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. (http://gratuitousguidance.blogspot.com/2011/03/servicing-account.html)  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.  (http://gratuitousguidance.blogspot.com/2011/11/unhealthy-obsession-2.html)

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.

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 ( http://gratuitousguidance.blogspot.com/2011/02/shoneys-happy-hour-is-better-than-their.html) 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.

RESPECT.

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.

 GOOOOOOAAAAALLLL BY JACKIE. 

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?

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: http://gratuitousguidance.blogspot.com/2012/03/seedy-underbelly.html) 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
"stories".

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 teeth...my 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:http://gratuitousguidance.blogspot.com/2012/02/whitney-saving-all-of-my-opinions-for.html)  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: http://gratuitousguidance.blogspot.com/2011/02/chasing-high.html) 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:http://gratuitousguidance.blogspot.com/2011/07/casey-anthony-reflection.html)

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'!

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 (http://gratuitousguidance.blogspot.com/2011/04/guilt-free-generation.html) 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: http://gratuitousguidance.blogspot.com/2011/03/servicing-account.html 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. (www.roweboutique.com)  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!

Transitioning and the Power of Female Comraderie

Too inappropriate NOT to use.

In the past two years, I have experienced what my Mom would describe as "a lot of life."

In a nutshell,  and in accordance with the timeline, my husband lost his job, I began working again after ten years of staying at home with my three daughters (I've already quit, natch.), my Mom died, my husband purchased a company (read: works/lives out of town most of the week) and my Dad is now engaged.  Exhale.

The week that my Mom was dying, I was extremely raw, as you could imagine. I mean,  I would literally tell anyone ANYTHING that I was thinking if they would ask me.

Believe it or not, I can be very guarded at times, and I had become even more so when all of this shit started to hit the fan. I like to control my own PR with this blog, resplendent with its exaggerations and half truths.

I wish that I could be more eloquent, but the only way to describe what it is like to watch your Mom die is that you live in a vacuum. Then, you go through the funeral and the rest of it, and you are spit back into your life and expected to act accordingly.

It is the most bizarre existence I have ever known. For the first few weeks you literally walk through your life, without experiencing any of it. I guess that is known as shock. I could not tell you one conversation I had with the exception of the one I had at my unsuspecting neighbor's house on July 4th.  The party was the morning after the parade, following a four day power outage that was a result of this insane storm that occurred the night I got home from my Mom's funeral.

Soooo, I struck up a conversation with a girl from the party, and this sweet, unsuspecting guest at my neighbor's house asks me what I have been up to. She had CLEARLY unknowingly brought a knife to a gun fight.

Thaaat's riiiiggghhht.

I tell her. "Well, my Mom just died and I just got back from Louisville, where the funeral was, you know, where I am FROM, and then the power went out so I have been staying with friends of ours, and I am just now back home....and well, herrreee I am."  You're Welcome.

The air was thick as molasses and somehow I managed to add conversational flour.

I mean, CAN YOU IMAGINE?

Well, she didn't skip a beat, this young friend of mine (she is probably 10 or so years younger, with kids much smaller than mine) and she elbows her impossibly beautiful younger sister sitting between us, who is knee deep in a conversation of her own, and blurts, "Oh my Gawd, I am soooo sorry. Our mother died four years ago and we are STILL not over it, are we?"

Her angelic sister chimes in, rapid fire, "I moved into her basement, and she was married with these two tiny babies, and I was single, and I went to work everyday, came home, went into the basement and didn't come out again for four months!"

They are both stunning, in every sense of the word. They were empathetic and real and insightful. It was an unexpected connection with two complete strangers. These two girls saved my life that day.  In addition, to explaining to me that "there is your life before you lose a parent, and then your life after,"they inspired me to "look for signs."

"Because they are REAL," the younger one said. as she nodded in unison with her sister.

I told them about the bumble bee that kept bumping into my window at work, head first, over and over before the storm hit the night I arrived back in Columbus.  My office was on the second floor.  It was so bizarre.  I hadn't told ANYONE about that.

I told them I thought it was a sign from my Mom because she was obsessed with all creatures, big and small, and she had been a nervous Nellie. who was one to call me up because she saw on the news that we were about to "get some Weather".

Their heads started bobbing again.  "Uh-huh. Absolutely," they agreed, in tandem.  "That was a SIGN. Pay attention to them.  We still get them today.  They are REAL."

So, one night last year, the television in the basement erupted about two decibels above a shell exploding next to my bed, and it was blasting an Amber Alert through the vents from two floors down, at exactly 11:11p.m, and woke me out of a deep sleep.

I raced downstairs and was enveloped in a bellowing male voice describing two missing children and their clothing and their last known whereabouts.  I turned off the sound and noticed the television was black.

Immediately, I went to check on my three children. I found my last child, Eva, in tears that she could not explain to me. She could not stop crying.  I brought her into bed with me.

I had been thinking about my Mom alot that day - wondering if she was doing okay, and lamenting about feeling alone in my grief - even conversing with her outloud at some points, because the house was uncharacteristically vacant, except for me, and I found myself alone with my thoughts, which had not happened in a long time.

The following morning, my Dad informed me that he had sold my childhood home. I didn't even know it was on the market.

But, I also discovered this essay contest on Facebook about "Women and Transitioning" and entered this story in it.  I had already written part of this blog, entitled at the time, Disconnection and Regeneration, but I could not bring myself to write anymore, so I saw this are her "urging me from the grave to follow my dreams and return to what makes me happy." I mean, it was all SO PERFECT!

Apparently it was the house, though, because my entry has since been rejected. I like to imagine the reviewers sitting around an oval table after reading my essay, and one guy sighs as he presses his fingertips together in a prism, and he says, "Ohhhh, I don't know, it's just not SAD enough.  I mean, if she would have put more EMOTION into it.  I don't know.  I just wish there were like,  a MESSAGE."

Although, my Mom COULD have been setting me up, which is entirely possible.  LOL.

You see, watching a parent die, to me, is the equivalent of being in a car accident and suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. In a serious automobile incident, just before the moment of impact, your brain and nervous system literally shut down because it is too traumatic for your body to process.  This is why many people experience memory up to a crash, but no memory of the actual collision.

At first, after you watch someone that you love, slowly being drained of life, you have constant unexpected imposing memories, or flashbacks, of the entire experience, and the simultaneous impact of their immediate absence. If you are lucky enough to plan their funeral, and deliver their eulogy, that is just bonus material for your subconscious. To me, that has been the hardest part of losing my Mother - when memories and antecdotes literally grab me around the throat, when I least expect it.

There, of course, is a silver lining to losing a loved one.  You regenerate. Again, "There is your life BEFORE you lose and parent, and then your life after."  No truer thing has been said to me since. The important thing is to embrace your perspective, because you will never be this raw again, and so you have to incorporate that into your new personality, because as Socrates said, "The unexamined life is not worth living".

It sounds sad, so I want to make sure you do not misunderstand.  I am not some shell of a person, I am just changed.  When my Mom died and my husband lost his job, a piece of me was torn away, but the beautiful thing is, that there is this appendage in it's place.

I am a little wiser, a little sadder, a little softer, a little harder...but, mostly I am someone who sees a bigger picture, rather that individually connected moments, and you gain the most important thing you have to show for your emotional bruises  - experience.  You could say that my eyes are more open, but mostly, it is my Soul that has changed the most.

You see, those beautiful, kind, empathetic girls that impossibly hot July 4th day, could have made an excuse to get up and get themselves another Bloody Mary or tend to their children, when I burst into their lives, with my swoolen eyes and accompanying dark cloud - but they sat with me, and they comforted me and they shared their stories as if we had known each other since childhood.  They did that because they had been changed, too, and they had come out the other side of the worm hole that is grief.  They reassured me that I would be whole, again, one day, but that I would grow back together with a new and improved part that was cultivated by an empathy and understanding that I had never before known.

As I tell my three girls when they are going through some tween angst, or they fall off their bicycle, or get fourth place at a gymnastics meet because they forgot to take out their earrings, "Well, now you have the experience of what THAT feels like, so in the future you will be wiser for it.  Unfortunately, it is the experiences in life that are HARD that shape you.  I wish that everything in life could be easy for you, but then you would not posses CHARACTER, which is the best part of a person who has gone through something negative and then overcome it."

Whaaatttt?  Bitch be CRAY!

They, then, always look at me like I am crazy (especially when they are just trying to ride their bike and I go all Billy Graham on their ass), as I would look at my Mom when she would try to impart some hard learned lesson to me.

Just use it in my eulogy, I think to myself. Believe me, it is the annoying things that you will miss the most, because they are the most REAL.

What I have come to believe is that, unfortunately, the only way to truly transition in life is to embrace that transition - accept it, internalize it, and then share it with others, because everyone and everything transitions or it dies.

Nature, Nurture & Instagram Accounts

Lake photo- before the account abduction.

I've been taking a good hard look at my kids lately, and I have been weighing the arguments for the social science argument between Nature vs. Nurture.  For those of you not familiar, NATURE is what your children, and you, and EVERYONE inherently get from their forebearers and NURTURE is the type of environment the child grows up in.  I tend to believe that dispositions are predisposed, but critical thinking is entirely environmental.  The "guidance" part of parenting also has EVERYTHING to do with the way YOU were raised, whether you embrace your past or reject it.  But, now what do you do when you are faced with raising a child who is growing up in ENTIRELY different social circumstances than you did?

These are the Dance moms and their kids.  They are RIDIC!

I believe genetics plays a huge role in who our children are, but that what we teach them about how to deal with certain life situations is the REAL enchilada.  My problem, as a parent, is that my children seem to learn through MODELING, rather than the weekly lectures I bestow upon them while we watch Dance Moms.  Don't worry it's never about those bitches' behavior, it is mostly about their ridiculous clubbing outfits they wear to the studio when they are just sitting there watching their kids and complaining.  I usually say something along the lines of "Now, girls, NO ONE puts their phone on speaker as they answer it.  That is scripted."  or "When you are 45-years-old or older, cut outs along the midriff look stupid, especially when you are sitting down and all your loose skin hangs out the openings, and then she is just EXACERBATING the issue by snacking on beef jerky.  Y'all Feullin' me?"

Beyonce's Instagram.  I also follow Harry Styles.  He has artistic photos.
I'm no Cougarphile.  He wears skinny jeans for Pete's sake.

For instance, all my children are excellent twerkers.  Just kidding.  Well, not really.  To be honest, none of us are very good at it.  In the privacy of your own home, who cares what you do during family pajama parties, right?  It's all well and good until your six-year-old mimicks your 11-year-old, who is mimicking Beyonce - who is spokeswoman for the wholesome Pepsi.  For the record, I think twerking was invented by my dog, Scarlett, who likes to do it on top of Mills' stuffed animals.  Who would have EVER thought that Scarlett's gyrations would define an entire generation?

Respect.  Mills asked me where she learned to twerk and I said Miley Cyrus.
 Moomoopotamus watches entirely too much late night T.V

I mean, with three girls and "viral technology," how in the hell are you supposed to keep your children innocent, while still remaining AWARE.  It is a fine line.

For instance, my daughter Hallie had this Dance Moms Instagram account that was totally innocuous,  in which they would switch audio on the video parts of the dance competitions and they had like over 500 followers and they were PSYCHED.

Well, we were at the lake and some girl "KIK"ed Hallie (a frightening form of texting that is instantaneous and "goes away after a few seconds) and asked her to exchange account passwords so they could combine their accounts and long story short, Hallie and her friend's Dance Mom Instagram account, was stolen.

Look it up, if you aren't already familiar.  There is also a video version of this where teenagers are videoing themselves without clothing and thinking that it just "goes away".  Nothing "goes away".  Just ask Vanessa Williams.

The part that obviously bothers me the most is that HALLIE GAVE A PASSWORD TO SOMEONE SHE DIDN'T KNOW FROM ADAM, which meant HALLIE WAS COMMUNICATING WITH A COMPLETE STRANGER!

Look, you can say what you want about yourself and your superior parenting skills, but it is only a matter of time before a version of this happens to you and your kid.  That is why I am telling this story.  Not so you can judge me and form opinions about what I did or did not do right or wrong, but so you can learn from this, and have the AWARENESS I mentioned earlier.  Once again, I am a martyr - sacrificing myself and my reputation as a Mother for the sake of others.  You're welcome, America!

I have WARNED and WARNED and WARNED my kids NOT TO EVER talk or "kik" or freakin' email or whatever WITH ANYONE THEY DO NOT KNOW.

I have explained to them ALL that just because you have a photo in the corner of an account with an adorable spaniel puppy or little girl with pig tails, it is more often than not, some gross perspiring middle aged man in boxer shorts, wearing a body hair v neck sweater, hunched over his first generation Apple computer luring you in with promises of fame and understanding and whatever else his sick mind can create.

So, I was obvioulsy flabbergasted when she ran downstairs and told me that she had gotten her Instagram account stolen because she traded passwords with a stranger who did not keep their promise and then promptly changed the password and account name and then blocked Hallie because she was in competition with Hallie's Instagram.

I mean, WHAT THE FUCK? My biggest problem when I was 11, was when my bell bottom cords got stuck in the spokes of my bike wheels.

I tend to be nostalgic about my 70's upbringing with it's faux wood paneled station wagons sans seat belts and Falls City Beer ring tab necklaces, but at that moment, I actually had a flutter of sadness that formed in my heart that was a seed of realization that I am bringing up children in a "Technological Age" where they are far more savvy than I'll ever be.  My children are more proficient than I am, at something that we have not completely realized the social ramifications of, yet.

It is something that I, and every generation or parent before me, has zero experience with, and therefore, I have zero guidance from anyone, other than my gut and my deductive reasoning skills.  My children and I are the prototype for all future generations in terms of raising children with texting, Instagram Accounts, Facebook, and everything else that some 18-year-old douche bag in Product Development (or in his basement for that matter) can imagine.

It is daunting at the very least, and depressing at the very best.

Now, I have always EMBRACED technology, and I am all about MOVING FORWARD, but it is very difficult to do that when your children are more savvy than you are about a huge part of their adolescent social life.  I keep trying to come up with an example of generations before me that have had such a jump in advancement in such a short time that impacted the way society interacted, and I just CAN'T.  Honestly, the only thing that comes close maybe is the Vietnam War, just in terms of generations divided and young people being drafted into a situation that was entirely different than they anticipated.  I'm pretty sure I just insulted a SLEW of Vietnam vets, as they are a large demographic slice of my blog audience, but I am just comparing the generational gaps and cultural phenomenons of the two, not jungle warfare and government-issued LSD experimentation.  Ya' dig?

True. I do not have to worry about Mills dying of a dirivitive of the HPV virus because of recent advancements, but I DO have to worry about the emotional and psychological impact that Instagram has on my child when they are not invited to a sleepover and they are continually exposed to a succession of Instagram photos of said sleepover until they finally cry themselves to sleep.

So what is the solution here? Avoid technology?  Refuse to let them engage in social media?  Fat chance.  I don't know about you all, but whenever I have a child over for a playdate who has restricted television priveledges, they are glued to my looping Disney Channel like a crack ho' with a brand new glass pipe.

That's EXACTLY the way your children look at my house
as they scarf down illegal ho ho's and watch Good Luck Charlie reruns.

My point is that the only way to truly manage what is going on with the new social media revolution is to police it.  There simply IS no other way.  If you take it away, there will be a black market for it, and then you have no control or information at all.  (READ: Prohibition and Arrested Development reruns.)

It is the equivalent of scrubbing your face in front of your Mom every morning before school and then lugging a purse full of make up to your middle school bathroom.  As a parent, you are either part of the conversation or you aren't.  Fact.


Here is what I did.  Hallie found her account that was hacked and I wrote a comment on the girls' account for all of her (or rather, Hallie's) followers to see.  It read as follows:

"This is Hallie's mom.  I know you hacked her account and took her password.  I am going to contact Instagram and shut down EVERY SINGLE ONE of your accounts (the bitch, or hairy middle aged man, had like 7) if you do not contact Hallie and give her the new password to access her account. You have 20 minutes.  GO."

The GIRL immediately KIK'ed Hallie saying that she had no idea what I was talking about.  I replied back, "This is her Mother.Time is running out."

The GIRL kik'ed again asking WHICH account Hallie's was.

I replied, "How many accounts have you hacked?"

The GIRL then gave Hallie the new password.

I contacted Instagram and reported the whole thing anyway.  That is where it stands right now.

Hallie now has her phone restricted at bedtime and EVERYTHING is an open for me to look at.  The whole episode scared the shit out of everyone in our family.

So you know, I hatched this whole plan after a sleepless night of gut wrenching parental soul searching.

No one ever tells you how hard it is going to be when you decide to have that third glass of wine in your twenties and you and your husband decide to just "roll the dice".  Parenting is rewarding and explorative and a box full of chocolates and all that other bullshit, but mostly parenting is MENTALLY EXHAUSTING if you have even an OUNCE of self-consciousness, because the beauty of it all, is that you can ALWAYS blame yourself.

That is my advice to you today.  Not to NOT have that third glass of wine.  That would be ridiculous.  And hippocritical.  My advice today is to find your new normal, in terms of raising your children in the Age of Social Media.  People our age can totally reject it because they are old, and that is what old people do (Andrew), but if you have a child, you cannot ignore it, because it is like a Tsunami.  You either take a deep breath and bear hug the trunk of a palm tree or you will end up doing underwater sommersaults into the depths of the ocean.

We cannot afford to be out of touch, y'all.  Our children's futures are counting on it.