Everyone Keep Your Pants On. Please.

A follow up to my Guess Who's Coming To Dinner post.

I went out to dinner with my boyfriend's daughter a few nights ago. He was in the city working, and I hadn't left the house all day. That's not entirely true. I walked to the beach (a block away- don't hate me- it's still Jersey-ooh, Jersey just took a hit) excited at the prospect of clearing my head and pumping some much needed blood to my ass. I had been sitting at my desk for hours!

However, I misjudged the weather, and I was cold. My long and luxurious walk turned into a stroll around the block, and bringing the garbage pail in from the curb.

We went to a terrific Vegan restaurant in the neighborhood and had an enlightening (for me anyway) conversation. As a G.M. (Girlfriend Mom) Wait, I'm totally patenting, copyrighting, licensing, branding, or some such shit, this G.M. thing. Don't even think about hijacking it. I know people who will hurt you.

About a week ago, I almost hurled myself off our third floor deck. From what I could gather, (and I wasn't actually in the room, so I can't swear to it) my boyfriend stepped into the shower while his daughter sifted through the movie shelf in our bedroom. We don't have a door separating the bedroom from the bathroom, don't ask.

I flipped out. I mean biting my fingers, on the verge of tears from total helplessness, flipped out. I clenched my fists so as to hold in my anger (?). I looked up to the sky (well, ceiling) as if to say, "Did you see that? What the f?" I walked in circles for a few moments, hoping to shake the image from my brain. I couldn't. It would forever live on in my memory bank.

I tried to calm down and understand why no one else was flipping out. Or walking out of the room, so her father could hop in the shower. Or why her father didn't ask his daughter to leave so he could take a shower. Has everyone gone mad? Do I have to play hall monitor for the rest of my life?!

This brings me to the topic of two types of homes. Naked and clothed. I grew up in a half-naked home. Which goes hand in hand with the double-edged sword, and mixed messages that I also grew up with. My parents weren't as modest as I would've liked them to have been. I only had to see my dad in his red, nut-hugger bikini's, once, to know that I did not want to EVER see that again.

Perhaps I overreacted but I was caught off guard. I was miles from my comfort zone. I let my reactivity subside and did some think talking about why I got so bent out of shape (nut-huggers). I wasn't able to entertain the idea that maybe this was acceptable behavior in my boyfriend's pre-divorce family. I was only thinking about how uncomfortable I felt.

I didn't just fall off the banana boat. I'm well aware of the cultural (he's Portuguese) component. And I'm also aware of society's influence. I probably shouldn't judge, and to each his own and whose to say what's right or wrong. I mean what about those women who breastfeed their kids until they go off to college! I like to think that I'm an open minded, offspring of hippies, free to be you and me, kinda of G.M. But as it turns out, I'm NOT. Bring on the boundaries, clear, delineated lines, modesty and clothes!
 
The topic of inappropriateness and boundaries came up organically at dinner with my boyfriend's daughter. I was elated. She told me that she grew up in a naked household, and I told her that in some ways, so did I (nut-huggers). But I also tried to explain that it's a different dynamic with the four of us now, because the reality is, I'm not her mother and it does affect how we all behave.

I couldn't articulate the feelings as well as I wanted to, but she was in total agreement. Now that she opened Pandora's box, I continued.

I told her that I needed her and her brother to respect those things that made me uncomfortable. Again, she smiled and nodded in agreement. I felt a thousand pounds lighter. And when I started to back pedal on the word inappropriate, because I didn't want to dramatize, traumatize or cause any shame or embarrassment, without missing a beat she said, "Oh, no, it's inappropriate."

I expressed myself without defending myself. Then my boyfriend's daughter told me that she and the rest of the clan think it's funny when they hint at something they know I think is inappropriate, because they enjoy seeing my feathers ruffled. Yay.

She knows what it is to respect one's feelings, and I couldn't be happier. I took the bull by the horns and was surprisingly comfortable standing up for myself. It wasn't okay for the G.M. and she does have a say in the matter. I matter! Whoopee!

Okay, relax, G.M., relax.

Bongs & Sensimilla & One-Hitters, Oh, My!

In my continued struggle with boundaries and appropriate parenting, I found myself at dinner last night with my boyfriend, his daughter and her boyfriend, talking about bongs, sensimilla and one hitters, oh my.

We began our family discussion with a summary of the television show, Breaking Bad, a show which I haven’t seen, but of which I learned was about a high school chemistry teacher, diagnosed with lung cancer, who turns to producing and selling methamphetamine so his family is taken care of when he dies. How noble.

This wasn’t the first time meth came up in a family discussion. I know, how lucky can I get. My boyfriend’s thirteen year old son plays an X-Box game called, Saints Row, that allows him to own shares in a crystal meth lab. We are so proud. What the F’ is going on out there? Whatever happened to Pac-Man, Centipede or the Super Mario Brothers?

I know this is naive of me and the times they have a changed but teaching kids how to invest in a meth lab?! Why not a brothel? A BDSM Dungeon? Crack House? Abortion clinic? Too far? The point is, what the F? But let’s return to last night’s dinner.

After my boyfriend and I were schooled on the profitability of a meth lab, we got on the topic of smoking pot, or as my parents liked to call it, grass. Adorable. My boyfriend’s daughter asked her father if he had ever smoked pot. I sat frozen in anticipation. Was he going to tell her the truth? And if he did, how much was he going to divulge? Oh, he went for it all right.

He told them how he used to smoke a lot before he got married, and how pot back then was so much better than it is today, and how he had a bad trip the last time he smoked, a few years ago. I threw up my hands. After all, if he didn’t have a problem with the subject matter, then why should I?

I regaled the kids with memories of the last time my boyfriend and I got stoned. “We were playing scrabble and then the ‘grass’ kicked in, and we had to stop. (Picture me gesticulating widely and smiling like a mental patient) So then we started eating! Ha! We couldn’t stop laughing. I think we got the pot from my brother’s friend. Oh, we laughed.” I’m not sure how I had the good sense to leave out the part where we hopped into bed and sucked face (and other body parts) until we passed out, but I did. See, boundaries.

Holy shit nuggets, I sounded like a complete ass. I was that 40-year old frat guy who’s still bragging about the time he got so wasted that he fell asleep on a neighbor’s driveway and it poured but he was so wasted that he didn’t even wake up.

I wanted to hurl myself into the french doors. Why were we talking about this with the kids? It wasn’t right. It felt weird. But in some perverse and messed up way, I wanted to share. Maybe it was the moment. Maybe it was the attention. Maybe I wanted to show them that dad and I were way cooler than her mom and her boyfriend. Real mature Girlfriend Mom.

Or maybe I still don’t know what I'm doing.

Why Did You Tell Dad That I Got My Period?

My Lover and I were talking the other day about his twelve year old son having his first girlfriend. I’m not sure that I can remember what girlfriend and boyfriend meant in seventh grade. I do know that I went to my first co-ed party, played spin the bottle, and prayed that it would get too late in the evening to play seven minutes in the closet. I was quite shy in the romance department back then.

In any case, I asked my Lover if he was going to have a father-son talk, including favorites like, “It’s perfectly normal to masturbate, but class it up a bit and don’t use a friggin’ sock.” My Lover said that it wasn't necessary. Huh? Not being a full time parent, I was confused.

My parents had talks with me. Or were those my TV parents? Parents are supposed to talk to their kids about sex and, more often that not, how to avoid it, right? Don't they say things like, "I'm here for you, if you ever want or need to talk." Mine did.

Apparently, my Lover (I want to see how long it takes before you get nauseated by the word) didn't think so. He’s the youngest of five, from a working class family in Portugal. There weren’t a lot of sit-downs with his parents, unlike my hippy dippy- consciousness raising- pot smoking- macrame plant holder making- denim cap wearing- Three Dog Night listening- free to be you and me- parents. He never talked about sex, bodily functions or anything too personal, with his parents, unlike my parents. I wish I'd been from Portugal.

Most of the time I didn’t want to tell my parents anything, but in some perverse and distorted way, I felt compelled to talk because they said that I could, and I didn't want to hurt their feelings. I wanted it to be like the families on TV. I wanted to be on the receiving end of that glorious undivided parental attention. I soon learned that it was best to get that attention from an anonymous audience, while singing and dancing on stage.

Flashback to 1980.

I was in eighth grade and babysitting at a neighbor’s house. I hated babysitting for that family. There was never anything good to eat, the kids were dorks (and that’s coming from a dork) and the husband creeped the crap out of me. I remember him driving me home one night, and when he pulled into my driveway, he said, "Okay, pussy, thank you for your help." Ew on every f’in level. I convinced myself that he didn’t mean it in a vaginal way, and that it was a throw back to his generation when pussy actually meant pussycat.

Even at 13, it sounded gross and inappropriate. If it happened today, and I’m not sure why I’d be babysitting and getting rides home, since I have a car, I’d report him to the authorities and see if his name was on any public sex offender's lists.

I got my menses (gotta love the word) for the first time that night. My mother was beside herself. She didn’t know what to do first. Um, how about finding me something so I don’t soil my Carter’s. It would be a few more years until I discovered thongs!

And what she came up with- wait for it - wait for it - was a goddam belt, which was like suspenders for a sanitary napkin. What the f? What is this 1870? It’s 19 fargin 80! My mom told me that I was too young for tampons, and wanted to ask the doctor first just to make sure that it was okay to shove something up inside of me. That was thoughtful of her.

I begged and pleaded with my mom not to tell my dad. She promised and I went into my bedroom. Not ten minutes later, there was a knock on my door. It was my dad. He sat down on the edge of my bed, and I swear, I think he had tears in his eyes.

"Congratulations. I'm so proud of you. You’re a young woman." Okay, first of all, thanks mom, I hate you, and I’m never ever going to tell you anything ever again, ever, as long as I live! 

And secondly, really, dad, congratulations? For what? I had no control over this. It wasn’t like I studied hard for a test and got an A! I didn’t see this happening as an accomplishment or something to tick off of my To Do list. And I wished that he didn’t say woman, because at that age, certain words, like woman, sounded icky to me and made me uncomfortable. Don’t try to figure that one out. Suffice to say, the whole ordeal was embarrassing.

A few years later, even after all of the menses drama, I trotted my ass back to the mommy well, after losing my virginity, because, “You can tell me anything,” and I'm an idiot and I wanted to share. Again.

My mom wigged out. It wasn’t in a, ‘I'm so disappointed in you. How could you have done such a thing? I'm not taking care of it, if you get pregnant’ sort of way, but rather in a, 'I’m not ready for this’ sort of way.

CUT TO: The Present

This is a cautionary tale, kids. Think twice before you believe your parent's supposed openness. My belief is that parents really don't want you to tell them shit because it only re-enforces how ill equipped, ill-prepared, and utterly clueless they are. There's no need to shove their faces in it. Go tell your grandparents instead.

Leaving the Girlfriend Kids for Dubai, UAE

I left America almost a week ago, and am currently in Dubai, in the United Arab Emirates. I'm clarifying the United Arab Emirates part, in case some of you were confused by the title of this entry and thought Dubai was a man, who I left the girlfriend kids for.

Saying good-bye to my boyfriend's daughter the night before I left was all very normal and without tears. Just a promise that I'd bring back something really cool that a 17 year old fashion junky would like. However, my boyfriend's son was a whole other story.

I had an early flight, so we had to leave the house at the butt crack of dawn. It was decided that his son would stay asleep, while my boyfriend drove me to the airport. If all went well and there wasn't any traffic, he'd be back in less than two hours. I said a preliminary good-bye the night before and my boyfriend's son said that he'd be up to say good-bye in the morning. 

It was a restless sleep, full of nerves, excitement and, "Don't forget to pack the hard boiled eggs" reminders. I never travel without my eggs. I shot out of bed as soon as the alarm went off and went into final preparation mode. Passport, check. Visa, check. Money, license, boarding pass, protein bars, phone, camera, eggs. CHECK! I was ready.

While my boyfriend was kind enough to drag my, "I know this is going to be over the limited weight" suitcase to the car, I walked over to his son, who was still sleeping on the couch. I bent down over him, whispered his name and told him that I was leaving, and wanted to say good-bye.

He extended his 12 year old arms out and threw them around my neck in a tight hug, bringing us cheek to cheek. He started to cry. Oh, shit. I felt sad, lost, found, mushy and more like a girlfriend mom than I ever had. He said he didn't want me to go and that he was going to miss me. Oh, double shit. I was hit in the gut in the most beautiful of ways.

I assured him that two months was going to fly by and that I'd miss him as well. I told him to do lots of things over the summer so he could tell me about them when I got back. I said that I'd bring back presents. Parents say that all the time, right? I tried to lighten it up by promising to follow him on Facebook, so he'd better be good.

I kissed his cheek and the top of his head, as I brushed his hair back behind his ear (like my parents did when I was sad) trying to comfort him. I let myself fall hard and heavy into this little person's emotions. And although I've always felt deep in my soul, that I'd be a natural at this parent thing, nothing felt more authentic in that moment, than soothing this sensitive little boy, who was expressing himself in his half sleep state.

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.

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.

Hey Moms, The Girlfriend Mom Needs Your Help!

A few posts ago, entitled, Losing It, I wrote about my boyfriend's son's friend, Robert, who asked me for cash so he could get a snack when we were at the movies. I thought this was a case of one kid being rude. I was wrong. I'm starting to think that it might be an epidemic that's infecting our children.

A similar situation happened two days later with another child. My boyfriend took his son and his son's friend, Peter, to a Red Bull's soccer game. I was fortunately otherwise engaged in a sleepover with a girlfriend in the Big Apple, thus enable to attend. When I got home, my boyfriend shared the days events.

In addition to the actual ticket to the game, the kids were generously supplied with snacks and some sort of Red Bull trinket, the likes of which usually break on the car ride home. My boyfriend told me that about halfway through the game, Peter asked him for, "some money to buy a hot dog." WHAT??? I am certain that that kid was fed. Who does this? That wasn't all. About fifteen minutes later, Peter asked,  "Are we leaving soon?" As I'm listening to my boyfriend tell this, my jaw is halfway down my neck. This kid's got elephantiasis of the nuts.

My boyfriend looked at Peter. "Yes, we're going to leave (hold for dramatic pause) WHEN THE GAME IS OVER!" I would've thrown the kid over the railing. Too much? I need to know what is going on with these kids.

It didn't stop there. Apparently, after my boyfriend had made them breakfast before they left for the soccer game, Peter sauntered into the kitchen and helped himself to two bananas. He didn't ask if he could have them. He simply made himself at home and took them. When my boyfriend asked him why he was taking two, Peter replied, "I need one for the road."

The boy just had breakfast! What did he need a potassium infusion for? He wasn't about to run a friggin' marathon. Please tell me why kids are not being taught manners. It can't just be Peter and Robert. I'm sure there are more out there and they just might be playing in your family room as you read this.

Are they spoiled? Are the parent's home supervising? Are the kids accustomed to having free reign of the house? Are there rules, boundaries and structure? How do they speak to adults? Do they think that they're all friends? It feels like someone is asleep at the wheel.

It's not my responsibility (nor do I care) what other kids do in their own homes, but when they're guests in mine, there are rules. And one rule is that you ask before you take something that doesn't belong to you. This is how I was raised, and it works. I can only plant seeds with The Girlfriend Mom kids, and bring it to the attention of their friends when it's warranted.

The whole business perplexes me. I am honestly looking for opinions and feedback from mom's who might have a take on this. Moms that have first hand experience with their kids and their kid's friends. What do you feel the problem might be? Do you think it is a problem?

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.

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.