Missing some players, here. Just important that I am in the center, really.
I have had a group of girlfriends for all of my adult life. This is unique, in the sense that we were united by marriage because our husbands all grew up together. This is even MORE remarkable because we are all not from the neighborhood the guys reached puberty in, and is probably the exact reason why we married them - because EWWW, right?
At first, when we were introduced, when we were all dating or first getting married, we were friends by convenience. But, then, as we all started having babies and forging a relationship with each other, we became friends because we really enjoyed each other and we had more in common than just that our husbands loved each other. We started to do things without them, and we talked about things other than our relationship with them. What I am trying to say is that at first, we sort of bonded by making fun of our husbands, and then we just became friends because we liked each other, and then we became CLOSE because we trusted each other and we were REAL with each other and because outside of that circle, there is no other friendship like the one that we have. Make no mistake, here, we still TOTALLY make fun of our husbands and that element is the very CORE of our relationship to each other because that shit is what unions are MADE of, peeps.
Hashtag. She works OUT.
Anyway, back on subject, there is an easiness with these women that I have with no other group of women. We are not a posse, or a click, because we do not do everything collectively. We live in all parts of Columbus and Colorado and truly, we live separate lives in terms of our individual family lives. But, we always come together during a crisis - like the birth of a baby or milestone birthdays, or Christmas. My point is that we have separated and come together for the last twenty years and I can always count on the same two ingredients to be present - genuineness and laughter.
One of the best times I've ever had. Bar none.
Well, now one of those friends is in trouble and all I can think about is how I have known these women my entire adult life and how important their relationships are to me and well, I am heartsick - just to my core, you know?
She's just lovely. That is the word that keeps popping up in my mind. Lovely.
Yesterday, I saw firsthand what courage looks like and it is my friend, Kim. She was so strong and so brave and so graceful, it literally took my breath away.
There is a rawness that occurs when life takes an ugly turn that peels away all of the outer layers of our personalities to expose the jelly-like substance that is our soul. THAT is who someone really is and I saw Kim's and Paul's and Cindy's and Susan's and quite honestly, I was in awe. It is my privilege to know you, and to have known you for as long as I have.
And the women who were not physically in that room, WERE in that room and gave us all the capacity to be our best selves because we are supported - and when you have back up, you can do anything.
J.T. - wasn't there, but isn't this picture amazing? Yes. I am THAT grown up.
I laughed HARD yesterday, like I always do, and there were moments and inside jokes and conversations that I am grateful to be a part of, even under the circumstances, because I will take one REAL moment over 1,000 fabricated ones, any day of the week.
Klassy. The wind beneath my wings. Clearly.
I realized that I've never written a post directly about Kim, although I've mentioned her many times. Kim, you are the most thoughtful person I have ever known. You ALWAYS put everyone before yourself and ensure that everyone is "taken care of," sometimes while eclipsing your own experiences.
Well, now it is time for you to take a back seat, my friend. We now all are concentrated on the time that YOU are having. It's payback time, in a good way. Although you were never mentally adding up our side dishes and top shelf cocktails, it appears our bill is due and we are all getting out our Bluejackets debit cards.
I make her kiss me on the lips every time I leave the hospital room because it makes her so uncomfortable. If this turns you on, then that's your problem.
I love you, hon, and I look forward to being your bitch. It's about time.
I go to games for the beer and the food. Point blank period.
So during the winter, especially this very long one, I have found myself vacillating between watching award winning television and completely random documentaries on, of all things...wait for it... sports figures.
Those that are familiar with my current relationship with Brad, my husband of 19 years, (I say CURRENT because I never want him to get too comfortable in the role) know that he is a HUGE sports fan and that I could not be more disinterested.
We laugh sometimes when we fantasize about scenarios where I would buy season tickets to games and then we would wear matching jerseys with "Underwood" on the back.
"What would you do if I actually argued with you about the politics of a sport or the validity of a call? How 'bout if I INSISTED that I come to an away game with you and your friends and one of them had to forfeit one of the four tickets you got because I was able to get a sitter on the fly and I'd been following the team all season? Would you DIE?" I say as I throw my head back and laugh and then involuntarily shudder.
Look, I KNOW women like this. I am friends with women like this. I am sure this is a very real connection they have with their husbands and they are not annoying like me at all, but I have made it very clear to Brad that he cannot have it both ways. If I am to watch the games on the television, then I am taking the exotic location away game trips and I am going to ask question after question about the fundamentals of said games until he wants to put a gun in his mouth.
Look. I respect the fact that people like to watch sports. You just can't make ME do it.
And this is why Brad was positively miffed when we were out to dinner with friends and I brought up the Joe Namath documentary I'd watched that week on HBO. I thought his jaw would dislocate, I swear to Gawd.
I elaborated to the table that I had always had an interest in Joe Namath, not because he was a legendary New York Jet or that he won the Super Bowl, or even that he has been inducted into the Hall of Fame, but because I remembered his pantyhose commercial, growing up.
"What in the Hell? Jody, come look at this!" I remember my Dad exclaiming from his seat on the couch. "Joe Namath's got pantyhose on of all things!"
Of course my Mom was at the kitchen table, power smoking and talking on the phone to her fifth friend of the day as she waved him off with a slow figure eight featuring her lit cigarrette. At any rate, I specifically remember looking up from my position on the floor amidst the well worn shag carpet and several wooden blocks to witness the camera panning down Namath's body to reveal his muscular, toned legs encased in beige colored hosiery. This became the birth of my interest in Super Bowl commercials and advertising, in general.
You gotta admit. He was a BABE.
Anyway, the Joe Namath documentary highlights his career and his social life, but what makes him unique and groundbreaking, other than his obvious penchant for furry pimp coats, is how he was the first college athlete to negotiate a major contract with the AFL. It was unprecedented at the time. He also was the first athlete to sign huge marketing deals promoting random products such as pantyhose and shampoo. Namath was good looking and colorful and talented, but most importantly, he was savvy, and he is the reason that Tiger Woods lost all those endorsement deals when it was revealed that he was a serial womanizing philanderer. You see, without "Broadway Joe" there would not have been those endorsement contracts to lose in the first place.
Namath's athletic and marketing accomplishments not withstanding, it seems that Namath's legacy will be the time he came on to a female reporter during an interview on the field following an aggressive day drink.
You see, Namath also acheived alcoholism along with all those wins, and he had fallen off the wagon after 13 years of sobriety, shortly after his divorce. This, it appears, is Joe Namath's defining moment.
It just got me to thinking about defining moments and public perception. I think if I were honest with myself, the stories I tend to share with my kids are the negative events in my life that eventually had a positive impact, but that I had to do a lot of soul searching to get to that place. I'm talking about events where maybe I did a bad thing and then there were repercussions for that act, even if my behavior elicited an exaggerated response. The point is that I learned from it, and then adjusted my behavior. These are your own fables, so to speak, with a conflict, a resolution and a moral.
We all have them, these defining moments and everyone knows what each of theirs are. They are the events that shape you as a person and most of the time they are painful experiences, that if you are smart, you grow from. It occurred to me while writing this, that, oh, maybe three-fourths of my defining moments involve public humiliation of some sort. Hilarious.
Crosby Middle School. Isn't she a BEUT?
One of these experiences was set in middle school. Middle school is Hell on Earth for each and every adolescent girl in America, whether you are popular or not - whether you exist on the periphery, or you are head cheerleader. The angst is universal because if you are part of a click, then you must succumb to the group dynamic, therefore denouncing any individualism you once had, as you embrace the insulating comfort that a posse provides. However, being on the periphery also sucks because you are always longing for something that you assume is wonderful - the power of adulation and constant group companionship.
This ying-yang social phenomenon, coupled with surging hormones and increased academic expectations is the pressure cooker that is middle school. I feel like specifically the female's social skills are honed in middle school and provides the basis for all future girl on girl social interactions.
So, back to the story. In seventh grade, I had a girlfriend stay the night whom I had known practically my whole life. I was on the edge of the "popular group" and she was fairly internal. We'll just refer to her as "VP Francis Underwood" from House of Cards, because that is top of mind at the moment given the 13 hours of my life I just dedicated to him. Anyway, back before Instagram and Snapchat (gasp!) our sleepovers existed in real time and we did things like read each other's notes, of which I ignorantly kept a Pappagallo drawstring bag full.
Can you imagine? "Hey, let's go through all of the texts I've sent back and forth to my friends from the last year?" What could possibly go wrong doing that? I may as well have let her give me a rectal exam. It would have been less painful, with fewer repercussions, I assure you.
So, as we are unfolding piece after piece of the executive rule lined, jagged-edged notebook paper, I came across one that I had NOT sent to my best friend down the street, who went to Catholic school. I had composed the note the week I house sat for her family the previous summer. I had promised to write my friend "every day" that she was absent that week and keep her up to date on all the happenings at the Douglass Hills Swim Club. For some reason, (a clear forshadowing) I never sent the letter, and as I read the letter during the prostate exam, I mean, sleep over, I determined it was incriminating, and quickly excused myself and threw it away in the bathroom in the center of our upstairs hall.
Long story short, VP Francis Underwood retrieved the note from my garbage can during the sleepover and took it to school, and on Monday morning I was basically met with a fucking seventh grade lynch mob in the Crosby Middle School cafeteria.
The note denounced the short shorts, provocative top, and high wedge heels that the MOST POPULAR GIRL IN SEVENTH GRADE, if not SCHOOL's mother wore at the swim meet that week in the summer my friend was on vacation and I declared that she "dressed like a whore".
Ironically, these women are now called COUGARS, as the social climate for stripperware for middle aged women has become mainstream, so please excuse the crass language, as I was a product of my generation and it's circumstances at the time. If this event were to occur in modern day, the woman and the little girl would have been flattered by the note and there would have been a ticker tape party in my honor that Monday morning.
In all seriousness, and because I am a parent now, I should NEVER have used that language, especially concerning an adult. The proof was in the pudding. I wrote the words and I could not do anything about the fact that they were now part of public consumption.
There was a moment, though, when I was confronted with the angry mob at the seventh grade section of the lunchroom that occupied three large round tables, that I locked eyes with VP Underwood, who quickly began examining the cuticles on her toenails.
I spent the rest of the seventh grade year and most of eighth grade ostracized. The popular girl's mom read the note, as did her entire family, and because her older high school aged sister was extremely beautiful, popular and powerful, I endured several confrontations from high school girl possees, as well.
It subsided when I went to high school and my social world opened up to upper classmen and the popular girl and her family simulatenously moved away.
THAT event was a defining moment. It is a folktale in my house, only comparisons are made to screenshots, texting and the "typed word" because let's be real, nobody passes notes anymore.
That two year exile taught me what it means to be a friend, not only how to be a good friend, but most importantly, forced me to consider what qualities I desired in a friendship. I think a lot of women ask themselves this question at some point in their lives, I just began to analyze my friendships early on. Because, in my mind, if you ARE a good friend, then you DESERVE a good friend.
That is not to say that from that moment on, I did not experience female friendship angst. It was just a moment in my life that I refer to whenever I feel betrayed or hurt or isolated where female companionship is concerned. But, I always make sure to ask myself what role I played in the situation during analysis, or the entire exercise is pointless. Now, all of my closest relationships must be genuine and based on mutual trust. I have very little patience for backstabbing or social climbing, and I won't tolerate it amongst my girls either. One could say that I have learned to protect myself socially, so that that will never happen to me again.
VP Francis Underwood roamed the halls with her posse all through middle school and never acknowledged her role in my demise. In high school, after Miss Popular and her Cougar Mom moved away, we became friendly again and became even closer our senior year. We were even going to be college roommates, until she got into a better college at the last minute. We never discussed what happened, but even though we were friends, I never fully trusted her.
You see, I had to forgive her to move on. Sometimes forgiveness is not necessarily for the person who wronged you, but is actually more powerful when you do it for yourself... so you can let go.
VP Francis Underwood, in my mind, did me a favor, early on in the social maturation process, and in turn, I believe that defining moment has had an impact on my family, as well. When I am trying to explain to one of my daughters why what they write can impact others and damage them, especially if it is taken out of context, which most taudry information is, I have an actual REAL LIFE personal experience to reflect upon that usually has an impact on anyone that hears about it.
But, who am I kidding here? The hippocrite with the laptop has become the proverbial black kettle again. My point is that defining moments are not fair sometimes and they are even cruel, but they do not need to reflect your entire life, just SHAPE it.
Joe Namath was at the Super Bowl this year, awash in his ridiculous pimp fur pelt, and he was SOBER. His pallor was healthy, and he was coherent and gregarious and most of all, respectful to all of the commentators.
That moment that everyone remembered where he disgraced himself on national television has faded, just as the intensity of my misery those two years in exile subsided as I reconnected with VP Francis Underwood. And just as Joe Namath will remember what it felt like the next day after he humiliated himself on the sidelines, the next time he wants to take a drink, I will think about what I truly want in a friend when I feel wronged or exposed or double-crossed. Defining moments are motivators when they are at their very best, and hinderences at their worst.
I encourage you to examine YOUR defining moments and if your are feeling especially generous, the defining moments of others, and what your perception of those are. I just finished the second season of House of Cards on this fine morning, where they discuss the importance of public perception vs. what is genuine. It seems that on The Hill, public interpretation is just as powerful as reality, even if they are in direct opposition to each other.
I wonder if the girls in my seventh grade class, who maybe went to a Catholic high school or something, still consider me "the girl who called the most popular girl in school's Mom a WHORE"? I guess there are worse things.....like blogger.
Also, Kevin Spacey is exquisite. I've worshipped him since The Usual Suspects and Glengary Glenross. He is the real deal, as far as I'm concerned. Look for him to win the Globe in 2015.
Her wardrobe is unbelievable in this series. Apparently, she's all over Narciso Rodrigez.
Also, I was turned onto 30 on 30 by my friends, The Diwiks. They are these great documentaries that ESPN produces and are a good way to distract you, as you do laundry or bite your fingernails to the quick as they announce the approach of some new bullshit Polar Vortex.
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.
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 reason....to 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.
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.
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?
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