out for the Christmas season, but aside from the two black Santas that jive to Jingle Bell Rock when you push a button, this is how Choice's living room is year round. I'd like to point out a few things. Note the gold candle on the gold and faux diamond candle holder. (I understand if you're having difficulty finding it.) It's in the center of the mirror-topped table. Well, Choice was displeased with the choice of candle colors that were offered, so the candle you see there is spray painted gold to match its exquisite holder. (Once again, for show, not use.)

The big television in the background doesn't work, but Choice has no designs to get rid of it, especially when it beautifully displays so many of her knickknacks, which are cleverly stuck to the television's veneer with chewing gum.

I'd also like to focus on the bust, on the shelf at the right side of this picture. Underneath the head is the name Wagner. Now, maybe you have a sense who Wagner is. Certainly I could bullshit my way through a response. But if you were to ask Choice Who is Wagner? I'm sure she wouldn't know. But then, why should she, as long as it suits her very specific design scheme.

And lastly, I'd like to point out the shag carpeting. It just screams seventies doesn't it? And yet, it's new. If something needs to be replaced, as the carpet did, well then, gosh darn, it better be as close to the original as possible. Choice looked high and low to find carpeting that vaguely resembled it's predecessor. Needless to say, she was highly displeased with the outcome.

And there's no getting away from the bling, because all that glitter and gleam is reflected on the wall opposite.

Like the Wagner bust, there are art pieces that really have no connection to Choice, except they fit the three G's: gaudy, golden or gratis. There is a print of a female flamenco dancer. Why is there a flamenco dancer in the living room? Could Choice have a fondness for the art form? Might she have always wanted to go to Spain and immerse herself in Spanish culture? NO. It's a gaudy painting and the dancer wears gold jewelry. Likewise, this gem sits on a side table next to plastique tulips...

Just this trip I asked, why is he eating radishes? This is the response I got, "Oh, is that what he's doing?" as if all these years there has been no consideration what the golden boy has been up to in the corner

The kitchen fares no better. Just check out the feathers, the plastic, the ceramics...

As far as I know, no one has ever used these mugs. They sit in a place of honor on top of Choice's almond refrigerator. The reason I know it's almond is that Michael and I bought Choice this refrigerator when her old one, which was thirty-five years old, went kaput. Choice was highly displeased with the almond fridge. Her other one was chocolate brown, but that color went out of style along with mustard yellow, avocado green and burnt orange.

Somehow Choice got her hands on a brochure that told her the refrigerator and freezer doors could be covered with a smoky mirror, accomplishing two things: getting much closer to the desired color, and satisfying Choice's peculiar fondness for reflecting surfaces. The thing is, the smoked mirror door coverings cost more than the refrigerator with the warranty. We refused to be that generous.

I picture every time Choice opens her refrigerator she grumbles something like, "I wish those boys got them smokey mirrors."

There is one place of calm in her living room. It's in the far end where a bean bag chair ought to be. It's where I make my way when the gold and glimmer are just too much. I head to this chair...

...and promptly fall asleep.

Dear Whoever at Disney,

2011-02-02T08:56:00.000-08:00

Dear Whoever at Disney,

Please forgive my impertinence, however I can hold back no longer. First let me congratulate you on the success of The Wizards of Waverly Place, your kid show about a family of wizards who live in New York. Well, family of wizards is not really accurate, is it? You have a wizard of Italian descent who is married to (I'll borrow from Harry Potter) a Muggle of Mexican descent and they have three half Italian American, half Mexican American, partial Muggle, partial Wizard children, who constantly get into trouble with their rudimentary knowledge of magic. (Congratulations on those Emmy wins for best children's programming.)

Yesterday, it happened again. My husband, Michael A. Shepperd, a man you have hired many times, was recognized. It happens all the time. We're at my son's school, or getting a frosty treat at FroYo or chowing down at El Grande Burrito on Santa Monica, and some six to sixteen year old with goo goo eyes will ask Michael, "Aren't you on that show?" And I mean all the time. Michael will puff out his chest and politely say yes encouraging any kind of adulation. At which point the tyke (or teen) will ask, "What's it like working with Selena Gomez?" or more to the crux of my letter, "When are you going to do the show again?"

When is he going to do the show again? You see, we have bills to pay, education funds to build up, so another episode of Wizards would be dandy just about now. And with Miss Gomez's announcement that this is her last season and the future of the show is in flux, it would be a great time to bring Michael's character, Officer Lamp, back. To refresh your memory I've included a clip from Alex's Choice, episode seven of season one. In it you will witness Michael A. Shepperd's wonderful talent and crackling comedic timing. I dare you not to smile...

And as I think about it, why stop at only one episode? Why not bring Michael A. Shepperd back for a story arc? What if Officer Lamp were to move in with the Russos? Before you say no, just stop and think of the comedic possibilities. Large black man moving in with the Italian, Mexican, Muggle, Wizard family. It's genius. Wizardly mayhem ensues and Officer Lamp ends up in a female viking outfit or dressed like Carmen Miranda. The hilarity would be earth shattering.

If you're still not moved to send out a contract I'd like to bring to the table the eighth episode of season two entitled Harper Knows. That's right. You know of what I speak. The Russos are enlisted to help Officer Lamp find rogue wizards at the comic book convention. (Really, great material!) And in the original script, through some hocus pocus, Officer Lamp finds himself dressed like Wonder Woman on steroids.

It was funny. It was an eye catcher, and truth be told, you made my husband very happy. But then one of your muckety-mucks decided a large black man in go go boots might confuse today's youth and at the last minute that plot line was scrapped. A new costume was made and Harper ended up in the Wonder Womanesque costume, not Officer Lamp.

So, if you think about it, Disney, you owe Michael A. Shepperd. A job and a kick ass costume.

Yours Truly,

Mommy With a Penis

LMNO Pee

2011-01-29T11:11:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, in Maxie's cubby at school, there were two soiled pairs of panties, two soiled pairs of pants and a soiled pair of lavender boots. Don't even ask how she urinated into her footwear.

This isn't a total surprise. Maxie has had problems holding it in. I've brought up my concerns with her doctor and she tells me there's nothing to worry about, my daughter's bladder isn't growing at the same rate that she is. I don't know if that makes total sense, but I'm appeased for now.

I thought Maxie was going to be a savant on the toilet. When she and I first started pre preschool (pre pre, isn't it precious) my daughter was the only child not wearing a Pull-Up or diaper. Boy, didn't I feel superior watching the other parents fret about the school's rule that all children must be potty trained before they enter day classes.

But once we graduated pre pre and entered half-day, Maxie has peed herself on occasion and overnight I became the fretting parent. I figured this was my punishment for excessive smugness.

Back to yesterday... In the cubby, along with a panoply of pink and purple soiled clothes, was something I had never seen before, an "Opps! Report." (I'm pretty sure they meant Oops.) It's the size of an index card and details for the parents any accidental voidings their child may have had during the school day. This particular opps was filled out by Maxie's teacher, Miss Alicia, and here's what she wrote...

"She was sitting in sign language class and didn't listen to her body."

Irony perhaps?

Honey, There's a Naked Man in our Bed

2011-01-24T08:37:00.001-08:00

"Honey, there's a naked man in our bed."

This is the hackneyed dialog you'd expect in an X-rated movie. But the other night, my husband proffered that tantalizing hors d'oeuvre as I was twittering at the kitchen table.

Three possible reads on this statement:

1) My husband is kidding around.

2) He's delusional and should get himself some professional help.

3) There actually is a naked man in our bed.

With everything I've written about Michael, it's not difficult to imagine that either number one or number two was the correct interpretation. But, in fact, a naked man was in our bed.

Now, you'd expect your average X-rated movie hunk, the kind who suddenly appears in random beds, to be youngish, about six foot four, two hundred twenty pounds with a handsome mug. And as it happens, this fellow, who I'll call Buff for reasons of anonymity and perverse pleasure, was all those things; a glorious specimen of male pulchritude sprawled belly down on my cafe au lait sheets. His body hair was minimal and there were two ripe juicy cantaloupes where an ass should be.

I looked back through the many colorful years Michael and I have shared, and the last time this kind of sexuation presented itself was...NEVER. And I have to be honest, with thoughts of melon balls dancing in my head the prospect was excruciatingly tempting.

This is what you don't know... Buff came to us in need. Suffice it to say, he was going through a rough patch. And although he presented himself like spicy ahi on Egyptian cotton, it felt as if a trap was being laid and tremendous damage could take place. To taunt gay men with a chew toy like that when it's ill advised to take a bite is flat out cruel.

Here's what I walked away with: fantasies should remain fantasies, because once they elbow their way into reality all you are able to see are the cracks on the ceiling. (For some reason the image of a pet bunny boiling on the stove comes to mind.)

Regrettably, we encouraged Buff to get dressed, and after a 911 call and some help from local law enforcement (trust me, it was a crazy evening) Michael finally drove Buff home.

He has since received help. His Mormon mother came down from Idaho and I believe a medication regime was implemented.

But next time, oh Fantasy Granter, when I wish for a luscious linebacker to lounge naked on my bed, just ignore me...or let's learn from our mistakes and add the following codicil: keep the crazy at bay!

Mommy With a Penis (The Show) opens February 13th in Burbank. All the info is in the previous post. Love to see you all there!

Simply Delicious

2011-01-19T10:02:00.000-08:00

My one man show, Mommy With a Penis, is back on the boards!

From adoption hiccups, to choosing the right baby name, to dealing with my daughter's kinky hair, Mommy With a Penis delves into my personal experiences as mommy. Enter into my wacky world where sometimes this happens...

And this...

And even this...

For those of you not in the loop, I first mounted MWAP last June for the Hollywood Fringe Festival. I was then asked to participate in Theatre Asylum's The Best of the Fringe. And now, my good friend Kimleigh Smith (the superhero in the poster below) has put together an event called Delicious, which is comprised of six solo shows including her own, which won Best of the Fringe last year.

I will be sharing my evenings with my good friend Ramsey Brown, who is performing her hysterically funny show, Killing It. (Ramsey is the sluttishly dressed blond in the poster.)

For those of you in the Los Angeles area, the pertinent info is as follows...

From potty training to the casting couch...
it's all about survival.

Two rare comic solo shows,

one ticket price!

Sundays, February 13th & 20th at 7 pm.
Saturday, February 26th at 8 pm.

The Missing Piece Theatre
2811 W. Magnolia Blvd.
Burbank, CA

Click here to make your reservations.

See you there!!

A Day to Serve

2011-01-17T12:48:00.001-08:00

Last week, Sebastian came home with only one piece of homework...learning The Pledge of Allegiance by heart. Bash was going to lead the school in a special assembly. It was his job to tell the students, "Please stand, face the flag, place your right hand over your heart and repeat after me..." This was for the Martin Luther King, Jr celebration in the Michael Jackson Auditorium.

I thought it would be a great idea if Michael worked with Bash on his memorization, after all he directs theater. But because of his atheism and aversion to the concept of God, my husband told me he'd prefer not to. But I convinced Michael that Sebastian's success in this endeavor was bigger than his newly stringent beliefs, and rightly or wrongly he bought it. I did notice as Michael was going over the pledge with Sebastian, he'd conveniently omit the phrase "under God" probably confusing the poor child.

On Friday, Michael went to the morning performance and I attended the afternoon's. Dressed in what he calls his wedding outfit, a black Calvin Klein sports jacket that fits like a glove and tie, Sebastian did a great job. He certainly made his two daddies proud.

Still feeling unresolved anger from the shootings in Tuscon, I was deeply effected listening to my son say The Pledge of Allegiance followed by a program extolling Dr. King's message of peace.

Then the teacher who put the wonderful program together gave the children an assignment that I thought I'd share with you. Martin Luther King, Jr. said it was our duty to serve, and each child should do something today that helps someone else. Maybe that's an assignment we can all take on.

If you succumb to the temptation of using violence in the struggle...your chief legacy to the future will be an endless reign of meaningless chaos.

-Martin Luther King, Jr.

Vitriol Vérité

2011-01-15T11:17:00.000-08:00

Hey, you're fat.

Yeah, you.

Reading this blog right now.

You are really incredibly fat...and kinda stupid.

And to top it off, you stink.

***

This last year...

Sharron Angle flirted with gun imagery. "If this congress keeps going the way it is, people are really looking toward those Second Amendment remedies."

In speaking out against the President's plan to reduce global warming, Michele Bachmann said she wanted her state "armed and dangerous" on this issue. She then went on to say, "We the people are going to have to fight back hard if we are not going to lose our country." Bachmann also quoted Thomas Jefferson, "Having a revolution every now and then is a good thing."

Last year, Sarah Palin posted the following graphic on her website...

The shotgun-like crosshairs represent the "20 House Democrats who voted for the health care bill from districts the Republicans carried in 2008." It turns out Palin is also fond of gun imagery...and Twitter. Her now famous tweet "don't retreat, instead-RELOAD" sparked controversy throughout the land. And when eighteen of the twenty Democrats inevitably lost their reelections, Palin patted herself on the back, tweeting about the success of her "bullseye icon."

These politicos have every right to say and tweet these things, as I have the right to go on and on about your cottage cheese ass and inexcusable funk. We are fully protected by our country's First Amendment, which allows us freedom of speech. Sarah, and Michele, and Sharron, and Rush, and Glenn Beck, and Bill Maher, and the ladies on The View and even yours truly from my own little platform can say whatever rude or incendiary thing that comes to mind. And our American right to do so should be protected at ALL costs. Our freedom is much more important than any possible hurt feelings, misunderstandings or violent outbursts that they may cause.

Am I right?!?

***

I imagine if I were three I would be perfectly justified being so me-centric.

But the fact of the matter is I am not three. And even though I'm an actor and have an ego the size of Delaware, it's unfathomable to me that there are those who exploit the concept of "freedom" for their own personal gain.

Most of us have heard that Gabrielle Giffords, the congresswoman from Arizona, was shot in the head last Saturday at point blank range in a Safeway parking lot in Tuscon. We now know the name of the 22 year old man-boy who emptied a semi automatic pistol into a crowd is Jared Loughner. We also know there were six fatalities including a U. S. district judge and a nine year old girl; Congresswoman Giffords remarkably survived the shooting and was one of the twelve wounded. And lastly, we know of the two remaining seated Democrats listed on Palin's crosshairs map, one of them was Gabrielle Giffords.

More than likely, Palin's chart did not incite Jared Loughner to shoot Giffords in the head.

More than likely, Bachmann's and Angle's pithy uses of armed and dangerous and Second Amendment remedies weren't responsible for Saturday's massacre.

More than likely, Pat Robertson saying God made it snow heavily in the Northeast "to punish Americans who were planning to drive to do something gay" has nothing to do with anything AT ALL. Really, Pat, you can't blame bad weather on the gays. Fruit infused vodka, yes. Blizzards, no.

In Sarah Palin's first speech since the shootings, she denied political rhetoric had anything to do with the growing antagonism in our country. As a matter of fact, she claimed we are more civilized than we used to be, citing that we used to settle differences with dueling pistols. And she's right. There are no more dueling pistols, we replaced them with semi automatic ones. There was no sense of remorse in her speech. She is far from humbled by the tragic events. Her need was to defend her words, her tweets and crosshairs map, something she scrubbed from her website the day after the Tucson tragedy. Why is self reflection perceived as a weakness?

And I can't help but wonder if the compounded sensationalism and finger pointing that clog our airwaves and are a mainstay in our political arenas don't contribute to our collective fear and anger. There is too much noise with too few solutions. Shock jocks jockey to stand on the tallest mountain and try to orate more loudly and more fervently than the next guy. And many times what is being promoted as fact is really personal opinion disguised as fact. And people are buying this!

I am incensed.

I blame mass media and party politics. I blame high ratings and low integrity. I blame newsrooms with political agendas. I blame mouth pieces who blithely toss out words like "revolution" and "reload" as if they're ordering a pepperoni pizza with extra cheese. I blame comics who step over the line. I blame people who use crosshairs as bullseyes and then claim they are surveyor's symbols. I blame those who insist Obamacare takes away our freedom, and finding solutions for global warming is means to incite revolution. I blame our short attention spans, and our perverse need for the next newsy story. I blame the people who read the blurbs in grocery store checkout lines and recite them as gospel. I blame what our lives are becoming, splintered between the insipid, "I'm getting that new app that froths my cappuccino milk," to the conflagratory, "I'm going to kill that motherfucker for looking at me like that."

I blame, I blame, I blame.

And if I can spark anger easily over the contentious ways of our country, how do we think Jared Loughner, a troubled man who cannot filter as efficiently as the rest of us, heard the noise?

Let's say the following is true... (I want to be clear, there is no proof this ever happened, I'm just using it as an example.) Let's say Jared Loughner, stumbled across the following Pima County Republican website...

***

Two minutes before midnight on Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve, Ryan Seacrest asked slutty pop diva Ke$ha if she had any resolutions. Without hesitation she said her resolution was "not being a douchebag." At first I thought, "What a skank!" But then after ruminating I decided it was a damn fine resolution. As a matter of fact, I think all Americans should adopt it as their own. To start with, we could all be more considerate and let the other fellow get a word in edgewise. We could all listen with discerning ears. We can stop hating for sensationalism sake. In short, we can all stop being douchebags.

When my children are douchebags and say inappropriate things about others I make them apologize to the offended party. It's important to know when you are rude and make the needed amends. My eight year old and four year old are learning all about this. It's called manners.

By the way, I don't know what I was saying before. Your ass looks really hot in those jeans.

Where is the Pink?

2011-01-03T14:04:00.000-08:00

"Papa, where is the pink?"

"What do you mean, darling?"

"The pink crayon. There's no pink."

"Here, let me look."

And, indeed, as I burrow through a Ziploc full of crayons from all walks of life, I slowly come to the realization that there are no pink crayons. This is impossible. My children get refills of crayons regularly; those boxes of thirty-two or sixty-four, or the crappy packets of three given to us by restaurant hostesses. Doesn't matter their origin, they all go into the Ziploc, because crayon boxes under my children's gripping hands crumple and rip almost immediately, rendering them useless.

"I have no idea where the pink is? Wait a minute, are you hording them?"

"No, Papa. We're out of pink! We need more pink!!"

"Okay, don't freak out. Papa, will get you some pink."

But where did those crayons go? Are they off somewhere with the missing pair of house keys? Gallivanting with my Grumpy baseball cap?

I admit, we are not the most organized family. But our misfortune with missing objects happen with uncharacteristic frequency, so much so, I am sure a mysterious force is at work. Don't laugh. I am dealing with an aberration here, a dark phenomenon, and today I give it its name. Gremlin. That fucking gremlin made off with my keys and caps and pink crayons to satisfy its own twisted desires.

That's not to say my family is gremlin exclusive. No. We've all experienced gremlins. Take laundry for example. You know the scene, while folding clothes you find seven complete pairs of socks and then a singular tube sock and a singular Incredible Hulk sock. And you try to keep a cool head. You take another look in the dryer, then the washer, then the dryer again for good measure, but no glory. The socks have gone to those conniving gremlins. I thought I'd share with you my pile of socks that have been gremlin-depleted! Not a pair in the bunch.

The thing about gremlins, they can't keep everything they take, so to fuck with you they randomly return it. You never know when. You never know where. Sometimes, you find your reading glasses in a Tupperware full of grapes, sometimes they're in the very place you've been searching...for the past three months! It drives me ape shit. I call it the Gremlin Gaslight.

"Michael, we're missing a dish washing basket"

"Missing a what?"

"It sits on the top shelf of the dishwasher. You know, the basket I wash the lid to the martini shaker in."

"Oh, that."

I usually can get Michael on track if I use a cocktail reference.

"Have you seen it?"

"No."

"Maybe you took it out to accommodate the extra glasses the last time you started the dishwasher."

"I don't start the dishwasher. You won't let me."

This is true. The man is incapable of loading a dishwasher. At least he pretends to be, I'm not sure which. He has blamed genetics for his dishwasher loading inabilities. My tutorials have not helped. Glassware ends up where the plates should be and bowls are stacked on top of each other so that the water can't get to them. Instead of having to reload his badly loaded dishwasher (whether by faulty genetics or design) I shoo him off with something shiny and load it myself.

Where do I find the dishwasher basket a week later, after we got back from Christmas vacation? On the floor at the foot of my bed!

Dish washer basket returned, pink crayons missing. Where is the pink? Little girls rely on pink. To them it's more than a color. It's a concept. It's not just a fuzzy hair ribbon, it's a bubble of hope. Think of rose colored glasses. Seeing the glass as half full. Finding the good in people. Pink. Rosy. Positive. Glowing. And after the year I've had/many of us have had, I need to query...did the gremlins pilfer the pink?

How do I tell my daughter that I hope we come upon the pink pretty damn quickly. That it's just around the corner, over the rainbow. That 2011 will not be filled with personal death or financial hardship. I'd like to believe that our once growing investment accounts will start growing once again. I'd like to tell Maxie that all our pesky ailments of 2010 are things of the past, that infection and pox are no more. And if we happen to be inundated cold/virus/flu we'll have more effective medication and sounder insurance with lower deductibles. And work will be plentiful and exciting. And a steady trickle of friends will join us for spontaneous dinners. And relatives will start reading our blogs with more frequency. (You know who you are.) That's what I'm talking about! That's the pink I'm on the lookout for!

But where is it, goddammit? Where?

Today is the first day of school since the holidays, so I went through Maxie's backpack, clearing out the toys to make room for a second set of clothes and Hello Kitty lunchbox. I cleaned out every pocket, every zip pouch and this is what I found...

To a rosy 2011!

Holiday Cards; a Retrospective

2010-12-30T01:00:00.000-08:00

Every now and then I feel I've accomplished something of note: writing a pithy blog entry for instance, performing for an audience who's clung to my every word, even cooking a mean pot of red beans and rice can make me giddy with pride. My list isn't terribly long, in fact some of my talents have waned over the years (these days I swim more like a geriatric manatee than the sleek porpoise of yore.) But I have recently acquired a later life skill which I would like to share with you. I have developed, if I do say so myself, an eye for constructing a heckuva good Hanukkah/Christmas/Winter Solstice/Kwanzaa/

Boxing Day/New Year's/and any other end of the year celebration you can think of holiday card.

All year long I keep an eye out for a unique opportunity that just might be a photo op for a possible kick ass card. And if no picture presents itself, well then, the Foster-Shepperds will not be representin' and mailboxes will be less full that year.

From four years ago...

Maxie was just six months old, Sebastian almost four. This card made quite a stir. It is still attached to refrigerators with dollar store magnets throughout the land. Complete strangers asked for this shot, and in debates on gay marriage and gay adoption this photograph has been used to quell opposition, I kid you not. The bar was raised pretty high with this one. It's golden, it's glorious and my hair is looking fabulous.

Three years ago...

A photographer came to Sebastian's preschool with vintage adult clothes and I was first in line, choosing the red dress and green overcoat for obvious thematic reasons. Let me tell you what I learned. Maxie loved having her picture taken without Sebastian, but the second they entered the same frame my baby girl turned into Aretha Franklin in those Snickers commercials. Nothing pleased her. Her Mae West pose is quite by happenstance. Maxie is really trying to push the hat off her head. Meanwhile, I'm just out of shot trying to keep it on. And what did Sebastian get for putting up with his sister's histrionics? A partially obscured face. The photographer did manage to snap a few traditional brother/sister shots but none of them included the divine hat. What does it say about me that I traded an Alexis Carrington Colby Dexter hat for a full view of my son's face? And just look at his expression (what you can see of it) it's so sweet, whereas my daughter's is pure vexation. What the fuck am I supposed to do with yet another strand of pearls?!

Two years ago...

Mailboxes were less full.

Last year...

This pic should have been used two years ago, but I wasn't totally in love with the Foster-Shepperds at a dude ranch motif. But it does have its charm and it slowly grew on me, so I sent it out last year. It's your typical family-on-vacation-so-it-has-to-be-our-holiday-card card.

And (drum roll please) this year...

I'm a little proud of this one. On the back it reads: The Foster-Shepperds, legally married since October 20th, 2008.

Now the idea wasn't to be political. No. Really. Watching other people's heads snap around to catch a peek of my family walking down the street is political enough for me. Besides which, I was worried that no one would want to put a holiday card with children with duct tape over their mouths on the fireplace mantle. But the more I looked at the other family picture I had in mind, the four of us in Maui waiting in line for a luau, the more I hated it. And so I asked Michael if we could use our NO H8 pictures instead.

For those of you who need a refresher course... In California, Proposition 8 was the anti gay marriage legislation that passed in 2008. One of the more visible organizations speaking out
against this discrimination is the NO H8 Campaign. Get it? No hate. More information at www.noh8campaign.org.

The truth is, I'm shallow. Being political had nothing to do with it. This, simply, is a better picture of me than the Maui shot, where I look like I'm in dire need of hair plugs and Spanx.

A very belated Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Kwanzaa, and the rest... And let's have one helluva fantabulous 2011!

Mommy With a Penis

PS. Taking ideas for next years holiday card.

Shake the Waffle

2010-12-17T19:58:00.000-08:00

On this, my son's eighth birthday, I made waffles. One would think I planned waffles as a special birthday breakfast. (When I was a kid my mother's birthday breakfast for us was oatmeal with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream on top, sprinkled with brown sugar. Absolute heaven.) But no, the idea behind waffles had nothing to do with "birthday breakfast," it was born out of necessity. We are going out of town for the holidays and I'm trying to make do without going to the market. We have no milk, no eggs, no bacon, no oatmeal and for that matter, no vanilla ice cream. And so, the only breakfast staples I could think of that didn't require any of the above were waffles and that frostbitten package of sausage links stuck to the back of the freezer, purchased in aught eight.

I did have my concerns. For some unfathomable reason my children have professed a dislike for waffles. I know, how can they not like waffles? If I had my way as a kid, I would have eaten them thrice daily. An idea came to me, if I make the waffles special and top them off with their favorite things, Sebastian and Maxwell might learn to enjoy their buttery, perforated deliciousness as much as I do.

I would loved to have slice some bananas, but our larder being low we had no bananas. Nor fresh berries for that matter, nor whip cream. But a quick reconnaissance to the cupboards and fridge told me there were pears, boysenberry preserves, Nutella, a pickle jar void of pickles, and a Tupperware one third full of a viscous substance sprouting blossoms of penicillin. After rinsing out the pickle jar and throwing away the botulism, I convinced myself that a waffle bar will be a pleasant surprise and perhaps become a new favorite.

Sebastian opened a couple of birthday presents before breakfast. He guessed the Lego before ripping off the paper. I'm pretty sure I detected the slightest trace of disappointment before putting on a brave face and uttering, "This will be good." (Is it me or is the idea of Lego much more desirable before you open the box and scatter the pieces?)

Then it was time for Chi Chi's gift. Chi Chi is my mother, Sally. Long story short, my mother wanted to be called Sadie instead of Grandmother. Mom is of that subset of ladies who eschewed "Grandmother," "Grandma" and "Nana" for less doddering-sounding monikers. I think this trend started about the time Shirley MacLaine's character in Terms of Endearment insisted her grandchildren call her Mrs. Greenway. But Sadie turned out to be a tongue twister for my oldest nephew, Teddy, and instead, what came out was Chi Chi. And Chi Chi she will always be.

Chi Chi's was the largest birthday and Christmas gift under our tree. It was trapezoidal in shape and emblazoned on a sticker on the corner of the package were the words, balalaika with soft case, blem.

What the fig? Balalaika? As in Dr. Zhavago, balalaika? What hell hath Chi Chi wrought? She's usually so predictable in her gift giving. And yes, she's commented on Sebastian's natural rhythm but...balalaika! With a soft case no less!! And what the hell is blem? Oh, the responsibility of it all. Am I expected to search the greater Los Angeles area for a balalaika instructor? Which might not be so difficult considering Bash's school is sixty percent Russian...but even still! And if I actually do procure a balalaika instructor would I then have to suffer through Sebastian ploinking through "Lara's Theme" at balalaika concerts wearing a balalaika costume?

Turns out there was no need for hysteria. Inside the balalaika-with-soft-case-comma-blem box was a smaller trapezoidal box, reminding me of Russian nesting dolls. And inside that box...drum roll please...was a ukulele (which I'm pretty sure must be Hawaiian for balalaika.) And even though there was no soft case, this ukulele is not some plastic, Disneyrific toy. Oh, no. Chi Chi went all out in the hopes of encouraging her grandson's rhythmic gifts. It's beautifully crafted which made me a little worried for its safety. I will still have to get him lessons, but being born in Hawaii, I got this. Ukulele is within my wheelhouse, whereas balalaika...not so much.

After my near balalaika experience, I called the family to breakfast conscious to keep any anxiety from my voice. I kept telling myself, the waffle bar is going to be a huge success! It was immediately evident that that was not the case. Turns out it my kids hate waffles no matter how much they're spruced up. And here I thought they'd eat Nutella covered dirt.

I jumped into action. I brought out the last of the strawberry yogurt and started frying non-frozen sausage patties I was saving for tomorrow. But I missed my window. Appetites had vanished. All in all, a disappointing eighth birthday breakfast.

***

Fall, habitually you kick my sorry ass with your psychotic autumnal schedule: my birthday, Halloween, Michael's birthday, Thanksgiving, Sebastian's birthday, Christmas. The choosing of the costumes, the numerous presents to purchase, wrap and send, the sit-down birthday dinner party, the bounteous feast, the tree trimming party re-imagining the leftovers from the bounteous feast, the sending of holiday cards (221 and counting), the Christmas pageant, the travel arrangements and Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer playing in the other room over and over again; all of it overwhelming and making what was once quaint seem vomitous.

Experience has taught me you're a bitch, Fall, and I have learned to accept your malevolent ways. However, this year, you have topped yourself. I thought Fall 2007 was a humdinger when Sebastian's Knights of the Round Table birthday party fell on the same day as our formal Toys For Tots Christmas gala. But that was a stroll through Versailles compared to Fall 2010. First there were the problems with Sebastian's education that have escalated so rapidly, once again we had to hire a lawyer. Then two uncles passed away in October and an aunt in November rendering me emotionally weak. And throughout it all I was dealing with horrific ear and sinus infections that left my head simultaneously throbbing like a motherfucker while feeling as if it were stuffed like a rag doll with thousands of Q-Tip tips. Making decisions became near impossible. Yes, Fall, you made me a waffler.

The thing is, tis the season for decisiveness. But my waffling has become so pronounced everything is getting done at the last minute. And haphazardly. Our New York friends have texted that they received our Christmas card envelope...without the Christmas card in it. I've all but given up making final gift decisions, instead posting on Facebook things like, "Xbox or Wii? Discuss." And because I didn't purchase them in time, it's dubious whether the Christmas Fairy will get holiday pajamas to the children on Christmas Eve.

One of my relatives sent Sebastian and Maxwell a board game and four C batteries for Christmas. At first, that didn't seem odd. But when it became clear that the board game didn't need C batteries, that they were extra for some inexplicable reason, I thought, "I'm slowly on my way to becoming that person." If I don't snap out of this haze, in next year's Christmas card envelope friends and family may find batteries instead.

I must shake the waffle!

***

I told Sebastian we had to take a birthday picture to commemorate the year. I tried to get him to smile, but this is what he gave me instead.

Please don't let waffling be contagious!

Soldiers and Bullies

2010-12-02T15:55:00.000-08:00

Michael's nephew, Chucky, went to war. He served our country faithfully, rounded out his tour of duty and when he came home he was different. Friends and family noticed the change immediately. Chucky was more withdrawn and depressed. And there was something else...a quiet desperation, which I believe you can see in this photo. Look into his eyes. It's as if he wore a mask to cover the suffering within.

Michael's family used the tools they had at their disposal to help Chucky. His sister took him to the VA Hospital to get him psychological care, but since Chucky refused to admit himself the VA couldn't help. His parents tried to get Chucky to embrace religion, his mother is a Jehovah's Witness, his father Baptist, but it turned out getting on his knees and praying couldn't help either.

Sebastian loved his older cousin, and at the family reunion four years ago, the only person Chucky could comfortably relate to was my then four year old son. Interacting with Sebastian was nonthreatening. There were no awkward conversations to worry about or concerned stares to deal with. All haunting images of war were temporarily shoved aside while Chucky played with Sebastian, revving Hot Wheels across the floor.

That was the last time I saw Chucky; on the carpet with my son, working through his demons, hopefully on the mend. Not six months later, he bought a rifle and killed himself, as much a causality of war as if he had died overseas.

***

I didn't reach out to Chucky during that time. I had met him only two times previous and felt it wasn't my place. But now I wish I had. I would have said something like...

I get that you feel things are hard right now. I get that you feel all alone, like no one could possibly know what you're going through. But understand, those are feelings. And feelings are of a moment.

Think of it this way: emotion contains the word "motion." It's supposed to flow through us. We are not supposed to staunch emotion and wallow in it.

If emotion does take hold, however, get out of the house and do something. Go climb a mountain, or volunteer at a soup kitchen, or beat the fuck out of a punching bag. Getting off your butt is half the battle. Getting out of your head is the other half.

But if you choose to marinate in a dark room with a remote control in your hand, then you've also chosen to label yourself "victim." No one else is doing that. YOU are. Likewise, no one else can do for you. YOU have to do for you. Sure, people might extend their hands along the way, but you have to find your own path, flick on your own switch.

I speak from first hand knowledge. When I was an adolescent, I was diagnosed with epilepsy. I took pharmaceuticals to stop the seizures, but the side effects of the meds made it really difficult to concentrate in school. I went from A minuses to Ds and Fs. My grades sucked, I fell down at inconvenient moments and I shook all the time. I felt I was a social outcast. I felt alone and insignificant. (Once again, "felt." Emotion, not reality.) And I chewed on that feeling of powerlessness, and it grew and grew. It was my choice to not look for the pressure valve. I didn't talk to anyone, or swim laps, or face my problems head on. My thing was to disappear into movie theaters and gnaw the fuck out of it until it was untenable and reality became distorted. At that point no one could say anything right. Friends' support sounded like taunts, my parents' concern, condemnation.

That's when I swallowed a bottle of pills.

I was lucky. My mother figured out what I did. She drove me to the hospital. Doctors gave me ipecac which induced vomiting. The pills went down the drain rather than into my system. I ended up physically fine, but mentally, I needed help from a therapist, who helped me discover the tools to move forward with my life.

Let me be clear. I am grateful the pills did not take hold. Suicide is not le grand geste. It is not romantic. You do not find answers in the last moments. It is final and lonely.

***

This note is not really meant for Chucky. It's too late to help him. This is for anyone out there who is grappling with thoughts of suicide.

Homosexual youth are four times more likely to kill themselves then heterosexual youth. Like Chucky, they too feel broken, alone and unappreciated. The wartime that homosexual youth are facing may not be car bombs, but there is a constant barrage of destructive statements and abusive actions being hurled at them. From the horrific gay bashing in the Bronx, to our religious leaders labeling homosexuals "impure and unnatural," to political bickering over gay marriage, gay adoption and openly serving in the armed forces, today's gay youth are inundated with negative images and somehow they must navigate the treacherous terrain of our divisive society.

Those who recently chose to take their lives, hurling this issue into the national spotlight, are Tyler Clementi, Asher Brown, Seth Walsh, Justin Aaberg, Raymond Chase and Billy Lucas. Fallen soldiers who tried to live with dignity and yet were beaten down for being true to who they are.

My personal stand...

First, to parents: For goodness sake, keep your eyes open. If you get the sense your kid is a bully do something about it. Don't sit back and say, "Boys will be boys." Humans are supposed to be humane and compassionate. That's what separates us from the beasts. Also, if your kid comes to you at some point and says, "Hey, I'm gay," don't say something stupid like, "Well, I'm not proud of you." As a matter of fact, don't say anything at all. Go over to your child and give him the biggest hug of his life. And only then, after you've collected yourself do you tell him, "I love you so much and I will always be here for you." Because that's what parents do. They offer unconditional love. Don't try to guilt him and definitely don't try to change him. I can be made to wear brown contact lenses to disguise my eyes' true color, but trust me, underneath they will always be blue.

Next, to the bullies, the name callers, the finger pointers, the politicians using stump issues for reelection, and to our religious leaders who instill fear in their flock: There is no one as cowardly as you. You gather in groups and single out the unsure and the awkward. You say in the name of whatever deity you worship that homosexuals are not welcome. You say that you have homosexual friends, while strongly denying us marriage and adoption rights. You harass us, invade our privacy and beat us to a pulp. But here's an idea, it's in your Bibles, Torahs and Korans, let's be civil to one another. Can we do that? No one is asking you to jump into bed with, or even split a banana split with someone who is gay. Just nod your head in acknowledgement and move forward. We've all felt pain from another hand, from someone's hurtful words. We've felt the knife, imaginary and real, twist in our gut. Let's just stop it. Let's exercise civility and stop causing pain.

And finally, to my brothers and sisters who are wrestling with self doubts: There is so much chatter. And sometimes it is hard to hear anything but the negative. But do me a favor, call The Trevor Project. They will listen and lead you in the right direction. Sometimes all we need is a boost. Let the Trevor Project be yours. Seriously. Call them. Right now. I mean it. (866) 488-7386. Like the YouTube videos say, "It gets better." And guess what? It does. Take it from someone who's licked the bottom of the pickle barrel. DO NOT GIVE IN!

October 16th was Chucky's birthday. Yesterday was Matthew Shepard's. Both would have been 34.

White Bias or Snow Black?

2010-11-30T21:52:00.000-08:00

Last month on Anderson Cooper 360, the suave, silver fox news hunk introduced a pilot study helmed by CNN called "Kids on Race." Black and white children from two different age groups were shown the above picture and asked questions like, "Which is the good child?" "Which is the ugly child?" "Which child do adults like?"

This was based on an experiment administered in the forties. Instead of the cartoon rainbow coalition shown above, however, children chose between black and white baby dolls, the findings of which were used in the landmark case, Brown vs. Board of Education. Sadly, although perhaps not surprisingly, sixty-three percent of black kids wanted to play with the white doll rather than the one they themselves resembled.

In the Obama era it was hoped that the findings of the newly administered test wouldn't show such white bias. That our country's first African American president would raise self-esteem among black kids and awareness in white kids.

But guess what? Both black and white kids alike still chose the white image as the good, the smart and the beautiful, while its black counterpart was bad, dumb and ugly.

Of course, white bias exists in this country. For me, that truth resounded more once I had a black daughter. It's not always easy surrounding her world with positive role models when she is constantly being inundated with perky, blond imagery.

For instance, Maxwell (she made a recent proclamation that she prefers that to Maxie) loves the Disney princesses and she glows with pride when talking about Princess Tiana, the titular African American character in The Princess and the Frog. But more often than not, the Disney princesses represented on packaging from DVDs to sleepwear are alabaster white. Cinderella, Snow White, Belle, Aurora and Ariel preen beautifically on tee shirts and plastic tiaras, but if a princess of color is invited to join their merry group, she is usually situated off to the side or shoved to the back.

I was actually amazed how easy it was to prove this point. I typed disney princesses images in my Google search box, and take a gander at the first picture that popped up...

Poor Princess Jasmine can barely find elbow room among all that Caucasian-ness. And there's no sign of her melanin endowed sisters, not Tiana, Pocahontas nor Mulan (not really a princess, but oftentimes represented as one.) It's tokenism pure and simple, and day after day my daughter is subjected to such inequalities.

Hold on to your hat. I just had one of those flashes of yore, a blast from my past; a photo from a glossy TV mag. A picture of a different group of princesses entirely...

...situated off to the side or shoved to the back.

One image from a nighttime soap circa mid-eighties, the other from a Disney clip art site dated 2010. How much have we really changed? Tokenism is alive and well and Diahann Carroll for one does not seem at all pleased.

Our television shows, our movies, our advertisements, and, yes, even the Rockettes during the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade are chalk full of chalk white faces. Sometimes a lone person of color will be included making the sea of white seem even more glaring. Of course, I was thrilled when Princess Tiana came along, as was I thrilled with the timing of Princess Sasha and Princess Malia entering the White House. Sistahs for my daughter to look up to. But for every Dora the Explorer and Kai-lan there's an awful lot of Wonder Bread out there, spread thick with mayonnaise.

So, yes, white bias is alive and well in our fair land. That being said, however, I'm not sure the CNN test accurately proves that fact.

A bit of trickery was involved, meaning there is no appropriate answer to "Which is the ugly child?" Some of the older kids who were administered the test could articulate that none of the cartoon children were smarter or more beautiful. Some even went on to say, "It's what's on the inside that counts." But the younger ones, the little four and five year olds, those who have yet to reach the age of reason, didn't have the life experience necessary to help them navigate through the trap. And I question whether their answers really support the institutionalized racism CNN was trying to prove.

If the kids tested are anything like my kids, then two things... Four and five year olds blindly trust authority figures, and if they don't know an answer, they make shit up. So, when an authority figure asks a young one, "Which is the good child?" then to their little, guileless minds one of those five cartoon figures must be the good child because an adult says so. And since there is no correct answer, what's the kid going to do but guess. When Sebastian was younger, he loved guessing. "What's one plus one?" I'd ask, and immediately Bash would offer, "Five." "What color is a fire truck?" "Green."

The difference is what's one plus one has an absolute answer, as does what letter comes after Q, or is it proper to wear white after Labor Day? But which is the smart child is a trick question.

I imagine that my five year old self would have given the white cartoon all the favorable characteristics. I positively identified being white, so why wouldn't I have chosen Whitey McWhitenstien to be the beautiful, the smart and the good?

One mother was shocked when her white son labeled the caricature with the darkest skin as ugly, bad, and dumb. The thing is, I see my five year old self doing the same thing, choosing the image that is most not like me, the one at the opposite end of the color spectrum. Is this really racism or a strong dose of positive self esteem?

I can only wonder if the experiment would have been less sensational if the children were offered the option does not apply.

The heart breaking moment was watching a beautiful black girl with a smile to melt your heart, say she thought the black cartoon was the ugly one. When Anderson Cooper questioned her in a later moment, she said point blank, she thought the color of her skin was nasty.

This prompted me to find out if my two ragamuffins with their two different pigmantations would support the white bias identified by CNN. I asked them which skin tone they found more beautiful, my white son said "black skin" without hesitation, which was then echoed by my black daughter. What seemed devastating on television, a black girl not choosing her own skin color, was downright endearing when Sebastian chose his sister's skin color rather than his own.

Then as a follow up, I asked Maxie, I mean Maxwell, the rest of the questions and systematically she went down the line, labeling the cartoon images in order, irregardless of color. (The stupid child was the first image, the smart child was the second image, and so on.) The only time she deviated from her methodology was when I circled back to the word beautiful. Then she always pointed to the darkest of the drawings. I love that Maxwell loves the color of her skin (she prefers to call it brown rather than black.) And I love that she insists on going out with her hair plain, which means natural, no pigtails, no braids, no frills. She has a strong sense of self at such a young age, and I hope she'll stay strong even with the constant bombardment of lily white imagery that will most surly be a part of her life.

Perhaps my own bias keeps me from seeing the validity of this test. Perhaps we all need to talk about race more openly. Perhaps I'd think the findings more significant if instead of asking, "Which is the stupid child?" the questions were posed this way, "Do you see a stupid child? Which one is it?"

Bottom line, one plus one equals two, white is not to be worn after Labor Day, and one black Rockette in a Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is not integration.

Parting image: my daughter this Halloween...

White bias or Snow Black?

The Light of Day

2010-11-11T13:55:00.000-08:00

Late August, I was in the Bay Area for my dad's birthday. While there, I kept hearing about aunts, uncles and friends of the family who weren't faring well. The list seemed overwhelming: cancer, a couple of strokes, heart palpitations, a semi-vegetative state and while boarding a plane one family friend somehow managed to slip between the gangway and the airplane's door, falling to the tarmac below. Still alive, but paralyzed.

***

Sunday morning, the kids ran into our bedroom screaming. (Michael insists it was 5:30. I tend to think it was 6:30. Daylights Savings Time really messes with your head and can cause family squabbles in the retelling of stories.) Whatever the time, the kids yelled, "There's a dead raccoon. There's a dead raccoon." This is not surprising at our house. Cosmo, our half husky/half possible wolf, is a card carrying critter killer. Doesn't matter if it's a bird, rat, opossum, squirrel, skunk or even house cat, any varmint that enters our yard Cosmo will strike with ferocity and precision. And although he's never killed a raccoon before, it seemed entirely likely that a raccoon kill would happen at some point. C'mon coyote, you're next.

Quite simply, our dog is a menace. Before we were aware of his psychotic tendencies, Cosmo would bark ruthlessly at any passers by, sometimes escaping and terrorizing the neighborhood. Cosmo has also sent two smaller dogs to the hospital at a great expense to us. (Oddly, he's a big, dopey love to humans and has never lifted a paw to children.) Once we knew we had a problem canine on our hands, we installed a side gate to keep him in the back yard. How then, did this procyonid (my husband would have taken offense had I called it a coon) get himself killed on our front patio, to which Cosmo should not have had access? My assumption was that the gardeners didn't securely latch said gate, which on closer inspection was indeed found ajar.

After settling the kids' down and convincing them that touching a dead raccoon was not a good idea, I needed to relax with the Sunday paper. I opened the front door, and like Dorothy's door opening onto Munchkinland, I too was met with a Technicolor eyeful. But instead of the stock and trade yellow bricks and ruby slippers, my alternate world was smeared with viscera and gore. The front steps were a battlefield. Tufts of feathers were glommed everywhere. We're not talking four or five out-of-place feathers. No. I could have stuffed a muff with the plumage stuck to my steps.

Even with the side gate open however, Cosmo could not have gotten to the bird(s) on the front stairs. Being a devoted Dexter fan, I was able to deduced the following scenario from the blood/feather spatter... The raccoon, needing a nosh, killed the fowl on the stairs, then climbed onto our patio, perhaps to recline on a chez lounge to relax and digest. But what our masked mammal could not have anticipated was that Cosmo happened to be lying in wait, most likely with a Jack Nicholson glint in his eye. "Heeeere's Johnny!"

***

Not even the "diabolical" Sudoku in the LA Times could keep me from thinking about Death and why it's insisting to seep into various corners of my life. Death seems to prefer to travel by night. It is only with the light of day when we make out the puddles of blood, when we receive the bad news. It was in the early hours when I received the telephone calls in October. Two of my uncles passed away. Both had failing health. Both were talked about at my father's birthday dinner in August. Both now gone.

I admit, I have guilt that they weren't more a part of my adult life. Both of them had moved to the East Coast, Uncle Ron to Atlanta, Uncle Bob to one of the Carolinas, I always forget which. I'm ashamed to admit I haven't seen nor talked to Uncle Bob for about sixteen years. My memories of my uncles are mostly childhood ones, awe mixed with respect, the naval Vietnam vet and the businessman who liked to tipple just a bit too much. My heart goes out to my cousins, now fatherless, and can only hope they are able to make peace, that their pain doesn't overwhelm.

***

Then, sometime after putting the raccoon in a plastic trash bag but before I had a chance to hose down the deck, my sister called me in tears, also with morning news. One of my favorite aunts was in such a bad way she was in need of hospice care.

Aunt Pat has always been a vital force in my life. When I was younger, I probably spent more time with her than any other woman aside from my mother. (Oddly, she and Mom share the same birthday.) My cousin, Mark, is my age and I slept over at their house quite often. I locked myself in her bedroom, flushed gum down her toilets and while sleepwalking peed in Aunt Pat's clothes hamper.

Over the years, she has sent me letters of support and encouragement during difficult times. And on a couple of opening nights she sent telegrams telling me to "break a leg."

The thing I associate most with Aunt Pat is Thanksgiving. When I was younger, she and Uncle T. Jack always hosted the family's Thanksgiving dinner. She would spend days preparing the meal. Our family was large and Aunt Pat would have to get two twenty pound birds to feed the lot of us. Coats and ties were mandatory, and the dining room would sparkle with impeccably good taste. The china on the table was exquisite, but we wouldn't eat off those plates. They would be removed by servants, never to be seen again the entire meal. Place cards would mark our seats, and on occasion I remember being honored by getting to sit next to Aunt Pat.

Every year I would listen to her talk about the preparations of this monstrous meal: what she did differently, which recipes worked, which didn't. One year, she found a turkey recipe where the oven temp was kept incredibly low, let's say 150. The turkey was cooked overnight, and to ensure moist breast meat, Aunt Pat would get up on the hour, throughout the night to baste the birds. I don't remember her looking haggard the next day, nor do I remember this technique making the turkey any more or less moist than previous years, but then, to me the food always tasted wonderful. Thanksgiving has a special place in my heart and I have Aunt Pat to thank for that.

***

Three mornings ago, I got the news that Aunt Pat passed away.

I started this post before she died, perhaps to question death but that doesn't seem important now. Certainly the raccoon doesn't seem important nor including a critique of The Lovely Bones, which I saw a couple of nights ago, a movie that articulates the futility of finding meaning in death. (Much too deep for where I am.) No, right now, I just want to remember a wonderful woman.

Three mornings ago, clouds billowed soft and white against a crisp blue sky.

I want to remember her style, her class. I want to remember her numerous jars of cosmetics and countless bottles of vitimins. I want to remember her sitting at her makeup table gluing on one eyelash at a time. I want to remember her wearing a peignoir to the communal bathroom in Yosemite. I want to remember her dancing cheek to cheek with Uncle T. Jack. I want to remember her intelligence, her beauty, her humor, her pecan pie, her laugh.

Three mornings ago, I went to my fridge and pulled out a turkey. I don't have any of Aunt Pat's recipes, but that didn't matter. I roasted a turkey and made stuffing. It wasn't as moist as hers but somehow it felt right.

I want to remember her stories, especially the one when she visited Venezuela in the middle of a coup (unintentionally of course) and found herself running from gunfire. I want to remember her generosity of spirit. When I was four, I desperately wanted the plastic cereal container shaped like Donald Duck. You could cut open the slit in the back to make it a piggy bank. Aunt Pat saw my four-year-old desire and over the protestations of my cousins gave Donald to me. Also, every year she would send my children Christmas presents, which is incredible considering the children from our collective families number into the thirties, maybe forties, and Aunt Pat wouldn't forget one of them. I also want to remember the comfortable times. The conversations around the breakfast table. Perhaps these most of all, when convention did not dictate the event, when we wore jeans, told stories and laughed.

Three mornings ago...

Strike My Fancy

2010-10-23T17:19:00.000-07:00

A cozy moment between my four year old daughter and my ex-drag queen husband.

MAXIE: Daddy, do boys wear makeup?

MICHAEL: Yes, some boys do.

MAXIE: I bet that makes them feel fancy.

MICHAEL: I bet it does.

MAXIE: Daddy, I like fancy boys.

MICHAEL: So do I, sweetheart. So do I.

Aloha Passion

2010-10-13T15:30:00.000-07:00

Now that I'm back in the throes of monitoring school homework, packing lunch boxes and driving to and from numerous extracurricular activities, it's hard to believe that not six weeks ago I was sipping mai tais poolside on the beautiful island of Maui.

You know how folks develop that special place they go to unwind? Well, Hawaii is that place for me. The second the plane's wheels scrape rubber on the tarmac I feel transformed. I've come home. You see, I was born in Honolulu, just like Barack Obama and Bette Midler. (And like Barack Obama and Bette Midler, I too can show you a valid birth certificate.)

And even though I only lived there the first nine months of my life, the islands feel familiar. The fragrant Hawaiian breeze is mother's milk, the loamy earth and brilliant colors my pablum.

That doesn't mean our special getaway wasn't without incident. I somehow managed to get both sinus and ear infections, Maxie got a bladder infection, Sebastian, five stitches on his chin, and my husband...well...he took countless pictures of hot island boys with tribal tattoos. And still, a wonderful vacation was had by all.

The first thing I do, after arriving on the island, is buy a glass of cane juice with a squeeze of lime...the tropics in a sippy cup. Then, I buy Hawaiian fruit for our room. I love pineapples, papayas and apple bananas, but this year, I was cuckoo for passion fruit.

You know when you have one of those crystal clear revelations, like for dinner I'm going to make something with chicken thighs and green olives. You have no idea why chicken thighs and green olives came into your head, nor have you ever heard of that peculiar gastronomic coupling before. But you're confident it will be a dilly of a combo. And you're not at all surprised when you find many fabulous online recipes using chicken thighs and green olives. And voila, a new favorite dish.

Well, that's how it was with the passion fruit. I don't know why it was calling to me, but I knew, in the central most part of my being, that this vacation was all about passion fruit, or as the natives call it, lilikoi.

I was gaga for lilikoi gelato, lilikoi shaved ice, lilikoi soda, and fresh lilikoi right out of the rind. I wanted to climb to the top of Haleakala and shout at the top of my lungs, Me likee lilikoi! And I didn't care who knew it.

You might think my obsession with passion fruit unhealthy. You might think some sort of transference is going on. Perhaps the passion fruit was a psychological replacement for something missing in my life, maybe for passion itself.

Okay, you got me. I wouldn't say it's missing, but over the past few years, passion has, on occasion, gone on an unexpected, month-long voyage to Tahiti, without even bothering to send a postcard. It's just that home life has gotten much more complicated with children. They have specific needs and... No, I refuse to be one of those parents who make children the scapegoat for what's out of sync with their lives.

But things have changed. When Michael and I first started our relationship we promised that we'd always tell each other I love you before we went to sleep. That doesn't happen as much as it used to. More often than I care to admit, one of us falls asleep with the reading light on, reading glasses askew, script in hand.

We're just so frickin' tired all the time. Even in Maui, the Heavenly Bed felt so heavenly, the only activity we wanted to do in it was sink into its downy oblivion.

And our schedules are so completely out of whack. Michael, on average, gets home around midnight, and I, on average, get up at six. Gotta prepare breakfast, gotta drive those little fuckers to school... No, I will not blame them.

Also, occasions aren't occasions anymore. There are no flowers on opening night. No candy on Valentine's Day. On our birthdays, you're more likely to hear, "Don't worry about getting me a present."* And our anniversaries have become anemic: there's the one celebrating our legal wedding, the one celebrating our illegal wedding, the one celebrating the day we first met, which was October fourth, marking our thirteenth year. But never, in all that time, have we let an anniversary slip by without some form of acknowledgement, until last week! We both plumb forgot.

I was probably too busy, buying some meaningless gift from Toys R Us for the next kiddie birthday party, or packing snacks for the entire soccer team, or ohhing and ahhing at my daughter's assembly program where she played a singing butterfly. She was stuck upstage and you couldn't see her, because all the other butterflies covered her up, but I took time out of my day to support...once again, not the kids' fault.

Let me be clear, Michael and I still have sex. But in comparison to the beginning of our relationship when we slept naked and bumped like bunnies all night long, nowadays, it's more like, "Better put your pajamas on or you'll catch a chill."

How the fuck did this happen? We sound like one of those old couples, who sit across from each other at Denny's and never talk, except to say, "There's soup on your chin."

I tried to get Michael and the kids as excited about lilikoi as I was, but they weren't buying it. Perhaps it has to do with its appearance. It only tastes good if the rind is as bruised looking as Kim Basinger in pretty much any movie. And the insides aren't any more appetizing. As Maxie tells it, "They look like boogers with seeds." And on this, I'd have to concur. But the taste...delish.

Now, what to do about my passion dilemma. It's time to take it back. Little by little, I must empower myself to make changes. Starting now. And I need a slogan. Something like...

A little more passion, a little more lilikoi.

Yeah, that will work.

*Michael, tomorrow is my birthday, and I'm expecting a present!

It's a Pickle

2010-10-07T08:16:00.000-07:00

My mother sent Michael a yodelling pickle. That's right, a yodelling pickle...

What is a yodelling pickle, you ask? Quite simply, a plastic pickle that stands on end, and when you push its button, it yodels. No cutesy cartoon face. No accompanying movement. Just a collection of high-pitched alpine trills from a stiff faux-vegetable. Yodel-Ay-Eee-Ooo.

And unlike the Santa who gyrates to Jingle Bell Rock, this mass-produced gewgaw is perfect for absolutely NO occasion.

What's peculiar, besides the gift itself, is the sender. My mother is not one for spontaneity, nor is she particularly fond of gag gifts. Sal is a logically-minded, no nonsense kinda gal, and a yodelling pickle would be the last thing I'd expect her to send my husband, via UPS. Especially when it's my birthday next week!! What's in store for me? A rapping kiwi?

The other, perhaps noticeably, odd thing...odd and uncomfortable...is that the damn thing looks like a green dildo. Now, I don't get into Michael's and my bedroom habits in this blog, but green, bumpy, yodelling (and somewhat petite) dildos are not our thing...especially when sent by MY MOTHER!

On a morning, when I washed out the roasting pan...again, put away the raspberry preserves...again, stripped away the pee pee sheets from the mattress...again, forgot the kids were out of toothpaste...again*, I must say, this novelty brought a little ray of sunshine into my otherwise monotonous mommy life.

It's just so damn curious. I prefer not to call my mother and ask for clarification. There's something delicious about its incongruity. Even the kids love playing with this kooky thing. (Although it's disturbing watching them fight over a phallus.)

I'd go on and on, but I have to drive Maxie to school.

*Note to self: remember to buy Crest.

Sebastian in Awe

2010-09-20T11:36:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, I was channel surfing and decided to take on the last third of Shakespeare in Love. Perhaps once and for all I could figure out if I really liked this movie or downright hated it. I can't quite put my finger on why I am so indecisive.

The film has many wonderful qualities: the historic references, Tom Stoppard's witty script, the lush art and costume design, and yet, when the film's title is mentioned in polite conversation, I cringe and regurgitate a little. Perhaps my response has to with Joseph Fiennes being prettier than Gweneth Paltrow, or Miramax's aggressive campaign to win the Oscar beating out Saving Private Ryan, or just maybe it's Geoffrey Rush's disgusting teeth. Whatever my misgivings, I decided to give it a go once again.

And immediately, I was hooked.

Sure, it's manipulative and at points cheesy, but so many of the pieces fit beautifully. And being a stage actor, I love that the central action centers around mounting the first performance of Romeo and Juliet. So, for now at least, I'm back to liking the film.

It was during the dueling scene, where Romeo slays Tybalt, when I heard Sebastian's feet running down the hall towards my room. This is not surprising. He flat out ignores me when I call him for dinner, but through a closed door he has the uncanny ability to make out the cinematic strains of a car chase, gun fight or shark attack. He then hightails it to my room in the hopes to sneak a peak at "adult TV." Of course, it's my job to quickly determine whether the program I happen to be watching is appropriate for his seven-year-old eyes and ears. Usually, I turn the television off, much to Sebastian's protestations, "I won't get scared, I promise," because like most Americans, I prefer my entertainment to be violent, salacious and nothing to do with Scooby Snacks.

Sebastian is a huge fan of the Star Wars films. He also loves Indiana Jones, super heroes and anything Jurassic. And true to his word, he doesn't get scared easily. This is the kid whose favorite part in Finding Nemo was the blood thirsty shark. While some parents would fast forward through the shark parts, at the behest of my son I'd play them over and over again.

I will admit, there have been instances where my judgement was lacking and I allowed Sebastian to watch something he probably shouldn't have. For instance, at the beginning of summer he was crazy about anything werewolf and he kept pestering me to watch a werewolf movie. I wracked my brain but couldn't think of anything until one day, in the TV listings, I saw An American Werewolf in Paris. Perfect, I thought. I had never seen it, but if it was anything like the first film, where that guy from the Dr. Pepper commercials ransacked London, I figured it would be gory, but funny gory. I warned Sebastian about the blood and guts and he insisted he wouldn't be scared. I foolishly took him at his word. He had nightmares all night.

Now before you parents chide me, know that I am very much aware of my mistake and have taken it down a couple of notches. No more CSI reruns, he's now only allowed episodes of Curious George.

So, Sebastian's feet were running towards my room and I had to decide if Shakespeare in Love was suitable for him. I quickly ran through what I remembered of the film and the only thing I found objectionable was the casting of Ben Affleck. I decided to let him watch.

He was enraptured. He had many questions about the story of Romeo and Juliet. And he wanted to know about Shakespeare and why women weren't allowed to perform in his day. I found it very educational actually.

It was at the climax of the film, where Gweneth Paltrow, who'd disguised herself as a man, was about to be exposed for being a woman, thus possibly shutting down Shakespeare's troupe forever, when out of the rafters, descending like a vampire bat came Queen Elizabeth I in the form of the formidable Dame Judi Dench.

Sebastian's jaw dropped and his eyes opened wide as if he'd seen the Crypt Keeper, and he said something like, "What the... I didn't know... Where did she... Oh, my God."

He was really taken aback. And then, as if the previous almost incoherent group of phrases didn't accurately describe how he felt, under his breath he uttered the multipurpose, "Shit!"

I didn't punish him for the curse word because, well, look at her...

Like Freddy Kruger, the Virgin Queen makes even my "seated heart knock at my ribs."

Shit, indeed.

San Francisco Girlfriends

2010-08-28T11:34:00.000-07:00

I'm in San Francisco for my father's birthday and my sister shared with me the following story about my seven-year-old niece, Gracie.

Gracie and her good friend were enjoying a vigorous afternoon of make believe. The friend had a fairy princess doll while Gracie had a schoolgirl doll, and Gracie suggested, "Let's pretend we're walking down the street and we bump into each other. And then, let's pretend we fall in love and want to get married, but we can't because the government says it's against the law."

Dr. Laura is Bustin' Out

2010-08-20T15:16:00.000-07:00

Last week, Dr. Laura Schlessinger dropped the N-bomb on her radio show while giving advice to a female African American caller. Actually, dropped is the wrong word; strafed might be more apt, for to drive her self-proclaimed philosophical point home (although I could tell you neither what her point was nor to what philosophy she ascribes) she repeatedly blasted her black caller and radio listeners with N-bomb following N-bomb, making me think, perhaps incongruously, of the last image of Bonnie and Clyde.

Subsequently, Dr. Laura has announced on Larry King Live that she will quit radio. She explains, "I want to regain my First Amendment rights," whatever that's supposed to mean. According to Dr. Laura, her rights "have been usurped by angry, hateful groups who don't want to debate, they want to eliminate." And so, before these treacherous groups get their diabolical way, she has decided to sign off when her contract ends at the end of the year.

I have a wee confession to make. I will miss my Dr. Laura time. I've not always agreed with her "get over yourself and get under your man" advice, but there's something about the way she bitch slaps ignorant America that I find highly entertaining.

Over the years, radio listeners have been attracted to Dr. Laura's strong moral compass, all the while unable to live up to her strict standards, especially on subjects of marriage, infidelity and child rearing. I'm unclear how these standards lapsed when she herself was a home wrecker, had an affair with a married man which led to his subsequent divorce, and ended up pregnant before their wedding day. But those are past discrepancies. Peccadilloes really. The Dr. Laura of today refuses to look backwards. Her tongue is as sharp as a block of cheddar, and even after the N-bomb brouhaha her rules remain uncompromising.

Every now and again, she may lend one of her callers a sympathetic ear, however more often she flexes her superior intellect (I only know it's superior because she reminds her listeners on a regular basis) by interrupting the caller before he or she has finished spelling out the problem at hand. Then Dr. Laura will offer a quick-fix solution, sometimes attached to a personal, funsy story, all within a two to three minute segment. You tell me: therapy or entertainment?

And quite aware of Dr. Laura's almost fascist morals, single parents and multi-divorcees brave her wrath and continue to call in. They butter her up by telling her how much they love her books and by repeating one of her personal catch phrases like "I am my child's mom" in the hopes that they won't be chewed up and spat aside like a wad of overcooked gristle. It's reality pablum at its best and I find it a hoot.

The African American woman who called in said she had an issue about the racist comments made by her white husband's family and friends. She said she was beginning to resent her husband because he wouldn't stand up for her. This peaked my interest. Living in a multiracial household, Michael and I have had quite a few conversations about perception and race, not always seeing eye to eye, I might add. However, we both respect that our different life experiences may lead us to different conclusions, both pertinent, both valid.

But never in our relationship has the N-word been hurled as the caller claimed happened to her. Dr. Laura bizarrely defended a white person's usage of that word by saying, "Black guys use it all the time. Turn on HBO, listen to a black comic, and all you hear is nig*ger, nig*er, nig*er."

And she was off. The caller's problem was small potatoes compared to the newer, more shiny problem Dr. Laura brought to the table. In one broad stroke she went from racism to racial sensitivity. Evidently, one of the good doctor's pet peeves had been poked and she made damn sure it was her voice that was heard...

DR. LAURA: I think you have too much sensitivity...

CALLER: So it's okay to say "nig*er"?

DR. LAURA: ...and not enough sense of humor.

CALLER: It's okay to say that word?

DR. LAURA: It depends on how it's said.

CALLER: Is it okay to say that word? Is it ever okay to say that word?

DR. LAURA: It's... It depends how it's said. Black guys talking to each other seem to think it's okay.

CALLER: But you're not black. They're not black. My husband is white.

DR. LAURA: Oh, I see. So, a word is restricted to race. Got it. Can't do much about that.

CALLER: I can't believe someone like you is on the radio spewing out the "nig*er" word, and I hope everybody heard it.

DR. LAURA: I didn't spew out the "nig*er" word.

CALLER: You said, "nig*er, nig*er, nig*er."

DR. LAURA: Right, I said that's what you hear.

CALLER: Everybody heard it.

DR. LAURA: Yes, they did.

CALLER: I hope everybody heard it.

DR. LAURA: They did, and I'll say it again...

CALLER: So, what makes it okay for you to say the word?

DR. LAURA: ...nig*er, nig*er, nig*er.

I found this transcript on line exactly as written and I have to ask, what's with the asterisks? We all know what the word is. We're all saying it in our heads as we read the transcript. It's that incredibly divisive double-G, unlike jiggle or nugget which are jaunty words that are delightful to say, this double-G eviscerates, forcing us to face the grottiest of our country's history, and dare I say it, of ourselves. But an asterisk doesn't really give the pretension of softening the blow, does it? "The N-word" or "the N-bomb" do not take away the sting. do they? As misguidedly delivered as it was, could that have been Dr. Laura's philosophical point? After all, she didn't call anyone a racial epithet, she used the word as an example. Might it be better to face it in it's basest form rather than pretend it doesn't exist or bury it in in effigy as did the NAACP?

From time to time, Michael lets the N-word slide from his lips, never in front of the children, and always in an inclusive "my people" way, as the ladies from The View have co-opted "bitch" as a form of female empowerment, as I have used another insidious double-G, "faggot" within this very blog to call attention to or poke fun at my tribe.

Par exemple...

Michael and I invited group of friends over for drinks. We were sitting around talking about the recent death of Lorene Yarnell, half of the the well known mime duo Shields and Yarnell, of a brain aneurysm. Trying to top the rest of us, one friend in a faggoty TV anchor voice announced, "Lorene Yarnell went quietly into the night." This was met with an uncomfortable silence, until another friend chastised with the equally faggy, "Too soon."

I don't feel the least bit uncomfortable using faggot, or any of its derivations. However, if someone calls me faggot, or cocksucker, or if I may steal from Dr. Laura, "biological error" you'd better believe it would hurt. Of course, I'd get over it, but in that initial moment before the armor went up there would be, dare I say, a disquieting prick. And I'm pretty sure if I bumped into Joy Behar coming out of Carnegie Deli and espoused, "Hey bitch" I'd end up with a stiletto in the eye socket.

But maybe we're all too hypersensitive. Is that what you were trying to say, Dr. Laura? Do we all need to lighten up? At eleven years old, when my dad taught me to make his scotch and soda, I remember feeling oddly uncomfortable when he told me to pour a jigger of scotch. In 1999, David Howard, a white aide to Anthony A. Williams, the black mayor of Washington, D.C., had to tender his resignation when in reference to the budget he used the word niggardly. But perhaps, Dr. Laura, you're saying that's part of our past, that slavery was centuries ago, that we have a black president now, that race relations are strong and all of us are ready for an open discourse. Perhaps you think the asterisks are silly, that calling it "the N-word" is provincial. And maybe, just maybe that's why you spoke the word, Dr. Laura, why you spoke it out loud eleven times, perhaps that's why you said...

...nigger.

(Silence.)

If I could put in my two cents, Dr. Laura... Too soon.

Knee Jerk

2010-08-07T09:31:00.000-07:00

"Roger, do you take Dave to be your lawfully wedded husband..."

It's hard to believe that those words could incite such fear and hatred. That there are those who see gay marriage as the onset of the Apocalypse. In my own little world, dissolving Prop 8 actually seems the natural course of things, however the same ruling has caused others to mutilate.

At the Craft and Folk Art Museum in Los Angeles, to which I have never been (something else to add to the bucket list) a sculpture of two grooms atop a wedding cake was vandalized. It was part of a group show called, "Some Assembly Required: Race, Gender and Globalization." The piece was created by artist Susan Tibbles, which is just a fun name to say, for a 2008 op-ed piece in the LA Times entitled Marriage Isn't the Half of It, by Nancy D. Polikoff. The museum's publicity coordinator recounted, "The two guys were unfortunately torn off and thrown about the gallery along with some other embellishments."

Embellishments aside, it must be difficult lashing out against the inevitable. Even our illustrious governor said yesterday, and I'm paraphrasing here, "Let the fags and dykes marry already." And this statement was a bit of a shocker since Schwarzenegger has previously vetoed two same-sex marriage bills, not to mention he was the named defendant in the Prop 8 law suit Judge Walker ruled on Wednesday. So, if Governor Terminator is readying marriage licences to read spouse and spouse, rather than husband and wife, well then, traditional marriage devotees might indeed feel like the quicksand is falling fast.

Ms. Tibbles, still fun, made an astute observation by posing the grooms on a cake of American dollars. Californians need to face a very strong reality. Our fair state is in the financial crapper. So, now that gays and lesbians can marry, think of the money that will fuel our economy. How much does even a modest wedding ceremony cost? Now, multiply that by fifty thousand. (I'm just pulling a number out of my ass here. But since there were eighteen thousand same-sex marriages in that four month window in 2008, I would imagine fifty thousand weddings would happen in the blink of a drag queen's false eyelash.) Think of how the service industry would boom. Think of the taxable income. Think of the teachers who could be rehired, the roads repaved. And then, the cherry of this matrimonial sundae, think of how forty-three percent of us will be throwing tons of money at getting the subsequent divorce.

So, let's stop destroying artwork (and no egging, TPing, tagging, keying or dewigging while you're at it) and if you must, direct your personal angst at a punching bag, a therapist's couch or Mel Gibson. Because destruction only leads to reparation. The art piece in question has been sent back to Ms. Tibbles, really a dilly of a name, for repairs, to be back on display before the show closes September 12th. And believe you me, homosexuals are as at least resilient as their plastic replicas.

An Improper Basis

2010-08-06T11:40:00.000-07:00

Yesterday's front page of the Los Angeles Times blared, "Ban on gay marriage overturned." Now, don't get me wrong, I'm elated that Prop 8 was kicked in the nads. Well, maybe not elated, more like cautious. I couldn't quite revel like the thousands of other gays and lesbians who partied hard two night ago in West Hollywood, the Castro and the Little Caesar's in Pacoima. You see, I'm having a difficult time trusting Judge Walker's landmark ruling will hold, as I've had a difficult time trusting my legal marriage will remain, well, legal...I don't care what anyone says, it will always be a marriage.

All it takes these days is some Bible thumping organization, or Target trust fund baby, or a state like Utah to throw a gazillion dollars towards the appeal and we'll be right back at square one, or maybe, square negative seventy-eight, and my kids will be bastards once again.

I know, I know, it's an ugly word, bastards. But my children's fight has been my biggest fight all along. I demand we protect the security they've come to take for granted. Sebastian and Maxie were at our wedding. They were part of the ceremony. It's as much their marriage as it is Michael's and mine. How dare anyone spouting Christian beliefs or tea-bagging rhetoric try to remove that stability from their lives.

***

In an odd twist, yesterday's other top news story was that Bristol Palin once again called off her nuptials to her son's baby daddy, and sometimes Playgirl cheesecake, Levi Johnston. When the Wasilla teens made the surprising announcement that they were getting back together, most of use (let's be honest) did not think it would last. For me, the reasons for this breakup are inconsequential. What I find significant, is there is a high percentage of Americans who would have rather seen these adolescents give it the good ol' college try (did either of them even go to college?) even when threatening to besmirch the sacred institution of marriage, rather than allow filthy homosexuals the same opportunity.

***

A few jewels from the 136 page ruling by Judge Vaughn Walker....

"Moral disapproval alone is an improper basis on which to deny rights to gays and lesbians."

"An improper basis..." Damn straight!

"The evidence shows conclusively that Proposition 8 enacts, without a reason, a private moral view that same-sex couples are inferior to opposite-sex couples."

That's right, bitches, we are far from inferior!

"The evidence shows that, by every available metric, opposite-sex couples are not better than their same-sex counterparts; instead, as partners, parents and citizens, opposite-sex couples and same-sex couples are equal."

Did you hear that, Meg Whitman, E-Q-U-A-L!

Thank you, Judge Walker. Of course, this ruling will be appealed and most likely Prop 8 will find itself before the Supreme Court. And maybe that's why I'm cautious, because this is not over by a long shot, as perhaps the saga of Bristol and Levi is not over. But for now, I might not be able to trust elation, however I will allow myself to bask...just a bit.

Glittery Crap

2010-07-28T15:35:00.000-07:00

Dear Store Owners and Kiosk Keepers,

I have endured brightly wrapped candy, promising explosions of sugary goodness, awaiting me and my two tykes at every grocery checkout. After exiting the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, I have suffered dragging my kids through the Pirates of the Caribbean store overstocked with overly priced and cheaply made swords, hooks and buccaneer hats. I've even pulled my children screaming from displays of Fruit Roll-Ups, Chips Ahoy and Lays Potato Chips after gymnastics and swimming. (BTW, gymnastics and swimming, why at a place of fitness do you insist on hawking sugar and empty calories to kids? Paging Michelle Obama!)

Now, this by no means, is an old practice. When I was eight my family vacationed in Hawaii, and we were in some store and I was seduced by foil-wrapped glimmer and the promise of minty goodness in the form of Wrigley's Spearmint Gum. I begged my father to buy me a pack. Because for some reason, it was very important at that particular moment, that I get what I wanted. But no matter how much I cajoled, he resolutely said no. This struck me as entirely unfair, because I clearly remember that I hardly ever asked for anything. (In retrospect, and now with kids of my own, I'm pretty sure I asked for crap all the time, but my memory is insistent and I will allow it to speak for itself.)

So, I stole the gum. And I got away with it. Or at least I thought I did. About a month after we returned home, my dad got a letter informing him that his eight year old son had stolen a pack of gum, and would we kindly remit ten cents at our earliest possible convenience.

Some back story...

I was born in Honolulu. Most folks assume my father must have been in the military because of my Hawaiian birth. But, no. Dad is part of that other prominent American institution of destruction and economic gain, real estate. My family is responsible for constructing one of the first hotels along Waikiki. I used to harvest a kernel of pride at the opening credits of Hawaii 5-0 as they quick-panned towards Diamond Head. If you have a discerning eye and don't blink you can just make out the silhouette of the Foster Tower Hotel. And that was home for the first nine months of my life, in the Foster Tower's penthouse.

Before you put me in the same category as Paris Hilton (although I do sometimes like running around without my knickers) know that this was a singular hotel, not a hotel chain. The Foster Tower is now condos and our family's connection to it long gone.

Anyway, on Oahu, my dad was (and I write this loosely) somewhat of a celebrity. His company had various holdings around the island. And our family picture would appear in the Honolulu newspaper whenever we would vacation there. So, when he got the letter in the mail about the lifted Wrigley's gum, I'm sure this wasn't regular procedure. Someone didn't want to embarrass my father publicly, and decided to use the long arm of the US Postal system to cushion the blow.

I remember running upstairs to my room and extracting a dime from my kiddie bank. But mostly I remember how shamed I felt when I handed the coin to my father. I'm sure it was that incident that kept me from entering the lucrative field of cat burglary.

But Store Owners and Kiosk Keepers, let me get back to you. I'd like to call a couple of you out by name...

How dare you Staples for having a tantalizing lollipop display! You sell office supplies! Lollipops should not be part of your purview. After returning home with printer cartridges and a ream of paper, you could have knocked me over with a staple remover when I deduced by the bulges from my kids' pockets that they had both committed lolly larceny.

Seasoned criminals! And they're only seven and four.

You probably want to point your toner-stained fingers with blame at my parenting skills. But I say, "Get thee behind me Staples!" It is you who are luring my little ones with luscious lickables, putting a lollipop display where a CD-ROM rack should be. Shame on you!

And before you start snickering Crocs Kiosk, know that I'm on your case as well. My children were immediately drawn to those drawers of plastic studs which one can buy to adorn your product. This prompted me to say, "No, we are not going to purchase overly priced doohickeys to decorate your already overly priced shoes." I have since found out that doohickey is not the technical term for a Croc stud. No, they have been given the unfortunate moniker jibbitz. But whether doohickey or jibbitz, three dollars for the face of Marge Simpson, really?

But even my threat, with a heavy innuendo of doomsday, could not stop my daughter from pocketing this gem:

What little girl wouldn't want to steal it? Hell, I want to steal it. It's brightly colored. It's heart shaped. And it's faceted like the Hope Diamond.

So, I did my job. I reprimanded them, returned the stolen booty with the kids in tow, and even said the obligatory, "I sure hope they don't call the police."

But now, Store Owners and Kiosk Keepers it's time for you to do your job and remove the glittery crap from their eye level.

Because kids are hardwired to steal. That's what they do. They are all id...me, me, me...want, want, want...must have, must have, must have...with no sense of consequence. I realize you strategically place those items because soft parents often give in and buy this shit. But your practices have gotten so much more insidious. Products are shinier and more brightly colored. There are a thousand and one flavors and movie tie-ins. So, when there's a hard ass parent like me, who isn't inclined to indulge with geegaws and snicky-snacks, well, what recourse do my kids have but to steal.

Your stock holders might not appreciate moving the booty to an upper shelf, but parents all over this country would out and out praise you.

And I'm letting you know now, Staples, and Crocs and wicked grocery store chains, at some point one of my rugrats will steal something, and I'll take it from them, of course, but instead of wasting the gas and the time to return the bauble, Papa might just end up with a new jibbitz for his Crocs.

Put that in your lolly and suck it!

Daddy Got Me a Dago Tee!

2010-07-24T22:05:00.000-07:00

I am not one who needs to visit his past.

But Michael relishes finding wayward family members and reconnecting with Frick and Frack who he bartended with in his Chicago days. He even has an almost manic desire to go to his high school reunion. And to make matters worse he always asks me to accompany him. Year after year (or maybe it's five years after five years) I have dodged this bullet, because really, aside from ingesting Borax in mass quantities I can't think of anything more heinous.

That's not to say I don't understand my husband. He is an actor after all. Showing off is part of his stock and trade. And none of his other class mates defected to the West Coast, guest starred on numerous episodics from Criminal Minds to Monk, and have a current Lowe's commercial running. To put it simply, Michael wants to saunter into the chlorine-smelling conference room at the Alton, Illinois Holiday Inn and have folks unabashedly gush.

Another thing about Michael, he's all about shock value. Nothing would please him more than jolting Midwestern small mindedness by introducing me as his husband. He thrills at the idea of challenging racist and homophobic stares from his fellow class mates. But I refuse to be the prized pekingese on his arm.

I have images of getting all dolled up, making an entrance with my husband and then once the shock of a legally gay married couple wore off, I'd be unceremoniously dumped in the corner with the wallflowers and condom wrappers.

But I guess after all these years, I finally made myself clear. He didn't bother asking me to go with him. Instead, he asked if Sebastian and Maxie could go with him. Did I hear that correctly? He'd take the kids and leave me behind? That would mean I'd have the house to myself. Sure it would cost a pretty penny procuring air fare for the little buggers, but...

"Of course you can take them with you."

I'm in heaven people! Four nights without my family. I'm delirious with sleeping when I want, watching what I want, eating what I want. I'm having one heck of a staycation! People have asked what I am doing. Well, here's the answer...NOTHING.

***

Lately Sebastian has been wanting a muscle shirt. There's a neighbor kid down the block who wears them and Bash is beside himself with envy every time the kid rides by on his bicycle sleeveless.

Well, the day after the reunion, Michael took the kids to the mall. (Not a surprise. Going to the mall is as commonplace an activity in Alton, Illinois as smothering food with gravy or liquid cheese.) Needless to say, the boy got his shirt...

Bash called me on the phone to tell me the good news. His excitement was infectious, "Daddy got me a Dago tee!"

I immediately cringed. It's jarring to hear my husband's home town vernacular coming out of my son's mouth. Maybe that's why I never really had any interest in going back to any of my high school reunions. Besides having to endure comparisons to my former sickly, geeky, possibly faggy adolescent self, I would wonder what poisoned truths that I once held so dear back then, would come flooding forth. Which of my teenage actions, that seemed impish at the time, would set my teeth on edge? Or like Dago tee, would I suddenly recall inappropriate phases or harsh invective that I didn't know were inappropriate or harsh at the time?

Michael got on the phone all caught up in Sebastian's enthusiasm and with kid gloves I reprimanded, "Honey, you can't go around saying Dago tee. Call it something else, anything else." And then remembering where he was and the influences he was surrounded by I added, "Well, maybe you shouldn't call it a wife beater either."

Don't Sip from this Cup of Gold

2010-06-28T22:58:00.000-07:00

My mother's family finally had a plan. We were going to have our family reunion weekend in Southern California. (Easy for us.) We stayed at the beautiful Estancia La Jolla, just north of San Diego. It was Saturday night, and all the families were going to meet at my cousin's place, where there would be plenty of food, booze and horsing around. I couldn't wait.

I sent Michael and the kids ahead of me to retrieve the car from valet, while I made sure the bag was fully packed: sun screen, light jackets, baseball hats, second sets of undies...you know the drill. I arrived at the front of the hotel with a song in my heart when Michael approached me with a storm brewing across his forehead. Even before he spoke, I knew I was going to be pissed off at the timing of whatever calamity had befallen.

I took a deep breath as he said through clenched teeth, "We're going to the hospital, now."

Why is it always when we're ready to enjoy some much needed fun does the grotty side of life insist on creeping in? I inquired as to why we had to go to the hospital, and Michael said, "Your son..." (I hate that Sebastian becomes solely mine when travesty occurs.) "Your son, just ate a poisonous flower."

I immediately doubted he ate any flower. Sebastian is more of a flower sucker, not a flower eater, and I take full responsibility for this. One day, when he and I came across a bunch of honeysuckle, I showed him how to suck the nectar. He loved it so much that he started experimenting with any flower that had a trumpet. Michael and I have been quick to reprimand these moments, saying that we didn't know which flowers were poisonous. Little did I know that some of them actually are!

"Okay. Back up. How do you know the flower is poisonous?"

"The valet told me."

This brought up a whole slew of questions. Is the valet a botanist on the side? A florist? An Agatha Christie buff? I imagine most valets don't aspire to park cars for a living, and it's quite possible that many of them have outside interests, but it seemed a stretch that any valet would know the random flower my son was sucking at the precise moment our car was brought around just happened to be poisonous. I had to dig.

"What kind of flower is it?"

"The valet didn't know."

Okay, is it me, or is this whole thing getting ludicrous?

"Where is the valet now?"

"No one seems to know."

So, the valet with the peculiar talent of labeling a plant poisonous without knowing what it is, has mysteriously disappeared, and on that information alone we're going to the hospital!!??!!

I know my husband when he gets into this frame of mind. For him the hospital is a place to reclaim sanity. In the beginning of our relationship, there were episodes where Michael thought he was having a "stroke" or a "heart attack." He insisted we go to the emergency room, where we'd sit it out for four hours, finally see a health care professional who would give Michael a clean bill of health, and all symptoms would miraculously disappear.

To be fair to him, we haven't gone on one of those sanity seeking trips since we've had kids. But now, if there is a flight of fancy, a departure from reality, it's related to Sebastian and Maxie's well being. Like when Sebastian licked the Scrubbing Bubbles canister. Michael was all set to go to the hospital, but I got eerily logical and calm. No, let me call Poison Control. And you know what? There really is a Poison Control. I must have filed that card away for a rainy day. Turns out, Poison Control is really great at telling you what to do, and what signs to look for if you (or your kid) ingest any lethal thing. And what's most impressive...they don't sound like they've been outsourced to India.

Sebastian was fine after the Scrubbing Bubbles debacle. So, once again, my eerily calm, logical self told me I needed to call my old friends at Poison Control.

I went to the front desk, where they happened to be printing out the info on the flower in question. (The timing of a prestigious hotel looking at a possible law suit is impeccable.) It's a vine flower called Cup of Gold Vine, Copa de Oro, or Solandra Maxima, the last sounding like a kick ass drag queen. It is indeed poisonous. So, I asked for the number to Poison Control and quick as a flash, someone was typing away at the computer (once again, law suit looming) and zing, zap, zop, I had a phone number in no time.

I called Poison Control, and a very kind gentleman told me there was no need to over react or go to the hospital. Poison from plant life gets in the body quickly and symptoms are almost immediate. Sebastian's eyes weren't dilated and his behavior wasn't erratic, so to my mind we were free and clear to party. Yippee! But one look at Michael's face, and I knew he still wanted us to go to the effin hospital.

So, I had him call Poison Control for himself and voice all concerns. By the time he got back from that phone call, the hotel's head of security announced that he had called the paramedics.

"What the...!!"

But before I could finish the expletive, sirens could be heard. The valet team frantically cleared the drive circle in front of the hotel in such a way that drew many looky loos and scared the holy crap out of my kids. Paramedics swooped in and took my son. Michael, like a bobble head doll, followed along behind nodding at what they had to say.

I fell back and called my mom. If you knew Sally Foster you'd understand. We were extremely late at this point, and I figured telling her about our poisonous flower slash paramedics escapade would both legitimize our family's tardiness and give her a whopper of a cocktail story.

After hanging up, I went to the ambulance, where my son was already strapped to a gurney, and asked a younger paramedic, "What's happening?"

"We're getting him ready for transport."

"What? NO. He's not going anywhere."

"I'm sorry, who are you?"

"I'm one of the parents."

"What do you mean?"

What did he mean, what did I mean? The sentence is self explanatory. Perhaps if I spoke more slowly he'd get my drift, "IIIIII aaaaam ooooone ooooof thhhhhe paaaaareeeeents."

"So, are there a group of parents?"

Okay. Now he really lost me. Group of parents? What sort of fucking commune did he think I was from? All I could think to say was, "No, I am not a Mormon." And no offense to Mormons, I just think too many unresolved story lines from last season's Big Love were swirling around in my head. For that was the only way I could apply this oddball paramedic's "group of parents" questioning.

Then he went from obtuse to pissy. "Hey, I'm just trying to figure out if there are a group of parents here watching a group of children." It was at this point I deduced a hint of crazy, so I moved on to the older, more seasoned, less insane looking paramedic.

He calmly told me I had every right not to send Sebastian to the hospital. Finally, someone who has his head on straight. But then he added, "We are not doctors, however," in that you-can't-sue-us-because-we-covered-our-asses way, "and we tend to err on the side of caution especially when it concerns children."

Are you fucking kidding me?!!? I called Poison Control who told me my son was fine. And now after checking his vitals, you have told me he's fine. And yet, the inference is if I don't take him to the hospital right now, I'm being a neglectful parent? The nerve!

I let my common sense prevail. I signed the release form. We sped away from the crime scene and went to the party. Poison Control called back after an hour to check up on Sebastian. Eyes not dilated. Behavior not erratic. He was fine. It took a long while but we finally did have a fun, and thankfully uneventful, rest of the evening.

Let's Celebrate!

2010-06-08T16:23:00.000-07:00

I know blogistas, I've been sooooo bad. Last entry almost two months ago. And there's been so much to write about: my son loosing his teeth, my daughter cutting her hair, the House of Representatives' repeal of Don't Ask Don't Tell, or anything to do with that wacky Tom Cruise. So many nuggets, so little time.

Well, here's the skinny. First it was adoption, then it was this blog, and now it's a one man show! Mommy With a Penis is coming to the stage. It was written by and stars ME, and is part of the Hollywood Fringe Festival.

Mommy With a Penis (The One Man Show) includes many of my writings from this very blog. It's been a blast reliving some of these stories and bringing them to life on stage.

For those of you who are in the Hollywood area late June and are interested, here is the performance info.

Monday, June 21st at 7:30 pm

Sunday, June 27th at 7:00 pm

Celebration Theatre

7051 Santa Monica Blvd.

Los Angeles, CA 90038

For reservations call:

(323) 957-1884

Forgive my meager entry, but once opening night is behind me, I'll have a heck of a lot to say!

F**ked up Facebook

2010-04-22T20:45:00.000-07:00

In my humble opinion Facebook can sometimes be flat out wacko. For instance, I don't get the whole FarmVille thing. I tried it once for fifteen minutes, vowing never to return. Then the next day I found that one of my friends fed my cows and another friend found a mystery egg on my property. I have cows? I have property? Huh? And doesn't it seem that every Facebook friend wants you to join some oddball group? At present, I have 133 requests. It's out of control. I will cop to joining gay marriage groups, and of course I was fully behind Betty White hosting Saturday Night Live (which worked!!), but usually I just delete.

Tonight, I read in an update that a few friends have joined the group Petition to remove Facebook group praying for President Obama's death. Quite a mouthful. But I was intrigued. I went to their Facebook page and I found this image...

In my eyes, it's a legitimate beef. Praying for anyone's death is just plain creepy. How do these folks reconcile ill will to their god? Surely, they must be breaking a couple of rules. Now what was the heinous page that was being petitioned? Take a look.

DEAR LORD, THIS YEAR YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTOR, PATRICK SWAYZIE. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTRESS, FARRAH FAWCETT. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE SINGER, MICHAEL JACKSON. I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW, MY FAVORITE PRESIDENT IS BARACK OBAMA. AMEN

Even more of a mouthful. And here's their image.

Now, the first thing I saw on this page, I kid you not, wasn't the image above, but an update that read Everyone post pictures of your poop! I want to show you mine but it is bloody and i get embarrassed.

I have a hard time taking this site too seriously, especially since they claim their favorite actor was Patrick Swayzie and their favorite actress was Farah Fawcett...AND they managed to misspell both names!!

I'd go on about this, but really, I'd much rather post pics of my poop.

Deciphering the Code

2010-04-21T13:00:00.000-07:00

Mommy With a Penis is busily doing work in the bedroom when a three year old girl comes scurrying in.

MAXIE: Papa, Papa!

MOMMY WITH A PENIS: Yes darling?

MAXIE: I want a regielusodlkeyoooo.

MOMMY WITH A PENIS: What's that?

MAXIE: You know. A gloeuuhdoeiuiii.

Maxie sees that Mommy With a Penis is confused and tries to clarify.

MAXIE: 'Abastian has a leourertgderfff. An I wan one too.

MOMMY WITH A PENIS: Sebastian has something and you want one too.

Maxie nods, thrilled her meaning is understood. Mommy With a Penis stands.

MOMMY WITH A PENIS: Well, let's go find out what a hibbideyhoobey is.

Maxie and Mommy With a Penis go into the backyard, where they find a seven year old boy in the throes of some pretend game.

Mommy With a Penis turns to Maxie incredulously.

MOMMY WITH A PENIS: Is this what you wanted? A cigarette?

Maxie nods with enthusiasm. Mommy With a Penis quickly switches focus back to Sebastian, and finds that there are no words. A huge shit eating grin spreads across Sebastian's face.

SEBASTIAN: It's not lit, Papa. See? I'm only pretending.

The kids eyes are bright and their smiles iridescent. They have no sense of any wrongdoing. Mommy With a Penis is flummoxed, unsure what the lesson should be.

Fade to black.

Mike Huckabee Stepped in a Load of Doo Doo

2010-04-17T11:30:00.000-07:00

Let's go back to the November election 2008... Now, I'm not talking presidential or even Prop 8, but something on the Arkansas ballot called Act 1. When the results came in, the people of Arkansas voted to pass Act 1 forbidding anyone "cohabiting outside of a valid marriage" to adopt or foster children. And even though this included heterosexual singles, the initiative was clearly targeted to keep gay people from adopting. It's simple algebra folks: If gays can't legally marry, and only legally married folks can adopt, well then, it stands to reason that those dreaded homos are defeated again!!

As an adoptive parent, this pisses me off. There are an average of sixteen hundred children in the system in Arkansas, and yet in 2008 the Razorbacks felt like it was more important to stick it to the ho-man than advocate for their own children.

Well, some good news... The ACLU sued the state in December 2008 to overturn the ban, their arguement being that there are not enough Arkansonians who are either willing or able to take care of all these kids. And on Friday, Circuit Court Judge Chris Piazza overturned the law! The judge said, and listen up H8ers, "Due process and equal protection are not hollow words without substance. They are rights enumerated in our constitution that must not be construed in such a way as to deny or disparage other rights retained by the people."

On April 7th, before Act 1 was overturned, former Arkansas governor Mike Huckabee visited The College of New Jersey, and was questioned by Michael Tracey, editor of the college magazine The Perspective. Topics included Don't Ask, Don't Tell, gay marriage, and other LGBT nuggets. On a question about Act 1, Huckabee explained Arkansas's stance by explaining that "Children are not puppies. This is not a time to see if we can experiment and find out how does that work?"

Someone might want to explain to ex-Governor Huckabee that there have been way too many studies about gay adoption and gay parenting to still be deemed an experiment. And the results are that children from homohomes end up being just as accomplished or screwed up as those from heterohomes. Homosexual and heterosexual couples stay together or divorce with the same frequency. And children end up being gay or straight no matter the parents' orientation. So basically, being raised by Butch Betty and Lipstick Loni will not make little Mai Ling a muff diver.

As a matter of fact, the only difference found was that children raised by homosexuals tend to be more tolerant. And perhaps that's an experiment that Mr. Huckabee just can't stomach.

In that same interview, Huckabee espoused about gay marriage, "You don't go ahead and accommodate every behavioral pattern that is against the ideal. That would be like saying, well, there are a lot of people who like to use drugs, so lets go ahead and accommodate those who want to use drugs. There are some people who believe in incest so we should accommodate them. There are people who believe in polygamy, so we should accommodate them."

I find it highly unchristian for this former Baptist minister to compare me or my husband or Ricky Martin to drug abusers, incest participants and polygamists.

Huckabee has received lots of heat for saying these things and to retaliate he issued the following on his website, "The young college student will hopefully find a career other than journalism. I ask that he release the unedited tape of our conversation."

Then Tracey fired back, "It is telling that nowhere in his statement did Huckabee suggest he was misquoted in the article, and rightfully so; we have the audio and transcripts to prove that everything reported is accurate."

This week, both Judge Chris Piazza and future publisher extraordinaire Michael Tracey are my personal heroes.

Hey, Mike Huckabee, the ball's in your court. But now that the ban on gay adoption has been overturned in your state, you might want to choose your words more carefully, because let me assure you, we are listening.

What Happened Easter Bunny?

2010-04-16T21:00:00.000-07:00

We've done it before and it leaves the kids mystified. When we travel during Easter, we get the Cadbury eggs, the Peeps, the chocolate bunnies and the other goodies ahead of time. Then, we fix up the baskets and hand them over to the hotel's front desk. The rules are simple: leave the baskets outside our door at eight am, knock loudly and then quickly disappear. It's very much like ding dong ditch, except in this version we end up with a couple of surprises waiting on our doorstep.

Sebastian and Maxie love Easter. For them, there is no no religious connotation. No Crucifixion. No Resurrection. No blood of the lamb. It's simply, baskets, egg hunts and sweets. This year their baskets were sent by my step mother, Deanna. They were plush and in the shapes of a pink bunny and a white ducky. They came the week before in the mail and I wasn't sure how to explain them to the kids, because up to now the Easter Bunny had supplied the baskets. But Sebastian informed us that we could leave Danana's empty baskets out the night before and he was sure the Easter Bunny would fill them. Mini crisis avoided.

I shouldn't have worried. It seems that our Easter traditions are always being altered. Last year, was the first time we went to my aunt's house in the desert for an Easter egg hunt. The hunt, however, was on Saturday and not the traditional Sunday, and it was quite obvious the older cousins were hiding the eggs. But these discrepancies didn't seem to worry my children, they just wanted their candy.

Eight o'clock rolled around and there was no knock at the door. Sebastian had already been up and was excited about the impending baskets. Finally, we peeked into the hall and he was noticeably bummed when we didn't see them. Teaching a child patience drains me of all of mine. He lay back down, I'm sure thinking about the bounty to come. Eight-ten. Still no baskets. Eight-fifteen, I took another peek. Eight-eighteen, Michael asked me what time it was. I got dressed saying something like, "I better go make sure the Easter Bunny didn't get lost," and went to the lobby to check on the basket progress.

The Parker Meridien in Palm Springs is a beautiful hotel with spectacularly manicured gardens. To get to the front desk, I had to wend my way across the croquet lawn, through the trees with the hammocks, around a few fountains, by the lemonade cart and fire pit, and bypass the fancy schmancy restaurant where, honest to God, you can enjoy a lobster frittata with sevruga caviar for one thousand dollars. (If you get it with beluga it's a mere hundred. Our server told us they've never sold the sevruga, but will serve up to ten belugas a day.)

A beautiful young woman with an Anne Hathaway smile greeted me at the front desk. I asked about the baskets. She smiled even wider (if that could be possible) and said that she made sure they were delivered to room 54. "We're in room 51," I corrected. I've never seen a smile crumble so fast. Her demeanor changed drastically. She stuttered a bit and then got onto her headset, looking like someone playing a CIA operative. Where are those baskets? Abort mission. Repeat, abort.

A silver haired gent wearing a hot pink sports jacket, which matched the bougainvillea that grows plentifully on the property, was at my side in no time. He was told of the mix up and once again there was some dithering not at the Parker! Then he jumped into action,"Follow me!" I did as I was told, but to be honest, his SWAT-like demeanor was diminished by the fuchsia colored sports jacket.

I followed him to our hallway. First he knocked timidly on Room 54's door. And then to my satisfaction he got out the master key and barged on in. But no one was there. He got on his headset to get a profile of Room 54's occupants. Someone on the other end (I imagined Anne Hathaway's lookalike) informed him the guests in Room 54 were an elderly couple, more than likely not interested in plush baskets filled with kiddie DVDs, plastic watches, and according to my husband the cutest socks you ever saw.

Silver Fox seemed more than determined and assured me he was going to search the grounds. (For the baskets? For the elderly couple? For a sports jacket not so offensive to the eye?) He seemed to think if the elderly couple did take the baskets, they must have thought it was part of the hotel's mystique. (His word.) I was relieved Silver Fox was on the case. He seemed dedicated to getting to the bottom of this mystère. (My word.)

As I was going back to the room, I was struck by the fact that the only way out of this minor catastrophe was to blatantly lie, which I hate. No matter how nonchalant I try to act while spinning a fib, I end up tripping over my tongue, which makes me feel like crap. But when I opened the door to Room 51, Sebastian gave me the explanation: "I think the Easter Bunny is caught in traffic."

I was unaware the Easter Bunny drove, but I didn't flinch. "Is that what you think?" No lie. No awkward moment. But then I'm asked, "Where are Danana's Easter baskets?" All I could think to say was, "Let's go swimming."

Distraction I can do. Lying, not so much.

As the hours ticked by I knew our chances seeing those Easter baskets again were getting slimmer and slimmer. (Something I learned from watching crime shows on CBS.) And by the time I checked out at two-thirty, I knew they were gone for good.

The folks at the Parker felt horrible. They ended up taking off about one hundred fifty dollars worth of services, including Easter breakfast, off our bill. Had I known that, you better believe I would have ordered one of those lobster frittata smeared with sevruga.

And for those of you worried about my children, no need. A close friend went to the store, bought new baskets and filled them with fake grass, stickers, books and chocolate. They were waiting for us when we arrived home from the desert later that afternoon.

As chocolate smeared their mouths and fingers, any questions of the missing baskets or the Easter Bunny's bad traffic karma melted away completely.

NOH8

2010-04-12T10:59:00.000-07:00

It doesn't seems to matter where you are in this country, almost everyone knows about California's anti gay marriage bill, Proposition 8, which passed November 2008. Of course, this is not the last we will hear of this. Especially, since eighteen thousand gay couples were able to get married in the four month window following the California Supreme Court's ruling, and since the election that availability is no more. Michael and I (and seventeen thousand-nine-hundred-ninety-nine couples) are married but Glenda and Gertrude in Fresno are now legally forbidden to do so. Where's the logic in that?

My argument on this subject hasn't changed: What about my children? The far right have often pulled out the chestnut, "what about the children" to any topic they can apply it to. And ProtectMarriage.com, the group who placed Prop 8 on the ballot in the first place, say they are about marriage and family. "California's constitutional marriage amendment exists to strengthen society, encourage monogamous and loving marriages and to provide the optimal environment to ensure the well being of children." Well, the well being of my children, and of children from other gay families, are best served if their two

daddies/mommies have the choice to legally marry and then remain so without fear of having their union overturned at a later date. So, isn't it prejudice to exclude these children because their parents are of the same gender?

And please let's not shy away from the phrase "gay agenda" as if it's a bad thing. Because folks, I am clear. There is a gay agenda. It's called equal rights.

***

The pictures of today's entry were taken by Adam Bouska. He and his partner Jeff Parshley have created this silent protest in response to the passage of Prop 8. All his subjects wear white tees and NOH8 tattoos with duct tape covering their mouths. It's a powerful image. Many celebrities have supported the NOH8 campaign and last week our family went in to have our pictures taken. We are very proud to be part of this historic protest, and I'm personally thrilled of the outcome. Be sure to go to the NOH8 website to see more of Adam's compelling work.

***

And in keeping with the political theme... We are voting for the State Assemblyman of the 43rd district tomorrow. In all my years living here I do not recall being inundated with so many political fliers and phone calls. Both Democratic nominees, Mike Gatto and Nayiri Nahabedian are doing all they can to get us to the polls.

In my last blog entry, I relayed an actual conversation as told to me by my husband. A volunteer from Gatto's camp tried to secure his vote. And being the gay Nazi that he is (Michael wouldn't even buy Coors Lite for my cousin last week because of their stance against homosexuals) he asked the volunteer what Mr. Gatto's position was on gay marriage. The poor guy was a bit confused and didn't have the facts at hand, which made my previous entry funny, or at least to me.

However, Mike Gatto didn't think so. Last week, he got wind of my blog and actually called our house!! He apologized for the volunteer's lack of knowledge and said he's been advocating for gay marriage "for years, maybe decades." He then added my blog was the only one that came to mind that was negative and he was "hurt" that my entry put his campaign in a "bad light." And in all sincerity, Mike, I am truly sorry. I was going for humor, not judgement.

The other thing I personally found significant about this election is that Gatto has taken the high road in response to the opposition's smear tactics. And there is nothing that turns me off more than a politician who doesn't stick to her own stance on the issues. Don't you remember what happened to Hillary, Ms. Nahabedian? Shame on you.

I know who I'll be voting for tomorrow.

***

In a bizarre follow up... Nayiri Nahabedian also personally called us!! This happened yesterday. We weren't home and both Gatto's and Nahabedian's messages are now side by side on our answering machine. Not since junior high politics have I felt so popular. "Vote for me and I'll be your best friend." Is this a new trend? Should I expect our gubernatorial nominees to start calling come November? If so, Jerry Brown, use your sultry voice.

Hot Button Issues Can Be Sooooo Confusing

2010-03-15T21:41:00.000-07:00

Mike Gatto is running in April's election for the State Assembly in California. Well, yesterday, one of his peeps called our house and my husband answered...

CALLER: Would you consider voting for Mike Gatto?

HUSBAND: Before I can answer that, I need to know where he stands on gay marriage.

CALLER: (Pause.) Well, um, I'm pretty sure he's for it.

HUSBAND: (Not totally convinced.) Where can I see that in writing?

CALLER: (Searching frenetically.) Well... I'm sure it's here somewhere. Oh, yeah, here it is. Yes, he definitely is in favor of gay marriage. (Beat. Beat.) No, wait, that's abortion.

Residual Check

2010-03-10T11:25:00.000-08:00

Residual checks always perk me up. They're sort of a mystical concept. You never know when they'll appear nor how how much they'll be. And I, at least, have no earthly clue what sort of algebraic gymnastics the Screen Actors Guild goes through to determine what ends up in our bank account.

Today, when I found a residual check nestled amongst the bills, it was like Christmas in March.

Then, once again, I had that nagging thought that I should be more diligent in understanding the byzantine world of residual pay, but to be honest, I got a turkey to cook (guests tonight), beds to make and dogs to de-worm. Who has the time?

Luckily, it doesn't have to be a lot of money to make me happy. Just enough for a jumbo-sized bottle of Ketel One and I'm grinning like Carol Channing off her meds. Well today was a red letter day. Seventeen payments were added together in a single check. I can practically taste that martini.

Foreign Royalty Statements are always a hoot because you get to see which of our shows are watched overseas. ER, Ally McBeal and Monk make sense. They are/were all blue chip shows. But Switzerland really follows Yes, Dear? And Strong Medicine is big in Spain? I'm pretty sure the only episodes I saw of either of those clunkers were the ones featuring my husband.

But thoughts of Michael as Detective Paul Armstrong on Strong Medicine subside as I imagine sparkling bottles of top shelf vodka lining my liquor cabinet/ironing board closet.

Then I take a closer look...

Fifteen dollars and sixty-two cents! Seventeen showings and all we get is fifteen dollars and sixty-two cents!! (The episode of Monk paid the most, while Strong Medicine paid out a penny an episode. Told you it was a crappy show.) So much for Ketel One. I'll be lucky if I can buy a bag of Funions and a six pack of Bud.

Three Heaping Spoonfuls of Homophobia

2010-03-04T19:58:00.000-08:00

Homophobia moment number one deals with Black History Month in the Los Angeles Unified School District. At Wadsworth Elementary the students put on a parade carrying banners depicting prominent African Americans: Barack Obama, Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, Jr., you get my drift. Along with these fine folk were also images of OJ Simpson, Dennis Rodman and RuPaul, which has caused quite a media kerfluffle, and in my opinion an unnecessary kerfluffle. Some parents were offended, then the school board got involved, and finally the NAACP got wind of it and the entire incident has been so blown out of proportion that it lead to the suspension and possible future firing of three teachers.

Even our not-so-faultless mayor, Antonio Villaraigosa, chimed in, "These teachers undermine the school's well-intentioned celebration, and they did so at the expense of elementary school students. Their actions were not only cynical, but did a terrible disservice to the students, their families and all of the teachers who work hard on a daily basis to build trust and a productive learning environment."

Undermine? Cynical? This is a blatant case of guilty before proven innocent. The teachers in question are being lynched by the media without being given the chance to state their case. If I were teaching a class and little Jaquan wanted to have RuPaul or Dennis Rodman (or Lil' Kim or Kobe Bryant or Michael Jackson or Omarosa) on his banner, why would I take his role model away from him? It would be my job to encourage independent thought not conformity.

To be honest, I get why the folks might be PO'ed about OJ, although ironically Simpson does appear on the list of approved Black History Month figures. (Someone might want to update that list.) But why are Rodman and RuPaul placed in the same category as a convicted armed robber/kidnapper/possible wife murderer? Sure, Dennis was the bad boy of basketball court as Tiger is now the bad boy of the links. But he's never committed a felony. Should we wipe out his accomplishments because of a few questionable choices?

But let me set OJ and Dennis aside for one moment. Why is it so horrendous that RuPaul was honored with a banner? Because she's a goddess with a penis? The way I look at it...Frederick Douglass, Harriet Tubman, why not RuPaul? Talk about breaking barriers. I get that folks may be uncomfortable with a man in a bustier, however there are many gay boys who need someone to look up to. And what better role model could there be? It took balls of titanium to live the life she's lived.

Perhaps LAUSD's and NAACP's biggest gripe isn't that Dennis Rodman and RuPaul feel comfortable applying eye liner and wearing dresses, it's that they both look damn good doing it.

I'll tell you a story. When I lived in New York, I worked on this film called To Wong Foo Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar (one of the bulkiest titles in cinema history.) And we were doing these crazy seventeen hour days at Webster Hall in the East Village. Everyone's nerves were fried. On the third day, we were just about to finish the last shot and some of the electricity goes out. There we were, about 200 people, many of them in full drag, at three-thirty in the morning with murder in our eyes. Well, RuPaul was also working on the film and she asks if we would like to hear part of her act. We, of course, cheered like howler monkeys. And she performed a hysterical thirty minute set until the power was restored. Because of RuPaul, not only did we finish our night's work in great spirits, but we all lived to tell about it.

She is referred to as a diva, and I'm not about to take that away from her, but she's also a lady. And shame on Los Angeles Unified School District for not only not accepting RuPaul as a heroine for Black History Month, but shame on them for not getting on their knees and bowing to the queen.

***

Homophobia moment number two deals with California state senator, Roy Ashburn. Now my beef with him isn't that he got a DUI last week. Or that he was arrested after leaving a gay bar in Downtown Sacramento. Or that there was an unidentified, non-government man with him in the government car. Or that last year when questioned if he was gay, he answered, "Why would that be anyone's business?" Or even that six days before he was booked, Ashburn attended the crowning of Miss Gay Latina Sacramento.

No.

I take issue with none of those. (Although, he should watch the DUI thing, just ask Dennis Rodman.) What I find atrocious is Senator Ashburn's voting record. He has unilaterally voted against every gay issue since he took office, from an anti-discrimination bill to out-of-state same sex marriage legislation.

Christopher Cabaldon, West Sacramento's openly gay mayor, who has spotted Asburn out and about at many a gay nightclub, posted on Facebook, "It wouldn't bother me so bad to see Roy Ashburn at Badlands with a boy if he didn't have such a bad voting record on gay rights."

Now, I suppose the argument could be made that California's 18th District, from where Ashburn hales, is a conservative bastion and he would be jobless if he voted for Harvey Milk Day.

But, I find that faulty. If he likes the gay bars and the gay boys and the drag shows, and why shouldn't he, then it strikes me as common decency to legislate for the equal rights of those he's diddling in the back room.

I do not respect de rigueur politics. Nor do I accept his "I just voted how my constituents wanted" excuse.

Hey, Roy, grow a pair of RuPaul balls. You don't need to strut around in Jimmy Choos, but stand up for who you are and maybe you'll gain some respect. And I'm not talking about my respect or your constituency's respect. Look in the mirror, buddy. You need to respect yourself.

***

Homophobia moment number three deals with an irate Facebook message I received from Maxie's birth mother, Phylis. Not directed at me, mind you, but in response to her sister's intolerance. She visited Sissy (I think in Louisiana) and was bombarded with how Maxie isn't "growin up right," the inference of course being that gay parents shouldn't raise kids. And instead of "choke the bitch" Phylis decided to cut her visit short.

Phylis ended her message with the following: PS. i really would kick any one ass for u guys.

Phylis, I'm sorry you had to go through that. I know some of the decisions you've made have not been easy and they required a lot of soul searching. For someone to systematically stomp on your choices really sucks. I'm not always sure why, but closed minded individuals work diligently to maintain their narrow views. It's not always easy, but it's our job to do what we can to protect ourselves and not let them get to us.

And, by the way, right back at you. Tell me where your sister lives. I'll send Michael to kick her ass."

***

I know there are a lot of angry people out there who don't want to hear this but we are here. And we are Democrats, and we are Republicans, and we work right beside you, and live next door to you, and we take out the trash, and we get our teeth cleaned and our tires rotated, and we pick out preschools, and we clip coupons because we're hurting financially, and we plan to watch the Oscars even though we think we already know who'll win, and we play sports competitively, and play instruments harmoniously, and we have talk shows, and pastry shops, and garages, and fitness centers, and we raise families, and we get married in Washington DC, and we give birth, and we mourn those who pass, and we deeply love those who are with us. We are here...

...And we are not going anywhere.