Mommy with a Penis

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.

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...

I am up Shit Creek. No exag. I'm doing what everyone else is doing, running around in my little hampster wheel feeling as if I'm making headway, but in reality I'm in the same plastic habitat with wood chips strewn about. I mean, can it really be October? This week was picture week at my son's school. We always have to pack an extra shirt in his backpack, because invariably his pics are shot after lunch. I get his teeth brushed, my husband combs his hair. (But really, if his shots are after lunch, what's the point?) We tell him once again what to expect and with an air of professionalism he says, "Will they take only one picture or is this a photo shoot?" Well, excuse me, Miss Desmond. I didn't know you were so particular about your close up. Living pert near on top of Hollywood has been a concern. I don't want my kids to be Southern Californian cliches, acting as if they just stepped out of the movie Clueless . I don't want them all knowing...

Six weeks ago, my little family drove north on Interstate 5, hung a right at Highway 14 and drove into Antelope Valley. Sounds like a pretty place, doesn't it? Almost mystical. I would bet most of you, if you were to take out your own personal mental snapshot of California you would be looking at Rocky Mountains or the roiling Pacific, majestic redwoods or overpriced amusement parks. I'm sure none of you pictured Antelope Valley. Although it sounds like a lush savanna bounding with chipper quadrupeds, in fact, Antelope Valley has no antelopes. The poor creatures were obliterated by hunters in the 1880's, and replaced with prefab homes, out of date strip malls, alfalfa fields and the second largest Borax pit mine. Antelope Valley also has the distinction of being the crystal meth darling of the Mojave. This is where my daughter, Maxie, was born. (Interesting to note, the nurse in charge of Maxie's care for the first two days of her life, told us an increase of meth users...

So proud of hubby. Last night, he opened in the Musical Theatre West's production of Little Shop of Horrors . For those of you with your head up your tuchus, Little Shop is about a plant from outer space who eats people. Okay, so it's not folksy Oklahoma! , however it's a fab musical. And even though three puppeteers operate the giant carnivorous plant, Michael provides the voice of this meat eater. (As I said a couple of posts back, Michael knows meat . Type casting.) When he did this role on Broadway, it was one of the of the easiest gigs going. He sat in a booth with a microphone and five monitors, four with views of the stage and plant, and one of the conductor. Because no one could see him, he could read directly from his script, or drink a pitcher of martinis, or plot the downfall of a third world country. In my humble wifey opinion, I think his voice is stronger then it was on the Great White Way. His chiding "tough titty" thrilled me to my bones, and his ...

Last week, I assumed a conscientious, thoughtful wife demeanor. I entered the kitchen with purpose, but not to belittle nor cause defenses to arise. "Michael," I calmly started out, pleased with my nonthreatening tone, "We need to talk." He stopped what he was doing, looked me the eye, no computer screen, no iPhone in sight. All these years of programming have finally begun to pay off. "Yes," he said. His voice was strong, maybe a bit on the defensive, but able to listen. Good. "Look," I continued, "I have a slight suggestion. Now, I don't want you to respond right away. Let me say my piece and walk out of the room, think about it for a while, and we'll talk about it later." I came up with this system because neither one of us is good when cornered with a slight suggestion. And sometimes living with it, even for one day, takes the edge off. "I know how busy you are running the theatre. I am aware that theatre hours demand m...

For the following, sweeping generalizations will be made. Perhaps even a stereotype of two. So enter, fair hearts, with care. This is not for the squeamish. I start with a definition. Let me flip open my American Heritage. Ah, yes, here we are. Culture. The totality of socially transmitted behavior patterns, arts, beliefs, institutions, and all other products of work and thought. Culture has been an ongoing conversation between Michael and me since we met. We certainly do not see brown eye to blue eye on everything, however, we respect each other's point of view, which sometimes means shutting the fuck up. For instance, my husband wouldn't let Sebastian's hair be cut until his second birthday. It's a black thing. It's part of his culture. Thing is our son looked like a sheepdog by the time I finally got him in a barber's chair. Sebastian is white. So, if I understand the definition, my black husband socially transmitted his African American beliefs on to a g...

I might have indulged a bit last night. Michael and I went to a bar. This peculiar, edgy guy showed an interest in my husband. He went on about Michael's energy, how they connected when their eyes met, how he had not seen a light in someone's eyes since his meeting with the Dalai Lama. Let's call him Crazy. And Crazy pulled something out of his pocket for Michael to see. My husband then smelled this something, let out an appreciative "Mmmmm" and said I should give it a go. I leaned in to see a gooey brown substance on Crazy's fingers. Having two young ones who often secrete gooey brown onto various parts of their bodies, I was immediately suspect. Did that stop me? Of course not. I inhaled and smelled chocolate. Hold on. Not just chocolate. Chocolate mixed with something. Chocolate and pot. Crazy told me to open my mouth. And evidently, this is when my common sense decided to take a road trip to Tijuana. In a convivial display of "why the hell not?"...

This morning, a parent from Sebastian's school said, "You know, your husband is a whore." He felt justified in saying this because he saw Michael has over 1,500 Facebook friends, making it sound like my husband doled out fifteen hundred blowjobs to acquire those friends. (I can't imagine it's that many.) You might think I'd defend my husband's honor. I did not. The thing is, I know I married a slut... Or should I say former slut... Perhaps recovering slut is more apt. However you parse it, slut in the former or recovering stage, I do admit that Michael is a tremendous flirt. "How can you let your husband flirt like that?" I've heard on more than one occasion. But I believe that Michael's flirting is a spectacular talent and should not be reserved for me alone. Would you stifle a child who had a natural aptitude for music? Of course not. You'd go out and buy him a trumpet. It's the same with Michael, he goes into a bar and charms t...