Tag Archives: girlfriend

Featured On Blogher…

Credit: darcyadelaide.

Credit: darcyadelaide.

One of my posts is being featured on Blogher. Check it out if you haven’t done so already. The whacky comments and opinions are priceless, and entertaining. I especially like it when an 18-year old girl tells me that I should let my 18-year old Girlfriend Mom daughter sleep with her boyfriend in my house. And that I should treat her like an adult. Shit, she’s so totally right. I don’t know what I was thinking. Thank you little girl for showing me the way.


Happy Anniversary The Girlfriend Mom!

In honor of the first anniversary writing as The Girlfriend Mom, I’m re-posting my first entry as the G.M. I hope you enjoy, and I thank everyone from the bottom of my heart who has read, commented, and supported me during this ride. L’Chaim!

My boyfriend’s 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, it’s like Skype. For those not in that loop either, it’s video chatting.

I didn’t 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 put my hair in a ponytail, and would pull it so tight, that I got headaches and an unnecessary facelift. Not so unnecessary now, I’ll tell ya.

I’m calling myself, The Girlfriend Mom. My boyfriend and I live together, we’re not married, and he has two kids. However, I do step-mommy things, I suppose, like his son’s laundry. Sidebar: Sometimes, when I’m folding his tiny pair of jeans, it feels weird, dare I say ‘unnatural’. I’m convinced that it has to do with what I associate being a ‘mom’ 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, it’s like living with the deaf (or my grandparents) How can you NOT hear that?! Well, this just smells of ‘mom’ (girlfriend or step) doesn’t it? I feel myself getting uglier by the minute.

So I’m not just a girlfriend, who’s boyfriend has kids. There are expectations of me, some being easy and ‘natural’ to pull off, like making up his bed, pouring him ice tea when he’s parched, teaching him how to apply Orajel to a sore, or eating at Chili’s for a less than nutritious meal. Other times, the expectations feel as ‘unnatural’ to me, as doing fractions, or wearing make-up and like folding his tiny fruit of the loom tidy whitey’s.

I say ‘mom’ things, but I can’t be sure of my modus operandi. Sometimes it’s because I think I’m supposed to say them, but how the hell do I know what to say. Other times, I think it’s imbedded in my DNA. Can that be?

My boyfriend’s 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 don’t. 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. I’ve watched enough Lifetime Movies to know what can happen if you’re 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 I’m not sure if he truly does) what it’s like to go from not wanting children and not sure if I even like children, to bringing a 12 and 17 year old into my life. They’re his flesh and blood. He was there at the beginning. He’s watched them grow and journeyed with them. I’d imagine with each passing year, a parent adjusts to the plethora of changes, and then, eventually, if you’re lucky, you can’t 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 and she had been with her girlfriend since WWII. I think they invented Lesbianism. They traveled the world, had several homes, and they didn’t have children. Their life sounded exotic and it had a profound effect 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. I’m not sure I can directly attribute my ambivalence towards kids to my Great Lesbian Aunt (that sounds like a superhero) but I know she had played a role.

I’m sure that my parents made a contribution, unbeknownst to them I’m 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 that’s what she tells me, but she wasn’t your typical mother either. 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 the laundry?)

I can spend another lifetime researching and analyzing why I feel the way I do, but I don’t have that kind of time, and I’m 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 it’s unwise to give them too much power.

Instead, I’ve decided to forge a relationship with my boyfriend’s kids, based on who I am now, and who they are, as individuals, with all of our unique personalities. We’re not going to be defined by should’s, supposed to’s or societal constraints. And I have to say, so far, so good.

“Sweet baby Jesus, can you PLEASE turn that television down?!”

Perfectly Reasonable

Friday, February 13, 2009Here’s some backstory so the following tale will make sense. Hopefully.

I moved back to New York three years ago from L.A., via Prague (whole other story-stay tuned) moved into a building along the Hudson River, befriended a guy who I met in the elevator on my first night in the building, who then promptly set me up with his friend a month later. 
I dated his friend, who I will now refer to as the man, for over a year and a half. It then took us another 10 months to officially break up. I was (and still might be) in love with the man. Ours was a passionate, loving and in the end, highly charged and loaded relationship. I had never felt this way about anyone. Tragic. Oh, so terribly tragic.
(The why’s and the how’s will follow in the coming months) Since we stopped seeing one another, he has never left my mind nor my heart. And even though, according to family and friends, I should be over him, I’m clearly not.
See below.
I emailed my friend last night (the one from above backstory) about having a Match.com session at his place. This consists of sitting in front of his computer with a bottle of wine, searching for someone that we BOTH like for him to date. And when we do find someone, I help him write funny-ass emails; the likes of which are Nobel worthy, if I do say so myself. It’s a lot easier to take chances when you don’t care if the person responds or not. They’re sarcastic, off the cuff, and pretty out there. I’m not sure if my friend shares my philosophy but he keeps letting me browse with him. 
These days, sadly enough, Match.com, is my prized entertainment. The emails usually illicit crazy, gutturul fits of laughter, that either has me running to the bathroom so I don’t pee my pants or an abdominal work out that rivals any at the gym. Or both.

But on this particular night, my friend couldn’t play in the reindeer games because he was going out with the boys. I know the boys could mean any number of boys but I was convinced that one of the boys had to be the man. Oh, crap. Does this mean he’s in the building? In my presence, figuratively speaking. I reeled for a moment or two and in that moment.
I visited jealousy. Was he going to talk to strange women when the boys went out? Was he going to get someone’s number? Envy. I wish I had ‘girls’ to go out with. How come I don’t know enough girls to have a girls night out? And a whole host of other, borderline pyschotic, feelings. So what do I, the supposed grown up, do? I did what any self respecting grown-up woman would do.

I got dressed (it was nine o’clock and I was already in my jammies) and went looking for the boys. I put on lipstick, and gloss, and decided that now was a perfect time to go to the corner drugstore (what am I in Mayberry) to pick up the rest of my meds (shocking I take meds) I’m such a cliche. Meds are so 2001 but whatever. 
I was hoping, of course, that I’d run into the man and yet, I was petrified of the idea. Did I really want to run into him? After all this time, I still don’t think I’d know what to say. Even in my pretend encounters I have with him in my head, I get tongue tied. There was definitely a push-pull thing happening. I wasn’t sure what I wanted, but my body was victorious and it pushed me out the door. Oh, and I also put on my super cute jeans and slutty boots, because if I did run into the man, I didn’t want to be in sneakers. They’re too daytime and casual and I wanted to look like I was going ‘out’ and all sexy like. The boots look better with the jeans anyway.

From the time I stepped into the elevator, to the time I reached CVS, my eyes were in constant motion. Looking, seeking, darting, roving. Nothing. I walked into CVS and the pharmacy was closed. Am I in New York or podunk bumfunk?! What’s the point in living in the city that never sleeps if the pharmacy sleeps. Great. Thanks a lot CVS.
I wasn’t ready to go back home, because it was early and there was still a chance that I’d run into the boys. I decided that it was imperative that I go to the food store, a block away from CVS, to get my desperately needed bag of organic raw sugar (I forgot to pick it up when I was at Fairway yesterday) I knew putting it on my list was futile because I’d actually have to look at the list and I never do.
Food Emporium, the dirty hell hole that it is, didn’t have my brand. I left dirty little Food Emporium, dejected and well, feeling dirty. I swear, there’s something about that store that makes you want to shower and shed a layer of skin.

On my walk back home, twice my heart nearly leapt into my throat when I thought I saw the man. It’s a good thing I’m over the man eh. I walked slowly, lingering really, thinking that maybe… I didn’t want to look like I was just strolling aimlessly on a Tuesday night (like I was looking for them) just in case I did run into them, so I played with my cell phone, appearing to be engrossed in a very important task. 
While I was at CVS, Verizon was kind enough to text me that I was at 80% capacity in my text inbox. Ironic, no? Perfect. As I walked, I deleted. Now I looked busy and with purpose.

When I got back to the building, I took stock at my behavior and well, I’d like to say that I was embarrassed and went right upstairs. But I can’t. I made a pit stop in the mailroom. What was I expecting to find? What? If the boys were in fact in the building, my friend is going to say to the man, “Hey, dude, I know it’s 9:30p and the bars and women are waiting, but can I get my mail first?” I went into the mailroom and got my mail anyway.

I thought about it, and I was this close to doing it, but I stopped short at going down to the garage to see if I saw the man’s car. That’s progress, isn’t it? And then, and only then, did I make my way back upstairs to my apartment, where I took off my slutty boots, super cute jeans, put my jammies back on and did Sudoku before falling asleep.