Tag Archives: Life

The Kids Are All Right but the Moms need some help, big time.

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POB (partner of blogger) and I went to see the movie, “The Kids Are All Right,” about a lesbian couple and their two kids and the sperm donor who is invited into their lives by the elder child (who turned 18 and can get the information).

It got great reviews.   After seeing it, I realize that these reviewers are straight.

Based on the (straight people) reviews, I was looking forward to seeing how my life turns out (not really, but sort of really).  Two happily married lesbians raising their kids.  Sounded like a Utopian fantasy come to major motion picture.

Of course, I have my own issues — I am not a biological parent.  At least, each of these moms was biologically related to a child.  That is firmer ground than that which I will stand when coming face to  face with FOS (the face of sperm man), should it happen.  (OF COURSE, it will happen, but I intend to be in a state of dementia at that point.)

Back to the movie.  The hetero sex scenes were more enthralling than the one (count it, ONE) quasi-I-didn’t-understand-what-the-f$%^-was-going-on scene with the women.  Gay male porn and one woman under the covers while that other woman is watching man-on-man and showing no signs of arousal?  Ok, ok, ok.  I went to EVERY class on lesbian indoctrination given by the proponents of the gay agenda.  NO WHERE DID I SEE THIS.  This is NOT how any couple I KNOW gets romantic or has sex (yes, they can be mutually exclusive).

(While being indoctrinated all those many years ago, I did read about some things I decided were safer NOT to try at home, but in a passive-aggressive moment, I left those pamphlets for my mother to read and weep about.  I still feel a little bad but by the end of my mother’s life, she was not focused on fisting one’s partner.) 

I am going to have t-shirts made up that say: 

WE DO IT BUT NOT LIKE NIC AND JULES.

So, in this movie, child is parent to the mothers.  A usual Hollywood turn of events.

And the sexual excitement was spent on one of the mother’s extra-marital affair with Sperm Donor Man.  It was enticing, even though Mark Ruffalo has too much hair.  Also, what is with THAT?

If a lesbian has an affair (I am told) it is often with a woman and, if not a woman, a co-worker or client.  (Well, he was in fact a client at some point in the movie.)

NEVERTHELESS, in our first major motion picture about aging lesbians and their children, couldn’t the producers have made the sex a little steamy?  It isn’t like the L Word didn’t break some ground here.  Couldn’t the producers throw a bone to us true-life lesbians with families?  Keep hope alive for those of us in the midst of parenting and working and dreaming of beautiful sunsets with our partners when the kids are out of the house?

I always thought we were lucky — no Cialis, Viagra, etc. — now I am scared that I have man-on-man porn to look forward to while someone “services” me under covers.  I am soooooo grossed out.

This movie about a “solid” lesbian family is enough to cause therapists to cancel their August recess just to keep up with the demand of freaked out Moms.

Maybe this film touched a nerve (ok, it did) but I have to believe that it needed to please heterosexual America.  And so our lives are casualties.

Paging the L Word.

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When worlds collide

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If you live, work and love in New York, sometimes old worlds and old orbits collide. Sometimes, the reunion is comfortable; sometimes, there has been too many years of avoiding contact about issues. Quite frankly, sometimes we are in fact so shaped by our current circumstances, that the overture across worlds would require the universal translator that always saved Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock in the original Star Trek.

And in life (in contradistinction to movies), epiphanies are few and the hoped-for catharsis even rarer. Mostly, those who were on the peripheries of your prior worlds are only proxies for the unanswered questions and unresolved feelings of something much bigger.

So I declined the opportunity to invade someone’s performance at an outdoor cafe to re-greet a person of the past. She was performing and it would have been selfish at that moment. There are certainly opportunities — I have her number, etc., but I have chosen for 11 years not to reach out.  Why do so in her space during an expression of her art? If I really wanted to bridge the worlds, I would do so on terms acceptable to both of us. And after a decade, what do you say?  “How are you?”.  Sounds so stupid and pedestrian.  Some things are left better unsaid.  And these are not opportunities to reconnect — reconnect with what?  A life and circumstance that no longer exist?

I enjoyed her performance.  She has a beautiful voice.

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Youth, Age and Beauty

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So, I am still fixated on the events at the gym yesterday.

I must have a magnet in the shape of an S (for schmuck) implanted in my forehead, just above my eyes.  Why else would I notice things better left unnoticed? 

Yesterday’s magnet caused me to see the following:

In the locker room at the gym, a mid-twenty-something woman is prancing around, checking herself out, all in preparation for her performance of the daily nude hair-drying ritual.  She had dyed hair, sported a tattoo and was bronzed (but not orange like House minority leader Rep. John Boehner).  These fly under the radar these days.  No one notices those things anymore. 

But what shocked me — maybe I am naive — is that she had breast implants.  At her age!! 

Didn’t people use to wait for a sag before a lift? 

Then I walked upstairs to a work-out floor and saw an older woman who had way too much work done and looked Joan Rivers-like only not as good.  Now, that is tragic.

Then I got on the bus and there was a 30-something woman who had had plastic surgery to restore her nose and mouth and part of her cheeks.  You know, that look when plastic surgery is necessary after something really bad happens. 

An unfortunate reality check on beauty and the medical reasons for plastic surgery.

I don’t think I’ll go to the gym today.

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Sisters

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SOB (sister of blogger) and I walked our dad (FOB — father of blogger) to Fairway on Sunday after brunch with POB (partner of blogger) and our son. 

FOB is doing great, but he is aging.  SOB and I walked back uptown.  She was going home to write a chapter of a medical book and I was going to find a neutral place to read and comment on documents.  SOB offered that I could work at her house but we both knew that two couches in the living room would call our names and we would lie there and chat about stuff and then take out the Shrine — the picture album that SOB keeps of our mother — so we could have a long, cleansing sob.

With this in mind, we both decided that trying to work in the same room, or apartment for that matter, was not a good idea.  So, SOB walked me to the cafe at the gym where I was going to set up shop.  She sat for a moment and, of course, since the Shrine was mentioned, we had to have a moment about how long Mom had been gone and all that has happened in that time.  

SOB left me to work, but kept emailing me, “Are you still working?” every five or so minutes.   I am 46 and she is 50.  I don’t think we will ever grow up and I am grateful for that.

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A Gym Moment

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I stopped off at the gym for 20 minutes of cardio (how does someone with a family find time for more).

I bumped into my sister (one of the things I loved about the City being my hometown).  She was on her way to the locker room to take a shower.  Not a bead of sweat on her.  And every time I see her, I think cows sweat, men perspire and women glow.  But, SOB (sister of blogger) has a sparkle in her beautiful blue eyes but no glow on the skin (other than the fabulous skin courtesy of our mother’s genes).

She passes me again as she leaves and I am on the recumbent bike, sweating.  SOB remarks, in that genuine way that only an utterly charming, yet clueless person can pull off, “Wow, you’re sweating!  Isn’t that wonderful!” as if this a discovery of an as-yet-unknown by-product of exercise.  Being the doctor, her knowledge comes from the results of clinical trials reported in the New England Journal of Medicine (that mag rag, as I’ve named it) or CHEST.  CHEST is really a medical periodical and not a late night pay-per-view show.  Only doctors don’t see the irony of the logo on the t-shirts distributed at conferences: “CHEST” written right across, well, er, the chest! OK, I digress.

Back to SOB.  I have seen her exercise and I can confirm that she never experiences sweat as a by-product of exercise .  She does the least she can do.  It is remarkable.  She should be able to deduct her gym membership as a charitable contribution on her taxes.

Our memberships in the same gym give us a common point of reference.  For example, the other day, I asked SOB if she saw the young woman with the BIG curlers preening NAKED in front of the mirrors.  I see this woman every time I go to the gym.  She has fake boobs and fake hair color and wears “come hither” panties as she struts in front of the mirror.  We had a communal “EWWWW” moment.

A sister-bonding moment.  Worth paying a lifetime membership at the gym.  And more.

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Tim Burton’s version of Toy Story

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I haven’t seen Toy Story 3 yet but I understand that there is a bear that is cuddly even though it is the evil character in the film.

Because life imitates art (for example, Mel Gibson is still a star despite hateful speech and threats of violence), this evil bear is all the rage among the under 6 set.  It wasn’t always the Cabbage Patch Doll redux; in fact, at one point, you could buy one huggable version and get the second one for half price. 

A friend has a 3 year-old who desperately wants one and now these bears are all sold out.  He knows that his friend’s wife bought two bears on special and wanted to buy one from her.  She wouldn’t sell it to him.  He then goes home and proceeds to scare his child into tears so he could take a picture and post it on facebook with the caption, “I am crying because Aunt [name withheld] won’t sell Daddy the cuddly bear”.

Even Seinfeld couldn’t have dreamed up this one.

I told my friend I would blog about this because the world needs to know this scary toy story.

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Dinner with Friends

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POB (partner of blogger) and I went out on Saturday night with two couples after about six months of juggling schedules.

One of the couples are the parents of our son’s best friend (BestFriendCouple, aka BFC) and the other couple are the parents of our son’s betrothed (FutureWifeCouple, aka FWC).  Forgive the identification in relation to children, but let’s be honest here, we are now someone’s Mom or Dad.  For at least half of our waking hours, our identities are in direct relation to our progeny. It is what it is.  Life never asks if you like what has happened, it just dares you to deal with it.

You may remember FWC from prior blog entries.  The dad is the Gentle Giant, until our kids get too serious and then I will start wearing body armor.  Until then, life is good.

POB and I decided to walk part of the way to dinner, along the Hudson River so we could feel the breeze should one arrive and give momentary relief to blazing hot and humid New York City.  As we walked along we saw the preparations for the next day’s triathlon in which people (of questionable mental acuity) run, bike and swim in forecasted 93 degree weather.  And the swim is in the Hudson River.  (By the way, if any skimmers in the Gulf are idle, we could use them to get the gross garbage and scum off the water’s surface.)  There were signs for the line-ups depending on your skill set:  Elite men under 35, Elite senior men, etc.  As we walked, I was looking for my category should I ever enter such a race:  “Women Far Too Decrepit For Middle Age” or “Those Desiring A Watery Demise“.

Apparently, I won’t even get a slot even as a “Hail, Mary” contestant.  I’m ok with it.  I will live longer for not swimming in the Hudson River, even with a wet suit.  There are beautiful bodies of water with a vast, healthy ecosystem (until we find out about them and then ruin them), there are bodies of water with foundering ecosystems (the Gulf, for example), there are dead bodies of water (one or more of the Great Lakes) and then there is killer water which will destroy and corrode anything that dares enter its watery slaughterhouse.  THAT, that is the Hudson River.  Hint:  it has a menacing brown color.

Because we are New Yorkers, we were hungry after our walk, EVEN AFTER discussing whether a life form in the Hudson River could mutate enough to survive nuclear holocaust and repopulate the world in a crazy-horror-flick-come-true scenario.  We NYers are a hearty people.

We arrive early at the restaurant so we can pretend that we are not middle-aged and possibly flirt with, and coo at, each other.  Since our son may read this one day and I already cannot afford the therapy that having two moms will cost, I will stop at this.

Lucky for our son, FWC arrived.  Wife of FWC (WFWC) looked very stylish (she is not yet middle-aged so it was ok).  I think she was wearing jeans that are like leggings.  On her, it worked.  But for everyone else, DO NOT TRY THAT AT HOME.  It could lead to unsightly consequences.  The Gentle Giant, also H of FWC (HFWC) is a terrific guy and bravely ordered an unpronounceable drink.  WFWC tried one that sounded like, if you didn’t like it, it could also be a spa treatment.  I was eying the cucumber slice garnish and thinking about the laugh wrinkles POB mentioned in our abortive attempt to flirt and coo.  Note to readership: “I love your laugh wrinkles” does not put one in any “mood” worth having.  Just saying.

Shortly thereafter, BFC arrive.  The husband (HBFC), who has been busy being “Dad” these last few months, gravitated to HFWC for manly, over-8 year-old talk.  Soon they were drinking beer.  Which is to say that it is primal that men, in the company of other men, eschew foofy drinks with unpronounceable names in favor of BEEHHHH (beer) or possibly even LAGGGEH (Lager).  The foofy drinks are just to show off one’s feminine side and gain points with your wife’s friends.  I still think that lesser men in the presence of four strong women would have stayed with the foofy drinks.   So, bravo to these two husbands (who are today shepherding their children to assorted events while the wives relax or go to the gym, G-d bless them).

So, WBFC and I haven’t had much time over this last year to chat.  And we sit opposite each other at the table.  We are both very opinionated and believe that everyone is entitled to hear our opinions — from the what-were-you-thinking-when-you-got-that-tattoo to why we are living the dreams of our unionizing forebears even though we are not unionized and work long hours, etc.  Our upbringings are as strikingly similar as our backgrounds are diverse.  Totally awesome.

Then we all had too much inspiration and meaningful conversation. It was time to DISH on those whom we know in common.  So, four women between 40 and 46 (old enough to know better), started sentences with “omigod, can you believe . . . . ?“ in loud voices.  SOOOOOOO MUCH fun.  The boys were probably talking about hunting because they kept ordering BEEEEHHHH or LAGGGEH.

Having had two glasses of wine — my upward limit — the rest is a blur of delicious food and vicious conversation.  So much fun that I even forgot (until writing this entry) that POB mentioned my wrinkles.

What wrinkles?

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Tuesday, the day the lawyer sleepwalked through life

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Most people may think that lawyers have no scruples and sleep like babies.  Well, most lawyers are neurotic messes and control freaks, so sleep is often restless, filled with stress dreams. 

You know, the usual stress dreams:  your teeth are falling out, you are not wearing enough clothes, you are running but you can’t get where you are going, you forgot to drop a class in college and now you have to sit for the exam, or you forgot to graduate from law school.  (Imagine the irony of waking up relieved that you are actually a lawyer and admitted to, and in good standing with, the state bar.  That is more than mere irony.  That is true perversion.)

On Tuesday, I had all of these stress dream episodes but I was watching them happen to other people.  First, I passed a woman on the street who was wearing what looked to be a man’s dress shirt accessorized with a belt.  It was so short that even for the summer in the let-it-all-hang-out culture of NYC, that she looked like she forgot to put on slacks or a skirt.  It really weirded me out.   Stress dream #1 √

I went into the subway where there was a pack of young Europeans blocking every turnstile and acting as if the turnstiles were a make-shift café.  The train was coming and I was wading through a sea of Eurotrash humanity.  I got through but missed the train.  I stood on the platform sweating profusely (it is hot in the City).  Out of the corner of my eye, I see a person on crutches I passed a half-block before the subway hopping down the stairs to the platform.  Now, I know I am getting nowhere fast.  Stress dream #2 √

The train comes and it is packed.  I am cheek by jowl and nose by armpit with strangers.  The man seated below me is talking to a friend and laughs so loudly that I look down — he is missing most of his bottom teeth. Stress dream #3 √

The train thins out at 96th Street and I overhear a woman talking about her daughter’s falling behind on her bar review course materials and freaking out because the bar exam is the last week of July.  Stress dreams #4 – ∞ √

I arrived at my office, tired and freaked out.  And glad I was awake and not living through my stress dreams starring random people on the street.

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Bucolic Amidst the Grit

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For those of you who remember New York City in the 1970s, it is hard to believe that these are pictures of along the Hudson River between 103rd and 123rd Streets in Manhattan. 

Ok, the guy in the hammock is a little over the top.  So, much so that the kayakers stopped to take a picture of him.  I was in the middle of my run and couldn’t get out my blackberry in time to take a picture of the kayakers taking a picture of the guy reading in a hammock.

It seems a little like an exurban paradise, if you don’t think about the Riverside Stabber — the insane man who has been stabbing people in the Park recently.

I felt very guilty about running in the Park with a psychopath on the loose because I have a child to raise (with the least amount of trauma) and protect (with the most amount of neurosis).  Then, my son comes home after a day in the country with his cousin, and I learn that he was walking on railroad tracks!!!  My cousin quickly assured me there was no electric third rail like there are in subways.  With family like this, the psychopath in the Park is the least of my worries.

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What’s PC

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I can’t keep up with the latest PC terminology.  “Intersex” was the new word for hermaprodite for ten years before someone told me that I needed to get with the times. 

Also, there are apparently six genders.  I can only count two — you could be one or the other, transitioning from one to the other or have both gender markers.  Still, only TWO unless you count points in the journey from one to the other.  Clearly, I am so backward and uncool that being a lesbian mom doesn’t even give me cover.

Therefore, in an effort to regain my “cool”, I am going to make up a new phrase that should be PC.  And I thought of it on the subway as I tried to squeeze between two full-sized individuals. 

No one likes the words “large,” “overweight,” “heavy” or “obese”.  Societal stigmas attach to the words like an octopus to a  [please, someone, fill in this blank — especially if you read about the crazy octopus as predictor of the World Cup winner].  (If I were Jacques Cousteau, I would be able to fill in that blank.  But, you get my point.)  

So, I think that we should use the terms “high volume” or “high density” instead.   Better connotations.  What do you think?

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