Of course, I’m not alone with this problem; families have disliked their sons’ gals for centuries.  His mother thinks no one is good enough for her baby, his father can’t stop talking about pre-nups and his brother continually mentions that his last girlfriend had a better rack.  Can’t wait for Thanksgiving!

My introduction to the not-so-fun world of Reverse Gender Meet the Fockers began with my first “serious” boyfriend’s parents.  They hated my religion (not Jewish) and frequent flouting of curfew, but mostly they hated that I was having sex with their baby.

Upon intercepting a triple XXX care package I had sent to his home (as a joke, I swear!), his parents responded with various futile attempts to curtail our discovery channel antics.  When directives to “keep the bedroom door open at all times” didn’t stop us from closing it and promptly getting naked, his mother made the mistake of opening said door, interrupting us mid-coitus.  No doubt scarred by the sight of her son’s bare butt, she barred me from returning to their home.

Of course, that’s what the backseats of cars are for.

Although that boyfriend and I eventually broke up, and almost eight years later, we remain good friends.  His parents, on the other hand, continue to preface my name with expletives, much to my amusement (Not my problem anymore!).

After a lovely respite of relative goodwill (no pun intended), my next experience with familial acrimony was my senior year in college.

“John” and I had been dating for almost a year when his younger sister started as a freshman at our university.  Due to years in boarding school together, they were extraordinarily close, and he admitted that she had never liked any of his previous girlfriends. Still, I’d always wanted a little sister and was elated that I could borrow his.  Although she became the constant third wheel, initially things were very friendly.

But when unrelated issues started to cause problems within my relationship with her brother, she let me know in no uncertain terms where her loyalty lay.  Blood is thicker than a shared love of designer shoes – and she quickly fanned the flames of our internal strife, hoping to get rid of “the girlfriend” altogether.

I wasn’t going to give up so easily, and poor John was caught in the middle of two very strong willed women.  After months of a “she-said-what?” cold war, we were all in the same room together when she shoved past me to leave.  With that, the simmering animosity ignited into a girl-on-girl fistfight, complete with pulling of hair and high decibel screeching.  One blackeye (me) and two meetings with the dean later, we were both served with campus restraining orders and instructed not to come within 100 feet of each other. The relationship, not surprisingly, didn’t survive.  Devastated at the time, the three of us now laugh hysterically at our collegiate scuffle.  (If only there had been jello …)

As I get older, family politics gets more serious – after all, the surest route to making “The One” “just another one” is really pissing off his mother.

In lieu of a full-out “Like Me!” ad campaign, I’ve found that the easiest way to ingratiate my partner’s family to me is by not screwing it up in the first place.  Since bad initial impressions are like toxic waste – infinitely easier to make than to remove – I now begin with a calmer, gentler, less controversial version of myself.

I painstakingly go over everything I should absolutely not mention in their presence, like my strident feminism or that new tantric sex position I’m dying to try.  I also watch the alcohol consumption.  One too many glasses of Pinot Noir (or, c’mon, shots of tequila) can turn the most well-intentioned first meeting into a cringe-worthy series of humiliating gaffes.

And if nothing else works, I remind my boyfriend’s parents that it could be much, much worse.  At least he’s not bringing Paris Hilton home to discuss the marketing strategy for their joint sex video.