Mommy with a Penis

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 befo...

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 fr...

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 soli...

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 simply find it's directness an easier way to motor through life. To tell a lie or be decidedly vague to my kids and then have to remember and support that lie every time ...

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 hav...

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 marriag...

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 t...