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."

Ed Asner is My New Boyfriend

WONDER MIKE & MASTER GEE

A five, six, seven, eight:
“now what you hear is not a test--i'm rappin to the beat
and me, the groove, and my friends are gonna try to move your feet
see i am wonder mike and i like to say hello
to the black, to the white, the red, and the brown, the purple and yellow”

That’s right, The Girlfriend Mom got her rap on with THE Wonder Mike and Master Gee, from the original Sugarhill Gang Saturday night. I was the Production Coordinator for The Garden State Film Festival and da boys were the subject of a documentary that we screened, called, I Want My Name Back. Due to some unsavory characters and unethical practices, the band lost the right to use their own names, as well as the name of the band, The Sugarhill Gang, back in the 70’s. A real tragic story.

Hendogg

When the documentary ended, the band, which now includes Hendogg, DJ T Dynasty and Da Noize, performed. About 50 or so white women, in their 30's and 40's, much like myself, went ape shit when they started singing their smash hit, "Rapper's Delight".

“ya go hotel motel whatcha gonna do today (say what)
ya say im gonna get a fly girl gonna get some spankin
drive off in a def oj
everybody go, hotel motel holiday inn
say if your girl starts actin up, then you take her friend”

I should have asked them what an oj was. No mind. A good time was had by all.

The concert was off the hook, but the real fun was having Mr. Lou Grant himself, Mr. Ed Asner, introduce the documentary. Mr. Asner was at the festival to receive a Lifetime Achievement award. I don’t know who came up with the idea, but Mr. Asner agreed to say a few words before the screening.

I acted as stage manager for the night and got to wear a headset. I’m pretty sure I became an Equity stage manager (one of my many illustrious careers), for the headset. The same could be said for working on movie sets. “Copy that. Coffee is flying in.” That device reeks of importance.

Mr. Asner and his lovely daughter, Liza (with a Z), arrived backstage, and there was the crotchety and loveable newspaper man in the flesh. He is truly adorable. While I waited for my cue to call Mr. Asner out on stage, I took the opportunity to meet the man, the myth, the voice of the old guy from the movie, “Up”.

ED & CARL

The following is a verbatim account of my conversation. I don’t know if it was the peanut butter M&M’s that I inhaled an hour earlier, or the excitement of wearing a headset, but I was hopped up and suffered from diarrhea of the mouth. On the upside, at 83 years old, Mr. Asner is funny, gruff, humble and approachable. Just like me.

ME: Hi, Mr. Asner, I’m Dani. I’m coordinating the festival.
He grabs my hand.
ED: Hello there.
ME: It’s such a pleasure to have you here.
Still holding my hand.
ED: It’s a pleasure to be had.
ME: I think it’s great and funny that you’re introducing the Sugarhill Gang’s movie.
ED: Funny? How so?
ME: Well, it’s bringing two different worlds and cultures together and...
He lets go of my hand, smiles and furrows his brow.
ME: It’s a great juxtaposition. You know what I mean.
ED: What’s your last name?
ME: Alpert
ED: Are you Yiddishkeit?
I hoped he was asking because of the sassy, and funny way that I was talking to him, and not my frizzy hair.
ME: Yes I am. And thanks for asking. (No idea what I meant by that)
ED: Ah.
ME: Why?You’re not Jewish. Are you?
ED: What do you think? Argh, come on.
This is when I regretted not doing a full background check. Not only is he Jewish, but he was raised Orthodox. I forgot to be embarrassment because I was on such a sugar and Sugarhill Gang high.
ME: I don’t remember you being in Adam Sandler’s song.
ED: Yeah, I lost money on that.
Huh?
ME: Are you excited about doing "Home Alone 5"?
He was flying to Canada after the festival to film.
ED: Eh, it's only one day of shooting.
ME: Do you think you'll do any more animation?
ED: If they want me.
ME: I loved "Up"...
And here's where the sugar really kicks in.
ED: Yeah, it was a sweet movie.
ME: No, I mean, it was so touching. And you were so funny. 
Ed's just nodding at this point.
ME: It really tugged at the heart strings.
I place my hands gently over my heart.
ME: It really made me cry. (awkward pause) Okay, well, you get it.
We both took a breath.
ME: Well, I’ll leave you to ‘An Actor Prepares”.
Theater reference to a famous acting book by Stanislavski.
ED: What do I need to prepare?
ME: So true. Just go out there and be yourself.
ED: You mean be humble.
Sarcasm.
ME: You’re Ed Asner. Just be Ed Asner, that’s enough.
ED: Okay, now get away from me.

And with that, me, my headset and my mouth, walked away.

At the awards dinner the following night, I brought my boyfriend over to Mr. Ed Asner’s table, so he could meet him. I leaned over his shoulder, watching him sign autographs.
ME: Excuse me, Mr. Asner, remember me, from last night, backstage.
He looked up and again furrowed his brow.
ED: You had your hair up last night. It looks much better down. Don’t ever put it up again.
He shook my boyfriend’s hand.
ED: Nice catch but keep her hair down. Now get away from me.

And with that, me, my boyfriend and my long and luxurious hair walked away.

Go ahead, amuse me

I'm All Fooked Up!

I am thrilled and delighted to be a featured guest on All Fooked Up. Lynn has impeccable taste. Go on and check it out. Some of you might've missed this post, and that's just too much to bear. Enjoy and thank you Lynn.

Happy Anniversary The Girlfriend Mom!

In honor of the first anniversary writing as The Girlfriend Mom, I'm re-posting my first entry as the G.M. I hope you enjoy, and I thank everyone from the bottom of my heart who has read, commented, and supported me during this ride. L'Chaim!

My boyfriend’s twelve year old son asked me to put his hair in a ponytail last night. He thought it was hysterical that he looked like a girl, as he modeled it for the five friends he was talking to on ooVoo. For those not in the loop, it’s like Skype. For those not in that loop either, it’s video chatting.

I didn’t think anything of his request. I was just flattered that he saw me as someone who knew how to make a ponytail. My mother used to put my hair in a ponytail, and would pull it so tight, that I got headaches and an unnecessary facelift. Not so unnecessary now, I’ll tell ya.

I’m calling myself, The Girlfriend Mom. My boyfriend and I live together, we’re not married, and he has two kids. However, I do step-mommy things, I suppose, like his son’s laundry. Sidebar: Sometimes, when I’m folding his tiny pair of jeans, it feels weird, dare I say ‘unnatural’. I’m convinced that it has to do with what I associate being a ‘mom’ with (which sometimes I find unattractive) and laundry seems to be on the list.

I help him with his homework and I consistently nag him about the television volume. I swear, it’s like living with the deaf (or my grandparents) How can you NOT hear that?! Well, this just smells of ‘mom’ (girlfriend or step) doesn’t it? I feel myself getting uglier by the minute.

So I’m not just a girlfriend, who’s boyfriend has kids. There are expectations of me, some being easy and ‘natural’ to pull off, like making up his bed, pouring him ice tea when he’s parched, teaching him how to apply Orajel to a sore, or eating at Chili’s for a less than nutritious meal. Other times, the expectations feel as ‘unnatural’ to me, as doing fractions, or wearing make-up and like folding his tiny fruit of the loom tidy whitey’s.

I say ‘mom’ things, but I can’t be sure of my modus operandi. Sometimes it’s because I think I’m supposed to say them, but how the hell do I know what to say. Other times, I think it’s imbedded in my DNA. Can that be?

My boyfriend’s son got a laptop over the weekend and he took it into our bedroom, which is one and a half flights up from where we were in the kitchen. Oh, no you don’t. I watch Dateline and Primetime Live. I told him to get where we could see and hear what he was doing. It was a knee jerk reaction. I’ve watched enough Lifetime Movies to know what can happen if you’re not paying attention. My request sounded like it came right out of, Mother, May I Sleep with Danger.

I want my boyfriend to know (and I’m not sure if he truly does) what it’s like to go from not wanting children and not sure if I even like children, to bringing a 12 and 17 year old into my life. They’re his flesh and blood. He was there at the beginning. He’s watched them grow and journeyed with them. I’d imagine with each passing year, a parent adjusts to the plethora of changes, and then, eventually, if you’re lucky, you can’t imagine your life without them. Me? It felt like two minutes in the microwave and BEEP, instant kids. Ready! (no) Set! (no) Go! (no, wait!)

I used to hear stories about a great aunt of mine who was a lesbian. She used to be a dancer and she had been with her girlfriend since WWII. I think they invented Lesbianism. They traveled the world, had several homes, and they didn’t have children. Their life sounded exotic and it had a profound effect on me.

The effect in this case being the possibility of a fulfilling life without children... not the girl on girl part. Although... My point is, I got the message that I had choices, and it was okay not to want what others wanted. I’m not sure I can directly attribute my ambivalence towards kids to my Great Lesbian Aunt (that sounds like a superhero) but I know she had played a role.

I’m sure that my parents made a contribution, unbeknownst to them I’m sure. By the time my parents were 24 years old, they had two kids under the age of 2. My mother wanted to have children, at least that’s what she tells me, but she wasn’t your typical mother either. Personally, I think she was in way over her head. Kids raising kids people! She rarely made breakfast and by the time I was twelve, I was babysitting, taking the train into the city alone and doing my own laundry. (What is it with the laundry?)

I can spend another lifetime researching and analyzing why I feel the way I do, but I don’t have that kind of time, and I’m not sure that it matters. What matters to me now is being honest about my feelings and not judging them. They are what they are, and since feelings change from one moment to the next, I think it’s unwise to give them too much power.

Instead, I’ve decided to forge a relationship with my boyfriend’s kids, based on who I am now, and who they are, as individuals, with all of our unique personalities. We’re not going to be defined by should’s, supposed to’s or societal constraints. And I have to say, so far, so good.

“Sweet baby Jesus, can you PLEASE turn that television down?!”

Gift Giving and Receiving Is Shrouded In Agita.

At what point does my boyfriend and I sign the gift labels on his kids' Christmas and Chanukah presents, "From the both of us?" Up to this point, we've shopped separately, and paid separately. It's not about the money, although those little people aren't cheap, it's more about the feelings of separation and inclusion.

I enjoy buying the kid's gifts, and I like labeling them, 'from Chanukah Henrietta'. I wonder if this will always be the case. I wonder if the Girlfriend part of The Girlfriend Mom will merge with the Mom part. I wonder what that might look like. But like everything else in my life as The Girlfriend Mom, things will work themselves out organically. I've learned not to use force or guilt, and to sit back and watch it all unfold.

My boyfriend and I went shopping the other day to buy him skis (we're going skiing next week) and a kick-ass ski bunny outfit for me. I had to face the facts. In the past, a major reason why I never warmed to the idea of going skiing or to be outside in the cold in general, was because I never had the proper gear. Since I moved back east, five years ago, I have been doing without snow boots. I know.

I had a press conference with myself, and left the meeting prepared, and dare I say, excited, to drop some cash and stock up on all that I needed. If my boyfriend suggested that we go sledding or tobagganing, I would be the first one out the door. As an aside: The same holds true for dinner party and business clothes. The only thing I'm prepared for, attire speaking, is working from home, or at my local cafe, teaching Pilates and sexy time in bed.

I hijacked the saleswoman at the Ski Barn and told her that it had been awhile since I bought ski pants, and gloves, and that I needed some TLC and whole lot of  help. We started with the layer closest to my skin and I worked my way out. It was painless and productive. These aren't words used to describe my shopping experiences. Ask my mom or my friend Liz. Anyone who has had the pleasure of going shoe shopping with me, can attest to the fact that I HATE shopping. I am not my mother's daughter.

My boyfriend gave me the thumbs up on my wicked tight and sassy snow pants and after I picked out my helmut, I met him at the register. All of my crap was already in bags. He paid for everything. It sort of confused me because I didn't know if he was trying to expedite the transaction because he was hungry and ready to leave, or if he wanted to pick up the tab. I started to feel nervous. This wasn't discussed at the press conference. What the f? I'm a Virgo for crying out loud. You can't do this. 

When we got in the car, I told him that I'd pay him back. He said that it was my Christmas present. I said that it was too much money, and that I didn't feel comfortable. The anxiety was building up in my gut. I started to flush.

He assured me again that it was my Christmas present but I couldn't do it. I immediately rejected the idea and then, in no particular order, shit shot through my brain, in rapid fire.

I refuse to be a kept woman. I don't want to be like his ex. I don't want to come off as sponging, or spoiled. I'm not worthy. You can't buy me. It's controlling. I don't want to be a taker. He who has the money, has the power. I was looking forward to buying the stuff myself. I don't want a hand out. I feel nauseous.

When I was a kid, and I saw my name on the presents under the Christmas tree, (and then Chanukah bush and sleigh) I dreaded picking up the presents, taking them, and then opening them. I must have expressed my uneasiness because my brother would inevitable pipe in, "If she doesn't want hers, can I have it?" Maybe I was trying not to be like my brother and well, it just never stopped.

In the past, I've returned birthday present checks from my father, if I thought that it was an excessive amount. Of course I was the one who determined what was excessive. If the amount didn't make me feel queasy, then I would be able to accept it.

When we got home, and for the next day or so, I kept thinking about my boyfriend's offer and my reactive response. Why couldn't I have trusted that if he didn't want to give me this generous gift, he wouldn't have offered? Why couldn't I have said, "Thank you. That is so sweet, thoughtful and generous of you. You'll definitely be getting some tonight. And I have what to wear."

But I didn't say that (he got lucky anyway) and then yesterday he presented me with the receipt, so that I could make sure what items were mine. Here's the honest to goodness truth. I was secretly hoping that he would insist on giving me this incredible gift. That he would see through me and my angst and ignore my neuroses. What better way to learn to accept than through practice? I mean, come on, how much does he think I make as a Pilates instructor and writer anyway?

We spoke briefly about the incident and I nutted up and suggested that maybe we could split it. He didn't like my idea and said, "Too late. Now maybe the next time I want to get you something, you'll wise up and just say thank you." He ended up giving me a gift after all because I will never be so asinine again!

High School Graduation: One Down, One To Go

Ever since I decided to become a Pilates instructor, finding a teacher training facility, jobs or clients have come with surprising ease. So when I was recently offered a position teaching Pilates in Dubai this summer (departing soon) I thought, of course, because it's Pilates! If only it had been this easy when I was pursuing a career in show business.

In all of the years I struggled to claw my way up to the middle rung of the entertainment ladder, I never heard, "You've got the job", as frequently as I do now as a Pilates instructor. I recently submitted a video application for some online iVoices, for iVillage thingy, and just to keep my rejection track record consistent, I was not chosen as one of their new iVoices.

It's so curious to me, actually. It's as if anytime I veer over to the entertainment side of things, a big fat hand comes down and slaps me hard across the face, saying, "That's not Pilates, knock it off."

Anyhoo, yesterday was my boyfriend's daughter's high school graduation. The last time I attended a high school graduation, I was walking down the aisle in my white gown, overly large earrings, high heels, and borderline mullet hairdoo. A sight for the sorriest of eyes to be sure.

It was held outside on the football field. We climbed the stairs of the bleachers, looking for seats, and happened to find spots in the exact same row as my boyfriend's ex-wife. Oh what fun. Long story (very) short, the two don't speak. At all. Fortunately, my boyfriend's daughter's boyfriend's family (I have got to start using actual names) sat in between us, creating a ginormous and much needed chasm (metaphorically speaking of course).

We sat through the obligatory speeches and musical performance, until finally, the diplomas were handed out. Boring, and tedious are just two of the words used to describe this long standing tradition. Until of course, you hear your boyfriend's daughter name being read. Then it's as if the Queen of England is being introduced.

I was surprised by my excitement in seeing her walk up the stairs to the stage, reach out her hand to accept her diploma and pose for the professional photographer. So young, so beautiful, so innocent. I thought I might feel a twinge of envy.

She's embarking on a world of endless possibilities and opportunities. To be starting out, the future unknown, believing that all your dreams can come true. Unless of course you go into show business. On second thought, not so much envy, as glad I don't have to go through all that again. It makes me tired just thinking about all those dreams.

After the caps were thrown high in the air and the graduates scrambled to retrieve them (those caps ain't cheap) parents and friends quickly descended upon the field, my boyfriend and I included.

We found 'our' graduate and my boyfriend took his daughter in his arms, holding her tightly, only letting go when he was ready. (Is any father ever ready) I watched as my eyes formed pools of tears. I was overjoyed for her, but I was also overcome with a subtle, yet palpable feeling of connectedness. The pride and selfless happiness a mother has for their child? I think subconsciously I had been waiting for this feeling to reveal itself to this Girlfriend Mom, and now it has.

It's The Boobie (as in mammary) Generation

 My boyfriend and I went to a prom photo shoot at his daughter's friend's house. I'd never seen anything like it. Then again, I've never seen anything related to a prom because I didn't go to mine. And before anyone thinks that no one asked me, hush up. I was dating someone at the time but I didn't want to go. Corsages make my wrists look fat.

There must of been 50 couples milling around the backyard of this over the top McMansion. Think stone fountains, sweeping balconies and a perfectly manicured lawn; Housewives of New Jersey territory. Not only were the kids there, but the parents (and The Girlfriend Mom) were there too. It was like an award show with the adults standing outside the red carpet, as the kids sashayed in. Click, click, "Hey Tiffany, over here." Click, click "Michael smile." Click, click, "Brandy, you look beautiful." 

But as I snapped a few candids of my boyfriend's daughter and her beau, I was less interested in the dresses and more intrigued by the parade of ginormous mammaries! If anyone doubts the effects of hormones in our food, as well as environmental shifts (and not for the better) on prepubescent bodies, seeing this group of teenagers would dispel those doubts.

I've never seen so much cleavage in my life. Not only were there big boobies, but these girls looked like they were in their twenties and had already been ravaged by life. I think in some cases, they were ravaged by tanning beds. This is surely a different breed of teenage girl.

And then I looked at some of the mothers, because in some cases, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Maybe the way today's youth looks is a combination of hormones and their mother's influences on them. Maybe some mother's project their own views of beauty onto their daughters.

I know mine did. Beauty and fashion were never her passion, which is why she still hasn't mastered foundation application and lives most of her life in leggings. You gotta lover her though, she looks about ten years younger than her peers.

When my boyfriend and I got in the car, I had to ask. "Do I look like those other women?"  I know as women there's always a tinge of distortion when it comes to being objective about how old we look, especially when we hit 40 and the rings around the neck start to look like those inside a giant sequoia. I like to think that I'm pretty truthful about my signs of age and to be honest, I DO NOT LOOK LIKE THOSE OTHER WOMEN.

And my boyfriend, god bless him, read from the only acceptable script for this scene. "Not at all, honey. You look half their age." Of course I returned the favor, it was the right thing to do. "You don't look like those fathers either." Holy crap we're attractive, youthful looking and humble.

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.

Recycling or Rubbish

I’m trying to do my part, you know, save the world, and I’m doing it one plastic container and cardboard pizza box at a time. I’m not digging water wells in Mali or building houses in New Orleans, or rescuing abused circus elephants. I’m recycling vitamin bottles and tuna cans.

My kitchen now looks like a bag lady’s den. I haven’t found a less cluttered way to hang the various bags (plastic, paper, cardboard) on the chairs. We don’t have the room, or the bins. My boyfriend thinks I’m obsessed (read: nuts) for recycling practically everything short of used tissues. When I started recycling my junk mail envelopes (mixed paper) or any envelope for that matter, he almost opened a can of whoop ass on me.

I can’t stop myself. I look at everything as a potential recycling opportunity. I’m trying to save the planet, dammit. Now the bags have started to overflow into the garage. I find it therapeutic to break down boxes, no matter the size. I like the small toothpaste packaging, as much as the box the case of wine comes in.

My boyfriend has now, after a year, joined me in my obsession (read: nuttiness) I’m in charge of bringing the recycling that my neighborhood does not pick up, to the local recycling center. I even had to get a sticker for my car, because they don’t want just anyone throwing their crap in their bins. They’ve got rules!

And then, last week, in the middle of my dumping, as I looked out over the ginormous containers filled with smaller filthy containers, I wondered where the recycling goes. And IF it all goes. Is there really such a thing as recycling to begin with? Wasn’t there a 60 Minutes story on the recycling scam several years ago? Is this just an exercise in futility? I don’t think I know enough about where my cardboard paper towel roll and plastic prune containers are going.

Next stop, Google.

"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.

How Often Do You Go To The Doctor?

I was in the city on Friday for two doctor's appointments. I've been lazy to find local ones, so once a year I go in to see 'the doctors'.

My boyfriend thinks that I'm obsessed with going to the doctor. No, I have a father who was/is neurotic and obsessed with going to the doctor. His thinking is, if you have the insurance, then get your money’s worth. I do have an army of doctors. General practitioner, Gynecologist, Dermatologist, Ophthalmologist, Dentist, and Physical therapist, although that one doesn't really count.

I see the following less frequently but they’re on my speed dial. Urologist, Rheumatologist, plastic surgeon, Orthopedic surgeon, Neurologist, Acupuncturist, thinning hair doctor, and podiatrist. I had a bunionectomy awhile back. Nothing says old jew like a bunion.

I parked my car and walked to the subway, only to see the R train pulling in to the station. I excitedly hopped on. You know why the train was just pulling in? Because it was the downtown train and I needed the uptown. I rode it to 34th, got off, walked over to the uptown platform and marveled at how after so many years, that I could still be getting on the wrong trains.

My yearly check up was first. The nurse called me into the room, told me to pee in a cup (if you’ve been playing at home, you know that I’ve gotten very adept at this (see why) and then that bitch weighed me fully clothed. Are you crazy? She didn't even offer to subtract any pounds for the clothes. I didn't say anything, because I'd already weighed myself that morning, completely naked (I even took my hair clip out) so I knew what the truth was.

And she didn't measure me. I've Pilates'd (sp) my brains out and I’m convinced that I've grown. She left the room so I could get into my paper towel gown (from the waist up) and I laid on the table, waiting for her return.

She came back in and started hooking me up for an EKG test. Man, she ripped that gown open, exposing my supple bosoms, and started sticking patches all over my chest. She totally rushed through it, like she had a train to catch. No sweet talk, nothing.

The rest of the exam was boring. It took all of 10 minutes. So worth the drive in.

Here's a little advice for anyone planning to visit NYC or who lives there. Please don’t walk more than two people across on the sidewalk, when there’s oncoming pedestrians. And if you can, single file that shit up. There were people walking 4 and 5 across. The friggin streets aren't big enough. Please be considerate.

I still don't know how women walk the streets in heels. I'm going to be seeing you in my Pilates classes! http://talkingismybusiness.blogspot.com/2007/09/no-sex-please.html

I have a male gynecologist, and I always wonder how they don’t get excited examining their patients (I know they’re professionals, but they’re also human) especially if a fresh and sexy 20 something, with a rack that rivals any VS model walks into the office. Hell, I'd get excited.

Is it wrong to greet my doctor with a hug? A part of me thinks it is but I don’t know if that’s the uptight part of me, who’s constantly searching for the right and wrong in situations.

I laid on the table, this time naked from the waist down, cooter slightly exposed (those paper towel gowns don’t cover squat) waiting for my doctor to get the hermetically sealed instruments out of their package. Awkward.

The exam commences, and the exam ends. Then he says that he sees a lot of Pilates Instructor's with tight pelvic floors, who have painful sex. Wait. Is he saying I have a tight pelvic floor? Is that bad? But I don’t have painful sex. AHHH! Check please!!!! Stop! I don’t want to talk about sex with you, painful or otherwise! I get it, I’m a Pilates instructor, we’re all about the pelvic floor, tight or otherwise, you’re bonding with me, but please stop talking and let me get dressed.

He finally leaves, but not before we kiss each other good-bye on the cheek, like I do with my girlfriends. I’m so confused.

Can A Television Break Up A Couple?!

I loathe having a television in our bedroom. I don't like to watch TV before falling asleep, I like to read. My bed partner, however, loves watching TV before bed and claims that he can't fall asleep without it. That's a hot steamy pile of turd, because on the few times when he didn't watch TV, and instead read, he was out like a light in less than 10 minutes.

The man is so resistant. He thinks that because he's used to watching, there's no other way. I try to tell him that it's a just a bad, stinky, unhealthy and annoying habit, and he can break it. I've begged him to let me help him.

He doesn't see that watching television stimulates the brain, which is why he channel surfs (the daddy of all stimulation) wondering why he can't fall asleep. His logic is so ass backwards and he's usually a very logical man.

To watch, or not to watch is hands down, the topic of most of our arguments. In the beginning, I tried to be a good sport. It wasn't only the sound that bothered me, it was the light. I've put socks (or whatever is laying around) in front of the cable box and DVD player because I can actually 'feel' the light. Of course this just gives my bed partner more ammunition, "You're nuts. Who does that?" I'm nuts because I'm sleep deprived.

I tried wearing an eye mask but when I rolled onto my side, where I like to sleep, it was very uncomfortable. I think it was too cushion-y. Now I just face away from the television and hope that by the time I'm ready to roll to the other side, he's turned the fucking idiot box off.

I still have the issue of volume. How loud does one actually have to have it, when the television is only a few feet away and it's BEDTIME?! Huh? How loud? I have superior hearing. It might have something to do with the satellite dishes I call my ears.

Nevertheless, I can hear the television when it's super ass low. Naturally, I expect my bed partner's hearing to be the same. It isn't. The level at which he likes to watch could wake the dead. And if he did wake my dead grandparents, they could watch TV together at a deafening volume. But whereas my grandparents were actually deaf, and needed the volume, because they were like elevendymillion years old, my bed partner is NOT!

I made an effort and tried earplugs a few months ago. When I removed them in the morning, I felt crazy dizzy. I couldn't stand up. It lasted a whole day and I was convinced that my head put pressure on my ears, and pushed the earplugs into my gentle ear canal and fucked with my equilibrium. Hey bed partner, I hope watching the season finale of Spartacus was worth it.

I’ve slept in the basement, where it’s quiet and as dark as a bat cave. But am I really going to sleep without my bed partner. Pause for deep contemplation.

We're building a house (details to come) and my bed partner already has the locations (plural) of two of the televisions. He wants one over the fireplace (it makes me throw up a little in my mouth just thinking about it) and a television in the bedroom. We have a vaulted ceiling, so he wants to put it high on the wall, so he can watch in bed, but then have it on some kind of mount that allows him to lower it, swivel it around, and watch from the bathtub.

This is far from over. Every time he brings this idea up, which thankfully isn't too often, as toilets are our immediate priority, I don't say a word. It's my version of reverse psychology. I want him to think that I'm all for it, and then, when he least expects it, I can gently and calmly show him the error of his colossally retarded idea. And I mean that in a loving way.

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.

The Case Of The Missing Water Filter

I haven't taught Pilates in a couple of days and I feel like I've forgotten everything that I've ever learned. Quite frankly, I feel like a fraud. I've got a private session and a Mat class later this afternoon and I'm so unmotivated. I should be coming up with kick ass routines, or review my anatomy, so that when a client tells me about their torn meniscus, I can offer up exercises that would be good for such an injury, and NOT just tilt my head with a, "Aw, that must hurt." No, I choose to obsess (read:blog) about a missing water filter.

It goes without saying that I am in charge of changing the filter in the Brita water pitcher every two months. I'm very diligent about this because I am anal about germs, following rules, instructions and manuals. I would make a really good HR person... says my friend Muffy.

The Britta guide said to change the filter every two months. They even include a little calendar that adheres on the pitcher as a reminder. I also put it on the calendar that hangs on the refrigerator... just as a safety precaution.

Well, it was time for a filter change the other day and lo and behold, no filter, just an empty box. I was livid, I tell ya, livid! First of all, I would never put an empty box back in the basket of cleaning supplies that lives under the sink. And second, where the hell was the filter?! I bought a package of three and I know there was at least one left, or else it would've made it onto the "we need the following" list. Anal... your table is ready.

It couldn't have been my boyfriend. He doesn't even know that we have water filters, let alone, take one out, swap it out with the old one and put the empty box back under the sink. Although he has been known to put the orange juice carton back in the refrigerator with a spit of juice left. Then again so have I.

There was only one other person that could've taken it. The CLEANING LADY. But why? And wouldn't she think that I would notice, especially since it was the last one? If she had thrown the box out, then maybe, just maybe, I might've thought that I forgot to put it on the "we need the following" list.

In any case, I decided not to confront her because I didn't have any forensic evidence. But she better watch her back because I'm onto her. She doesn't exactly have a clean record. For one thing, when she cleans, she puts things 'away'... in drawers, cabinets and closets. The first time she cleaned, I couldn't find anything. It's terribly annoying and she should NOT be opening my drawers... nightstand or kitchen.

So, when she came to clean yesterday, I laid it on the line. It might've come out a bit harsh because I was thinking about my missing water filter. I told her that on no uncertain terms should she put anything away. Lift, clean, and put back down.

Perfectly Reasonable

Friday, February 13, 2009

Here’s some backstory so the following tale will make sense. Hopefully.

I moved back to New York three years ago from L.A., via Prague (whole other story-stay tuned) moved into a building along the Hudson River, befriended a guy who I met in the elevator on my first night in the building, who then promptly set me up with his friend a month later. 

I dated his friend, who I will now refer to as the man, for over a year and a half. It then took us another 10 months to officially break up. I was (and still might be) in love with the man. Ours was a passionate, loving and in the end, highly charged and loaded relationship. I had never felt this way about anyone. Tragic. Oh, so terribly tragic.

(The why’s and the how’s will follow in the coming months) Since we stopped seeing one another, he has never left my mind nor my heart. And even though, according to family and friends, I should be over him, I’m clearly not.

See below.

I emailed my friend last night (the one from above backstory) about having a Match.com session at his place. This consists of sitting in front of his computer with a bottle of wine, searching for someone that we BOTH like for him to date. And when we do find someone, I help him write funny-ass emails; the likes of which are Nobel worthy, if I do say so myself. It’s a lot easier to take chances when you don’t care if the person responds or not. They’re sarcastic, off the cuff, and pretty out there. I’m not sure if my friend shares my philosophy but he keeps letting me browse with him. 

These days, sadly enough, Match.com, is my prized entertainment. The emails usually illicit crazy, gutturul fits of laughter, that either has me running to the bathroom so I don’t pee my pants or an abdominal work out that rivals any at the gym. Or both.

But on this particular night, my friend couldn't play in the reindeer games because he was going out with the boys. I know the boys could mean any number of boys but I was convinced that one of the boys had to be the man. Oh, crap. Does this mean he’s in the building? In my presence, figuratively speaking. I reeled for a moment or two and in that moment.

I visited jealousy. Was he going to talk to strange women when the boys went out? Was he going to get someone’s number? Envy. I wish I had ‘girls’ to go out with. How come I don’t know enough girls to have a girls night out? And a whole host of other, borderline pyschotic, feelings. So what do I, the supposed grown up, do? I did what any self respecting grown-up woman would do.

I got dressed (it was nine o’clock and I was already in my jammies) and went looking for the boys. I put on lipstick, and gloss, and decided that now was a perfect time to go to the corner drugstore (what am I in Mayberry) to pick up the rest of my meds (shocking I take meds) I’m such a cliche. Meds are so 2001 but whatever. 

I was hoping, of course, that I'd run into the man and yet, I was petrified of the idea. Did I really want to run into him? After all this time, I still don’t think I’d know what to say. Even in my pretend encounters I have with him in my head, I get tongue tied. There was definitely a push-pull thing happening. I wasn't sure what I wanted, but my body was victorious and it pushed me out the door. Oh, and I also put on my super cute jeans and slutty boots, because if I did run into the man, I didn’t want to be in sneakers. They’re too daytime and casual and I wanted to look like I was going ‘out’ and all sexy like. The boots look better with the jeans anyway.

From the time I stepped into the elevator, to the time I reached CVS, my eyes were in constant motion. Looking, seeking, darting, roving. Nothing. I walked into CVS and the pharmacy was closed. Am I in New York or podunk bumfunk?! What’s the point in living in the city that never sleeps if the pharmacy sleeps. Great. Thanks a lot CVS.

I wasn’t ready to go back home, because it was early and there was still a chance that I’d run into the boys. I decided that it was imperative that I go to the food store, a block away from CVS, to get my desperately needed bag of organic raw sugar (I forgot to pick it up when I was at Fairway yesterday) I knew putting it on my list was futile because I'd actually have to look at the list and I never do.

Food Emporium, the dirty hell hole that it is, didn't have my brand. I left dirty little Food Emporium, dejected and well, feeling dirty. I swear, there’s something about that store that makes you want to shower and shed a layer of skin.

On my walk back home, twice my heart nearly leapt into my throat when I thought I saw the man. It’s a good thing I’m over the man eh. I walked slowly, lingering really, thinking that maybe... I didn’t want to look like I was just strolling aimlessly on a Tuesday night (like I was looking for them) just in case I did run into them, so I played with my cell phone, appearing to be engrossed in a very important task. 

While I was at CVS, Verizon was kind enough to text me that I was at 80% capacity in my text inbox. Ironic, no? Perfect. As I walked, I deleted. Now I looked busy and with purpose.

When I got back to the building, I took stock at my behavior and well, I’d like to say that I was embarrassed and went right upstairs. But I can’t. I made a pit stop in the mailroom. What was I expecting to find? What? If the boys were in fact in the building, my friend is going to say to the man, “Hey, dude, I know it’s 9:30p and the bars and women are waiting, but can I get my mail first?” I went into the mailroom and got my mail anyway.

I thought about it, and I was this close to doing it, but I stopped short at going down to the garage to see if I saw the man’s car. That's progress, isn’t it? And then, and only then, did I make my way back upstairs to my apartment, where I took off my slutty boots, super cute jeans, put my jammies back on and did Sudoku before falling asleep.