Although I don't get the impression that my blog is very widely-read, I think it would be irresponsible for me not to share the news that a nationwide GLBTQ rights protest is scheduled for this Saturday, November 15th.

For a list of protest locations, please visit http://jointheimpact.wetpaint.com/

Although I realize that these protests are on Shabbat, a time when most Jewish folk are spending time resting and spending sacred time with their families, I encourage everyone to turn out for this protest.

We are not equal until we all are equal.

This is a must-read story about one family's reaction to Proposition 8.

Normally, I don't like to blog about politics, simply because I think that spirituality and politics are not often really connected. However, this issue hits so close to home, that I felt I had to comment.

Last weekend, my wife and I went camping with our daughter to celebrate her 13th birthday. We held a small party at a local campground which was attended by a few friends and family members. We had a nice time.

While we were camping, my father loaned a wide-brimmed hat to one of our guests who was getting too much sun. Since he was planning to stay only for our daughter's birthday party, I promised to return it later. After the camping trip, our guest returned the hat to me, and I tossed it on the dashboard of my truck so we could drop it by my father's house on the way home.

When I approached my father's house, I was stunned. As I drove through the neighborhood, I saw house after house proudly sporting Yes on 8 political signs. I felt as if all the eyes of the neighborhood were on me and my family.

You do not have a right to exist, the signs seemed to accuse.

There is nothing more frightening than driving into a neighborhood that stands in solidarity against you. There are no words to describe how horrible it felt. As we saw house after house, block after block, peppered with signs that want to destroy my family, we wanted to cry.

We quickly dropped off my father's hat and left the neighborhood. Thankfully, he was at work, so we didn't have to have an awkward conversation about all the signs in the neighborhood.

In a country that has progressed so far to eliminate hatred and bigotry, it feels overwhelming to know that I belong to one of the the last remaining groups that many people feel should not have equal rights. Long gone are the days when people of different races were prevented from marrying. Long gone are the days when it was acceptable to discriminate against people for their race, religion or creed.

So I have to ask, regardless of how people personally feel about gay marriage, why is it permissible to institutionalize a form of discrimination? Why is it that gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered people should be treated as less by the heterosexual majority?

Many of the proponents of Proposition 8 cite the fact that "activist judges" created the problem of gay marriage in the first place. I would argue that these judges were not activists. Rather, they were wise enough to recognize a situation where the fundamental rights of a minority were being trampled by the majority.

The courts do not exist simply to back what the majority wants. Sometimes, they rule to protect the rights of a minority that would otherwise not have a voice when it came time for a popular vote.

Please, do not let California write discrimination into the State Constitution.

If you are a California voter, please vote NO on Proposition 8.

Whether or not you live in California, please make a donation to the No on 8 campaign. Philanthropist Steve Bing is offering to match all donations up to one million dollars made before midnight on Sunday, October 19. His matching grant will double the value of your contribution.

Earlier this evening, I went back through the archives of this blog and re-read every post I'd ever written. It was an interesting journey, because I read about many small events about which I had long-since forgotten. It felt almost as if I was reading someone else's blog, because so many things have changed in my life.

When I started this blog, I was extremely active in the local Jewish community. I was singing at three different congregations, and participating in services 2-3 times each month. I was preparing for, performing, and then recovering from, leading my first High Holy Day services. I was contemplating seminary. I felt like I was doing a lot of juggling, sometimes dropping balls, between my personal, professional and religious life.

And then I got the letter that changed everything. One by one, I stopped singing for the different congregations I served. Bit by bit, I found myself less and less involved.

It's impossible to go back to worshiping as a regular congregant with a community you once served in a professional capacity. People expect you to provide the same level of service that you used to provide as paid semi-professional, and they don't always understand why things aren't the same as they once were.

And going back, whether or not you have done your best to let bygones be bygones, is a painful reminder of what was.

Before 2005, I never would have dreamed missing High Holy Day services, unless I was sick. Though I've never had a perfect attendance record (I remember being sick in bed with a terrible head cold and/or flu one Yom Kippur) it was important for me to go.

But when I stopped doing congregational music, it just hurt too much. After working so hard to prepare for leading services in 2005 and then suddenly not working anywhere, I just couldn't bear to go. I stayed home for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur during 2006 and 2007. My partner, our foster daughter and I led a short, private service at home.

This year, three years after my one and only time leading High Holy Day services, I decided to go synagogue. We've attended Shabbat services once or twice, were married in the temple on June 29th of this year, but hadn't been back since. It was time to go back, if not for ourselves, but for our daughter, who opted to convert to Judaism shortly before her 12th birthday.

So we went Rosh Hashanah morning. The service was very much an emotional train wreck for me. It made me incredibly sad to visit my old synagogue. I'd never seen such a small turn-out for a major holiday and it made me realize that the congregation is struggling. It made me sad because I was reminded, once again, of the dreams that died the day I got that life-changing letter. I will probably never lead High Holy Day services again, and I don't expect I will ever be as involved in congregational life as I once was.

It just hurts too much.

One can only listen to the sound of dreams dying for so long before one has to turn their back and plug their ears to the sound.

I don't know what is in my Jewish future, if anything. Right now, I feel as though I am becoming less and less Jewish, simply because my connections to Jewish communal life are fading away. There are no congregations within reasonable driving distance that I haven't served in a professional capacity, and I seriously doubt that any of those congregations will be in the financial position in the future of offering me a job again.

I honestly don't know if I will attend Yom Kippur services this year. If I miss them, it will be for the third year in a row.

I know that it's been a long while since I last posted anything on my blog. The truth is, I haven't had much to write about since I stopped leading services and doing congregational music. Although at one time I had big dreams, things have changed. Tonight, on Erev Rosh Hashanah I find myself considering the still-unanswered question of whether or not we will go to services.

But my debate over whether or not my family will attend services tonight isn't the point of this post. Instead, the point of my post is to talk about my lunch experience this afternoon.

Why am I writing about something as mundane as lunch? Because today my choice of restaurants made me cry.

For those of you who read my blog who do not know me, I am queer. My partner and I were married on June 29, 2008, shortly after the California Supreme Court ruled in favor of same-sex marriage. Tammy and I have been together for almost ten years, and the opportunity to marry simply gave legal recognition to what already existed. We love each other, and we have for a nearly a decade. We are real people, with real feelings. We are not just a couple, we are a family, having been foster parents for the past 2 years to an almost-13-year-old child we hope to adopt.

So why did I cry over lunch?

Because, after eating what was probably the best pizza lunch I'd ever had, we discovered that the restaurant management supports Proposition 8. They support a ban on same-sex marriage.

Had we noticed the signs before we ordered, we definitely would have walked out. We didn't see them, because they were posted in a way that they could be most easily seen as we exited. On our way out, I asked to speak to the manager.

"Usually we go to another pizza place," I told him, "but we decided to come here instead. I have to say that your pizza is much better than our favorite, but I need to tell you that we won't ever come back again."

The manager seemed surprised. "Why?" he asked.

"Because you support Proposition 8," I said softly. "My partner and I are gay. We were married on June 29th, and it breaks my heart that you would support such a hateful proposition."

"Well, I believe in the bible," he said, "and the bible says that gay marriage is wrong."

"I don't care what your bible says," I told him, "G-d doesn't condone hate. We have a child together, and she is the one who suffers if her parents cannot be married."

"Thank you for your feedback," he said politely, "I understand your position. I hope you understand mine."

Tears started to well up in my eyes. We walked out of the restaurant and into the parking lot. As I unlocked the car, I burst into tears.

"Lunch suddenly seems like it was a bad idea," I cried.

As we climbed into our car, Tammy noticed a nearby SUV sporting a No on Proposition 8 sticker. She ripped a page out of her notebook and quickly scratched out a note, which she placed under the vehicle's windshield wiper. "Thank you for opposing Proposition 8," it read, "Signed, a same-gender married couple in your community."

Please, vote no on Proposition 8. If you don't live in California, please make a donation.

L'shanah Tova, everyone. Maybe you be inscribed for a sweet new year.

I haven't blogged in quite some time because there's very little that falls into blog-worthy and publishable. Although there's certainly plenty going on in my life, since my partner and I are still involved with the foster care system, I can't share any of it because the stories of our foster children are confidential.

So there's not much going on in my life that I can blog about.

This morning, though, I had an "incident" with my credit card company, Capital One, that I thought I should share. What makes this blogworthy is that this particular company heavily advertises that the card I have is supposed to be a "no hassle" rewards card.

No hassle. Right.

A few months ago, I started paying my bills online. I entered the world of online bill-paying with a certain amount of trepidation, as I was born into a world that didn't have home computers, ATM machines or the Internet. Although I am a technology worker, I'll admit to being rather slow in jumping onto the electronic payment bandwagon. Checks, like money, have a tangible feel to them, and the idea of allowing someone to electronically slurp funds out of my bank account has always made me nervous. I'd always worry, what if they made a mistake?

So my foray into electronic bill paying has been slow, and overall, I haven't been impressed. It doesn't take me any less time to make all my online payments than it did to just run a stack of computer-ready checks through my printer and stuff them into envelopes.

But ooh, I'm saving money, because I don't have to pay the U.S. Postal Service 41 cents for each bill.

On the second of the month, I dutifully logged into Capital One's Web site, and filled in their online payment form. I hadn't received my statement yet, but it was time to pay bills, so I looked in my checkbook management program and sent them a payment for what I thought I owed them. Their web site seemed to agree, because it readily accepted the payment. Now that the bill was paid, I could more or less forget about them for the month.

When the statement finally showed up, I reconciled it against my checkbook management program and realized I'd mis-recorded a transaction. It turned out that I owed Capital One 20 cents. "No biggie," I thought to myself, "I'll just log back into their online bill paying system and pay them their money."

So I logged in, tried to pay them their 20 cents, and was thwarted.

You must make a payment larger than $0.00 the site scolded me in big red letters.

I tried to pay $1.00. The site wouldn't accept that amount either. It seems one is only allowed to pay the balance owing, plus no more than 10%.

Online bill pay failed. I picked up the phone and called customer service.

I spoke to a very cheerful and young-sounding man. He was more than happy to help me, and offered to take my payment over the phone. As I suspected, he confirmed that if I did not pay the 20 cents owing by my due date, I would be hit with a $35 late fee. "You definitely need to pay the amount owed," he said.

I couldn't help but giggle. "So how do you want me to pay you the money?" I asked.

"There's normally a $10 fee to pay over the phone," he replied, "but for this small amount you are trying to pay, I think I can get it waived."

"$10!" I exclaimed, "forget it, I'll just mail you a check." Since when does a company charge a fee for the privilege of paying them? I got Capital One's mailing address, thanked the customer service representative, and bid my goodbyes.

He interrupted me and offered a new suggestion, "You could just go out and buy yourself a cup of coffee at a gas station, and then send a payment for it plus the 20 cents."

Brilliant suggestion.

I bid my goodbyes and got off the phone after a semi-lengthy discussion about the virtues of their no-hassle rewards system.

Whatever.

I reached for my checkbook, and remembered that my local credit union has an online bill payment tool. I've used it, but I'm kind of lukewarm about it. Payments made through the system show up with strange check numbers, and then they don't match up when my checkbook manager downloads them. I figured I'd try and send payment anyway, so I wouldn't have to worry about a $35 late fee on 20 cents.

I logged into the credit union's site, entered my billing information and received another error message. Apparently, nobody ever pays a bill less than $1.00 anymore, because the site scolded me and said the smallest amount I could send was a buck.

Okay, fine. I sent Capital One a full dollar.

Now, I want my 80 cents back.

We finally made it back from our vacation to Idaho, and all I can say is wow. We had a wonderful time, despite a lot of craziness:

1. The number of accidents we witnessed.
2. The number of separate trips we had to make to the hospital emergency room.
3. The number of children injured in various accidents, and the number of vehicles that were damaged by one of my nephews while we were visiting.
4. The number of times my truck broke down getting to/from my sister's home.
5. The number of times we went horseback riding.

It was a good vacation anyway.