Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Christmas Traditions and Modernism

One in a series of failed shots for a Christmas photo that never made the cut. #babieshatetolayinleaves

So, I recently saw this new ad from Apple that is amazaballs.  It is nostalgic, yet it is able to bridge the gap between tradition and reality.  It just got me to thinking.  The holidays are a time for reflection, whether or not you try to will it otherwise.  It just creeps into your subconscious.  You can celebrate or NOT celebrate traditions, but past traditions are sure to come a knockin', whether you like it or not.

"What do you want to do different than last year?'  I have lately started to ask myself.  I remember Christmases at my house that were supposed to be EXACTLY like the year before, but they never were. Even if all of the elements are in place, meaning the SAME decorations, the SAME meal, or the FAMILIAR Christmas-induced stress, the actual EVENT is always different.

Another one. Fail.  B.E. - Before Eva

And it is DIFFERENT because the setting may be the same, but the actors have changed, depending on the circumstances of the year preceding them.  What I mean by this, is that children are a year older (which can be unbelievably transforming) and babies are being born, or loved ones are absent, or situations have arised in the family that introduces new people.

There is NO other holiday, other than Christmas, that ignites such nostalgia and emotion in people, myself included.

Due to some water damage, about half of my Christmas decorations were ruined this year.   It was upsetting at first, but then a feeling of catharsis overcame me.  I was happy to toss some of my old decorations, even though many of them were symbols of memories I cannot replace.  But, on the other hand, I felt like starting fresh. In a way, it was a metaphor for embracing new things within my family, and honoring what is left.

It is a balance, and I certainly don't know if I am doing it correctly, but evolution is a huge part of maturation and growth.  In the past, I set a lot of precedents in the beginning, with Christmas, and my expectations constantly competed with reality.   By the end of the holiday, I was always left feeling deflated.

Ewwww. Let's take one of them in the stroller at Disney World for the Christmas card.  That'll be good.

I will honor the freakin' Elf on the Shelf marketing/Pinterest ploy because it puts a smile on my kids faces and gives them something to look forward to, but when Mills creates a folder dedicated to her elf (yes, in a weak moment last Christmas, I agreed to individual elves) that she intends to write nightly letters to, requesting answers such as "Can you name all of the reindeer?" and "Can you send me pictures of what you do at the North Pole?" I want to hang myself.

Look Mommy!  The elf's on the tree again.  Silly elf.

I am a cross between what I know, and what is now, and in MY World the balance comes with one word answers on a scrap piece of paper and three elves that migrate from one lame, obvious location of our main floor to the next.  I smile up at my Mom as I stir my coffee and the kids exclaim, "They're all in the bathroom wastebasket, again." To which my standard reply is always, "Silly elves."

I BROUGHT IT this year with the Advent Calender, though, I'm not gonna lie.  The presents have vacillated between couture chocolate wrapped in foil resembling toy soldiers from the Whole Foods and mini glittery nail polish ( 18 in a pack at The Giant Eagle Supasto' - that's six days, yo') to fuzzy socks from Da' Nordstrom teen department.  (They come in packs, natch)  None of the advent calender presents are expensive, there is just thought behind them, for a change.  I decided, this year, to make The Advent Calender special and there are specific instructions to APPRECIATE each gift, or they lose a day if they argue over a gift or disrespect it.  I've made them forfeit a day for bickering just last week. I'm not kidding.
I'll do an angels-devils theme.  That's dark, but creative, right? Um, just close your eyes this time, but don't smile.

Oh, the headband hurts your head?  I'm sorry. Here. Take your hand away from your face for a second.

Try and look straight at the camera and don't close your eyes.  I know the flash hurts, but this will just take a  minute and then I'll give you this Hershey kiss, okay?

I feel like , sometimes, while you decorate, and order all your gifts off the internet, and hide the elf, and write his letters and address your Christmas cards and shit, you forget WHY you are doing what you do in the first place.  And then by the time Christmas Eve rolls around, you are so spent emotionally, physically, financially, and mentally that it is difficult to just live in the moment, especially if that moment is foreign to you, when it was SUPPOSED to be familiar and comforting.

I'm not trying to be Debbie Downer, I think I am just stating the obvious.  What it all comes down to, for me, is just providing some sort of magic for a very short period of time this year that, hopefully, my kids will enjoy and possibly pass down to their children, with their own nuances and modernisms.

I no longer WANT every holiday to be expected and according to plan.  What I REALLY want is to ENJOY the fruits of my labor, for a change.  I want to see the looks in their eyes and not video tape it.  I want to embrace their emotions as they open each gift and not evaluate them.  I want to chew my food and drink my wine and not worry about what I need to be doing NEXT.

So I am clear, I LOVES ME SOME CHRISTMAS.  It gives you an excuse to party and shop and brainstorm on all of the things that your loved ones would love to have.  If Christmas is anything, it is COMMERCIAL, but how you CHOOSE to make it have meaning, is the creative part of the game.

I look back on all of my Christmases fondly, but my favorites are when I was a kid, and I believe that is the way it should be.  My goal this Christmas is just to create another Christmas memory for my kids that they can reminisce about, not in the sense that everything is perfect, but in the sense that they felt love all around them. That, and a little bit of mystery, whether it be an elf that hangs upside down from their ceiling fan, or an unexpected, grown up gift for a girl who no longer believes in Santa, but is willing to keep the dream alive for her two younger sisters.

Let's just hope she likes it and that I don't get all broody if she doesn't have the response I was counting on, RIGHT?
This is what I'm hoping for.

SO, my advice to you has GOT to be pretty obvious by now.  Go out and get individual elves for your children, and encourage them to write curious, lengthy letters to each of them every night, or YOU are a lesser parent than I.  Word.

Monday, November 25, 2013

Asserting your dominance - The Thanksgiving Edition

This is what Eva's face looks like right before she strikes.  She has NOOOOO problem asserting her dominance over her sisters.

So, I've been giving a lot of thought to asserting your dominance.  It is just one of those things that once you see it, you can't UNSEE it.  The concept occurred to me one Saturday night when Brad made some excuse to go out, after we went to see a movie with the kids. (And by this, I mean, that Brad and I went to see a movie and the girls went to see a movie and we were at the same theater, but not IN the same theater, ya' dig?)  For some reason I can no longer STOMACH anything animated unless it is by Pixar, or if it is directed by Tim Burton.  Just sayin'.  Dirty little secret #236.....revealed.  Look, I cried when I saw Frankenwennie - that shit is ART.  But, put me in a movie with a thousand other kids and their overly enthusiastic-acting/pretending Moms while we watch a weak plotted, sub-standard cartoon for two hours, and I might as well be in a Turkish prison.  Sorry Eva, my dance card is all punched out from your two older siblings...again.

WWHHYYYY just the other day, the kids had the day off school and I was all "Hey, you guys wanna go see movie?"  and they were all "Are YOU gonna go with us?"  and then I was all, "You don't wanna go see MY movie, so why don't YOU guys go see whatever the shit (sic) with Hallie and I will bring and buy a BUNCH of snacks."

WE HAVE NOW OPENED UP THE NEGOTIATIONS.  The United Nations has less discussion than my kids and I have, when presented with an opportunity where they can manipulate me.  These situations, my friends, is where the term MIND GAMES originated.

"Can we get slushies?"  Mills is gonna shoot first.

"Yeahhhhh" Eves chimes in, because girlfriend is already calculating the box of candy:slushy sugar rush ratio.  Gawd love her.

"You can get ONE slushy," I retort, "but you have to split it, so you need to agree on what flavor you want BEFORE we get to the theater."

"Can I have a Diet Coke?"  Hallie innocently asks.

"Sure. Consider this babysitting.  Pay it forward, Hal, and good things are in your future."

" A Laaaarrrrrgggee?"  she is craning her neck and batting her eyelashes.  She's got me right where she wants me, and she knows it.

I need to assert my dominance, here, because if I don't, it is the equivalent of the your first water boarding. You can't completely cave, but you need to give them a little something so they'll stop, and maybe give you a cigarette.

"NO, a SMALL, " I say, as I prepare to mentally square off with Hallie, "but you can also get a large popcorn and share.  We'll bring our own candy from Halloween.  You may buy ONE box candy to split.  Agree on it now.  Done.  End of negotiations.  Let's draw up an agreement."

"Wait....Mom....Wait"  Here comes Mills again.  "What movie are you going to see?"

"It's highly inappropriate and cerebral. (Here they all ask what "cerebral" means and I ignore them.)  You guys would hate it.  I think people my age or even older, actually kiss in it."

"EEwwwwwwww" they all say in unison.

"No THANK YOU," says Eva as she smacks her lips thinking about all the sugar she is about to consume.  She is one that TOTALLY goes to movies to wreck herself.  She always leaves a film with Skittles in between her blue teeth eclipsed by a chocolate halo surrounding her mouth.  She could've just walked out of a subtitled, black and white, boutique French film and she could care less.  MOVIE equals SUGAR HIGH.  Point. Blank. Period.

This Eva with an icing covered Minion Twinkie cupcake at her soccer game.  It was a teammate's birthday.  "Which teammate?" I ask.  "I don't know," Eva garbles as she washes down the last of it with a Capri Sun, and then proceeds to lick each finger.  NIIICCCCEEE.

"So, it's settled.  I've already researched and our movies are 5 minutes apart.  Get ready RIGHT NOW and I'll Fandango it.  Ewwww, maybe this will help me get to my limit so I might even get CREDITS!!!!"

I am giddy.  I pulled it off.  I am INCHES from the finish line when Mills interrupts AGAIN.

"Wait...Mom...are any other people gonna be in the theater?"

We all have a flashback to the time when Hallie and Mills tried to see a movie by themselves that Hallie really wanted to see, and Mills freaked out because they were the only two people in the theater. Mills made Hallie leave, and caused a big scene and I had to come pick them up, leaving my appetizer and fresh cocktail on the table. 

I'm not gonna relive that shit again.  "Roll the dice, Johnna, you really wanna see this movie.  Pull it together."  the little devil on my left shoulder whispers in my ear, behind the back of his hand.

"Of cooouuuurrrssse other people will be in the theater.  Everybody has the day off."

And somehow, the stars aligned and their stupid movie was packed with young kids and eager Moms.

Well, I sat them all down, repeated my theater number to them all several times (they asked, I wouldn't have given out that information readily), went through the whole "I would NEVER send ANYONE to get you if I were hurt, but someone I KNOW" speech which they finished for me, handed out their candy, went back to concessions (don't forget to use your Stubs on those too, ohhhh and the bar - THEY TAKE STUBS AT THE BAR, YO') got all the previously negotiated loot, dropped that off, hugged and kissed each one of them and thanked them, tossed a glance up at the Moms that were all staring me down, winked, and bounded down the crimson and gold, glorious bottomlit stairs.  That's how it's DOOONNNEEE, beaaacccheeess.  Boom!

This was my view.  So happy I took a photo of it.

Okkaaayy, so that's ONE form of asserting your dominance, be it a little passive-aggressive.  Yet, ANOTHER way, is the way a MAN asserts his dominance.

So, back to that night, where I left off, where Brad was trying to wiggle out of the house after we saw a NIGHT movie.  I had discussed my successful diabolical movie plan to him that happened earlier in the week, and he was TOTALLY game for reenacting it on a Friday night.  We saw Gravity, and they saw whatever the shit.

So we're home now, and I was two gigantic beers in, that I drank at the movie theater, and I was standing at my kitchen sink pondering a Facebook post that read, "Today I am thankful for the new bar that they installed at the Lennox Movie theater."   which I, then, planned on doing a SERIES of Thanksgiving posts that would be a PARODY of the popular "Thankful" series, and then Andrew Lorms showed up.

Friends, I know I have been posting about him a lot, and he's probably going to start asking for royalties (and by ROYALTIES, I mean free bourbon, which he is already getting, and a TON of shit from his friends and acquaintances.).
OMG.  I googled Andy, and this is his work photo.  LOVE.

Okay, and when I say SHOW UP, I mean he knocked, then WALKED through my front door and proceeded to go down in the basement carrying three expensive IPA beers.  I was in the kitchen, cleaning up, and thinking about what I was going to do with my night BY MYSELF, and then there he was.

"What are you doing?" I say, as he rounds the corner to the basement.

"I'm goin' down in your basement.  Oh, Hi Johnna,"  a wave and a giggle.  I get this more than I am willing to admit.  Only the characters change.

"Brad's gone.  They went to Meisters."

"What?" Andrew hesitates. "They said they were staying here."

"They changed their minds.  I don't know what to tell you."  I was putting a smorgasbord of frozen fried food in the oven for the kids, as I put on another movie for them.

"Meister's sucks," Andrew declares, "They have shitty bourbons.  Why are they going THERE?"  He considers, "Well, then, I'll just stay here with YOU." And without hesitation, "Do you have any bourbon?  What kind do you have?"

"All the same brands as Meisters," I reply. "I actually ORDER mine from them." I deadpan.

So, we have a blast and we talk and drink wine and I show him my new aerator and I give him a taste test between aerated and non-aerated wine, and he chooses the non-aerated one, I think, but I am not sure because when I was doing the "roulette" part of switching around the two glasses, I got confused at one point. Then, we moved it down to the basement where I put on my Christina Perri Pandora radio station I have been honing for several months.

It became awkward at times because Mills kept asking me if Daddy knew that Mr. Lorms was here, but then the girls started coming down and stealing his scarf and that golfer-beenie cap thingy he always wears, and it stopped being weird.  I guess if you consider THAT scenario more normal.  Which you shouldn't.

Thhhheeeennn, I hear a bounding down the basement stairs and low and behold, Mike Jano, my neighbor is before me.  He tells me he knocked on the back door and unfazed, Eva let him in, and told him we were downstairs.  Hilarious.

Got this off Facebook.  #Definitelyafilteryo

Immediately, upon impact, Mike is turning off my "GNO playlist", putting a football game on, and placing it on mute, and then proceeds to entertain me with his OWN playlist from his phone.

Within seconds, Lorms changes his tune, and he is talking about the score of the game and bitching about the music, and denouncing his aerated wine for an IPA. "Get me a beer, Jano.  What IS this shit I am drinking?"

"How did this happen?"  I think to myself.  One minute, I am debating whether or not to watch Million Dollar Shoppers or enjoy my GNO playlist as I surf social media or maybe write a blog, while I drink a glass of wine in the basement by myself, and then the next minute, I am surrounded by two men that are NOT the husband that I got rid of, and I am watching SPORTS and listening to the Avett Brothers.  What. The. Fuck.  How did I get here?

Anyway, I began to start noticing how men assert their dominance all the time.  It is a well-known fact that in almost every species of animal, and culture, the male asserts his dominance as soon as he enters new surroundings.  Mike Janowicz may as well have circled my basement, lifted his leg and peed on top of my rust-colored ottoman. Okay, full disclosure.  I had a blast with the both of them, and we told stories and laughed our asses off.

It WAS funny, though, they both left right before Brad got home.  I guess I should go ahead and stack rocks in my yard, because in MY NEIGHBORHOOD, that constitutes SWINGIN'!  Let the rumors fly.  I WELCOME them.  I will imitate the side hump (a la Will Ferrill in Wedding Crashers: see below) on every unsuspecting male in my vicinity, at school pick up, just to drive the point home.

Anyway, I've started noticing how Brad will arrive from Medina, and he will drop his bag with a loud bang and then stretch/fart/burp/yawn/bellow loudly to announce his arrival. ( I mean, the man obviously watched too much Leave it to Beaver growing up.)  He will then unload all of his work shit on the family room table in the epicenter of our home - no really, our house is literally laid out with the dining room in the heart of the house and the rest of the rooms are around it's periphery.

He sets up his computer, turns on his Grateful Dead Pandora station, and proceeds to bang away on his laptop, as he intermittently broadcasts each of his voice mails on speaker.

I mean, why don't you just get a voice over for your fucking emails so we can hear them, too?  See if you can get a Siri for that shit.  Brad, IT IS QUIET IN HERE.  ANNOUNCE YOUR ARRIVAL, BITCH!

Seriously, I have a few pieces of advice for y'all today,

(1) See Enough Said.  That is the movie I saw "with" the kids on their day off.  Not only do I LOVE James Gandolfini, and secretly mourned his death by watching back to back episodes of The Sopranos the week that he passed, but I cried during this movie like a baby, not only because of the content, but because he was so eloquent in this role.  In my eyes, I saw it as a real breakthrough for him, in terms of shattering the mold of that gangster stereotype he is famous for.  I would love to see a posthumous Oscar, here, or at the very least, a nomination for Best Supporting Actor.  I tend to crave movies that I can identify with, those slice of life indie films - and this certainly delivers.  All the players are here, too.  It is the perfect storm, as far as I'm concerned....Tony Collette, Catherine Keener, and the fabulous Julia Louis-Dreyfuss.  Even Melissa McCarthy's husband, Ben Falcone, is awesome in it. He played the "Sky Cop" in Bridesmaids. He's one to watch, peeps.

(2) Stubs is awesome.  Get the app and put it in your passport area.  Brad simply LOOOVVVEESS it when I have to bring it up on my phone, when we are paying for drinks at the Theater bar.  (He says I look as if I should have a fanny pack, when I do stuff like that.) If nothing else, do it for that bug the shit out of everyone around you.  You get $10 credits for every $100 you spend, so why not, right? (Disclaimer:There is an annual fee, but if you see movies like I do, and have a big family, it more than pays for itself.)

(3) Fandago is another guilty techno pleasure of mine.  It's an app that enables you to purchase tix online.  If you have an accompanying Stubs account, there is no processing fee.  Genius, pure genius.  You can just pull the tix up on your phone for that, too.  Enjoy the line that forms behind you while fidget with that, as well.  I LOVE IT.

(4) I love the new show Million Dollar Shoppers. My best friend, Alissa, turned us onto it.   It is on Lifetime, and the premise is that there are three personal shoppers who service New York City and surrounding areas.  There are tons of B list celebrity wives, ballers' spouses and Jersey divas as clients. And the shoppers, themselves, well,  THEY could be characters out of a Hunger Games - the rich districts.   I'm not gonna spoil it for y'all, just watch it.  It's free.

(5) Start a Christina Perri Pandora station. They have the BEST accompanying artists with her.  Be vigilant, though.  THAT is the key to every REALLY GREAT Pandora station....EDITING.

And finally, if you have heard nothing else, (6) ASSERT YOUR DOMINANCE, this Holiday season.  Walk into that Thanksgiving dinner like you OWN it.  Go ahead, take the last hor dourves on the tray....EVERY TIME.  Be first in line at the buffet line.  Take the best seat next to the side table, between the fridge and the T.V.  Cut a big slice out of the turkey, better yet, RIP it off with your bare hands, while it's still on the kitchen island, awaiting placement. Drink too much.  Break some Thanksgiving knick knack that has been in the family for years, as you trip on the way to the cooler.  Hell, BRING a cooler and set it next to you on the edge of the couch, or put your feet up on it. Who cares?  Start a fight with your in-laws, a fist fight, just you girls.  Or wrestle your nephews, and take it too far - where they get kinda hurt and go tell their Mom.  Walk in that room and show EVERARYBODY who is the pack leader.

Assert. Your. Dominance. this Holiday season. Happy Thanksgiving.

Friday, October 25, 2013

Ray Donovan: A Healthy Fantasy or no?

Purrrrr. And no one will, Ray.  No one wiiillllll.

Okay, I just LOVES me some Ray Donovan.  He just TOTALLY does it for me.  I have been mulling around a blog post in my mind about the show since its inception on Showtime a couple of months ago, and I kept trying to think of an angle other than elaborating on the character arcs in the show, or examining plot twists and their underlying meaning, and then today, while eating at Piada by myself (don't feel bad for me, I LOVE being alone, especially when B works from home-another post I intend to write entitled "Why I hate it so much when Brad works from home: The anthology") it CAME to me.  Johnna, just write about how HOT he is and how you fantasize about him all the time when you are driving your kids around and the rest will fall into place...and it did.  Well, every artist has his process, I guess.

Soooo, if you are not familiar, Liev Schrieber plays Ray Donovan, who is basically a kind of "closer" or "security firm" of sorts for this attorney and this other guy, who I have determined is really wealthy, but they haven't really given you a background on him.  Ray is a bad ass mofo, from "the neighborhood" in Boston, who has "relocated" to L.A.  The clients are usually Hollywood types that get themselves into some sort of trouble (read: dead hookers and/or sex with trannies) and then Ray Donovan has to clean up their messes.

Okay, that's enough.  Let's get back to how hot he is.  Basically, I feel about Ray Donovan, they way that my twelve-year-old daughter feels about Harry Stiles.
I swear.  Sometimes this blog unexpectedly makes me laugh so hard.

 I would hang a poster of him on the inside of my closet and have him be the last thing I look at before I close my eyes each night, if it weren't so sophomoric.  Yet ANOTHER of society's standards that I have to abide by.  Ugh!
This is the poster I want.  "Good night, Johnna. Sweet dreams.  See you in the morning...or maybe later tonight."

However, interestingly enough, I have found that I am not necessarily attracted to Liev Schieber, just Ray Donovan.  But, let's back up.  So, while I was watching the series, I became increasingly mesmerized with Ray Donovan, and I would look forward to watching each episode on Sunday nights, forcing myself to stay awake, even though I would be exhausted.  Then, he started creeping into my subconscious and I started DREAMING about him.  And let me just tell you, that we were NOT having a business meeting, if you get my drift.  Unless by business meeting you mean I'm in sales and he's my no. 1 account. (  LOL.

So, at the time, I had Liev Schieber confused with Ray Donovan and I began googling him and paying too close attention to the details of photos of him and his family in the "Stars, They're Just Like Us" section of my US magazine, and I would think impure thoughts like, "Maaannnn, Naomi Watts gets to TAP THAT any time she wants," followed by "but he aint' MARRYIN' her though. Whore."
Desperate.  He's sooo not into her, see?  I kid.  She is amazing.

But, then I started watching OTHER movies he was in, and they kind of sucked sometimes and I was all disappointed that he wasn't being Ray Donovan, and then I decided that he probably trims his toenails in bed and I figured I can get THAT shit at home, and I became all disillusioned with the MAN and decided that I needed to separate the two and just focus on the CHARACTER, so as to not to disrupt my fantasy life.  Whew.

So, now let us analyze the fact that I am attracted to a total sociopath.

Is it that when he makes sexytime with his onscreen wife, Abby, (Paula Malcolmson) that he seems ultra hot and attentive and dangerous?  It doesn't HURT.  Actually, it looks like it might.  Daaaaaaammmmnnn, Ray Donovan.  You Craaaazzzyyy.

Look.  There he is in his bathroom. 

Is it the Boston accent (from "Southy") that I'm attracted to?  You betcha'! I've been into Boston accents since Good Will Hunting.  I especially like when they pronounce "yoga" with a soft "R' on the end.  As in, "No, I don't go to Mass anymore, I do yogar."  Classic.

Is it the stereotypical "bad boy" thing.  I mean, Ray Donovan literally goes around fucking people up for a living, whether they are morally wrong or not,  it is always whatever is in his clients' interests.  Don't get me wrong, though, he is a gangsta with a heart, and that is part of what makes him so appealing.  Still, how embarrassing.  I am officially a cliche.  I may as well be enamored with Julia Roberts' character in Pretty Woman - that "hooker with a heart of gold" phenom gets me every time.  Jesus.

Ewwww. I love it when he's on his PHONE.  It's intoxicating.

I also need to be careful here, because Brad is gonna read this and burst in from his hour and a half drive from Medina and slam me against the pantry door or something.  Well, I guess if I'm being honest that beats the dry hump I get every time he spies me unloading the dishwasher.

I digress.  I guess my point is that Ray Donovan is a deeply disturbed, aggressive, cheating, lying homicidal bully for hire...and I've got it bad for him.

IF I had to pinpoint EXACTLY why he intrigues me so much, it is how PASSIONATE he is about every category of this life - wrong or right.

I realize he is a character, and he is acting, and therefore, his actions must be over the top because he stars in a DRAMA.  I also am aware that Ray Donovan in real life would be a total buzzkill.

I've got ENOUGH drama in my life with braces and Fall production and learning how to do fishtail braids on YouTube.  The last thing I need is my husband storming in with cuts all over his face demanding that we all go down to the panic room.

Truly, dissecting my crush right now is demoralizing so I need to stop here.

It just goes to show that a fantasy is meant to be just that - the IDEA of something, rather than what it would be like to interject it into your real life.

Ray Donovan is appealing to me not only because he is completely inaccessible (I'm talking about Liev, here. Duh, I'm not THAT far gone.) but because he does not exist, he is a fabrication that I am able to project onto him anything I want to.

I often wonder if Leo DiCaprio ever experiences this, when he picks some random Victoria Secret model out of their most recent catalog.  Is he disheartened after a three day bang session with them, only to wake up one morning and discover that they don't speak a LICK of English?  I mean, he tends to be a serial, modelizing monogamist, so I am miffed.  Do they both learn sign language?  Does he hire an interpreter?  I could go on forever.  But, the real question, here, is that at what point does he realize that his fantasies about her do not correspond with their reality?

ANYWAY, my advice to you today is to get Showtime if you don't have it and watch Ray Donovan.  The entire season is On Demand.  Spoiler Alert:  Jon Voight steals EVERY scene he is in.  He, and this show will CLEAN UP at Grammy time.  If you don't believe me, check out my predictions on Homeland two years ago.  (

Oh, and don't analyze your fantasies.  Not if you want to RETAIN those fantasies, that is.  And don't blog about them either.  I let Brad read this last night and he's already sporting a five o'clock shadow and strutting around in expensive Italian suits, only after showering up at his new boxing gym, natch.
Oy vey.

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Why marriage is subject to MY interpretation

Our wedding day, nineteen years ago. Oh, no, that's not a filter.  That is a photo of a photo on our wall.  Hence, the reflection of my Iphone.  Classic.  Nothing but the best for my audience.

Today is my husband, Brad, and I's 19th Wedding Anniversary.  (I am fairly sure that is a poorly structured and grammatically incorrect sentence. Who cares?) Following tradition, it is customary to reflect on your relationship, and as I was changing the sheets this morning, I was thinking about what I wanted my "shout out" on Facebook to be.  This is also a long standing "custom" passed down from generation to generation on one's anniversary.  No, silly, not changing the sheets - posting a status update about the state of your marriage and then TAGGING your spouse.

My initial thought was to post "To my SMOKIN' HOT husband on our 19th Wedding Anniversary" and then I thought, Noooo, that's too short, how 'bout  "to my SMOKIN' HOT husband on our 19th Wedding Anniversary.  Everyday since October 22nd, 1994 has been like Christmas morning." And then I thought I'd add a little dash of honesty, "like, except for every third Thursday or so, when I want to stab you in your jugular while you sleep" and then I thought, "Oh, hell, I'll just write a blog.  My Boo DESERVES that."  This is the way my brain operates, y'all.  If you give me a mundane task, my psyche compensates by dreaming shit like this up.  Sort of like when someone loses their sight, another sense of theirs becomes heightened.

Sooooooo, here we are.  Fasten your seatbelt, Brad, and stop group texting your friends because I have chosen YOU and our MARRIAGE as the subject of this blog, which I then, intend to generalize to other married people, where I will then TRANSFER all of my aggression on to them. SIGH.

So, let's be clear.  Brad lives in a house full of females. At any given time, there is a hormonal meltdown going on and you cannot take three steps without stepping on a tampon wrapper or a hairband.

I think one of my favorite things that Brad does, is when he tries to engage one of our daughters while she is literally the eye of a menstrual storm, and he is shot down so hard and so fast that I make a mental note to check and see if his penis still exists.  And then I forget, of course.

Ewww that video is scary.  But, not HALF as scary as when Brad tries to impart some testosterone laced wisdom on our girls.  When he uses a sports analogy, well, that is just icing on the cake.

ANYWAY, in my eyes, marriage is subject to interpretation.  What works for one couple WOULD NOT work for another couple and so on and so forth.  I am sure I am not telling you anything you do not already know.  It's just that the MORE I look around at other couples, the more THEY all look similar and mine looks well, UNIQUE.  Except when it comes to husband bashing, that is.  THAT, my friends is a universal language.

Any marriage therapist will tell you that in every marriage, you make concessions.  You HAVE to, in order to coexist.  Compromise is the only way to to truly cohabitate with another person and then when you add LOVE to it, then the power structure becomes that much more complicated.

For example, when Brad and I were first married and we lived in a tiny studio apartment in Boulder, Colorado (Sooo fun.  GREAT time in our marriage)  he would watch football as I folded the laundry, even though I was sitting RIGHT next to him, and our stackable unit was RIGHT next to the television he was watching.  When I would complain, he would pick up a towel and spend the next 45 minutes folding it.  Now, I thought this was ADORABLE at the time, because he had just put a ring on it, and I was in that delusional honeymoon period where ironically enough, everything that I found captivating about him then, I simply ABHOR now.

You see, I made concessions then, about the laundry, and without realizing it, gave him the permission to NOT help me, and now with a family of five, I literally feel like I live at an Asian dry cleaner in New York City. Especially since our dryer vent has a bunch of puncture wounds.

But, then like all oppressed people (read: French Revolution/Storming of the Bastille and Kanye West/Not enough people realizing he is the Second Coming) you begin to rebel.  But, like all rebellions, it revels itself in increments, until the proverbial straw is placed on your sorry assed, laundry schleping back, and you do something so outlandish and so out of character that you even surprise YOURSELF at your own audacity.

For instance, the other night, we went out with our friends Jackie and Andrew.  I have mentioned Andrew before in several posts ( and he is an absolute TRIP to go out with.  You see, Brad and I are not married to him, so we anticipate his idiosyncrasies the way one might anticipate their favorite HBO series on a Sunday night.  But, for his wife, she is OVER IT because she lives with it, so she is relegated to little acts of rebellion to maintain her sanity.


Let me explain.  Ohhh, I am so excited to share this with all of you because I have literally thought about it ALL WEEKEND!  Anyway, we are sitting at the expansive bar at Gallo's, in the corner, so it is as if we four are at a table together, but we are closer to the booze and the t.v.'s.  So, Jackie tells me that she and Andy were there the night before for Andrew's mom's birthday, and that she became so irritated with him at one point that she left the table and went and sat outside for a minute.

I'm intrigued.  I live for this shit.  There is NOTHING more dissatisfying to me than to go out with another couple that feigns respect for one another.  Let me put it to you this way, if you sit down with us for dinner and begin with some opener about how your husband surprised you with a sitter "for no reason at all" and whisked you away to a spa last weekend, you are DEAD to me, and you are in marriage counseling. Fact.  Sell it some place else, sista'  'cause I ain't pickin' up what you're puttin' down.  And that's why Facebook is such a joke.  But, I'll stop there, because I am trying to keep this post from being a hate blog, especially since it's supposed to be wishing my husband  a "Happy Anniversary".  It's okay, though, 'cause he's met me...and met me...and met me.

So, anyway, Jackie says that Andrew orders a glass of red wine and makes a big point about getting the $10 Cabernet, instead of the $7 Cab "cause it's SHIT," he declares and then he tells Jackie to order it for him, if the waitress returns while he is in the restroom.

So, the waitress returns, and she orders the $7 GLASS and he comes back and asks if she ordered the $10 one, and she lies and says she did, and no one is paying attention at the table about what is going on but the two of them, and then Andy is all "This Cab is fantastic!  It is sooo much better than their other $7 one" and all this bullshit and then he circles his pointer finger in the air above the rim of the glass and bellows, "I'll take another round!  This is delicious.  I can really tell a difference between a $7 glass of Cab and a $10 glass of Cab, because I have a refined wine palate." Jackie was imitating him at the bar next to me as she recanted the story and apparently, as he pontificated about his palate, he was swirling the wine in his glass and looking through it, and it was poised in the air as if he was about to make a toast.  We were howling with laughter.


Now THAT marriage is REAL. 

But, then, that is only MY interpretation of a marriage.  I don't think you have to have a reenactment of War of the Roses or Mr. and Mrs. Smith every evening, but every NOW and again you need to take little shots at each other to retain your sanity.  Otherwise, in my mind, if you don't, you will blow like a shaken up 2-liter of Diet Coke.

I met Brad when I was 19-years-old and he is the love of my life.  We have three bright, hilarious daughters and an insane dog.  We have been through a lot together and our marriage has gotten worse sometimes before it got better, but each time we've come through something, we have done it on our own terms, with our own special set of marital coping skills that we have acquired over the last 19 years.  I suppose it is based on our parents' marriages and is a combination of our special set of circumstances and each of those factor's outcomes.  I also view our marriage as something fluid and continuous and that it has to be, because there is so much more to be experienced.

Of all of the vows that I recited 19 years ago, "For better or for worse" pretty much encompasses OUR MARRIAGE.  What is implied here, is that we will go the distance, and that being apart in this life is not an option we are going to chose. 

I think it's in the subtext here that "obey" can kiss my ass. Brad and everyone that knows me, KNOWS that obey is not in my vocabulary. But, it BETTA' be in HIS, or he is gonna FEEL MY WRATH.

So, my gift to you, today, other than this heartfelt post that will surely be translated into many languages, is also a confessional of sorts.  For the past year, I have been buying new socks every month, rather than laundering them.  I am dangerously close to adding underwear to my list.  I anticipate by 2015, our washer and dryer will become obsolete, much like the relic that is our treadmill, and the long forgotten ironing board. With any luck, and my free will, our laundry room will resemble a ghost town at some point in the near future.

Brad, it is no secret that you have suspected just a tinge of peri-menopausal-induced instability on my part, and for your anniversary I am copping to ONE of my tiny revolutionary strikes against you and our marriage.  No, no, shhhhhhh, don't speak, my love.  You're welcome.

On a serious note, Brad, to me, marriage is all about weathering the storm with someone.  Love is not a new ring or a trip to The Maldives or the finest dinner money can buy.  What I look for in a mate, and what (thank the good Lawd, here) I feel is synonymous with LOVE is ACCEPTANCE.  To have someone see you every which way and still like you, and want to be with you, is true love in my eyes.  I'm talkin' about unadulterated grown up love - the kind of love that endures, the kind of love where you say you are sorry, not because you lost a marital power play, but because you really are. Because maybe you shouldn't have lost your cool like that. And because the other person didn't do anything to warrant it.  And because you care what the other one thinks and how they feel about what goes on behind your closed doors.

Brad and I have mastered this dance and I am appreciative because I believe that it is just human nature to show your most unpleasant sides to the ones you care for the most, not only because they live with you, but because you CAN.  Thanks for the acceptance, B, and hopefully I show my pleasant sides at least as often as I reveal the ugly. I just love you to pieces.

Happy Anniversary, honey.  And so help me GAWD, if you dump your filthy, nasty Medina overnight bag in my kitchen tonight, right under the laundry shoot swinging door thingy, instead of loading it in there, I will jump on you like a Mama Puma, anniversary or no anniversary. Ya' feel me?

Thursday, October 3, 2013

Female Prisons, Netflix addiction and Matt Lauer's Shame

So, lately I have been feeding my addiction for Netflix.  It began innocently enough with the series "Orange is the New Black" and culminated with me forcing to keep my eyes open at midnight on a Wednesday so that I could watch the series finale of Breaking Bad.  I've given myself over to the dark side, fo' shizzle, you know, in between bike rides with my kids and unloading the dishwasher.

I had fallen behind with Breaking Bad, which I trumpeted many posts ago (see: and I recently relapsed.  Props to me - I LOVE congratulating myself when I recognize a trend, well before it becomes into public focus, and then I am simultaneously irritated when my discovery becomes mainstream.  I LOVE to be all "I spotted this five years ago", but, I HATE it when something I discovered early on, is regurgitated back to me via the Today Show, resplendent with it's witty banter and fresh flower arrangements.  Let me put it to you this way, when Breaking Bad is featured as an audience participation game show out on The Plaza, I feel like the fifth seal has been broken.  And while we are on the subject, don't you think that Matt Lauer cries himself to sleep every night, while in the fetal position, in his Brooks Brothers pin striped pajamas?  I know he makes a TON of money, but if I had to do some of the stupid shit they have him endure each morning, at some point I would question my place in the World. Maybe he laughs all the way to the bank each Friday (no longer an applicable analogy in today's direct deposit-obsessed society) but I can be willing to BET that he has some dim moments watching the replays of that luge run with Al Roker.

ANYWAY, let's start with Orange is the New Black.  Obsessed.  Let's face it.  I am NOT PG.  I am R rated kinda gal, and I enjoy gritty, shiv-infested, girl on girl prison drama.  It is funny, because I started watching it and it just RESONATED with me, and I kept TRYING to enjoy my day-to-day life, but I kept making excuses to go down in the basement where our WII (Netflix streaming, y'all)  is kept, where I would feign laundry tasks, as I sat upright on the edge of my seat, to watch my

WHY?  Why am I so ENAMORED with this series that features a former debutante from New York, engaged to a stereotypical Jewish American Prince, (played flawlessly by Jason Biggs, I might add - his parents in it are even BETTER, his mom refers to their housekeeper as "the girl" who "left soup" at one point) who began a tawdry lesbian relationship after college with a Heroin Distributor (my favorite character - Laura Prepon of "That Seventies Show") who, then, in turn, names HER to the Feds ten years later, which lands the protagonist, played by Taylor Schilling, belly up in a women's correctional facility, because she carried a bag of drug money ONCE, out of an airport, ten years ago.  Exhale.

My girl crush.  On a lesbian.  Totally normal for a housewife of three.  Deep in my addiction, yo'!

Okay, that SEEMS like a lot of absorb, but that is NOTHING compared to the drama (pronounced drAMa, as in I "AM") that ensues once she is INSIDE the prison.  On the day of intake, the managing guard who introduces her to prison life says, "Women fight with gossip and rumors."  No truer thing has ever been spoken.  And what damage we can do, when we set our minds to it, right ladies?  Can I get an AMEN?  Who needs whittled-down, pointy toothbrush handles and flat-head screwdrivers to inflict pain, when we can just use the good ol' fashioned weapon of communication to annihilate each other?

Anyway, I kept asking myself, "Why can't I stay away from this?" and "What is it about this series that I IDENTIFY with?"  And then it hit me.  All female...drama...fighting...OH MY GAWD, I LIVE in a women's prison, albeit low security, but STILL!

I immediately began fantasizing about my three girls wearing orange jumpsuits that I fully intend to monogram with "Upper Arlington Correctional Facility" for Halloween.  Where?  Where can I get my hands of some plastic shackles?  I know it might inhibit little Eves' mobility, but they need to be AUTHENTIC.  I would make sure they didn't shower for days so their hair was all greasy, or they could wear do rags....shivs in their back pockets...meth mind was a flurry of activity.  Let me just say this...I cannot WAIT for the Halloween parade at school! 

No more princess costumes for you, beaacchheess.  You're in MY world now.
Awww, Elaine, the best dog I've ever owned.  I need to show Scarlett that pic.

Fast forward. I am at my aesthetician's (say this with a lisp, please, I always do) Amy Linville, who does my brows, (which is NOT easy because at one point in high school, I started shaving between them because it seemed less labor intensive than using tweezers), and we are discussing Netflix addiction and I explain to her that I am mid-episode of OITNB.  Well, we start pontificating about how difficult that is for a person with a Netflix addiction and then, of course, I start using analogies like "leaving half a glass of wine on the bar of a restaurant" and the like, and then I escalate by saying "like leaving half a line of coke on the mirror" and then there is this uncomfortable silence.  Whoops.  There I go, again.

You see, a fault of mine, I mean, ONE of a series of faults of mine is that I like to PRETEND that I have done drugs that I have not done.  Crystal meth is a another such conversation halter.  Truly, (see:  I have never done or have even been around cocaine in my life (now, that's not true.  I was around people in college on it, I just found out later,) because of the Len Bias incident, but I simply LOVE to use jargon associated with heavy drug abuse like "dirty riggs" and "cooking spoon" and "chasing the high" (see: and so forth, in casual conversation.  If I can work any of these into a conversation at a school function, all the better.

Most of my knowledge was obtained through my social worker experiences - as one, not assigned to one, and the rest of it comes from T.V. and the world wide web.  I could have been a WRITER for Breaking Bad.  I've been doing personal research on meth labs all my adult life.  (see:

So, let me be clear, that I can say with COMPLETE confidence that I have never done cocaine, and no one will ever be able to say that I was party to it, because it never happened, and there are no grainy videos of me smoking SALVIA, and no topless selfies, (probably because that became a trend after I nursed three babies, but back in the day, given the technology...)  I AM CLEAN, I tell you, CLEAN. There may be, however, some Eastern High School Talent show footage which I will happily cop to, once it is dug up by Matt Lauer for our "top of the hour" interview one day, because NO ONE and I mean NO ONE can cover FAME's "Out Here On My Own" like I can.

Ok,  You don't even know WHAT I found when I googled to find this pic.  So you know.  FYI - NOT my kitchen counter.  Reminded me that I need to get some baking soda, though.  My refrigerator smells.  Guidance nugget:  it can be used for THAT too.

Alright, back to Netflix.  I read this great article in GQ a few months back on how Netflix is changing the face of premium television.  It is also changing the way we VIEW television, in that it is producing and releasing entire SEASONS of series, SANS commercials, and in the process it has produced addicts, such as myself that BINGE on it's programming instead of vacuuming the Living Room.  They have decided to COOK the cocaine in a spoon and then we are to INJECT it, instead of SNORTING it because it is a much better HIGH for a fraction of the cost.  And this is all well and good until the SERIES IS OVER AND YOU HAVE TO WALK UPSTAIRS AND WAIT AND WAIT for them to HURRY UP AND MAKE THE NEXT SEASON SO YOU CAN CLEAN YOUR RIGS OFF AND START LYING YOUR ASS OFF ABOUT WHERE YOU HAVE BEEN AND WHAT YOU HAVE BEEN DOING WITH YOUR TIME WHEN YOUR KIDS ARE AT SCHOOL.

This is a pictorial metaphor for what it feels like when a series concludes on Netflix, ya' dig?

Listen, I have several pieces of advice for you, today.  First, don't do drugs and if you do, don't video or photograph yourself (or BE captured on film by someone) doing drugs. (Rihanna, why haven't you been arrested like the rest of America would be, or at least had your Instagram account suspended?). 

Secondly, contact Amy Linville to do your brows, 'cause she's a wizard, and she is really smart and really fun to talk with, and very reasonable.  She will also let you use her ipad to watch Netflix while you wait for your hurr to be did.  Contact me for info.

Love that I found this wizard photo.  This is NOT Amy.  Clearly, Eves inherited my brow problem.

Thirdly, and this has got to be pretty obvious at this point - DO NOT be afraid to force your children to dress up as something highly inappropriate for Halloween.  It is what parental dreams are made of.  Like I always tell MY children before I am about to embarrass them in front of their peers, "It's PAYBACK time, muthafuckas.  We all just DOIN' time up in heeeaarrr in 'dis piece."

Oh, and get Netflix and watch Orange is the New Black, because all of these references are infinitely funnier if you do.  PEACE TO DA' MIDDLE EAST, YO'!

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Meet the Morgans

Couldn't fix the eye problem.  FOILED again by my inability to comprehend technology.
 Who cares, right?  You get the idea.  

OK, I have these friends who are all sisters and everytime I am with them I wish that I had a camera crew because they would make an AWESOME reality show.  In my mind, I keep drawing paralells between them and the Kardashians because they have a younger brother, Will, and they are all bat shit crazy in one way or another.  Not the "crazy-eyed crazy, you see from time to time outside your child's room after parent-teacher conferences", that's more like "needs to be medicated" crazy or "overmedicated crazy" - no, the Morgan sisters (that is what I will call them because that is their maiden name) are "uninhibited crazy" and "crazy witty crazy" and let me tell you they are a BALL to go out with, as long as you bring a backbone, that is.

So the other night, as is a tradition I have with these hookers, we all went to the Rowe fashion show.  I usually am pretty confident when I dress myself, but when you go out with the Morgan sisters, you had better bring your A game.  Well, I got busy doing other stuff (read: Pinterest) and I started running late, and then I told myself I didn't care and my hair was wet when they came to get me and I put on this (what I thought) was this really cute slate grey dress I got from Anthropologie that was short sleeved and all tight in the bodice with a long flowing ankle length skirt with pockets.  Simple, understated, elegant - can't go wrong, right.  Well, just WAIT.

So, let's back up.  I've been rude.  Let me introduce my characters.  Megan, is my neighbor, and is the oldest, and is the first Morgan that I met.  But, if you meet one Morgan, you are going to meet ALL of the Morgans and their friends because THAT is how they roll.  Megan is one of my dearest friends and is the subject of the blog, The Guilt Free Generation ( that I wrote a few years ago.  Megan is irreverant and hysterical and empathetic and FIT and I am bonded to her forever, whether she likes it or not.  In terms of Fashion, she brings it whether she is mowing her lawn (I soooo wish I had a picture of her that day she mowed her lawn in her husband, Mike's basketball shorts and high tops) or if she is going out to get her DRANK on.  I have NEVER seen the girl without a face full of makeup.  Truth.  We've even been camping and to the lake together.   It is an anomaly, fo'sho'.

This is Meg and I trying to do a Miley Cyrus selfie.  It didn't work out.

See what I mean about her hair and make-up.  Flawless.

Oaaakkkaaaay.  I'll put you out of your misery.  I know how vain you are.  This is Megan.

The next player is Brooke.  She is gorgeous and skinny and dresses amazing and is RAUNCHY.  I. LOVE. HER.  I mean, she is a person who WEARS her clothes, they NEVER wear her, which is NOT a statement I can echo about myself.
Didn't take me long to find this one.  Nice hair color, too, ya' douche.

She got me my ill-fated job at Vutech and Ruff, as she is an agent there, and she would make me look forward to the Monday morning meetings because she always speaks her mind and I just LOOOVVVEE when people squirm in their chairs in an office setting, especially if I am invited to the squirm session.

Brooke works at Rowe, too,  and is best friends with the owner, Maren, and she will look you up and down as she asses your outfit and your make up and your hair and tell you what is wrong with it, and what is right , and you revel in the compliments and contemplate botox, and examine your pores in the florescent glare of your make up mirror that night, when you are off the mark.  I am making her sound like a bitch, but she's not.  She's just trying to HELP you and she will TOTALLY hook you up with a stay-at-home retired dermatologist who gives injections in her home for a discount, or come over with a box of highlights THAT NIGHT to touch up your roots and edit your closet.  All bullshitting aside,  she's a ROCK and we have a TON in common, believe it or not.  You can tell her ANYTHING and I HAVE, and she's given me some of the best advice I have ever gotten.  Fact.

Kim and Brooke, my ROCK.  Thanks for the booties.  My arch is now gone.

Finally, there is Sarah, aka "Saucy", as she is known in certain circles - the youngest of the Morgan girls. She is absolutely single and has more confidence in her little pinky than I have in my entire body. Sarah is an absolute PRESENCE.  Brad met her before I did, one night after some sports game, where the Morgan sisters dragged him out to a bar where Saucy was holding court.  OK, that last sentence seems totally implausible, so let me announce RIGHT NOW that I am ALWAYS game for three beautiful younger women to take my man out late night, so is he, so HAVE AT IT.

ANNNYYYWWWAAAY, Brad wakes up the next morning and he is going ON and ON about Sarah, Megan's youngest sister, and what a pistol she is.

"I mean, it was like something out of a mooooovie," he was saying AGAIN.  "She was standing at the bar, and all I saw was this Yankees cap that she had on backwards at first, and she turned around as Megan introduced her and she was about to do one of a line of shots that were in front of her, and she starts handing them out to us (he was with his DD and friend Joe) and Joe was all 'Uh, no thanks, I'm driving his sorry ass' and then she was all 'C'mon, ya' pussy' and then I was all 'Um, he's in AA' and then she was all 'Sucks for YOU, then' and grabs his shot from him and shoots that one, too.  I mean, SHE IS AWESOME."

O.K. I am not gonna lie.  Up until this point,  I had a "half listening" marital cap of my OWN on, but after that story I was DEFINITELY intrigued.  And jealous, to boot.  Not that she was going to steal Brad away from me, or even that he got to do shots, but that he met her FIRST.

Folks, meet Saucy.  Saucy, meet my blog followers.  You are welcome, EVERYBODY.

Words do not do her justice.  Just the best gurrrl EVER.

So, I get into the car after I have mouthed "Two minutes" to Sarah as I display my two fingers in a "V" and I am standing in the doorway of the garage with the garage door open wearing my robe with a towel on my head, and Saucy, who is idling in my driveway mouths back through her windshield, "No, ONE minute"and she raises her middle finger to illustrate the ONE.

Oh, and the reason Sarah even DROVE for the night is  in the group text below.  Enjoy:

Brooke:  "Sarah, you can pick Moogie (Meg) up at 6ish, then Johnna, then me.  If Kim (our other friend at V & R - equally awesome AND impossibly stylish) is ready, we can get her last?  How does that sound for everyone?

OK.  I'm not gonna lie.  I totally didn't want to drive, but I had already offered so I say...

Me: "That's fine with me, but I feel bad that Sarah is driving."

Passive-aggresive, I know, but don't act like YOU'VE never danced this dance, or you're a LIAR.

Brooke:  You can drive?  I have baby seats so I can't.  And I am super sad about it.  LOL.

OK.  It's starting to get REAL, y'all.

Me: "Listen, I wasn't OFFERING.  I just feel bad.  Don't worry.  I'll be fine."

Passive-aggressively, I continue in another text.

Me:  Teasing.  I am a slave to the Morgan girls  I'll do whatever you guys want.

Sarah Morgan:  "Sounds Good."

What?  WHAT sounds good?  Am I driving or am I NOT driving.  This is why I was really late.  Too busy texting and being passive aggressive, instead of showering.

Sarah:  Johnna, don't feel bad for me driving.  I feel bad for all you moms out there that can't average three nights of boozing.  This is my good deed for the day.

Me: "Is that a challenge.  Ooooooh!  I am so gonna throw up in your car tonight!"

So you don't have to scroll up.  IT'S FROM ANTHROPOLOGIE, DAMMIT.
And the pockets.  Did I mention the pockets?

So, I get into the car and Sarah says, "I like your onesie."

"It's ANTHROPOLOGIE!" I retort.

"I'm just sayin'," she says emphatically with her hands in the air.   "I decided to go CAZZZZSSSHH."

We all nod in approval.

She's wearing a shirt and jeans and looks amazing and all the sudden I feel like a dick.

"Leave her alone," Megan jumps in from the front seat, "you look fine."  Megan looks like a super model.  I couldn't even BEGIN to know how she did her makeup.  She's all urban and has cool layered jewelry....I could go on forever, here.

I look down at my adult onesie dress that hits my ankles and explain, "It has POCKETS.  At least I'm comfortable."

Well, the Morgan sisters are about to change THAT.

Next scene, Brooke is approaching the car after ten minutes of waiting.  SHE is representin' with a blue sequin jacket, faded and ripped boyfriend jeans, and she is carrying two purses and two pairs of shoes.

"Oh, here we go," Megan says, "It's all about HER."

"Which shoes do you like better? The booties or the heels?"

Brooke does a series of various looks in the driveway as we all get out and give our two cents and then she says, "I just feel like if I wear these then they should be rounded," when she is wearing the heels.

"What's supposed to be rounded?" I innocently ask.

"The TOE, dumbass," and Brook slides in, takes one look at my shoes and says, "Are you REALLY gonna wear those Jesus sandals?"

"They are Charles David!" I whine.  "I got them in Chicago!"

"Like, what, twenty years ago?" Brooke asks.

"No, longer ago than that," Sarah chimes in, "because Jesus was alive, so it must have been during the period when he lived in Chicago and they made shoes in his shoes' likeness."

Ok, the BACK story about the Jesus sandals is that I actually bought them with my friend, Alissa, in Chicago on our annual Mother's Day trip and I came home with only one of them in my suitcase (which is TOTALLY plausible for one of these trips), so I found them on Ebay and bought them AGAIN, and Alissa bought a version of the same thing, and I now I am fairly sure that I am going to start my next bonfire with them.
I totally threw away the third one because I didn't want to make the inevitable
mistake one day of wearing two left shoes. Practical, no?

"Do you like my jacket?"  Brooke asks us all, once we get rollin'.  You know, cause it's time to BOUNCE.

Brooke continues, "I was gonna wear my leather shorts, but Maren said that EVERYONE is going to wear their leather shorts and she insisted that I wear the jacket."

"Oh, yea.  I was TOTALLY gonna wear my leather shorts instead of my onesie dress and my Jesus sandals, and I even had them ON, but then I put them back for that very same reason."I responded as I rolled my eyes.  "Because, you know, EVERYONE has a pair of leather shorts in their closet."

The rest of the car jumped on Brooke like a bunch of hippies at a nitrus stand and I smiled to myself because I now know what it is like to have sisters.

You see, I am constantly mezmerized by them because I have three girls and I have always wanted a sister, so being around them is a constistent source of amusement to me, in terms of what my future holds, and also what it is like to be in their presence.

I have always felt more comfortable being made fun of, because you know you BELONG.  I have no idea what that says about me as a person, but I have NEVER felt more relaxed around a group of women than I am when I am with the Morgan girls, and that is my TRUTH, whatever that implies.

OK. back to my story.  So we go to the Megan, Brooke and Sarah's parents' home in our neighborhood because their parents are out of town, and because it is the EPICENTER of the family's life, whether their parents are home or not.  We then promptly open up a bottle of The Prisoner (my favorite wine in the world) and pour it into red solo cups.  But, not before Brooke AERATES it, as it is poured in.

The Prisoner +
The Sharper Image Wine Aerator  =

A perfect blend of sophistication and travel.  Point.  Blank. Period.

Above is a reinactment of that scene.  It is also an excuse for me to buy myself a bottle of The Prisoner, which I totally intend to drink a glass of once a finish this seemingly neverending blog, and then i will give the REST of it to the Morgans to make up for the wine that I stole and aerated into a red solo cup because technically I only had one glass and also because I am classy like that.  Word.

"Here.  You are wearing my booties," Brooke announces as we toast each other with our aerated solo cup lovin' Prisoner.

They are impossibly high and I can barely walk, and I am more physically uncomfortable than I was on my wedding day, hands down.

Just imagine these as booties an I have a red solo cup in my hand, oh and I am wearing an adult onesie maxidress.

"You look awesome."  They all say simultaneously as I strut around their parents' living room looking like some sort of cartoon Natasha, who's gait is distinguishable by a torso that lags behind her incredibly long spidery legs.  All that is missing is a cigarrete holder, and I AM ELATED.

Well, we go to the show and it is a blast and the liquor is free and I am inundated with gossip at every turn and we are shopping and drinking and eating hor deourves and at that moment there is no girlier place on the planet and I am truly, deeply happy.  Then, as we are all congregating in the front row that we so lovingly staked out early in the night, I spill my water all over me as I sit down, of course, because if I didn't do something stupid like that when people are watching me,  the Earth would stop spinning on its axis, and I spend the entire show with my lap drenched as my soaked to the skin onesie dress puddles around my bootie heels.  Classic.

At the end of the evening, Saucy is driving us home and she is explaining to us something called "Bacon Night" at this local pub, Byrne's, that she is planning on heading to after she drops our "lame asses" off.

To bring you up to date, a recurring theme of the night is that Kim has to service the account when she gets home (see: for an explanation) which we are all familiar with, except Sarah, and is yet another reason why we disgust her. You see, Kim sold her proverbial soul to her husband to get yet ANOTHER night on the town.

After Sarah exclaims, "BYE, ONSIE!!!" to the amusement of her loaded car full of equally loaded Moms, THIS is the last group text of the night:

Sarah:  "Good night, Moms."

Me:  "I love you.  Thanks for driving my ancient ass."

Megan: "I am jealous.  That bacon looks amazaballs."

Sarah:  "Going.  Going. Gone."

Brooke:  "I was already asleep.  Sarah, so happy to wake to you enjoying your bacon and we all know that Kim had some sausage.  XO.  Peace out.

I imagine all of us, all awash in the glow of our IPhones, illuminating our skincare and eye balm, laughing hysterically that can only be the magical result of a mixture of technology, red wine and a running inside joke on a perfect evening among other women.

"Meet the Morgans. Midwest's answer to Keeping Up with the Kardashians," I think, again, as I smile at the picture of bacon in a jar.

My advice to you, today, is two fold.  If you have sisters, embrace them...HARD.  And if you don't, adopt some, like I have.  Only, fuck off if you have your sights on the Morgan girls, cause I have FIRST DIBS!

Also, go to Rowe if you live in Columbus, or at least visit their website for inspiration. (  I am positively OBSESSED with their Smythe blazers and jackets.  The plaid boucle one below is very Chanel-like, and on my unattainable fashion wish list.
Seriously?  So cool, and sooo not in my tax bracket.

Kim said that I had good taste when we turned the tag over to reveal the whopping $795 price tag, but my Dad would just site this as another example of my "champagne taste on a beer budget".

Make that "champagne taste on an aerated Prisoner in a solo cup budget", beaaccchhees, cause I'm lookin' down at the World from my sky high booties from now on!