With the close of another quarter upon us once again, it is with the most exuberant and loving of hearts that I give you a dash of what’s been going on in my world with the Season of Deborah Quarterly newsletter! Yay!

I’ll start with the big news, which I’m sure you all have heard by now—I’m going to be an aunt! Yes, my brother, Jack, who has chosen to go an unconventional route and lengthen his name to Jackson, is having a baby! The gender of the baby was just shared at what his wife, Kinsey, called a “gender reveal party.” It’s important to note that this IS NOT a baby shower. Apparently they are very different. I’m not one to judge, but this was definitely… something. All love though!

As you some of you may recall, I missed Jackson’s wedding last summer due to what I thought was a tumor, but was later confirmed to actually be a cluster of in-grown hairs on my neck. Your thoughts and prayers were greatly appreciated. Jackson, however, wasn’t pleased that I missed the wedding although I did stress to him that I would make the next one. Regardless, he made it mandatory that I make this gender reveal party.

So there I was standing in the zen garden, which was actually a bunch of crystals on the ground shaped into a giant uterus in front of Jackson’s RV to watch them pop a balloon and spew some pink smoke into the air… much like a distress signal. Help! We’re 30, our sole life plan is to become Instafamous and we’re about to bring another human life into the world! Anyone, have the courage to drive our RV off of a cliff along with our half-baked dreams? Are you there, God? It’s me, Margaret. Except not because my parents are self-dubbed gypsies and are naming me Hashanah even though no one in our family is Jewish. A whole party just to pop a balloon and tell us the gender of the baby. Merry congratudolences! It’s all love though.

Now that I’ve spent an entire Saturday afternoon learning something that could have easily been emailed to me, I have to buy a gift for the actual baby shower. Kinsey was kind enough to provide us with handwritten papyrus notes outlining the gifting requirements: It must be organic, vegan, handmade or woven with the pubes from a calf sheared with a shiv made from black granite because God forbid a synthetic material touch baby Hashanah’s skin. It’s all love! Allll love.

Did I tell you how Jack… excuse me, Jackson and Kinsey came to be? They met at Burning Man. I told Jackson you can’t meet someone in the middle of the desert high off of ecstasy and gasoline that you accidentally inhaled while trying to siphon enough gas to start your RV which you now plan to raise a child in all while dressed like Xenu warrior hobo. You’re not of sound mind! It’s all love for them though. All love.

This party was definitely something new for me. I’m used to simpler, more traditional affairs. Personally, I could have done without the henna tattoos or the raw vegan appetizers made by Jackson’s buddy, Cole, who told me he doesn’t believe in the hypocrisy that is bacteria. It just felt like a lot. I certainly didn’t need the shaman rattling those maracas in front of my nethers saying he could smell my fertilization. And frankly, he made me feel quite self-conscious. Out of all of these sweaty desert hippies who believe deodorant is a government mind-control device, I, with my 2 hour old diva cup am the one that smells???

If you must know, Shaman Jed, I am trying to sow my oats and start a family of my own, but you have to find a suitable partner first. Not everyone considers dehydrated sand fornication illuminated by glowsticks to a 43 minute long song consisting solely of a bongo, flute, and air horn an acceptable first-date. Some of us have to weed through the masses of online profiles and try not to encounter someone that makes us question if life is one giant joke. But it’s all love!

As most of you know, I’ve struggled a bit the last few years in the love department, but Deborah is still on the prowl! Why, I had a date just the other night. He had braces. Braces. Braces!

Now, what would possess a balding 40 year old man to get braces, you are probably asking yourself because I certainly was. You have already lived most of your life with those teeth and now you’re embarrassed? At some point we have to accept we are who we are and leave our teeth as bunched as the Bradys. Please know this is all coming from a place of love. I don’t judge. I leave that to God.

We were eating a salad and he got half of it mangled in that car fender he calls a mouth. He asked if he had something in his teeth and I said “yeah, a snack for later.” I may be getting older, but I have not lost my sense of quick wit!

As you all know, I try to be as sensitive and open-minded as possible, but I was really having a hard time fathoming having that cheese grater anywhere near my vagina. I’ll let Shaman Jed and that maraca get closer to my lady bits than Adult Braces. At least Shaman Jed can read a room. Teenage Dream over here really thought this date was heading to O-Town and nearly gave me whiplash in the car trying to share that salad to-go. Usually, I find that assertive manly energy attractive, but you know how it goes, if they’re ugly or a minority, it’s sexual assault and you need to call the police. He was both, so I did. All love, friends! All love.

On that note, I’d like to close with a brief PSA. This is something I’ve noticed on many occasions now. I can’t help but take pause when a fellow patron of the elevator presses the already illuminated elevator button which I have just pressed not even a minute prior.

Call me sensitive, but it just screams “I don’t trust you, Deborah!” and is quite unneighborly. You saw we were already headed to the lobby and yet, you still pressed the button after I had handled the situation. Now, I may be many things, but lacking the ability to press an elevator button is not one of them! Sure, if I were Stephen Hawking or this was Burning Man, my ability to get us to the lobby may need to be brought into question, but I’ve just typed a 4 page long newsletter with minimal typos so I think my fingers can be trusted with this simple task.

My fellow neighbors and anyone else who enjoys this quarterly publication, please refrain from double pressing. It only makes for a very tense elevator ride that should be filled with friendly small talk and blissfully staring at your own reflection on the doors. I don’t want to have to use the door close button, but if that’s how I will be treated, so be it. It’s all love, friends!

Anyways, I must bring this edition to a close. Hopefully, next quarter I’ll be writing to you from underneath the warm embrace of a man that isn’t going through a very tardy puberty instead of my weighted blanket. And that’s your Season of Deborah Quarterly!