I just logged onto to the back pages of this thing and saw that I had three pending comments. I pretend I don’t give a shit who reads my blog or if anyone reads it at all, but when I saw those three comments sitting there waiting to be approved, I’ll admit, my heart started pacing. Then I read the first comment: “I stumbled across your blog while searching online for debt relief…” I marked it as spam. I read the second comment: “I stumbled across your blog while searching for yeast infection relief.”

Ohhh. My heartbeat slowed. No one reads my blog. Not even my mom.

I’m sorry to report that Wind in Your Vagina is no longer a blog.  That is the nature of blogs.  They come and go.  It was a goody while it lasted.  So now I recommend another blog, having nothing to do with wind.  It’s called www.adamcooperwood.com.  Watch a few of the vlogs and learn some valuable tips about what you can accomplish with baking soda.  Any baking soda will do.  Enjoy!

One of my favorite parenting blogs called Wind in Your Vagina is shutting down today.  I totally get it.  Blogging is a pain in the ass.

 

 She said yes.

 But there’s trouble.  Californians have a ballot initiative that could ruin it for me.  Go to No on 8  and make a donation, if you can.  If California loses, we all lose.

And here in Florida, Proposition 2 puts anti-gay marriage bullshit into the Florida Constitution before it’s even legal.  Florida Red & Blue’s doing a huge ad campaign to help stop the hatred from becoming law. But they need money too. 

We can win this, I think.  Mombian.com got more than 400 bloggers to blog about it.  Wednesday was Write to Marry Day.  I’m a little late, but I’m still participating.  You can too.

   

 Rachel, from From the Land of Monkeys and Princesses is saving the ta-tas right now because October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  Rachel’s a blogger and she’s having a contest where all you have to do is comment on her blog to register to win.  And when you comment, you somehow raise money for breast cancer awareness and prevention, I think, because her advertisers give her more money the more people visit her blog and she’s donating all the money she earns through ads this month to cure breast cancer.  

  It’s cool when people do what they can for good.  So click here.  

I think what I love about straight men is their confidence.  A man will tell you what he thinks without saying, “I think.”   He’ll say, “Here’s exactly what heterosexual males know about lesbians…” and then he’ll go on to make his point.  

I’m taken in.  I’m impressed.  I’m learning something.  And also I’m thinking, hmmm, I think this guy’s full of shit.  

I also love men because I think they’re so obvious.  There’s no annoying subtlety.  I never have to guess what they’re feeling.  They don’t change their story a little to try to please, depending on who their talking to.  They’ll say to anyone who’s listening, “I’m getting fat and lesbians still turn me on.”   

Men are so easy.

 I tried to kiss my girlfriend last week.  We were at a National Gay and Lesbian Task Force gala.  If ever we were in a safe place to express our lesbian desire, this was it.  But Victoria doesn’t love it when I try to paw at her in public.  Truth is, she doesn’t love it in private either.  (See, sometimes I come at her like a man.  I can’t help myself.  But she’s attracted to women, so she likes subtlety.)  

 I was a half inch from her lips when she turned away slightly and said, “No Baby, not here.”  I wasn’t crushed.  I didn’t sulk.  I was turned on like never before.  

I wanted to get my lips on her lips.  I had to get my lips on her lips.  

I pulled my seat up next to hers, so we were sitting side by side, way too close, facing the speakers.   I whispered in her ear, “Did you hear that speech?”  

She said, “Of course I did.”  She never once turned toward me like I hoped she would, so she would, by accident, brush her lips against mine and AHAH. 

So I met this straight man named Black Hockey Jesus.  I didn’t actually meet him, but I came upon his website called The Wind in Your Vagina.  

His website was seductive for a very simple reason:  vagina.  Say it with me:  vagina.  Is there a finer word in the English language?  Oh sure it’s fun to say “maple,” but not nearly as taboo or scary or reminiscent of sex ed class.  We just don’t say that word enough, except for my daughter who loves to say it.  But she’s a kid and hasn’t been corrupted by life yet.  She says, ‘gina.  As in, “Mommy, my ‘gina’s stinky.”

But vagina is not the only reason I love this straight man called Black Hockey Jesus.  He is funny, smart and brave.  He dares to call himself black (or maybe he means his name is Black) and Jesus without apology.  That’s just who he is.  

Once when I was in an African American History class, I raised my hand and said, “I didn’t know Jesus was black.”  Our teacher had just explained how Jesus was described as having wooly hair and how Nazareth was at a cross-road, the only land route out of Africa and how the people who lived there at the time, lots of years ago, BC, had to have very dark skin.  

That’s when I raised my hand because all images I had had of Jesus were of this white guy with long blond hair and a beard.  I was the only person in my class who appeared white and when I said that I didn’t know Jesus was black, the whole class came to their feet.  They screamed.  They balled up notebook paper and beamed my head.  At least that’s what it felt like.  I said, “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

Black Hockey Jesus doesn’t worry about getting beamed in the head.  He just says it like it is. 

Check out his blog today.  Hurry.  He did a brilliant review of a book I wrote, called My Miserable, Lonely, Lesbian Pregnancy.  So read for yourself and I think you’ll love him too. No, let me rephrase. Read for yourself and you’ll fuckin love him.

I did it.  I named my blog, Mama La Gringa.  And Mama La Gringa’s going to be on Offsprung.com from now on.  Check it out!  Check it out!!

For those who don’t speak Spanish, Mama La Gringa means:  Mother, the non-hispanic, bad Spanish speaker, white girl.  

grin·ga  (grngg)

n. Offensive Slang

Used as a disparaging term for a foreign woman in Latin America, especially an American or English woman.

Gringa has a slightly negative connotation similar to shiksa.  A Latino might call a non-hispanic woman a Gringa same as a Jew might call a non-Jewish woman a shiksa.  It’s bitchy.  That’s why I like it.  There’s power there and I’m reclaiming it.  

I don’t think Gringa gets a capital G, but for my purposes, I’m going to capitalize.  

I’ve had such a hard time naming my blog, because I’m not just a Mama and a Gringa.  I’m also a Lesbo, Afro, Jew, and soon-to-be father. I know I don’t tan, but that doesn’t take the Afro out of me.  I feel it.  I just do.   


But even though I’m all about identity, it’s probably selfish to claim them all and maybe a bit confusing.  So out of generosity and for simplicity, I’ll focus on the identities that are winning out in my day to day, now that I’m a mom and “married” to a Latina. (I put married in quotes not because of the bullshit legality of gay marriage, but because I want to marry Victoria and in case she reads this, maybe she’ll agree to shotgun marry me because I think marrying a pregnant woman is the sexiest thing imaginable.) 

Here in Miami, Gringas are totally second class.  I was shocked to learn this.  I had been dating Victoria (first class Venezuelan although the Cubans and Argentinians would argue that they’re first class) for about three months when she told me.  We met on Match. com and the only reason she looked at my profile was because one of her friends persuaded her to stop being such a snob.  She saw my profile and couldn’t respond fast enough—that’s the truth, you can even ask her—but she must have been pretty desperate to even look.

Another Latina friend told her Gringas are so different, they even sleep differently.  

I said, “Really, I thought everyone slept in a temple garment.”

  

She said, “No, really we don’t.  But the real differences between Latinas and Gringas are these:  Gringas are cold, unexpressive and bad dancers.”

I said, “Oh no baby, I’m no ordinary Gringa.  I’m black.”  

I’ve been trying to make friends with Black Hockey Jesus and today he left me a little note in my comments box. I’m so happy.  I feel like the popular boy put a Valentine’s Day card on my desk.  Maybe his mother instructed him to put Valentine’s Day cards on every desk, but it doesn’t matter.   He has this blog called The Wind in Your Vagina.  I’ve said before that it’s my new favorite blog and not just because it has vagina in it’s title.  It’s really good.  It’s all about Black Hockey Jesus’s this and that and who really cares about someone’s this and that?  For some reason, I do.

 Maybe Black Hockey Jesus is the dad I aspire to be.

I don’t know exactly how to become friends with a blogger.  Like I don’t want to be a sycophant and at the same time, I can’t be too aloof and at the same time I want to be true to myself and my feelings.  I don’t believe in playing games.  So I asked him if he’d read and review my book, My Miserable, Lonely, Lesbian Pregnancy which is currently ranked number five on Amazon in the category Gay & Lesbian>Biographies & Memoirs>Lesbian and he said YES.  Then he asked me if I thought he was a pompous wiener.  I don’t know if that means we’re friends yet, but Black Hockey Jesus noticed me.  

Yesterday I complained about the ugly comments I got at Jewcy.com.  Today I miss them.

My friend Ida, who hates blogs, said, “By the way people spell, it looks to me like a bunch of dumb-asses with nothing to do are commenting on your blog.”  

“Sure looks that way,” I said.

She said, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want to connect with people.  Because I like the attention.”

 Last week I had the best time guest blogging on Jewcy.com.  They made me like their poster-child.  To check it out, click here:  Andrea at Jewcy There’s the masthead and then my posts for the week, a description of My Miserable, Lonely, Lesbian Pregnancy, and this picture of me.       

Fun, fun. Jewcy.com is mostly awesome, except the Jews aren’t always so nice.  I got ugly, hateful comments like when I said I wanted to raise a gun-hating boy.  How can someone find fault with me for wanting to raise a gun-hating boy?  Well, it was easy for someone who chose the name Crazy Bitch.  Okay, I get it.  Crazy Bitch is a member of the NRA and our American right to bear arms is so precious, a gun-hating boy would threaten the very core of America.  Or Crazy Bitch is afraid that a gun-hating boy won’t be able to defend Israel.  Is that it?  

No.  Crazy Bitch thinks that a gun-hating boy equals a gay dude.  Because we all know that all gay dudes hate guns.  Crazy Bitch said that by raising a gun-hating boy I’d be going further than a Mohel in castrating my son.

One anonymous reader said a child needs a mother and a father and called me a child abusing sicko.  He or she said I should have gotten a pet if I wanted to “mother” so badly.  

When I said that Obama’s community service deserves more respect than military service, woa!  My girlfriend didn’t agree with me, but she didn’t say, “This line of yours, my dear, epitomizes the complete ass-backwards thinking of the left.”  Adam H said that.  

Something about that “my dear” really rubbed me wrong.

But the worst comments came from David, who I commend for having the courage to comment under his first and last name.  I don’t want to put his full name here though, in case he googles himself and finds my site and starts going crazy here because no matter the point he was arguing, he kept saying mom + dad = good, mom + mom = bad.  

I wrote back that if David knew my family, he’d stop saying that.  

Crazy Bitch suggested I take my bleeding heart back under the rock I crawled out from.  

Believe me, Crazy Bitch, after these comments, I wish I could.