Barbieelzebub

"Oh, say it ain't so, Juliette Gordon Low!"

One has to wonder what the legendary founder of the Girl Scouts of the USA would think about the new strategic partnership her organization has forged with Mattel.

Years (and years) ago, I was a Brownie and then a Junior back in New York City. I loved it. The uniform, the handbook, the field trips.

Being a type-A child with a rather compulsive streak, I particularly enjoyed earning merit badges. It wasn't easy to qualify for some of the more outdoorsy ones (they don't actually allow you to camp overnight in Central Park), but the academic ones, the artsy ones, even the community service ones ... mine, mine, mine. The troop leaders finally issued an edict (in my honor) that we could only earn one badge a week. Nevertheless, my sash was damned impressive.

When my now teen daughter started elementary school, I was tempted to sign her up for the Girl Scouts too. I didn't, partly because of our schedule (my husband and I were both working in Boston at the time, 45-75 minutes away depending on traffic). But, mainly because my would-be Daisy Scout showed no interest. None whatsoever.

Despite giving my offspring a pass, I've always admired the Girl Scouts. The aforementioned founder, Juliette Low, was a remarkable woman and well ahead of her time. Not only did she create an organization that allowed girls the same opportunities for recreation and self-reliance as boys, but she also promoted business skills. Girl Scout cookies were a smart way to raise funds for troop activities. But, more importantly, it helped girls understand how to manufacture and sell something. Low had faced her own economic hardships when her marriage dissolved, and she was determined that girls learn how to earn and manage their own money.

So, what does Barbie bring to the party? Let's see, there's the ideal — if impossible — figure and associated eating disorders. There's the glamour, the wardrobe, the hair and the make-up. Then, there's all those fabulous careers! Or, as Alexandra (nice name!) Petri decried in The Washington Post: "You can be anything (as long as it's pink!)."

Barbie is big business with a capital B; the Barbie brand is worth an estimated $3 billion. But, the Girls Scouts aren't exactly twiddling their thumbs. According to the organization's website, "The $790 million Girl Scout Cookie Program is the largest girl-led business in the country and generates immeasurable benefits for girls, their councils and communities nationwide."

It's all about empowering girls? Yeah, maybe.

Really, it's all about the money.

This is a blatantly commercial partnership, and I assume the powers that be at both organizations see it as a "win-win." Mattel has access to a captive market of girls, tweens and teens — a serious (trust me!) consumer segment. And, obviously, the Girl Scouts get much needed revenue. So, everybody's happy. The only losers may be the girls themselves.

But, maybe the news isn't all bad. Going forward, the Girl Scouts will have a chance to earn a special Mattel-sponsored badge: the "Be Anything, Do Everything!" patch. The color? 

Pink.

Of course.

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

Teens And The Mighty Mistake

“Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new.” 

― Albert Einstein

When you're a teenager (or the mother of one), mistakes pretty much come with the territory. The teen years are a time of trial ... and error. In some ways, they're one long dress rehearsal for grownup life. Teens by their very nature are boundary-pushers, experimenters. At the same time, adult wariness, caution (and fear of mortality) are not yet developed. This means that many of the mistakes teens invariably make are not just dumb or ill-advised; they're downright dangerous.

And, the consequences can be significant and far-reaching. What's the worst threat we used to hear in high school? Our behavior would be reflected "on our permanent record." (Have any of you ever seen this so-called record of permanence? Me neither.)

“Isn't it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?” 

― L.M. Montgomery

I always say that once you're a mother, you're everyone's mother. Usually, I'm talking about a crying baby on a crosstown bus or, more seriously, a child who is missing, ill or the victim of an accident. In moments like that, my heart goes out to the child's parents. It isn't difficult to imagine myself in their circumstance.

Right now, I'm thinking about the parents of a particular young man in our own town. The police (with the cooperation of the anonymous-badmouthing social media app Yik Yak) tracked the recent bomb threat at my daughter's high school to a particular "juvenile." He was questioned and confessed. Charges are being sought for one count of disruption of a school assembly (a misdemeanor) and one count of a bomb threat (a felony).

That's right. A felony ... FEL-O-NY. 'Talk about a potentially permanent record.

Okay, I don't know this young man (although my daughter and every other student now does). He may be a basically good kid. He may be a troublemaker. He may have good grades. He may not.

He may have been showing off for his friends. Or frustrated with a teacher or the school administration. He most certainly did not have a bomb. But, his mistake (motive and character aside, he can only now look at his ridiculous post as exactly that: one mother of mistake) is going to haunt him. 

Would my daughter post a bomb threat. Of course not. But, has she — and the school's other high honors students — posted inappropriate things in the past? Of course. It's not like this particular boy is 100% stupid and my daughter is 100% smart. Teenagers don't work that way.

“Freedom is not worth having if it does not include the freedom to make mistakes.” 

― Mahatma Gandhi

In the news last week, there was a story about another big mistake that a teenager made using social media. 

One Mr. Snay, a former prep school headmaster, had sued his old employer for age-discrimination when his contract wasn't renewed. He won the case. His award was an undisclosed amount, which is now disclosed thanks to his daughter's inability to resist crowing about it on Facebook.

"Mama and Papa Snay won the case against Gulliver. Gulliver is now officially paying for my vacation to Europe this summer. SUCK IT."

All right, let's ignore the boasting, the nastiness, the unnecessary use of the word SUCK (in all caps, no less). Let's instead focus on the fact that the settlement of the case included a confidentiality agreement. The Facebook post breached it, and a Court of Appeal in Florida reversed the ruling. Papa Snay gets nothing.

I'd hate to be that teenage daughter right about now. ("No vacation to Europe for you! EVER!")

Today's teens know a lot about living out loud. What they don't seem to know is how to filter themselves, think before they type, or — sadly — consequences. It's too bad that "bomb scare boy" and "suck it girl" can't go on the road to warn others about their experiences. 

But, teenagers have to learn from their own mistakes.

That way, they can make even better mistakes tomorrow.

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

Putting The A In AADHD

Teenagers get a bad rap.

All right, I know. As a blogger who has blogged a blog about raising tweens and teens for the past three years (!), I am very much a party to this bad rapping. There's just so much material! Homework and fashion and cafeteria drama and technology.

The single biggest thing on my contemporary complainers' radar is teens and technology.

We've all heard it (and most of us have said it) ...

"My son plays too many video games."

"My daughter's addicted to her iPhone."

"Social media ate my teenager's brain."

And, how many of us can resist an opportunity to say something along the line of ...

"When I was your age, we didn't have laptops."

"When I was your age, we didn't have cell phones."

"When I was your age, we didn't have email or texting, Facebook or Twitter, YouTube or Instagram."

It's all part of an unspoken conspiracy, a collective-selective memory process. As adults, it's our job to look back through rose-colored glasses. For just about any criticism we lay on our offspring, there's a corresponding — contrasting — example from our past. We never forgot our homework. We always cleaned our rooms. We never smart-mouthed our mothers. We always observed our curfews. We never experimented with drugs or alcohol. We always studied and got good grades.

And, we did — or didn't do — all of the above without digital technology. 

At least that part is true.

Well, I'm here to tell you that we seem to be making up for lost time.

This morning, I attended a marketing industry symposium. There were several esteemed speakers and about fifty-odd attendees. The average age of the audience was maybe 40. There wasn't a teenager in sight. There were, however, digital devices. Lots of them.

Each person seemed to have at least two pieces of equipment with them. A smart phone of some brand or other, plus a tablet or a laptop. We had all spent good money to hear from experts about industry innovations. And, what were we doing? (Here's a hint "listening with rapt attention" is not the correct answer.)

Let's see ... the guy behind me was typing away furiously. I sincerely doubt he was taking notes. A woman in front of me was reading The New York Times on her iPad. Another, to my left, was checking Facebook on her phone. I myself checked emails more than once. Meanwhile, the poor speaker is plodding through his PowerPoint slides, fully aware, I have no doubt, that he had about half the room's attention, about half the time.

What message are we sending really? "Yes, I can afford the latest gadgets, can't you?" Or, "Ooh, look at me. I'm so important I can't be out of touch for sixty minutes or my company will go under, the stock market will crash, and the world as we know it will end." Or, "Aren't you impressed with my ability to multi-task?"

Actually, no. Not really.

We complain that today's kids can't concentrate or focus on one thing at a time. Apparently, we can't either. We reminisce about the good old days, but we are totally, completely, utterly engrossed in the toys of today. We tell our teenagers to "Do as I say, not as I do." But, honestly, when has that ever worked?

All I have to say is this. People who carry glass tablets, shouldn't throw stones. 

(No, they really shouldn't. Replacing cracked touch screens is a b*tch.)

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

The Boys In The Band

I've done it again, folks. Qualified for the Mother of the Year Award. (I have yet to win this award, btw, but I do qualify quite often.) This go round, it was based on a selfless gift of time, an inordinate amount of hassle, some expense, and superhuman (or at least super-mom) understanding.

Yes, I am all that.

Several months ago, in a state of fatigue or stress, or merely an unguarded moment, I agreed that my teenage daughter could go to a concert. Not just any concert, but "Imagine Dragons." At an arena about 60 miles from our town. On a school night.

As per usual, my daughter borrowed my American Express card to order tickets online. In theory, she pays for these events herself with her own money (actually, between babysitting, and two different weekend jobs, she tends to have more cash on hand these days than either my husband or I do). In reality, I think I lose track of all that she owes me and a lot become gifts by default. Soon, she received plain, old, ordinary tickets; special "Memory Tickets;" and a tour tee shirt. (I began to wonder what kind of V.I.P. package I — er, I mean she — had sprung for.) And, before we knew it, the long-anticipated day was upon us.

I mentioned that the concert venue was some 60 miles from our house. I did not, however, explain that the route there ran through the city of Boston at rush hour. The GPS on my iPhone said that the trip would be 90 minutes.

Not exactly. Try two and a half hours. 

Excited anticipation turned into mild concern into downright anxiety as the clock moved and we didn't. It wasn't merely the thought of missing the opening act. The stakes were much higher.

My daughter had reached out to a radio producer she'd met at a smaller House of Blues concert last fall. The woman had told her to stay in touch, and she had done so, politely but persistently. Lo and behold, the morning before the concert, my daughter had finally heard back from her. "Okay," read the email, "You and your plus-one be at the box office at 7:10, and whatshisname from the record label will take you back to meet Imagine Dragons."

OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

Of course, all of this fortuitous gift from the gods stuff would be null and void if they missed that 7:10 appointment with whatshisname. And, while I can control neither nature nor weather nor traffic, it would be all my fault. It didn't help that mobile technology allowed us to constantly — and I do mean constantly — check our progress, miles left and estimated arrival time.

We finally pulled up in the "Drop-Off/Pick-Up" lane outside the arena at 7:00 p.m. The girls jumped out and I managed to yell "Meet me right here after the show!" A cop motioned for me to move along. Then, I was left to my own devices.

I figured I had four or four and a half hours to kill, and I had done my homework. There was a fairly close, fairly renowned regional theatre that was presenting Cirque Eloize, a French performance/circus arts troupe. I was able to score a half-price ticket for a single seat in the mezzanine. I figured that would kill two hours. The closest Starbucks was open until 10:00 pm. At that point, I could head back to the arena and live park somewhere. I'm not a napper by nature, but I thought I could listen to music or read a magazine.

The first part of my plan worked. I was ten minutes late for my 7:00 performance, but the show didn't really have a beginning-middle-end narrative, so aside from annoying the guy in the seat next to mine, my lateness was okay. Starbucks was clean and bright and friendly. When they kicked me out (cordially, of course), I drove back to the arena and parked outside the same "Drop-off/Pick-Up" sign, congratulating myself on my master plan mastery.

I was there maybe five minutes when a different cop rapped on the window and demanded that I move. "Now!" I did what any self-respecting middle-aged mother would do. 

'Played the middle-aged mother card.

"I'm so sorry, officer," I purred. "My daughters are in there and I don't know this town. Is there somewhere else I can wait?"

He was suddenly all sweetness and light (it occurs to me, with horror, that I may have reminded him of his own mother). He suggested that I circle the arena and then pull up to a meter on one of the side streets behind it. "There's no overnight parking," he advised, "So just be sure you stay with the vehicle, ma'am." Yeah, right, like I'm going to leave my vehicle on some random back street of some random little city that I don't know from a hole in the wall.

His recommendation was apt except for two complications that were beyond his control. The first was a bona fide drug deal that I had the pleasure of witnessing. The other was the 55-minute (I am not exaggerating) dead-stop, grid-lock, traffic jam I was stranded in when the show ended. Thank goodness for cell phones. I was able to call my daughter, change rendezvous plans, and while we still didn't move for a very long time, the two girls were safely in the car with me. We weren't going anywhere, but at least we weren't going there together.

Since that evening, my daughter has been appreciative and responsible. She has very much lived up to her end of the bargain. It was a huge schlep (huge!), but I felt good about following through after making a — let's face it — downright idiotic agreement. I got to see a show. I got to see an illegal transaction. And, I learned something pretty remarkable about my daughter.

For someone who is often too shy to talk to anyone in the cafeteria, that girl can hold her own with radio producers and bona fide rockstars.

And, she has the photo, drumstick, signed CD and exhausted mother to prove it.

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

Compliance

There are two things I remember clearly about Kindergarten Orientation. The first is skipping.

It was spring, and my now teenage daughter was in her final year of preschool (technically, pre-kindergarten). As usual, I picked her up at her daycare provider’s house when I returned in the evening from my office in Boston.

“What did you do in school today?” I asked her as we headed home.

“Skipping,” she told me.

“Cool. What else?”

“Nothing. Just skipping.”

After a few consecutive days of similar (and so succinct) reports, I asked her teacher about it. Turns out, the children were skipping considerably more than usual in preparation for Kindergarten Orientation. The year before, the teacher confided, many of the aspiring kindergarteners had failed. Skipping, that is, they failed skipping. So, this year, the school wasn’t taking any chances.

I nodded solemnly, and reflected on my tuition dollars at work.

The second thing I remember about Kindergarten Orientation was a fairly long form I had to fill out. It included my daughter’s medical history, education to date, family life, hobbies, napping and eating habits. The final question was this:

“Choose one word to describe your child.”

Tough. There were so many words I wanted to write down. Bright, beautiful, funny, sweet. But, the one word I finally chose was: compliant.

I figured they were looking for something remarkable about each student. More than any other child I knew, my daughter was a good listener. She followed directions. She was cooperative and obedient. In a word, at five years old, she was ... compliant.

You may ask “And now, at sixteen, is she still compliant?”

I may answer. But, I may not because I may (probably, certainly, definitely) be choking on my own laughter so hard that you’ll have to call the paramedics. Stat!

Here is a partial list of all the things that my darling daughter is not compliant about: bedtime, cleaning her room, writing thank-you notes, getting homework done, time limits on any technology device. Don’t get me wrong, all of these tasks are eventually completed. But, in terms of following a direction when said direction is given? Nada.

Actually, it’s particularly frustrating because our typical pattern goes as follows. I ask. She says “Okay.” She doesn’t follow through. I ask again. She says “Okay” again. She doesn’t follow through again. By the third or fourth (or seventeenth) time, she is rolling her eyes, audibly sighing and even responding with “I heard you already. Stop nagging me.”

Winning situation? Not.

Anyway, one would still hope that my once compliant little daughter would take authority figures other than her loving mother a little more seriously, right? Alas, no.

After the bomb scare at her school this week, an email was sent out from the principal, outlining some changes in protocol for the following days. Students were not permitted to bring backpacks or lunchboxes (the better to hide a bomb in, I guess). They had to bring all their supplies and belongings in a clear plastic bag. And, their cell phones were not to be used on school property all day. It was suggested that the kids leave their phones at home, but — since that was not going to happen in anyone’s wildest imagination — if they did bring them, the devices had to be out of sight and turned off for the duration. Otherwise, it would be confiscated and only released if and when a parent made an appointment to pick it up.

Many of my daughter’s classmates (and 52% of the high school’s students overall) chose not to go in the next day. My daughter made a fairly solid case for joining the army of truants, but I said I’d consider it only if she spent the entire day studying AP World History (no texting, no laptop, no Netflix). My goal, of course, was to convince her to go. To her credit, she complied.

Over breakfast (having packed her lunch in a clear plastic bag), I reiterated the no cell phone rule. “Keep your phone out of sight,” I reminded her. She nodded. We picked up a friend and I dropped them off at the front door of the school. “I’d say, ‘Keep me posted,’” I joked. “But, you can’t use your phone.” She nodded.

With very little traffic, I was back home in about five minutes. As I walked in the door, I received a text from her friend.

They took her phone. Call and pick it up.

Five minutes.

Of course, my first thought was to call the school. But, then I realized that there was no way I would have known my daughter’s phone was taken unless she or someone else contacted me, which they were not allowed to do. My call would basically implicate my daughter’s friend.

At my 2:35 pick-up that afternoon, I finally called and spoke to someone in the office. Sure enough, I would have to come in and meet with the principal if I wanted the phone back. “You’re coming with me,” I informed my daughter. “You’re going to have to apologize to him.”

“It’s not my fault,” she moaned to me. “So-and-so was supposed to be my lookout. Plus, school hadn’t technically started yet. I thought the rule was only for school hours.”

“Then why did you need a lookout?” I countered.

Ha! Busted.

The principal was surprisingly nice about it all. My daughter, he told me, had the distinction of being the first student caught that morning. He reminded her about the policy (which was going to continue until further notice even though backpacks were back). He told us to have a nice day.

On the way out, I think my daughter was waiting for some sort of lecture or punishment. I did tell her that I’d rather not be called into the principal’s office again. “Ever.” But otherwise, I was pretty chill.

Being the first to have her phone confiscated may have been a dubious honor.

But, at least I can say she was first.

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

School Go Boom

The other day, I was leaving my office to pick my teenage daughter up at high school. I sent some copy to a client and still had a few minutes, so I decided to look at Facebook before I left. There, in the newsfeed, was a post from another mother, a new friend of mine from my Zumba class.

"Nothing like two bomb threats in a day at the high school ..."

Say what?

I double checked the date and the school she mentioned. Why had I not heard about this? I have email. I have a phone (three different numbers, actually, all within an arm's reach of my desk). My daughter has no compunction about texting me from school, as she has proven countless times over far less important news.

A bomb threat? Really? Instant flashback.

I was in seventh grade, and it was my first week at a new school (we combined junior and high into five years, with most girls graduating after eleventh grade). I had made a friend and we were browsing M.H. Lamston's, a "five and dime" on the corner of 45th and Lexington. There was a type of nougat candy from Italy and I mentioned in passing that my mother liked it. Once we were outside and waiting for the bus, the girl pulled two pieces of the candy out of her pocket.

I was aghast.

She was a shoplifter, which made her simultaneously the coolest and scariest and most exciting person I had ever met. I can't remember if I took the candy (I probably did), but I was very wary from then on. Sure enough, later that month we had a social studies test and my criminal-friend went to a pay phone and called in a bomb threat.

As with the candy incident, I only found out after the fact. Still, I felt terribly anxious. Was I an accomplice? What if she was caught? What if I were questioned? Even though preteens are notorious drama seekers, this was a little too much for me. I was relieved when her family moved and she left the school.

Bomb threats were fairly common during my teens. We were all afraid of the Russians, and it was pure, inarguable logic that the Soviet Union would choose my high school as a nuclear target, right? But, my anxiety over the USSR was nothing compared to my anxiety over my classmate's phone call.

It contrasts nicely (as so many anecdotes do) with my husband's experience with the same phenomenon at the same time. "We used to have bomb/fire threats almost daily when I was in junior high. Phone-only of course, and I forget  the outcome, whether they figured out who it was, etc.  We mostly enjoyed it ..."

Back to 2014. Once my daughter was safely in the car with me ("I didn't text you 'cause I knew you'd freak out."), I got the full story. Someone (presumably a student) had posted a fairly vague threat on the anonymous social media site Yik Yak:

"The school is going to go boom ... enjoy a** holes"

The kids were evacuated. The police came. The fire department came. The school was searched. Nothing was found.

A couple of hours later, another perceived threat appeared. The kids were evacuated. The police came. The fire department came. The school was searched. Nothing was found.

The good news? 

This was almost certainly a prank. Earlier in the day, the principal of the school had warned students about a strict new policy regarding the use of sites like Yik Yak. Coincidence? I think not.

The bad news?

Disrupting a school assembly is a misdemeanor crime. Making a bomb threat is a felony. Unlike the NYC pay phone used by my young friend forty years ago, even so-called "anonymous" posts made from mobile devices can be traced via IP address. Whether you understand the technology or not, the bottom line is that someone's going to get busted.

Meanwhile, the bottom line for most of the students was that they missed about two hours of class. They were evacuated so quickly that most didn't have time to grab a coat or jacket despite the frigid temperature. (My own daughter huddled with a couple of buds under a fire blanket, which her clever chemistry teacher brought outside.) I'm sure it was all very exciting.

And, of course, it didn't stop them from posting a few wry observations (on Facebook and, yes, Yik Yak).

"The word wasn't really 'bomb.' It was 'prom.' A promposal gone bad — d*mn you, autocorrect."

"How was your day, honey?" "It was da bomb."

And, my personal favorite ...

"If the bomb doesn't get us, the hypothermia will."

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

Art Project

A client and friend of mine just posted a picture of her daughter's school project. It's a model of a waterside town, built into a large plastic container. There are tiny houses on a hillside next to a coast made out of pebbles. The purpose of the project, I gather, is to demonstrate flooding. It's the perfect hands-on way to teach a child about something bigger than she is.

Boy, I miss those days!

When my now teenage daughter was little, I was all about the art projects. Any time she came home with an assignment, I'd roll up my sleeves and — joyfully — jump in. Several stand out in my mind:

• The biography poster of George Washington. We photocopied about a zillion quarters, colored them in with silver pencils, and created a frame around it.

• The shoebox diorama of William Dawes, Paul Revere's compatriot. This might be an odd choice except that Dawes rode a horse. Even in second grade, my daughter let her love of horses drive ... well ... pretty much everything.

• The Christmas wreath made out of a paper plate, green streamers and holiday images cut out of magazines. (We still hang it in the kitchen every December.)

• The poster illuminating the mineral gypsum. We included several photos of my daughter, pointing to important information, scratching her head over puzzling facts, and smiling broadly at the conclusion (in hopes of getting an A, no doubt).

• The boat that was supposed to hold 32 glass marbles without sinking. (This one was a joint effort with her father, I have to say. It stayed afloat. Almost.)

• The Valentine's Day mailbox made out of an oatmeal container, Kleenex box, craft paper, yarn and googly eyes. (Can you guess what it was supposed to be? The head of a horse, of course.)

In addition to the ones for school (and there were dozens, if not hundreds, of those), we did our own art projects together on weekends. Costumes and masks and puppets and scrapbook and models and jewelry and, and, and ... 

Early on, my daughter got a little bored with all the creativity I was encouraging. But, her friends still loved it. Often, when another girl would come over for a playdate, she'd say "Can we do an art project?" My daughter would roll her eyes but go along with her friend (and her mom).

We ended up with a lot of supplies. In the past few weeks, I've been trying to clean out our basement. I've come across dried-up tubes of paint ("make your own tee shirt"), empty cigar boxes ("make your own shadow box"), boxes of beads ("make your own friendship bracelet"). There are markers and pads of construction paper, bags of glitter and glue sticks, paper dolls and little plastic horses.

I'm keeping some for my niece, giving some to the school thrift store, and throwing some (all right, a lot) away.

Audible sigh.

I've said this before. No one warns you when it's the last time you'll read Good-Night Moon. No one warns you when it's the last time you'll watch The Little Mermaid (or, in our case, Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron).

And, no one warns you when it's the last time you'll do an art project together. 

That's probably why I've kept all this junk in the basement for so many years. Well, that and the fact that my natural inclination lies somewhere over in "pack rat" territory.

If I so much as vaguely suggested a family art project now, my daughter would look at me like I had two heads. The idea's way too lame and she's way too busy. She has high school, she has riding, she has a part-time job. In less than three weeks, she'll take (and probably pass, Lord help me) her driving test. Then, she'll be free to leave me and my boxes of art supplies behind.

Meanwhile, I continue to organize and, sadly, purge. Really, if we haven't so much as opened the "Super Spirograph," the modeling clay, or the pot holder loom in ten years, we can probably do without them.

Everyone, including my daughter, supports my basement project. What they don't know is that I have a top-secret and not-negotiable portfolio stashed under my bed.

Let me know if you want to see that George Washington poster.

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