Saturday, December 31, 2011

Discover Pilates In 2012 NOW!

I'm a little late on this post. Pretend it's last week and it'll seem a lot more relevant.

You know the drill. You’ve said it a thousand times. “I’m going to lose weight starting January 1st. It’s my New Year’s resolution.” The intentions are noble, but I think this plan only sets you up for a big fat failure. The expectations are too high and unrealistic.

If this is you, then let me ask you, what will you be doing between now and January 1st? Will you be gorging and inhaling everything in sight? Will it be a veritable food free-for-all? Will you keep telling yourself that it’s all going to stop once the clock strikes midnight? This plan is flawed and it puts a lot of pressure on the individual.

Instead, why not start now. You can begin to build a foundation, ease into the idea slowly, with realistic goals. This is key to any weight loss or exercise program. As the Pilates Expert, I recommend dipping your toes into Pilates.

Pilates, unlike Zumba, Cardio Bootcamp, or some other hardcore, impact pounding exercise, is easy on the joints and great for the mind. What better way to usher in the new year, than to participate in a full mind-body program. It’s time that Pilates came out of Yoga’s shadows and got the attention and respect that it deserves.

If you want to give yourself the greatest gift that not too much money can buy, here are some tips on getting started. You won’t be sorry, and if you are, then email me.
  1. Push yourself away from the table and close your mouth.
  2. Find a Pilates studio in your neighborhood. I don’t recommend practicing Pilates at a gym, unless they have a room dedicated to Pilates.
  3. Make sure the instructors are certified. Ask them who certified them and do a Google search. Some instructors take weekend workshops and call themselves Pilates instructors. Hmm...
  4. Most studios are willing to work with you, financially, so ask about promotions and deals. This is a great time to sign up.
  5. If you can afford it, sign up for a ten pack. This will hold you accountable and force you to follow through. Nobody wants to throw money away.
  6. Figure out what time of day works for you and try to stick to a routine. When you’re starting out, it’s important to find your rhythm and what works for you. Set yourself up to succeed.
  7. If it’s available, I recommend alternating between a Pilates Mat class and a Pilates Apparatus class. This will teach you the fundamentals, and at the same time, challenge you on the equipment.
  8. Practice at home. Once you have the basic Mat moves, you can now do them anywhere there’s space on the floor.
  9. If money is an issue, I highly recommend surfing over to They have a wide variety of classes, ranging from beginner to instructor level, and some that use props. It’s $18 a month, for an unlimited amount of classes, and all of the instructor’s are highly qualified. I would first and foremost start out in a studio, with a live, face to face instructor, to get you started, but once you have perhaps 10 sessions under your belt, check out the website.
  10. What are you waiting for? Not January 1st! Go get your Pilates on!

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Actual J-Date E-Mails... OY!

These are J-Date e-mails that I received when I was on the site, looking for a man. To amuse myself, I commented on the e-mails, but I never sent them. I never found a man either but when you read the few gems below, it won't be hard to see why. Clearly I thought that I’d want to use these one day. Always thinking I am.

In honor of Chanukah, I give you, Too Jew For You, excerpts from real J-date emails. I do hope they’ll elicit some laughs, smiles, and some, “Holy shit nuggets, that can’t be real.”

10/28 2:38 pm
A healing penis with no baggage. Totally self confident except for a few social phobias. Driven by Wellbutrin and grounded by Effexor. A jew with his own toolbox who can do minor household repairs. According to Tom Leykis, you have the perfect profile for me. If you have a Costco membership card...I'm marchin' to the altar. Won't you give me a chance and help get me off this site?

I don’t know where to begin with this one. Penis? This guy actually wrote a “healing penis with no baggage”. That took balls. However, this vagina won’t be responding. Some people shouldn’t attempt humor because they’re risking sounding like an escapee from Bellevue. Get a grip dude.

10/27 10:32 pm
Hi - I am the one that came up with the 100 word minimum on J-date. If you'll have dinner with me, I'll reduce the minimum to 50 words. If it REALLY goes well, I'll dispense with the minimum altogether! I LIKE it when you're serious - did you surprise yourself? Joseph

This is in response to my bitching about the 100-word minimum that J-date asks you to meet when answering their questions. A lot of guys think they’re being cute and funny when they address this issue. Most of the time they’re neither cute nor funny. There’s a part of my profile where I answer one of the questions rather seriously and then call attention to how serious I was being. This fellow thought he’d get inside my head. Not a good idea. It’s dangerous in there.

10/27 12:18 am
Hi Great Smile and teeth. I'm a newyorker, or, x its been along time. Im in west hollywood and would enjoy hearung rom you..i just rejoined/good /or bad? Ill try. Scott 323 653 7519

There’s something creepy about pointing out someone’s teeth. Even though mine are exceptional. My parents paid dearly for them and I paid dearly, socially. I had braces for 5 long years and my social life suffered. Can you say Chelsea Clinton? His spelling is horrific. I would think that he wouldn’t want to look like a jackass so he’d do a spell check. Most computers nowadays have spell check. Do the work. Don’t be a lazy, f’er. It’s attractive.

10/26 12:47 am
This is fun. Sit down in a chair. Take the index finger of the hand you write with and point it forward. Now lift your leg so your foot is off of the floor. (If you are right handed use right leg and vice versa). Move your foot clockwise. At the same time, write the number 6 with your index finger. Let me know what happens. Ken (My picture should be online tomorrow)

This was definitely one of the more unusual. I’ll tell you what happened, Ken. I got dizzy and almost fell off the chair. What’s with the games? The fucked up thing is that I actually did it. Okay, that’s my issue but c’mon. I got a little scared as soon as he said index finger. I thought, index finger? Where is this perv going? What actually happens is that your foot and your finger start moving in sync. See ya Ken. And good luck.

10/24 6:23 pm
Great hair..... David

Not that this isn’t a lovely compliment but what? How do I respond? “Thanks, my mom has great hair too. It must be in the genes. Truth be told, she’s really a retard when it comes to hair products or knowing how to use a blow dryer. My dad and brother, however, are bald. They don’t use products. Recently my hair has been thinning around the crown area. It’s a horrible thing for a woman. I’ve tried the shampoos and two different ‘programs’ and I got bupkis. I had really, really short hair about 5 years ago but my ex-husband said that he felt like he was fucking a little boy. He asked me to wear lipstick whenever possible. I eventually grew my hair out and divorced his sorry ass.” What, too much?  

10/22 12:42 pm
Love’s labor shall not be lost (As long as you respond!) [Play on Shakespeare]

Okay, this brings me to the ‘pre-made’ teases that you can choose from. I think if you use a prefab line, you’re saying, “I’m a lazy SOB, and this is the best that I can do.”
These are a few examples:
We seem to have so much in common, let me know if you agree.
I'm looking for a serious relationship, are you?
I'd like to start-up a conversation, can I write you sometime?
We've already "clicked", so why stop now?
All your imperfections are perfect for me.
I'm intrigued, feel free to email me.
How much harder would it have been to write the same sentiment in your own words? A little effort goes a long way. You are looking for your future ex-wife aren’t you?

11/20 2:26 pm
Now I don't date actresses, being a manager, but I can't resist telling you that rather than leaving my hat on, I date women free of STD's and don't want any part of condoms. Leave your diaphram in.

Seeing STD in print or hearing it out loud gives me the coodies. And do you think that saying you’re a manager is going to turn me on? And what makes you think I use a diaphragm?

Wednesday, December 21, 2011


I recently got hired as a Pilates instructor at a large and chi chi health club. Management asked me if I would offer free demos to their members, introduce them to the Pilates method and to meet me. Clearly this would be for those members that have been living under a rock with their heads up their asses, because, really, who doesn’t know what Pilates is? Madonna, Gwyneth Paltrow and Tiger Woods do Pilates for crying out loud. Ooh, that wasn’t an example of me getting into the holiday spirit now was it?

I’ve done so many free friggin’ demos since I became an instructor, that it’s a bit of a soul killer to have to whore myself out again. I don’t mind whoring it out if I’m getting paid, in cash... whole other story. That being said, I took a meeting with myself, like I’m want to do, and decided to suck it up, adjust my attitude and do it. 

It has been a tough year, work wise. I started losing clients back in March, and I haven’t really picked up any new ones. I did leave the country to teach in Dubai for two months this summer. That couldn't have been good for building a client base and continuity.

I have impeccable skills and I deliver quality Pilates instruction, with the added bonus of my kick ass personality. But the evidence doesn’t lie and I wondered what I might be doing wrong.

Perhaps I’m not attracting new clients because of my laissez-faire attitude towards beautifying myself when I teach. I know this is unimaginable when I say that perhaps my winning personality isn’t enough. I know, I can’t believe it either. Could my client drought actually be because I don’t wear make-up, shower frequently, or blow dry my hair before I hit the Pilates studio or gym?

I’ve always felt that I shouldn’t have to succumb to such shallow and superficial practices. I choose to sit comfortably crossed legged on my high horse, espousing ditties such as, “Like me for who I am, and how I can help your horrible posture. Don’t like me because my hair is long and luxurious. My work speaks for itself.” Aren’t I adorable and misguided.

It was the same way when I lived in L.A. and auditioning. I wanted to believe that people would hire me based on my f’in talent alone. I never worried about whether the powers that be thought I was pretty or wanted to sleep with me. I think we can all agree that my strategy was both flawed and naive.

But that was then, and this is now. What’s wrong with putting on mascara and showing just a hint of tit (men do Pilates too ya know) if it’s going to bring me paying clients? Once I’ve reeled them in, they’ll be so balled over by my teaching and humor, that I can then just roll out of bed and not brush my hair. I wanted to see if I made an effort (this means wearing unstained clothes and putting on lip gloss) would I attract more clients?

I had my first Pilates demo last night. I put on make-up as if I were going to a wedding, and I changed my clothes a half dozen times, finally deciding on a head to toe Lululemon ensemble. My Astro pants showed off my camel toe, and gave me a wedgey. Perfect. I went with a tight purple Define jacket, wearing only my bra underneath. I needed a bit of padding to help lift the sistas up onto their perch. I smoothed out my hair, and flat ironed my ponytail. However, I did not shower. It was my little secret. Between me and... me?

“Chaka, Chaka, Chaka, Chaka Khan
Chaka Kan, Chaka Kan , Chaka Kan
Chaka Khan, let rock you”  -- Sorry, it just came on my itunes.

After two long hours, just one man asked for a demo. It’s hard to say whether he was genuinely  interested in Pilates or he just likey my wedgey. I have another demo tonight, and I will whore it out again, all in the name of investigative reporting.

Monday, December 19, 2011

I linked up with Ghosts of Blogging Past

My first blog post is from September, 2007. 

I had a few choice words regarding the first Sex And The City movie. 

No Sex Please

Gift Giving and Receiving Is Shrouded In Agita.

At what point does my boyfriend and I sign the gift labels on his kids' Christmas and Chanukah presents, "From the both of us?" Up to this point, we've shopped separately, and paid separately. It's not about the money, although those little people aren't cheap, it's more about the feelings of separation and inclusion.

I enjoy buying the kid's gifts, and I like labeling them, 'from Chanukah Henrietta'. I wonder if this will always be the case. I wonder if the Girlfriend part of The Girlfriend Mom will merge with the Mom part. I wonder what that might look like. But like everything else in my life as The Girlfriend Mom, things will work themselves out organically. I've learned not to use force or guilt, and to sit back and watch it all unfold.

My boyfriend and I went shopping the other day to buy him skis (we're going skiing next week) and a kick-ass ski bunny outfit for me. I had to face the facts. In the past, a major reason why I never warmed to the idea of going skiing or to be outside in the cold in general, was because I never had the proper gear. Since I moved back east, five years ago, I have been doing without snow boots. I know.

I had a press conference with myself, and left the meeting prepared, and dare I say, excited, to drop some cash and stock up on all that I needed. If my boyfriend suggested that we go sledding or tobagganing, I would be the first one out the door. As an aside: The same holds true for dinner party and business clothes. The only thing I'm prepared for, attire speaking, is working from home, or at my local cafe, teaching Pilates and sexy time in bed.

I hijacked the saleswoman at the Ski Barn and told her that it had been awhile since I bought ski pants, and gloves, and that I needed some TLC and whole lot of  help. We started with the layer closest to my skin and I worked my way out. It was painless and productive. These aren't words used to describe my shopping experiences. Ask my mom or my friend Liz. Anyone who has had the pleasure of going shoe shopping with me, can attest to the fact that I HATE shopping. I am not my mother's daughter.

My boyfriend gave me the thumbs up on my wicked tight and sassy snow pants and after I picked out my helmut, I met him at the register. All of my crap was already in bags. He paid for everything. It sort of confused me because I didn't know if he was trying to expedite the transaction because he was hungry and ready to leave, or if he wanted to pick up the tab. I started to feel nervous. This wasn't discussed at the press conference. What the f? I'm a Virgo for crying out loud. You can't do this. 

When we got in the car, I told him that I'd pay him back. He said that it was my Christmas present. I said that it was too much money, and that I didn't feel comfortable. The anxiety was building up in my gut. I started to flush.

He assured me again that it was my Christmas present but I couldn't do it. I immediately rejected the idea and then, in no particular order, shit shot through my brain, in rapid fire.

I refuse to be a kept woman. I don't want to be like his ex. I don't want to come off as sponging, or spoiled. I'm not worthy. You can't buy me. It's controlling. I don't want to be a taker. He who has the money, has the power. I was looking forward to buying the stuff myself. I don't want a hand out. I feel nauseous.

When I was a kid, and I saw my name on the presents under the Christmas tree, (and then Chanukah bush and sleigh) I dreaded picking up the presents, taking them, and then opening them. I must have expressed my uneasiness because my brother would inevitable pipe in, "If she doesn't want hers, can I have it?" Maybe I was trying not to be like my brother and well, it just never stopped.

In the past, I've returned birthday present checks from my father, if I thought that it was an excessive amount. Of course I was the one who determined what was excessive. If the amount didn't make me feel queasy, then I would be able to accept it.

When we got home, and for the next day or so, I kept thinking about my boyfriend's offer and my reactive response. Why couldn't I have trusted that if he didn't want to give me this generous gift, he wouldn't have offered? Why couldn't I have said, "Thank you. That is so sweet, thoughtful and generous of you. You'll definitely be getting some tonight. And I have what to wear."

But I didn't say that (he got lucky anyway) and then yesterday he presented me with the receipt, so that I could make sure what items were mine. Here's the honest to goodness truth. I was secretly hoping that he would insist on giving me this incredible gift. That he would see through me and my angst and ignore my neuroses. What better way to learn to accept than through practice? I mean, come on, how much does he think I make as a Pilates instructor and writer anyway?

We spoke briefly about the incident and I nutted up and suggested that maybe we could split it. He didn't like my idea and said, "Too late. Now maybe the next time I want to get you something, you'll wise up and just say thank you." He ended up giving me a gift after all because I will never be so asinine again!

Thursday, December 15, 2011

FCC Rulings and Rug Turds

If you've been reading my blog, and I don't know why you wouldn't be, you know that I am very sensitive to television volume. See this blog. Well, I'm happy to report that the FCC has weighed in on this very heated, and all important topic of turning down commercial volume.

It's the calm act of 2010 and has to do with excessive commercial loudness. You know what I'm talking about. You're watching, I Hate My Teenage Daughter
and all of sudden you hear, "DO YOU WANT TO SAVE MONEY ON CAR INSURANCE. GEICO, IT CAN SAVE YOU 15%," at a volume that would wake the dead. But now commercials will have the same average volume as the programs that they so annoyingly interrupt. Glory be.

I know many of you were also wondering how my office was shaping up. Well, I was making progress but then I had a bit of a setback. I bought a rug several weeks ago at Home Goods. It was an 8x10 for $299. Although this is a lot of money, I didn't think it was excessive for such a large area rug. I thought I was getting a bargain and pretty darn proud of myself for spotting such a good deal.

I shoved the rug in the back of my Mini. It was a tight squeeze to say the least. My boyfriend was thankfully home and helped me unload it and bring it into my office. He had to leave but I decided that it couldn't wait and so I tried to lay that baby down by myself. It's a large wool rug, which makes it uber heavy. First I had to lay down the non-slip padding. That shit really works. Once it's down, it's down. I couldn't position the f'er where I wanted it and I started to sweat.

I unrolled the rug, using ever ounce of strength that I had, and tried laying it evenly over the padding. I was at it for a good half hour. That was funsy. When my boyfriend came home, he looked at the rug and said, "I'm not sure it really goes and it's uneven." Fuck. He asked me if I had a pad underneath and when I nodded in the affirmative, he said that I didn't need one because the rug was so heavy, it wasn't going anywhere. Hey, thanks, where were you an hour ago?

I think he took pity on me and helped me roll up the rug, remove the padding and relay the rug. Great. Nice and even.

Three weeks later.

I couldn't stand the rug. No sofa matched it and it shed. A lot. At first I thought that if I vacuumed it often, then the shedding would stop. It didn't and it got ridiculous. The rug coated my socks with its teeny tiny fibers just after walking across the room, and the fibers were migrating into other rooms in the house. I decided to vacuum one more time... just to what? I knew it was a piece of crappy crap. Why was I wasting my time? Because I probably had some writing to do and this was a valid distraction.

As I vacuumed, the fibers weren't being sucked up. Instead, they turned into fiber balls. What? And then the light on my vacuum went off. DANGER! DANGER! WILL ROBINSON! I opened the canister, or rather I tried to open the canister but it was stuck. When I finally got it opened, this is what I found.

 Get out of my sight!

My boyfriend and I moved my two ton desk and I rolled the crappy crap rug up and immediately returned it to Home Goods.
The moral of this adorable tale, "You get what you pay for."And I obviously paid for a rug that shed lint turds.

Monday, December 12, 2011

"Holy Menorah Moshe"

I live in a small beach town in New Jersey and as my profile states, no, I do not know Snooki. I don't lunch with any of the Housewives of New Jersey either. Although, I'd love to be their personal Pilates instructor, so if anyone has an in, let me know.

It's Christmas time. The holiday season. I get it. But what's sometimes forgotten is that this includes Channukah. Or as some know it, 'the festival of lights'. Or, as kids, we in the tribe knew it as, eight guaranteed presents! It's such a cliche but, compared to the pomp and pageantry of Christmas, the festival of lights kind of blew.

However, as an adult, I've come to dig the ceremonial candle lighting, now that I finally understand the meaning of Channukah (pretty lost on me until I had to explain it to my boyfriend's son) And now, as the Girlfriend Mom, I spread the guaranteed eight presents tradition to the kids. My boyfriend's son insists on lighting the candles. I'm touched but I think he does so because matches and fire has sparked his inner pyromaniac. He's thirteen. It's a right of passage.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, beach town. The decorations are up on the lawns, porches and storefronts. People sure do love their inflatable Santa's and nativity scenes. And god bless. If someone wants to blow up a baby Jesus, who am I to judge. But what I have noticed is this. I do not live in a Jewish neighborhood. I'm cool with that, sort of. Am I really asking too much to see one inflatable Menorah?

People's own homes are one thing but what about the storefronts? It feels a wee strange not to see Menorah's in the windows, or a friggin' dreidel. Isn't it a bit unfair, especially since Channukah overlaps with Christmas this year. There's a Jewish deli on one of the corners, and there's bubkis in the window.

All holidays should get equal stage time.

Full disclosure. Accepting a Christmas tree and decorations in the house in which I now live with my Portuguese lover (read: not a Jew) has been a process. Truth be told, from a style and taste perspective, I'm not a huge fan of standard fair tree ornaments or holiday pillows. I do like the lights, though. This is because of the further disclosure below.

Further disclosure. We, my Jewish family and I, used to celebrate Christmas. Oh, yeah, we were those reformed Jewish families that you might have heard about. We lived in a two bedroom apartment and my dad always brought home a tree, whose top branches just brushed the ceiling. I never questioned this tradition and I certainly didn't question the Christmas presents under the tree, in addition to the eight Channukah presents.

As years went on, our ginormous Christmas tree became a Channukah bush. I never really understood that. The bush part I mean. Like a burning bush? My dad was slowly finding his Jewish roots, and we were slowly losing our Christian Christmas. If you ask my mom why we celebrated Christmas, she'll say that it was never a religious celebration but rather an opportunity to decorate. And wrap. The woman is an expert gift wrapper.

We no longer had the glass balls, that would break if you breathed on them, or tinsel. Gone were untangling the lights to be hung around the tree, that often brought about curse words, and several, "Why are we doing this? We're Jewish!"

They were replaced by artsy and whimsical ornaments, usually made out of wood. We had moved to a bucolic and country town, and my mom thought that stringing popcorn and ornaments from Amish people were less 'Chistmassy'. She was in friggin denial. 

By the time I was in college, Christmas consisted of stacking presents in an antique (wood) sleigh. How country chic of mom. My dad had had enough of trees and bushes, and a few years later, we found our way back to an artsy, country and whimsical menorah. At some point it just didn't feel right to be celebrating Christmas. It's funny how that happens.

Cut to present day. My brother married an Italian and Scottish woman, and my nephews celebrate Christmas, just like my brother and I did when we were their age. And now I celebrate Christmas (just the decorating part) with my boyfriend and his kids. It's still an ongoing process of acceptance, in spite of my upbringing.

But this is what couples do, right. I'm sure Katie Morosky and Hubbell Gardner ("The Way We Were") celebrated Christmas and Channukah. Of course they ended up divorcing, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't over Channukah gelt.

If I can light the candles in my new bicycle menorah, then my boyfriend can hang his climbing Santa, that rings, sings, rattles and shakes. Because that's tolerance and love. 

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Awards Mean That You're Popular!

Yea, I'm now in the popular group. I better go find me a jock to blow.
Did I say that out loud?

Seriously, I am honored and genuinely surprised at getting these awards for my blog and blogging prowess. Humbling. Truly humbling. No, not really, I totally deserve them.

First shout out goes to Sara at moments of exhileration. She knows talent when she can smell it. Or it may be her daughter Adeline's poopy diaper. Never the mind, she's kick ass, so check her out. I believe she's bestowed on me the Tell Me About Yourself award.

My second shout out goes to the brilliant Annie at Annie Off The Leash. She was one of my first fans and I'm grateful for her eye for spotting genius as well as her own genius. Stop reading my spew and check her out. I think she gave me these two awards. Someone call me out on my shit if I have this incorrect and I'm just giving myself awards willy nilly.
In order to be worthy of these awards I must list 7 things about myself. Here ya go.

1. I spent 12 hours in Nicaragua, because when I saw a bug the size of a small child outside my motel room, I had to flee the country.

2. I proudly display my Cher doll on my desk, although her shoes went missing decades ago,

3. I prefer eating standing up.

4. I don't like to shower unless I've worked out.

5. I have to feel the weight of a blanket, or my boyfriend, on top of me in order to fall asleep.

6. Collecting passport stamps is a badge of honor, and like these blogger awards, makes me feel important and popular.

7. I have no idea what the difference is between the old and new testaments. (Oh, yeah, my parents are proud)

And now, I'd like to share a side of me that I don't think a lot of my new readers have been exposed to. The Pilates Instructor. Here are a few posts that take you through my Pilates journey. C'mon, it'll be fun.

A newbie

Discovering Lululemon

Teaching. Performing. It's All the Same

I had no business teaching pregnant women

AND now the most important part. Awarding my fellow bloggers and sharing the love.

Sad In The City

Moms Madhouse

My Dishwashers Possessed

Misadventures in Motherhood

Suburban Rules

The Unnatural Mother

grrl guide




Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Things I'd Like To Do: August 31, 2004

While organizing my lovely new office, I came across files and files of crap. Chicken scratch scribbled on tiny pieces of paper. Clearly the beginnings of books, screenplays, genius ideas for genius projects. Projects that were never meant to be, so never released from their files. Quele dommage.

However, I did come across a list entitled, "Things I'd Like To Do: August 31, 2004". It's a long friggin list. I was either very ambitious back in '04, or that was the year that I was seeing a life coach.

She instructed me to make lists and, "Put it out there into the universe." Nothing was ever too far fetched or silly. She wanted me to think big. Thinking big was never (is never) my problem. Putting those ginormous thoughts into action is a whole other story... and post.

I'm including the list here. I've highlighted those that I've actually accomplished in one form or another. I'm sure everyone has their lists. Perhaps it's in a file, tucked away in a drawer, or on your computer in that secret folder that we all have (you know the one, where we keep our naked pics) Oh, yeah right, like I'm the only one.

This type of list really forces one to take stock of their lives. But in a good way.

Enjoy and maybe you'll share your own list one day. Universe, baby, universe.

- Learn how to ride a motorcycle and get a license
- Go skying diving- I did do Sky Dive Dubai, which simulated sky diving. Count?
- Write another one-person show
- Get staffed on a sitcom
- Act in a sitcom
- Host a talk show
- Sell another screenplay
- Write another screenplay
- Write a musical
- Find a soul mate, partner- YEAH!
- Travel: Yoga retreat, hiking trip, South America, Australia, go back to Italy, South Africa, Ski trip
- Study with chimps or gorillas- Whoa, now that is thinking big... and a wee crazy
- Hire a personal trainer
- Thin out my arms- WHAT? But I did it. Pilates, kids. Pilates.
- Cut a record
- Learn Italian
- Perform in a Broadway musical
- Participate in a walk-a-thon
- Stop my hair from thinning
- Have a baby
- Go on a rock climbing trip
- Practice rock climbing at the gym
- Go hang gliding
- Go parasailing
- Work with down syndrome kids again
- Volunteer with the elderly
- Get more involved- That's just too general
- Find a job that will pay me to move back to NY- have places on both coasts. I was living in L.A. at the time. 
- Get a chef or be able to afford having food delivered- Eating issues. We'll talk later
- Take dance class
- Learn how to salsa
- Karaoke more
- Heal my ass- For a long time I had a coccyx issue and was in a lot of pain when I sat.
- Learn Final Cut Express
- Get an agent or manager
- Learn music recording program
- Step outside my comfort level more- I'm giving myself 1/2 credit here
- Meet more people, new people
- Go to Shabbat more
- Bartend
- Audition at Plan B- This was/is a strip club in L.A. (I think it was a phase I was going through)
- Take a pole class at Crunch or S Factor- Maybe not.
- Go on a ride-a-long with the police. I dated an officer for awhile. Count?
- Buy a lot of sneakers. What?
- Fly back to NY every month
- Be able to afford weekly massages
- Take a religion class: starting from the beginning. When your religious education comes from the musicals, JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR and GODSPELL, you NEED to take a class.
- Audit a one person show workshop
- Get more proficient at the computer/ipod. iPod. C'mon, that's adorable.
- Learn Photoshop
- Teach English as a foreign language
- Perform on a cruise
- Take a Krav Mag class
- Go through an army basics type of class
- Horseback riding- restaurant trail- Griffith Park/Mexican Food. Okay, that was too specific.
- Learn how to juggle. In process.
- More physical activity
- Guitar lessons
- Drum lessons

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Why Did You Tell Dad That I Got My Period?

My Lover and I were talking the other day about his twelve year old son having his first girlfriend. I’m not sure that I can remember what girlfriend and boyfriend meant in seventh grade. I do know that I went to my first co-ed party, played spin the bottle, and prayed that it would get too late in the evening to play seven minutes in the closet. I was quite shy in the romance department back then.

In any case, I asked my Lover if he was going to have a father-son talk, including favorites like, “It’s perfectly normal to masturbate, but class it up a bit and don’t use a friggin’ sock.” My Lover said that it wasn't necessary. Huh? Not being a full time parent, I was confused.

My parents had talks with me. Or were those my TV parents? Parents are supposed to talk to their kids about sex and, more often that not, how to avoid it, right? Don't they say things like, "I'm here for you, if you ever want or need to talk." Mine did.

Apparently, my Lover (I want to see how long it takes before you get nauseated by the word) didn't think so. He’s the youngest of five, from a working class family in Portugal. There weren’t a lot of sit-downs with his parents, unlike my hippy dippy- consciousness raising- pot smoking- macrame plant holder making- denim cap wearing- Three Dog Night listening- free to be you and me- parents. He never talked about sex, bodily functions or anything too personal, with his parents, unlike my parents. I wish I'd been from Portugal.

Most of the time I didn’t want to tell my parents anything, but in some perverse and distorted way, I felt compelled to talk because they said that I could, and I didn't want to hurt their feelings. I wanted it to be like the families on TV. I wanted to be on the receiving end of that glorious undivided parental attention. I soon learned that it was best to get that attention from an anonymous audience, while singing and dancing on stage.

Flashback to 1980.

I was in eighth grade and babysitting at a neighbor’s house. I hated babysitting for that family. There was never anything good to eat, the kids were dorks (and that’s coming from a dork) and the husband creeped the crap out of me. I remember him driving me home one night, and when he pulled into my driveway, he said, "Okay, pussy, thank you for your help." Ew on every f’in level. I convinced myself that he didn’t mean it in a vaginal way, and that it was a throw back to his generation when pussy actually meant pussycat.

Even at 13, it sounded gross and inappropriate. If it happened today, and I’m not sure why I’d be babysitting and getting rides home, since I have a car, I’d report him to the authorities and see if his name was on any public sex offender's lists.

I got my menses (gotta love the word) for the first time that night. My mother was beside herself. She didn’t know what to do first. Um, how about finding me something so I don’t soil my Carter’s. It would be a few more years until I discovered thongs!

And what she came up with- wait for it - wait for it - was a goddam belt, which was like suspenders for a sanitary napkin. What the f? What is this 1870? It’s 19 fargin 80! My mom told me that I was too young for tampons, and wanted to ask the doctor first just to make sure that it was okay to shove something up inside of me. That was thoughtful of her.

I begged and pleaded with my mom not to tell my dad. She promised and I went into my bedroom. Not ten minutes later, there was a knock on my door. It was my dad. He sat down on the edge of my bed, and I swear, I think he had tears in his eyes.

"Congratulations. I'm so proud of you. You’re a young woman." Okay, first of all, thanks mom, I hate you, and I’m never ever going to tell you anything ever again, ever, as long as I live! 

And secondly, really, dad, congratulations? For what? I had no control over this. It wasn’t like I studied hard for a test and got an A! I didn’t see this happening as an accomplishment or something to tick off of my To Do list. And I wished that he didn’t say woman, because at that age, certain words, like woman, sounded icky to me and made me uncomfortable. Don’t try to figure that one out. Suffice to say, the whole ordeal was embarrassing.

A few years later, even after all of the menses drama, I trotted my ass back to the mommy well, after losing my virginity, because, “You can tell me anything,” and I'm an idiot and I wanted to share. Again.

My mom wigged out. It wasn’t in a, ‘I'm so disappointed in you. How could you have done such a thing? I'm not taking care of it, if you get pregnant’ sort of way, but rather in a, 'I’m not ready for this’ sort of way.

CUT TO: The Present

This is a cautionary tale, kids. Think twice before you believe your parent's supposed openness. My belief is that parents really don't want you to tell them shit because it only re-enforces how ill equipped, ill-prepared, and utterly clueless they are. There's no need to shove their faces in it. Go tell your grandparents instead.

Monday, November 28, 2011

Let's Not Take A Tour of Our Past

Girlfriend Mom Kid: "Were you in any movies, like you see in the movie theater?"
Girlfriend Mom: "Uh..."

Wow, where did that come from? One minute we're watching The Conspirator, and the next I'm reviewing my resume in my head. I didn't answer immediately because I actually couldn't remember. I couldn't remember my life! Great! I didn't want him to suffer through my forgetfulness, so I said no. Thank g-d he didn't ask me why, or I might've kicked him for bringing up an emotionally charged and sensitive subject.

Why couldn't I remember? You'd think something like being in an movie would've left an impression, especially since I worked in the entertainment business, in one form or another, for 20 years. That world seems like a lifetime ago, and it was. Was this a sign that I had subconsciously (or unconsciously) tucked that world away somewhere? Had there been so much living since those days, that it forced me to spring clean my brain, to make room for the new crap?

I started thinking about what my boyfriend knows about my 'old life'. Of course over the years, he's heard stories, met friends from those chapters, and read or watched some of my work, (but with so much brilliance how could we possible get to it all?) I couldn't fill him in on all of it, I don't have that kind of time. And I'm not so sure he's all that interested. Then again, I can't say that I'm on pins and needles either, waiting for him to regale me with his twenty-one year old self's escapades.

Back in the day, I'd give a boyfriend the whole, "This is where I..." tour. It was cute and romantic and I judged him by how interested he was. The tour began at my elementary school, continuing on to middle school, and ending up at my high school. For the price of admission, you got to see such landmarks as the highway underpass where I was arrested for tagging, and the police station (which was also the deli and community center) where I was fingerprinted and where my first mug shots were taken.

If there was time, and that dopey puppy dog smile was still plastered on his face, I'd show him the auditorium where I starred in and directed several productions, as well as the softball field where a crush on my softball coach first bloomed.

What we're interested in, with regards to the other person's life before us, is not as abundant in our 30's and 40's, as when you meet someone in your teens and twenties. These tours (as fascinating as they are) aren't as important to my relationships as they once were, nor do I find many requests for them. "Gee sweet pea, I'd love to see where you shoplifted that baseball hat you told me about on our first date."

Face it, no one really cares. And that's okay. In my last couple of relationships, tours were skipped and the parade of old photo albums were omitted. Your welcome fellas.

But then my mother opened her trap at Thanksgiving on Thursday. She wouldn't stop singing my praises (and my mom can sing) to my lover about a couple of videos that I made for her and for my dad, for their 50th birthdays, that he HAD to see. No, he didn't mother. We've been doing just fine without them. It's probably me, but it feels strange to show my boyfriend, at 45 years old, something I made when I was 25. Yeah, it's definitely me.

I wanted her to stop singing, so I borrowed the movies and last night we had a big Hollywood screening in our living room. I was so proud of them at the time, and I suppose I still am. They were raw, and technically crude, but creatively advanced. I don't even know what that means. My boyfriend watched respectively with an occasional, "That's adorable." And random, "Who's that?" and "Your thighs were thicker back then."

I sensed a disconnect. Bored? I don't know and it honestly didn't matter. Where I would've taken it personally if he didn't gush and goo over every frame, like when I was younger, (because it would've been a direct reflection on how he felt about me) it was no longer personal.

My past, as riveting, scintillating and illustrious as it is (was?) need not play a significant part in my present. All my lover needs to know about me, is what's standing right in front of him, today, not back in 1992, when my thighs were thick, and I wore really big glasses. We're both too busy living in the present, and there's not enough mental bandwidth to care about every detail of our past lives.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

I Was A Grandparent For A Day

Last week was Grandparent's Day at my nephew's school. Unfortunately my parents were out of town, so my sister-in-law asked me if I would step in. My nephew is also my godson, and I see him so rarely, I couldn't possibly say no. 

The day started with coffee and a bakery item in the cafeteria. Me and a roomful of sixty, seventy and eighty year olds. Psych. No problem. I can shmooze with anyone, even if they are attached to an oxygen tank.

After a speech from one of the heads of the school, welcoming us to a very special day, the school's jazz band came out and took their seats on a stage. The music teacher introduced the band, who then launched into a 'high school' rendition of a Dizzy Gillespie song, whose name escapes me at the moment.

As I sat their watching these eleven, twelve and thirteen year old's blow their horns, beat their drums and pound the keyboards, I thought about how proud these grandparents must be, watching their grandkids.

Because I don't have children of my own, I won't truly know what that feels like. I felt my eyes well with tears. I won't see my child perform, or play a sport, or be there to cheer them on in whatever activity that they're involved with. I wondered what a child of mine would be like. Would they play in a jazz band?

Every so often I play the 'what if' game. It doesn't last long but it's profound nonetheless. When I awake from my reverie, I remind myself of the reasons for my choice not to have a child. Still, I am not hardened to the idea nor am I immune to the 'what ifs'.

My nephew found me moments later and the first thing out of his mouth was, "It smells like old people in here." Why yes it does godson, let's motor.

Our first stop was science class. They did an experiment with helium, hydrogen and strings. The teacher was very engaging and I tried to think back on my eighth grade science teacher and I couldn't. Not because I didn't want to but because I couldn't friggin' remember. Note to self, text Emily and ask her who our teacher was.

I have never felt so incompetent and idiotic as I did in the social studies class, and I've had my share of incompetence and idiocy. My nephew and I sat a table with another student and her grandparents. The teacher, who was incredibly dynamic, handed out a worksheet about the civil rights movement. The class was studying the civil war, and the teacher was linking historical events, so that the students could see how such events are related. Shit, where was this guy when I was in school?

In the left column of the worksheet were the names of people and in the right column were events from the civil rights. He asked each table to identify and discuss the people on the left and what their relationship was to the events on the right. Fuck me. I could only identify one! One! And my nephew knew less than that. Needless to say my side of the table was rather quiet. In all fairness, the class hadn't gone over the civil rights movement yet but what the hell was my excuse?

The grandparents at our table knew a lot more. Of course they did, they friggin' lived through it. I was barely born! And to be perfectly honest, I don't remember studying it in class at The Robert E. Bell school. I blame the school and the teachers. The truth is, I was probably rehearsing my lines for "Bye Bye Birdie", under my desk, instead of paying attention.

The fact that I've gone all these years without knowing this part of history is shameful. My parents should ask for their money back, and I should repeat eighth grade. It's true. I thought about this while I sat at the table, with an embarrassingly blank look on my punim. I'm ready for eighth grade!

I can see now that some of my struggles in school were due to a lack of certain fundamentals, such as proper studying skills and not doing homework in front of "I Dream of Jeannie." It wasn't until I became a Pilates instructor, that I understood the different ways that people learn and retain information. For me, if facts and figures can be transposed into a musical number, I'm good.

I listened intently to the teacher making the connections between the civil war and the cival rights movement, and it all started to make sense. How cruel that, as soon as I'm ready and willing to learn, my memory is fading. So even if I do understand, I now run the risk of forgetting it.

I felt as if I let my godson down by being so dumb. Wait! My ego didn't need this. I already went through the hell of eighth grade. I did not want to relive this time in my life.

As I sat in art class (the last of the day) I wondered if the kids that my nephew were talking to were his true friends? Were they just being nice because their grandparents were in the room? Was he popular? Did he get invited places? Did the girls like him? Did he like girls? Each thought brought a twinge of anxiety and heart tugging.

I admit that I was riding the projection train. Seventh and eighth grades were horrific, the likes of which are still traumatizing me, if only subconsciously. I was not only physically awkward but the years were fraught with popularity contests, (hoping for the attention of the likes of Bobby Avonda), and trying to hide my pronounced proboscis.

I didn't want my nephew to go through what I did. I didn't want him to be sad or to feel different. The whole ordeal was f'in heart wrenching. I THINK I was feeling what it must be like for a parent. All I know is that I'd be in tears every day because clearly I'm unable to detach myself.

Still, I'm going to talk to my brother and sister-in-law about home schooling my godson.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Orgasms. Which One Are You?

*** LATEST ARTICLE FOR Evolved World

Not since the Silicone vs. Saline Breast Implant controversy, have we been so preoccupied with our sexual responses and pleasures. I now give you the great clitoral vs. vaginal orgasm debate. 

Is one better than the other? What does it mean if you can’t have a vaginal orgasm and everyone else on your block can? Does one type of orgasm affect your partner’s pleasure? I’ll try to answer the above but as far as your partner is concerned, you’ll have to ask him. I’ve got my own partner to deal with.

Sigmund Freud suggested that the clitoral orgasm was the predecessor to what he considered the deeper and more satisfying vaginal orgasm. What a crock of crap! He went on to say that the clitoral kind was immature. Immature? I know you are but what am I? There is nothing immature about my clit!

There’s more. He also believed, as did others (which accounts for a lot of messed up thinking out there on the subject), that a married woman was supposed to naturally "transfer" the awesomeness that she felt from her clitoris, (it is awesome) to her penile penetrated vagina, courtesy of her husband. There wasn’t any scientific proof, at work was the power of supposing and suggesting.

The male perspective continued with Alfred Kinsey, who supposedly found that women could not and were not having vaginal orgasms. But Freud just said that... Later, the Masters and Johnson research team of Williams H. Masters and Virginia E. Johnson, studied sexual behavior through observing and measuring masturbation (huh?) and sexual intercourse in the laboratory (I want that job). Their results showed no difference between Freud’s vag orgasm and the immature clit orgasm.

Masters and Johnson found that the majority of their subjects could only achieve clitoral orgasm, while a small minority achieved vaginal orgasm. Women everywhere stood up and took back their clitoral orgasms. While I’m not about to march on Washington for orgasmic respect, I am thankful for those that leveled the orgasm playing field. 

Pop-culture and the media haven’t helped by putting in their orgasmic two cents. They’ve f’d women up, leading some to feel sexually dysfunctional if they don’t perform like the women in the movies, who are often portrayed as orgasmic beings, needing only cock penetration to reach orgasm. No need for foreplay, stimulation, or to even take your clothes off. I’d like to meet those women.

It’s hard to believe that in this day and age, that there are women and men who believe that if a woman doesn’t experience an orgasm through intercourse alone, that they are sexually dysfunctional. The physiologic response between clitoral and vaginal are identical. Orgasms are orgasms are orgasms, so who cares how you’re stimulated, as long as you’re stimulated. Amen.

The many forms of stimulation could take up a whole page but when I read about the use of an electric toothbrush, I had to share. Let’s take a moment to digest and then regroup.

A brief anatomy lesson.
A total separation between the vagina and clitoris is mostly false.

The clitoris consists of more than the clitoral glands and hood (external parts). Because the internal parts surround the vaginal opening, and canal (which has few sensory nerve endings) the internal parts of the clitoris are muy importante in the feeling department.

Orgasms mostly involve our brains and central nervous systems, therefore our sexual response is more than genitals or about having a given part of our genitals touched. If this weren’t true, then when my gynecologist sticks, what feels like his entire hand, up in my cooter, or shoves in that wand for a pelvic ultrasound, I’d be orgasming left, right and center.

By the same token, I can kiss my lover and feel a special sensation in my private place but I’m not going to orgasm. No offense, lover.

Orgasms come from the inside of our brains and central nervous systems, and flare out, impacting certain parts of our bodies. So when I ask my lover to dim the lights, or close the door, or some other perceived neuroses (perceived by him that is) so that I may focus on my orgasm as a whole, it’s because those things are affecting my brain and thus, my genitals.
Can we agree that orgasms are a Pu Pu platter? Let’s stop caring so much about how we attain them, and where we think they’re coming from. Isn’t it enough that we have them to begin with? Some women don’t, or can’t, but that’s a whole other topic.
Do we really need to deconstruct our own orgasms, analyzing why one way doesn’t do it for us, while other ways do? Find out what stimulates you, stick with it and just do it for crying out loud! And if the electric toothbrush is your thing, then I suggest brushing your teeth before you get off.

Monday, November 14, 2011

Toilet Talking

 I have agita about not having written in awhile. I was on vacation but it conjures up some old baggage. It's like the time I went away to summer camp after 7th grade, only to return home to find that Betsy Carlson had a new best friend, leaving me out in the cold. I hope history won't repeat itself here in the blogosphere. Needy much?!

I'm finally getting around to decorating my office. For those of you following along, my boyfriend and I recently built a house, and for the past three months, all we've been doing is buying... and returning. Let's just say that we're very familiar now with the term, buyer's remorse.

Focusing and settling in has been hard in my echo chamber of an office, so I decided that the time was now. I got online this morning and went trolling for desks, filing cabinets, rugs and loveseats. Oh, yeah, I had high hopes of doing it all in one fell swoop. I got as far as a desk and two filing cabinets, which I think is a brilliant start.

My office is going to look like a Pottery Barn catalogue and I don't care. I decided that my time was actually worth something, so instead of shopping around, investigating, comparing and trying to be unique with my decor (for weeks on end like I used to do) I said, f' it. I found a picture of an office that I liked, and I was going to have the items gloriously appear at my door. And the best part? I won't need an Allen wrench or a power drill. I'm bidding the days of assembling my furniture adieu. Adieu!

I picked out the items that I wanted and was at the checkout page, only to see that I didn't get the free shipping that was advertised (in a bright red I might add) You couldn't miss it. I called customer service and spoke with David at extension 2033. SIDEBAR: I just looked at my scrap piece of paper where I had jotted down David's extension, so that I would be accurate here in my post. "OCD Anal Retentive, your table is ready!"

I told David that the discount was not applied to my order. He was on it. I heard his fingers pounding the keyboard, as he asked me for the item numbers. And then, in the middle of item number two, I had to go to the bathroom and coincidentally, it was number two. No problem, I thought, I took David to the bathroom with me.

Herein lies the dilemma. Is it rude to talk on the phone while on the toilet? Of course I could've hit mute, but then I would have had to keep switching it on and off, because we were having a dialogue. He wasn't reciting a monologue. While I balanced the phone in the crook of my neck, I dropped trou and did my business. I don't have to go into the details here (thank you Girlfriend Mom) but I did start worrying about what David was actually hearing.

I managed to complete the job at hand, only to be faced with the flush. He was sure to hear that. I couldn't leave it until I got off the phone because the cleaning woman was here and I didn't know where her next stop was. I hit mute, flushed, and ran (literally) out of the bathroom and hit mute again, continuing my conversation with David.

I'm not sure why I made a federal case out of hitting the mute button. It was as if David's questions, and not wanting the cleaning woman to think that I was uncouth, completely overwhelmed me and I panicked. It incapacitated me in a way that prompted me to question myself and ask, "What is your problem?"

However, upon further reflection, I pose the question, "Who among us has never taken a cell phone into restrooms (private or public) and chit chatted with reckless abandon?" I rest my case. And I got my discount. Thank you Pottery Barn David at extension 2033.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

This House Isn't Big Enough For The Both Of Us

I think one of the reasons that I got divorced (it's okay, it was 10 years ago, I'm fine), was the fact that we both worked from home. It didn't matter that his recording studio, a.k.a garage, was in the backyard and my office was in the house. It was too close for comfort. Of course the fact that I wasn't truly in love with him, might've had something to do with the divorce, but that's a whole other post.

I just got off the phone with a good friend, who was about to stab her husband, because he also works from their home and he was irritating the crap out of her. Cut to 60 Minutes interviewing me after reading this blog (cool, another reader!) after they find my friend's husband stuffed in the dishwasher) God forbid. "Did she ever exhibit any hostile feelings towards him?" To which I'd say, "You live alone, don't you Morley?"

When I asked my friend, "Why the rage?" she told me that he's constantly on his blackberry, earpiece in, pacing around the house, conducting business as if the entire house were his office. She couldn't hear herself think or find any personal space, because wherever she went, there he was.

I listened, nodding my head because I knew exactly how she felt. Although my boyfriend and I also work out of the house, I don't want to stab him. I wouldn't want the girlfriend mom kids to be without a daddy. It is annoying and irritating at times to share space with anybody! I bathe in peace and quiet.

The hardest part about living with another person, especially the opposite sex, is figuring out how to meld your different work styles and in the way you want to live. Oh, the conflicting habits, the compromising, negotiating, sacrificing, tolerating, and the intolerable... It's truly a wonder that people live together at all.

It's a dance, getting to know what the other person needs, and letting them know what you need. I've been dancing as fast as I can figuring our shit out. I really shouldn't complain because we do have our separate offices with two floors separating us, but sometimes it's just knowing that there's somebody lurking around that bugs me.

I spent many years living alone, and there are things that I got used to. Yes, I know the flip side of this and yes, the grass is not always greener, and yes, I feel blessed and grateful and love my boyfriend. However, I wouldn't be human, honest and authentic, if I didn't also feel the above.

As I get older, noise in general seems to irritate me more and more. Could this be related to hormonal changes?

That wasn't a joke. Can it? Tell me.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

A Really Intimate Portrait_shortver

Are you an actor? Are you a recovering actor? Do you love (or like) Lifetime Television? But more importantly, do you feel that you deserve your own Lifetime Intimate Portrait? So did I. But I couldn't wait around for Lifetime to get their shit together, so I made my own!

Monday, October 31, 2011

Does Your Child Read Your Blogs?

My boyfriend and I just completed building a house and we're now decorating it. The following is a popular and frequent exchange, occurring several times a day. 
HIM: "How can you not like that?"
ME: "Because it's ugly."
And blackout.

Through this intense process of producing a house, I've learned that my lover is more anal than I had originally thought.

Case and Point. I bought several votive candles the other day, to put with our framed photographs in our book case. Then, upon seeing the empty mantlepiece with the flat screen television hovering only inches above it (whole other rant about mounting the television over a fireplace) we decided to put the votive candles on the mantle.

He was acting like fuckin' Rain Man, placing eight tiny votives in a straight line. He eye balled them for alignment (thank god because if he got out a tape measure or leveler, I was going to have a stroke). The way he leaned over them, then stepped back to see his handy work, pushing one here, sliding another over there, he looked like fuckin' Rain Man. I had to walk away. I'm not equipped to handle that much OCD.

As soon as I washed Rain Man from my mind, I focused on something that I've been struggling with for awhile now. I'm Facebook friends with my boyfriend's 12 year old son and 17 year old daughter. This means that they can read everything that I write, (including this post) if they choose to.

I thought friending the kids was a good way to see what kind of trouble they might get into, and any inappropriate behavior taking place. That, and I also feel that there's a certain amount of freedom that the kids get by expressing themselves online, and that perhaps I'd learn something about them. Of course there's the dark, ugly and dangerous side as well, which was another reason I wanted to be their friend. I watch Dateline.

I can't imagine if Facebook existed when I was 12 and 17 years old. My parents would've been privy to my kleptomaniac phase in eighth grade and the daily keg parties that we had in high school, when they were out of town (which was often).

All was fine until I started writing articles like, Are You Jealous of Your Partners Masturbation? and Skype Sex because in order to improve my readership, stats and traffic, I post it on Facebook and Twitter. Helloooo Girlfriend Kids!

I haven't been a Girlfriend Mom very long, and this sort of thing is completely foreign to me. I'm not sure if it's my responsibility to monitor what the kids see or read. My boyfriend hasn't said anything, so perhaps I should let it go. Then again, he just asked me if someone moved the votives, so I'm not sure where his priorities are. 

My mother doesn't show my salacious articles to my dad, so that gives you some sense of the content. If it makes my mother uncomfortable, then what affect might it have on a 12 year old boy? Am I being paranoid? Is it egotistical to think that he would give a rats ass and want to read my stuff? I think he's spending his time on more important things like friending the entire cast of The Jersey Shore.

I know that kids growing up in the world today are exposed to a lot more adult related material than I was at their age. However, my parents never hid their pot smoking from me, or as they liked to call it, grass. It's hard to know what should be kept locked in a drawer, and I suppose it's different for every parent.

Speaking of drawers. My boyfriend came to me the other day and said that his son asked him, "Dad, what's Gun Oil for?" I almost seized! The personal lubricant is kept in our nightstand drawer, where most people keep their lubricants, except those of you who don't need the extra help and to you I say, God bless and LIARS!

His son obviously went on a fishing expedition in our bedroom. I'm not sure what I was more miffed at, his son opening our drawers, or that my boyfriend makes no effort to hide the contraband. "What did you tell him?" In my boyfriend's quick thinking wisdom, he told him that it was to oil door hinges.

I'm no blood related mother but there's no way that his son bought that crappy crap. And the fact that my boyfriend believes that he did, shows daddy's gullibility, or a need to prolong his son's innocence before it inevitably fades into Gun Oil, Playboys and Porn (ALSO in the drawer).

"Hey boyfriend, you're going to tell me that he only saw the Gun Oil? Okay, and there's a huge bridge in Brooklyn that went on sale."

I'd like to be a responsible adult and parental figure (right?) but at the same time, I prefer to leave most of the child rearing responsibilities to my boyfriend and the blood related mother. I just know that if I read about my dad's girlfriend's favorite sex trick in bed, whether I was 12 or 45, I'd throw up and then take a shower to wash the image away, just like I did with my Rain Man.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

A Really Intimate Portrait... Of a complete unknown

A parody of Lifetime Television's Intimate Portrait series. A real look at the frivolous, and marginal accomplishments of a nobody, who, by the end of the show, will look like a somebody. A Really Intimate Portrait ... Of a complete unknown poses the question: 'How can you be a has-been if you've never been'?

Watch Movie Here


 “Dani Alpert's A Really Intimate Portrait...of a Complete Unknown offered herself as the subject of Lifetime's gushingly soft-focus Intimate Portrait series, which does for women what VH-1's Behind the Music does for rock stars...  She caught the tone of the Lifetime series dead-on, and the friends she recruited to talk about her not-so-famous life (most of them struggling Hollywood actors themselves) were a scream. Alpert may not be famous, but she is funny, and that's enough.” --Chris Kaltenbach, Baltimore Sun

"Comedian Dani Alpert offers a truly inspired takeoff on "Lifetime's Intimate Portrait series", one with shades of that giant of all mockumentaries, "Spinal Tap." Ms. Alpert's success is portrayed as resting on a rather slim reed- mainly her experience as director of the annual high school musical. One of her real-life associates, comic Julia Sweeney, appears as a fawning interviewee." -- Judy Oppenheimer, The Baltimore Jewish Times

“Dani has crafted a sophisticated skewering of the cozy celebrity TV bio, and in so doing manages to be twice as interesting and ten times funnier than the form's typical real-life subjects. Witty, engaging, and sweetly sharp, she's a new comic voice to reckon with.”  
-Don Roos, Writer/Director, Web Therapy, The Opposite of Sex, Happy Endings 

Thursday, October 20, 2011

The Power Of Procrastination

Early rise at 7:00am. The whole day ahead of me. No plans but to write.

I don’t get out of bed until 7:35 because I check my email on my iphone and text a friend birthday wishes.

I get dressed to work out and head upstairs to my Pilates Springboard.

I stretch and work out for 20 minutes. I’m feeling loose and clear headed.

It’s downstairs for a protein shake. I add peanut butter this time.

And then for the next three hours, I sit at the kitchen counter, in front of my computer, with my head up my ass, checking and rechecking FB and Twitter (for what I’m not entirely sure) I send and answer non-priority emails. I Google the name of the Rooster dinner plates sold at Sur La Table to see if they're cheaper somewhere else. I also do a search for clear, plastic, magazine racks.

Lunch time already? I eat leftovers with my lover and vow, if only in my head, that when I’m finished, I will sit down and write. I’m beginning to feel like a poop stain.

I decide that I have to do laundry. We’re going away this weekend and I need my favorite jeans washed. They’ve gotten too loose, which makes my ass look like I've got a load in my pants. I want that, ‘just out of the dryer’ tightness.

I start panicking because we’re supposed to leave at 3:30p and I haven’t begun to pack and I feel rushed. I haven’t written a word.

I go back upstairs to the Springboard to stretch because all of the sitting that I've been doing makes my legs tight and achy.

After another 20 minutes, I head back downstairs to work.

My computer is dragging, freezing, and acting like a petulant child. I fear that I might lose data.

I find my external hard drive and start copying files. What about my pictures? All hell breaks loose (in my head). It’s been a long time since I backed up my iphoto library. I’ve forgotten how to copy my one thousand plus photos. 

It’s another hour and a half before I realize that trying to copy my photos on a computer that’s giving me the finger, is a colossal waste of time. F’it! If I lose my pictures, I lose my pictures.

Because I feel ashamed and humiliated at my ginormous unproductive self, I don’t give a rats ass if all I have to remember my friend's kids faces are my memories.


I swipe my laptop off the counter and head outside to my deck because, while I’ve been posting my boyfriend’s car for sale on Craigslist, the sun has been shining, and the wind has been blowing. It’s a gorgeous day. 

I sit down but I can’t find an area at the table where there isn’t a glare.

When was the last time I cleaned my computer screen? It’s filthy. I go back inside to grab my dry cloth and iKlear. I’m sure I can use something else but I’ve been brainwashed by the Apple mafia.

Crap, I step on the wet mat outside the deck and now my socks are soaking wet.

I wipe the screen and feel a little cleaner. I sit down. I'm ready.

But now the anxiety of having to leave in four hours (I pushed back our departure time for fear that my jeans wouldn't be dry) has taken up precious real estate in my brain. How can I start when I know I’ll have to leave soon.

I need more time. Maybe tomorrow.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011


I'm in a show tomorrow night, Mortified, where I will read from my shameful and angst ridden teenage journals. I just might recite a deep and moving love poem or two. It's sure to be deliciously embarrassing. But I bet there will be a microphone!!

Stay tuned for my reviews.

Friday, August 19, 2011

How Well Does Your Lover Know You?

I can't think of anything better than when your significant other, lover or boyfriend, makes an observation about you that prompts a reaction of, wow, you really do know me. I mean the 'you' that you think you're hiding because, perhaps, it's just a wee embarrassing.

That's intimacy. And it's everything. It's what I strive for. It makes me feel loved, listened to, and paid attention to. And let me just say, I need quite a bit of attention. But isn't this what we all want? At the most base, what else is there?

I can overlook a shitload of negatives and annoyances, if that's in place. We all have our values and priorities, and this is one of mine. When my significant other, lover and boyfriend, calls me out, it triggers something deep within, and I can feel myself melting into the truthful words, and I am light and comforted.

I like to think that I'm a great big mystery. I'd also like to think that I can get back my C-cup breast size. However, as evidenced by the following, I am as transparent as a sheet of transparency paper. And I love it.

My friend and I went to Abu Dhabi last week, which turned out to be the hottest day of the summer. It's also Ramadan, and the road was full of hot and hungry drivers. Not a good combination. We brought food with us, but not wanting to get pulled over and fined, we kept ducking beneath the dashboard, taking bites of our bananas and pint size pears. It kind of reminded me of dating in high school. Whole other story.

Our main objective was to take a tour of the Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque. We got lost several times, as there aren't any signs reading Mosque This Way. This is odd, since it's probably the only tourist attraction in Abu Dhabi and it's one of the biggest and greatest architectural structures in all of the Emerites.

After driving around in circles for about an hour and a half, we made it to the Mosque, just in time for the last scheduled guided tour. We were told that we had to wear a black Abaya, which is a robe-like dress, worn by some women in parts of the Islamic world, as well as a head scarf.

There was an actual coat room, or Abaya room, as it were, where a woman handed me an Abaya in my size. My Abaya was a bit long and I kept tripping over it. Now if I had worn some heels, there wouldn't have been a problem. But I digress.

We tried not to think about how many armpits had sweated in our Abayas, and proceeded to a changing area. I brought my own scarf, (always thinking ahead) which I wrapped around my head like a pro. My friend had her own scarf as well, but when she wrapped it, she looked less like a Muslim woman, and more like a chemo patient. Sad but true.

There was something about wearing the Abaya and scarf that made me feel very 'local and authentic." We left our shoes with the hundred or so others outside the Mosque. It was a beautiful sight and we were both glad that we had made the trek.

The main prayer hall features the world’s largest chandelier under the main dome, weighing over nine tons. The Mosque’s seven gold-colored chandeliers, from Germany, feature thousands of Swarovski crystals from Austria and some glass work from Italy, and cost about US$8.2 million.

The 99 names (qualities) of Allah featured on the Qibla wall exemplify traditional Kufi calligraphy. It is also stated in the Quran that Allah has 100 names minus one, as the last one is too great and you will only find out what it is on your judgement day. There is one blank area above the center name for that “minus one” name.  

There is a 17,000 square meter courtyard which is decorated with white marble from Greece. The Mosque has approximately 1,000 columns in its outer areas which are clad with more than 20,000 marble panels inlaid with semi-precious stones, including lapis lazuli, red agate, amethyst, abalone shell and mother of pearl.  

Cleanliness which is ablution, or wudhu, has been made compulsory before each prayer and in certain cases even a full bath has been made obligatory before prayer. The bathroom was beautiful, and I had no problem eating my hard boiled eggs on the toilet. 

We decided (okay, I decided) to take the Big Bus Tour of Abu Dhabi, just like the one that I took in Dubai. My friend wasn't as excited as I was, and even suggested that, since we had seen the Mosque, she'd be fine if we drove back to Dubai and had lunch. I have a thing about not wanting to miss out when I'm traveling. Besides, we were already there.

We sat inside the bus, as it was death outside, and waited to see something worthy of our time and money. Unfortunately, it never came to pass. It was the most boring tour I had ever been on. And I've been to Colonial Williamsburg.

It became painfully obvious that we were traveling the same roads, passing the same sights, as we did when we were getting lost hours earlier. There wasn't anything to see. Every potential stop, where we might have hopped off, involved being outside and eating. Perfect.

We passed what was called, the carpet souk, which was more like a few carpet stores in a mini mall. There was another souk (outside) that carried restaurant supplies, large plastic garbage pails, and ceramic planters, that I was sure was from China. Two women hopped off to 'shop'. Now they were stuck for 2 hours until the next bus arrived. There's just so much junk one can sift through.

Two long hours later, we headed back to the Mosque to pick up my car. Unfortunately, the Big Bus couldn't drop us off near my car, so we had to walk. We took a chance and went into one of the Mosque's underground parking lots and sweet talked a security guard to let us take a short cut, and an elevator, up to where my car was parked.

We were so happy to be back in front of the Mosque that I asked my friend to take one last picture of me. A split second later, a security guard was yelling at us. We weren't allowed to take pictures, in our civilian clothes, with our heads exposed, in front of the Mosque. I think he actually asked me to erase the picture. I thought he was going to confiscate my camera. We apologized and scurried to the car.

When I got home, I told my boyfriend about my day. He thought I looked cute in my Abaya and commented on the Mosque's beauty, after I sent him a picture. I was in the middle of telling him about the uneventful Big Bus Tour, when he asked me why we didn't drive around ourselves. Before I could answer he said, "Because you paid for your ticket when you bought the Dubai one, right. And you didn't want to waste the money."

Pleasantly guilty.