Don't Put Hard Boiled Eggs in Your Bag

I went into the city yesterday for my annual mammogram. Controversy aside, since my insurance company pays for it, I do it. It’s that simple. When I went into the dressing room to put on the two sheets of paper towels the medical field calls a gown, I looked in the mirror and saw that my pants zipper was down.

I don’t know how long it had been down. A while, since I couldn’t remember the last time I went to the bathroom. That explained the smiles from strangers on the street. I thought they were reacting to my ravishing beauty. Oh, well. I wouldn’t care so much if this had been the first time, but it wasn’t. It was however, indicative of the day I had.

I’m a performer deep down, always have been, always will be, and an audience is my crack, but when the head Mammographer brought in two other women technicians to ‘observe’ the squishing and shmooshing of my tits on a plate of glass, I got stage fright. Not that the techies could tell. I’m a professional and the head techie even commented on how mobile and pliable I was. I’m a star! Or I have star tata’s. Whichever. 

I left the mammary performance and had a hell of a time deciding what to eat. I left the house early in the morning and only had time for a large cup of coffee, which was now irritating my stomach wall. I know, I can’t find anything to eat in New York, pathetic. I have some food restrictions, too many places to choose from overwhelms me. And then I remembered that I had put two hard boiled eggs in my Lululemon Flight bag.

I usually pack an egg or two on trips; whether it by car, plane, or in this case, a train trip to the big apple. The hard boiled egg had exploded. It got squished (not unlike my bosom) in my bag and shells and yolk were everywhere.

I tried to salvage it, and it turned into a big fat mess. Did I mention that I was juggling my bag, and the egg, as I walked? I believe most people would’ve thrown the egg in the gutter, as soon as it was retrieved from the bag. No sir, not me.

I despise it when people, especially New Yorkers, throw their trash into and onto the city streets. Of course an egg was different, it wasn’t a cigarette butt, but it took me three blocks, with egg yolk on my face (pun intended) and hands until I said, “Fuck it, “ and threw it into the gutter.

The rest of the day went something like this. I paid $7.50 for a lame-ass sandwich that I ate while I walked. I had to wait a half an hour until the box office to the show I was getting tickets to opened, standing around looking like a tourist. I met my mom for lunch because I didn’t see her on Mother’s Day and she, not only forgot a book from her house that I asked to borrow, after reminding her on two separate occasions, but she made me a Mother’s Day card of sorts, which was uber sweet, but it referred to me as The Boyfriend Mom, instead of The Girlfriend Mom.

Have you met me, mother?

When Your Ex Moves On

I’m friends with some of my ex-boyfriends on Facebook (and who isn’t) I read their news feeds, and on rare occasions, I’ll leave a comment. They’re always innocent, and devoid of innuendo or flirtation. Recently I was trolling around, I mean researching, and saw a picture of one of my ex-boyfriend’s spanking new baby boy! Huh? I was in shock. We only broke up eight years ago. How could he just move on like that.

Did I expect him to never love again? To never find anyone as superfantastical as me? Well, yes. Why was I reacting this way? The truth is, seeing that Peter had not only married, but procreated, made me feel melancholy and nostalgic. And if I’m not mistaken, my ego felt as if it had been kicked.

Did what we had together mean nothing to him? I know other men that I’ve bedded, dated, or married (just that one) dated other women after me, some married and became fathers, but Peter was different. He was the first guy that I kissed, and slept with after I got divorced. He fed my physical needs that laid dormant for years, and he restored my faith in good old fashioned lust. There’s a certain power in the ‘transitional relationship’.

The circumstances in which I found myself on Peter’s Facebook page that fateful Tuesday evening, was not the stuff rational thinking is made of. I was cranky about my Pilates clients dropping like flies, I was wondering if I wasn’t better off, culturally and professionally speaking, living in New York City and most important, I probably hadn’t eaten in a few hours, which sends me into a hypoglycemic coma of sorts. In a nutshell, I was feeling vulnerable, emotional and wee wackadoo.

In my experience, our reactions to certain events, like seeing a photo of an ex-boyfriend’s baby, looking all cherub-like, cutesy and perfect, are often attributed to how we feel about ourselves and what’s going on (or not going on) in our life, which is why I started glamorizing the past, because surely it was all sunshine and gummy bears, as opposed to the crap ass day that I had just had.

What if Peter and I didn’t break up? What if I stayed in Los Angeles? What if I got a killer job as a writer, we married, moved to the beach and I birthed a healthy baby? Hmm. I can tell you that this line of thinking is futile, because there is no way of knowing the answers to 'what if' questions, and it certainly won’t make your crap ass day feel any less crappier.

There was another reason for my reaction to the baby photo, that I glared at, imagining he was mine, searching for a resemblance. (Okay, that was creepy) Getting older makes me think about all that I haven’t yet accomplished. So when I surf the internet, looking at friends and lovers from my youth, and the families they’ve created, or the books that they’ve published, or the Oprah appearance that they just made, I’m already in a piss ant mood.

After a few moments fantasizing about the what if’s, and might’ve beens, I realized how unproductive I was being. I snapped out of my reverie, and brought myself back to reality, my reality. I know now, after years of tailspins and mental spiraling, that a bad day is just that, a bad day. And bad days come, and more to the point, they go.

One of the beautiful things that come with age, besides the decrease in estrogen and collagen, is the wisdom to know what pushes our buttons, and when we’re doing something (or reading something) that we know isn’t good for us. 

I don’t want Peter or his life. And I do think that it can be healthy to review the choices that we make, if only to learn from them, not dwell on them. And when we’re in our moods, it’s easy to think that the grass is greener, especially when you’re hungry, but it’s not. It's just a different variety of grass.

It’s a cliche but I wouldn’t be where I am today, if I hadn’t made the decisions that I made eight years ago. I live with a sexy Portuguese man, who overfeeds my physical needs and has taught me the true meaning of paixao (it’s Portuguese, look it up) I write and I help people to feel their true health and wellness potential through Pilates, and for this I am truly blessed.

However, if you choose to ignore my cautionary tale, and continue to troll the internet for old boyfriends, or happen upon one in your research, please keep the following in mind.
- You are the only one that can make you happy
- If you’re frustrated or displeased with your current situation, change it.
- Your ex is your past, not your present.
- Before you start wishing that you had done things differently, (when you’re looking at your ex’s baby’s photo) think back to your relationship and see it as it was, not as you think it was or wanted it to be.
- We’re all getting older, and feeling nostalgic for the past is fine, as long as you can appreciate the glory in your present days as well. Time marches on too damn fast to ‘dwell’ in the past.

I took my own advice and before I left Peter’s Facebook page, I reminded myself why we never would’ve worked. My relationship with Los Angeles had ended, so I had to fly away. I never wanted to get married (that one time was a mistake) and I never wanted kids. And lest I forget, Peter cheated on me, so I had to break up with the doucher. He made me cry on New Year's Day, and for that I hope he gets an incurable case of crabs.

I've Been Lemon'd

Question: When is too much Lululemon too much?
Answer: When you do the following.

The other day I walked out of the house dressed head to toe in Lululemon. I was wearing my purple headband, a yellow hair tie, purple and white ankle socks, white thong, black and turquoise Groove Pant, black Studio Pant II over them (it was cold out) black Get Focused Tank, black Define Jacket, grey winter coat (can’t find the name of it), and a grey Fast In Flight gym bag. I keep my lipstick and Chapstick in their cute red (with lettering) receipt purse (also used for gift cards). This lives in my Fast In Flight gym bag. I have a Lululemon sticker on my appointment book.

On a daily basis, I’m a walking Lululemon billboard. Shouldn’t I get free shit out of this? C’mon Lulu, give it up. A while back I even contemplated buying their stock. But then I’d have to figure out how I was going to pay my rent. 

Yes, I love their stuff and yes, I rationalize the price by telling myself that, “I’m a Pilates instructor and it’s my job. I need a uniform. If I worked on Wall Street, I’d have to buy skirts that covered my knees and heels higher than my flip flops, so...

However, I think I’ve gone too far. Even I thought I looked ridiculous.


Have you been Lemon’d? Show me!

Thunderbolt MY ASS

The whole day went down the crapper at an alarming rate, and it's still swirling.

As soon as I got up this morning, at 7am, and checked my brand new ipod4 (black not white) my Pilates clients started canceling, rescheduling, and putting their practice on hold because they were injured. HELLO, you're not supposed to be getting injured if you're doing Pilates.

The first text came in and for the next  two and half hours, I was emailing, texting and erasing, people, places and times, from my appointment book. Yes, I have an appointment book that I can actually feel. And I love using a pencil and eraser. Sue me.

I wanted to crawl into a corner and chew on my foot because I was over it all! The last minute canceling and rescheduling goes against my Virgo nature. I like order, efficiency, and promptness. If one change is made, it's like a fucking house of cards. It throws me off balance. My productive and lucrative Thursday, turned out to be unproductive, unprofitable and depressing. Again, not a good time to stop the lunacy suppressants. 

Since we're on the subject of shitless days, lounging around in poopy pants, let me regale you with the shitless night I had on Tuesday. I'm no shrink, but this might have had something to do with my current irritable brain syndrome.

I went to Verizon on Saturday with my boyfriend to buy a new phone. I was ready to upgrade and put an end to my friends telling me that I was living like it was 1995. (From a cellular phone perspective.) I decided to bite the bullet and get the iphone.

However, when I got to Verizon, they had other plans for me. The salesman, and I use the term loosely (he was more like a sales-child) because he looked like he was sixteen years old. When I told him I wanted the iphone, he looked at me like he had just sucked on a lemon, "Why?"

Why? What do you mean why? Because my friend Muffy has one, as well as a kabillion other people. What the f?

He proceeded to tell me that the Android Thunderbolt was a better phone, had cooler features and would give me more for my money. They were compelling arguments but I wasn't completely sold. He went on to tell me that downloading and watching movies on the Thunderbolt blew the iphone away.

I don't watch movies on my phone. I'm old school. I still like to watch movies on a friggin' movie screen (and large televisions) NOT on my tiny phone. He mentioned other features that went over my head, but within five minutes he was setting up my new Thunderbolt. "Excuse me, Sucker, you're table is ready."

In the past, I had never entertained purchasing a non Apple product when it came to electronics and technology. I went Mac in 2001 and never looked back. It was love at first sight. However, I also didn't want to be one of those Mac geeks that never venture outside of their Apple boxes (film & television production reference) believing that Mac rules the universe, and are willing to pay to live in its kingdom. I was trying to be open minded.

I have to say that my judgment might have been a bit clouded, as my boyfriend and I had spent the entire day looking at toilets, vanities and microwaves for the new house. We didn't get to Verizon until six in the evening and I was already feeling loopy.

In the middle of the transaction, my sales-child decided that he had to clock out (really, in the middle of a transaction) thus pawning me off on a salesman with a horrible sinus infection. As sinus man went through the paperwork and set up my phone, I became obsessed with his sinus infected paws groping my new phone. I nonchalantly asked what I should use to clean my phone. His red and puffy eyes looked at me like I'd just asked him how to grow an orchid in the desert. This Verizon store wasn't like other Verizon stores, and it was creeping me out.

We were nearing the finish line (two hours later) when another salesman, early twenty-something, weighing in at 300 pounds, sat down at his desk with a mother and son team buying a phone. While the mother rattled off questions about calling plans, the salesman took out his phone from his pocket, texted, and returned the phone to his pocket. It was surreal. He had no compunction about ignoring this woman to attend to his own business.

And then I thought I was going to throw up. I looked over at the salesman, and he was picking his nose with reckless abandon, as he answered his customer's questions. Apparently, he needed his finger up his nose in order to focus.

Within ten minutes, I regretted buying the Thunderbolt, being at this Verizon location, and thinking that the guest room bathroom toilet should be a two piece unit. These people were grossing me out. My gut told me to abort the purchase and walk out. Funny thing about your gut; when we don't listen when we probably should, there's a whole lot more sinus infected hands and nose picking that we have to endure until it forces us to trust what we already know.

Once home, I spent three days trying to bond with the phone. It felt wrong and weird and I wanted out. I packed up the Thunderbolt, car charger and case (my recycling came in handy, for nothing is thrown out) and got in the car. I contemplated going to a different Verizon location but I didn't want to take a chance that a different location might not let me make the return.

When I walked in, the 300 pound nose picker was helping another customer, thank god. A mid-twenties, short, gum smacking girl, walked over to me. "Welcome to Verizon. How can I help you today?" First of all, you can stop snapping, cracking and smacking that gum like your life depended on it. And then you can return these items for me.

She asked why I wanted to return them, and I told her that I was more comfortable with the iphone. When I told her that I'd had the phone for three days, laughed in a condescending manner and said that I hadn't given it enough time. You know what Snooki, I just want the ipod. Let's not take this personally and start crediting my account.

Oops, I forgot my receipt. That's right, I had to drive home (20 minutes speeding) and back (another 20 minutes speeding). On the drive back, again I contemplated going to another Verizon, but since cud chewing Snooki assured me of a full return, I didn't want to risk it. Oh, dear god, all this for a fucking phone.

When I returned to Verizon, cud chewing Snooki was helping another customer. You guessed it, 300 pound nose picker was all mine. Again I was chastised for not giving the Thunderbolt a chance. He also felt the need to tell me that after a short time, I'd be bored with the iphone. Hey doucher, I'm not looking for my phone to put on a show for me. I want to make a phone call!

I'm going to take advice from an unapologetic public nose picker, who finds it completely appropriate to text while assisting me with my purchase? Not so much Proboscis Digger. 

He asked me if I wanted a front screen protector. I didn't want to buy anything from him or the store. I needed the Apple Store, and I needed it bad. Please forgive me, for I have strayed.

I said, no thank you, to which he replied, "Okay, so you want scratches?" You're resorting to sarcasm now? He was punishing me for getting the iphone? Is this happening? Give me my goddamn phone and let me get out of here.

And then he coughed into his hands. My spanking new, shiny, pristine, and germ free iphone4, sat inches away from his grimy mitts and again, I felt ill. I quickly unpacked the case that I had to buy and wrapped my baby up in rubber, and ran out the door. It's okay, Cud Chewing Snooki and Proboscis Digger can't hurt you now.

Mac and Apple do run the universe and I’m more than happy to pay out my ass to be an inhabitant, especially if it means staying clear of salespeople like the ones at Verizon, store number 145. I hope you're reading this Ivan Seidenberg, Verizon Chairman.

I feel a shit load better and I’m taking my poopy pants off now. Thanks for listening, er, reading.

How Do You Procrastinate?

We crave instant gratification. We're lazy. We have a fear of failure. There's no deadline. The high priority action that you have to complete pushes you out of your comfort zone.

Enter procrastination. We all do it. And some of us are better at it than most. Like moi!

I have my tried and true go to's, like emptying the dishwasher at a snails pace, or putting in a load of laundry, even though it's a shirt and bra. I'll find a Pilates studio for a friend out of state, because clearly they don't have time to Google, like I do. I've done the itunes, Youtube, Facebook and Twitter shuffle. Child's play.

There's the cliched sock, and or undergarment drawer, that needed organizing, because if I didn't get to it that very minute, all hell would break loose, and I wouldn't be able to focus on my high priority action.

I've had to call friends that I really didn't want to speak to because I was procrastinating. I've sifted through scraps of paper laying around my office for hours (rereading each and every one of them of course) and filed the TO BE FILED file, that had been in need of some TLC for months.

I've tweeted Cher, and bought a menagerie of 'things' online, only to change my mind when it came time to checking out because I was too lazy to fetch my credit card. 

But the other day, I took two empty 2lb Pro Energy Whey Protein Powder (Vanilla) canisters filled with change (pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters) out of the hall closet. I found several coin wrappers and I stood in front of the dining room table, hunched over (bad Pilates instructor, very bad) and began to WRAP!

Fact. Coinstar, found in some grocery stores, may charge up to 8% to count your change that you dump into their bin. No way. That's my money. Well, mine and my boyfriend's. Besides, I'm procrastinating. I've got time. It's a win-win situation. Right?

However, around the fifty dollar mark, my neck started aching from bending over the mounds of metal. I also realized, with the help of my boyfriend's judging glances, that perhaps I had procrastinated enough for one day.

There's often a defining moment in the procrastinators dance, when he or she gets a wee disgusted with themselves. So much so that getting back to work seems like the only option. I had the moment and I had fifty dollars. Okay, twenty-five dollars, although I think I should get more since I'm the one who took time away from my high priority work to wrap these dirty coins. Right?

Damn Right, I Believe in Botox

The problem with getting Botox only on your forehead and between your eyebrows and the bridge of the nose, is that it makes every other part of your face look like crap. It accentuates any elasticity challenged areas, because of the collagen deficiency, and that bitch of all bitches, gravity.

However, my forehead looks AMAZING. I had my dermatologist (upper east side doc all the way baby) hit me with a few extra shots on the forehead. I've had lines there since I was twelve. No joke. I'm pretty sure it's from all of the faces that I used to (and still) make.

I remember being in a restaurant a while back with some friends in L.A. and the waitress came over to our table to take our order. When we were done, she looked at me and said, "You made like so many faces in the short time it took me to write down your order." I'm not sure that was a compliment but like I'm want to do, I took it as such. And she probably wasn't used to seeing too many people in L.A. able to make faces.

My friend's husband is very anti plastic surgery; injections, fillers, what have you. In the past she's kept any 'work' that she's done from him because he doesn't understand why she'd want to alter herself. He thinks she's beautiful the way she is, and instead, sees her wanting to make minor cosmetic enhancements, as deep seeded emotional issues, and an inability to accept herself for who she is.

My boyfriend, on the other hand, is pro whatever I want to do to look and feel my best. And lucky for him, Rhinoplasty, and Botox are on my list. I'm not sure who's perspective I like better. On the one hand, I don't make any correlation between changing something that I don't like, with self esteem, self worth, or any other self-ness. Nothing profound here. For me, it's simply not going down without a fight.

On the other hand, I suppose there's a part of me that wishes my boyfriend would say, "You're crazy insane for partaking (he'd never say partaking) in plastic surgery. You're stunning just the way you are." But I'm too much of a realist and, although I believe he thinks that I am stunning, I also know that Botox just makes me stunninger!

UTI: Unexpected, Tortuous, Inconvenient

I awoke Thursday morning to a UTI (urinary tract infection). I knew something was amiss because the only time I awake at six in the morning, is either for work or catching an early flight to Papau New Guinea. I've had those pesky UTI's before, so I know one when I feel one.

I started the cranberry juice consumption immediately. I had a Pilates client at 9am and thought that I felt well enough to go in, but when I got in the car, I had serious reservations. I decided to push through the pain anyway. Why? Because I'm the girl who walked in new and uncomfortable cowboy boots (with fringe) when I was 16 years old, just so I wouldn't look like a complainer in front of my hot new boyfriend. That particular move brought with it, bloody boots and bloody ankles. Clearly suffering makes me feel alive!

In the middle of my Pilates session, I thought my bladder would explode. No Lululemon Astro Pant was going to be able sop up if I had an accident. (For joke reference please go to http://talkingismybusiness.blogspot.com/2010/09/heres-to-you-lululemon.html) I rushed through the last exercise, "Yeah, keep reaching for your toes. That's it. Okay, terrific. Nice job. See you next week." I sprinted to the loo.

When I got home, I desperately tried to locate a doctor, clinic, anyone who would let me pee in a cup, because I didn't have a primary doctor in my new town and it's been over a year since I moved here. Maybe a UTI was just the motivation I needed.

Anyway, the excuses that these offices gave were immense. "The doctor just left." "We can't take new patients." "We don't take your insurance." "Can it wait until Monday?" PLEASE! I just want to urinate in a small plastic cup with my name on it, get a prescription and be on my way.

After an hour and a half of cold calling and googling, I found a family medical center that took walk-ins and my insurance. I was so frustrated and annoyed by the time I got in, that when the nurse asked me to get on the scale to weigh me, I thought I was going to throw a punch. "Why do you need to weigh me?" She said it was necessary if they were going to give me medication. Fine. I kept my clothes on, including my shoes and jacket, which no sane woman would ever do, and I let her weigh me. Wow! That's a big number.

I grabbed my personalized receptacle and went to the little girl's room. Moments later, the doctor, who looked like she had just gotten out of the Brownies, said, "It's a UTI," Shocking.

I asked her about having sex. (No, not with her) and she said she didn't think I should introduce any more bacteria to the area. I smiled, "Yeah, he's done enough of that, right." She... did not smile.

Once again, my uncontrollable need, desire (call it what you will) to turn any and all events into a performance, joke or tag line, simply boggles and confuses. Bud-um-bum.

Children and Technology: OMG!

My boyfriend's son spent Oscar Sunday with us.

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

And curtain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Girlfriend Mom

My boyfriendʼs 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, itʼs like Skype. For those not in that loop either, itʼs video chatting. I didnʼt 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 pull my ponytails so tight I got headaches and an unnecessary face-lift. Not so unnecessary now, Iʼll tell ya.

Iʼm calling myself, The Girlfriend Mom, because my boyfriend and I live together but weʼre not married (hence boyfriend) so stepmom doesnʼt apply. However, I do step mommy things, I suppose, like his sonʼs laundry. Sidebar: I have to say that sometimes, when Iʼm folding his tiny pair of jeans, it feels weird, dare I say ʻunnaturalʼ. Iʼm convinced that it has to do with what I associate being a ʻmomʼ 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, itʼs like living with the deaf (or my grandparents) How can you NOT hear that?! Well, this just smells of ʻmomʼ (girlfriend or step) doesnʼt it. I feel myself getting uglier by the minute.

So Iʼm not just a girlfriend, whoʼs boyfriend happens to have kids. There are expectations of me, some being easy and ʻnaturalʼ to pull off, like making up his bed, pouring him ice tea when heʼs parched, teaching him how to apply Orajel to a sore, or eating at Chiliʼs for a less than nutritious meal. Other times the expectations feel as ʻunnaturalʼ to me, as doing fractions, or wearing make-up to the grocery store. (Wearing make-up anywhere really) and like folding his tiny fruit of the loom tidy whiteyʼs.

I say ʻmomʼ things, but I canʼt be sure of my modus operandi. Sometimes itʼs because I think Iʼm supposed to say them, but how the hell do I know what to say. Other times, I think itʼs imbedded in my DNA. My boyfriendʼs 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 donʼt. 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. Iʼve watched enough Lifetime Movies to know what can happen if youʼre 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 Iʼm not sure if he truly can) what itʼs like to go from not wanting children and not sure that I even like children, to bringing a 12 and 17 year old into my life. Theyʼre his flesh and blood. He was there at the beginning. Heʼs watched them grow and journeyed with them. Iʼd imagine with each passing year, a parent adjusts to the plethora of changes, and then eventually, if youʼre lucky, you canʼt 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 (loved her immediately) and she had been with her girlfriend since WWII. I think they invented Lesbianism. They traveled the world, had several homes, and no children. Their life was exotic to a kid from Yonkers and it had a profound affect 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.

Iʼm not sure I can directly attribute my ambivalence towards kids to my Great Lesbian Aunt (that sounds like a superhero) Iʼm sure that my own parents made a contribution, unbeknownst to them Iʼm 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 thatʼs what she tells me, but she wasnʼt your typical mother. 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 laundry?)

I can spend another lifetime researching and analyzing why I feel the way I do, or how can I feel the way I do, but I donʼt have that kind of time, and Iʼm 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 itʼs unwise to give them too much power.

Instead, Iʼve decided to forge a relationship with my boyfriendʼs kids, based on who I am now, and who they are, as individuals, with all of our unique personalities. Weʼre not going to be defined by shouldʼs, supposed toʼs or societal constraints. And I have to say, so far, so good.

“Can you PLEASE turn that television down?!”

Teaching... Performing... It’s all The Same

I always wanted to be a dancer, and for a while I fancied myself one. When I was in high school, I’d take the train into the Big Apple for dance class. Steps on Broadway was the the place to be. Jane Krakowski (30 Rock, Ally McBeal) was in a couple of my classes. She stuck with dance. I did not. Nuff said.

I walked the streets (not those streets) with my feet turned out, which really hurts, (especially when you’re not actually a dancer) in tattered leg warmers, daydreaming of jazz hands and Bob Fosse. So when I recently got the opportunity to teach Pilates to ‘actual’ ballet dancers, at a local dance academy, I leapt at the chance.

Full disclosure. I have never formally taught kids anything, let alone Pilates. I’ve changed poopy diapers, played endless games of Candy Land with my nephews, but I had no idea what to expect and no idea how to act. I’m a teacher, yes, but what does that mean in this context? I’m used to being in the company of adults; dialoguing, joking, letting the curse words fly freely from my lips. The only thing I knew for sure was not to drop the f’ bomb... if I could help it.

I laughed at the immediacy in which I was hired. No body asked me if I had any experience with this particular population. And I didn’t offer. I was too excited about pretending to be a dancer again.

My first class was before the holidays. I scheduled a short press conference with myself beforehand to calm my nerves, remind myself that I was the adult (I forget sometimes) and that I had mad skills and lots of head knowledge. But most importantly, “Don’t talk too much and don’t confuse the class with a stand up act.” Being in front of a captivated audience, no matter how small (physically or in quantity) can turn into a freak show, me being the freak. I start ad libbing like I’m opening for Jackie Mason in the Borscht Belt. I realize that this reference will go over some heads. No matter, just keep reading.

There were six 10 year old girls, each one, the size of my thigh. I put my professional hat on and plunged into the repertoire. I brought a cheat sheet with me and we were flowing from one movement to the next, like the graceful giseles that we were. I was in control, and things were running smoothly, that is until the Lilliputians started talking to each other, and to me. “I like your toe-sox.” “What should we call you?” “Carey is always injured.” “Can we do rocking swan?” Why were they talking? There’s no crying in baseball, and there’s no talking in Pilates! I was being heckled, and it flustered me.

I didn’t know what they should call me. What’s wrong with my name? Then I remembered my dance teacher, Miss Pike, when I was seven years old. “You can call me Miss Dani.” It is a sign of respect after all. I should have my adult clients call me Miss Dani as well. With all of the gas that’s passed and un-manicured toes that I have to touch, I’m not so sure that they do respect me.

I pulled it together as my last class of the night walked in. These girls were 13 and 14 years old and all ‘tude (attitude). Crap. About halfway through the routine, I realized that they hadn’t cracked a smile, made a comment about my socks or showed any signs of life. As we say in the biz (showbiz that is) They were phoning it in! I could’ve sworn they were making faces behind my back, and it felt a little too familiar.

Flashback: The summer before eighth grade. I returned from camp only to find that I’d been ousted from the popular click, by its fierce leader, Betsy Carlson. Apparently, she frowned upon my leaving our kingdom (the swim club) for an entire summer. She never bothered to tell me that I wasn’t her best friend anymore, so when I ran up to her to tell her how much I missed her, she and her new recruit snapped on their Speedo swim caps and turned on their heels. I can still hear them giggling as they glanced over their shoulders at me. But I digress.

I couldn’t hold her in any longer. My inner comedian was rising up to the surface. These dancers weren’t giving me shit. Their taut, age spotted free faces were serious and focused, and I took it personally. They didn’t like me, nor the class, and they somehow figured out that I wasn’t an actual dancer! That I was never a dancer! I was a fraud! I went into overdrive, trying to be funny, and elicit some kind of reaction. Oh, dear, can someone please get me off the stage.

As embarrassing as it was, I wish that I could remember some of my banter. If it should happen again, and I’m pretty confident that it will, I’m going to write it all down so I can share it with you.

I was convinced that I could fix my paranoid (read: neurotic) delusions, and break them. If I didn’t, then I would’ve failed. Failed? At what, teaching them Pilates, or making them laugh? I’m pretty sure my job wasn’t to crack wise with a bunch of duck walking Sugar Plums. However, you’d never know it from the way I was acting. I spoke faster. I made faces. C’mon girls, give me a break. Is anyone’s last name Carlson?

The class ended (finally) and when I got into my car, I assessed the damage. Even after my early self think talking, I allowed myself to be intimidated by a bunch of scrawny thirteen year olds in smelly leotards and tight, headache inducing, hair buns. Clearly I have some work to do in dealing with children.

More About Dani:
Dani is a Virgo, writer, Pilates Instructor, Kindle lover, sleep enthusiast, world traveler and ‘girlfriend mother’ to her boyfriend’s two kids. Whatever the hell that means.

And Here's To You Lululemon

I have to thank Lululemon for their Wunder Groove Crop pants, with inner stash pocket, flat seamed stitching (to prevent chafing) and extra padding in the crotch area, because sitting at Starbucks's, I sneezed and peed my pants.

I know I shouldn't be embarrassed, after all Whoopi Goldberg brought LBL (light bladder leakage) into the mainstream. Stream. Get it. http://nymag.com/daily/entertainment/2010/03/see_whoopi_goldbergs_bladder_l.html But let's face it, it's not cool to lose control of your bodily functions in public.

I was sitting on a wood chair, working on my laptop, because, what else is there to do at Starbuck's? The coffee tastes burnt and smells burnt, so I’m not there for the Joe. But they do have free WiFi and it's a great place to people watch.

So, I sneezed and it felt like I fully made my pants, as if I was sitting on the toilet. It did not feel like a trickle or 'light leakage'. I was convinced that I was sitting in a pool of my own urine. Charming AND sexy.

This was bothersome and frustrating for a couple of reasons. For one thing, I MADE IN MY PANTS IN PUBLIC! The last time I made in my pants I was at a roller rink (old school, four wheels) in 7th grade, skating to Donna Summer's, "Last Dance", when my friend Debby said something so funny, that I, well, peed in my my pants. I was able to Kegel just in time to prevent the 'stream' from dribbling down my leg. Luckily I had a sweatshirt with me and tied it around my waist.

I didn't have an extra sweatshirt with me at Starbuck’s. I could have made a beeline to the bathroom, because there were only a few stragglers milling around but there was a man sitting right behind me, who I was sure could see my leakage on the chair and in my pants.

I busied myself for awhile and then had to get to the bathroom. I grabbed my bag and awkwardly held it behind me, in a feeble attempt to cover my ass. My other hand covered my front.

When I got into the bathroom and spot checked, I was out of my head with amazement. There was no sign of leakage outside of my wonderful Wunder Groove Crop pants. Oh, I did pee, don't get me wrong, but that extra cushioning in the crotch acted much like, oh, I don't know, a very sassy, and comfortable diaper!

Besides being embarrassed, I was upset because I'm a friggin' Pilates instructor! My pelvic floor muscles should be in tip top shape. On my last gynecological visit, my doctor said, ‘Wow’ upon examination. I'll spare you as to how he came to this conclusion.

I can't rely solely on Lululemon to catch my pee. I've got to get back to the Pilates studio and squeeze, for when I sneeze.