Tuesday, August 21, 2012








Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Thursday, July 26, 2012

WARNING: Premature Conclusions May Cause Belly Fat

I wrote a post awhile back called, Guess Who's Coming To Dinner? about my boyfriend's daughter coming to live with us. It’s being featured on ModernMom.com. They changed the title because my titles suck. Below is an update to that original post. 

The eighteen year old Girlfriend Mom kid moved in with us. When I say 'moved in', what I mean is that, she stayed with us during her college breaks this year and she’s here this summer. As I expressed in the past post, I was beside myself with worry, anxiety, fear and dread, over her impending stay. Oy, new territory and change. I got my hairs up, and I was ready for battle. I envisioned the worse case scenario of course, because I'm Jewish and a Virgo, and that's what we do.

What would happen if she couldn't (or wouldn’t) find a job, thereby spending her days either, getting melanoma on the beach, or flattening her ass out on the couch, watching The Kardashians, for hours on end, while eating us out of house and home. Isn't that redundant? Why both? Aren’t they the same? I had ranted to my friends about how scared I was and how I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have another body, and a young adult in the house.

My boyfriend and I have been living together for almost three years. We were on the ‘every other weekend’ custodial plan. I never lived with a child before. Do we have to feed her? What is this going to look like? I knew one thing for sure. I wasn’t going to do her laundry. I know how that might sound, get over it. I am of the belief that, once you go off to college, you need to know how to do your own laundry. I had tactics, escape routes and a script written, just in case I was met with resistance, by either my boyfriend or his daughter.

Before any of her bags were even unpacked, I had put my ‘resentful’ skirt on. This is a distant cousin to the poopy pants. I was convinced that the situation was sure to disrupt my flow (creative and otherwise), and I seriously didn't think that I would be able to handle it. The unknown was making me mental.

What a naive little bunny I was. It sounds a lot kinder than bitch, doesn’t it? I had worked myself up into such a lather (my mother's expression) all for nothing. My boyfriend’s daughter got a job a week after she came home. Her ass was going to stay nice and lifted after all. I got a job as well and I was busy and out of the house. Things were falling into place and I breathed easier. It was the perfect transition into our new family dynamic. Then I got hired to teach Pilates in Martha's Vineyard, which meant that I wouldn’t have to deal at all. Problem solved.

And then I got real on my ass. What the hell was I doing? Was I so afraid of living with my boyfriend’s daughter, that I’d leave our new beach house (and the first summer living in it?) my boyfriend, my writing, and our comfy porch furniture? For what? Teaching Pilates for 35 hours a week and renting a kitchen-less room in someone’s house! I declined the summer job, dug my heels in, opened my heart and braced myself for whatever was to come.

A funny thing happened on the way to crazy town. I started enjoying her company. So now we have great talks in the kitchen, where I thank the good lord above that my college days are over. We work out together, doing Pilates and Insanity (which I still kick her ass at) She never assumed that I would do her laundry. Instead, she asked me how to use the washer and dryer. Be still my heart. I gave her a demo on the efficient way to load the dishwasher (that's still in process) and how to clean the expensive, non-stick pans. She had Turkey bacon for the first time and I introduced her to Woolite. The three of us cook together, house shop, and yes, on occasion she sucks my boyfriend and I into the Kardashian drama.

All of my fears were baseless. Fear is, false evidence appearing real. I have been pleasantly surprised, and through this journey, I’ve learned a great deal about myself. Sure I get miffed when there's a trail of crumbs, or the last of the beans are eaten, or she's too cheap to buy her own tampons. As a good friend so accurately observed, upon hearing that which miffs me, "I never knew how much of a petty, petty, cunt you were." That's what friends are for. It made me stop and take a look at myself in the mirror. Man, I hate holding that thing up.

Being The Girlfriend Mom is challenging, no doubt. There isn’t a road map and I never know how I’m going to feel with each new situation. But I do know that my feelings, however odd, insensitive or ugly that they may seem, are valid, and real. The situation is ever evolving, and it's comforting to know that things aren’t always what they appear to be.

Let this be a lesson (one of only a shit load) that drawing conclusions prematurely will only cause me angst, and possibly an ulcer. Most definitely belly fat, because when one is stressed, cortisol builds up. And before I bitch about how The Girlfriend Mom kid has kept a bowl of leftover oatmeal in the refrigerator, for over a week now, that I may hear those friendly pearls of wisdom, “You petty, petty cunt,” and simply walk away.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

I'm Revealing Myself over at Bonbon Break

There's a new website called, Bonbon Break, where I had the honor of writing a piece for their first edition. You'll find it in the Bedroom section (where else) and it's called, The Big Reveal. 

Check it out and stroll around the site. It was created by some exceptional women, with exceptional style, AND exceptional taste in talent!

Monday, July 16, 2012

The Girlfriend Mom Stars in "Lasik Surgery"


If there is ever an opportunity for me to perform, I will take it. Whether it be in front of a Pilates class, at the dinner table or at a funeral, I will perform. So it is with great pleasure that I give to you my performance in, My Lasik Surgery. 

Please note that the subject matter is not for everyone (like any good art) and it is not intended for the squeamish.


Monday, June 25, 2012

Why Do A Background Check On A Doctor

Answer the goddam phone!
Sorry, nobody here to take your call.

What the fu*^?!!!

I had to have dermatological surgery last week. It's okay, just another mole gone rogue. (My mole background). I drove to the hospital, which was 30 minutes away. When this particular surgeon, that was going to cut me open, was referred to me by my (new) dermatologist, I didn't question the recommendation. And come to think of it, I didn't do much of a background check on my new dermatologist either, because she was in my insurance network. Read on to find out why I will soon regret this.

SIDE NOTE: I did look her up (after the fact) and she'd only been practicing for 5 years. To me, that's a newbie doctor, who probably doesn't even own a white lab coat, or a stethoscope. Had I known, I never would've gone to her. I prefer my doctors to be middle aged, and Jewish, with degrees from Ivy League medical schools, and residencies at prestigious hospitals with names that I can pronounce.

I arrived at the hospital early and pulled into the parking lot. I couldn't remember what building my surgery was in, so I called the office. I got a recorded message, assuring me that someone would be on the line soon, and I believed the voice on the other end. I'm trusting in that way.

After five minutes of advertisements for laser hair removal and Rosacea treatments, I heard, "We're sorry that we were unable to answer your call, please leave your name and number..." Blah, blah, blah. I hung up and called back. I thought they were probably having a brief phone jam. I got the answering machine again.

I decided to call their other office, and the same thing happened. On my third try, I left a message because I was starting to crawl out of my freckled skin. It had been twenty minutes of redials, and acne, warts and psoriasis warnings. I was supposed to be in surgery in 15 minutes. My message wasn't pretty. In fact it was curt, and definitely has the tone of a person who was pissed off. I felt abandoned, uncared for, as if the world was plotting against me. Or at least everyone at Family Dermatology offices! Why oh why wasn't anyone answering the phone?!

I parked the car and walked into the first building that I saw. I found an information desk, and a real person. I wanted to give her a hug. She pointed me in the right direction, and I took an elevator to the second floor. I found the surgeon's office. That's when pissed off took on a whole new meaning.

I walked in. It wasn't just an empty waiting room, devoid of patients. There wasn't anyone behind the reception desk either. It felt eerily quiet and sterile. Isn't this how most slasher films begin?

I yelled out, "Hello. Hello?" Cue uncomfortable silence. I saw a hallway leading to the back of the office, so I started walking. My nerves were desperately close to short circuiting. I wasn't exactly thrilled and delighted about getting cut open in the first place and Doctor Ghost Town was only making it worse.
HELLO? I'm here to get some cells removed!

When I reached the back of the office, there was another deserted reception desk, and several empty exam rooms. I was going to friggin' scream or throw something at someone's head. Now if I could only find a head.

And then, almost like a battle cry, U2's, Sunday, Bloody Sunday started playing from behind the only closed door in the whole deserted joint.

In a matter of seconds, a smattering of scenarios raced through my mind. Firstly, great song! (I saw it live in 1987, on their Joshua Tree tour, at Madison Square Garden, with my then boyfriend.) Kick ass concert. And then, what the hell is going on? Is somebody having surgery in there, and the doctor has a twisted sense of humor? I convinced myself that there was inappropriate, and perhaps, non-consenting shenanigans going on and I was about to interrupt. And I don't want to interrupt. Nor do I want to see what's behind door number one, if something icky is going down. Please don't let this be a scene out of an episode of Dateline or some Movie of the Week. 

I knocked. A terse and bothered, "What?" came back at me. I didn't respond (I think I was afraid) so instead, I froze until the door slowly opened a crack and a woman's head peered out. Here's the head I could throw a stapler at. I couldn't see inside the room nor could I see if anyone else was in the room, or if this woman was naked. What if she and the (female) surgeon were getting it on?

I snapped out of my fantasy long enough to answer, "I'm a patient." I thought that this would snap her out of whatever the hell she was doing and, oh, I don't know, act like she cared that there was a patient in the office who might need some help.

Nope, instead, she said, "Oh, the nurse will up front in a few." And with that she closed the door. If the nurse is coming back, then who the fuck was she? Oh, my god, she wasn't the doctor, was she? I calmly walked back down the hallway, out of the office, down the elevator, into the parking lot, and into my car and drove to safety.

Was this a commentary on our healthcare system? Bad manners? My failure to do my due diligence? A little while later, I received a call from the main office, not the office I was just at. I told the receptionist the whole story, and she could not have cared less. All she could offer was, "Do you want to go back now?" Was she snorting bath salts?

No, I didn't want to go back! I asked her why no one picked up the phone in either office. She told me that they don't answer the phones when they're at lunch. I was seething at her stupidity, the office's stupid ass policy, and stupidity in general. "So you don't have an answering service, with live people answering calls from patients?" "No." I couldn't help myself. "Wow, it's a good thing that you never get any emergencies otherwise someone could drop dead because you're having a sandwich."

When the actual surgical office called me, I was already home, and suited up for a much needed work out. There weren't any apologies, only two questions. "Do you want to reschedule your incision." "NO." And, "So you'll go somewhere else?" I was practically laughing at this point. "Yeah, I think so." She said okay and hung up.

Was I just in a Twilight Zone episode?

While writing this over the weekend, I called the office to get the recorded message down verbatim. A live person, from an answering service, picked up. Sure, because Saturday afternoon is when dermatological offices are bombarded with skin emergencies. 

Friday, June 15, 2012

I'm Over At Annie Off Leash- Stop By


It's Father's Day and I'm giving a shout out to the man I inherited my moles and neuroses from. My Daddio!

I'm hanging out at AnnieOffLeash today. !!!

Come on by and check me out. You must check out Annie's shizzle as well. She is one smart and funny lady. It's a lovefest all around. And who among you doesn't want to be around lovefests. 


I wrote this song based on a poem that my father wrote to me when I graduated from college. Enjoy!            CLICK BELOW


Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Ah, A Flea Market

I'm working on an HGTV show for a few weeks and last weekend we were filming at a flea markets. This is just a smattering of what was being sold. Remember, one man's trash is another man's, well, you'd like to think it's treasure, but sometimes, it's still trash.

I'll be back with more of the funny, as soon as this gig wraps!

REALLY????? Come and get it, dead animal parts... I'll give you a great deal!!!!
I'm embarrassed to say that we have this in our basement... where it belongs. Lover thinks it's a classic.... Classically tacky.
I'm speechless... and scared... and sad... and confused... by this one.
I thought this guy would look great over my fireplace.
The vendor called this 'mini death choppers' and would be great for kids. I called my boyfriend immediately to see if he wanted one for his son. Oh, and they don't work. so I'd have to pay to die.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Does This Mole Look Funny To You?

I went to the dermatologist yesterday for my yearly mole check up. You don’t have to tell me how sexy that is. I already know. This was a new doctor, so I had my former doctor forward my records. This doctor once lifted my files and said that they were as heavy as one of her 80 year old patients. See, I told you, sexy.

It’s not my fault I’m a delicate flower, who has to constantly stay vigilant. I already have several strikes against me, what with my fair skin, light eyes, and several childhood blistering sunburns, thanks to a mother who dragged me to the beach every year to visit my grandparents. This isn’t something that my melanin packed Portuguese lover seems to understand. The experts say that it only takes one blistering sunburn to raise your chances of skin cancer. Terrific. I lost count at age fifteen.

The doctor was 45 minutes late, and in that time, as I waited in the room, wearing only my thong (my ass gets checked as well) and bra, her nurse walked in and out several times without knocking! I’m sorry, but in my illustrious doctor visiting career, staff knocks before they enter. Clearly this woman was in a tanning salon when they went over manners and protocol in nursing school. 

The doctor finally arrived and I wanted to ask her how many boxes of Girl Scout cookies she sold this year, because man oh man, she was barely older than a fetus. Is it me, or is everyone getting younger? Oh, wait. I’m getting older. Got it. She commented on the plethora of scars that enhance my body, and I told her that I wear them proudly, like a war hero wears their medals.

And then I realized that I hadn’t shaved my legs. We’ve all been there--- the women anyway, maybe some men, I don’t know, I don’t judge. I usually feel bad, although it’s not like I didn’t shower before seeing the Gyno... am I right ladies? Men? I didn’t care this time. I mean, JC Christ, she’s looking at my tight and lifted ass (Insanity Workout), and fingering through my scalp. If she can handle that, a little stubble shouldn’t make her yack. What I was really embarrassed about was my extremely dry skin. Oh, the afflictions! Oh, the injustices! Isn’t it enough that I house pre-cancerous cells, do I have to have flaky skin as well.

As it turned out, I needed to have two moles removed. I’ve had so many extractions, that I probably could have foregone the novacaine if I had to. I don’t know any reason why I would have had to but I’m just saying.

The doctor left me with recommendations, that will always bear repeating, because people think that they are immune to the ravages of the sun. That and they’re stupid. This shit is serious, yo, and the messed up thing is that, for the most part, we are in control of it and it’s preventable. Okay, getting down off the soapbox now but please, at least try to practice the following.

STAY OUT OF THE SUN: Kidding, sort of. If you absolutely have to go in the sun, here are some easy tips. It could save your life. Okay, that drama was uncalled for but sometimes you have to get a little dramatical for people to pay attention.

SUNSCREEN- At least SPF30, and reapply every two hours. And don’t forget the ears and hands!

EXPOSURE- Between the hours of 10a and 2p, the sun is at it’s most evil, so get thee to some shade.

CLOTHES- If you like to play sports on the beach, I don’t know, I don’t, but if you do, they have clothing now with an SPF. I’m sure Michael Kors or Chanel has come out with a whole sassy and chic SPF line.

HATS- Who doesn’t like a hat? Wide brimmed, and with an SPF would be great. And really ladies, (and men) you want to protect your expensively treated hair, don’t you?

UMBRELLAS- I make my melanin packed Portuguese lover put up an umbrella on the beach for me, when I watch him play volleyball, which he does sans sunglasses and hat. I swear I’m going to be taking him to the plastic surgeon for Botox, if he persists in furrowing and squinting.

BODY CHECK- I recommend that people go to the dermatologist at least once a year. And in between appointments, you and your significant other can check each other out and use it as a form of foreplay. If you don’t have a significant other, see just how ‘best’, your best friend really is.

GLOVES- This might be a bit extreme or Diane Keaton-y for you but I have been known to wear white cotton gloves when I drive. Oh, sure, make fun, but I’m not the one who’s going to be playing ‘connect those insidious brown dots’ on my hands.

As always, your welcome.
Sexy & Responsible

Monday, May 14, 2012

A Short and Embarrasing Encounter With Bobbi Brown

I insulted make-up maven, Bobbi Brown, within 5 minutes of meeting her.

I took my mother to Canyon Ranch in Massachusettes, for a few days, to celebrate her 70th birthday, and Mother’s Day. But for that price, it’s going to count as her next two birthday gifts.

We hit the road and, although visions of Thelma & Louise, never really danced in our heads, we caught up on the goings on in our lives. After a wrong turn here and an antique store there, we arrived three hours later, just in time for lunch. I was not going to miss out on a free meal. 

In a matter of 48 hours, we saw Ted Koppel in a bathrobe, went zip lining, and both my mother and I managed to embarrass ourselves and insult the make-up maven herself, Ms. Bobbi Brown!

On our last morning at the ranch, we walked into the adorable cafe for breakfast where I immediately spotted Bobbi Brown and another woman sitting at a table. I was sure that my mom hadn’t seen her and it didn’t matter because we were going to take a seat at the far end of the cafe to take in the view of the sprawling property. But when another woman sat down at the window, my mother, sensing that it might be a bit cramped, sat down at the table next to Bobbi.

It’s hard to know what possesses me to do or say the things that I do and it’s probably better that I don’t look too closely. What I knew was that, for whatever reason, I was going to talk to Bobbi Brown, so I commented on her sausage. Say what?

It was the first thing that came to mind. She was eating a sausage, and I marveled at how good it looked and that maybe I should order one. What? She sensed my indecisiveness and asked me if I was a vegetarian. I told her that I ate fish and chicken, to which she assured me that it was a chicken sausage. I smiled and thought about the next asinine thing I could say.

I wouldn’t have to wait long.

I couldn’t help imagine what she was probably thinking, “These women don’t wear make-up? Really?” Leave it to me and my non make-up wearing mother to sit right next to Bobbi Brown. She did offer up some of her coffee, while we waited for ours, but I graciously declined. I thought that might’ve started a diarrhea of the mouth shit storm from me.

She said she was going to see what I was eating because I looked so fit. She opened the door. I simply walked in. I thanked her but the truth was, I was wearing black from head to toe. I didn’t need to tell her how slimming black can be. I told her that my bodily specimen of perfection was due to Pilates, which wasn’t entirely true. I’d been doing the Insanity workout and remiss with my Pilates practice, but I thought the conversation would end there, so I didn’t care.

Upon hearing Pilates, she humphed and the woman who was sitting across from her said, “I’m a Pilates instructor.” Shit. I replied, “Me too.” We chatted about our certifications, and where we lived. When I said New Jersey, Bobbi asked where and as it turns out we live about 15 minutes from each other. I told her that I had seen a house in her town that I had fallen in love with and that I wanted to replicate it in the town where my boyfriend and I were building a house. I’m sure she hadn’t heard a riveting story like that in a long time.

We continued speaking and my mom still didn’t know who we were talking to. This will mean a lot in a moment. Bobbi and her companion looked alike, and the ranch is notorious for mother daughter getaways, so I asked if they were mother and daughter. Bobbi shot me a look that felt like a dagger had pierced my heart, soul and cerebral cortex. Clearly they were not a mother and daughter team. I tried to be funny, and I back pedaled super fast. They were sisters.

Bobbi asked where my mom was from, and when she told her, Bobbi said that she only knew one family that lived there. The Lauren’s. My mom thought. Bobbi continued, “Ralph.” My mom said, “Oh, yeah, they were living there. But I don’t know if they’re still there.” I wanted her to stop talking because I think that Bobbi Brown would know where Ralph Lauren, who she’s probably broken bread with, lives. But I’m sorry to say that it went back and forth one more round before the topic was dropped.

I only wish that I had my business cards on me. I would’ve offered to barter with Bobbi, make-up lessons for Pilates lessons.             

Monday, April 30, 2012

A Marriage Proposal of Sorts

I thought my boyfriend would never ask. I mean for crying out loud, we’ve known each other for six years and we’ve been living together for almost three. I couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever ask. He’s been getting it for free for-EVER. I would never say it out loud but I was feeling a little, shit or get off the pot.

Last week we went to Costco to pick up a few bulky things, that we really didn’t need. As soon as we walked in, my boyfriend realized that he had forgotten his card, so off we went to customer service, to get a temporary card. And that’s when it happened. “Hey, let’s get an additional card for you. Might as well, right.” My heart started pounding, I flushed like a little girl, and I’m pretty sure that was a tear rolling down my cheek. “Do you mean it? You want me on your Costco account?” He rolled his eyes and gave me that familiar look of, what is wrong with you.

Okay, so it was only a Costco card, but it felt like a marriage proposal. We were married in the eyes of Costco as far as I was concerned. It didn’t matter that my boyfriend was oblivious to this simple transaction. And the bonus was that my picture came out great. Of course it’s black and white and the size of a raisin, but that’s when I look the best.

This Costco marriage continued when we soldiered on to Macy's. After buying a salad spinner, yes mother, I know I could’ve gotten it cheaper pretty much anywhere else, but I had a coupon, so back it up lady.

For the record, I detest shopping for clothes. I always have and I suspect that I always will. My boyfriend is much better at it. After I tried on several pairs of pants, that did nothing for my derriere and even less for my ego, we shifted focus to my boyfriend and his pursuit of a linen suit.

The next several hours, yes, I did just write several, I followed him around like a good little Geisha. I cradled potential slacks and shirts in my arms, searched the entire first floor for an available alterations expert, and collected receipts from my Costco husband so they wouldn’t end up as shriveled paper balls in the dryer. I sat on the faux leather banquette, outside of the dressing room, with other Geisha’s, and waited for my master’s fashion show. I felt like a complete and utter WIFE.

Upon returning home, I took one last fall when I said the following, to my boyfriend, “Wow, that’s a nice garbage pail that you bought. It’s really big and looks sturdy.” Why don’t I just sew up my lady parts, put on an apron and call it a day.

On second thought honey, I don’t want my own Costco card. It’s the devil’s spawn.

Thursday, April 26, 2012

The ABC's Of Me

I'm a member of a terrific site, VoiceBoks, and the powers that be thought that this was a great way to get other members to check you out and see what you do all day. I think that's what this was about. I don't really know. It just looked like a fun thing to do.

I totally ripped off the poem idea from Dawn Douglas, so it's only fair that I give her a shout out. However, I do believe that mine is a wee more risque. Enjoy.

A is for the asinine things that I do.
B is for when I bungee jumped over a zoo. (not really, it was a bridge, but also a B)

C is for Cher, my childhood idol.
D is for Dani, I never took Midol.

E is for ear piercings, of which I have six.
F is for funny, feisty and flicks.

G is for Girlfriend Mom, need I say more.
H is for the hysteria that wasn’t in the brochure.

I is for my iphone, ipod and such.
J is for the joy, man these I’s give me so much.

K is for the kitchen, thankfully not my domain.
L is for the love, I pray will keep me sane.

M is for my mom, and your mom too.
N is for the “No” she often spewed.

O are for orgasms, one or many.
P is for Pilates for orgasms aplenty.

Q is for Quebec, skiing and beauty.
R is for reruns of The Facts Of Life and Tootie. (I realize that was a stretch)

S is for sex, see letters O and P.
T are for the times with lover and his kids, making it we.

U are for the UTI’s that are no fun at all.
V is for my vagina that’s always on call. 

W is for my new website that’s coming soon.
X is for the Xanax that makes me swoon.

Z is for the Zumba that I once tried, not able to pop and lock, I walked out and cried. 

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

The Great Toilet Seat Debate

Are you like me and feel that the whole, toilet seat up or down, argument that men and women have been engaged in since the late 1800's, is beyond hackneyed? Can anything actually be beyond hackneyed?

Anyway, last night, my boyfriend managed to put a whole new spin on this age old feud.

HIM: Can you keep the toilet seat up?
ME: Not really. It smells.

Side note. In our house, we live by the ol' adage (courtesy of yours truly), "If it's yellow, let it mellow. If it's brown, flush it down." So you see, if the seat is up and it's yellow, it could be sitting there for a spell, and eventually that shits going to smell.

HIM: Then flush it more.
ME: No can do. That's not house policy. And it's wasteful.
HIM: It's really annoying, especially at night.
ME: Really?
Him: Yeah, it's dark and I have to bend down to lift the seat up. And you know I hate bending because of my back. 
ME: Well, I don't want you to hurt your back.
HIM: And it's extra bending for me because of my short arms.

I'm sorry but using the Cee Lo Green line of defense was simply too funny to argue with. If you don't know what I'm talking about. Regard!
Cee Lo on left... "My arms are too short to box with the toilet seat lid, yo."

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Holocaust Remembrance Day

Today is Holocaust Remembrance Day. It's one of those times when, I believe, nothing more needs to be said.

I read the post below this morning, and it moved me to tears. It wasn't the tales of horror, but rather what it said about humanity.

I'll also be reflecting a bit more than usual today, and aiming for a touch more silence.

the GM

Knowing Jack: Holocaust Remembrance Day 2012

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Do You Know The Blended Family Shorthand?

I will admit that it was only recently that I learned what LMFAO stood for. Maybe it’s because I prefer to speak in complete sentences, using actual words. I know it takes a bit longer, especially when texting, but I am not going to abbreviate ‘in my opinion’, with imo. Because I h8 abbreviations. And yes, I do like the feel of a nice Uni-ball fine pen on a crisp white legal pad. 

So you can imagine my shock when, researching blended family websites, and step-parenting blogs, I came across the list below. It’s challenging enough, living with a man who has kids, fighting to carve out my place in a family already in progress, but now I have to decipher acronyms?

What, in the name of that sweet little baby Jesus, is wrong with using a complete name? Are we in that big of a rush, that we just don't have the time to write out, or heaven forbid, say, Stepson?

I had my own ideas of what these abbreviations stood for.They're noted in BOLD.

    •    BS = Biological Son; Term can be used by a parent who is also a stepparent to describe their own biological children.
        Where I come from, BS always meant bullshit. As in, these shortcuts are bullshit. Although in this case, an abbreviation is appropriate because it’s not nice to say shit in public.

    •    SS = Stepson or Step-siblings; Term used by stepparent to describe a stepchild without identifying the child by name. Step-siblings refer to a group of step-children who all share the same biological parents.
        This is obvious... the SS... WW II... ring any bells?

    •    SD = Step-daughter; Term can used by stepparent to describe a daughter brought into the relationship by a biological parent who is now the stepparent's mate. 
        Just a ‘T’ away from sexually transmitted disease.

    •    DD = Daughter of (my) Divorce or Divorced Dad; Term stepparents use to describe a daughter born from previous marriage with the husband/wife they have divorced. Remarried individuals use this term to describe a person who has a daughter from a previous relationship. In forums and groups the phrase is mostly used by stepmothers.
        Didi Conn, “Frenchie” from Grease? Yeah, okay, that was a stretch.

    •    DS = Divorced Son, or Son of (my) divorce; Term stepparents use to describe a son born from previous marriage with the husband/wife they have divorced. Remarried individuals use this term to describe a person who has a son from a previous relationship. Phrase is mostly used by stepmothers.
        I don’t have anything for this because it’s asinine.

    •    DH = Divorced Husband; Term used by a previously married woman to describe an ex husband and/or to describe a current husband who was previously married to someone else.
        See DS.

    •    DM = Divorced Mom; Term usually used by men to describe an ex wife with whom he shares children and/or to refer to his current wife who has children from a previous relationship.
       Depeche Mode.

    •   SK = step-kid; Term used generally to describe a stepchild.
        No, it’s the internet country code for Slovakia- oh, yes it is.

    •    BD = Biological Dad; Term used to describe a custodial or non-custodial parent who is also a man.
        Add Wong, and you’ve got the actor who plays, Dr. George Huang, Law & Order, SVU.

    •    BM = Biological Mom; Term used to describe a custodial or non-custodial parent who is also a woman.
        This is too easy. BOWEL MOVEMENT. It will always be bowel movement, no matter how long I’m in this blended family circus!

What the blended family acronym committees haven’t included, is an abbreviation for a woman like myself; unmarried, no children pulled from my tender loins, living with a man who has kids, with custodial rights every other weekend.

According to the list above, I’m not a DM, and I’m not a CSM (Childless Step Mom), an abbreviation curiously absent from the above list. Thus, I give you the GM. Not General Motors. Not General Manager. The Girlfriend Mom! You’re welcome.

And just when you thought that would be the end of this tomfoolery, some genius, with a lot of time on their hands, decided to add numbers after the acronym, signifying the ages of the individual that they’re attached to. Because, again, it's just too time consuming to say, and or write, "My stepson is 18 years old."

Now, instead of a family unit, comprised of unique personalities, and distinctive styles and traits, we’ve become numbers and a part of a friggin’ algebra problem.

My boyfriend is a BHDM18,13 and I’m a GM0, who has to go lay down now because my head is spinning.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Pilates in Dubai, UAE

A little late in posting, and not very straight, and they misspelled my blog address but you get the idea!