R-Rated Movies Are Not For Twelve Year Olds

I apologize for my absence. Life had me in a headlock and I couldn't get away. But I'm back now, so you can relax.

I went to see Hangover: Part Deux over the holiday weekend with my boyfriend and his son. It's rated R. I have a problem with taking a twelve year old to see R-rated movies. I can see that my objections might sound a wee prudish but isn't there plenty of time for kids to be exposed to boobies, and tushies, and hearing cussing like, "Fuck that shit man. You're an a-hole." Or sexually explicit language like, "He took it up the ass and loved it. I'm going to tap that tonight."

I'm not living under a rock. I know what 'kids' are listening to on the radio, and what they're watching on television, because they're doing it under my roof. And here's where the biological parent, not the Girlfriend Mom, runs the show. If it were my child, I'd keep them locked in a closet (figuratively speaking of course) until I deemed them ready (I'm thinking mid twenties) to handle graphic language and mature sexual content.

Parents use excuses for letting their offspring see these types of movies. I've heard some say that all the kids do it, and they're going to see it one way or another. This is equivalent to the, "If Barbara jumps off the bridge, would you jump off the bridge?"

It's a lame defense for letting your child be verbally and visually assaulted by adult movies. Another excuse I hear is that kids don't understand what's being said or 'acted' out in these movies. Oh, really? Hey, mom, get your head out of your butt and wise up. They do to understand, so that logic is severely faulted.

I sat in the movie theater next to my boyfriend with his son next to him. Whenever something inappropriate came on screen, I just reminded myself that it's my boyfriend who's corrupting his son's sweet and innocent twelve year old mind, not this girlfriend mom. 

I was able to get through the movie without having an aneurism, even during the (spoiler alert) scene with the naked transvestites in the strip club. However, when the credits rolled over the outtakes, the real shit hit the fan, and I almost lost it. There we were, sitting in a nice little theater in Jersey, watching an Asian woman shooting balls out of her hoo hoo. Don't ask me, I don't know how she did it.

Another woman pulled a scarf out of her hoo hoo, (like the endless ones magicians pull out of their mouths) but you had to be paying attention to catch that one. Not to mention an onslaught of boobs, drunken debauchery and sexual positions I've only recently come to know (and love). And all the while I kept thinking how my boyfriend's son had seen the movie the first time around with his mother.

I don't know if the Girlfriend kid was embarrassed watching this in front of his father and me, but I sure as hell was. It reminded me of the time my overly responsible and parental  (read sarcasm) mother took me to see Saturday Night Fever, also Rated R, in 1977, when I was, ahem, eleven years old! I'm pretty sure my father was in attendance, thereby intensifying my embarrassment.

Let me take you to the backseat of the car scene with John Travolta (Tony Manero) and Donna Pescow (Annette). The poor slut wasn't even given a last name. When the scene started, I wanted to die. I didn't want to watch people screwing (whether I knew what they were doing is up for debate) sitting next to my parents. Why would I?

Even at eleven years old, it felt wrong. Obviously my parents did not share this sentiment because they continued to chow down on their popcorn and Twizzlers, paying no mind to what this might be doing to their impressionable daughter's young psyche. And as I had to do on so many occasions in my childhood, I self parented.

I grabbed my macrame and beaded hippie purse and told my parents that I was going to the bathroom. I didn't have to go to the bathroom but I didn't want them to think that watching a sex scene with them pushed my boundaries (and wasn't cool?) which it did!

I walked out of Hangover: Part Deux, praying that no one would bring up the magical wonders of the vagina. They didn't, at least not to me. "Hey you guys, next week Kung Fu Panda: Part Deux?" And much to my surprise and satisfaction, my boyfriend's son gave me a thumbs up. Okay, so maybe if he sees some cuddly panda bears he'll forget about the tits and ass. Here's hoping.

When Your Ex Moves On

I’m friends with some of my ex-boyfriends on Facebook (and who isn’t) I read their news feeds, and on rare occasions, I’ll leave a comment. They’re always innocent, and devoid of innuendo or flirtation. Recently I was trolling around, I mean researching, and saw a picture of one of my ex-boyfriend’s spanking new baby boy! Huh? I was in shock. We only broke up eight years ago. How could he just move on like that.

Did I expect him to never love again? To never find anyone as superfantastical as me? Well, yes. Why was I reacting this way? The truth is, seeing that Peter had not only married, but procreated, made me feel melancholy and nostalgic. And if I’m not mistaken, my ego felt as if it had been kicked.

Did what we had together mean nothing to him? I know other men that I’ve bedded, dated, or married (just that one) dated other women after me, some married and became fathers, but Peter was different. He was the first guy that I kissed, and slept with after I got divorced. He fed my physical needs that laid dormant for years, and he restored my faith in good old fashioned lust. There’s a certain power in the ‘transitional relationship’.

The circumstances in which I found myself on Peter’s Facebook page that fateful Tuesday evening, was not the stuff rational thinking is made of. I was cranky about my Pilates clients dropping like flies, I was wondering if I wasn’t better off, culturally and professionally speaking, living in New York City and most important, I probably hadn’t eaten in a few hours, which sends me into a hypoglycemic coma of sorts. In a nutshell, I was feeling vulnerable, emotional and wee wackadoo.

In my experience, our reactions to certain events, like seeing a photo of an ex-boyfriend’s baby, looking all cherub-like, cutesy and perfect, are often attributed to how we feel about ourselves and what’s going on (or not going on) in our life, which is why I started glamorizing the past, because surely it was all sunshine and gummy bears, as opposed to the crap ass day that I had just had.

What if Peter and I didn’t break up? What if I stayed in Los Angeles? What if I got a killer job as a writer, we married, moved to the beach and I birthed a healthy baby? Hmm. I can tell you that this line of thinking is futile, because there is no way of knowing the answers to 'what if' questions, and it certainly won’t make your crap ass day feel any less crappier.

There was another reason for my reaction to the baby photo, that I glared at, imagining he was mine, searching for a resemblance. (Okay, that was creepy) Getting older makes me think about all that I haven’t yet accomplished. So when I surf the internet, looking at friends and lovers from my youth, and the families they’ve created, or the books that they’ve published, or the Oprah appearance that they just made, I’m already in a piss ant mood.

After a few moments fantasizing about the what if’s, and might’ve beens, I realized how unproductive I was being. I snapped out of my reverie, and brought myself back to reality, my reality. I know now, after years of tailspins and mental spiraling, that a bad day is just that, a bad day. And bad days come, and more to the point, they go.

One of the beautiful things that come with age, besides the decrease in estrogen and collagen, is the wisdom to know what pushes our buttons, and when we’re doing something (or reading something) that we know isn’t good for us. 

I don’t want Peter or his life. And I do think that it can be healthy to review the choices that we make, if only to learn from them, not dwell on them. And when we’re in our moods, it’s easy to think that the grass is greener, especially when you’re hungry, but it’s not. It's just a different variety of grass.

It’s a cliche but I wouldn’t be where I am today, if I hadn’t made the decisions that I made eight years ago. I live with a sexy Portuguese man, who overfeeds my physical needs and has taught me the true meaning of paixao (it’s Portuguese, look it up) I write and I help people to feel their true health and wellness potential through Pilates, and for this I am truly blessed.

However, if you choose to ignore my cautionary tale, and continue to troll the internet for old boyfriends, or happen upon one in your research, please keep the following in mind.
- You are the only one that can make you happy
- If you’re frustrated or displeased with your current situation, change it.
- Your ex is your past, not your present.
- Before you start wishing that you had done things differently, (when you’re looking at your ex’s baby’s photo) think back to your relationship and see it as it was, not as you think it was or wanted it to be.
- We’re all getting older, and feeling nostalgic for the past is fine, as long as you can appreciate the glory in your present days as well. Time marches on too damn fast to ‘dwell’ in the past.

I took my own advice and before I left Peter’s Facebook page, I reminded myself why we never would’ve worked. My relationship with Los Angeles had ended, so I had to fly away. I never wanted to get married (that one time was a mistake) and I never wanted kids. And lest I forget, Peter cheated on me, so I had to break up with the doucher. He made me cry on New Year's Day, and for that I hope he gets an incurable case of crabs.

Don't Put Hard Boiled Eggs in Your Bag

I went into the city yesterday for my annual mammogram. Controversy aside, since my insurance company pays for it, I do it. It’s that simple. When I went into the dressing room to put on the two sheets of paper towels the medical field calls a gown, I looked in the mirror and saw that my pants zipper was down.

I don’t know how long it had been down. A while, since I couldn’t remember the last time I went to the bathroom. That explained the smiles from strangers on the street. I thought they were reacting to my ravishing beauty. Oh, well. I wouldn’t care so much if this had been the first time, but it wasn’t. It was however, indicative of the day I had.

I’m a performer deep down, always have been, always will be, and an audience is my crack, but when the head Mammographer brought in two other women technicians to ‘observe’ the squishing and shmooshing of my tits on a plate of glass, I got stage fright. Not that the techies could tell. I’m a professional and the head techie even commented on how mobile and pliable I was. I’m a star! Or I have star tata’s. Whichever. 

I left the mammary performance and had a hell of a time deciding what to eat. I left the house early in the morning and only had time for a large cup of coffee, which was now irritating my stomach wall. I know, I can’t find anything to eat in New York, pathetic. I have some food restrictions, too many places to choose from overwhelms me. And then I remembered that I had put two hard boiled eggs in my Lululemon Flight bag.

I usually pack an egg or two on trips; whether it by car, plane, or in this case, a train trip to the big apple. The hard boiled egg had exploded. It got squished (not unlike my bosom) in my bag and shells and yolk were everywhere.

I tried to salvage it, and it turned into a big fat mess. Did I mention that I was juggling my bag, and the egg, as I walked? I believe most people would’ve thrown the egg in the gutter, as soon as it was retrieved from the bag. No sir, not me.

I despise it when people, especially New Yorkers, throw their trash into and onto the city streets. Of course an egg was different, it wasn’t a cigarette butt, but it took me three blocks, with egg yolk on my face (pun intended) and hands until I said, “Fuck it, “ and threw it into the gutter.

The rest of the day went something like this. I paid $7.50 for a lame-ass sandwich that I ate while I walked. I had to wait a half an hour until the box office to the show I was getting tickets to opened, standing around looking like a tourist. I met my mom for lunch because I didn’t see her on Mother’s Day and she, not only forgot a book from her house that I asked to borrow, after reminding her on two separate occasions, but she made me a Mother’s Day card of sorts, which was uber sweet, but it referred to me as The Boyfriend Mom, instead of The Girlfriend Mom.

Have you met me, mother?

If I Had A Hammer

When I was asked to write about building a  house with my boyfriend, and how we’re keeping it together (our relationship, not the house) I starting thinking about how easy it’s been. Then again, I’m comparing it to the last time I owned a house with a man. Let’s call him my ex-husband. So really, anything short of divorce feels like I’m ahead of the game.

When my ex-husband and I decided to buy a house, I wasn’t exactly excited by the idea. I was hesitant and knew deep down that I didn’t want a house (kind of like how I knew deep down that I never wanted to be married). Somehow, I instinctively knew that being a homeowner wasn’t to be taken likely. Not like having a baby. We were having a house!

I didn’t want the responsibility. Being a dog owner was about as responsible as I wanted to get. Most of the time I have just enough bandwidth to go food shopping and showering, let alone, grouting, gardening, and painting. But I stupidly agreed, ignoring the little voice inside of me, which was screaming the loudest, “STOP, don’t do it. It’s wrong. You’re wrong.” In the end, I succumbed to peer pressure, just like I did when I said, “I do.”

My ex assured me that it would be our house and that we’d share the responsibility. We’d be partners in the endeavor. Bullshit! It was like talking to a five year old when they want a dog, “Please, please can I have one? Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. You won’t have to do anything. Trust me.”

I resented my ex-husband for the remainder of our marriage, which dragged on for another year. A year where I watered a lawn that I never wanted, and fixed endless garage doors and gates that I grew to hate. I was angry at him for lying to me and pushing me into something that was based on false pretenses. I was also angry at myself for not listening to my gut. That was never going to happen again.

And it didn’t. This time around is different. For one thing, my boyfriend and I aren’t married, so there’s no chance of divorce. How’s that for maturity? I was very honest and clear about my feelings regarding building a house. It’s my boyfriend’s dream to have a beach house, not mine. I could rent for the rest of my life. I don’t look at a house as anything other than another place to do laundry.

I’m an active participant, and we’re picking out plumbing fixtures and windows together, but my boyfriend has taken the lead, which he’s done with aplomb. This is important to me because the last time a house was involved, I tended to use it as an excuse. I couldn’t possibly write, or work on the artistic endeavor that I was involved in at the time. I had to make a Home Depot run for steel wool, so I could clean the rust off of the antique kitchen cabinet handles. Clearly that was more important goddam it!

Speaking of kitchen cabinets. We hired an Amish man to build our cabinets. He’s a sweet man, and takes his Amishness very seriously. Since he can’t drive, he has a driver to chauffeur him around and he borrows a non-Amish person’s phone to call clients. I’m convinced that he’s crushing on me. He and my boyfriend were at the house a couple of weeks ago, reviewing the final measurements. When I walked through the temporary plywood front door, his face lit up like I was a spanking new horse and buggy.  He said, “What’s going on?” I replied, “My electricity. You?”

Through this current house process, I’m learning that nothing, not even a convection oven, or wood toilet seat cover, is worth getting my thong in a bunch over. Maybe it’s because I’m older. Maybe it has something to do with my boyfriend being able to change a lightbulb and acting like an adult. Or perhaps it could be that honesty really is the way to go.

I show up when I need to, make a decision when I’m asked to, and I’m not procrastinating, as evidenced by this article. I think the following exchange with the salesperson at Ferguson’s Plumbing and Builder Products sums up our attitudes best.

Saleswoman: “Do you have any idea what kind of bathtub that you’re looking for?”
Boyfriend: “The bathtub has to fit two people... possibly three.”
I smile mischievously.

When Your Ex Moves On

I’m friends with some of my ex-boyfriends on Facebook (and who isn’t) I read their news feeds, and on rare occasions, I’ll leave a comment. They’re always innocent, and devoid of innuendo or flirtation. Recently I was trolling around, I mean researching, and saw a picture of one of my ex-boyfriend’s spanking new baby boy! Huh? I was in shock. We only broke up eight years ago. How could he just move on like that.

Did I expect him to never love again? To never find anyone as superfantastical as me? Well, yes. Why was I reacting this way? The truth is, seeing that Peter had not only married, but procreated, made me feel melancholy and nostalgic. And if I’m not mistaken, my ego felt as if it had been kicked.

Did what we had together mean nothing to him? I know other men that I’ve bedded, dated, or married (just that one) dated other women after me, some married and became fathers, but Peter was different. He was the first guy that I kissed, and slept with after I got divorced. He fed my physical needs that laid dormant for years, and he restored my faith in good old fashioned lust. There’s a certain power in the ‘transitional relationship’.

The circumstances in which I found myself on Peter’s Facebook page that fateful Tuesday evening, was not the stuff rational thinking is made of. I was cranky about my Pilates clients dropping like flies, I was wondering if I wasn’t better off, culturally and professionally speaking, living in New York City and most important, I probably hadn’t eaten in a few hours, which sends me into a hypoglycemic coma of sorts. In a nutshell, I was feeling vulnerable, emotional and wee wackadoo.

In my experience, our reactions to certain events, like seeing a photo of an ex-boyfriend’s baby, looking all cherub-like, cutesy and perfect, are often attributed to how we feel about ourselves and what’s going on (or not going on) in our life, which is why I started glamorizing the past, because surely it was all sunshine and gummy bears, as opposed to the crap ass day that I had just had.

What if Peter and I didn’t break up? What if I stayed in Los Angeles? What if I got a killer job as a writer, we married, moved to the beach and I birthed a healthy baby? Hmm. I can tell you that this line of thinking is futile, because there is no way of knowing the answers to 'what if' questions, and it certainly won’t make your crap ass day feel any less crappier.

There was another reason for my reaction to the baby photo, that I glared at, imagining he was mine, searching for a resemblance. (Okay, that was creepy) Getting older makes me think about all that I haven’t yet accomplished. So when I surf the internet, looking at friends and lovers from my youth, and the families they’ve created, or the books that they’ve published, or the Oprah appearance that they just made, I’m already in a piss ant mood.

After a few moments fantasizing about the what if’s, and might’ve beens, I realized how unproductive I was being. I snapped out of my reverie, and brought myself back to reality, my reality. I know now, after years of tailspins and mental spiraling, that a bad day is just that, a bad day. And bad days come, and more to the point, they go.

One of the beautiful things that come with age, besides the decrease in estrogen and collagen, is the wisdom to know what pushes our buttons, and when we’re doing something (or reading something) that we know isn’t good for us. 

I don’t want Peter or his life. And I do think that it can be healthy to review the choices that we make, if only to learn from them, not dwell on them. And when we’re in our moods, it’s easy to think that the grass is greener, especially when you’re hungry, but it’s not. It's just a different variety of grass.

It’s a cliche but I wouldn’t be where I am today, if I hadn’t made the decisions that I made eight years ago. I live with a sexy Portuguese man, who overfeeds my physical needs and has taught me the true meaning of paixao (it’s Portuguese, look it up) I write and I help people to feel their true health and wellness potential through Pilates, and for this I am truly blessed.

However, if you choose to ignore my cautionary tale, and continue to troll the internet for old boyfriends, or happen upon one in your research, please keep the following in mind.
- You are the only one that can make you happy
- If you’re frustrated or displeased with your current situation, change it.
- Your ex is your past, not your present.
- Before you start wishing that you had done things differently, (when you’re looking at your ex’s baby’s photo) think back to your relationship and see it as it was, not as you think it was or wanted it to be.
- We’re all getting older, and feeling nostalgic for the past is fine, as long as you can appreciate the glory in your present days as well. Time marches on too damn fast to ‘dwell’ in the past.

I took my own advice and before I left Peter’s Facebook page, I reminded myself why we never would’ve worked. My relationship with Los Angeles had ended, so I had to fly away. I never wanted to get married (that one time was a mistake) and I never wanted kids. And lest I forget, Peter cheated on me, so I had to break up with the doucher. He made me cry on New Year's Day, and for that I hope he gets an incurable case of crabs.

I've Been Lemon'd

Question: When is too much Lululemon too much?
Answer: When you do the following.

The other day I walked out of the house dressed head to toe in Lululemon. I was wearing my purple headband, a yellow hair tie, purple and white ankle socks, white thong, black and turquoise Groove Pant, black Studio Pant II over them (it was cold out) black Get Focused Tank, black Define Jacket, grey winter coat (can’t find the name of it), and a grey Fast In Flight gym bag. I keep my lipstick and Chapstick in their cute red (with lettering) receipt purse (also used for gift cards). This lives in my Fast In Flight gym bag. I have a Lululemon sticker on my appointment book.

On a daily basis, I’m a walking Lululemon billboard. Shouldn’t I get free shit out of this? C’mon Lulu, give it up. A while back I even contemplated buying their stock. But then I’d have to figure out how I was going to pay my rent. 

Yes, I love their stuff and yes, I rationalize the price by telling myself that, “I’m a Pilates instructor and it’s my job. I need a uniform. If I worked on Wall Street, I’d have to buy skirts that covered my knees and heels higher than my flip flops, so...

However, I think I’ve gone too far. Even I thought I looked ridiculous.


Have you been Lemon’d? Show me!

Hey Moms, The Girlfriend Mom Needs Your Help!

A few posts ago, entitled, Losing It, I wrote about my boyfriend's son's friend, Robert, who asked me for cash so he could get a snack when we were at the movies. I thought this was a case of one kid being rude. I was wrong. I'm starting to think that it might be an epidemic that's infecting our children.

A similar situation happened two days later with another child. My boyfriend took his son and his son's friend, Peter, to a Red Bull's soccer game. I was fortunately otherwise engaged in a sleepover with a girlfriend in the Big Apple, thus enable to attend. When I got home, my boyfriend shared the days events.

In addition to the actual ticket to the game, the kids were generously supplied with snacks and some sort of Red Bull trinket, the likes of which usually break on the car ride home. My boyfriend told me that about halfway through the game, Peter asked him for, "some money to buy a hot dog." WHAT??? I am certain that that kid was fed. Who does this? That wasn't all. About fifteen minutes later, Peter asked,  "Are we leaving soon?" As I'm listening to my boyfriend tell this, my jaw is halfway down my neck. This kid's got elephantiasis of the nuts.

My boyfriend looked at Peter. "Yes, we're going to leave (hold for dramatic pause) WHEN THE GAME IS OVER!" I would've thrown the kid over the railing. Too much? I need to know what is going on with these kids.

It didn't stop there. Apparently, after my boyfriend had made them breakfast before they left for the soccer game, Peter sauntered into the kitchen and helped himself to two bananas. He didn't ask if he could have them. He simply made himself at home and took them. When my boyfriend asked him why he was taking two, Peter replied, "I need one for the road."

The boy just had breakfast! What did he need a potassium infusion for? He wasn't about to run a friggin' marathon. Please tell me why kids are not being taught manners. It can't just be Peter and Robert. I'm sure there are more out there and they just might be playing in your family room as you read this.

Are they spoiled? Are the parent's home supervising? Are the kids accustomed to having free reign of the house? Are there rules, boundaries and structure? How do they speak to adults? Do they think that they're all friends? It feels like someone is asleep at the wheel.

It's not my responsibility (nor do I care) what other kids do in their own homes, but when they're guests in mine, there are rules. And one rule is that you ask before you take something that doesn't belong to you. This is how I was raised, and it works. I can only plant seeds with The Girlfriend Mom kids, and bring it to the attention of their friends when it's warranted.

The whole business perplexes me. I am honestly looking for opinions and feedback from mom's who might have a take on this. Moms that have first hand experience with their kids and their kid's friends. What do you feel the problem might be? Do you think it is a problem?