Brand New Barbie Bods

Feeling very popular right now; I've had so many emails and messages this week from Lovin' the Alien readers. 

Some congratulated me on reaching 130,000 page views. (Thank you!) 

Most, however, forwarded links to news stories about a certain famous lady, and asked when (or what) I was going to write about her. Really, I haven't had this much input since a former child star put on a teddy bear teddy and twerked on live TV. (What was that about?) While I'm assuming that Miley Cyrus's bits and pieces are all genuine flesh and blood, my new subject's figure is decidedly ... plastic.

I'm talking, of course, about Mattel's Queen Bee, the one, the only, the impossible shapely Barbie. The news this week, though, is that maybe those infamous curves aren't quite so impossible anymore.

I haven't written much about Barbie (or, as I like to call her, Barbieelzebub) for a while. It's been many years since my now eighteen-year-old daughter asked for one. Just the other day, I ran into Super Stop & Shop for a few items and saw a Valentine's Day display of individual dolls packaged in pink and red. They were $12.99, which reinforced how long it had been since I actually bought one (I think I usually paid about $6 bucks). But, there appeared to progress as well. There was firefighter Barbie and a pilot Barbie and a doctor Barbie. And, all of these accomplished characters wore pants (!). Firefighter Barbie looked trim and busty, but she didn't look like a stripper at a fireman's bachelor party. And even though doctor Barbie had hot pink leggings and high heels under her lab coat, the lab coat itself looked professional and was long enough to hide most, well some, of the leggings. (Hey, if my tush looked like that, maybe I wouldn't cover it up either.) All in all, I thought these were good signs.

The news this week isn't about Barbie's professional life. It's about her body. Some quick history first, though ...

Once upon a time, years before wholesome pig-tailed American girls sent Barbie and Ken off on dream dates, there was a more mature figure named Lili. She was based on a popular character in an R-rated comic strip that ran in the newspaper Bild-Zeitung in Hamburg. Her naughty adventures were so popular that she was immortalized in plastic with heavy make-up, stiletto toes, and that figure we all know so well but rarely encounter in real life. Lili dolls were sold in bars and adult toy stores; they were popular gag gifts at stag parties.

In 1956, Ruth Handler, the co-founder of the Mattel toy company was vacationing in Germany with her daughter "Barbie" and she brought the Lili toy back. Three years later, Barbie the doll was introduced. And the rest is, shall-we-say, bodacious history. 

Feminists have had issues with the divine Miss B for decades. But, Handler saw it differently, "Every little girl needed a doll through which to project herself into her dream of her future. If she was going to do role playing of what she would be like when she was 16 or 17, it was a little stupid to play with a doll that had a flat chest. So I gave it beautiful breasts." The breasts (and the infinitesimal waist and the longer than humanly possible legs) have always been part of the problem. Because, guess what Ruth? Ain't no girl gonna look like that when she's 16 or 17. No way. No how. 

This week, Mattel launched an expanded selection of Barbies with more diverse (and arguably realistic) body shapes. "Girls everywhere now have infinitely more ways to play out their stories and spark their imaginations through Barbie. Along with more overall diversity, we proudly add three new body types to our line."

According to Mattel's website, "The 2016 Barbie^® Fashionistas^™ Dolls will eventually include 4 body types, 7 skin tones, 22 eye colors, 24 hairstyles, and countless on-trend fashions and accessories."

Phew. I was worried we might run out of on-trend accessories.

Anyway, now girls can choose "Original Barbie," "Petite Barbie," "Curvy Barbie," or "Tall Barbie." Because, apparently, the original isn't curvy or tall enough. According to figures (no pun intended) released in 2013, Barbie would be 5'9" and weigh 110 pounds; the average American woman is 5'4" and weighs 166. 

An unapologetic feminist, myself, I've always thought the Barbie-backlash was a little overblown. I think critics overestimate the influence of a doll and underestimate our daughters' imaginations and common sense.
 
Still, I think there's been progress. And, just to be sure, I did a  quick reality check with my daughter. 

She said, "Well, it's about time." But then, she quickly pointed out, "There's still no fat ones."

Truth.

If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.   

 

Je Me Souviens

This weekend's horrific attacks on Paris left us all reeling. We watched the news, read survivor stories, and when the French government retaliated with air strikes on assumed ISIS targets, we wrung our hands (or applauded, depending on whether we believe that a violent reaction to violence can ever lead to peace).

For those of us who have had the privilege and pleasure of visiting Paris, we were flooded with memories.

I took French for most of my school years, starting in second grade with the glamorous Madame Cipriani (who also taught Spanish, despite her Italianate surname). Whenever she took vacations abroad, she would bring back souvenirs which we could win in pop oral quizzes. Two such items, a small enamel tray that looked like a Parisian street sign and a brochure from the S.S. France, were among my prized possessions.

I dreamed of visiting Paris and finally got to when I was 25. I spent two weeks traveling through France and Switzerland with a coworker. But, after a night in Geneva, I decided I'd had enough of the Alps and took a train by myself back to the city of lights. The few days I spent there alone were une très grande aventure.

More visits followed. I've been to Paris twice with my husband. The first time, we were still dating and we almost (sort of, kind of, well not really) got engaged there. He did actually pop the question later on the same trip, in Grenoble. The second time was many years later when we were able to add on a few days to a business meeting ... a wonderful way to travel and one that I highly recommend if you have the bonne chance.

My sister and I took our mother to Paris about fifteen years ago. We stayed in a pretty hotel across from a little park in the city's garment district. We ate more pastry than the law should allow. It was a lovely trip and also a bit sobering. I had to face the fact that my sister's French was beacoup mieux than mine. (Sorry, Madame Cipriani. Je suis désolé.)

Of course, the trip that stands out for me now is my most recent one with my teenage daughter. We were in London for a friend's bat mitzvah and took the Eurostar to Paris. It was just the two of us; her dad's work situation didn't allow him to come. We spent five glorious days there, filling each one with museums and sights and yes, pastry. Together we set off to find the city's best soupe à l'oignon, a quest that my daughter took very seriously, trying at least one and sometimes two a day. We visited Versailles, had crepes in the shadow of Sacré-Cœur, took a late night tour of the Seine aboard a bateau mouche, climbed la Tour Eiffel, and stood on line for two hours to explore les catacombes.

I don't know when we've had such a good time together. There was nothing to do, yet so much to see. No alarms to set (wonder of wonders, she woke early each morning — without any prodding whatsoever — because there was simply so much to do), no homework, no laundry, no client calls. We were there to enjoy it all in a place that seemed designed purely for that purpose.

I think that's what Paris means to all of us — and why this comes as such a blow.

That's what this weekend's terrorists were attacking, a place where celebrating life has evolved to an art form. One of my business partners went there earlier this fall, and it's hitting him very hard. As he explained to me this morning, the fact that the gunmen targeted café patrons and people enjoying music feels particularly obscene.

Much has been made in more liberal social media about the bias and ethnocentricity demonstrated by major news outlets. Why, people are asking (rightly) does a terrorist attack in France warrant so much attention, as well as national symbols of sympathy and solidarity? What about terrorist attacks in Baghdad, Beirut and Garissa University — some of which resulted in even more victims? I agree and I'm ashamed that we don't pay more attention to the atrocities in non-Western countries. We are all human beings and a life in the Middle East or Africa is every bit as valuable as one on the Champs-Élysées.

I am so grateful for the time I spent in Paris with my daughter. (Truly, I'm grateful for the time we've spent together anywhere.) Most of all, I'm grateful — profoundly grateful — to have her safe and sound when so many mothers, all over the world, are mourning today.

I wish I knew the answer, but I don't. 

Mon dieu, I hope we find it someday soon.

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

Eighteen Years Ago

On September 14, 1997, I went to bed a little earlier than usual. After an amazing all-you-can-eat brunch at our yacht club, I was feeling stuffed, a little bloaty, kind of crampy. At just about midnight, I went to the bathroom, then returned to wake my husband.

"Um, I think my water just broke."

We called the obstetrician's office; the doctor on duty was in delivery, but would call us back. Finally, at about 2:00 am, they told us to head to the hospital. I was checked in and examined. The nurse reassured me that nothing was going to happen for a while and suggested we get some rest. 

Riiiiight. Like that was gonna happen.

My husband, in the recliner next to my bed, drifted off almost immediately. Meanwhile, I stressed out. (Then again, why should the single most important night of our lives be different than any other night?) I stayed awake and my contractions got closer together — gradually. A little too gradually it turned out. As soon as a doctor arrived, they put me on Pitocin (invented, I am absolutely certain by the biggest woman-hating man who ever lived) so that my labor would be "more productive." Over the next several hours, we tried other things: walks along the maternity ward corridor, warm showers, the dreaded birthing ball. I watched TV for a while. On the midday news I learned that the FDA was taking one of my client's products, a weight loss drug called Fen-Phen, off the market (so much for the commercial we were about to shoot). I also watched back-to-back-to-back episodes of "Mad About You." 

Funny, I've never been able to sit through that show again.

Anyway, things finally progressed as they were supposed to; the doctor returned; I pushed and ... Voila! "You have a daughter!" It was 3:49 pm, September 15, 1997. I was a mother.

This morning, my daughter and I watched her birthday sunrise together, as we have every year since she was maybe three years old. This time, her dad joined us, along with the new puppy. There's no school today (Rosh Hashanah), so as soon as our little ritual was over, the now-legal adult went back to bed. 

I'm left here thinking about the past eighteen years. They've gone by quickly, yet we packed a lot into them. Birthday parties and vacations, homework and horse shows, lazy mornings, busy weekends. And laundry. There's been a lot of laundry.

This year, we're time-shifting the actual celebration. At 3:49 (my daughter's a stickler for detail), she'll mark the anniversary of her birth on her trusty steed. From the stable, she and her BFF are driving to Providence for a concert. By the time they return, it will be after midnight and her birthday will technically be over. I'm trying not to focus on two teens driving after hours on Route 95. Instead, I'm going to think about what a happy day she's having.

My daughter is eighteen. She can vote, she can enlist in the army, she can buy cigarettes, work full-time, live on her own. But, she's safe asleep upstairs right now. We've done a good job. We've made a good person.

I've always loved her a lot. Now, it's time to let go a little.

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

Calculated Risks

A few days ago a friend, who happens to be the terrific mother of two tween girls, posted a video and asked me to blog about it. 

Pamela Casey, a District Attorney from Alabama, created the quick clip to warn parents about "Calculator%" an app that appears harmless on your child's phone but can be unlocked and used as a secret photo album.

Turns out there are several apps that provide the same functionality.
 
Private Photo (Calculator%) is getting the most attention right now. The app lets your teen store private photos and videos, hidden behind an actual calculator. Once he or she puts in a secret passcode, they're able to access a private area, where files are securely stored and remain completely confidential. 

Smart Hide Calculator is also a fully functional calculator app. But, once the teen enters his or her password and presses the '=' button, they're able to "hide" or "unhide" pictures, videos, documents or files. 

SpyCalc offers a free ad-supported version as well as a paid one. Again, calculator functionality hides a secret storage area, where kids can hide photos. SpyCalc also allows users to take pictures directly and store them directly in the calculator app, ensuring privacy even sooner. 

KYMS is another option for hiding photos and videos behind a calculator. It adds better video quality, document protection for PDFs and text, plus a password recovery feature. 

The descriptions of these apps stress privacy but don't go so far as to use the word "sexting." But, of course, that's what they're meant for. (There are plenty of other "private photo album" apps that don't bother to use a calculator as camouflage.) As parents, we find the underage sexting phenomenon particularly frightening — especially when the news is filled with horrifying statistics and prep school sexting rings. 

In reality, according to a recent story in Psychology Today, far fewer kids are sexting than the sensational headlines imply — between 3-7%, rather than the 50% reported last year. 

So try not to worry. Chances are, your teen's calculator app really is helping them with homework.  

And, at least now you know what to look for if things don't seem to add up.

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

 

In Her Own Sweet Time

After I had my daughter, I went right back to work. Well, practically. 

I did take about two weeks off completely (fourteen surreal and blurry, virtually sleepless days). But, then I started writing ad copy again, gradually building up my hours and transitioning into halftime home, halftime at the office. By about the six-week mark, I was commuting into the city each day and my sweet child was safe and sound in a family daycare.

I had started the job while I was pregnant. I would be building a creative department for a new agency and it was important to me that my bosses (all men) understood how serious I was about it. In honesty, we also needed the cash. Regardless, it never occurred to me to stay at home permanently. I loved what I did, felt absolutely comfortable giving it my all while giving my new baby all my heart as well. For me, these were never mutually exclusive roles or passions.

Of course, going right back to work made some things a little more difficult. Like breast-feeding. Early on, our pediatrician had encouraged me to switch off between breast and bottle and that certainly made things more convenient. I was also very fortunate; my body adjusted quickly to our new schedule. I nursed my daughter in the morning before we left and again as soon as I got home. After the first few days, I had no discomfort and never spent my lunch hour with a breast pump behind closed doors. (Ugh — thank goodness!) The only real problems I ever had occurred on an early-post-pregnancy business trip, and a single and overdue overnight at the Ritz with my husband. After a wonderfully romantic evening, he slept soundly in the sumptuous hotel bed, while I sat on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, you guessed it, pumping.

All in all, I was lucky though, and I planned to nurse for six months. Less than the fascists at the La Leche League might have liked, but more than many professional women get to. Then, at five months, three-and-a-half weeks (literally four days before I had planned), my daughter stopped. She changed her mind. "No, thank you very much." She simply turned her head away. Clearly, there was more going on in the world than my boob, and she wasn't going to miss any of it.

To say I felt rejection is an understatement. Silly, though. Her natural dismissal actually made my life a lot easier. But, it hurt all the same.

A similar thing happened with her pacifier. My husband and I never had an issue with letting her have a "nipper," as we called it, and we had a healthy stash strategically situated throughout the house, in cars, purses and jacket pockets. But, neither of us wanted her to grow into one of those strapping toddlers you see, greedily sucking and taking their pacifiers out of their mouths to speak because — guess what? — they're old enough to speak. So, we agreed we would wean her off of it at twelve months. Lo and behold, she jumped the gun again, losing all interest a couple of weeks ahead of schedule.

(I won't now narrate a detailed story of her potty-training (because I promised her I never would). Suffice it to say, it involved M&Ms and a Princess Barbie, and she acquiesced  — when she finally did acquiesce — in her own sweet time.)

Nursing and nippers and shameless bribery are all behind us now. My daughter just started senior year of high school. In addition to her course load and exams and training and competitions and a part-time job, she has college applications looming. And that's all anyone wants to talk about. Family, friends, strangers we met on our vacation ... as soon as they hear she's about to turn eighteen, the first thing out of their mouth is the c-word. "Where are you looking?" "Where are you applying?" "Where do you want to go?"

By now, my daughter isn't even bothering to give any updates. "I don't know yet," she replies to every query, not even acknowledging the half-spirited research she's done so far. 

The Common App is now open online and most of the schools on her (extremely short) short-list are accepting rolling applications even as I type. But, she has yet to fill in a name or address, much less outline an essay or even meet with her guidance counselor.

She's not ready. Period. And, I have to bide my time, bite my tongue and wait. She'll get there.

In her own sweet time.

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

 

Sports Equipment and Other Best Friends

I spent this past weekend with my daughter and her horse. This isn't exactly news — I spend most weekends with my daughter and her horse. Unless it's the dead of winter, in which case she spends the weekend with her horse and I watch old movies under "the best blanket in the world," a huge and cozy patchwork fleece made by my talented sister-in-law.

On Saturday, I drove about two and a half hours out to the Berkshires, then another 45 minutes or so down to Connecticut. It was a gorgeous day, but a long ride. On the way, I had to pick up day-glo orange duct tape and a box of Apple Jacks. Apparently, the cereal is our horse's new favorite snack. (He also likes Wheat Thins and Parmesan Goldfish.)

The show was enormous and our stable was well-represented. We stayed with another rider and mom in an eclectic "inn" that looked like a plain old motel on the outside but decorated by Holly Hobbie on the inside. (Would you like some calico with your calico?) There was a pizza and burger place down the road and millions of fireflies.

Sunday morning was sunny and very very hot. The girls left early with their trainer, and the parents followed soon after. The horses had spent the night in a gorgeous stable a few miles from the event grounds. There were hundreds of riders and it promised to be a very long day.

My daughter's dressage test was scheduled earlier than the other girls', and she carefully groomed her pony before just as carefully grooming herself. Dressage is all about precision and appearance is important. To this day, I laugh that the woman who has had short hair all her life (that would be me) has become absolutely expert at constructing and securing perfect buns. Really, I could be on Dance Moms. 

But, I digress.

Dressage went extremely well and we were encouraged. After lunch, my daughter and her trusty steed would compete in stadium jumping and then on a cross-country course made up of logs and ditches, various types of fences and water obstacles. Typically, this is where they do their best (and have the most fun). 

But, as soon as they started warming up, my daughter could tell that something was wrong. Her horse didn't feel like himself. He was sluggish and resisted her commands. He also seemed to be dehydrated although, try as she might, she couldn't get him to drink. Nevertheless, they had a double clear stadium round (no faults, no time penalty) and with her trainer's encouragement, they headed to cross-country.

The trouble started early. The horse refused two jumps (something that never happens), then stopped dead in his tracks when they got to the water. Disappointed of course, but also genuinely worried, my daughter "retired" from the event and from the overall competition. 

As I watched her sponge him down and encourage him to eat and — especially — drink, I thought about how different equine eventing is from other sports. Like many athletes, my daughter relies on her equipment: thousands of dollars worth of saddles and tack, and most importantly, her horse. But, if a champion tennis player isn't satisfied with her racquet, she can get a new one. If a NASCAR driver wrecks her car, she can get a new one. 

In theory, I guess, an equestrienne can get a new one too.

But, my daughter never would. 

Tennis racquets and racecars (and sailboats and lacrosse sticks and ice skates and football helmets) are not living, breathing animals. They don't have feelings. They don't experience pain. For my daughter (and countless other riders), the horse is a combination of athletic equipment and beloved pet.

He's also her dearest friend.

Whenever we attend events, I see riders who push their horses too far. I've seen jumpers whip their ponies to make them go faster and leap higher. We know some who've happily traded up, buying better trained and more accomplished mounts (and assuring more ribbons and trophies in doing so).

If we had the money, I'm sure my daughter would love to have an elite Class 1 horse. But, it would be in addition to her current one, not as a replacement.
 
She was very sad to leave the Connecticut show without a ribbon, but she was far more concerned about her horse. She felt bad that she had pushed him when he wasn't feeling up to his usual self. She was sorry if his loyalty to her had kept him going past his comfort zone.

It looks like he's on the mend now. We had to scratch from an upcoming event (even bigger, even farther away, and probably even hotter), but — with our vet's approval — my daughter should be back in the saddle by the end of the month.

Being a fine horsewoman isn't just about winning. And, this particular stable mom couldn't be prouder.

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

Alma Mater

Earlier this month, my teenage daughter and I drove down to my hometown. She was along for the ride because I had wrangled half-price tickets to Hedwig and the Angry Inch, starring Glee's Darren Criss, who is particularly dreamy if you're seventeen. I was going for an even more sentimental reason. My 35th high school reunion.

All right, let me stop you before you say "You must be kidding!" Or "How is that possible?" Or "But, you look so young!"

Yeah, thanks, I know.

Ummm.

Anyway ...

We were also joined by our new canine. My New York family, having seen countless puppy posts, photos, and videos on Facebook, was desperate to meet him. The poor little guy had a couple of vaccines at the vet's the morning we left (rabies and the first of two for Lyme disease), so he wasn't very comfortable. The ride down was long.

Not too sure how the little dog would respond to a strange apartment, we stayed in, ordering (real) New York pizza and watching TV. Even though I hate to miss a single moment of city life, it was good to chill because the rest of the weekend was a whirlwind.

In the morning, there was a program at my high school. I grew up in the west 60s, and the school is in the east 90s. Despite some ominous clouds and a misty rain, I decided to walk diagonally through the park. Between the bikers and the joggers, dog walkers and strollers, suffice it to say, I wasn't alone. 

The school was built on the grounds of an old armory. We moved there when I was in ninth grade, after two years in an office building near Grand Central Station. Later classes dubbed it "the brick prison." We were just happy to have a permanent home. The school, an extension of the City University of New York system, had been placed and displaced several times.

As I walked up 94th street towards Park Avenue, I felt a wave of familiarity. I wished for a moment that I could share it with my daughter or my husband. But, the former was still sleeping and the latter had politely declined. My husband won't go to his own reunions because he doesn't want to compare "hairlines, waistlines or bottom lines."

The morning was very satisfying. Twenty or twenty-five of my classmates had come. We met in one of the classrooms first (I think I had English there, once upon a time), hugged, kissed, caught up and took pictures. Then, we headed down to the newly renovated auditorium, where we were treated to video excerpts from the school's most recent musical, a couple of presentations from students, and comments from each milestone class. Most affecting were two 93-year-old alumnae who reminisced about finding their first jobs during World War II.

I had to rush out as soon as the representative from our class finished speaking to catch a cab down to Times Square, where my daughter would meet me for Hedwig. As soon as we finished at the theatre, we took another cab uptown where I changed, grabbed a bag of nametags, posters and goody bags, then jumped in yet another cab for a ride downtown to our reunion dinner.

What a wonderful evening! We had nearly 100 people and the atmosphere was pure joy. Even the girls who at seventeen were cultivating an attitude of world-weary blasé seemed genuinely happy to be there. We caught up with old friends and in some cases made new ones. And together we remembered the handful of classmates who passed away before their time.

These reunions mean more to me as I get older. Partly, I think, it's a natural nostalgia. But a lot of it has to do with watching my own high schooler negotiate her education and her friendships and all the changes she's going through as she moves from childhood to adulthood. I also have a much greater appreciation for my old school and the respect it afforded each of us. The building may have looked like a prison, but we had freedom that my daughter and her cohorts only dream of.

More than anything else, I look forward to the next reunion and celebrating who we were and who we've become with the remarkable women and men who shared that time with me.

Despite too much stress and too many rules, I hope my daughter will relish her reunions someday too.

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

The "Yes" Dress: Junior Prom, Part 3

Junior Prom is just two months away, and I'm beginning to feel like my daughter is Cinderella. So does that make me her wicked stepmother? Or her fairy godmother?

She isn't sweating the whole date thing (she'll either go with a boy friend — not to be confused with a boyfriend — or with a group of girls). But, finding the right dress has been a bit of a challenge.

The first dress she liked was from an online store. Despite reservations from a couple of her besties when she shared screen grabs with them, she (we) decided to try it. We took her measurements and compared them carefully to the size chart on the website. There was no question; she was a Small.

When the dress arrived a few days later, there was no question; it was too small.

Actually, it looked gorgeous. It was a royal blue, off the shoulder with a beaded bodice. Stunning, really and (unlike some of the dresses we'd seen) age-appropriate. But, there were two teensy weensy problems. She couldn't breathe or lift her arms — both of which, she might want to do on the evening of the prom. So, we returned it and requested a Medium.

Another few days later, the alternate dress arrived. Suddenly, we felt like we had left Cinderella and were stuck in Goldilocks and the Three Bears. While the first dress was too small, the second was too big. To make it "just right," we would need to enlist the aid of a local tailor.

But, alas, my fairy tale princess seemed to have changed her mind. Even when I clipped it in the back so she could see how it would fit (when it actually did fit), she just didn't love it anymore. Back it went.

Note to self, and to other moms buying prom dresses. Free delivery is all well and good, but you may want to review the return policy carefully. The website was happy to take them back, but charged us a 10% "restocking fee," as well as return postage. All said and done, we were out about $50 and didn't have a dress to show for it.

Enter Prince Charming, in the guise of my husband. We had to run a family errand about an hour from home, and he did something quite extraordinary. (1) It occurred to him that a famous women's clothing discounter — one "Frugal Fannie's" — was fairly near where we were headed. And (2) he actually offered to take us there.

To put this in perspective, there are probably at least one hundred thousand things my husband would rather do than go shopping. Sitting through Wagner's Ring Cycle comes to mind. Or getting a root canal. Clearly, this was a case of his putting our daughter's needs ahead of his own. He was very much the hero of the hour.

Frugal Fannie's was mobbed. I immediately found a department called "Occasion Dresses," and my daughter and I browsed with determination. (Her father was staying in the car, thank you very much.) No luck. The gowns were fairly dowdy, more mother-of-the-bride than belle-of-the-ball. I found a sales associate and asked if there was another place we should look.

Sure enough, there was an entire "Prom" section. In short order, we found three potential frocks and headed to the vast communal dressing room.

The first dress was lovely — also royal blue, also off the shoulder, but a drapey silk, almost Grecian in shape. The second didn't fit right — not too small or too big, just not right. The third made "too much noise;" it was a silk taffeta and rustled unacceptably. The first went back on again. A few quick pictures, and we had gained approval from friends and father. Within fifteen minutes we were done.

On our way to the register, we found a silver clutch and a rhinestone brooch that would add just the right amount of bling. And, all of our loot was considerably less than the original dress(es). Once we got home, the princess tried the dress on again, this time with heels. We all agreed ...

Perfect.

So the tale of the prom dress had a happy ending ... with many thanks to her fairy godfather.

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

Fifty Shades of Spongebob

Our tiny town's tiny movie theatre is showing two films this week: Fifty Shades of Grey and Spongebob.

Something for everyone.

I guess.

For the longest time, we didn't have a movie theatre here. When I first started dating my now husband, there was a small duplex, run by one of our Selectmen. They showed what I would call first-and-a-half run movies. New titles, but maybe two weeks after they opened at the multiplex a few towns over. The auditoriums were decidedly low-tech and the concessions were reasonably priced. Best of all, I could walk there from our apartment.

The owner eventually sold the building to our YMCA, which turned it into a gymnastics studio. I spent many a pleasant afternoon there, in a folding chair with a copy of The New Yorker, while my daughter tumbled. But, I missed having a movie theatre. The Y eventually sold the building to developers and that's when things got interesting.

A group of concerned citizens started a not-for-profit called The Warwick Theater Foundation. Its goal was to restore and preserve the space for future generations. They printed 1,000 "WTF" bumper stickers before someone figured it out. Although well-meaning, the group didn't seem very organized and despite its best efforts, the building was demolished.

Not to worry though. When the new "multi-use" development opened, we had a cinema once again. And not just any old cinema. The new place has a bar menu and waitress service, comfy reclining seats with trays so you can imbibe while you watch. It's all very fancy. And, don't get me wrong, I'm just happy that there's a movie theatre in town again of any sort.

But, Fifty Shades of Spongebob? Really, is that the best we can do?

Don't get me started on the dearth of films for thinking grownup women. But, maybe I'm not the target audience.

My daughter and her friends are no longer into Spongebob, and only mildly intrigued by the whole Fifty Shades thing. In recent cafeteria conversations (recreated by my daughter as we drove through the snow to her stable yesterday), the girls — most of whom are turning 17 — seem much more excited about their newfound ability to see an R-rated movie than by anything specific in said movie.

Meanwhile, despite the runaway popularity of the soft porn Fifty Shades novels, and the massive publicity afforded the film, none of the adults I know are particularly interested. The reviews to date have been ... um ... fifty shades of lousy. And I can't help but wonder how the adult title is affecting attendance at the family feature.

Surely some of Spongebob's prospective patrons — or, rather, the prospective patrons' parents — are scared off by the more colorful title next door. But, hey! At least it's just next door. At least there's a door between them. The audiences at the WestWind Solano Drive-In in Concord, CA don't have that much.

Apparently, the drive-in is playing the same two movies showing here. The issue is that both screens are visible across the parking area. 

Should make for an interesting "Family Nite" at the movies.

Whips and chains and blindfolds. Oh my.

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

Minefields in the Morning

Virtually every morning, I negotiate a minefield. 

If only Princess Diana were here in a clear plastic visor, crisp white shirt and chinos to bring attention to the matter. Joking aside, I'm not trying to diminish the late great Lady Di's important cause. She was brave and beautiful and brought much-needed heart to the British royal family. I was a big fan then (eight and a half months pregnant when she died, I collapsed on the sofa in tears at the news). I'm still a big fan. Sometimes, I stop and wonder what she might have accomplished if she had lived a full life. 

Of course, I can't compare my efforts to hers. But, really, I do tread treacherous territory in my own home each day. And the sometimes ally — but often enemy — I face is my own teen daughter.

On the one hand, I'm yelled at if I enter the room before her alarm. On the other hand, I'm yelled at if I come in between alarms one and two. And on the third hand (because, two hands would never be enough; mothers are like the Hindu goddess Durga) I'm yelled at if she sleeps through both alarms and I didn't somehow realize it and come wake her.

'Can't win.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I'll indulge in a quick paragraph of nostalgia. (Cue Disney music: happy birds singing in the background.) Mornings used to be nice. They used to be special. They used to be precious time together before my sweet little girl went off to preschool or kindergarten or even third grade, and I went off to my office in Boston. She was happy to see me. We snuggled. We talked. We ate together.

Cut! (Cue abrupt scratched record sound effect.)

It's been a while.

These days, assuming that one of her alarms has raised her, my daughter has a whole world of things to do before she leaves for school — things that by-and-large do not include yours truly. First, she has to actually wake up, which is not the same thing as getting up. Often, this entails, sitting on the carpet, staring blankly in the general direction of her dresser. Somehow this helps. I guess.

She's almost seventeen, so she has to check all of her electronica. She has to put great effort into dressing in a way that looks effortless. She half-heartedly makes the bed.

Either my  husband or I bang on the wall of the staircase that leads up to her room. The bang translates, simultaneously, into "breakfast is ready" and "Daddy's leaving." Although he often threatens to, he has never actually left without her. If the stars align (and somehow they always do), she grabs the fruit and muffin off the kitchen counter as she grunts "Bye" and makes it out the door just in time.

Sometimes, I blame myself ("Where did I go wrong?). Sometimes, I blame her ("What happened to my sweet little daughter?"). But, really, it's all about biology. Teens need sleep. Teen biorhythms are such that going to bed late and sleeping in are natural. It isn't poor parenting or teen 'tude; it's science.

Earlier this week (coinciding with the start of the school year in many states), the American Academy of Pediatrics released a recommendation that high schools (and middle schools) delay starting until 8:30 a.m. or later ... 

Doing so will align school schedules to the biological sleep rhythms of adolescents, whose sleep-wake cycles begin to shift up to two hours later at the start of puberty. 

My daughter and many others start their school day almost an hour earlier. That explains it! So this begs the question: if she was able to sleep in an extra hour, would her room still feel like a minefield?

Yes, I'm sure it would. But maybe after an extra hour of sleep (or coffee), I might be a bit more sure-footed myself.

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.