And here’s my latest story called Who Have You Told? performed at Lip Service at Books & Books, Coral Gables, May 16, 2009.  The video starts off shaky, but gets better.  Let me know what you think.

  

Yesterday we went to Victoria’s 37 weeks and 5 days doctor visit.  We saw the same doctor, Dr. Guinot, that we saw last week–there are six doctors in the practice.  Last week, I asked him if I could check Victoria’s dilation at home.  He said I shouldn’t.  He said it was difficult to calculate.  He said I could break her water with my nails if I wasn’t careful.  
I said I was going to try anyway and he smiled.

He said, “Then take some gloves.  

I said I already had taken gloves.

Yesterday, while Victoria was peeing in a cup, Dr. Guinot passed me in the hall and smiled.  He said, “Is she dilated?”

I said I couldn’t tell.  I said I needed a lesson.

The doctor measured Victoria’s belly.  He said the baby’s big.  He asked how she’s feeling.  She said, fine.  He listened to the baby’s heart beat.  He smiled.  

The nurse came in and the doctor put on a glove.  He handed me one and I put it on.  The nurse applied goop to the doctor’s gloved hand and then to mine.  He shoved his fingers inside Victoria and she winced. She said, “Hey, you’re a brute.”

He said, “Sorry, your cervix is posterior.”  He took his fingers out after two seconds.

My turn.

 I stood between Victoria’s legs.  I put my ungloved hand on her knee and asked if this was okay.  She said, “You have to be better than he was.”  

The nurse laughed.  I put my fingers inside.  Victoria said, “Much better.  She knows what she’s doing.”  

I blushed.  The nurse laughed hard.  I felt around.  I couldn’t feel her cervix.  I couldn’t feel anything. I finished my exam and took my fingers out.

“Is she dilated?” The doctor asked.

“Can’t tell,” I said.

The doctor said she wasn’t.  The nurse kept laughing.  

I said, “Don’t the dads ever want to check dilation?”

“Never,” the doctor said.

  

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’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.  

I stopped in St. Louis after the MichFest.  Amy Waterman and her husband Brian–smart, lovely, wonderful people–picked me up from the airport.  Amy is a writing friend and also a psychologist, so she has sort of figured me out.  

Right away, Amy and Brian took me to an Indian restaurant on the 11th floor of a Best Western where only real Indians eat.  Great food.

 We chatted a little, but not long after we got the chicken masala, I told them about how I bombed at MichFest.  I retold my miserable performance.  How I told a few hundred women about my stinky ‘gina.  (See full text of my performance in yesterday’s blog.)


Amy said, “You can’t hit people with that level of intimacy so fast.”

My face got hot.  I was sure I was blushing because I had just hit her with that level of intimacy and her poor husband who I had only known for one dinner.  

She said, “It’s like this: you meet someone, you say, ‘hey, my name’s Andrea.  I have a daughter.’  Then you wait for a response.  If the person you’re talking to says her name and maybe something like I have a daughter too, then you can move to the next level of intimacy.  You can say, ‘I hated being pregnant.’  Then you wait for a response.  But you can’t say, ‘Hi I’m Andrea, I have a vaginal infection right off the bat.’”

Why hadn’t anyone told me this sooner???

 It makes so much sense.  And at MichFest I only had five minutes.  No time to get to know someone.  No time to build intimacy.

When I got off the stage, I knew something went wrong.  My very old friend, Jeanne, said, “Interesting, but I don’t think that was your funniest bit.”

I saw my friend Julie the next day. She told me she and her girlfriend went to sleep loving me more.  That was sweet, but it was a pity love. 

There’s Julie in the middle (below) pityloving me.     

She said, “We’ve all been there.”

I said, “Where?  In bed with a stinky vagina or bombing on stage?”  She hugged me for a good 30 seconds.  I needed it.

But it wasn’t until Amy laid it out for me that I got it. Don’t give too much too fast. 

Thank you Amy Waterman.  

I took the stage at the August Night Cafe.  I was 6th on the list, after five singer/songwriters–all talented women.  It was a very competitive open mic.  Hundreds of women wanted to perform, so there was a lottery and I made it.  

I’ve been telling stories for the last few months without reading.  I’ve also been reading my stories, but telling stories is a different kind of performance.  It requires a different energy and a different give and take with the audience.  It also gives me diarrhea all day.  But I like a challenge, so I decided to try it at MichFest.  

Here’s a picture of the August Night Cafe during the day.  
I’d been thinking about what I would say all day–a sure sign of disaster.  I know now that I’ll never again stand up in front of a few hundred people without having rehearsed first.

 I started off with a rehearsed bit, but after about 30 seconds, I took a huge detour to tell everyone about one of my most horrifying and embarrassing moments I’d had in my life.  And that moment happened just three days before.  

 I told this story because I needed support.  I needed to be understood, which is why I tell all the stories I tell.  I thought the women of MichFest would be there for me. 

My story went like this: Hi, I’m Andrea Askowitz.  I’m the author of My Miserable, Lonely, Lesbian Pregnancy.  Yea, my pregnancy was bad.  But I’m a lot happier now.  No longer miserable.  No longer pregnant.  Still lesbian.  


I was 14 weeks pregnant and already everyone said, “You’re having a boy.”  By everyone I mean, the man behind me at the Mini-Mart, my grandmother, and my across the street neighbor.  When you’re pregnant in Los Angeles, where I was pregnant, everyone you meet is some kind of psychic or intuit or clairvoyant.  

Apparently, the same is true Miami, where my girlfriend, Victoria, is pregnant.

Yes, I’m a mom and now I’m going to be a dad too.  

I told my mom I’m going to be a daddy and she said, “Andrea, don’t say that.  Makes you sound so dykey.  Makes you sound like you have a mustache.”

(As soon as I said dykey and mustache to my MichFest crowd I started to worry.  For one thing, the lights were so bright, I couldn’t see anything, just flashes, like stars in my eyes.  I couldn’t tell if the women in front of me were dykey or mustachioed or naked or what.  But I should have known better because the women of MichFest come in all stripes and many, many of them, many more than I’ve ever seen in the general population have mustaches.  





I’m not saying anything against mustaches on a woman.  At first, like 13 years ago, when I first went to MichFest I was scared,  I’ll admit. I was like, “Motherfucker, is this going to happen to me?”  But in the last 13 years I’ve truly come to admire women who wear their hair on their faces proudly.  Fuck society, that’s what I say.  But that’s not what it sounded like I was saying with this homo-hair-phobic comment my mother said.  But that’s not where I went sour.) 

Are there any lesbian dads out there?  (I put my hand over my eyebrows to shield the lights, but I couldn’t see if anyone was raising her hand.)

Is there anyone out there who has ever been lovers with a pregnant woman?  I need help with something.  (I couldn’t see any hands and I didn’t hear anyone cheer or acknowledge me at all.)

Okay, I think you guys are being shy, but if there are any lesbian daddies out there or women who have had a pregnant lover, please see me after.

When I was pregnant, I had a bionic nose.  If I were pregnant right now, I could tell what deodorant you were wearing. Yea you, in the back row.  Secret, Lavender Fresh.  

A strong sense of smell is some kind of pregnancy survival instinct.  I think it was originally intended to keep pregnant women from eating poison, but in modern society, it’s just gross.  

When Victoria got pregnant I was afraid she would go to kiss me and my breath would be so stinky to her she’d never want to kiss me again and so I’ve been brushing my teeth four times a day.  So far, so good.

But a few nights ago, I was lying in bed reading, naked, waiting for Victoria.  She got into bed and right away started sniffing everything.  

“Something stinks,” she said.  She smelled my hair.  She smelled her hands.  She smelled the candles I had lit to set the mood.  And then she flipped around and sniffed me like a dog.  

She jumped up lithe for a pregnant woman and made it to the toilet on time.  I lay in bed listening, waiting for her to finish.  I didn’t know whether to hold her hair or leave.  I mean, leave forever.         

In the morning I felt a little itchy and the good news is that I went to the gyno and I have a bacterial infection.  

THANK GOD.   

So I guess the moral of this story is pregnant women should not eat rotten pussy. I’ll stop there.

For the record, I want to explain that I’m keeping my vagina.  Here’s the deal.  I love being a woman.  I didn’t love being pregnant. See, ever since I could remember, I wanted a big family.  Then I got pregnant and decided I’d never do it again.  EVER.  I wrote My Miserable, Lonely, Lesbian Pregnancy because pregnancy sucked, big time.  So after I got pregnant I had to adjust my vision for a big family OR find myself a wife to have more kids.  I did it!  I found a wife.  And she’s pregnant.  That’s how I’m becoming Mrs. Dad.     

The other day I read a blog by MetroDad.  It was a guest blog on Wind in Your Vagina, my favorite blog.  I just found Wind in Your Vagina, but I love it so much already.  I love it not only because it’s called Wind in Your Vagina, but mostly because it’s called that.  I love someone who says vagina.  Like lesbian, these words can never be said too much. 

MetroDad wrote about his love for Black Hockey Jesus and how bonded they are because they’re both involved dads.  Black Hockey Jesus, who is the author of Wind in Your Vagina, is a great father, according to MetroDad and it sounds like MetroDad is a great father too, according to MetroDad.  He said 7 times the sort of thing that gives me the impression that he’s very involved:  1.  A homeless man noticed how much he enjoys spending a lot of quality time with his daughter.  2. He’s pretty involved.  3.  His daughter is his greatest joy.  4.  Fatherhood is his top priority.  5.  He loves spending as much time with his daughter as possible. 6. He doesn’t allow anything to get in the way of being there on a constant basis.  And 7. Being an involved dad is a fairly strong bonding connection. 

I believe MetroDad, I really do.  He loves being a dad.  But is that so unusual?  Is being involved all it takes to be a good dad?  

I’m asking this because I’m about to become a dad.  My girlfriend is 15 weeks pregnant and while I’m already a mom, soon I’m going to be a dad too.  

When I tell people about my pending fatherhood I get ugly looks and negative reactions.  My mom said, “Andrea, don’t say that. Makes you sound so dyky.  Makes you sound like you have a mustache.”

Other people have said stuff like, “You don’t want to be a dad.”

And I’m like, “Why not?  Makes me sound like I have a mustache?” 

“Makes you sound like you’re going to be sitting on your ass.”

I don’t mean it that way.  I really don’t.  I mean it in the way I think of Alternadad from Offsprung.  He seems like a cool guy who spends quality time with his kid.  That is, if you count making videos of the two of them watching a clock and guessing how many minutes have passed, quality time.  I do.  I don’t mean to dis MetroDad. Or maybe I do.  It’s just that I’m finding that dad’s have a bad reputation.  And blogs, like the one from the other day, are not helping our cause. 
  

I keep having these feelings like I’m the daddy.  By daddy, I mean both the father and the mac daddy. 

We were in LA, when Victoria was about 8 weeks pregnant, and I got out of bed before 8:00 a.m. to move the car because of street cleaning.  As I drove around, I thought:  Who’s that Daddy!  It felt really good.  

Happened to me again last night after we had shrimp for dinner.  I wrapped up the garbage with all those shrimp tails and took it outside.  

I don’t mean to perpetuate gender roles.  In my opinion, any pregnant person, man or woman, should not be taking out the stinky trash. 

Did you hear about the pregnant man?  A man, born a woman, but who transitioned into a man and who visibly looked like a man, got married to a woman, who couldn’t conceive and so he did.  He obviously kept his uterus.  I don’t know if he kept his vagina.  Maybe he needed a c-section.  Here he is:    
 This is so cool, really.  People are just people.  

 I told my mom I feel so lucky because I’m going to be a daddy.  

She said, “Don’t say that.”

I said, “Why?”

“It makes you sound so dyky.  It makes you sound like you have a mustache.”

Who says you have to be a dad to have a mustache?

I know it’s not nice to say retarded.  I also know it’s boring to complain about blogging.  But there is no other word I can find to describe how I feel about myself in the context of this whole blogging and website world.  I complained to my friend Elijah, who I refer to in my head as Friend Formerly Known as Shannon.  Elijah changed her name.  She’s entitled, after all it’s her name. Reminds me of Tashi, who was taking off her dress this morning to go to the bathroom.  

I said, “Honey, you don’t have to take your dress all the way off.” 

She said, “I want to. It’s my expression.” 

Right on little 4-year-old!  Right on Elijah! 

So I said to Elijah:   “I feel so retarded.  Every time I learn something new, like how there is such a thing as guest blogging and I start reading guests blogs, like I did this morning on The Wind In Your Vagina, it’s like 100 new windows open up and I can spend my life reading and reading and feeling like I’ve gotten nowhere.”

“Where are you going?”  She asked.  Which was a good question.

 ”Nowhere, I guess.  But that has to be the best title for a blog I’ve ever heard.”  Now I’m jealous I didn’t think of it and I hardly ever get jealous. So I asked Elijah if she thinks my blog needs a title.  I mean andreaaskowitz, that’s retarded.  She said a catchy title might help.

 How ’bout:  Windy ‘Gina?  That’s how Tashi calls it, ‘gina.  

 I know I’m not alone in worrying about blogging because in the guest blog I read this morning on The Wind In Your Vagina, Baby on Bored gave some tips on how to create blog traffic.  I’ll just tell you now that my blog is very, very popular in the Ukraine. I don’t know why really.  I think they just get me over there.  They don’t care that I say stuff like retarded. And neither does Elijah, who doesn’t worry about blog traffic.  She said that retarded was her favorite politically incorrect thing to say.

 I said that I really liked to say, “That is so gay.”  

She said she doesn’t like saying that because there are too many homophobes.

I said, “But there are so many retarded people.”

“Yeah but,” she tried to justify her position.  Then she said.  ”You’re right.”

I’m going to stop doing it–saying retarded, that is–right after this.  I learned my lesson once, big time, when I was about 10 years old.  I was playing video pong with my cousins, one of whom is retarded.  The real way.  This was before Nintendo and all the rest.  I was twisting my knob back and forth and didn’t miss a shot until, I don’t know what happened, but the electronic ball got by me.  I didn’t have a real tennis racket to throw so I screamed, “I’m so retarded!”

 No one said anything.  Not a word.