R-Rated Movies Are Not For Twelve Year Olds

I apologize for my absence. Life had me in a headlock and I couldn't get away. But I'm back now, so you can relax.

I went to see Hangover: Part Deux over the holiday weekend with my boyfriend and his son. It's rated R. I have a problem with taking a twelve year old to see R-rated movies. I can see that my objections might sound a wee prudish but isn't there plenty of time for kids to be exposed to boobies, and tushies, and hearing cussing like, "Fuck that shit man. You're an a-hole." Or sexually explicit language like, "He took it up the ass and loved it. I'm going to tap that tonight."

I'm not living under a rock. I know what 'kids' are listening to on the radio, and what they're watching on television, because they're doing it under my roof. And here's where the biological parent, not the Girlfriend Mom, runs the show. If it were my child, I'd keep them locked in a closet (figuratively speaking of course) until I deemed them ready (I'm thinking mid twenties) to handle graphic language and mature sexual content.

Parents use excuses for letting their offspring see these types of movies. I've heard some say that all the kids do it, and they're going to see it one way or another. This is equivalent to the, "If Barbara jumps off the bridge, would you jump off the bridge?"

It's a lame defense for letting your child be verbally and visually assaulted by adult movies. Another excuse I hear is that kids don't understand what's being said or 'acted' out in these movies. Oh, really? Hey, mom, get your head out of your butt and wise up. They do to understand, so that logic is severely faulted.

I sat in the movie theater next to my boyfriend with his son next to him. Whenever something inappropriate came on screen, I just reminded myself that it's my boyfriend who's corrupting his son's sweet and innocent twelve year old mind, not this girlfriend mom. 

I was able to get through the movie without having an aneurism, even during the (spoiler alert) scene with the naked transvestites in the strip club. However, when the credits rolled over the outtakes, the real shit hit the fan, and I almost lost it. There we were, sitting in a nice little theater in Jersey, watching an Asian woman shooting balls out of her hoo hoo. Don't ask me, I don't know how she did it.

Another woman pulled a scarf out of her hoo hoo, (like the endless ones magicians pull out of their mouths) but you had to be paying attention to catch that one. Not to mention an onslaught of boobs, drunken debauchery and sexual positions I've only recently come to know (and love). And all the while I kept thinking how my boyfriend's son had seen the movie the first time around with his mother.

I don't know if the Girlfriend kid was embarrassed watching this in front of his father and me, but I sure as hell was. It reminded me of the time my overly responsible and parental  (read sarcasm) mother took me to see Saturday Night Fever, also Rated R, in 1977, when I was, ahem, eleven years old! I'm pretty sure my father was in attendance, thereby intensifying my embarrassment.

Let me take you to the backseat of the car scene with John Travolta (Tony Manero) and Donna Pescow (Annette). The poor slut wasn't even given a last name. When the scene started, I wanted to die. I didn't want to watch people screwing (whether I knew what they were doing is up for debate) sitting next to my parents. Why would I?

Even at eleven years old, it felt wrong. Obviously my parents did not share this sentiment because they continued to chow down on their popcorn and Twizzlers, paying no mind to what this might be doing to their impressionable daughter's young psyche. And as I had to do on so many occasions in my childhood, I self parented.

I grabbed my macrame and beaded hippie purse and told my parents that I was going to the bathroom. I didn't have to go to the bathroom but I didn't want them to think that watching a sex scene with them pushed my boundaries (and wasn't cool?) which it did!

I walked out of Hangover: Part Deux, praying that no one would bring up the magical wonders of the vagina. They didn't, at least not to me. "Hey you guys, next week Kung Fu Panda: Part Deux?" And much to my surprise and satisfaction, my boyfriend's son gave me a thumbs up. Okay, so maybe if he sees some cuddly panda bears he'll forget about the tits and ass. Here's hoping.

A Tall Drink of Water

Having lived most of my life on stage, where I was told I belonged (I think it had something to do with my loud speaking voice) whether it be an actual stage, in a writer’s room, or doing my best Sonny & Cher impersonation (playing both parts) in front of my parent’s friends in our living room, stepping ‘off the stage’ has never been easy for me, and it’s now become troublesome and sometimes embarrassing in light of my new career as a Pilates instructor.

There’s not a great need for voice projection when you’re in your client’s face, or crotch, cueing positions and movements, or busting out a rendition of All That Jazz, while giving someone a hamstring stretch. And yet, this doesn’t seem to stop me. The Pilates studio is not a stage, I know this, but old habits die hard.

I was at the studio the other day, talking to another trainer about belly scooping and postural alignment, or some such thing, when the owner of the studio, Janice, called me over to the front desk, where she was standing with a few other people. “Dani. Dani, can you come over here?” She smiled and with a bit of fun sarcasm in her voice said, “Do you have any availabilities to train a new client? It says in the computer that we have to contact you.” I looked over. Any normal person would simply walk to the desk, nothing more, nothing less. But because the world, which now includes the Pilates studio, is my stage, and normal has never been my forte, I started talking before I got to the desk.

“Available? I don’t know. You know how booked I am. I’m very popular you know. I’ll have to check.” And then I decided to play on the contact reference and made that assinine, I point to my eyes with two-fingers and then point to Janice’s eyes, as if to say, “I’m watching you, you’re watching me.” What? Janice took the bait and mirrored me with her two-fingers, which only encouraged me to continue my stage work. This wasn’t going to end well.

A very tall woman, who I had never seen before, was standing at the front desk. She must’ve been 6 feet tall. I’m 5’3 and three quarters (I totally grew half an inch since I started Pilates) I was in socks, and could’ve walked right between her legs without ducking. Janice looked at me, “Dani, this is Thalia. She wants to schedule a private session.”
I looked up at Thalia and with the confidence of Shecky Green in his heyday, I shouted, “Weeeeelllll, aren’t you a tall glass of water!” In the middle of the ‘Weeeeelllll’, I regretted ever learning how to talk. I've never ever used that phrased in my life. And if I'm correct, it's usually reserved for men. I couldn’t look at Thalia. I was too mortified to see her reaction. I did, however, look over at the manager behind the desk and Janice, who both smiled but quickly pressed on with scheduling and pricing.

Suffice it to say that I won’t be training Thalia. Although nothing was said out loud, I think everyone thought it best that she go with another trainer. One who can hold their tongue and not see every goddam moment as an opportunity to grab the microphone.

Another night, Another Embarrassing Moment

Thursday, February 12, 2009

I went to the Woman's Day, Red Dress Awards last night. An award show thingy to celebrate the people behind women's heart health and the Larry King Cardiac Foundation. And yes, Mr. King was there. So was his brother. It also kicked off fashion week. Whatev. A friend of mine produced the show and invited me, thinking that it would be fun. I brought my friend Joelle. And no, I didn't have a red dress to wear, like the majority of the women attending. Why? Because I refuse to go shopping. Refuse to spend money. And prefer to live in my jeans and work out clothes only to curse the day, myself, and my mother (just cuz) every time I have to actually 'get dressed' and don't have a good goddam thing to wear, which ultimately leaves me feeling like a failure, loser and naked.

Okay, so after listening to Robin Thicke, who someone in the biz called, “the soul-fullest white man in music”, Joan Osbourne and Solnage Knowles (Beyonce's little sister try to sing, and let me just say that at 22 years old, that girl should not have bags under eyes the size of Cleveland, Joelle and I hit the after party reception.

I had a couple of glasses of a champagne and rasberry cocktail and scarfed down a couple of cute, and heart healthy, mini turkey burgers. It had been a while since I ate anything substantial and those mini buns weren't going to soak up anything but the extra saliva in my mouth, so the cocktails went straight to my head. That's when it happened.

I saw an actor, that no one would've recognized but me, from an episode of Law& Order SVU, heading for the cupcake table where I happened to be standing. And then, without thinking, but knowing that the next few minutes were going to end up in a story, I went in. The following is the 5 minute or less exchange.

ME

(literally grabbing his arm) Did you do an episode of SVU?

Dani hates playing the dumb blond. Of course she knows he was on the episode. Why else would she now be making an ass of herself?

ACTOR (smiling)

Yes.

ME

You were so good in that episode.

ACTOR

Thank you.

ME

It's my favorite show. And that episode was particularly great. I’ve seen them all, so I know.

Champagne really kicking in, accompanied by the all too embarrassing red cheeks.

ACTOR

Thank you. What's your name?

ME

Dani

ACTOR

I’m Jack. Nice to meet you.

ME

Nice meeting you. Have you done another SVU?

Again, Dani knows for a fact that he hasn’t, and she presses on.

ME (cont’d)

I love how they keep rotating all of the same actors from the Law and Orders. It's like a theater repertory company.

JACK

Yeah, it's like the triumvirate. I've done the...

Dani spaces out because she can't believe that she's acting like a deranged Jonas Brothers fan.

ME

I don't even watch the other ones. Only SVU. I'm a purist.

JACK

It's been two years, so I'm due for another one.

ME

Do you want me to make a phone call? Who should I call?

Jack smiles nervously.

JACK

Yeah, well, it's such a great show. She's great. He's great.

ME

And the writing's so good.

Jack nods.

ME

And I love when they put some funny in.

Jack nods a little less enthusiastically.

ME

(laughing to herself)

Yeah, I have this whole thing with Christopher Meloni.

We have so many connections, a two degree thing... we know a lot of the same people (trailing off).. Oh, my god, I sound like a stalker.

JACK

Well, thank you so much.

ME

Yeah, no problem. Again, you're really good.

BLACK OUT

Oh, boy do I wish I could black that out. I know. You don't have to say it. I should be locked up and the key melted!

It could've been a lot worse. I could've approached the actress, Linda Dano (who I'm sure no one recognized but me) from the soap opera Another World, who was also in attendance, and told her that I met her when I was an intern at the show, in Brooklyn, in 1987. God knows where that conversation would've gone.