Tag Archives: funny

Parents Would Rather Their Child NOT Get Arrested



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.

The Girlfriend Mom Stars in “Lasik Surgery”

If there is ever an opportunity for me to perform, I will take it. Whether it be in front of a Pilates class, at the dinner table or at a funeral, I will perform. So it is with great pleasure that I give to you my performance in, My Lasik Surgery. 
Please note that the subject matter is not for everyone (like any good art) and it is not intended for the squeamish.

The ABC’s Of Me

I’m a member of a terrific site, VoiceBoks, and the powers that be thought that this was a great way to get other members to check you out and see what you do all day. I think that’s what this was about. I don’t really know. It just looked like a fun thing to do.

I totally ripped off the poem idea from Dawn Douglas, so it’s only fair that I give her a shout out. However, I do believe that mine is a wee more risque. Enjoy.

A is for the asinine things that I do.
B is for when I bungee jumped over a zoo. (not really, it was a bridge, but also a B)

C is for Cher, my childhood idol.
D is for Dani, I never took Midol.

E is for ear piercings, of which I have six.
F is for funny, feisty and flicks.

G is for Girlfriend Mom, need I say more.
H is for the hysteria that wasn’t in the brochure.

I is for my iphone, ipod and such.
J is for the joy, man these I’s give me so much.

K is for the kitchen, thankfully not my domain.
L is for the love, I pray will keep me sane.

M is for my mom, and your mom too.
N is for the “No” she often spewed.

O are for orgasms, one or many.
P is for Pilates for orgasms aplenty.

Q is for Quebec, skiing and beauty.
R is for reruns of The Facts Of Life and Tootie. (I realize that was a stretch)

S is for sex, see letters O and P.
T are for the times with lover and his kids, making it we.

U are for the UTI’s that are no fun at all.
V is for my vagina that’s always on call.

W is for my new website that’s coming soon.
X is for the Xanax that makes me swoon.

Z is for the Zumba that I once tried, not able to pop and lock, I walked out and cried.

Don’t Put Hard Boiled Eggs in Your Bag

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have you met me, mother?

When Your Ex Moves On

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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