Everyone Keep Your Pants On. Please.

A follow up to my Guess Who's Coming To Dinner post.

I went out to dinner with my boyfriend's daughter a few nights ago. He was in the city working, and I hadn't left the house all day. That's not entirely true. I walked to the beach (a block away- don't hate me- it's still Jersey-ooh, Jersey just took a hit) excited at the prospect of clearing my head and pumping some much needed blood to my ass. I had been sitting at my desk for hours!

However, I misjudged the weather, and I was cold. My long and luxurious walk turned into a stroll around the block, and bringing the garbage pail in from the curb.

We went to a terrific Vegan restaurant in the neighborhood and had an enlightening (for me anyway) conversation. As a G.M. (Girlfriend Mom) Wait, I'm totally patenting, copyrighting, licensing, branding, or some such shit, this G.M. thing. Don't even think about hijacking it. I know people who will hurt you.

About a week ago, I almost hurled myself off our third floor deck. From what I could gather, (and I wasn't actually in the room, so I can't swear to it) my boyfriend stepped into the shower while his daughter sifted through the movie shelf in our bedroom. We don't have a door separating the bedroom from the bathroom, don't ask.

I flipped out. I mean biting my fingers, on the verge of tears from total helplessness, flipped out. I clenched my fists so as to hold in my anger (?). I looked up to the sky (well, ceiling) as if to say, "Did you see that? What the f?" I walked in circles for a few moments, hoping to shake the image from my brain. I couldn't. It would forever live on in my memory bank.

I tried to calm down and understand why no one else was flipping out. Or walking out of the room, so her father could hop in the shower. Or why her father didn't ask his daughter to leave so he could take a shower. Has everyone gone mad? Do I have to play hall monitor for the rest of my life?!

This brings me to the topic of two types of homes. Naked and clothed. I grew up in a half-naked home. Which goes hand in hand with the double-edged sword, and mixed messages that I also grew up with. My parents weren't as modest as I would've liked them to have been. I only had to see my dad in his red, nut-hugger bikini's, once, to know that I did not want to EVER see that again.

Perhaps I overreacted but I was caught off guard. I was miles from my comfort zone. I let my reactivity subside and did some think talking about why I got so bent out of shape (nut-huggers). I wasn't able to entertain the idea that maybe this was acceptable behavior in my boyfriend's pre-divorce family. I was only thinking about how uncomfortable I felt.

I didn't just fall off the banana boat. I'm well aware of the cultural (he's Portuguese) component. And I'm also aware of society's influence. I probably shouldn't judge, and to each his own and whose to say what's right or wrong. I mean what about those women who breastfeed their kids until they go off to college! I like to think that I'm an open minded, offspring of hippies, free to be you and me, kinda of G.M. But as it turns out, I'm NOT. Bring on the boundaries, clear, delineated lines, modesty and clothes!
 
The topic of inappropriateness and boundaries came up organically at dinner with my boyfriend's daughter. I was elated. She told me that she grew up in a naked household, and I told her that in some ways, so did I (nut-huggers). But I also tried to explain that it's a different dynamic with the four of us now, because the reality is, I'm not her mother and it does affect how we all behave.

I couldn't articulate the feelings as well as I wanted to, but she was in total agreement. Now that she opened Pandora's box, I continued.

I told her that I needed her and her brother to respect those things that made me uncomfortable. Again, she smiled and nodded in agreement. I felt a thousand pounds lighter. And when I started to back pedal on the word inappropriate, because I didn't want to dramatize, traumatize or cause any shame or embarrassment, without missing a beat she said, "Oh, no, it's inappropriate."

I expressed myself without defending myself. Then my boyfriend's daughter told me that she and the rest of the clan think it's funny when they hint at something they know I think is inappropriate, because they enjoy seeing my feathers ruffled. Yay.

She knows what it is to respect one's feelings, and I couldn't be happier. I took the bull by the horns and was surprisingly comfortable standing up for myself. It wasn't okay for the G.M. and she does have a say in the matter. I matter! Whoopee!

Okay, relax, G.M., relax.

Why Did You Tell Dad That I Got My Period?

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

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

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

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

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

Flashback to 1980.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CUT TO: The Present

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

Children and Technology: OMG!

My boyfriend's son spent Oscar Sunday with us.

Son- "So, did you ever work on movie sets?"
Me- "Yes I did."
Son- "Did you ever meet any famous people, or celebrities?"
Me- "Sure."
Son- "Like who?"
Me- “Cindy Lauper.”
Son- "Who?"

And curtain.

I barely acknowledged his comment. I was too busy shaking my head and rolling my eyes in judgement. And since there wasn’t a follow up that I would’ve been proud of, like, “Cindy Lauper? Golly gee, Girlfriend Mom, who was she and what were the circumstances in which you met her?” He was over it and me, illustrated by the furious fingering on his iTouch. We moved on.

Actually he moved on. I began contemplating the assault on America's youth by those stupid ass smart phones. Smart? Well, ain’t that ironic, don't you think? Those devices are breeding unintelligent, desensitized Tweens, Pre-teens and Teens. And let's throw in young adults for good measure. I’m around kids now so they’re under my microscope.

I’ve learned that the type of kid using these gadgets has nothing to do with socioeconomics, politics, sophistication (or there lack of) education (or there lack of) or what color their house is. It's an epidemic and it disturbs me. But why does it disturb me? I don’t have kids (that I know about) so why should I care? I believe we’re in this together, living in the same civilized society and we affect each other. So, I care.

I may lose a few of you on this one but I blame the parents. And before you have a conniption, I’m not addressing every single parent out there. You know who I’m talking to. Be honest. Who's buying the iPhone, iPad, iTouch, iPod, Wii, Xbox Kinect, and PSP for their adorable eight year old geniuses? My brother for one. Don’t worry, he’s felt my wrath privately.

Who allows texting at the dinner table or at a restaurant? Who succumbs to the old tried and true, "Yeah, but Jeremy (or Justine) has one. I'll be the only kindergartener who doesn't have an iPad. Why do you hate me?!"

I tried this with my parents. Often. We all did. You know what their response was? "Terrific, ask Justine's parents if they'll adopt you. I'll pack your bags myself and drive you right over."

My brother and I did not get everything we asked for. My parents were willing to have us hate them, rather than giving in every time we asked for something. I respect them for not succumbing to parental peer pressure. Oh, and I did hate them. I think what some parents don’t understand is that, the hatred passes. Saying no to your child can’t be easy, but sometimes you have to be the grown up.

I've heard parents defend their purchases with, "What choice do we have? All the kids have the iPhone and little Joachim (or Josephine) can't be the only ones who don’t." Yes they can. When you take a good hard look at the situation, your decision to get little Chesterfield or Cayenne whatever gadget they HAVE to have, it’s about YOU. It's about your fear of not keeping up with the proverbial Jones's (and who are these people, because they are so culpable) and not wanting to be the bad guy in the eyes of your offspring.

Nut up and say no. Why do you care what Mr. and Mrs. Jones is getting Horatio or Penelope for Hanukkah? As a wise friend once told me, "Keep your eyes on your own paper." And as Elvis sang in his 1969 hit, Clean Up Your Own Backyard: “You tend to your business, I'll tend to mine”

Because really, what message are you sending to your children? What happens when they grow up and get out there in the big bad world and they want something because their college roommate has it? Or one of their co-workers at their first adult job has it? Now they can't afford it because mom and dad are no longer footing the bill. Then what? Where does the ‘I want’, ‘I want’, ‘I have to have’, ‘But I need it’ end?

Having things handed to you every time you ask for it, is instant gratification, and it is never ever lasting. Ever! Anybody who’s experienced this (yours truly) or is the least bit spiritual, knows it's never as fulfilling as earning it. And before you jump down my throat (again) I'm not talking about gifts, or giving on special occasions, or even on a whim. I'm talking about what the consciousness is behind the giving.

What about kids now leading more sedentary lives because they’re playing the Wii, or sexting, or uploading pictures onto Facebook. ADD? ADHD? How can we expect OUR kids to pay attention? Can they carry on conversations without abbreviating words? Can they write using a pen? Can they verbally express themselves without a gadget in their hand?

It’s not an all or nothing, one way or the other proposition. I know this. I care about my boyfriend's kids, who are kind, smart and funny. However, just like I never would’ve believed that watching television hours upon hours (thank you very much MTV premiere 1981) would be bad for me, they can’t possibly understand the affect that their behaviors today might have in their futures.

Therefore, I'm installing some changes in the house when they visit. You see, I don’t have any problem saying no. As a matter of fact, I kind of enjoy it. AND I don’t mind if they hate me, because I know that it’ll pass, and they’ll thank me later.