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.

"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.

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.

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:
http://www.oprah.com/packages/no-phone-zone.html

Let the Kid Write It

I had no idea that I would be reliving some of the ugly and embarrassing events of my childhood through my boyfriend’s kids. And how is that possible? We’re not even related!

This past weekend my boyfriend’s twelve year old son (one day I’ll make up a name) asked me to proofread a paper that he wrote. I read through it, made basic grammar corrections, and suggested deleting a few words to tighten it up, you know, trim the fat. He agreed with all but one, and just as I was about to push it, reminding him of who the writer in the room was, I gave myself a time out. Now for the ugly and embarrassing part of the show.

This scene played out thirty years ago. My father often helped me with my homework, especially when it came to writing papers, and anything about World War II. He was so damn smart and could write brilliantly on the fly. I, could not.

Sometimes, my father’s idea of helping me was to write for me. He’d compose in his head and then dictate parts of the essay, book report or college application that was due, while reading the New York Times, sitting on the edge of my bed (the man was that good) and I’d hurriedly write it down verbatim.

We were both culpable. He didn’t want me to hand something in to my teachers and have them think that his child was an idiot. I was impatient, and a wee lazy, so if he wanted to help, then that meant the sooner I could put on my long scotch tape nails and lip-sync to Cher’s, Dark Lady. And not just the song, but the entire album.

Dark Lady laughed and danced and lit the candles one by one
Danced to her gypsy music till her brew was done
Dark Lady played back magic till the clock struck on the twelve
She told me more about me than I knew myself

And that dear readers is more about me than you needed to know.

I’m no expert. I’m just the girlfriend mom, but doing your child’s work for them isn’t going to teach them much. I’ll tell you what it didn’t teach me; to think for myself, process, bad first drafts, rewriting, patience, confidence, and not to wait until the last minute to finish an assignment because Daddy isn’t always going to be there to rescue me!

This is why I kept quiet and let my boyfriend’s son write in his own words.

He called me the next day, wanting to know if I could input a few more corrections, and then send the document back to him. He originally typed the paper on my computer so he only had a printout.

When he said that there were more corrections, I got a pit in my stomach.What did I miss? Who read it and found more errors? Was it his mom? Great, now she thinks that I’m a writer who can’t spell? It’s not fair. I wanted to be the hero. I wanted to be the one that got him an A+ on his paper. Crap. Now everyone will know that I’m a fraud. Again.

I panicked and went to that icky place. I suck. I can’t even correct a twelve year old’s paper where the biggest word in it is ammunition. I started questioning every suggestion and correction I made. Maybe I was wrong about capitalizing Captain. I’m the person who quit teaching English as a second language in Prague. I had no right helping this child with his paper. Who put me in charge? Where’s your dad? Where’s my dad?

But I did help him and once I took my pureed thoughts out of the blender, I gingerly asked my boyfriend’s son, “So, who read the story and found the corrections?” I held my breath and scrunched up my, overdue for Botox injections, forehead.

“Charley.” “Who?” “Charley?” “You mean your friend Charley?” My boyfriend’s son was cute as he proceeded to tell me that, although he knew that Charley wasn’t a professional, he did find a couple of mistakes.

I hardly know where to begin. First of all, the fact that his friend read his paper and gave him ‘notes’ is adorable and hilarious! Secondly, that he acknowledged that, “Charley isn’t a professional like you”, was quite astute for a twelve year old. He didn’t actually say the ‘like you’ part, but it’s obvious that’s what the subtext was.

The two corrections turned out to be typos. With my reputation in tact, I now wait to see what his teacher thinks. Clearly, it’ll be a direct reflection on me... and my dad.

The Manners Police is in town ... And I’m the sheriff

Are kids lazy or ignorant? And by the way, neither is acceptable to this Girlfriend Mom. Elbows on the dinner table, watching TV while eating, not clearing dishes, slouching over their food... not okay. And as a Pilates instructor, slouching is like giving me the finger.

We’ve got napkin issues in our home. Plain and simple. It appears that father and son dislike the idea of a napkin in their lap. Or they forget. Or they don’t care. Or they don’t know that it falls under the heading, Table Manners. As a result, I dread eating with them because I know they’ll be naked laps (that sounds dirty) and barely used, crumpled napkins on the table.

Putting aside the fact that we live in a civilized society, and play by its rules (most of the time) what about the fact that, as your dining partner, I don’t want to see dirty hands, and food scraps on the table, next to my food, and it’s selfish for anyone to think otherwise.

It’s not only the placement (or there lack of) of said napkin, but they don’t even use it to it’s full potential. If it’s a paper napkin they won’t open the folded square into it’s larger square capacity. It’s wasteful. Of course there’s the other side of this coin, illustrated by my grandfather who used to reuse his paper napkins. “You think we had the luxury of an endless supply of napkins during the depression?” Waste not want not kid, he’d say as he ate his leftover bagel from the previous morning, which had petrified over night.

Am I the only one who practices obvious table etiquette? We had dinner at home last night and I gently made my boyfriend aware of his napkin coordinates. To which he replied, “It’s a paper napkin. What’s the big deal.” He was making a distinction between paper and cloth. Cloth, paper, metal, rubber... if it calls itself a napkin, it belongs in your lap. Period.

Maybe my boyfriend wasn’t taught basic table manners (the Portuguese may do things differently) and it’s not for me to judge. We’ve all been failed, in one way or another, by our parents and their childrearing acumen, or there lack of. And I don’t know what goes on in my boyfriend’s son’s mother’s house (could there be more possessives in that sentence) so it would be unfair to point the finger solely at him.

However, I don’t remember sitting down and being schooled on napkin arrangement but somewhere in my illustrious career, I picked it up. And now I live it. And now I want my boyfriend and his son to live it.

Now when we’re at the table, I eye my boyfriend’s son gently and mouth, ‘napkin.’ He sees me and although he looks confused by this wacky ritual that his father’s girlfriend is asking him to partake in, he does it. The napkin doesn’t always stay in its place throughout the entire meal but he’s still grasping the concept that, when you’re hands are dirty and you’re in need of a napkin, it’s right there in your lap, where you can wipe in private so no on has to see the greeby short rib sauce on your snausage like fingers.

I’m no Emily Post and I have far from impeccable manners 24/7 but I have an awareness of what is socially acceptable and what is not. Sure I’ve belched at the family dinner table when I was a kid, unintentionally of course (although the seltzer didn’t help) but when my father glared at me and then at my mother saying, “I blame this on you,” I knew it was rude.

I’m strict when it comes to my boyfriend’s kids. Maybe because I wished that my parents were stricter with me. (Kids raising kids remember) There was an acute imbalance between parent as disciplinarian and child as parent in my family. I used to punish myself because my parents were downright lackadaisical. “Trust me Dad, I shouldn’t have done it. I’ll be in my room, not watching TV and not talking on the phone.” It’s probably not best to parent as if it were a do over from your own childhood, but since my boyfriend’s kids aren’t mine, DO-OVER!

Where was I? Oh, yes, table manners. Isn’t this what separates us from the animals. If kids don’t learn from an early age, they’re going to grow up into some of the people I see eating in restaurants, and it’s utterly disgusting. Hey animals, how about some compassion for the customers next to you, who are losing their appetites because you’re eating like a caveman. Huh? What about that?

Which brings me to the improper way to cut one’s meat.

Holy crap! You wouldn’t believe what I’ve seen in my, wait for it, illustrious career. Women, men, rich, poor, sophisticated, unsophisticated, world travelled, only travelled as far as the grocery store, eating like barbarians. And I’m embarrassed to say that some of these barbarians are family and friends. Again, am I missing something? What is so difficult about holding one’s utensils in a way that doesn’t resemble sawing off one’s limb.

Several years ago, I lived in Prague teaching English as a foreign language. After two weeks I realized that English was just as foreign to me as it was to the Czechs, so I quit. However, I did spend time traveling with a woman who also quit the program.

The first time we had dinner together, I thought I was going to be sick. This woman was well read, had seen the world, spoke several languages, but for some unknown reason, no one taught her how to hold a fork and knife. I have little tolerance for those who put on worldly airs and pseudo sophistications and then eat like a rabid dog.

She fisted the fork in her left hand, and stabbed the animal flesh with its prongs like a pitchfork, while her right hand held the knife and sawed in a backward and forward motion. She tore into her Myslivecká hovezi pecene na houbach (hunters beef steak with mushrooms) like a Hyena tears into a Wildebeest. Gore, saw, exhale, repeat. It was like killing that poor hunters beef all over again. I swear I thought I heard a growl as I reached for the pepper shaker in front of her.

It was as if she’d never seen food before. Or she’d been stranded on a deserted island, eating only coconuts and sand. I looked away, vomited slightly in my mouth, and left her lapping up the grease from her fingers, at the corner of Ventúrska and Prepoštská Streets in Bratislava Central Square in Slovakia.

And then yesterday at Starbuck’s my faith was restored. A mother came in with her two sons, and walked over to a table in front of me that only had two chairs. The younger son immediately sat down. The older boy, who couldn’t have been more than ten years old, started to pull a chair over from a neighboring table. “Here mom, let me get this for you.” I almost fell off my chair. Alas a child with manners.

I looked up from my tall half caf, and told the mother that that was the sweetest thing I’d ever seen. She thanked me and turned to her son, “Jack, you’re so chivalrous.” All right lady, let’s not get carried away, because from where I’m sitting, Jack’s got a naked lap.