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.             

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner... And staying for a month?!

Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner... and staying for a month?!

If you guessed a dapper black man named Sidney Poitier, sadly, you’d be wrong. Great guess... still wrong. The answer: my boyfriend’s 18 year-old daughter. Ah!

She lives in a dorm at school in NYC and has off until January 17th. What the f’ is up with our educational system? I do not remember having a month off when I was in college. A few months ago, she asked if she could live with us, instead of her mother(issues) when she’s on vacation and over the summer. What could we say. “Of course.” Of course my “Of course” was uttered through clenched teeth and a forced smile.

I like my boyfriend’s daughter. We get along quite well, do stuff together and I think she likes me. What’s not to like? My apprehension, hesitation and internal wig out, has more to do with that old stand by, “I didn’t sign up for this.” Like every other child related event that’s been hurled at my head, this too will take time to process.

I’m not used to having another body around. Another body that doesn’t know how to put dishes in the dishwasher. Another body that takes my nail polish and doesn’t return it. Another body that is a messy eater. Another body that didn’t know to knock before entering a closed door. Another body lurking around the house, so that now I can’t lurk around the house naked. Another body sleeping in the room next door, so now my boyfriend and I have to keep the television on to drown out the noise when we do sexy stuff. Oh, and believe you me, there’s noise.

I know that this is yet another piece of the Girlfriend Mom puzzle, but I was just getting used to soccer Sundays. I wasn’t expecting to live with a child for more than 48 hours every other weekend. I didn’t see this one coming.

In the short time that she’s been with us, I’ve learned a lot about myself. And really, who needs that?! When the four of us played board games over the Christmas break, I felt like a stepmom in a Lifetime movie, for the first time in five years. I was the odd man out, the one that didn’t belong. The non-blood relation. I glanced over at the three of them and their profound closeness, wafted in the air. I felt a million miles away.

I try to convey to my boyfriend that what he and his kids have been used to with their mother, is naturally going to be a different dynamic with me. I’m not their mother. They’re not my kids. Sometimes I’m uncomfortable with the familiarity that they share. I’m traveling in foreign territory without a GPS system, and often I don't know why I'm feeling the way that I do.

I cannot move any faster than my feelings will allow. Perhaps it’s simply a question of time and patience. I’m honoring, not judging. Wow, that got serious quickly. Moving on.

Why do the kids have to take showers in our bathroom? They have a brand new gorgeous one to use. I don’t understand (just one in a long list of things I don’t understand) Is it because they see it as a treat? Do they feel closer to their dad? The question I ask myself is, “Why does it ruffle my feathers?”

I lived alone for a long time before I moved in with my boyfriend. I’m used to my privacy and not having to share, unless I wanted to. For crying out loud, my boyfriend and I are still learning to live with each another. Now you add a child to the mix, without having the benefit of years of practice, and poof! disruption of routine, rhythm, style and wet towels on the bathroom floor.

Change doesn’t come easily for a lot of people (especially my mother) and apparently this kind of change doesn’t come easily to me either. I can uproot myself from a 16-year stint in Los Angeles, selling everything from fork to car, and move to Prague, but living with kids scares me. The parent (my boyfriend) in the relationship has to realize that the non-parent (me) has no past experience to draw upon.

I’m trying not to make a mountain out of a mole hill, because the reality is, none of it is life threatening. Rather, it’s the emotions and feelings that the situation stirs in me, that gives me pause. This is what I’ve come up with, in so special order.

- I’m competitive playing board games, and when I don't know something, I put my poopy pants on because I realize that I’m not as smart as I think I am. And if I didn't have to play games with the kids, I wouldn't have to admit this to myself.
- I’m jealous of the attention my boyfriend pays to his daughter. (Was my mother jealous of my close relationship with my father? Note to self- ask mom)
- Sometimes I feel like I play second fiddle and I don’t like it.
- I crave boundaries and there aren’t a lot regarding my boyfriend and the kids. Boundaries were an issue in my family, mainly because they didn’t exist. I needed them, so I'd punish myself, often sending me to my room.
- Sometimes I feel that sides are taken, and they ain’t mine.
- I chose not to have kids for a reason and sometimes I feel that I’m not living my truth.
- Sometimes, when it comes to the kids, I’m immature, controlling, and selfish. I want all the attention. C’mon, I’m a performer. Of course I want all of the attention!
- I’ve truly come to realize how important solitude, peace and quiet are to me.
- My boyfriend and I change when the kids are around. And sometimes not for the better.
- I sometimes judge my boyfriend’s daughter, or the way he’s raising her. Yuck on me!
- My demand for order gives me the allusion that I have some control over a situation that I often feel that I have no control over.

How much of my crap, and by crap, I mean my feelings, are unresolved personal issues, or my hot buttons? Perhaps these little people are my triggers. Damn them! Why do they have to unleash, overturn and bring up what I’ve worked so hard to shove down.

I met a very wise woman the other day, who recently lost her fourth husband. She has both biological and step children. We shared stories of the children in our lives, to which she said, through held back years, “Just love them. That’s all they want.”

And that’s what I plan to do. Dishes in the dishwasher or not.