Thursday, April 28, 2011

Thunderbolt MY ASS

The whole day went down the crapper at an alarming rate, and it's still swirling.

As soon as I got up this morning, at 7am, and checked my brand new ipod4 (black not white) my Pilates clients started canceling, rescheduling, and putting their practice on hold because they were injured. HELLO, you're not supposed to be getting injured if you're doing Pilates.

The first text came in and for the next  two and half hours, I was emailing, texting and erasing, people, places and times, from my appointment book. Yes, I have an appointment book that I can actually feel. And I love using a pencil and eraser. Sue me.

I wanted to crawl into a corner and chew on my foot because I was over it all! The last minute canceling and rescheduling goes against my Virgo nature. I like order, efficiency, and promptness. If one change is made, it's like a fucking house of cards. It throws me off balance. My productive and lucrative Thursday, turned out to be unproductive, unprofitable and depressing. Again, not a good time to stop the lunacy suppressants. 

Since we're on the subject of shitless days, lounging around in poopy pants, let me regale you with the shitless night I had on Tuesday. I'm no shrink, but this might have had something to do with my current irritable brain syndrome.

I went to Verizon on Saturday with my boyfriend to buy a new phone. I was ready to upgrade and put an end to my friends telling me that I was living like it was 1995. (From a cellular phone perspective.) I decided to bite the bullet and get the iphone.

However, when I got to Verizon, they had other plans for me. The salesman, and I use the term loosely (he was more like a sales-child) because he looked like he was sixteen years old. When I told him I wanted the iphone, he looked at me like he had just sucked on a lemon, "Why?"

Why? What do you mean why? Because my friend Muffy has one, as well as a kabillion other people. What the f?

He proceeded to tell me that the Android Thunderbolt was a better phone, had cooler features and would give me more for my money. They were compelling arguments but I wasn't completely sold. He went on to tell me that downloading and watching movies on the Thunderbolt blew the iphone away.

I don't watch movies on my phone. I'm old school. I still like to watch movies on a friggin' movie screen (and large televisions) NOT on my tiny phone. He mentioned other features that went over my head, but within five minutes he was setting up my new Thunderbolt. "Excuse me, Sucker, you're table is ready."

In the past, I had never entertained purchasing a non Apple product when it came to electronics and technology. I went Mac in 2001 and never looked back. It was love at first sight. However, I also didn't want to be one of those Mac geeks that never venture outside of their Apple boxes (film & television production reference) believing that Mac rules the universe, and are willing to pay to live in its kingdom. I was trying to be open minded.

I have to say that my judgment might have been a bit clouded, as my boyfriend and I had spent the entire day looking at toilets, vanities and microwaves for the new house. We didn't get to Verizon until six in the evening and I was already feeling loopy.

In the middle of the transaction, my sales-child decided that he had to clock out (really, in the middle of a transaction) thus pawning me off on a salesman with a horrible sinus infection. As sinus man went through the paperwork and set up my phone, I became obsessed with his sinus infected paws groping my new phone. I nonchalantly asked what I should use to clean my phone. His red and puffy eyes looked at me like I'd just asked him how to grow an orchid in the desert. This Verizon store wasn't like other Verizon stores, and it was creeping me out.

We were nearing the finish line (two hours later) when another salesman, early twenty-something, weighing in at 300 pounds, sat down at his desk with a mother and son team buying a phone. While the mother rattled off questions about calling plans, the salesman took out his phone from his pocket, texted, and returned the phone to his pocket. It was surreal. He had no compunction about ignoring this woman to attend to his own business.

And then I thought I was going to throw up. I looked over at the salesman, and he was picking his nose with reckless abandon, as he answered his customer's questions. Apparently, he needed his finger up his nose in order to focus.

Within ten minutes, I regretted buying the Thunderbolt, being at this Verizon location, and thinking that the guest room bathroom toilet should be a two piece unit. These people were grossing me out. My gut told me to abort the purchase and walk out. Funny thing about your gut; when we don't listen when we probably should, there's a whole lot more sinus infected hands and nose picking that we have to endure until it forces us to trust what we already know.

Once home, I spent three days trying to bond with the phone. It felt wrong and weird and I wanted out. I packed up the Thunderbolt, car charger and case (my recycling came in handy, for nothing is thrown out) and got in the car. I contemplated going to a different Verizon location but I didn't want to take a chance that a different location might not let me make the return.

When I walked in, the 300 pound nose picker was helping another customer, thank god. A mid-twenties, short, gum smacking girl, walked over to me. "Welcome to Verizon. How can I help you today?" First of all, you can stop snapping, cracking and smacking that gum like your life depended on it. And then you can return these items for me.

She asked why I wanted to return them, and I told her that I was more comfortable with the iphone. When I told her that I'd had the phone for three days, laughed in a condescending manner and said that I hadn't given it enough time. You know what Snooki, I just want the ipod. Let's not take this personally and start crediting my account.

Oops, I forgot my receipt. That's right, I had to drive home (20 minutes speeding) and back (another 20 minutes speeding). On the drive back, again I contemplated going to another Verizon, but since cud chewing Snooki assured me of a full return, I didn't want to risk it. Oh, dear god, all this for a fucking phone.

When I returned to Verizon, cud chewing Snooki was helping another customer. You guessed it, 300 pound nose picker was all mine. Again I was chastised for not giving the Thunderbolt a chance. He also felt the need to tell me that after a short time, I'd be bored with the iphone. Hey doucher, I'm not looking for my phone to put on a show for me. I want to make a phone call!

I'm going to take advice from an unapologetic public nose picker, who finds it completely appropriate to text while assisting me with my purchase? Not so much Proboscis Digger. 

He asked me if I wanted a front screen protector. I didn't want to buy anything from him or the store. I needed the Apple Store, and I needed it bad. Please forgive me, for I have strayed.

I said, no thank you, to which he replied, "Okay, so you want scratches?" You're resorting to sarcasm now? He was punishing me for getting the iphone? Is this happening? Give me my goddamn phone and let me get out of here.

And then he coughed into his hands. My spanking new, shiny, pristine, and germ free iphone4, sat inches away from his grimy mitts and again, I felt ill. I quickly unpacked the case that I had to buy and wrapped my baby up in rubber, and ran out the door. It's okay, Cud Chewing Snooki and Proboscis Digger can't hurt you now.

Mac and Apple do run the universe and I’m more than happy to pay out my ass to be an inhabitant, especially if it means staying clear of salespeople like the ones at Verizon, store number 145. I hope you're reading this Ivan Seidenberg, Verizon Chairman.

I feel a shit load better and I’m taking my poopy pants off now. Thanks for listening, er, reading.

Monday, April 25, 2011

Way Down Upon the Crazy River

I blog on, which is endorsed, or co-founded by Brooke Burke (ya think I should know this?) and each time I write a post or check to see if anyone's commented on my posts, her banner comes up with her in a bikini, advertising a new waist thinner called Baboosh Baby Unisex Waist Trimmer. Not for nothing but does she really need to be Babooshed? And do I really need to see a picture of her when I'm writing about my ass spreading because I'm sitting and writing too much? The answer is no. No, I don't.

I'm pretty sure that I reached the pinnacle of crazy the other day. And lest you forget or didn't read (heaven forbid) my post, I'm Losing It, I stopped taking my meds. This might have factored into the mental.

I read online that because it was Earth Day, if you brought your own coffee mug to Starbuck's, they would give you a free cup of coffee. I like coffee... and free. And it would be nice to do something for the planet.

Off I went in my Mini (great gas mileage) and about halfway there, I realized that I forgot my travel mug. Okay, so I had two options; drive back, wasting gas, emitting crap into the environment, but getting that free cup of coffee and saving a cup. Or, I could continue on to Starbuck's, save on the emissions crap and buy a cup of coffee, using their cup, but getting a 20% discount. I was in serious conflict. I had enough sense to realize that if I did in fact turn around and retrieve my mug, I'd be paddling along the shores of crazy river.

Well, give me an oar and a life jacket, because I turned my Mini right around and went back home to get my mug. When I finally got to Starbuck's I panicked for a moment because I didn't see a sign offering the free coffee with a mug because it was Earth Day. I actually felt a twinge of anxiety, but when the barrister handed me my mug back, she told me to have a nice day.

Maybe I'm not ready to go cold turkey quite yet. 

Friday, April 22, 2011

How Do You Procrastinate?

We crave instant gratification. We're lazy. We have a fear of failure. There's no deadline. The high priority action that you have to complete pushes you out of your comfort zone.

Enter procrastination. We all do it. And some of us are better at it than most. Like moi!

I have my tried and true go to's, like emptying the dishwasher at a snails pace, or putting in a load of laundry, even though it's a shirt and bra. I'll find a Pilates studio for a friend out of state, because clearly they don't have time to Google, like I do. I've done the itunes, Youtube, Facebook and Twitter shuffle. Child's play.

There's the cliched sock, and or undergarment drawer, that needed organizing, because if I didn't get to it that very minute, all hell would break loose, and I wouldn't be able to focus on my high priority action.

I've had to call friends that I really didn't want to speak to because I was procrastinating. I've sifted through scraps of paper laying around my office for hours (rereading each and every one of them of course) and filed the TO BE FILED file, that had been in need of some TLC for months.

I've tweeted Cher, and bought a menagerie of 'things' online, only to change my mind when it came time to checking out because I was too lazy to fetch my credit card. 

But the other day, I took two empty 2lb Pro Energy Whey Protein Powder (Vanilla) canisters filled with change (pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters) out of the hall closet. I found several coin wrappers and I stood in front of the dining room table, hunched over (bad Pilates instructor, very bad) and began to WRAP!

Fact. Coinstar, found in some grocery stores, may charge up to 8% to count your change that you dump into their bin. No way. That's my money. Well, mine and my boyfriend's. Besides, I'm procrastinating. I've got time. It's a win-win situation. Right?

However, around the fifty dollar mark, my neck started aching from bending over the mounds of metal. I also realized, with the help of my boyfriend's judging glances, that perhaps I had procrastinated enough for one day.

There's often a defining moment in the procrastinators dance, when he or she gets a wee disgusted with themselves. So much so that getting back to work seems like the only option. I had the moment and I had fifty dollars. Okay, twenty-five dollars, although I think I should get more since I'm the one who took time away from my high priority work to wrap these dirty coins. Right?

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

I'm Going To Lose It

The Girlfriend Mom was kicked into high gear this weekend.

I decided to give my boyfriend a break, and take one of the Girlfriend Mom kids and his friend to the movies Sunday afternoon. Quite enlightening indeed.

When I was a kid my parents always gave me money if I went out with my friend and their parents. Whether my friend's parents ever let me pay is unclear. The point is, my parents never assumed or presumed that my friend's parents would foot the bill. It seems that things have changed.

We went to see Rio, doesn't matter, and I paid for the three of us. Twenty-six smackers later, thank you very much. I was happy to do it. My boyfriend always pays when we're out with the kids. This whole topic is a whole other blog. The question of who pays for what, where and with whom always causes me anxiety. Paying for the tickets wasn't an issue, and I knew enough to offer the kids a drink and snack. I wasn't going to be the cheap Girlfriend Mom. I knew the score. I know they have to eat.

The Girlfriend kid wanted some candy thing and his friend wanted a slushy. Blue, red, and disgusting. Another nine bucks. Still okay, still cool. The small slushy was ginormous and when the Girlfriend Kid asked for one, I had to put my put down.

"Why don't you guys share this one?"
"We don't share?" You don't share? Isn't that one of the golden rules? Apparently when you're twelve, it's every man for himself. I managed to get an extra cup and they shared it that way.

Everyone had their crappy nutritious delights and we found our seats in the theater. Things were terrific until two mothers and their kids (one being an infant) decided to seat right in front of us. An infant? You're bringing an infant to the movies? I never understood this. However, when I opened my heart, I realized that some mom's don't have the help or the money for help, so they had to bring their breast feeding infants to the 5pm showing of Rio. One cry out of that baby, and I was heading to the manager.

About a quarter of the way in, I felt a push against the back of my chair. I decided to give it a little time, because maybe whoever was behind me was rearranging their wedgy or stretching their legs (don't want to get a blood clot) After the third kick, I turned around and saw a little girl, probably eight or nine, looking right at me. Her legs didn't even reach my seat, so I wasn't sure how she was able to kick it, but kick it she did. I gave her the stink eye and asked her to stop. She stopped.

Things were good. The movie was good and I hadn't heard a peep out of the breast feeding baby. Then the Girlfriend Kid's friend got up. I thought he had to go to the bathroom. SIDEBAR: When I got home, I asked my boyfriend if 12 year old's were allowed to go to the bathroom by themselves. He said that they were, but I'm not sure how much I trust a man who lets their preteen son watch R movies.

The Girlfriend Kid's friend stopped in front of me, bent down and said, "Can I have some cash to get a snack?" WHAT?! I was flummoxed, mainly because I didn't know if this was a 2011 thing that all kids do, or if this child was rude, with a side order of entitlement.

I told him that I didn't have any cash (which was true) and I wasn't about to give him a credit card. I didn't know how to react. Was I wrong to say no? The fact that I contemplated this proves how much I have to learn. Again, I asked my boyfriend when I got home and he assured me that it was rude and a bit disrespectful. Hey parents, are you paying attention!

In the car ride home, the two little angels couldn't stop playing with the seats (don't be breaking my Mini) turning up the radio to uber loud, and listening to the most inappropriate song that I have ever heard. When I told them to shut it off, the Girlfriend Kid, laughed and told me to, "Calm down. I'm turning it off."

I can't calm down, I don't know what to do. Do I let you listen to it? I admit that I had a mini freak. Total mini. I didn't want to hear the lyrics nor did I want to be around when they listened to them. I'm no prude but that shit was fucked up.

When we got home, they decided that the movie wasn't entertaining enough, so they got their rifle bb guns, and took target practice at a street sign in our backyard, while perching themselves on our deck. The bb's are soft pellets but I am anti any kind of gun, and shooting, so this was a bit hard to swallow, let alone watch.

They didn't wear goggles at first but when one of the guns accidentally went off, they scampered around for glasses. The deck is off of the kitchen, where I was trying to work. I've been sitting so much, that I wanted to stand while I write, and the kitchen cafe table is just the right height. Riveting info, eh?

I had one eye on my computer screen and the other on the shenanigans out back. The next thing I see is the Girlfriend Kid's friend wearing my $250 dollar Gucci sunglasses (From Italy not Canal Street) nonchalantly walking passing me in the kitchen, on his way outside. Goggles, Gucci, same thing.

Are you fucking kidding me. I ripped the glasses off of his head so fast, I think I took a few of his hairs with it. No one asked permission, it was a friggin free for all. They were officially running amuck, and I was losing control.

Forget about the writing, I now had to supervise. They decided that the street sign wasn't fun anymore, so they grabbed a few tin cans out of the recycling bin and set those up on the deck railing. I watched, waiting for something horrible to happen. It didn't but the cans blew off the deck and lay motionless on the grass below. I didn't say a word because I wanted to see how long it would take them to retrieve them.

Not five minutes later, I see the Girlfriend Kid riding across the pristine green yard, on his scooter. I opened the deck door and screamed, "Please don't ride on the lawn." To which he replied, "No, it's okay." I was incredulous. Mainly because he didn't see anything wrong with riding a motorized toy in the yard that we share with another townhouse. I screamed back, "No, it's not okay. You're riding on the neighbor's grass." I was pretty confident that they wouldn't want tire marks on their lawn.

Don't these kids know how to sit in a chair and read?!

They walked back into the house, and I reminded them to pick up the tin cans from out back. I forget nothing. I received head nods and went upstairs. Suffice it to say, the cans weren't retrieved until the next morning, when I reminded them yet AGAIN. 

The Girlfriend Kid's friend slept over and, even though I told them to keep it down, because my boyfriend was still sleeping, his friend started shooting baskets on the indoor basketball hoop that hangs on the front door. I'm convinced that some kids are dense, deaf or both.

I quickly got dressed and left the house. I had to run errands before heading to my parent's house for Passover, and I couldn't listen to the television or the basketball stomping for one more minute. When I returned, his friend had been picked up, thank you Jesus, and the Girlfriend Kid was in front of the television set, exactly where I left him.

The cleaning lady arrived with her two kids in tow. What?! Today? Bad weekend to stop my meds. She brought the kids a couple of other times, when they were on vacation and they helped her clean. I realized yesterday, that this isn't okay. My boyfriend and I don't think it's appropriate and it makes us uncomfortable. I'm going to have to have a little talk with her.

So while her kids emptied trash and cleaned toilet bowls (Seriously?) the Girlfriend Kid continued watching TV, as if nothing was going on around him. My boyfriend decided to make a late morning breakfast, so while we ate in the dining room, watching some crap rap video on the TV, the cleaning ladies' son windexed the television stand. It was BEYOND awkward.

I looked at my boyfriend and told him that I had to get out. The chaos, noise and awkwardness was too much for me. I was unraveling. To the gym!

I finished my workout and headed back home. Please god, let the cleaning lady and her crew be gone. I can't handle seeing them, even in my zen state. They were just pulling out of the driveway as I was pulling in. Whew. I was exhausted. I cannot imagine doing this on a daily basis. Brava to moms everywhere.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Passover with Cher

I wrote this in honor of Passover AND Cher.

I invited Cher, Baruch Hashem, to my mom and dad’s house last year for Pesach. I didn’t know if she already had Seder plans or if she’d be too tuckered out from her, “This is my last farewell tour,” farewell tour, but I thought I'd tweet her anyway.

She accepted my invitation without hesitation. Then she wanted to know what color the Yarmulkes were, so she could color coordinate with her wig. I told her women didn’t usually wear Yarmulke’s in reformed Judaism. I said that my family we were so reformed they were practically Catholic.

She didn’t care and when she showed up, she was wearing a Bob Mackie Yarmulke original. Sequins, tassels, faux fur trim. It was a beanie masterpiece. My parents treated her like one of the family. More so than they did with any of my boyfriends.

She was a great conversationalist. She really impressed them when she told them about a new report that came out claiming that there was flame retardant in mother’s breast milk.

I showed her my Cher doll that I got in 1975. Unfortunately there was an accident with a pair of child proof scissors and now she looked like a slutty Dorothy Hammill, but she was touched, and I saw a tear roll down her wrinkle-free face.

Cher excused herself to make a costume change, and when she returned, she joined us at the dinner table. We started reading from the Haggadah, or prayer book. A few pages in, I looked over at Cher and thought she looked a bit uneasy. That’s when I realized that the multitude of glasses of wine we’re told to drink, can be very unsettling to a non alcoholic (Of which there are none in my family).

I told her she didn’t have to drink but being the mensch that she is, she threw that wine back like one of the drunken sailors in her, “If I Can Turn Back Time” video.

My dad gave our half-breed guest the honor of reading the four questions which are traditionally read by the youngest at the table. Cher stood up and presented us with a very unique gift.

She changed the lyrics to her song, Dark Lady, just for the occasion.



Why is this night so different than the ones that came before?
Why do you dip herbs twice and only eat maror?
Why do you sit reclined and eat this funky looking bread?
If it were up to me I’d order in instead.



Why is this night so different than the ones that came before?
Why do you dip herbs twice and only eat maror?
Why do you sit reclined and eat this funky looking bread?
If it were up to me I’d order in instead?

Cher joined my dad in lighting Yahrzeit candles, in memory of loved ones that had died. My Dad lit one for Nanny and Cher lit one for Sonny and her youth. He poured a glass of wine and opened the front door for the prophet Elijah. Cher started to speak, but my dad gently pressed his two fingers to her lip, "No, Dark lady, not your Elijah."

We play a game after the Seder meal. It's sort of a Jewish hide and seek, using a piece of Matzot, called the Afikoman. Whoever finds it, gets a cash prize. Cher wanted in. She loves games. And cash. She was also drunk off her tattooed ass. So she and my nephews scampered off to look for the big cracker.

After a few minutes, we heard a commotion coming from the basement. “No. Let it go. It’s mine. I found it.”

We ran down to the basement, and found Cher, acting all meshungina. She was pushing my nephew up against the wall, trying to pry the matzot out of his snausage-like fingers. She was schvitzing, her mascara was running, and her wig was cockeyed.

She ran up to my dad, out of breath, and planted herself firmly in front of him. She dropped a handful of matzot crumbs into his hand and waited. My Dad was disappointed. The people of the town were right. She is a gypsy, tramp and thief. But rules are rules. He took out a $20 bill and slapped it down in her hand, and said, "Shalom, Cher, Shalom."

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Recycling or Rubbish

I’m trying to do my part, you know, save the world, and I’m doing it one plastic container and cardboard pizza box at a time. I’m not digging water wells in Mali or building houses in New Orleans, or rescuing abused circus elephants. I’m recycling vitamin bottles and tuna cans.

My kitchen now looks like a bag lady’s den. I haven’t found a less cluttered way to hang the various bags (plastic, paper, cardboard) on the chairs. We don’t have the room, or the bins. My boyfriend thinks I’m obsessed (read: nuts) for recycling practically everything short of used tissues. When I started recycling my junk mail envelopes (mixed paper) or any envelope for that matter, he almost opened a can of whoop ass on me.

I can’t stop myself. I look at everything as a potential recycling opportunity. I’m trying to save the planet, dammit. Now the bags have started to overflow into the garage. I find it therapeutic to break down boxes, no matter the size. I like the small toothpaste packaging, as much as the box the case of wine comes in.

My boyfriend has now, after a year, joined me in my obsession (read: nuttiness) I’m in charge of bringing the recycling that my neighborhood does not pick up, to the local recycling center. I even had to get a sticker for my car, because they don’t want just anyone throwing their crap in their bins. They’ve got rules!

And then, last week, in the middle of my dumping, as I looked out over the ginormous containers filled with smaller filthy containers, I wondered where the recycling goes. And IF it all goes. Is there really such a thing as recycling to begin with? Wasn’t there a 60 Minutes story on the recycling scam several years ago? Is this just an exercise in futility? I don’t think I know enough about where my cardboard paper towel roll and plastic prune containers are going.

Next stop, Google.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

"Blog Bits" or "Rants, Raves & Ramblings"

We had the seventeen year old Girlfriend Kid (yes, I just made that up) over for dinner the other night with her boyfriend. When we were saying our good-byes at the door, she uttered the following, "See you later. Love you guys." She's probably said it before, but since I'm on this whole Girlfriend Mom/parent/pseudo responsible adult kick, it touched me in my soft place, usually reserved for stray dogs and Down Syndrome children.

Really? She loves me too? It sounded so matter of fact. So obvious. I felt accepted and loved but anxious and strange at the same time. It's not that I'm not ready for these emotions, it's just that I'm still getting used to the inclusiveness of it all. My boyfriend responded, "Love you too."

When they drove away, I went upstairs to analyze, deconstruct and then analyze some more, what had happened. And during the press conference I had with myself in my head, I said, "I love you too, Girlfriend Kid." And I meant it.

Okay, so later that night, my boyfriend told me that he told the Girlfriend Kid that if she wanted to, she could live with us during the summer (If she doesn't stay at college and work) Ummm, dinner is one thing, but nightly? For 3 months?

My boyfriend keeps bacon fat (or any extra grease) in a mug (what was once my favorite mug) and it sits on the kitchen counter near the stove because he doesn't think it can be poured down the sink drain. Thoughts? Anyone?

I had ants in the bathroom the other day and I noticed them just as I stepped into the bathtub. So while submerged, I was killing ants all around me. It grossed me out and when I yelled for my boyfriend (to do what, I don't know) this is what he yelled back, "Oh, really." Cut to huge ass pause, and then, "Hey, babe, American Idol is on." I'm killing ants while I bathe. It gives multitasking a whole new meaning.

I don't want to get all into the Pia-American Idol b.s. but let me just say that, although technically her voice probably was one of the best, it's called SHOW BUSINESS. It's the business of SHOW and personally, she didn't show me anything. I'm not about to pay to see her standing still on stage and sing. She has a record deal, so she'll be fine, people, relax.

This is how connected and alike my boyfriend and I are. Last night I was reading, "The Eichmann Trial" by Deborah E. Lipstadt and he was watching the G-String Divas. And black out.

Monday, April 11, 2011

How Often Do You Go To The Doctor?

I was in the city on Friday for two doctor's appointments. I've been lazy to find local ones, so once a year I go in to see 'the doctors'.

My boyfriend thinks that I'm obsessed with going to the doctor. No, I have a father who was/is neurotic and obsessed with going to the doctor. His thinking is, if you have the insurance, then get your money’s worth. I do have an army of doctors. General practitioner, Gynecologist, Dermatologist, Ophthalmologist, Dentist, and Physical therapist, although that one doesn't really count.

I see the following less frequently but they’re on my speed dial. Urologist, Rheumatologist, plastic surgeon, Orthopedic surgeon, Neurologist, Acupuncturist, thinning hair doctor, and podiatrist. I had a bunionectomy awhile back. Nothing says old jew like a bunion.

I parked my car and walked to the subway, only to see the R train pulling in to the station. I excitedly hopped on. You know why the train was just pulling in? Because it was the downtown train and I needed the uptown. I rode it to 34th, got off, walked over to the uptown platform and marveled at how after so many years, that I could still be getting on the wrong trains.

My yearly check up was first. The nurse called me into the room, told me to pee in a cup (if you’ve been playing at home, you know that I’ve gotten very adept at this (see why) and then that bitch weighed me fully clothed. Are you crazy? She didn't even offer to subtract any pounds for the clothes. I didn't say anything, because I'd already weighed myself that morning, completely naked (I even took my hair clip out) so I knew what the truth was.

And she didn't measure me. I've Pilates'd (sp) my brains out and I’m convinced that I've grown. She left the room so I could get into my paper towel gown (from the waist up) and I laid on the table, waiting for her return.

She came back in and started hooking me up for an EKG test. Man, she ripped that gown open, exposing my supple bosoms, and started sticking patches all over my chest. She totally rushed through it, like she had a train to catch. No sweet talk, nothing.

The rest of the exam was boring. It took all of 10 minutes. So worth the drive in.

Here's a little advice for anyone planning to visit NYC or who lives there. Please don’t walk more than two people across on the sidewalk, when there’s oncoming pedestrians. And if you can, single file that shit up. There were people walking 4 and 5 across. The friggin streets aren't big enough. Please be considerate.

I still don't know how women walk the streets in heels. I'm going to be seeing you in my Pilates classes!

I have a male gynecologist, and I always wonder how they don’t get excited examining their patients (I know they’re professionals, but they’re also human) especially if a fresh and sexy 20 something, with a rack that rivals any VS model walks into the office. Hell, I'd get excited.

Is it wrong to greet my doctor with a hug? A part of me thinks it is but I don’t know if that’s the uptight part of me, who’s constantly searching for the right and wrong in situations.

I laid on the table, this time naked from the waist down, cooter slightly exposed (those paper towel gowns don’t cover squat) waiting for my doctor to get the hermetically sealed instruments out of their package. Awkward.

The exam commences, and the exam ends. Then he says that he sees a lot of Pilates Instructor's with tight pelvic floors, who have painful sex. Wait. Is he saying I have a tight pelvic floor? Is that bad? But I don’t have painful sex. AHHH! Check please!!!! Stop! I don’t want to talk about sex with you, painful or otherwise! I get it, I’m a Pilates instructor, we’re all about the pelvic floor, tight or otherwise, you’re bonding with me, but please stop talking and let me get dressed.

He finally leaves, but not before we kiss each other good-bye on the cheek, like I do with my girlfriends. I’m so confused.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Me, We, and Us

"I loved my unattached, unburdened, and quiet lifestyle. But I fell in love with a sexy, Portuguese man and his kids were a part of his package (pun intended) So now what?"

Check out an article I wrote for EvolvedWorld

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Can A Television Break Up A Couple?!

I loathe having a television in our bedroom. I don't like to watch TV before falling asleep, I like to read. My bed partner, however, loves watching TV before bed and claims that he can't fall asleep without it. That's a hot steamy pile of turd, because on the few times when he didn't watch TV, and instead read, he was out like a light in less than 10 minutes.

The man is so resistant. He thinks that because he's used to watching, there's no other way. I try to tell him that it's a just a bad, stinky, unhealthy and annoying habit, and he can break it. I've begged him to let me help him.

He doesn't see that watching television stimulates the brain, which is why he channel surfs (the daddy of all stimulation) wondering why he can't fall asleep. His logic is so ass backwards and he's usually a very logical man.

To watch, or not to watch is hands down, the topic of most of our arguments. In the beginning, I tried to be a good sport. It wasn't only the sound that bothered me, it was the light. I've put socks (or whatever is laying around) in front of the cable box and DVD player because I can actually 'feel' the light. Of course this just gives my bed partner more ammunition, "You're nuts. Who does that?" I'm nuts because I'm sleep deprived.

I tried wearing an eye mask but when I rolled onto my side, where I like to sleep, it was very uncomfortable. I think it was too cushion-y. Now I just face away from the television and hope that by the time I'm ready to roll to the other side, he's turned the fucking idiot box off.

I still have the issue of volume. How loud does one actually have to have it, when the television is only a few feet away and it's BEDTIME?! Huh? How loud? I have superior hearing. It might have something to do with the satellite dishes I call my ears.

Nevertheless, I can hear the television when it's super ass low. Naturally, I expect my bed partner's hearing to be the same. It isn't. The level at which he likes to watch could wake the dead. And if he did wake my dead grandparents, they could watch TV together at a deafening volume. But whereas my grandparents were actually deaf, and needed the volume, because they were like elevendymillion years old, my bed partner is NOT!

I made an effort and tried earplugs a few months ago. When I removed them in the morning, I felt crazy dizzy. I couldn't stand up. It lasted a whole day and I was convinced that my head put pressure on my ears, and pushed the earplugs into my gentle ear canal and fucked with my equilibrium. Hey bed partner, I hope watching the season finale of Spartacus was worth it.

I’ve slept in the basement, where it’s quiet and as dark as a bat cave. But am I really going to sleep without my bed partner. Pause for deep contemplation.

We're building a house (details to come) and my bed partner already has the locations (plural) of two of the televisions. He wants one over the fireplace (it makes me throw up a little in my mouth just thinking about it) and a television in the bedroom. We have a vaulted ceiling, so he wants to put it high on the wall, so he can watch in bed, but then have it on some kind of mount that allows him to lower it, swivel it around, and watch from the bathtub.

This is far from over. Every time he brings this idea up, which thankfully isn't too often, as toilets are our immediate priority, I don't say a word. It's my version of reverse psychology. I want him to think that I'm all for it, and then, when he least expects it, I can gently and calmly show him the error of his colossally retarded idea. And I mean that in a loving way.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Cell Phone Use at the Table? Yes or No Friggin Way?

I think some of my hard work is paying off.

My boyfriend, his son and I went out to dinner Friday night and I asked if both father and son could relinquish their precious cell phones, so that we could 'talk', instead of listening to the sound of my own voice, while looking at the tops of their heads. Don't get me wrong, I love the sound of my voice (and the tops of their heads) but there are times, like when we're all out to dinner, when I'd like a little conversation.

At first, my boyfriend's son kept the phone in his lap but didn't seem to text as much. My boyfriend willingly surrendered his phone and it lay motionless on the windowsill. But when I asked his son a question, and got silence in return, my boyfriend took the phone out of his hands. This was such a turn on and I fell in love with him all over again.

His son was incredulous, "What are you doing?" My knight in shining armor bravely replied, "We are not using our cell phones, as a favor to Dani." Okay, not exactly the response that I was going for, but it got the job done.

I'd like to know how parents deal with this issue. Be honest, do you allow phones at the table? Do you draw a distinction between public restaurant and home dining and have different rules for each? Do you have rules at all?

And on a related topic, I took Oprah's, No Phone Zone Pledge. You can too: