GIGI GOES GAGA

11 of 30: TOO MUCH REALITY, AND NOT NEARLY ENOUGH

I keep wishing reality shows would just go away, that people would lose their appetite for them the way we all wish we could lose our jones for crunchy, fatty food and sugar. Unfortunately, both are guilty pleasures that many refuse to give up, and so they're here for good.

I can't keep track of all the reality shows that come and go. I try so very hard to pretend they don't exist but they keep interrupting my regular viewing pleasure with teaser ads, often showing the latest catfight (question: why is it always the women fighting?) or couples making out in hot tubs while jealous girls in bikinis shoot killer looks their way.

By now we all know there's nothing real about reality shows; we know they're scripted in varying degrees and what we see is a thin version of of these people's lives the producers want us to see. After all, if we all squabbled and argued and fought and brawled and cried and yelled as much as these "actors" do in our own world, we would be too tired, way too exhausted, to get anything productive done.

If reality shows were real I'd lose all faith in humanity. In reality world (as opposed to the real world) the one who causes the most trouble is the de facto hero who gets the most air time; the most narcissistic, manipulative sociopath always wins. This is not the place for people who don't want to cause trouble: here, troublemakers rule. In a very real sense, we're rewarding people for exhibiting behavior that normally they'd be punished for.

I have no idea what kind of long-term effects reality shows will have on society. I would certainly hope that real-life dating is unlike anything in reality-world dating, where a bunch of women fight each other tooth-and-nail over one man they barely know, whose attention and affection they would do anything for. Besides, is this dating or harem survival?

I'm not an expert on reality shows. I've viewed a few episodes here and there along the way, and always felt silly, even guilty, for watching. I couldn't say I was being entertained and I didn't learn anything either. I'd come away not liking anyone on the show enough to want to root for any of them, no matter how evil the others were in comparison. The worst part, however, was that most of these folks make more money than the rest of us simply by being the kind of people we warn our children about.

Aaron Sorkin explains best what I both hate and fear most about reality shows in tonight's episode of Newsroom. Will McAvoy (Jeff Daniels) tells his date, who's a fan of The Real Housewives of New Jersey : "Human cockfighting makes us mean and desensitizes us."

And just like real cockfighting, the human version makes so much money for the winners that we probably won't ever see the end of it. Even if it makes losers out of the rest of us.

BIG GIRL

I don't think I'll ever forget the moment that night, after I stood up from his bed in my chambray nightshirt to walk across the room and grab my bag on top of the chair beside the TV stand and then back again. I remember feeling his eyes watch my every step intently as I pretended not to notice. As I plopped back on the mattress and sat beside him, my eyes now searching the vast caverns of the leather satchel on my lap for a tiny lip balm tube, he said, a matter-of-factly and without breaking his glance, "For a big girl, you're pretty lithe."

I was tempted at that moment to mention which parts of his body were not so big and what he couldn't do with them, but I'm never cruel even when I'm decidedly annoyed. So I looked up at him instead and asked pointedly though not quite indignantly, "I'm a big girl?" He then fumbled with his words, realizing that his backhanded compliment was about to slap him in his face, and stammered, "Well, what I meant was that you're not petite -- you know, you're not bony or skinny, like..." Like the other women he normally dated, he meant but couldn't say.

The truth is that while I've never considered myself thin (even during that blip in history when I was 5'4" and 100 lbs.), I've never thought I was at the other extreme either. I suppose I've always been somewhere in the middle, with the exact location completely dependent on who I happen to be standing next to or even where I'm at. In other words, it's always been relative. For instance, when I'm sipping my latte inside a hipster coffee spot, I feel like a linebacker in leggings next to the picture-perfect natives who look like they subsist only on caffeine. But when I enter a McDonald's situated beside a truck stop in the middle of "Next stop: gas, food, and lodging," I can't help but notice that I take up less space at the counter.

Yes, my doctor prefers that I lose a bit of weight for health reasons, and I'm working on it. In the meantime I take comfort in the fact that I can still fit into clothes sold at trendy boutiques where women with sharp cheekbones and protruding clavicles are the dominant species (although if truth be told, I often wear the largest size there, which to no surprise is usually available). Recently, I felt a simultaneous swelling of pride and guilt when a trainer said during my physical evaluation that I looked athletic (my muscular calves fool everybody else but me). But then again, I have to admit that I dread stepping up onto a weighing scale, especially in public, and I refuse to allow anyone to carry me even if it means possibly saving my life.

So maybe I am a big girl. Or at least I'm big enough so there's no way I can disappear into the background or pretend to be invisible. It's not easy to push me aside and I can't fit into a small box. When I walk my steps have substance and when I'm on the move others may have to move out of the way. See, the one thing about being a big girl is that no one can possibly call me little.

I regret that on that night I didn't have the perfect retort -- which incidentally I only found tonight. As one of the female stars of a new reality show swaggered on camera: "Once you go big, you'll never go twig."

Oh, and another regret: That I allowed him to make me feel so small.

 

 

 

WHY I'M GAGA...

over all things related to fashion and beauty, that is.

When I was growing up, I was never what you'd describe as conventionally pretty. Round face, full lips (before girls like Angelina made them a good thing to have), thick and coarse hair, big bones. Then while already suffering from teen angst, I got a face half-full of ugly, metal braces to boot. When boys called me, it was only because they wanted to get on my good side so that my strikingly pretty bestfriend would give them the time of day. The only physical asset I had going for me then was something I was self-conscious about and only wanted to hide. (OK, fine, we're talking about my boobs here.) And today, they're still not something I could reveal like, say, long, slim legs (which I don't have, incidentally).

And even when the braces came off, after my hair straightened out miraculously, and I grew into my face, I still felt like I had to try a bit harder. I just couldn't forget the cruel jokes and mean comments; like of the prom date who wished he were with someone else or the popular boy and his friends in the party who made fun of my poofy hair or the girls who didn't want to pick me for their teams because I was too fat.

While I've always been a bit too lazy (and proud) to try too hard -- I've never been a gym rat and I don't spend hours getting ready every day -- still I pay attention. I take care of my skin and my hair, I'm aware of trends in fashion and beauty, and I smell good. I'll never be the prettiest girl in the room -- which I don't aspire to be anyway -- but I'm confident that I can hold my own in any conversation and with almost any crowd. There's something about feeling put together that boosts confidence like no other; it makes me stand a little bit taller and straighter.

So you can imagine why I believe in the transformative power of beauty and fashion. I love it when friends ask me to go shopping with them to find the right bra or trousers, or when they ask me to do their makeup for a night out. It would be a dream to be able to do this for a living -- except that I'd be too happy to want to charge anyone, and that wouldn't do me any good. But it's also why I sometimes cry when I watch certain "makeover" shows like this or this. I know what it's like to see the difference -- and then feel it.

I don't believe that women should conform to any commonly accepted standard of beauty and I think that what's more important is that we should feel good about ourselves. But also, I think it wouldn''t hurt to find a pair of jeans that really fits or a shade of lipstick that brighens up your entire face. Unless you already have, don't knock it; just try it. And see if it doesn't add a bit of a zip to your step.

 

SCENE FROM A MARRIAGE

Me: (Watching The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants on TV this afternoon.)

He: What time do you wanna get going?

Me: (Not taking eyes off screen. Getting teary-eyed but trying to hide it. A bit embarrassed about crying over a teen flick.) Around 3? I'll just finish this and then we can go.

He: (Glancing at the TV to see what I'm watching.) BLAKE LIVELY!!! (he says it the same way Gene Wilder exclaimed "It's Alive!" to Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein.) What an annoying name.

Me: (Still not taking moist eyes off the screen.) Every time I hear her name I think "Rock Lobster."

He: That's Amber Tamblyn. (Pause.) And that's Alexis Bledel, the one from that chatty show you like so much.

Me: (At this point I'm staring at him. He knows who Amber Tamblyn is???)

He: (Sees the incredulous expression on my face and realizes what he's been saying.) What? Will you please stop leaving your magazines in the bathroom? I know WAY too much about these things I shouldn't know anything about! (Turns around and starts walking away.)

Me: (Eyes back on TV.) And America Ferrera is from what show?

He: (Without a pause or breaking his step.) Ugly Betty.

ENGAGE

The day Gene Roddenberry passed away, we held a solemn vigil at our flea-ridden apartment in West Los Angeles. To the four of us -- my roommate Anson, Sam, Dennis, and myself -- this was no cheeky joke. We were Trekkers to the core (although my fanaticism pretty much began and ended with TNG) and we felt a compelling need to pay our last respects to the man.

I can't say I watch a lot of television but the truth is at any given time I'm addicted to one or two shows, so much so that if the phone rings while my favorite is on, I won't pick up because I know the caller isn't close enough to me to know or care. For almost seven years my world stopped on each air date of a new TNG episode (later on, it was the same way for The X Files and Buffy the Vampire Slayer) because I'd be launched into an alternative universe for the hour, one I much preferred to live in if I could.

And through all the years my show was on, I made the mistake of disrupting my viewing pleasure only once. My friend's ex-boyfriend stopped by the store I worked at one Monday afternoon and asked me out to dinner for that evening, supposedly because he was so heartbroken about her sudden marriage to a man she had just met a few months earlier. I quickly declined and when he pressed me further, guilt seeped in because he looked so fragile and vulnerable. So I sighed and said, "OK, but just stop by my place and we can chat." Then I added, without the slightest trace of hesitation, and just to be perfectly clear: "Also, it's Star Trek night so I hope you don't mind watching with me." No problem, he replied.

Ha.

He came over with take-out half an hour before my show came on. Frankly, I wanted him to get on with his story quickly so I could focus on Capt. Jean-Luc Picard and his crew's new adventure. But obviously, that wasn't going to happen that night -- not when a man is grieving over the woman who had gotten away. So he talked, and I listened -- even when the stirring anthemic strains of the TNG theme played on.

I'd try to catch a glimpse or hear bits of dialogue whenever there was a break or a lull in the conversation. But when a man is telling you about how he was this close to stopping a wedding, you know there isn't going to be so much as a pause in his storytelling. Just when I'd resigned myself to the fact that I had completely missed an episode even as it openly played in front of me, the grieving guy began to tell me how much he had appreciated my listening to him and how close he felt to me at that moment. And then he asked if it would be all right if he kissed me.

(Sound of brakes screeching to a sudden halt, with sparks flying.) I was thinking: Dude, is this why you came over? And -- damn -- you even made me miss my show! But I said instead, "I'm really quite flattered you asked, but I don't think it would be a good idea." And then I smiled at him gently, almost like an angel. He was out of my apartment soon enough -- but not quite soon enough, unfortunately.

I can't say the guy was attempting to boldly go where no one had gone before -- even he knew that. He just should have known better -- he should have known that if you try coming in between a Trekker and her beloved show, there's no way you're ever getting to the Final Frontier.

NEW YEAR, NEW MAN

John Cusack annoys my husband, because my husband knows that for more than half my life John has been the only man in my dreams.

My husband -- the only man in my life -- however, has had several women who have figured in his fantasies one time or another. Catherine Zeta Jones (until she married Michael Douglas; for some reason that was a deal-breaker), Charlize Theron (great choice -- who wouldn't pick her?), and Adriana Lima (I just don't get this one and, although I acknowledge she's way hotter than me, I think she's one of those women men desire though other women can't understand why. I mean, if you're lusting over an Angel,why not Gisele or Alessandra instead? ). A couple of porn stars were on his list but they're retired now and have since disappeared from his radar.

So sometimes we play this game, where we pit one fantasy object against another. Some days Charlize beats Adriana, and some days Adriana whoops everyone else's tiny asses (although I suspect he does this just to irk me). But whenever he asks me if it's John or (name extremely hot man here), he knows what my answer's always going to be.

For me, there's always been just John. Until today.

There was a Man Vs. Wild marathon on the Discovery Channel today and my husband called me over to watch this crazy guy named Bear eat maggots, wrap a pee-soaked tee around his head to keep himself from overheating, and plunge himself into freezing water in the Alps just to show his viewers how to survive if they ever found themselves doing the exact same thing (not voluntarily, of course). Then I found myself watching hour after hour after hour, and I was completely and utterly fascinated, enraptured even. And now I'm not sure if I'd pick John over Bear Grylls if given a choice. Okay, maybe I would choose to hang out with John instead if Bear stunk of urine or had just bitten off the head of a garter snake. But the more I think about it now, maybe not (you'd understand if you saw Bear without all his clothes on like I just did this afternoon).

If you haven't watched the show yet (and you MUST), here's a short description:

In each episode of Man vs. Wild Bear strands himself in popular wilderness destinations where tourists often find themselves lost or in danger. As he finds his way back to civilization, he demonstrates local survival techniques, including escaping quicksand in the Moab Desert, navigating dangerous jungle rivers in Costa Rica, crossing ravines in the Alps and surviving sharks off Hawaii.

Lord, I'd follow this man to the ends of the earth. I mean, why not since he'd be the only person who could manage to get me back to civilization?

My husband laughs at me in my reverie. You wouldn't follow him anywhere, he says, you've never even gone camping. Which is true. But Bear could start a fire anywhere. And that's hot.

THE BEST THINGS IN LIFE ARE FREE

My friend Stacy sent me a note and this link today. She wrote:

This lovely Australian gentleman was on Oprah today. I hope his wonderful short film puts a big smile on your face. There are those days when the human race amazes me in a good way! Just try not grin from ear to ear, I dare you.

People tend to tell me lots of things, much of it sad and painful. I wish this guy could travel around around these parts sometime soon; they can certainly use what he offers for free. And if you're feeling a bit down right about now, I'm sending you a virtual one from me as well.

Hey Stacy, thanks for the smile today and for brightening up my day yesterday. I'm still trying to find a way to lure you down south because everything's a gazillion times more fun when you're around.

Oh -- and speaking of free wonderful things. Stacy and I spent hours at the South Coast Plaza yesterday doing some heavyweight shopping; we were actually tired and sore by the time we limped our way back to the car. But something we saw revived our spirits, gave us our second wind, so to speak.

We walked by Abercrombie & Fitch and espied a gorgeous man standing inside by the store entrance. Now although this might not sound unusual at all (since everyone knows good looks are an unwritten but universally understood prerequisite to getting a job as a salesperson at any of their stores), this man actually made us stop right in our tracks. He was the usual tall, blonde, tanned, ruggedly handsome sort of fellow you might see ringing up your jeans at A&F -- but he was completely shirtless. He wore a fur-lined hoodie jacket and possibly jeans (both our eyes stopped at his impossibly defined six-pack so we really can't say what he looked like from waist down), and he stood pretty much immobile like he was a mannequin. Which, I suppose, was his raison d’être that day.

Stacy and I stood outside looking in, took a minute to catch our collective breath and admire the view a bit more. And then she looked at me, her eyes dancing wildly, and with the naughtiest smile, announced her brilliant idea.

"I think I'm going to go up there and tip him," she said. There wasn't a trace of sarcasm in her voice, just sincere gratitude. I only wish he were holding up the same sign the Australian guy did in his short film. Now THAT would have definitely made me happy.

WHEN FAME IS A RAT RACE

We each might get only our 15 minutes but for a lucky few, that may be all what's needed to survive the rest of a lifetime mired in mediocrity. And in high-flying style, too.

Some people are famous for simply being famous; if they possess something else besides, say, a pretty mug or a propensity for outrageous behavior, they may even stick around a while longer. But while they're white-hot -- while they can sell newspapers and magazines and cause most folks to stop, pause, and take a second look -- each brief minute is worth way more than its weight in gold.

We all know about the free clothes and borrowed jewelry. We've probably all heard about the fabulous swag -- gift bags (performers and presenters at the 2005 Oscars took home $150,000 worth of free stuff!) and the gift lounges (Swagdance at Sundance!). And sponsored weddings (or better yet, of getting paid to walk down the aisle), too.

None of this was news to me. But this was (and here I was thinking I was already quite jaded): our favorite party girl, the ubiquitous Paris Hilton, can earn in 20 minutes four times the average American household income to do simply what she does -- to show up at a shindig and pose for the paparazzi. It appears we're so celebrity-obsessed that any business that depends on human traffic to survive will pay or do whatever it takes to bring in our already extraordinarily well-compensated modern Pied Pipers to lure us all and follow wherever they go.

And, yes, I happened to be watching -- oh, the irony of it all -- a television show about celebrities when I discovered that (lucrative) work can be play. And I'm not talking about simply having fun on the job, either; I mean that you can make a fortune from mingling, air-kissing, dancing, and posing the night away (or just a wee portion of it at least). According to the show:

Restaurants, clubs, stores and hotels are so anxious to get stars in their establishment; they'll indulge their every whim to get them there. From Jay-Z bringing his personal chicken wing chef to a London caviar restaurant, to Britney Spears shutting down a posh baby boutique in the middle of the day-no star request is too outrageous and no expense is spared. And if that's not enough, check out how easy it is for mega rich stars to get richer. Uber wealthy heiress Paris Hilton pockets $180,000 just for a 20-minute club appearance. And Britney Spears and Kevin Federline? They just got 2.3 million bucks richer, just for unloading a few of their wedding photos to People Magazine.

Hey, I'm not begrudging anyone's right to make an honest living or to take home amazing freebies for that matter. But I keep wondering what it says about us when the bright lights of fame can blind us so completely that we confuse celebrity with ability and excellence -- to the point where we, for instance, elect famous people into political office simply because we think we know them (or because they can play heroes onscreen pretty damn well). And in essence become much like the rats who followed the dude with the pipe all the way down to the river and drowned without so much as a struggle and definitely without a fight.

YET ANOTHER REASON I LOVE GEEKS

This television ad never fails to crack me up (and I see it just about everyday). I mentioned in my previous post how I've always been drawn to geeks somehow -- never been into jocks or the popular guys in school, ever. And here's why.

Geeks and nerds have not only sought and exacted their revenge on the rest of us (think Bill Gates and his ilk and how we can't do anything without using something they've created), but I suspect they now also have more fun, too.

I can't tell who rocks my world, though: the guy in the middle or the one to his right. Doesn't matter -- I bet they all say the word "algorithm" a lot. And they know what it means, too. Hot, hot, hot.

Note: If you can't open it, click here and view Nextel Dance Party.

SEEING PINOY

For the longest time it seemed the only Filipinos I saw on American TV were either freaky, attention-starved Pinays on reality shows such as MTV's The Real World, Blind Date, and ElimiDate -- or crazy (literally speaking), attention-starved Pinoys on American Idol or, worse, Dog, the Bounty Hunter.

I mean, it just got to the point that when I'd see Filipino-looking persons on any TV show, I'd close my eyes and fervently wish they wouldn't make fools of themselves. Or if they did, that they'd claim to be Hawaiians or Pacific Islanders instead (like real Filipino fools often do).

But then lately it seems that I've been seeing Filipinos who make me want to root for them. For instance, every Tuesday night -- without fail -- I vote for Mig Ayesa, who's competing on Rock Star: INXS. Not only is he genuinely talented but he's also clearly a decent chap; he cheers for his competition up on stage and comforts them when they get back home. Whether or not Ayesa does end up fronting INXS during its next world tour or not, I sincerely hope to see more of him for years to come. By the way, I don't vote for him simply because he's Filipino -- I never voted for Jasmine Trias and Camille Velasco, after all. I'd even buy his cd, and I haven't said that about anyone who's ever won a talent competition -- not even Kelly Clarkson, whose albums both went platinum.

I've never watched So You Think You Can Dance?, but I've read it's a sleeper hit. Many of my friends even like it. But because Petite recently raved about a terrific (Filipino-American) dancer named Ryan Conferido, I've decided to check out the show this coming Wednesday.

Now I'll be the first to admit the idea of Hugh Hefner simultaneously dating three very, VERY young blondes grosses me out (although the skeptic in me thinks this is all PR). I mean, there are impossibly beautiful women in their 40s, after all (which is about half of Hef's age, and thus still affords him bachelor bragging rights) and -- really -- what's wrong with just ONE girlfriend? So I'd never seen The Girls Next Door for that very reason.

But last Sunday, there was a marathon screening of this relatively new reality show on the E Channel and I confess I got hooked enough to watch four out of five episodes. On the second episode, two aspiring Playmates stayed the night at the Playboy Mansion to shoot test pictorials the day after. One of them, Raquel Gibson, was a cross between Jessica Alba and Angelina Jolie -- although she had the personality and spunk of neither. When they showed Hef and his harem on a night out, the exotic-looking lovely (she's half-Filipina, half-Italian) could have passed out in the restroom and no one would have noticed she was missing. I've got to admit she was very beautiful despite her dull demeanor, and once the camera started clicking and flashing during the shoot, she was miraculously transformed into Jezebel incarnate -- a sultry, wild-eyed, irresistible temptress.

Anyway, I read somewhere she may be Playboy Miss December 2005, but I suppose we won't know until the issue's about to hit the newsstands. And even if Hef and his editors don't include her in the relatively small sorority (622 as of this month) of Playboy Playmates, I hope Gibson gets other opportunities for significant - er - exposure. Just as long as it's not another dating reality show. If it were, then she'd have to hold a decent conversation -- and we, too, don't know anything about that so far.

It wouldn't be surprising if former Miss Teen USA, Vanessa Minnillo (also of MTV fame) gets to interview any (or all) of them for an Entertainment Tonight segment. Pampanga-born Minnillo knows a bit of what it's like to be Filipino in the entertainment world -- but definitely a lot about what it's like to have rightfully earned her place under the spotlight. Hopefully, these other three newcomers will too soon.

I LOVE PARIS

I'm down with the flu and can't seem to write one clear, cohesive sentence. I couldn't sleep tonight because of chills and congestion, so I finally gave up trying and got out of bed, and have been surfing the net instead.

Anyway, EVERYONE'S been talking about the new Carl's Jr. TV commercial with Paris Hilton in all her soft-porn glory (by the way, you've heard she's just gotten engaged to her namesake, a Greek shipping heir, right? How perfectly apt! In a way, she's proven everyone right and shown just how much Paris loves Paris.).

Check out this wonderful video at AdRants, an altered version of the commercial. Here, as Paris struts, crawls, bends, flexes, squats, and stretches as she makes love to a Bentley, you hear a voiceover of Richard Dreyfus reading Apple's Here's to the Crazy Ones.

As AdRants states: Originally, the intent of the Apple message was meant to be complimentary to those who think different and change the world in a positive manner. Yet, when voiced to Paris frolicking with a Bently (sic) and a Burger, it leaves one overcome with sadness and disgust with respect to the state of our culture.

I really don't hate Paris; in fact, I think she's absolutely brilliant for successfully doing what so many wannabees have been unable to achieve. She's transformed herself into a bankable celebrity -- a marketing phenomenon in fact -- virtually overnight, out of almost nothing. I mean, get this -- she's not the loveliest, sexiest, or even wealthiest heiress out there, but as far as millions of folks are concerned, she's It. The hot (watch her copyright this word) trustfund baby.

Although she has no real talent (word is she's just very hardworking and focused), I bet she could give Britney, Jessica, Lindsay -- and all the other blonde babes -- a run for their money. And despite all her shenanigans, she's not about to be grounded by her parents anytime soon -- after all, it's precisely because of all her highly-publicized stunts that she's put the brand Hilton back in the forefront of American consumer consciousness.

Hmmm. Who knows, she might even give new meaning to the classic line in Casablanca: We'll always have Paris. At least, I'm sure the bigwigs at Carl's Jr. hope so.

Perish the thought.

OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES

G arrived about an hour late to our get-together. She rushed in, a tad bit flushed and perhaps a little flustered even.

"I'm so sorry I'm late you guys!" she yelled above the din of girl-bonding chitchat. It's OK, we all assured her; whenever we have these small high school reunion-type parties anyway, part of the excitement is figuring out who's going to walk through the door next -- and when.

I stood with her by the dining table as we grazed on california rolls and mini-empanadas. She started explaining why she was late; apparently, she got lost. It wasn't because she lacks a sense of direction, she was merely distracted.

"I was listening to a tape about how to talk to your kids about sex," G explained. My jaw hit the floor and I nearly choked on sticky vinegared rice. Of course, I do think parents should have this conversation with their children -- I was just quite surprised about who among the mothers in the group was taking first strike. After all, G only had two boyfriends her entire life: the first one she had a completely pure and chaste relationship with (no kissing even, if I remember correctly) and the second man she married. I'd be willing to bet everything I have that her young teens know much more about sex than she did at their age. I'm sure all of you would agree with me, given the times we live in.

I quickly understood why she was flushed and flustered. "I was listening to some of the stuff..." G didn't finish her sentence as she fanned her reddening face with her hands. She didn't have to -- I knew exactly what she was trying to say. She continued, "Anyway, so I got distracted and next thing I knew I didn't know where I was and I had to find my way back."

I guess that pretty much sums up what parents feel when they confront the day they realize it's time to discuss sex with their kids: confused and hopelessly lost. I don't envy my friends; being a teenager is much more complicated today than it was even 20 years ago. Our lives were innocent (idyllic even) in comparison, even if we didn't think so then. Nowadays, teens have to ever-so-carefully maneuver a path littered with hidden land mines on their way to adulthood: violence in schools, child molesters and sexual predators, drugs and alcohol (OK, that's an old one), and sex. But not just "should I do it or should I not" kind of sex. We're talking about young girls who engage in fellatio because they don't want to have sexual intercourse and risk pregnancy or disease. We're talking about barely-teens who think oral sex is "not a big deal," although they admit it's not as casual as kissing. We're talking about "friends with benefits" and one-time casual hook-ups.

These are issues my girlfriends didn't have to deal with when they were 13 or 14 -- so discussing these topics now with their own teens entails more than empathy and wisdom gained from life experience. What is needed now is foresight, careful preparation, and information.

For many years I've heard about high school parties where girls compete with each other: who can give the most blowjobs (to as many boys) that night? I never knew if these were just urban legends meant to instill cold, hard fear into the hearts of parents everywhere. Apparently, they do happen -- but not everywhere, and not all the time. Still, they happen.

I just finished watching The 411: Teens and Sex, a one-hour TV news special. There was nothing to me that was new, but one thing did completely surprise me: how smart today's teens can be about such "grown-up" issues. I suppose because they are confronted -- bombarded even -- with these questions and dilemmas, they need to quickly form their answers and decisions. There were roughly two dozen teens ranging from 13 to 16 featured on the show -- their thoughts and feelings about sex varied as widely as their backgrounds. But there were a few things they pretty much agreed upon.

Over and over, they repeated that parents have much more influence over their teen's actions and decisions than they think they do, even more than the media (this is good news, yes?). Most of them said all children/teens need to be taught respect and self-respect. One particularly articulate boy said girls should be taught self-respect -- not so much manifested in what they choose to wear, but with the choices they make with their bodies.They all agreed that should their parents discuss sex with them, they should be willing to listen, be honest, and not punish them or even their friends for what they may say.

Towards the end of the show, a couple of experts were invited to speak to a group of parents. Amid all the questions and answers, a few messages were repeated constantly: that parents should begin the process of honest and open conversation with their children from early on -- so that when it's time to discuss relationships and sex, there's a greater comfort level overall. Ask a lot of questions but listen (in fact, do more listening than talking). And lastly, parents should practice what they preach; they should lead by action and show their children what loving, respectful relationships are about.

After the show was over, I reflected on the decisions I had made when I was the same age as the teen participants. My parents had never discussed sex with me and my sisters -- most likely because they never had similar conversations with my grandparents and surely because they didn't know how to do so. They simply assumed our school would take care of that ("Don't have sex before you get married; otherwise, you'd be committing a sin."). But I was never one to take things at face value and always questioned everything. Plus I was more curious than cautious. So when I was confronted with the decision, I wasn't ready -- I was completely naive, I didn't even know what a penis looked like. I was hopelessly in love with my boyfriend, I didn't want to lose him, and I thought we would be together forever. I made the wrong decision -- and I say wrong only because I wasn't emotionally ready to act on my choice. Fortunately for me, having done so, I took every precaution so I wouldn't get sick and possibly die or get pregnant when I wasn't the least bit strong enough to be a mom. I may have been wrong about my future, but at least I made sure I still had one.

Because of my own experience, I applaud my friend G (even if I cringe at imagining the discomfort she will feel when she has "the talk" with her kids). She may have been confused, distracted, flustered, and lost -- but she found her way back, got on track and on the right path. And with her teens on the same road with her. Whatever direction her kids eventually choose to take, at least they won't be without a roadmap.