Last weekend, I was in the car with my husband, sister and teenage daughter. We were on our way to a fancy horse show "awards banquet" (read: sweaty riders, jug wine, burgers and hot dogs) at a hunt club.
Carole King's "Tapestry" came on the radio and I reached over and turned it up.
"I love this song," I said. "I think this album might have been the second grownup album I ever bought. End of sixth grade; after "Good-bye Yellow Brick Road."
My husband laughed. "You have an amazing memory," he said.
"Not really," I assured him. "Right now I'm struggling in the 'What did I come into this room for?' department."
You see, my daughter may be the high school senior, but I'm the one having "senior moments."
My husband admires my memory; my daughter, on the other hand, not so much. "Yeah, I know. You told me that," is a fairly frequent response from her, usually coupled with an appropriate eye roll. Sometimes I refrain from sharing some piece of news or other because chances are pretty good I already have.
And I'd like my daughter to remember me with some modicum of respect (and a lot less eye rolling).
A yoga teacher once told me that I would be less forgetful, less frazzled and less likely to break my foot (that's actually how the discussion started) if I resolved to do one thing at a time.
Just. One.
Not easy. If I'm leaving my third floor office to get a second cup of coffee in our first floor kitchen, I invariably bring down my mobile phone, dirty breakfast dishes, outgoing mail and stacks of paper to be recycled. This makes me feel efficient. It also leads to tripping. And, while it seems counter-intuitive, trying to remember everything results in forgetting something — sometimes the original thing I started out to do. The rest of my family can attest to this ...
"What did I do with my coffee cup?"
"Where is my phone?"
"Have you seen my glasses?"
I certainly understand my yogini's advice, but it isn't really in my character to follow it. Still, there are lots of tricks that feel more natural to me. For example, I send myself reminder emails. I record mini memos to myself on my phone. I use sticky notes. I put objects up on my dashboard that don't belong there. I keep a datebook. I make lists. Lots and lots of lists.
And, perhaps most important, I've learned to cut myself slack.
This morning, I had to pick someone up at Bradley Airport in Hartford. Ever the multi-tasker, I planned my drive so that I could sit in the airport parking lot and participate in a conference call for 45 minutes before her flight arrived. The only problem is that I was on automatic pilot (a close cousin to short-term memory loss) and ended up at Brainard Airport. Fortunately, I figured out my mistake (there were no terminals, no passenger carriers). Fortunately, my iPhone has a wonderful little feature called a GPS.
Unfortunately, I spent my 45 minute conference call racing up 91 North to the place I should have gone in the first place.
But, all's well that ends well. I was a mere ten minutes late and everything worked out.
And, let's face it, in a week or so, I probably won't remember my misadventure anyway.
Or where I put my car keys.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
A few years ago, I took my daughter to see a really excellent documentary about how the media does — and does not — portray women. Miss Representation did an extraordinary job explaining why images of women (objectified, sexualized, marginalized, diminished) affect how and where women see themselves.
"You can't be it, if you can't see it."
How does a little girl grow up thinking she can become a doctor or a director, a lawyer or a supreme court justice, or president of these United States, if she doesn't see women in those roles. In movies. On TV. And, in advertising.
This is why, despite the profusion of pink, Barbie has actually been on the right track for some time. Okay, are most women pilots built like Barbie? (Then again, are any of us built like Barbie?) No. Do most women pilots wear pink uniforms with matching pink high heels? No. But, at least Pilot Barbie existed, along with Veterinarian Barbie and Teacher Barbie, Astronaut Barbie and Aerobics Instructor Barbie. At least Barbie had career options in addition to the cute boyfriend, cute convertible and cute townhouse.
All pink, btw.
We may have grown up with Barbie (and my own teenage daughter had plenty of them herself once upon a time), but today's girls covet other, more digital, playthings. Like smartphones. The message still matters though and this week, I was happy to learn that Google has broadened its emojis of women. Until now, girls could choose from a sweet selection of female angels and brides, princesses and dancing girls. If they wanted to choose an emoji representing a particular career (other than dancing or getting married), their options were male, male, and male.
“Isn’t it time that emoji also reflect the reality that women play a key role in every walk of life and in every profession?” Google is asking.
Uh ... duh.
The proposed new emojis (not available yet but in the works) include a lady welder, a lady chemist, lady doctors, farmers, chefs, computer engineers, teachers, executives and a female Bowie-esque rockstar.
Some credit for the overdue emoji additions is being given to a film made by the Always feminine products company in which young girls complained about their under-representation in emoji-land. (Hmmmm, does invisible really count as under-representation?) Amy Butcher, a professor from Ohio Wesleyan University wrote about it in a New York Times op-ed piece this spring: “How is there space for both a bento box and a single fried coconut shrimp, and yet women were restricted to a smattering of tired, beauty-centric roles?” Even FLOTUS has piped in; Ms. Obama encouraged Google to create an emoji girl studying.
This isn't the first time Google has updated its emojis in answer to customer calls for diversity and inclusion. You can now select different skin tones for basic emoji humanoids. And, there is a veritable rainbow coalition of families: one man plus one woman and children, two men and children, two women and children ... you get the idea.
News flash: the world is more than straight white men! Sheesh. Even in a society that's trying to catch up to the way real people look and act and love, women seem to be the last to the party.
But, it's reassuring to know that Google has finally caught up with Barbie.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
My teenage daughter will graduate from high school one month from today.
One. Month. From. Today.
(Can you tell that I'm freaking out?)
Between now and then, we have to negotiate Senior Project, Senior Prom, the Senior White Water Rafting Trip, Senior Banquet, Senior Awards, and then, finally, Graduation. We need to get her prom dress altered (temporarily shortened; it's a loaner from dear family friends who are taller than my child). We need to schedule hair and nail and miscellaneous other appointments. We need to buy, borrow or in some other way secure the appropriate bling.
And, apparently, we need to find a white dress.
I questioned this at first. The "refrigerator letter" we received from the school (which was reinforced via email, snail-mail and a "mandatory meeting") encouraged girls to wear "dresses or skirts." Being a silk pants gal myself, this ruffled me a bit. Regardless, it didn't specify color — and that's saying something given that it was essentially five pages of very specific specifics.
"Why white?" I asked, picturing all of the hardly ever or even never-worn dresses in her closet.
"Duh," she replied. "That's what graduation dresses are. White."
Okay, then.
You've probably already guessed that not one of the aforementioned hardly ever or even never-worn dresses in her closet is white.
Of course not.
So, suddenly, we are on yet another mother-daughter quest. I readily agreed to this one, though, because I foresee a future in which our shopping trips will be few and far between. I cleared my schedule and we set out early. The plan was to hit the closest mall, find a dress and be home in time for her to drive a younger rider to the stable for afternoon lessons.
Our first stop was Burlington Coat Factory. (My sister, a New York-based actress, always does well there for audition clothes.) It's only a couple of miles past the mall, and I figured if we struck the jackpot, we might be able to avoid the mall altogether.
Sure enough, there were tons of white dresses! We found six or eight (or maybe it was ten) and she headed to the dressing room. The dresses were all similar, sleeveless, short, with A-line or "fit and flare" skirts, cotton knit with crocheted lace overlays.
I stood outside the dressing room and waited.
"Um ... Mom?"
"How is it?" I asked.
She reluctantly stepped out. "I look like Little House on the Prairie."
Now, I don't think she's ever seen Little House on the Prairie. I know she stopped reading the series about a quarter of the way through the first book, Little House in the Big Woods, because Pa butchered a pig.
Yet, the dress assessment was dead-on.
"Next!" I told her.
Unfortunately, the next one and the next — and the next, the next and next, next, next — were equally frumpy. I couldn't decide whether they were continuing the Ingalls Wilder look or if we had moved into Sister Wives territory. All she needed was taller hair so she could be closer to God.
We abandoned ship and went to the mall.
If nothing else, we were thorough and efficient. Macy's, American Eagle, J. Crew, Forever 21, Pac Sun, Hollister, Nordstrom, even J.C. Penney ... you name it, we hunted for that elusive white dress. Alas, no go. Most of them were just as frowsy as the first set. One or two were a little less shapeless, but that meant they were too tight to move.
So,
we're doing what any self-respecting digital-age mother-daughter team
would do. We're ordering white dresses online. Multiple white dresses.
We'll return what doesn't work.
But, the whole adventure made me wonder. Was this some sort of statement about young women's roles. Not virgin vs. whore so much. More like Laura Ingalls vs. Miley Cyrus.
Neither really fit my daughter's personality.
And, I have no problem with that.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
Last night, my teenage daughter spread her work out all over our dining room table so she could study. This is nothing new. But, it makes it a little difficult for her father and me to watch anything since our tiny family room is not only adjacent, but connected by a pass-through in the wall between.
This makes my husband frustrated, which is also nothing new.
I see his point. My daughter's bedroom is the largest one in the house, fully equipped with everything said young person might need. It has not one but two desks, arranged in an "L" to facilitate both homework and electronics usage. The surface of these desks is a lovely golden oak, but rarely visible thanks to piles of homework, textbooks, dressage tests, entry forms, concert tickets, photographs, catalogs and magazines. And there's the rub. Her desk might be more conducive to study if it weren't so conducive to every other thing. When she needs to clear her head, it's generally too late to clear the desk.
Consequently, the dining room becomes her study hall.
As I said, I do see my husband's point. But, I support my daughter anyway, because I think studying trumps pretty much anything we might choose to watch. Last night, it was Mr. Selfridge on PBS. We kept the volume down and when one of our pre-show predictions came to pass, we silently fist-bumped rather than exclaim satisfaction out loud. Our proximity meant that any requested study aids were procured in rapid haste. Apparently, AP Bio goes down a lot easier with chocolate chips and "Popcorners" and orange soda.
AP Bio, which she is taking for four hours this morning, is my daughter's last exam. Her final final, if you will. All of her courses except AP Bio finished nearly three weeks ago. When she gets home midday, she is done, done, done.
Wow.
Chances are, she will never again study on our dining room table. Her dorm room, most likely; the campus library, probably ... but not our dining room table. And, that table has seen some action.
I can't count how many posterboards, dioramas, science fair and art projects have been carefully constructed there. Some stand out, like her biography of George Washington, a presentation on gypsum (that would be alabaster to you and me), a shadow box of Paul Revere's ride, and a model of ancient Greece's Erechtheion, complete with statues of goddesses made by spraying toga-clad Barbie dolls with Rust-Oleum American Accents Stone Spray.
She and I read Romeo and Juliet together there for freshman Honors English, switching parts scene-by-scene. That same year, we read Homer's epic poem The Odyssey. Longer (and less fun) than R&J, it was nevertheless time well spent and certainly helped her score a better grade from a notoriously difficult teacher. So that was a happy ending all around.
For the past four years, my daughter has taken over the dining room for virtually every mid-term and final, a handful of APs, SAT and ACT prep, and even her college application essays. It kept her focused and reassured me that she was actually hitting whatever books she needed to hit without being too distracted by incoming texts. On many recent nights, we've headed up to bed while she and her work remained downstairs.
But, like so many other things, large and small, these days ... her late night sessions are over.
Now, and for the foreseeable future, we have our dining room back. We can "Whoop!" and high-five and watch TV as loud as we want. And, I won't wake up in the morning to a table cluttered with sticky notes — or sticky snacks.
And no matter how melancholy I may be about the changes we go through, I can console myself with the fact that my daughter is off on a wonderful new adventure. In fact, those afternoons and evenings (and even wee-hour-in-the-mornings) paid off handsomely.
And that's another happy ending all around.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
Earlier this week, I wrote about learning a second (or in my teenage daughter's case, a third) language in college and the potentially painful physical consequences of too much texting.
This morning, I'm going to combine those two topics and share highlights (or, I should probably say, lowlights) of a glossary I recently came across.
If you're the parent of a teen or tween, you already know how fast those young fingers can zip across a smartphone keypad. And, if you've been on the receiving end of texts, you also know how rare it is to see a mark of punctuation or even a vowel. And, it isn't simply a matter of shorthand. Texters have developed their own language, much of it created not just for speed but for subterfuge.
Here is a quick A-Z of some of the naughtiest (and in some cases, grossest) texting acronyms.
Be warned, however, if you bother to commit these to memory, they are sure to be replaced as quickly as ... well, as quickly as your daughter or son can text.
AYMM - Are you my mother?
BOBFOC - Body off Baywatch, face off Crimewatch
CU46 - See you for sex
DBABAI - Don't be a bitch about it
ESADYFA - Eat sh*t and die, you f*cking a**hole
FOGC - Fear of getting caught
GNOC - Get naked on camera
HPOA - Hot piece of a**
IITYWYBMAD - If I tell you, will you buy me a drink?
JEOMK - Just ejaculated on my keyboard (Editorial note: ew!)
KPC - Keeping parents clueless
LHOS - Let's have online sex
MIRL - Meet in real life
NNWW - Nudge, nudge, wink, wink
OSINTOT - Oh sh*t, I never thought of that
POMS - Parent over my shoulder
Q2C - Quick to c*m
RU//18 - Are you under 18?
SFB - Sh*t for brains
TBIU - The bitch is ugly
UFUF - You f*ck, you fix
VRBS - Virtual reality bullsh*t
WTGP - Want to go private?
XTC - Ecstacy
YCMTSU - You can't make this sh*t up
ZMG - Oh my God!
And, yes, ZMG is exactly how I feel right about now.
There used to be a gameshow (a very silly gameshow) called Bumper Stickers, in which contestants tried to decipher vanity license plates. I can imagine a new one: The Ten Thousand Dollar Text, or Wheel of Texting, or Family Fingers.
The only problem is that the average age of a gameshow enthusiast is 57.
And that's just TFO.
(Too f*cking old.)
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
I recently had to have physical therapy for some pain, stiffness and "clicking" in my neck. (Yes, that's a thing. A 54-year-old thing.) With a handful of sessions, some daily exercises and an increase in "postural awareness," I'm feeling significantly better. And, looking on the bright side (because what, after all, is the alternative?), at least I don't have "text neck."
Text neck, which the Washington Post recently referred to as "an epidemic," is ...
"... the term used to describe the neck
pain and damage sustained from looking down at your cell phone, tablet,
or other wireless devices too frequently and for too long. Children and
teens are especially at risk for suffering symptoms of text neck."
My own teenage daughter is a voracious texter, but I don't think she has text neck. Happily, she spends a considerable part of each day working with horses. This can lead to many injuries, sore muscles, bumps, bruises, the occasional concussion, even "horse hickeys," but it does preclude one from all-day every-day texting and, consequently, the dreaded text neck.
(This is just another reason why all those payments to the stable have been worth it. Well, this and the fact that there are virtually no boys there at all, of which fact I remind my husband on a regular basis.)
Anyway ...
Text neck, or more officially "Text Neck Overuse Syndrome" is characterized by:
• Upper back pain, from chronic, nagging to sharp, severe.
• Shoulder pain, tightness and possibly muscle spasms.
• Pinched nerves and pain radiating down arm, into hand.
OMG.
And, if all of this doesn't sound sufficiently UN-pleasant, text neck may lead to arthritis later in life.
I repeat, OMG.
So what's a texting teen to do? According to Spine Health, there are steps to take that can counter the negative effects of text neck:
• Lift the phone to eye level.
• Take frequent breaks. (Like that's gonna happen.)
• Change position. For example, lie on your back.
• Focus on maintaining upright, neutral posture.
• Stretch and arch your back periodically.
• Exercise to build strength in your back and neck.
All of this is fairly common-sensical, right? The problem is, in human nature and teen nature in particular, common sense is anything but common. I'm a few years (okay, a few decades) past my teens, but I didn't address the pain in my neck until it actually was a pain in my neck.
As parents, we may think that teens texting is a pain in the neck. But the teens themselves don't.
Or at least, they don't yet.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
