Recently, in the comments for my post on the perils and ennui of FMLA, Ernessa requested that I address Paternity Leave, since my post was more focused on Maternity Leave. So, for Ernessa and all you men out there who are about to be fathers, maybe could someday be fathers, don’t want to be fathers but might be kind of curious why they had to cover for Joey last year when his wife had twins, or wives/baby mamas who need ammunition in their arguments with their husbands/baby daddies as to why they need to take time off to care for the new baby—this one is for you. True story, here is a reenactment of a conversation I had once with an executive regarding paternity leave: Me: Hi Dave, I just heard from Mike that he is going to be taking Paternity Leave for a month in August. Dave: (laughing) Paternity Leave? Me: Yes, his wife is due August 1, so he’s thinking it will start around then. Dave: (laughing harder) Paternity Leave? Me: Yes, so we have a couple of months to plan ahead. Do you need any resources from HR to help plan for his absence? A temp employee perhaps? Dave: (still laughing) Come on… Me: So, you should think about coordinating schedules, especially if others in that department are planning on taking vacation in August… Dave: (laughing a little less) Seriously? Paternity Leave? Me: Yes Dave: Is that even a thing? Me: Yes Dave: (not laughing anymore) For a month?!? Me: Well he’s eligible for 12 weeks, he’s only taking a month Dave: And we have to let him do this? Yes Dave, sorry to say, but in 2012 Paternity Leave is no joke. And that’s great, right? Yay men! Now not...

When I want to sound cool and mysterious, I say I was raised in the desert. When I want to explain why I’m loud, stubborn, cynical, opinionated, dramatic, charming (in an overbearing sort of way), and obsessed with protecting my territory and feeding everybody hummus, I say I was raised in Israel. And when I’m listening to Californians whine like babies about the weather, I say I was raised in Albany. (Not to mention how I was shaped by all the crazy years spent on the New York theatre scene trying to “make it there” and, ipso facto, “anywhere”  during which time I worked as an Elf at Macy’s, cleaned up vomit at comedy clubs for stage time and tips and gave out sandwiches and fruit on the subway in the South Bronx for $50 a day + “donations” – but I’ll save all these tales of struggle for my motivational seminars: “Reach for the Stars — Fall on your Ass — Get a Real Fucking Job with Some Health Insurance” and “Artists Starve – Arts Administrators Get Fat, So Come to the Break Room of Life Like I Did and Grab Your Piece of the Pie (actually day-old birthday cake)”. Anyhow, the desert. The characters in Hari Kunzru’s Gods Without Men spend an awful lot of time schlepping around the desert looking for aliens. I spent my fair share of time schlepping around the Israeli desert as a young teenager, but I was just looking for snakes, lizards and scorpions to sell to the creepy American zoologist who lived in town. He said he was buying these critters for research, but I think he REALLY didn’t like falafel and hummus, if you catch my drift (He ate them. Fuck subtlety- I’m Israeli!). Anyhow,...

Without a doubt, my strongest (and one of the fondest) childhood memory is the multi-sensory experience of walking through the autumn woods, trees blazing with color, leaves crunching underfoot and the sweet, earthy smell of humus filling me up. (My second strongest memory is being handed over by parents to clowns at the circus, but that’s another column.) This week, the thermometer on our back porch topped out at 101F on Thursday. Everyone I talked with was divided between the opposing positions that we were either simply experiencing the usual late blooming “summer in Los Angeles” or it was “the catastrophic effects of global warming.” Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn WHY it was so hot. Just that it was. In mid-October. Somewhere buried deep within my mongrelized DNA, a simple, clear message was created and distributed to my brain – Something is Wrong. Yes, I understand much of the world exists without four distinct seasons. And since the age of fifteen, I’ve lived in every time zone in the United States, much of it out of the country’s regions that boast all four seasons. I’ve been gone long enough that it would be reasonable to expect this seasonal response to have faded. And yet, it’s stronger than ever. Why? Even at only eight or nine years old, autumn made clear to younger me I was connected to the earth’s – and life’s – major cycle of birth/death/renewal. While I certainly couldn’t articulate it back then, during the fall I knew I was part of something much bigger and more profound. A ha. Methinks there’s a clue here. Yes, I miss the season’s crisp air, the smell of leaves, and apple cider. But what’s missing during this time of year is that...

For a brief period of time in college, I considered becoming a Rabbi. Don’t get me wrong- I’m not particularly religious- I was just fascinated by the role that ritual could play in heightening particular moments in a person’s life and the way in which our collective need for the infinite could cause it to manifest itself on earth. I was also tripping my balls off on two hits of unbelievable liquid acid that I bought from a trio of seedy hippies suspiciously named “Soy”, “Dog” and “Liz” (“Liz” – whatever. Like that’s even a real name.) Later that night, I also briefly considered joining the Animaniacs, not because I wanted to be on television, but because I was fascinated by the idea of living in the water tower at Warner Brother’s studios and writing a whole song about an obscure South American lake just so I could say “Titicaca” over and over again on a children’s show. Living the dream! In the cold light of day, with the drugs out of my system, I abandoned my rabbinical fantasies and made the hard-headed practical choice to stick with theatre (maybe not ALL of the drugs were out my system.) Still- I continue to be fascinated by the trappings of religion and, as a result, even though I don’t really believe in God, I still maintain certain Jewish rituals- like even though I don’t believe in Leprechauns and Democracy, I continue to eat Lucky Charms and vote (FULL DISCLOSURE: I actually do believe in voting, but only as a means to keep things from getting even worse, or at least, to slightly postpone the inevitable slide into Libertarian Theocracy. Speaking of- how sweet is it that Rick Perry cut the fire dep’t by 75% and...

Though the Kwikee Date shoot was certainly a blast, I think the highlight of my week so far might have been finally receiving my snoogle maternity pillow almost 2 weeks after I order it on Amazon — don’t order this item from Amazon. Leachco took forever to send, and in the end, I wish we had paid the few extra dollars and gotten it from a store. But as with many things, the wait was worth it. I got the best night of sleep I’ve received since I had to start sleeping on my side during my 15th week, so as not to cut off Betty’s circulation. I still it’s rather bad biological design that pregnant mothers can’t sleep on their backs after a certain point, but at least I now have my snoogle to support my head and my tummy in this endeavor. CH tested it out, and he also found it quite comfortable. I mean who doesn’t like snuggling up with something soft and pliable at night? Wonder why they haven’t marketed this to non-pregnant folks yet. In other pregnancy news, I fired my pre-natal screening specialist, Dr. Kathleen Bradley. Her office moved my big second trimester screening and ultrasound, which has been scheduled for over a month now with no explanation other than, “Dr. Bradley won’t be in that week.” They moved me to a date and time I couldn’t do. So I called back. But when I tried to get a morning appointment on a Tuesday or Thursday, so that CH could be there when we determined for almost-sure whether Betty was a girl or not, the front office woman seemed annoyed. She said that she could only give me the two times that CH wouldn’t be able to be...