Yik Yak Talk-Back

As parents of teenagers, we hold these truths to be self-evident:

a. Our children are desperate to fit in, to be admired and popular

b. Our children have not developed what one might call "filters" 
c. Our children don't quite grasp the concept of "consequences" yet

None of this is really news. In fact, if you had gathered a group of moms and dads together in the 70s, back when I was a teen, they might have said the same thing. But add another, more contemporary observation:

d. Our children are addicted to technology — social media and cell phones, especially

Things get very interesting. Interesting and disturbing.

Enter a harmless little app called Yik Yak. Anonymous local posting. What could possibly go wrong?

Yik Yak was founded last fall by two fraternity brothers (why does this not surprise me?). Brooks Buffington and Tyler Droll (purportedly, those are their real names) developed it as a social hub "to enable people to be really connected with the people around you, even if you don't know them ... a hyper-local version of Twitter where people can use it to post information and everyone in the area can see it." 

Yik Yak was never meant to be used by high school students. In fact, you have to confirm that you're over 17 to log on. So there shouldn't be any problem, right? After all, identity verification is fool-proof on the web. 

And, teenagers would never lie.

Here's how Yik Yak promotes itself:

Yik Yak acts like a local bulletin board for your area by showing the most recent posts from other users around you. It allows anyone to connect and share information with others without having to know them.

News, funny experiences, shout outs, and jokes spread faster than ever through Yik Yak’s tight-knit community.

Here's how I, as a mother (and a marketing copywriter) might edit this description in order to promote truth in advertising:

Yik Yak acts like a bathroom stall door, a public bulletin board where you can take a magic marker and write hateful and obscene things about your ex, your rivals and your enemies. It allows anyone to say anything about anyone, without having to face them in real life.

Insults, cruelty and bullying spread faster than ever through Yik Yak’s tight-knit community, which — since the app is free and delivered via the Internet — is pretty much everybody.

Sadly, given an opportunity to be mean, a lot of young people rise to the occasion. Fat-shaming, for example, is now easier and more effective than ever:

"Can someone tell whats-her-name that yoga pants are a privilege, not a right?"

The sad thing, though, is that in the world of Yik Yak, whats-her-name is, indeed, named. And what will she do later, after everyone at school has seen the anonymous post and weighed in on it (no pun intended)? Cry, purge, cut. Or something worse.

In its defense, the company has assisted high schools in blocking the app and even tracked down kids who break the law, like in the recent bomb threat we had here. (Guess what, people? Thanks to a little thing called your "IP address," anonymity online ain't a sure thing. Uh-oh.)

My daughter informs me that Yik Yak is already old news. Indeed, kids will move on to something else — fast — if they haven't already. It isn't the app itself that's the problem. There will always be a way to ostracize a peer if that's what someone wants to do. I know plenty of adults who judge others by how they look, what they wear, the kind of car they drive. Rather than ban a particular channel, we need to teach our kids compassion. 

And we need to do so by example. 

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

Influential Women: It's About TIME

As a feminist myself and — especially — as the mother of a teenage daughter, I get emotional when it comes to women's rights. Depending on the situation, I may feel anger, disappointment, sadness, rage, incomprehension. I'm rarely neutral.

It boggles my mind that my sixteen-year-old will likely face economic, political and health care discrimination, social prejudice, maybe even physical danger because of her gender. In this country, in this day and age? A half a century after the women's rights movement? Nearly a century after the 19th Amendment gave us the right to vote?

It boggles my mind.

I was one of those women who felt personally injured when Hillary was forced to pull out of the 2008 presidential race. (And I'll be first in line to cast my vote for her in 2016 if all goes well.) 

Women still make less than men for the same work. The statistic commonly cited is 77¢ to the dollar. This accuracy of this is widely debated, but I don't think anyone would say  there's parity.

Only 20% of U.S. Senators are women, and only 18.5% of the U.S. Congress. And, as I've already bemoaned, we have yet to have a woman in the White House. In this particular category, the United States is lagging behind. According to www.guide2womenleaders.com, there are currently 32 women ruling other countries. These include: 2 Queens, 3 Governor Generals, 15 Prime Ministers, 11 Presidents and a Captain Regent. 

And, let's not even get into CEOs. For every high-powered female Sheryl Sandberg, Virgina Rometty or Oprah Winfrey, there are at least 10,000 male CEOs (and about 1,000,000 thwarted female executives). We hear about the exceptions, not the rules.

I could go on all day, but I'd rather celebrate a rather exciting development. This week, TIME magazine published it's annual "100 Most Influential People In The World" issue. An unprecedented number — 41! — of the influencers included are women.

I love seeing so many women of every age, from every sphere. I love it that this isn't some manufactured (and thereby diminished) "Best Women" list — that the women were judged alongside their male counterparts.

They range from teenage education activist Malala Yousafzai and golf champion Lydia Ko, to notable women up into their sixties. Hillary Clinton's there (of course), but so is Donna Tartt, Alice Waters, Beyoncé, Megan Kelly, and Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala. Many familiar names, many new ones. As I read their bios, I am lost in wonder, admiration and pride.

Women do not control their share of wealth. They do not control their share of political authority. In some places (and sadly, in some parts of this country), they don't even control their own reproductive health. But, hallelujah, they can influence this world.

TIME explained it this way: “Power is a tool, influence is a skill; one is a fist, the other a fingertip.”

Here's to us, our mothers, sisters and daughters (especially our daughters). Power be damned. May the reach of our fingertips continue to grow.

Beezin, A Real Buzz Kill

This morning, I sat down to work and found an interesting story in one of my marketing newsletters. Burt's Bees, the natural beauty products company, is launching a very innovative digital advertising campaign. Once someone opts in, the company's promotional messages will pop up in the person's online calendar. The program will run for eight weeks to demonstrate that the new Burt's Bees Brightening Face Care line "can brighten your skin's appearance in eight short weeks." Oh, and then they'll give you a $3 coupon.

I had some thoughts about this.

First of all, I'm not a conspiracy-theory nutcase. I'm not really worried about big data or big brother or even the NSA. But, I still don't want to cede control of my calendar to a health and beauty products manufacturer. My calendar is my business. Period.

Second, like so many other working moms, I'm over-committed. I have plenty of electronic reminders that go off already. Conference calls and yoga classes, high school pick-ups, doctor's appointments and meetings. Invariably, when these reminders go off, I'm already running late for whatever I'm being reminded about. I don't need to get a reminder about a beauty product. I don't want to get a reminder about a beauty product. In fact, if I did happen to get a reminder about a beauty product I would no doubt express my frustration in words that were anything but beautiful.

Third, how much does Burt's Bees think my time is worth? Eight weeks of marketing and then I get a lousy $3 off? Sheesh.

Last, and most germane to readers of Lovin' the Alien, didn't I just see Burt's Bees in the press in connection with yet another stupid teenage trend?

It's called "beezin," and it's cheap and simple. Basically, you take a tube of Burt's Bees lip balm and rather than apply it to the aforementioned lip, you apply it to your eyelids. The result is a chilling tingle, followed by a sense of euphoria.

Say what?

Beezin legend has it that the fad started accidentally at Colby College in Maine, where students were trying to soothe dry skin around their eyes. The Briarcliff Bulletin highly recommended it in January: "It really just makes your eyes tingle a little bit, but it’s just fun to do to change up the school day.” And The Gothamist described the experience as "Riding in a convertible through a mint field in January."

Apparently, young people everywhere were beezin their eyes out. Not really, of course. But — alas — all good things must come to an end. 

In the past couple of days, doctors have stepped forward and issued stern warnings about the dangers of beezin. (I guess you could really beeze your eyes out if you're not careful.) Apparently, we have a lot of blood vessels in our eyes. When we beeze, the lip balm goes directly into our blood stream. This can cause inflammation, infection, loss of sight or ... death.

(Cue the ominous "bump, bump, bump, bum" music here.)

Serious? I would guess that most of us have accidentally gotten worse things than mint lip balm into our eyes. Nevertheless, the news media has gone a bit overboard with the whole beezin thing. Here's a typical headline:


Beezin fad growing among teens despite risk of blindness


And, there are some pretty funny parody videos out there too.

Okay, kids. Creativity's great and all, but please resist using household products in (new and different) ways for which they were not intended. Lip balm = balm for lips. Get it? Got it? Good.

Then again, I'm a concerned mother and I probably shouldn't make light of this. It could be sweeping the country and poisoning our youth even as I type. After all there's a whole Facebook page dedicated to it.

It has 74 members. 

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

Teenage, Revisited

My daughter is a bright young woman. She holds her own in AP World History and Honors French. She understands about the birds and the bees, how babies are born and grow from toddler to child to teen to adult. She doesn't believe in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny anymore. 

She certainly doesn't think her mother sprung from the head of Zeus fully formed.

She knows I was once sixteen.

She just doesn't believe I was once sixteen. 

Not in her heart of hearts. Not really. Why else would I constantly hear "Everything's different now." And, my personal favorite, "You just don't get it." 

I myself forget sometimes. Weeks or even months will go by when I'm completely absorbed by the trappings of my midlife life. I work and run errands, do household chores. I have aches and pains. I have bills — oy vey, do I have bills (I'm writing this less than a fortnight after Income Tax Day). It's as though I've been 52 forever.

Then, someone will post a "Throwback Thursday" picture on Facebook. Or, an email from an old friend will find its way to my inbox. I'll catch a favorite song on the soft rock radio station. Or, some long lost fad will suddenly become cool again.

Then, bam, I'm sixteen.

In the past two weeks, I've had a string of "sixteen again" moments.

First, my best friend from high school showed up with her teenage daughter. They live in London, but visit the States often. The daughter, my namesake, wants to come to university here and major in drama. What a perfect reason to play hooky from work! (My own daughter had school and job commitments, but got a play-by-play later at dinner.)

We toured two schools (my friend's alma mater and mine), visited the theatre departments, spoke with current students. The whole experience would have made me feel very (very, very) old, except that while we were busy looking at colleges, we were even busier remembering high school. So many stories. So many whatever happened to you-know-who's. We were happy reliving our glory days, but I'm sure the never ending memories were a bit tedious for our younger companion. She was a very good sport about it all. And, for a time, I felt like I was sixteen again.

My next back-to-the-future moment (there were many of them really) happened in New York. We went down for a long weekend with our friends and their two teenagers. As the only native in the bunch, I was the official tour guide. We hit many of the most important sites: the 9/11 Memorial, the High Line, Fifth Avenue, Greenwich Village, Times Square. But, my narrative also included highlights from my teens.

"Here's where the 'dollah, dollah joint man' used to stand."

The "dollah, dollah joint man" stood in one particular corner of the bandshell at the end of the Central Park mall, near Bethesda Fountain. As you probably figured out already, he sold joints for ... a "dollah." In 1978, I was far from a stoner. But, no matter. Everyone knew the "dollah, dollah joint man." And now, my daughter, her two teenage friends and their parents do too. What a wonderful legacy I've passed on, n'est-ce pas? Nevetheless, for a few minutes there, I was sixteen again.

My third and final trip back to teenland happened yesterday. I had a long lunch with another middle-aged woman. Or so it must have seemed to other people at the sandwich shop/cannoli bakery we went to. For me, I was having lunch with my closest companion, a teenager like myself, who aspired to a life on the stage. We were fast, fast friends many moons ago when we were both members of a renowned children's theatre company. We went on tour together, performing at the Kennedy Center in DC and at the University of Toronto. We rehearsed four days a week after school and did two matinees every Saturday and Sunday. When we weren't rehearsing or performing, we could often be found in my bedroom listening to the Broadway cast recording of Evita. Over and over and over. The whole way home from lunch, I sang "Don't Cry For Me Argentina." I was sixteen again.

But, what if I could go back? What if I had a hot tub time machine or a souped up DeLorean? Would I want to go back if I could?

Watching my own sixteen year old, I know full well that I wouldn't want to go through all that again. The angst and acne, the friends and frenemies. The frustration of feeling like a grownup but not having the freedom to do anything about it.

No, I may have knee issues and mom jeans, but I'll stay put.

It's only in the rearview mirror that the teen years look so good. 

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

Relief Is The Word

As you may have read, my life changed dramatically recently. 

My teenage daughter — after dedicating herself to six months of study and practice with a purpose and commitment I have never witnessed before — aced her road test. My daughter, my baby, my child, is now officially allowed to drive.

OMG.

The very first day, she came home, beaming, with her interim license (really, just her learner's permit with the word PASS scrawled across it in ballpoint pen), then immediately "borrowed" a car to go and see her horse.

She was ecstatic.

You might think, based on her enthusiasm, that we had kept the two of them apart. You might think I had never made the thirty-minute trip with her day after day (after day), year after year (after year). You would be wrong.

Here's what people told me ...

"Oh, just wait. You're going to love all the freedom!"

"Wow, what will you do with all that time?"

"Congratulations! You must be so happy."

So happy? More like, so not there yet. (Or, so anxious. Does that work for you? Yes, I'm so anxious.)

To give my daughter credit where it's due, she is a careful and conscientious driver (according to her father, aunt, instructors and registry inspector — I myself wouldn't know). And, she's been incredibly understanding about her mother's current agitated state. Each day she lets me know when she's leaving home (I'm often there, in an office on the third floor), then sends a brief text when she arrives:

here

Pure, unadulterated relief. Never was a word more welcome!

Only once in the four weeks since she got her license has she forgotten. Thirty minutes came and went. Then thirty-five. Then forty. (Can you tell I was watching a clock? 'Biting my nails too.) At about fifty-five minutes, I gave up pretending to be a cooler, calmer, more collected mother. I was worried about calling her phone; if she was stuck in traffic somewhere, I didn't want it ringing and distracting her. So, I called the stable. No answer. Then, I called her trainer's cell and left a message.

A minute later, my phone rang and a sheepish teen said "Sorry, Mom." Whether she was really sorry (and no matter how sorry she may or may not have been), we haven't had a repeat incident. I don't think she's in a hurry to be embarrassed during a lesson again.

It makes me wonder how long I can enforce the call-me-when-you-get-there (here) rule. A year? Two? Until she finishes high school? Until she finishes college? Until I finish, period.

A woman in my Zumba class wears a hoodie sweatshirt that reads "You can do anything for twenty seconds." (It refers to some brutal cross-training fitness class that I will never never never take.)

Every time my daughter gets behind the wheel and heads to the stable, I say a little prayer. I push thoughts of breakdowns and fender benders out of my mind and distract myself with work or chores or a rerun of Dance Moms. I'm nervous. But, I'm also brave.

I tell myself, "I can handle anything for thirty minutes." And I can.

But after that? I'm making a call.

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 Texts

This past weekend, we went down to New York with another family: a dad, a mom and two teenage girls. 

The dad has been my husband's best friend since they were in sixth grade or so. The mom is also a good friend, who won me over early on. She came to a New Year's Eve party and met her then boyfriend's (now husband's) friends for the first time. When she excused herself to go to the powder room, she said "Okay, you can all talk about me now." 

After so many years, I feel as though the two girls are an extra set of nieces. One is about a year and a half older than my daughter. The other, about six months younger. With the oldest of the three girls graduating in just a couple of months, we figured this might be their last trip together.

The weekend was a success by anyone's measure. We walked all over Manhattan, had fantastic food, saw a wonderful Broadway show. Rather than reserve multiple hotel rooms, we rented a two-bedroom apartment on the Upper Westside. Each adult couple had their own room. The three girls crashed together on fold-out couches in the combination living/dining room.

An important proviso as we looked for and found a place was — of course — WiFi. I didn't actually stop and count, but between the seven of us, we had six smart phones and at least four laptops. When we weren't seeing the sights or painting the town red, the girls were online. In fact, even when we were, in theory, seeing and painting, the girls were online. It was not uncommon to see one or two or all three of them texting while we walked down the street. 

I'd like to think that they were narrating a travelogue of sorts, that they were keeping their less fortunate friends abreast of their adventures.

Yeah, right.

Did they write about the High Line or Chelsea Markets? Greenwich Village or the 9/11 Memorial?

Um, probably not.

Did they tell their BFFs back home about the rat sightings in the subways (two of them, I'm sorry to report)? Did they take and share pictures of Central Park's Great Lawn, the Delacorte Theatre, Belvedere Castle, Bethesda Fountain, the Mall or the Carousel?

I doubt it.

Did they talk about Fifth Avenue's annual Easter Bonnet Parade? Or meeting the lead actor in a hit new musical? Or seeing the real Times Square ball? Any of the important stuff we did?

Unlikely.

Truth is, most of the texts I've encountered over the past few years have been strikingly unimportant. Sure, there's the occasional homework question or "whose-mom-can-pick-us-up-after-the-movie" logistic. But, most of the time, texts seem fairly random, quite succinct, and abysmally misspelled.

Granted, I'm not the target audience.

Nevertheless, it seemed a shame to me that any of the girls would miss even a single shop window, architectural element or colorful character. I would also have liked to hear them talk more amongst themselves. Then again, they certainly yucked it up each evening after the parents went to bed. 

And, who knows, maybe some of the texts they were texting were being texted to each other.

It could happen.

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

Un-Happy

Has there ever been a more stubborn earworm? 

You know what an earworm is, I assume. Trust me, even if you don't, you do. According to Urban Dictionary, it's "a song that sticks in your mind, and will not leave no matter how much you try." It can be anything from a TV spot jingle to a Top 40. Typically, the best remedy for an earworm is to replace it with another, different one.

And so on, and so on, and so on.

Right now, moms all over the world are probably struggling to let go of "Let It Go" from Frozen. For me, I keep hearing a different tune: "Happy." 


Because I’m happy
Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof
Because I’m happy
Clap along if you feel like happiness is the truth
Because I’m happy
Clap along if you know what happiness is to you
Because I’m happy
Clap along if you feel like that’s what you wanna do

When it comes to Pharrell Williams' utterly infectious song, I was a few months behind the curve (what else is new these days?). One of the art directors I work with sent a link to the video for "Happy," not because he loved the lyrics or the tune, but because it was an interesting example of social media and viral marketing (something our agency does for clients — although we haven't had the opportunity to do anything quite this cool). 

"Happy" is featured in the animated movie Despicable Me 2, so it was already familiar to my teenage daughter and millions of other underage fans. When singer/songwriter/producer/man-about-town/wearer-of-tall-hats Pharrell Williams released it again for his studio album G I R L, the rest of us caught up.

The music video that accompanied "Happy" was celebrated as "the world's first 24 hour music video." It's really worth a look, even though you're likely to develop your own earworm in the process. The four-minute song is played over and over in an endless loop. There is footage of regular (happy) people dancing, (happy) celebrities, and every hour on the hour, (happy) Pharrell himself. It's 24 hours or 1,440 minutes or 86,400 seconds of ... happy.

And, that's just the official video. If you Google "Happy Parody," you'll get 53.5 million hits. Everything from little kids and pets (lots of happy puppies, apparently), to senior citizens, office coworkers and sports teams. The song is already in commercials and was featured a few weeks ago on the 100th episode of Glee.

My Zumba class added "Happy" to its routines recently as well. It seems like a very simple song, yes? No. There's a little stutter step in the beat which makes the choreography muchos confusing. Of course, feeling even mildly irritated when the song "Happy" comes on makes me feel like a big mean middle-aged mama. 

It makes me feel ... well ... crappy.

Because I feel crappy
Clap along if you have work deadlines looming soon
Because I feel crappy
Clap along if you wish your daughter'd clean her room
Because I feel crappy
Clap along if your jeans are lookin' awfully tight on you
Because I feel crappy
Clap along if you can't get "Happy" out of your head too

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