Mommy with a Penis

Marriage in this state shall consist only of the union of one man and one woman. These are the exact words the grand ol' state of Texas chose to add to it's constitution four years ago to prohibit gay marriage. But those Texan lawmakers are cagey. They knew they couldn't leave the language simple. Some smart-ass sissy boy might find a loophole by procuring a civil union, let's say, and then backdoor his way down the aisle with a welder named Clyde wearing Vera Wang, no less. Oh, the horror! So, to put a stop to the whole magilla, gay marriage, civil union and it's incestuous cousin domestic partnership, the following sentence was added... This state or a political subdivision of this state may not create or recognize any legal status identical or similar to marriage. These changes were voted on, and not surprisingly, passed into law. That's right, it's in the books. No gay marriage here. We're a football state, and we barbecue. So, take that, you pansies

SEBASTIAN: My daddy's a satyr. ANY STRANGER WHO WILL LISTEN: I'm sorry. SEBASTIAN: My daddy is a satyr. ANY STRANGER WHO WILL LISTEN: Your daddy eats Seder? SEBASTIAN: (With increasing fury.) No. He's a satyr. ANY STRANGER WHO WILL LISTEN: You mean a sailor. SEBASTIAN: A satyr. ANY STRANGER WHO WILL LISTEN: A settler? SEBASTIAN: A satyr! ANY STRANGER WHO WILL LISTEN: A senior? A sadist? A sitarist? SEBASTIAN: No. You are not listening to me. MY DADDY IS A SATYR!!! As a parent, I never expected to hear that uttered from my child's lips. The problem is twofold. No one expects a little kid to announce that his father is a mythological creature, and many folks don't know what the dickens a satyr really is. So, let's start by demystifying. In Greek mythology, a satyr is a follower of Dionysus, and on vase paintings is portrayed with with a swinging horse tail and perpetual erection. It wasn't until Roman times when the upper body of a man was attached to the lowe

One hundred sounds really old, doesn't it? Come to think, I don't think I've ever met anyone who was one hundred. But this isn't about any one , and we're certainly not celebrating any thing that has achieved one hundred status. I've not made a replica of the Hollywood sign with one hundred sugar cubes, for example, or swallowed one hundred fireflies. This isn't even my hundredth blog entry, it's my seventy-eighth for those of you who are counting. But this is a monumental anniversary, nonetheless. It's Mommy's birthday. And by Mommy, I don't mean Sally, my biological mommy, her birthday is Income Tax Day. No, today Mommy With a Penis is a spry one year old. Birthdays are usually a time for self reflection, for looking back at the previous year and weighing achievements vs. missteps. It's a good time to create lists for the upcoming year, to meditate on future blog entries. For instance, do I reexplore the train wreck that is Carrie Pr

After I wrote the previous post, Tom Cruise is a Raging...Scientologist , a friend of mine found this very pertinent footage and I had to share. For all of you Top Gun fans out there, don't blame me for this clip. Quentin Tarantino started it.

Tuesday, I was killing time on Hollywood Blvd. while Sebastian was at speech therapy. And scattered amongst tranny wig supplies and bong accessory stores were numerous buildings all labeled with the same name. And in the middle of a Pinkberry -induced false sense of security, I had a disturbing thought. When will LA be renamed L. Ron? In Hollywoodland the words L. Ron Hubbard and Scientology are emblazoned everywhere. My first brush with Scientology was in Brighton, England some twenty odd years ago. A guy on the street was offering free movie tickets. I didn't have the money to see Angel Heart at the real cineplex, so I thought what the heck. Little did I know it was a Dianetics promotional flick. I don't remember anything about it, except at the movie's end there was an explosion of some sort. Although an engaging special effect, I chose not to partake of the Scientology bundt cake. In LA I've known many friends, including my husband, who have studied acting at t

My husband is leaving me...well, us. He's leaving us. On Sunday, he's getting on a jet plane to San Jose. (No, he does not know the way , Burt Bacharach , but thankfully the pilot does.) And for the next two months he'll be living in Palo Alto. It's work related. He's going to be acting in a Paula Vogel musical called Civil War Christmas . (Uninviting title if you ask me.) And as we draw near I find myself resenting having to accept his departure. At first, I tried fiercely to ignore the inevitable. I was in such denial that I only asked him this morning, "What day are you leaving?" And when I look back over the last month, I realize that any time he brought up his encroaching exodus, my stomach tightened and my breath became labored. We had friends over Wednesday night and Michael came into the kitchen having just read about his accommodations. He was visibly excited and had to share with all of us, "You won't believe this place..." "

A mom at my daughter's pre school was enthusiastically passing out lollipops for Halloween. She pulled me close and gushed, "These lollipops had to be special ordered. They're organic and sweetened with beet juice!" Another mom who was eavesdropping leaned in conspiratorially, "Well, that's going to be a blog entry." Have I become that transparent? Because, yes, when I heard sweetened with beet juice I immediately filed it away. It's a brilliant mommy moment. Probably only intensified by the fact that never in a thousand years would I consider special ordering lollies that weren't chalk full of sugar. To wit: Sebastian's fifth birthday was bug-themed, and each child left with a goody bag which included a lollipop that resembled hardened amber with an honest to goodness grasshopper caught inside. Maybe that speaks to my character: grasshopper/heaps of sugar, yes; organic/beet juice, no. Maxie's school celebrated Halloween by going Tru nk