Tag Archives: boyfriend

Parents Would Rather Their Child NOT Get Arrested

DaniAlpert

DaniAlpert

We all crave attention. Some crave it more than others. Perhaps they suffer from low self-esteem, they’re the youngest sibling, or because they’re an only child. I too sought my share of attention growing up. Aw, let’s be honest, I still like attention, only now I’m not as obnoxious about it as I used to be. At least I don’t think I am.

However, getting arrested on a sunny but brisk Monday afternoon on December 26th in 1983, the day after Christians celebrated the birth of that sweet baby Jesus, was not the kind of attention that I was looking for.

I was charged with tagging. That’s street lingo for defacing property with spray paint. When I was seventeen years old, my friend Laura and I sat in her bedroom, in her parent’s house, suffering from an acute case of suburban boredom. We didn’t have i-devices or 300 television channels to occupy ourselves. Laura didn’t even have cable, so MTV wasn’t an option. What to do? We had to get creative. We had to think outside of the mall. After an hour of drinking Tab and potato chips, I blurted out, “Let’s graffiti something.”

I didn’t know that graffiti was illegal. I saw it on buildings and on street signs in Manhattan every time we ventured in for dinner and Broadway show. I thought it was normal. I thought that it was okay because I hadn’t heard of anyone getting arrested for it. Of course at that age, I wasn’t watching much news or reading the paper either. Shit, people may have been getting arrested left and right and I wouldn’t have known about it.

I instinctively knew that public places were out of play but that anything dilapidated or hidden from view (for the most part) from the public, was fair game. And yes, my parents failed me somewhere along the line. I considered giving an otherwise dreary wall a splash of color. I was performing a community service and I was giving the graffiti artist inside a chance to be immortalized.

Laura and I drove to the local hardware store and bought cans of spray paint. We decided on an overpass that was far enough away from the middle of town but close enough to be seen when people exited, or entered, the parkway. It also provided us with a large blank canvas. What a wonderful space to be able to express our seventeen year old selves.

I was madly in love with my boyfriend (hello handcuffs) and I thought, what better way to show my love than to spray paint our initials on a concrete wall. Laura was dating someone as well, so she decided to do the same. As I was putting the finishing touches on the enormous red heart around the D.A. + P.S., I heard the dulcet tones of a police siren.

I looked around expecting to see a pack of spoiled, preppy hooligans, that were drunk and had just been caught vandalizing someone’s front yard with toilet paper. That happened a lot in my town. Instead, the black and white pulled up alongside two naive and misguided teenagers. I was oblivious to what was happening, until I wasn’t.

Laura and I threw our cans into a snowbank, trying to hide the evidence. Never mind the fact that I had paint droppings all over my pants and hands. I wanted to scream, Run! Run like the wind! Then I realized that this wasn’t an episode of The Mod Squad. An officer, who looked like he had just gotten out of the boy scouts (I was a kid and even I thought he looked young) approached. “Get in girls, we’re going downtown.”

“You’re taking us into Manhattan?”

“You’re going to the police station in town, funny girl.” Even then I couldn’t hide the funny. I never knew that my town had a police station. This is how clueless I was. I wasn’t trying to be funny. Rare. My family always called New York City, downtown. It’s what I knew.

Laura started singing like a canary. “She made me do it. I didn’t want to go. I begged her to go to the Chess King and get our boyfriend’s sweaters.” I wanted to back hand her across her Bonne Bell glossed smacker. We slid into the back seat of the police car. I tried to roll down my window but I couldn’t find a handle. Something else that I didn’t know. Police cars don’t have any way for perps to escape. Now how would I have known that adorable fact?

It was probably around this time, when I started to feel that this whole scared straight charade might not be a charade after all. I was getting a touch scared.

The police station in my town was also the library and deli. No wonder I didn’t know that there was a jail in the back. When Laura and I were escorted into the building, the smell of pastrami and tongue almost knocked me over. Baretta took us into a back room and fingerprinted us. What? Was this happening? I cooperated but I was still in disbelief that all of this rigmarole was because I sprayed some cruddy looking underpass. Weren’t there shoplifters to bust?

I was handed a paper towel and I made a feeble attempt to clean my fingers, but they were stained. It was like my scarlet letter. Baretta thought he was hot shit. I’d bet my freedom that Laura and I were his first arrests.

He handed me a piece of wood that had numbers on it, that looked like they were drawn with black Sharpies. I was instructed to hang the wood around my neck. That seemed archaic. Doesn’t the criminal hold the block of wood below the chin for their mug shot? Bat balls! I was getting a mug shot! Who would think that this could be going on alongside meat cleavers and the Dewy Decimal system?

I asked Baretta if I should smile for my photo. As a budding performer, I was always thinking, “Hmm, possible headshot?” I talk stupid and inappropriate when I’m nervous. He shot me a look that sent an internal heat missile to my sphincter. How could I, the most responsible person that ever lived, and my town’s designated driver, have gotten pinched, especially when my motivation for tagging came from passion and innocent love.

An hour later, my attorney, otherwise known as Dad, bailed me out. When I got home, my brother and his friends were sitting around our kitchen table. They had just gotten back from Ft. Lauderdale and had decided to try Sun In hair lightener, so they all had the same orange tinted hair color. They looked ridiculous. They smiled at me as if I were the coolest or dumbest, (it was hard to tell) kid on the planet. I followed my father into the living room to have a talk.

It was more like he yelled and I listened. The details of the conversation are foggy at best but I do remember his panic over the fact that I was applying to colleges and that he didn’t want this little speed bump to go on my permanent record, and hinder my chances of getting into school. I had a record? I was learning so much that day. Perhaps I needed to pay more attention to my surroundings, and what was real, and a little less Marcus Welby, M.D reenactments in my bed at night.

A week later, my father and I trekked back to the courthouse/library/deli, where he was able to plea with the judge. This is legalese for, how much is it going to cost me to get her records expunged? Wouldn’t you know that this was the same day that a Constitutional Law class, from my high school, was on a field trip and sitting in the courtroom. As I faced the audience of my peers, as I walked out, the entire class looked up at me as if I were the coolest or dumbest, (again, hard to tell) kid on the planet.

Laura and I got off with several hundred thousand hours of community service. It felt like that many anyway. The envelope licking and the paper cuts were child’s play compared to removing our artwork from the cement wall. We tried everything; Brillo Pads, bleach, every household cleaning supply known to man, to no avail. It was clear that nothing short of sand blasting was going to get that shit off.

A decade later, while I was visiting my parents, I decided to revisit the scene of the crime. I know (now) that what I did was illegal and wrong, but there was a medium sized part of me that felt proud when I saw the outline of the enormous red heart. It had faded almost beyond recognition. Almost. For me it was a symbol of lost innocence and profound ignorance.

I’m Syndicated on Blogher

I’m happy to announce that The Girlfriend Mom has been syndicated on Blogher.com. The geniuses in the Love and Sex department couldn’t resist my funny sex stuff.

When my boyfriend schooled me one sunny afternoon on his masturbatory modus operandi, I realized that I didn’t know as much as I thought I did on the subject. I believed, like I assume a lot of other women do, that when he masturbated to a short online video, that it was because he didn’t want to have sex with me. I thought that he was choosing his hand over mine. And I’ve got great hands, strong yet sensitive. But I digress.

Image: Yuriy Rudyy via Shutterstock

I believed that the two sexual performances were mutually exclusive. Not necessarily. He explained it to me this way. When he gets the urge to masturbate, it’s like an itch in need of scratching. It’s emotionless and mechanical, and has nothing to do with our sex life. I equate it with having a hang nail. You know it’s there. It’s annoying, and you have to clip it. Once you do, there’s an awesome sense of relief, and you can get back to returning emails.

Some men feel that the orgasm they achieve through masturbation is less complex and more locally intense than climaxes achieved through sexual intercourse. Come on ladies, don’t we feel the same way? Isn’t it nice to be in full control of our pleasure? Controlling the pressure and speed of movement applies to both genders.

There are a variety of reasons why men masturbate and why women get all bent out of shape. Sometimes it’s a lack of education, understanding, insecurity, or bad communication skills. Yes, there could be a potential problem in the relationship, but to understand the male sex, women must understand the relationship between penis and brain.

A male child discovers that his penis feels good before he can talk! Manual stimulation is the first form of sexual behavior learned. The hard cold truth is that the vast majority of men masturbate – even if they’re in long-term and happy sexual relationships. It’s that simple.

The more women understand, the more empowered and secure they will become. I suggest that women ask their men why they masturbate. If that’s too daunting, and a woman feels that there’s more to their man’s masturbation than just a hang nail, then women might want to look for signs. Before a woman starts feeling rejected or threatened by their man’s hand, consider the following.

Men masturbate when they’re not getting enough sex from their partner.
 False.
We have sex like 40 times a day (not really, but it’s a substantial amount) and my boyfriend still masturbates.

Men always fantasize about women they know when they masturbate. False.
I’ve seen the anonymous ten second videos that my boyfriend sometimes uses. A visual, yes. Fantasy? Not so much.

Ask yourself the following:

Does masturbating get in the way of the relationship?

Does he/she choose masturbating over having sex with you?

My boyfriend can masturbate at 8am and then have sex with me at 9am. And he’s no spring chicken. In his world, and now mine, one has nothing to do with the other.

Some men have issues with women using sex toys when they masturbate. And just like some women feel that they’re being replaced when their man masturbates, some men feel that they’re being replaced by a toy. Be reasonable boys and girls. If I want to pleasure myself with a foreign object, do not take that to mean that I would rather use a glass dildo than have some fleshy male meat.

My boyfriend wants me to use whatever I can to achieve an orgasm. The man lives for my orgasms. Sometimes I wish he lived for loading the dishwasher, but again I digress. One night when I was away, he asked me if there was something in my room that I could pleasure myself with. I’m not into fruits or vegetables in my nether orifices, thus disappointment ensued on the other end of the phone.

Did you know that some men in their 70s and 80s still masturbate several times a week? Honestly, I didn’t need that visual. In general terms, men masturbate most in their teens and gradually do it less and less as their life progresses – depending partly on whether or not they have a partner at the time.

Couples can achieve considerable satisfaction by watching each other masturbate. Maybe this would make both parties less insecure. It turns me on watching my boyfriend masturbate. I enjoy watching his face contort and the sounds that he makes are priceless.

Again, this is where communication is golden. Couples need to discuss their insecurities and try to understand where the other person is coming from. Knowledge is power people! There are so many acts and behaviors that couples can get hung up on; an innocent masturbation session, with or without toys, should not be one of them. Life is too short. I say, tonight jerk off.

The Voice Brought Us Closer Together

Voice-shirtsMy boyfriend and I watch The Voice together every Monday night. And Tuesday nights. And Wednesday nights if it’s one of their extra special shows.

He’s become quite the music aficionado. This is coming from the man who didn’t know who Joni Mitchell was when we were first dating. Yes, I judged. And yes, my boyfriend corrected me, when I thought that Joe Scarborough was the NBC newscaster. He’s not, that’s Chuck Scarborough. My point is, we are learning from one another and that’s a beautiful thing.

When we’re watching the singers, he talks about their pitch, melodies and which one of the performers has the most commanding stage presence. I do believe that he’s even uttered the word “Diva” once or twice. My being a musical theater and anything singing and dancing, FAME inspired, dork (and sometime singer myself), it turns me on.

All of this is to say that music is a universal language. How interesting it is when two people come together, bringing with them two entirely different skill sets, tool boxes and cultural references.

In the past, it has sometimes shocked me all of the crap that my boyfriend doesn’t know. And in return, I sling my crap at him, which often leaves me scratching my head and wishing that I paid more attention in school, instead of practicing my autograph on the cover of my social studies book. (Cover courtesy of my mother and her adeptness with a brown paper bag)

Naively perhaps, I thought that everyone knew who Joni Mitchell was. Sorry, last time I’ll bring that up I promise. I am sure, although I’d have to ask him, which I’m not about to do because I’m too lazy, that he would’ve assumed that I knew what a “put” option was, as well as how hedge funds work. But alas, he would’ve made an ass out of the both of us.

I spent my entire life living with, and surrounded by, people that were in the creative arts; writers, actors, musicians, dancers, performers, onstage, offstage, on camera or behind the camera. Living in Los Angeles for as long as I did, cut me off from the outside world. It is not only possible, but it is almost a foregone conclusion that living in the city of angels stunts one’s growth and limits one’s peripheral view. It did with me.

It was all that I knew. As short sighted as it may have been, I had no reason to look outside the compound. When I met my boyfriend and his kids, I thought, “What the hell is this? Don’t you guys have headshots? A resume? Who’s your agent?”

It has taken me a long time to adjust, transition, and accept the fact that not everyone is in the entertainment business and that everyone does not know what I know. When I moved back to New York, it all hit me square in the face.

At times, it takes a lot of restriction on my part not to yell at boyfriend, “How can you not know that Streisand dated Don Johnson and that they made a record together?” (enjoy)  Sometimes it’s as if we speak two entirely different languages. I’ll say, “It’s a writing gig. (beat) No, I’m not getting paid but it’s great exposure.” My boyfriend will cock his head. “I don’t understand. Why would you do anything for free?” Other times, he’ll explain that  he has to, “Do the due diligence first, and see what my return will be on the 1039. It’s in the pro-forma.” My eyes will roll back into my head.

It’s about patience, tolerance and non-judgement, which no human being is an expert at. I’m not always on my best Kabbalah behavior, so when my boyfriend doesn’t know what a Movie of the Week is, I want to open a can of, “what rock have you been living under” on his tight Portuguese ass.

This is what I’ve learned. We do not know the same shit and it is a blessing. I keep my mind and heart wide open, and I learn. And just because my boyfriend doesn’t know how debilitating it can be when your muse doesn’t show up for her appointment when you’re trying to write, it does not make him any less of a person.

I’m choosing to focus on what we do have in common. The Voice. There’s also sex. We have that in common as well, which is also a universal language, but that’s another post for another time.

What Kind Of Mom Would I Have Been?

PhotoCredit:JeffBlairFitness.com

PhotoCredit:JeffBlairFitness.com

I find it frighteningly easy to slip into a world of complacency, lounging on my divan (that’s couch to you and me), contemplating my navel, lost in thought, or knee-deep in my very important, life saving work, with all of my projects, deadlines, and Skype calls to my best friend who has to remind me how complacent I’ve become. Thank you Clementine. You’re the best.

I own my ‘Dani-world-itis’, which doesn’t make it any less offensive but I can lounge only for so long. Several months ago, after succumbing to a complacent spell that had tightened its grip around my trachea, I decided to do something. I opened my office door, stood up from my physioball and I thought about somebody else.

I decided to participate in the Walk to End Alzheimer’s. I don’t have Alzheimer’s, nor does anyone in my family, thank you Allah. I’m not Arabic either. Oh, me and my family have brain issues, but they’re more of the mentally unstable kind. Nothing a 1,000 mg of Wellbutrin can’t fix. I’m exaggerating, 1,000 milligrams could take down an elephant. Maybe.

I decided on Alzheimer’s, because my boyfriend’s father died from this insidious disease, and I thought it would be a wonderful thing for us to do with the Girlfriend Mom kids. I’ve always volunteered, as it’s truly the best medicine for depression. That is of course when I can get my ass out of bed.

In the back of my mind, I thought that if these were my kids, they would know the meaning of volunteering, so I took it upon myself to give them a little push. Never mind that my parents never exposed me to volunteering. The things that they did expose me to, however, could get me arrested in 45 states.

I didn’t ask anyone if they were interested in the walk, but when I told my boyfriend that I signed us up, he got on board, and thanked me for thinking of his father. Yes, I am an angel dressed in Lululemon see- through pants.

Thus, the kids were gently forced to partake, because my train was leaving the station. In hindsight, it might have been prudent to have thrown the idea out for feedback, before I went full tilt boogie, so as to mitigate any resentment that they may harbor against the Girlfriend Mom in the future.

And yet, my parents, who are my obvious role models, (JC help me) did not run a democratic household, allowing for opinions on where to go or what to do, when we were young. They were not looking for a consensus.

When they said that the family was going to Colonial Williamsburg, my brother and I packed up our Mad Libs, went to the bathroom one last time, mom started a wash just as we opened the car doors, and we took off down the driveway. It didn’t matter that the last thing that my brother or I wanted to do was shown how butter was made.

I declared myself team captain seeing that I was the one doing all of the work. I hoped that everyone would be excited about our ‘family’ do-good-ness and that they would talk about it nonstop leading up to the actual event. They didn’t. They were tepid at best, including the boyfriend.

I have to confess that a part of the allure of this particular walk was that it took place only a few towns away, and it was only three miles. Baby steps. (pun intended)

I had the daunting task of informing the kids that, in addition to walking three miles, they also had to ask family and friends to sponsor them, and that the money would go to The Alzheimer Association. Knowing how to broach this particular topic was not included in the nonexistent GM manual.

I felt uncomfortable asking them to do something that they never asked to be a part of and what the hell do I know; maybe this isn’t something that kids are expected to do.

Hell, I was uncomfortable asking my boyfriend to raise money. When I did tell him, he said that he was uncomfortable asking family and friends for money, even though people hit him up for donations all the time. He decided to write a check. Now where’ the fun in that?!

It’s challenging being unmarried and not the Stepmom, which in my mind, comes with a certain amount of authority built into the title. I like to think that it’s because I’m a Girlfriend Mom that I struggle with these things but I’m sure that’s not always the case.

I decided to let it go, seeing that it’s only been recently that I feel confident enough to remind the fourteen-year old to put his stinky ass socks in the laundry room, not play with his lacrosse or hockey sticks in the house or to turn off the lights when he leaves a room. I’m going to work up to teaching them (and their father) about charity work and how to ask people for money.

I did think that at the very least, they could’ve asked their mother for a donation. God knows she’s got money coming in every month. Ugh, never mind.

On the day of the walk, I told my team to stay put while I checked us in, as there were hundreds of people. Not three minutes in, I turned around and they were gone. Are you friggin’ kidding me? I took a few steps away from the registration desk and scanned the hordes of people in purple shirts. I wandered around in circles for several minutes unable to find my team. I looked like I had Alzheimer’s.

When I found my boyfriend and the kids, I asked him what was so difficult about standing still. I told him that I wasn’t doing this for my health (there’s a joke in there somewhere), and if he could please cooperate.

I’ve always admired those families that take their kids to soup kitchens on Christmas Eve, or volunteer at the local ASPCA. I always thought that if I had kids, I’d be that type of mother. Since I don’t have kids of my own, I think that sometimes I project onto the GM kids. It’s probably unfair to force my values and my, ‘this is what I would do’s’, onto them.

I might influence the kids by setting examples through my actions, planting seeds without them realizing but it just doesn’t have the same umph as having complete control and being able tell them that they’re going to Rainbow Horizons, to read to really old people on a Sunday.

Being a Girlfriend Mom has given me laser sharp insight into how I would want to mother. I also know that when it comes to raising children, that insight often flies out the window, right along with the once perky boobs.

I like to think that I would be a earth mother type; alternative, carefree and a Free To Be You And Me kind of mom. However, I get wiggy if the kid’s shoes aren’t lined up neatly in a row on the hall mat, so forget that description.

I’d like to think that we’d all eat fruits and vegetables from the garden that we planted together in our backyard, next to the compost across from the electric car, but I haven’t kept anything green alive for more than a day, and I’m not giving up my Mini Cooper.

I’d like to think that I’d let them go without showers until they felt that they needed one. Okay, this one I do allow, but only because I hate showering.

I’ll never know how I would truly be or not be, with my own DNA offspring. Screw it, I’m going to keep imposing myself and my hygienic preferences onto the Girlfriend Mom kids, at least until they start ignoring me completely.

 

 

Valentine’s Day…WTF?

Valentine'sDay_WTF?Oy, another “Hallmark Makes A Billion Dollars”, holiday is upon us. Approximately one billion Valentine’s Day cards are sent world-wide each year, making it the second largest card sending holiday right behind Christmas. What, the Yom Kippur card didn’t make the list? And since when is Valentine’s Day considered a holiday? Does that mean I don’t have to go work? School? Are the banks closed?

Valentine’s Day is supposedly to celebrate love by exchanging candy and gifts. Really? How many women out there are going to be saying the following, or if not actually saying it, thinking it? “If you loved me, truly loved me, you wouldn’t be giving me a ginormous box of assorted fattening chocolates. Didn’t I just tell you that I can’t fit into my skinny jeans? You’re an enabler. What’s wrong with you?” CONTINUE READING