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.

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.

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.

Not Everyone is a Billionaire!

I happened to be home today and had the opportunity to watch Oprah. She interviewed the Harry Potter author herself,  J.K. Rowling. It wasn't like I was chomping at the bit to catch this particular episode, but hey, I was home, (doing what, I don't remember) I've seen one or two of the movies but I haven't read any of the books. But I wanted to hear what she had to say. She's a writer. I'm a writer. I'm sure we have something in common.

At one point during the interview, Oprah brings up J.K.'s (whose name is Joe) extreme wealth. I believe she used the fact that J.K is the first billionaire writer, as her jumping off point. Oprah wanted to know how money had changed J.K's life. Frankly, it came off as an excuse so Oprah could comment on her own wealth. J.K. said, "I wear better clothes." She went on to say that there's a certain amount of freedom that comes with wealth. "If I see two things that I want, well, I realize that I don't have to choose. I can have both." Oprah giggled like a giddy school girl.

I started to throw up a bit in my mouth! Have these two billionaires read the papers lately? I could not believe what I was hearing. They were talking to each other as if they were having sleep over in one of their mansions and were regaling each other with the trials and tribulations of being filthy dirty rich, without a thought to the millions of viewers watching, who DO NOT live in mansions.

As J.K. was having her 'aha' moment about not having to choose, Oprah was on the edge of her seat, anxious to weigh in with a, "I know! I can have both!" It was positively repugnant.

J.K. went on, "Money doesn't solve anything. I still worry that it might go away. Although I'd have to be pretty foolish, and I've never been foolish with money before, so, I guess I'm okay." She looks to Oprah in a, you know what I'm talking about sister girl. But Oprah didn't know what she was talking about because she then adds, "No, I really don't feel that way anymore." Thus implying that she's pretty damn sure that she'd always be rich.

Really? In this environment you're talking about how hard, weird, uncomfortable and comfortable it is being a billionaire? Oprah wouldn't stop. She wouldn't let go of the money topic. Every time they returned from a commercial, Oprah somehow worked money back into the conversation. I wanted to climb through my TV and bang their heads together!

I've never had a problem with Oprah, except when The Secret came out and she started shouting S E C R E T (holding on the word for like a whole minute before she got to the T) Who the hell do they think is watching Oprah? It was the most insensitive 10 minutes of television that I had witnessed in a long time. And I watch a lot of television.

Clearly I was more irritated by this than I thought because I took it into my Mat Pilates class. We had just finished doing push ups and the class was in child's pose. I told them about the Oprah interview in a wild rant, complete with facial expressions, physicality and an array of vocal inflections. In essence, a stand-up comedy routine. This happens on occasion. I forget where I am. Is it a Pilates studio or a stage? See post A Tall Drink of Water or Pass the Beano, for further evidence.

I'm nearing the end of my story when I say something to the effect of "Come on, who do you think you're talking to? Fuck you." Of course this was directed at Oprah and J.K., and if that wasn't inappropriate enough, I brought the point home by giving Oprah the finger. Actually two fingers. As soon as my digits left my hands, I regretted it. But I was committed and it was too late. I ended it there but my class will, I fear, now have an image of me, red faced, irate, and shooting Oprah the bird.