English Muffins!!!

On the surface I'm blaming this week's baking binge on having neglected and abused my sourdough starter this summer. In an attempt to bring it back from the brink of death I've had to use it-- a lot. Hence the blueberry muffins, English muffins and gigantic sourdough loaf. In reality, I think I'm beginning to meltdown and try to cope with the fact that Julie is going back to work next week and I'm facing another school year out of the classroom. I never, ever, EVER intended to stop working and stay home with a kid. There was no part of me that was ever even remotely tantalized by the idea of being a stay-at-home-mom (I believe that even has its own abbreviation, no? SAHM?), so finding myself at home 24/7... driving my little numlet to and from nursery school; doing laundry and dishes and housekeeping; grocery shopping; and arranging playtime with friends... was a huge shock to the system a year and a half ago. And the tingling still hasn't worn off. 

And so I've been baking. And I had NO IDEA that ordinary humans could make real English muffins. I mean... I've always assumed that they were only made by British versions of the Keebler elves in giant orange factories. After feeding my sourdough breakfast yesterday morning I couldn't bring myself to throw away the discard cup before feeding it lunch. So I put the cup in the fridge and decided that I'd find a use for it. By midmorning today I had painstakingly cut out 24 individual muffins and set to rise the dough for a large sourdough boule. 

Fun Fact: English Muffins have to be individually cooked on a griddle or in a heavy frying pan for about 15 minutes! Who knew? You can't just toss 'em all in the oven...

Happily, my muffins came out pretty damn near perfect on the first try... even though I forgot to add the 4 tablespoons of butter. 

I mean... check out those nooks and crannies! 

By noon I had finished cooking all 24 muffins (4 of which we devoured before they were even cool enough to handle) and had pulled my slightly-too-sour sourdough out of the oven. 

My starter is tucked safely back in the fridge, refreshed and bolstered by two days of love and feedings. When the school year begins it will be happy to get more regular attention as Friday night will once again be pizza night and its weekly services will be required. If you need me before then, I'll probably be in the kitchen. I think there are some chicken carcasses that could be turned into broth... 

There's only so much...

Barbara Ehrenreich's Nickel and Dimed might be the book that I think about most often. I've read it many times and it comes to mind every time I walk into a hotel, restaurant or Wal*Mart or see a nursing home, maid service, or an ad for a food pantry. I've done my fair share of "unskilled" labor- I worked in a CVS, a Dunkin' Donuts, a book warehouse, and a corporate day care chain. I had coworkers who lived with family because they couldn't pay rent, who walked miles because they couldn't afford gas for their cars, who were illegal immigrants all sharing the same SSN and living in a flop house owned by the manager, who were tending to rich people's kids all day while theirs stayed home with a marginally competent grandmother, who blew their entire paychecks on beer and strippers every other Friday while their baby-mama paged them (yep. dating myself) repeatedly for diaper money, who hid the unsellable donuts/bagels behind the "clean" dumpster in a plastic bag, who left their older child in the car parked in view of the business for an entire shift because there was no available child care (the kid was 11 and playing a gameboy the whole time- it wasn't summer and he could have come out to get help if he needed it). I was a high school/college kid working as many hours as my schedule would possibly allow. At times I made more than they did despite being 10, 20 or 30 years younger. I'm an amazingly amendable customer. I take rude customer service with a grain of salt because I figure there is a lot going on behind it. I rarely make a fuss about mistakes in restaurants or hotels and I can't bring myself to hire a cleaning lady/maid in 99% of situations. I'm usually conscious of my privilege to a fault. 

But there's only so much... 

It has been a difficult two weeks. Ramona (as she is now usually calling herself) turned 3 at the end of June and the floodgates just burst. She is a beautiful, wonderful, smart, amazing, inquisitive, imaginative, loving, endearing, miraculous pain in the ass. She melts down at the drop of a hat. She negotiates every moment of the day. She began having bathroom accidents more frequently. She screams-- red faced, sweating, fists clenched, eyes bulging out of her head. She wakes up raring and ready to go and fights sleep the as I imagine god fighting the fallen angles- fiery sword-weilding cherub and all. We tackled the bathroom accidents first because they were the most physically messy and they were interfering with our gym time. Pulling a card from my days teaching 1st grade inclusion in the Bronx, we decided to use a tangible incentive system. Each morning we would give her an object of her heart's desire-- with a catch. If she had an accident, we would take it away until the following day. (One year I had a student who purposefully peed on my rug every day. No one believed she could control it, but I knew she could. And this kid loved bling. So I decided on plastic bracelets. She got one every day when she entered the room. If she didn't pee on anything, she could keep it. Cost me about 100 plastic bracelets, but she never peed on my rug again.) Ramona love tiny objects. It started with a little black Christmas tree ornament when she was 1 1/2. Then Calico Critters toys, a tiny pencil topper from the 80's, a box of Littlest Pet Shop toys from a friend, a few packets of tiny puzzle erasers and then, our latest discovery, Zinkies. Zinkies are so tiny that you can comfortably sit 3 of them on a penny. They come with a pair of tweezers and a magnifying glass. They are sold in packs of 12 and are on clearance for only $4.50 right now at Wal*Mart. 

We started with one pack. Every time we were going to leave the house for more than an hour or so, we would give Ramona a Zinkie and remind her that if she had an accident, we would take it away. Miraculously, the accidents dried up. Two weeks, 12 Zinkies, no accidents. One of them even made it down the MetroNorth, on subways to the Museum of Natural History, through the museum, out to lunch, to a playground, back on the subways, into, out of and back into Grand Central Station and back home on the MetroNorth, clutched in her fist. 3 day music festival. Only porta potties. No accidents. On the heels of this success, we decided to up the ante. "No Temper Tantrums." As of tomorrow, if she has an accident OR an avoidable temper tantrum, the Zinkie is ours. 

To do this, of course, we needed more Zinkies. After a day of epic tantrums we finally got her to nap (a rare occurrence) and I hopped, exhausted and with a migraine, into the car to go to Wal*Mart-- where I wandered in circles for a ridiculously long time trying to remember why I was there. When I pulled myself together and found the Zinkies I was happy to see that they were still on Clearance and there were 4 packages (48 Zinkes!!!) that we didn't have yet for only $4.50 each. A small price to pay for what should last us several months. I snatched them up, along with a $1.00 pack of Squinkies (the Zinkies' big brother toy) and headed for the checkout. Express... as I had under 12 items. 

My cashier fit the general demographic of who you would expect your cashier to be in a somewhat Urban Northeastern Wal*Mart. I was her last customer before she had to close her register for a 15 minute break at 3:30. I was aware of this and wanted to just make it all quick and easy so I could go home and she could "enjoy" her break. The first Zinkie rang up at $4.50 and had a sticker that said $4.50. The second one had a sticker that said $4.50 and rang up at $7.00. Neither of the other packs had a sticker, and they both rang up at $9.00. The shelf they were on had all said $4.50. They are all, essentially, the same damn thing. I pointed out that the second one rang up different from the sticker price, and she said there was nothing she could do. I pointed out that the other two were supposed to be $4.50 and had rung up at $9, and she said there was nothing she could do. I asked if there was a way to overide it. You would have thought I had asked her to push a boulder up a mountain for all of eternity. She couldn't. Sorry. Someone would have to price check them. Could someone price check them, I asked. No. No one could price check them now. She put them under the register. I bought the one that had rung up correctly and went back to price check it myself. Sure enough, I found two more with the appropriate stickers and brought them with me to the same register where the cashier was counting out her drawer. She did not look pleased to see me. Could I please have back the one shaped like a birthday cake? I'd like to take them to another register. 

No. 

No? No, I can't have them back? 

No. I'm closed. 

Yes. I see that you're closed. That's why I'm not asking you to ring them up. I'd like to take them to another register. Please. 

She looked at me like I had spit on her mother's grave and pulled 3 half eaten pretzels out of her shirt pocket and laid them down on the counter and began to eat them. Nickel and Dimed came to mind again. This was terrible. This was her break and here was her snack? Couldn't she at least go to the break room or bathroom or something? Abandon her post so I could grab the damn Zinkies and go to another register? 

I explained that I found another item with a $4.50 sticker on it- so I just needed the birthday cake one and I would go to another register and see if they could get someone to figure out why they weren't ringing up right. I didn't want to bother her. 

She said that no one would fix it because the computer was ringing it up different. I explaiend that it was marked in the back and that it was on a clearance shelf and that there were stickers on them and that it must be a mistake in the system. Could. I. Please. Have. It. Now?

She pulled it out and took the other two from me and rang them through her register. Two rang up at $9 and one at $7. "See?" she said. "They ain't $4.50." But... but the sticker... the shelf... could I just take it to an open register? Maybe they could get a manager to look into it? 

She told me, again, that no one was going to change it. She told me it came to $26 something. I said I didn't want her to ring it up, I just wanted her to give it to me. 

"Then what am I ringing it up for?" she asked. 

Beats the fuck outta me.

She voided the whole order and then stood there staring at me, holding all 3 of them in her hand. 

Could I have them back? 

She kept holding them. 

Could I just....

She started scanning them again. A flurry of activity on the keypad and they all suddenly rang up at $4.50. 

WTF? 

Well, he looks harmless...

I'm kind of proud to be part of the last "generation" to go through college without the widespread use of cell phones. There was no Facebook... no checking in when you got someplace, no knowing when all of your friends were meeting up without you, no worrying about how you looked as you dash next door to the dining room at 10:30 PM for mozzarella sticks because you might run into a friend who might snap a picture of you waiting on line and post it for all the world to see, no fidgeting fingers or lack of eye contact (though I think, at times, too much eye contact might have gotten me in trouble as well...). I didn't text or tweet or poke... I called people on a landline, sent them instant messages and... well... ok. Maybe there was a bit of poking. But it was done in real life. I was aware of cell phones and the rapidly changing technology, but I enjoyed not being accessible at all times and I seriously wish I could go back without putting myself at a social, or even financial, disadvantage.

Take the time a group of us cut class and went swimming out in the Wallkill River. First, we never thought to Google (Alta Vista? Netscape?) a water quality report-- because now that I know what is in the Wallkill, I'll never swim in it again. It was hot. How hot? I dunno. I didn't have a TV or a handheld device to tell me, and my car didn't have a built in thermometer. It was hot enough that we had to put our clothes back on to leave our dorm room and walk to the car. Hot enough that not all of us wore shirts while we drove out. It wasn't hot enough for my car to overheat. I'm guessing mid 90s. Next, no one knew where we had gone. We didn't show up in our appointed classes and we didn't post on any social media website "Fuck this. Too hot. Going swimming. Hit us up at the rope swing."We didn't run into anyone on our way out to the van or see anyone we knew at the swimming hole. If one of us had drowned, we were a good 10 minutes from the nearest phone- we wouldn't have been able to call for help or look up how to do CPR. On the way back-- we stayed as long as we wanted since I don't think anyone was wearing a watch-- we picked up a hitchhiker. He looked ok. A little scruffy. There were 3 or 4 of us in the car and at least one of us was a burly, hairy chested guy. Again- no phone... no posting, "About 2 pick up a hitchhiker. Call 4 help if I don't post again," with a location tag on the end of it to help them find the bodies. 4 college kids in a car with a hitchhiker. We kinda liked the guy and went out to dinner with him afterwards, arriving back in our dorm rooms tired, sunburned, full and ready to strip back down to next to nothing and wait out another long night without A/C, NetFlix or YouPorn. Feels like the StoneAge. 

Or the night I went to a... ummm... a gathering... with a bunch of friends and ran into a much older acquaintance from class and decided to go back to her place (with her 7 year old son) to hang out for awhile. My friends knew who I had left with... her first name at least... though I had no idea where she lived or how long I was gonna be gone. We talked and ate and played with tarot cards until about 1 in the morning and then she loaded her sleeping kid into the back seat and we decided to drive off into the mountains to look at the full moon. I've spent years trying to figure out where the hell she took me and, while I've narrowed it down to a few spots, I'm still not completely sure. Sadly I didn't have an iPhone (or, you know, an instant Kodak camera) with me, so I only have memories to go on.  I got dropped back off at my dorm by 3 and, without anywhere to post the photos that I didn't take, I went to bed. Woke up the next morning and decided to keep most of it to myself. Not for any particular reason. Maybe just because I could. 

While I know cell phones would have been hella convenient in some cases (might have saved us a 4 hour round trip drive that time our dear Cx missed her bus to Saratoga Springs...) I can't even begin to imagine how much more tangled my webs would have been if I had to worry about living in both the physical plane and the interweb plane simultaneously. I loved having my space to disappear  when I wanted to (and yes, I know that I could still disappear if I wanted to, but not in the same way), my space to fudge the truth a little bit without having to worry about an online footprint giving me away, my space to fuck up royally and have time to smooth things over before they went viral. As much as I enjoy keeping in touch with distant friends and family through Facebook-- seeing their photos and statuses, keeping our communication open through snippets and "likes"-- I miss sitting with people for hours on end and filling each other in on all of the stuff that we now just post about. I miss being able to read their tone of voice, their body language, catching fleeting expressions as they talk. I wonder how much of that has been lost on the newest generations of college kids-- and even in the adult relationships I form now. How many chances to connect in person are missed because my attention is divided between the conversation I'm having in person and the conversation I'm having on Facebook... how many sidewards glances, slow deep breaths, rolled eyes or gentle shifts towards or away from someone. How many impromptu swims have I missed because I was too busy checking the EPA's website?

Beets, Chocolate, Bread and Dill, Bread and Dill...

Every now and then, Julie and I go on cooking benders. They can last a morning, an evening, an entire day or, in severe cases, several days in a row. After a solid week away from home, today was prime time for a good one.

So far today we've made:

Chocolate Zucchini Cake

Fruit Salad

Pork and Veggie Stir Fry

Pickled Beets

Dilly Cucumber Salad

Cumin and Tandoori Spiced Garbanzo Bean Salad

2 Loaves of Sourdough Bread
(I let them rise outside instead of in my proofer box, since the conditions outside seemed PERFECT- 85 degrees and humid-- and I can't wait to see how they taste. If appearance is any indicator, they're gonna be good!!)

Honey Teriyaki Grilled Chicken Thighs

We're thinking we'll pack a bunch of it up and head down to the Waterfront Green tonight for a picnic and magic show. Hopefully this also means that it will be several days before we have to do a lot of significant "What's For Dinner??" cooking and planning.

Luckily, I don't diet

I work out for a lot of reasons. I work out because I like to be strong. Because I like the challenge. Because it helps quiet the voices of the demons that kept me on a 600-800 calorie diet for most of high school. Because I like the people. Because I enjoy doing bizarre things like Spartan Races and mud runs. Because it gets me out of the house and separates me from my demanding toddler for at least 6 hours a week. Because it's part of my routine. Because I like to eat and, yes, because it burns calories and helps me attain and maintain an appearance and level of fitness that makes it easier for me to negotiate sanity on a day-to-day basis.

On Thursday afternoon, between mini vacations to Rhode Island and the Catskills, I saw the following picture (with the accompanying caption as a comment) posted on FB. It was posted by a fitness trainer and casual acquaintance, and, though it clearly wasn't her intent, it seriously annoyed me. I've been thinking about it pretty frequently since then.

Uh Oh! Don't ruin your diet! You work so hard... Dont ruin it cause its 4th of July. Stay strong!

I find this problematic on many levels- the grammar to begin with (but I've often been told not to be the Facebook Grammar Police- so I'll let it slide). It's insulting. It's misleading. It's belittling. It is not inspirational. It's just plain wrong.

The majority of the women whom I've come to know at the gym, and to whom this FB post was largely addressed, go to the gym the way they go to work, the way they pick their kids up from daycare, do laundry, cook meals, keep appointments, pay bills, cut the grass or take the dog to the vet. They do it as part of their day, part of their routine, part of what they just do. They have gone to the same classes or machines week after week, stood in practically the same spots evening after evening and morning after morning through relationships, marriages, divorces, deaths, injuries, surgeries, pregnancies, miscarriages, births, high school, college, job changes, relocations and hardships that I'm sure I don't even know about. To tell people who are so committed to a part of their lives that it could be in jeopardy from a single hot dog (or an entire plate full of them) is ridiculous. And it's part of what is wrong with the "diet culture" in our society. It's not a fucking diet. It's just life.

I'm coming off a span of nearly 3 months where I decided to kick up my exercise/weight loss efforts for a little while. I set a very attainable goal, took very careful-but-doable measures to reach it, battled a few demons along the way, patted myself on the back for gettin' it done and then settled immediately into a week (A WEEK!!!) that started  on Saturday with pizza and Nutella fudge brownies for my daughter's 3rd birthday and segued into meatballs and baked ziti, potato chips, more pizza and cake at her official party on Sunday. On Monday we killed the leftover pizza and cake before hopping in the car for a 3 hour trip up to Rhode Island to rendezvous with my sister and brother-in-law and meet my 4 month old nephew. Tuesday started off with a 60 minute hotel workout (SO SORRY to my sister and brother-in-law for the 6:30 AM jumping jacks- I didn't realize you were right below us!!), followed by a hotel breakfast, our yearly pilgrimage to Iggy's for fried seafood and, later, a homemade clam bake-- complete with giant chocolate chip cookies for dessert. Wednesday, another hotel workout, another hotel breakfast, off to the beach- where I worked up the metaphorical balls to wear a two piece bathing suit in public for the second time in 14 years- with deli sandwiches before afternoon wine and a dinner of lasagna, garlic bread and more cookies...and then ice cream. Thursday, breakfast, Wendy's, home, grilled chicken salad for dinner. Friday morning, 6 AM, bowl of cereal, mug of coffee, back in the car- this time up to spend the day in the Catskills at the home of new friends where there was a breakfast FEAST awaiting us (fried ham, sausage, cheesy eggs, pancakes and COFFEE) before a lunch of homemade guacamole and chips and then an amazing July 4th (one day belated) BBQ with all the trimmings-- right down to coleslaw, a hearty bacon cheeseburger and s'Mores before a long, dark, quiet ride home. I guess, to the original poster of the image, it wouldn't just look like I ruined my "diet". It would look like I blew it out of the water, gathered up the remaining bits, ground them into a fine paste, squeezed them into a sausage casing, grilled it over a fire and ate it on a hoagie roll with fried peppers and onions.

Luckily, I'm not on a diet.

10 years from now when my snuggly, cuddly, precocious and curious toddler is an angsty hormonal teenager and I'm looking for reason NOT to seal her in her room with nothing but basic cable and a feed slot, I'm not going to look back on this past "birthday week" and think, "Damn. That was the week of my undoing. I shouldnt'a eaten that clam cake." Because my life is going to have gone on from this week. It's not even a matter of picking myself up, dusting myself off and slinking, shame-faced, back into the studio to hide the indiscretions of my first week of summer. I'm just gonna change into my gym clothes, drop my kid off in the nursery, and hope that no-one settled into my favorite spot while I was away.

Death And Taxes

Over the past 10 years, Julie and I have given numerous speeches in defense of marriage equality. Most of them have been casual--  impromptu arguments and explanations around the dinner tables of family members or in the living rooms of friends. Several have been public... snippets of a few have made the local morning news.

Thinking about the DOMA decisions this week, I keep coming back to the final paragraph of a speech we gave at the Community Unitarian Church of White Plains (entire text at the bottom of this post). In this speech we talked about the challenges of securing our two domestic partnerships-- one in New York City and the other in Westchester County. We wound up the talk by explaining:

We could stand here today, painting marriage equality as being about the simple need to have our love and commitment recognized and validated, but as Unitarians, and a Welcoming Congregation at that, recognition and validation are already a given here. Take this issue into the community at large, however, and it is death and taxes which really get people’s attention; the extra penalties levied on health care coverage, the loss of a pension , the denial of a deathbed visitation in the hallway of an Intensive Care Unit, the grieving partner unable to collect the ashes of his beloved. Such tragedies regularly invoke in even the most tepid of supporters, those who are squeamish about notions of "gay marriage" and made uncomfortable by Tango the penguin, a recognition of inequality and the stirrings of outrage.

We said this about 5 1/2 years before this week's SCOTUS decision. It seems premonitory  now. Take even a cursory look at the case of US v Windsor. What won us the right to have our marriages recognized by the federal government? Death. And its accompanying taxes.

Thank you, Thea and Edith. I'm sorry one of you had to die for so many people to get it.



January, 2008

On June 20th, 2007, almost 4 years to the day after I called in late to class in order to show up in Bronx County Court to hastily sign the paper work for our first Domestic Partnership Certificate, Julie and I received our second Domestic Partnership. The unceremonious process had started months earlier, in April, when we took a day of our spring break to go hunting, first for the appropriate paperwork for the County of Westchester and later for a notary public to authorize the document. It was two weeks later when we finally found the notary, our form by then crumpled and misshapen from spending a week floating around Julie’s shoulder bag. We stashed the signed, notarized document in my glove box, assuming that I’d eventually make it to the Westchester County Court House to file our paper and pay the requisite fees. It wasn’t until I had to visit the Court House to dispute a traffic ticket that I had the time to visit the County Clerk. So what benefits do we reap from our Domestic Partnership?


Well – it’s tough to say. Depending on the town we’re in, the benefits, if any, will vary. Of course, for each locality, a brand new certificate becomes necessary – imagine being married in Westchester, but not in Putnam etc. – and you begin to get the idea. With a New York City domestic partnership certificate, we were entitled to a smattering of rights assuming that either or both of us were residents and/or employees of the City of New York. One of the supposed benefits of this arrangement was full healthcare coverage for both partners under the City of New York Employee Benefits Plan, so long as one of us was employed by the City of New York. We’ll elaborate on that in a bit.
Uncertain of our official domestic partnership status after both leaving our jobs in New York City 2 years ago, we were compelled to seek out a second domestic partnership issued by the County of Westchester.
And what have we gained from this? We have only found two benefits that directly affect us; the right to visit each other if hospitalized at a county (not town or privately) owned hospital and the ability to apply for a Family Parks Pass to the Westchester County Park System. In addition to these, Andy Spano recently made the “possibility” of health care available through the county for the registered domestic partners of county employees – however the language of his statement was vague at best and relied heavily on the word “may” – as in may provide, may allow, may guarantee, may or may not. It does not impact us, as it does not apply to public school teachers in Westchester County. Neither one of us can receive domestic partnership benefits from our employers. In Christi’s case, it’s because HealthNet does not allow businesses with fewer than fifty employees to extend partnership benefits to individuals; in my case because our Union did not see fit to make it a priority in last year’s contract negotiation.
In 2005 I left my job in NYC to begin a teaching job in suburban Westchester, while Christi continued her employment with the New York City Department of Education. When it became clear that my new health insurance plan would require me to “pay in” a bi-weekly contribution (whereas my former city plan was absolutely free and covered by the City of New York Employee Benefits Plan) – it seemed only logical for me to opt out of this new insurance program and seek shelter under the umbrella of Christi’s remaining City of New York policy, which for all intents and purposes was supposed to welcome me with open arms as her official registered domestic partner.


In order to make this happen I requested all of the appropriate paper work, before the October deadline, and began filling out forms. While going through the packet, I came across a form for the United Federation of Teachers Welfare Fund that walks you through the process of completing each page. I quote: 



Step 5-Section E: Spouse/Domestic Partner Information

- Please remember if married, you must attach a photocopy of your marriage certificate.
- For Domestic Partnerships you must attach the following:

IF YOU RESIDE IN NYC:
- Original approval letter issued by the NYC Employee Benefits Program AND/OR
- Domestic Partnership Registration Certificate

IF YOU RESIDE OUTSIDE NYC:
- Original approval letter issued by the NYC Employee Benefits Program AND/OR
- Alternative Affidavit of Domestic Partnership

PLEASE NOTE FOR DOMESTIC PARTNERSHIPS ONLY: if you are NOT applying for city health benefits, you must also submit a "DECLARATION OF FINANCIAL INTERDEPENDENCE" form. 


Right off the bat, married couples need to provide one photocopy of a document, please. Me, I have no idea what an "Original approval letter issued by the NYC Employee Benefits Program" is... so I pick up the phone.


"Hello, UFT Welfare Fund."

"Hi. I'm trying to fill out my enrollment packet, and I'm not sure what an "Original approval letter issued by the NYC Employee Benefits Program" is. Can you help me?"

"Sure. We don't handle that. You need to call this number."

"Ok, now, is the letter mandatory, or is just the Registration Certificate sufficient?"

"No sweetie, you need to have both."

"Oh, because the packet says 'and/or' so I thought I might only need one."

"Just call this number and they'll help you out."

"Ok, thanks. bye.” I dial the second number. 


"Yes?"

"Hello, is this the NYC Employee Benefits Program office?"

"Yeah."

"OK. I'm trying to get information on the 'Original approval letter issued by the NYC Employee Benefits Program' that I need to submit to the UFT Welfare Fund."

"Uh-hu"

"Can you help me."

"Yeah."

"Ok... What do I need to do?"

"What are you tryin' to do?"

"I need to submit the letter in order to put my domestic partner on my health care for the City of New York."

"OK, so you want to put him on you plan."

"Ummmm... yeah..."

"Ok, we'll send you an approval packet and you gotta fill that out."

"What does the approval packet consist of?"

"You gotta have it to get the letter."

"And what does the letter mean?"

"Listen honey, you just fill it out and get it notarized and send it back to us."

"Could you please tell me what the purpose of this packet is?"


Needless to say, the conversation got me nowhere, so I asked to speak to a supervisor. The supervisor, however, so amazingly belligerent, even suggesting that my sole intention was probably to enroll my mother or sister, that I asked to speak to HER supervisor and, after about 25 minutes, managed to uncover the fact that, despite giving out Domestic Partnership certificates in the City of New York, The City Of New York does not consider a Domestic Partnership certificate to be satisfactory proof of a Domestic Partnership. In order to enroll Julie, I would need to provide bank records, credit card statements, lease agreements and utility bills in both our names, along with the ORIGINAL copy of our Domestic Partnership Certificate, 2 photocopies and a Notarized affidavit stating that all stated information is true. All told, this would have cost about 50 dollars (if not more) that married couples wouldn't have to pay, and then it was possible that New York City could DENY the domestic partnership benefits for not being enough of a domestic partnership despite having the Domestic Partnership Certificate from the city of New York. The lady was, however, sympathetic enough to promise that she would mail the appropriate forms in an unmarked envelope so that nobody would have to know what was inside. In fact, she added, she does this sort of thing all the time.


When the forms finally arrived in their unmarked envelope, Christi and I were puzzled by a page long disclaimer explaining in all kinds of legalese, that once we were co-insured, that because of the Federal Defense of Marriage Act (Kudos to the previous Democratic Administration... btw) any medical costs incurred by the secondary policy holder would become the taxable income of the primary insurance holder. Hypothetically speaking, if I were to require 50k worth of chemo, that amount would be added to Christi’s income and thusly taxed.


Another unmarked envelope arrived in the mail exactly a month ago today, on St. Nicholas Day- a day when a stern Santa-like figure, dressed in red robes, traditionally visits good children to deliver treats of candy and nuts and naughty children to deliver a light beating. After my mom passed away in August of 2006, the same month that we purchased our first home together, Julie and I decided that it had become imperative that we begin compiling legal documents to approximate a handful of the crucial rights bestowed upon those entering a civil marriage. Sitting now beside my computer are two Powers of Attorney, two Health Care Proxies, two Health Information Release Forms, two Disposition of Decedents’ Remains forms, two New York Living Wills and two Last Wills and Testaments. The number of lines on which we have to sign is astounding; you only have to sign a marriage certificate once.


So, in talking about domestic partnerships and marriage equality, why aren’t we up here waxing poetic about how much we love each other? Christi and I have known each other for over ten years, and have lived together for at least eight. We could stand here today, painting marriage equality as being about the simple need to have our love and commitment recognized and validated, but as Unitarians, and a Welcoming Congregation at that, recognition and validation are already a given here. Take this issue into the community at large, however, and it is death and taxes which really get people’s attention; the extra penalties levied on health care coverage, the loss of a pension , the denial of a deathbed visitation in the hallway of an Intensive Care Unit, the grieving partner unable to collect the ashes of his beloved. Such tragedies regularly invoke in even the most tepid of supporters, those who are squeamish about notions of "gay marriage" and made uncomfortable by Tango the penguins, a recognition of inequality and the stirrings of outrage.

Can I get a do-over?

I've recently come to the conclusion that, at some point in my late teens or early 20s, I must have missed the intensive weekend retreat where women are taught skills like reinserting padding into bikini tops without breaking a sweat, purchasing make-up and choosing underwear that doesn't create ridiculous lines in whatever pants or dress they decide to wear over it. I imagine that this clandestine meeting took place in some ritzy hotel and spa where high school and college age young women signed up for seminars with titles like, "Making The Most of Your Manicure," "Up Dos, Down Dos and Don't Dos", "Thinking About Thongs", "Putting Padding in its Place", "An Eye for Eyeshadow", "Mixing It Up: The Art of Finding Your Perfect Foundation" "Blow Drying Without Frying Your Brains," and "Purses, Pocketbooks, Packs and Pockets: A Guide To Carrying Your Life On Your Hip." I have no idea why I didn't get the memo the first time around, but I really wish they would offer a make-up class (no pun intended).

I have no idea why so many of these concepts seem so incredibly foreign to me; I honestly believe that I would have an equally difficult time conjugating French verbs (I took Spanish) and choosing mascara (forget applying the stuff- I start flinching the second that fuzzy caterpillar like thing gets anywhere near my face). I'm only slightly more competent at bra shopping than a 12 year old boy would be and just about as embarrassed and there is something about the mere thought of having to get my hair washed at a hair salon that convinces me that growing it all the way down to my ankles is TOTALLY the way to go. The list goes on an on and I don't understand WHY I feel so incredibly incompetent at these seemingly innocuous female rituals. I've managed to cultivate an attitude of disinterest or outright distain as a coping mechanism, a way of masking my utter confusion and discomfort, but it's totally a front. How do women do it? Hell, how do cross-dressers, trannys and MtF transexuals (whichever term is most respectful to you in your particular situation- no offense intended!) do it? Did they get the memo?

I think I need a tutor. Or maybe an evaluator. Someone who can design something akin to an IEP, complete with benchmarks and goals, and help me address in the obvious holes in my knowledge. Or a mentor or an AA style sponsor. Someone who is paid to take my panicked phone calls at 8:45 AM on a Sunday morning when there is something wrong with my bathing suit top and I can't for the life of me figure out which direction that little foam triangle is supposed to go and how the hell I'm supposed to get it back in through the minuscule slit in the side of the fabric. Someone other than Julie who is responsible for talking me down off of the ledge in times of feminine crisis.

 From time to time I've definitely benefited from pity of friends and the kindness of strangers. 4 years ago, before my sister's wedding, I went into The Body Shop in Danbury, CT and tried to explain to the nice lady that I needed to buy make-up. No, not just a new eye liner or something. Everything I would need to be in a wedding party. Because I didn't own any. And had never applied more than a hesitant smattering of lipstick and mascara. Ever. No. Seriously. Stop laughing and just TELLMEWHATTHEFUCKTOBUYANDHOWTOPUTITON!!! That was the last time I bought make up and the jars say that it expired a couple of years ago, so now I'm afraid to use it even if I want to. Does it really expire? And does it expire the way milk expires or the way a bottle of ketchup or mustard expires? Cause those are two very different things. But it is really, really embarrassing to have to ask for help on things that seem so basic. I mean, I imagine it must kinda be like the average person standing in the "paper goods" section of the supermarket and turning to someone to say, "Excuse me, but which of these do you use to wipe your ass? The napkins, the Kleenex, the toilet tissue, the paper towels or the handi-wipes? I know I'm in the right vicinity here, but beyond that, I'm totally lost."

Do you know what kind of look you would get? I do. And it's awful. 'Cause that is something you are just supposed to KNOW.