"Where Are The Parents?" Right Here, Doing The Best We Can

I'm always on the lookout for Lovin' the Alien story ideas. So, I've set up alerts to notify me when news items include the word "teen." 

Sometimes there are lots of stories; sometimes none. Sometimes they're relevant; sometimes not. 

This morning was a doozy.

Apparently, as reported in more than 80 stories on Google news, some 100 teens have been implicated in a sexting operation in Virgina. Actually, I don't think "operation" is really the right word. It's more like a movement, a wave or phenomenon. As far as I can tell, there wasn't any money being made. It was all just kids being kids — albeit naked kids being naked kids on the Internet, naked. (Did I mention they were naked?) The girls involved ranged from 14 to 17 years of age and, according to the police, all of the pictures ("although explicit") appeared to be consensual.

For the record, posting naked pictures of underage girls is considered distribution of child pornography. Just saying.

The police are actually being pretty cool. They are working to get to the bottom of all this but they aren't pressing charges. Still, it's worrisome that the "consensual" event was as complex as it was — with an organized website containing 1,000 nude photos and with participants spanning 6 Virginia counties.

Here's where it gets interesting. Teens aren't the only ones who can't resist social media. Virtually every story about this event generated a rash of reader comments. Before the opinions devolved into accusations against the NSA and conspiracy theories about living in a police state, most were from outraged citizens who blamed ... the parents.

Here are some choice words for those of us who chose to reproduce:

Sickening. Where are the parents?

Parents, you have no one to blame but yourselves.

Teens doing stupid things is the domain of parents not police.

Clearly the parents weren't paying attention.

Parental Involvement Deficit Disorder?

Oh lord, parents watch your kids and be alert. 

It seems to me the problem is in this world of latchkey kids, the parents are unaware of what their kids are up to. 

This is a perfect example of the kind of parenting that goes on in this society.

We're going to have to agree to disagree. I would also wager that most of these vocal — and, oy vey, so judgmental —  commentators are not parents themselves. They underestimate the challenges of raising a teen in the digital world. By about a million miles.

Did these kids do something stupid? Yes, obviously. Did we do stupid things when we were teenagers too? 

Yes, obviously.

I have a teenage daughter who has access to pretty much every digital device and channel currently available. She has an iPhone; we have an iPad. She has multiple digital cameras. She has a laptop (at any given time there are at least three and sometimes four of them in the house). We have a digital DVD player that enables Internet access through our widescreen TV. Really. (Cool, huh?)

I'm not listing all of this to brag about how fortunate we are (very) or how much we spend on electronics (a lot). But to point out that it would be pretty much impossible to lock and password protect every piece of equipment. Even if we did choose to live "off the grid," she could get online at school, at the library or at a friend's house. 

My daughter is careful about what she posts, but she's certainly come across inappropriate pictures, not to mention language. I'm actually not too concerned about her own online behavior. If I was, I would certainly be more vigilant. But, even then, I couldn't police her every movement. 

The parents had their heads in the sand.

No, my friend, they probably didn't. They were probably juggling a full-time job with running a household and parenting a high schooler. They were probably immersed in helping with homework, driving to games, paying bills, putting food on the table. Sexting is something to worry about, of course. But, it isn't the only thing. 

Most of us are wide awake and doing the best we can.

Maybe you're the one who needs to open your eyes before you open your mouth.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.   

Glee: Singing, Dancing, Shark-Jumping

When it comes to Glee, my now teen daughter and I were early adopters.

Actually, one of the art directors I work with was even more ahead of the curve (in Glee's case, once it hit, it wasn't so much a curve as a wave or really a tsunami). He saw the pilot months before the series premiered. He predicted that we'd love it.

He was right.

The old Glee was so fresh, so different, so wrong in all the right ways. It was irreverent and offensive. One of the things I always appreciated was that none of the kids was all good — or all bad, for that matter. Whether it was the queen bee cheerleader or the dumb jock or the awkward overachiever, the juvenile delinquent, the gay kid just coming out or the disabled guy — what was really cool was that they were so obviously stereotypes that then broke their own stereotypes. They were lovable but not very nice. They could be downright cruel to each other. They were utterly self-absorbed.

Basically, they were teenagers.

And then, of course, like millions of other former drama majors, how could I resist the sheer talent served up on my television every week? Glee made it cool to sing and dance.  Back in 2010, CNN reported that a Harris poll had determined  31% more students were interested in school music activities because of the show. Whether you're a gleek or not, you have to admit that the series had a positive effect on kids' interest in the arts.

Of course, there were sour notes over the years and more this year than any other. The Becky character, a McKinley High student with Down syndrome, has become particularly uncomfortable to watch. For some reason, she now says whatever's on her mind, full voice, and what's always on her mind is SEX. It's as though she's developed some cinematic version of Tourette's. I don't know if the producers are trying to breakdown a myth that mentally handicapped people are childlike. But, the adult content coming out of her mouth just makes her unattractive — whether she's living with a disability or not.

After investing in a rash of new kids when half the show choir graduated, Glee has suddenly abandoned them. When Kurt moved to New York, the show didn't just replace him with another gay kid; they went all out with a teen transvestite. The "Unique" (née Wade) story was interesting for an episode or maybe two. The writers don't seem to know what to do with her (him) now. 

Breaking Glee's tradition of multifaceted characters, Riley or Miley or Marley (it's telling that I can't  even remember her name) is one-dimensionally nice. She flirted with an eating disorder and broke up with a boyfriend. Compare this to the over-the-top adventures of the original kids and you're in for a letdown. The last few episodes, all she's done is sway in the background. And, you know, we don't really miss her.

The New York storyline is more fun (maybe because it features the strongest characters from the original seasons). But even in the Big Apple, certain plot twists have taken utterly unbelievable to a whole new level. Rachel has beaten the odds (trust me, the odds were astronomically against her) and landed the lead in a revival of Funny Girl. Her aspiring actress/waitress/rival roommate walks in off the street and wins the role of Fanny Brice's understudy.

I come from a theatrical family. Trust me. This would not, could not ever happen. Never. Never. Never. Santana would not have been permitted in the building, much less be allowed to march down that aisle singing "Don't Rain on My Parade." Never. Never. Never.

Clue phone, it's for you. Broadway shows do not cast walk-in nobodies from Lima, Ohio. Sorry.

And, even if you suspend all belief and buy the whole high school frenemies become cut-throat theatre rivals plot, it brought a really ugly edge to the show. Even when the glee club kids were at their nastiest, they always stood up for each other when it mattered. In the few episodes before Santana resigned (yeah, like that's believable too), the feud between Rachel and Santana felt inappropriately vicious.

Glee has changed certainly. Several elements of the show wrapped up last week: there was a rushed graduation, the school finally (really) cut the New Directions program, Will and Emma are having a baby and I think he's leaving McKinley. We've officially transitioned from Ohio to the Empire State. Now, with a tight group of original cast members making their way in New York City, Glee is beginning to feel like Friends — potential criticism that the creators headed off at the pass by giving Tina a recent dream sequence about it.

So with all of this bitchin' and moanin', why do we still watch?

I can't speak for the teenager. But, for me, this is one of our few old mother-daughter traditions that hasn't fallen by the wayside quite yet. Those wacky gleeks can sing and dance (and jump sharks) as long as they like. As long as my daughter is willing to sit through it all with me, I'll be there.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.   

Let's Get Physical

No person in the United States shall, on the basis of sex, be excluded from participation in, be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under any education program or activity receiving federal financial assistance.

When Title IX was passed into law back in 1972, it was a major win for the feminist movement. Although, technically, it applies to everything from law school acceptance to science curricula to scout meetings, the main focus has always been sports. Once Title IX was mandated, schools had to scramble to create equal opportunities for girls.

Today, when I look at my daughter's high school and its athletics program, it's hard to believe how far we've come in just forty years. In our relatively small town, girls can choose from: Cross-Country, Field Hockey, Golf, Soccer, Cheerleading, Basketball, Ice Hockey, Swimming, Gymnastics, Indoor and Outdoor Track, Skiing, Wrestling, Baseball, Lacrosse, Tennis and Sailing.

Phew! I'm out of breath just thinking about it.

The benefits of organized sports for teens of either gender are plentiful. Student athletes develop close, collaborative friendships. They learn how to handle pressure, to work as a team, to deal with success (and failure). They're busy; they have less time to "hang out" and get in trouble.

For girls, the list gets even longer. At an age when appearance and popularity can mean everything, girls who participate in sports can feel better about themselves through physical activity, dedication and accomplishment. Because most sports help girls build lean muscle, participating can (should) help them avoid eating disorders and yo-yo dieting. (I say "should" because we've all heard stories about athletes who take dieting to extreme.) Strong becomes more important than thin. And, in this era of mean girls, being on a team may help facilitate friendships and avoid bullying.

I was never much of an athlete myself (although I did a lot of dancing and took many an aerobics class). Nevertheless, when my daughter started high school I wanted her to do ... well ... something. Her earlier seasons in girls softball were less than spectacular, but there were so many more options available. She agreed and focused on Cross-Country (she's always been a fast runner, and — way more importantly — some friends were doing it). 

I figured that one sport and one after school club (French, peut d'être?), along with her part-time job and the hundred million hours she spends working at the stable and training for equestrian events, and we would be welcomed with a full scholarship to the college of her choice.

I figured wrong.

Not about college (we're not quite there yet), but about one sport. In fact, it was over before it even began. She signed up for Cross-Country as she wrapped up her last year at middle school. The captain of the team would get in touch over the summer so they could start training. Well, that happened as expected, but the training turned out to be pretty much all summer and six days a week. Between camp and family vacations and riding her horse, my daughter didn't have the bandwidth to run.

September, when high school officially started, we took a look at the other options. Every organized sport practiced every weekday after school and competed every weekend. This was hardcore; no dilettantes need apply. With her lifelong commitment to riding (not to mention our enormous investment in the horse and all that comes with it), there was simply no way my daughter could participate. Even the so-called "Volleyball Club" quickly evolved into a highly competitive, time-intensive, official (if injury-ridden) team.

I was disappointed. My daughter? Not so much.

Still, I wish there was a way for her to get physical and enjoy some of the benefits of sports, to somehow participate without such a full-on commitment. In fact, I'd argue that encouraging a more balanced athletic program would better serve our kids. Yes, these long hours of practice keep them off the streets and out of the malls. But, they also keep them from their homework. Too many moms I know, too often bemoan the fact that their student athletes are still up at 2:00 a.m. studying. That can't be very healthy.

That said, wouldn't it be great if our kids grew up active, enjoying physical activity in a moderate, real-life way? Someday, when they're salespeople or doctors or teachers or lawyers or engineers or baristas, maybe they'll know how to get and stay healthy, manage stress and enjoy their free time.

After all, how many of our kids are really going to win athletic scholarships? A few, maybe. How many will go on to be professional or champion athletes? None, maybe. 

Not even maybe. None, most likely.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.    

The Sound of Silence

Mornings are not the most pleasant time of day around here. 

We have a teenager. 

(I understand you're tired. I realize you were up late studying math. I apologize that school starts at 7:50 am. I know life sucks. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.)

Today, as usual, my teen daughter grudgingly got herself out of bed and was puttering about in her room. I don't know what she does up there. The alarm (her second) goes off a few minutes before 6:30. Her father drops her at a friend's house at 7:05. In-between, I make her breakfast and lunch (the high school cafeteria "blows"). And, like clockwork, at 6:55, I call upstairs.

"Breakfast is ready."

Today, she came down and started one of those conversations that I hate, the ones where she requests that I change something we've always done. (BTW, she does this in a really condescending voice, like she's a Nobel Laureate and I'm the village idiot.)

"Mom, can I ask you something? I think I've asked you before."

"Um. What?"

"Can you not call and tell me breakfast is ready every day? I really hate it."

I had a hundred snappish comebacks on the tip of my tongue. For example ...

"Well, I wouldn't have to if you got down here faster. And, by the way, your room is a disaster area."

Or ...

"Well, excuuuuuuuuse me for trying to be a good mother and slaving away in the kitchen and making you a nice meal."

Or ...

"Well, that really hurt my feelings. I don't see why you have to be so hateful when everything I do is for you." 

Here's what I said instead ... 

"Okay."

That's it. Really.

I'm so proud of myself I could burst! I feel like I have reached some heretofore unattainable peak of maternal zenliness. I am patience. I am tolerance. I am composure. Look up "grace under pressure" in the dictionary and you will likely see a picture of moi!

My daughter is downright surly in the morning — that's on a good day. And, I do crave appreciation. (For the record, my breakfasts and lunches are quite nice.) But, if she wants to wallow in ... er, I mean ... ease into her busy sophomore life in silence, why shouldn't she? 

There's the rub. The silence is what kills me these days. When my daughter was little, we had such a happy, chattery routine. It included two-way conversations in the early hours and books read aloud together in the evenings. After I tucked her in, we had that little ritual beloved by so many moms:

"I love you.

"I love you more.

"No, I love you more."

Now? No more. 

As often as not, I go to bed while my daughter's still doing homework or studying. I give her a kiss (usually on the top of her head before she can pull away or grimace), wish her "good night" and get the hell out of dodge. When she isn't working, she's engaged with friends online or streaming a show on the iPad via Netflix. I used to get a few back-and-forth words in when I drove her to the stable every other day. But, with her brand new license in her eager hand, she heads off alone now.

When my daughter was little, I missed the quiet I had known before she came into my life. Now, I miss her stories, the jokes, the affectionate banter. I try not to sound desperate or repetitive. I try not to fill the quiet with gentle mom nags: "Have you got everything? Did you remember your permission slip for the photography field trip?"

I try to be silent.

After all, Thomas Carlyle said "Silence is golden." 

We choose our battles, and this ain't one of them. From now on, I won't announce that breakfast is ready. 

Or, as Belinda Carlisle (no relation) said, "Our lips are sealed."

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.   

Pass The Popcorn: Divergent

I have a lot of close friends who never had a child. I have others whose offspring are already away at college, medical school or out in the real world. Still another (a late bloomer, I guess) has a toddler. Think about that for a moment. Wow, is she brave!

Now, I love these women, I do. But, I also feel sorry for them.

How do my peers, women of a certain age, survive without a teenager on hand to tune them in to what's hot, what's not and what definitely-absolutely-positively cannot be missed?

How, for example, would any of these women know about Divergent? OMG.

Yes, Divergent is the latest pop culture phenom. (And I have my daughter to thank for my intimate knowledge of it.) First was Twilight. Then, The Hunger Games. Now, Divergent.

What happened to teen fiction? Somewhere along the way, the romances of yesteryear (how we all swooned over Healthcliff back in my day!) and the real-life real-girl narratives (Are You There, God? It's Me, Alex) morphed into these dark, dystopian sagas. It's not enough for a heroine to be a typical teenager, riddled with adolescent angst or — worse! — acne. Now, apparently, you have to be in a love triangle with a vampire and a werewolf. Or be in a fight to the death with other teen tributes. Or be a square peg individualist in a round hole faction in a futuristic, post-apocalyptic, bombed-out version of Chicago.

That, my friends, is where Divergent comes in.

Last weekend, my daughter and I had second-row, center seats for the new movie based on Veronica Roth's bestseller. After a war which virtually annihilated the human race, the powers that be decided that the survivors' best chance of ... well ... surviving would be to restructure society into "factions," each based on its members' core personality traits, and each playing a prescribed role for the betterment of all.

Sounds orderly if nothing else, right? The problem is that our heroine, one Tris (née Beatrice) is an anomaly. Despite some standardized testing that makes the SATs look like a walk in the park with puppies and kittens and ice cream, her results are "inconclusive." She doesn't fit into one of the factions. She is, in a word, in a bestseller title, divergent.

So, what would you do if you found you didn't really fit in? Well, naturally you would risk your life to join the toughest group, right? Of course right. 

Tris selects "Dauntless," whose brave members serve as society's warriors. But, choosing Dauntless doesn't mean that Dauntless chooses you. So, Tris has to go through all kinds of initiation hell: leaps out of moving elevated trains, scaling an old ferris wheel, hand-to-hand combat with nasty characters who are considerably larger, stronger and just plain meaner. There's blood. There's guts. 

There's a hunky instructor.

Tris and "Four" (as one smart-mouthed initiate asks, "What, were One, Two and Three taken?") fall in love and foil a deadly coup driven by another faction, the "Erudite." But, even as they escape in the final moments of the movie, we know it ain't over. There are two more Divergent books and probably three more Divergent movies (following the examples of Harry Potter, Twilight and Hunger Games, Hollywood will certainly split the last book into two installments).

Here's what I think my daughter and her peers find so appealing about all this. As teenage girls, they feel a lot like Tris. They are asked to conform. They are pigeon-holed as "brains" or "beauties." They may not be forced to fight each other in a ring, but things can get pretty brutal online.

Here's what I like. Tris is a girl. She's brave; she's strong; she holds her own. She even holds her own against boys. Does she ever!

Here's what I don't like. The way the studio felt the need to glam her up for the movie poster. Shailene Woodley was nowhere near as curvy or "come hither" in the actual film. Her hair was pulled back. And her stretch pants weren't quite that stretched.

Still, if Tinsel-town's executives are willing to produce bazillion dollar projects about a girl ... well ... stretch pants or not, things are looking up.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.   

The Road To Independence

Our Saturdays have just changed forever.

Typically, either my husband or I get up early to drive our teenage daughter to her work-study job at the stable. If it's my turn, I then go right to the Y for a Zumba class and my husband sleeps in. If it's his turn, I go to the Y for a Zumba class; he returns, goes back to bed and sleeps in. (Anyone notice a pattern?)

This has been the routine for a number of years, interrupted only by family vacations, the swine flu, major holidays, and PSATs.

This past Saturday morning, my darling daughter ate a quicker-than-usual breakfast, grabbed her permit and glasses, kissed us good-bye, and raced outside. An instructor from her driving school was waiting by the curb with a couple of other hopeful 16 1/2 year-olds. It was the day they had all been waiting for ... the road test! Within hours, their license dreams would be realized. Or, they would return in shame. 

Despite 30 hours of classes, 12 hours of instruction, 6 hours of observation, and seemingly countless hours of practice, my girl was nervous. This was something new. Of course, I was practically frantic. This, however, was not new. 

To be perfectly honest, I had conflicted feelings. Should I hope for success for her sake? Or cross my fingers that she would fail, thereby enabling me to retain my position as chauffeur and protector? I compromised, praying silently "Please let her stay safe." I figured someone upstairs would interpret that for us.

It would be a while, so I went to my class and came back to do some writing. My husband saw the text first ...

PASSED!!!!

Within the hour, she bounded in, beaming head to toe. I swallowed my panic and congratulated her. 'Turns out, she didn't just pass the test. As her instructor told her on the way home, she "Killed it!" Here's what the inspector had to say:

"Are you a professional driver?"

"No."

"Are either of your parents professional drivers?"

"No."

"Well, I've never had anyone do such a clean, efficient test before. Well done."

My daughter's performance on tests has always been important to me (just ask her). So, this should make me very happy, right? Well, yes and no. I'm very proud of her. But, I'm still a bit of a basket case over this whole thing.

My daughter on the other hand is thrilled. She loves to drive, and she equates having her own license with unlimited trips to and time at the stable with her beloved horse. This is more perception than reality. She still has to put schoolwork first. And, it's not as though I said "No, I won't take you" very often.

More than anything, I think having a license makes her feel she is finally growing up. It's freedom. And, I just have to get used to it — suddenly, my heart is not just walking around outside my body. It's driving away.

As soon as she had lunch (her appetite miraculously returned once the test was behind her), my daughter borrowed the keys to one of our cars and headed off. There were conditions: cell phone in the glove compartment, ringer off; a text when she arrived at her destination; another when she was ready to head home. Most of all, I implored her "Please be very very careful." To her credit, she didn't groan or roll her eyes. She promised that she would be and happily left. 

To my credit, I managed somehow to breathe for the next three hours until she was safely back again.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.   

Sophomore Semi-Formal

When you grow up in New York City, you're exposed to a much bigger world than your peers in the suburbs. Diversity and show business and street crime and nightlife. 

On the flip side, you miss out on a lot of the typical teen rituals. Like football games, cheerleaders, malls and "parking." 

And proms.

'Never had one. 'Never missed it. But, now I get to live vicariously.

Tonight, my daughter and her classmates are having a pre-prom of sorts, the Sophomore Semi-Formal.

Organized (as so much is) by the always overachieving class officers, the event will take place at a small hotel in Salem, one town over. There will be a buffet dinner and dancing. There are assigned seats. Everyone has to be at the high school by 6:15 sharp to board two buses that will make two trips apiece. Students will return to the school (by bus, again) at 10:30. They will not — I repeat, not — be permitted to attend if they arrive by any means other than the official buses. No rides from parents, no horse-drawn buggies, no bikes, no pedicabs. No way, no how.

(An aside here: growing up in NYC was different, for sure. But, growing up in the groovy 1970s, even more so. Where did all these rules come from? Sheesh! For heaven's sake, my daughter is in a plain old public high school. Not juvie.)

These kids have had a lot on their plates for the past few months: schoolwork, the polar vortex, Justin Bieber's issues with the law. But, Sophomore Semi-Formal (as with "Prom," the "the" is unnecessary) has risen to the top in terms of attention paid. Even our daughter, who is not and never will be anyone's girly-girl, has been lured into the madness.

The biggest issue, of course, is ... the dress. It isn't simply a matter of choosing one. The stakes are much higher. You need to choose one that no one else has chosen. Or ... sacré bleu! Or, more appropriately, given the demographic we're discussing ... OMG!!!!!!!!!!!

There are only a couple of stores in our town that might have dresses appropriate for this shindig. The nearest mall, about 20 minutes away, has maybe a dozen more. There are about 125 girls in the sophomore class. The chance of dress duplicates is likely and ... well ... it's just too, too horrifying.

Thank goodness for social media! An intrepid young sophomore created a Facebook page where girls can post pictures of their dresses. Some are catalogue shots on professional models. Most are dressing room selfies. The funniest are the ones depicting a pretty girl in a gorgeous dress on top and athletic socks underneath.

My daughter was fortunate. Not only is her mother preternaturally understanding (and quite handsome for her age), but we were spending February break 1,400 miles away in New Orleans. Shopping is always a fun vacation activity. We would make it our quest to find the dress.

First, we looked in all the boutiques of the French Quarter. Most dresses weren't worth trying on, and the first few that were turned out to be "Meh," in the words of my offspring. We finally found one that I liked a lot and she, grudgingly, took a selfie. Not quite committed yet, she sent it to just a select group of buds. The response was positive. Then, my daughter decided that the gold braiding on the bodice of the dress looked like "a uterus." (Say what?!?) And, it was no longer in the consideration set.

We found another dress shop on the corner of Iberville and Dauphine. There, my daughter found something: a cute dress, sleeveless with a short, flaired skirt, made out of turquoise lace over a nude slip. A quick digital convo with her gal pals, a quick credit card transaction, and — Voila! — the dress was hers.

Success. So, one might assume we were done. No, no, no. The next day, we ventured uptown to Magazine Street. There, amongst the galleries and bistros, we found another store with another dress. This was a different look. It was strapless, black and metallic on top with a gauzy "high-low" skirt. It was, happily, marked down about 50%. We decided to use our savings to take it to a local tailor and have the dress hemmed into a "high-high." The "high-low" is, after all, so last month.

Two dress-success. So, again, one might assume we were done. No, no, no, no. Back home, my daughter found yet another dress, this time online. I agreed because (a) it really was quite a bargain, (b) we're going to London in June for a big bat mitzvah and there will be multiple dressy events, and (c) as per usual, I was distracted when she asked. With Sophomore Semi looming, we ordered it in two sizes, planning to return whichever didn't fit.

The third (and final, thank you very much) dress arrived and was deemed "Perfect!" Her BFF came over and agreed with great enthusiasm. In fact, the enthusiasm was so great that I ended up giving her the other, matching dress. (It saved me the return postage and a trip to the post office.) 

I laughed and said, in my most Shakespearean voice "On pain of death, just DON'T wear it to Semi!"

And, here's the catch. The girls have now decided that wearing the same dress will actually be hysterically funny, so they are. 

After all that? I can only take their lead and shrug. Whatever.

But, I can't wait to see the selfies.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.