Monday, May 30, 2016

Mother of Inventions

A couple of things happen when you wait until you're 35 to have a baby. 

First of all, for nine months (through eight OB/GYN visits, three ultrasounds, one amniocentesis and an unforgettable stay in the birthing center) you get to see a big orange sticker on your folder that reads "Advanced Maternal Age."

Second, since most of your friends have already been there, done that, you get great advice.

"You have to ask for a Diaper Genie," we were told prior to my baby shower. We heard this over and over, from mother after mother (except for the one mother who assumed we would eschew disposable landfill-fillers and sign up for an organic diaper delivery service like she did ... um, not).

Diaper Genies were news to us. What an amazing invention! Manufactured by Playtex, it was a tall thin, lidded pail that you line with a long, thin tube of plastic. You put a used diaper in, shut it, twist it, then repeat as long as your baby is producing used diapers and until the pail is full. A few extra twists and the whole thing can be removed, so you can start over. The byproduct of all this diaper disposing and twisting is a long string of plastic wrapped diapers, sort of like an old-fashioned string of sausages. 

The upside is no mess and no fuss and, most important, no smell.

The downside, of course (just ask the aforementioned friend), is that you take something that's basically bad for the environment and encase it in plastic, making it that much badder for the environment.

Um ... guilty as charged.

Other miracles of modern motherhood soon filled our happy home. My Snugli (where "comfort meets cool") gave way to collapsible strollers, melamine dishes, microwave macaroni and cheese, and juice boxes. (What did our moms do without juice boxes?) All of these inventions made motherhood so much easier. And, while my daughter is no longer a baby, a toddler or even a child (she's eighteen, omg!), I still rely on fairly new technology to get through our days together. And, I'm not even talking about smartphones or texts or the GPS system.

This time of year, my two favorite wonders of modernity are: suitcases with wheels and spray-on sunscreen.

In the early 1970s, a gentleman named Bernard Sadow created the first suitcase on wheels, which was sold at Macy's. To this day, the inventive but unfortunate Mr. Sadow doesn't get any money for his brainchild. Nearly twenty years later, a Northwest pilot named Robert Plath updated the design so that cases were rolled upright (Sadow's were rolled flat like a steamer trunk). Originally sold to other airline employees, the "Rollaboard" eventually became the norm we all use today.

Whenever we travel, I marvel at memories of my mother taking three kids and wheel-less luggage to Missouri every summer. (Thank goodness for airport porters and chivalrous fellow passengers.)

The other advance that brings me joy is spray-on sunscreen. Remember that goopy white cream? Ugh! But, my daughter is fair-skinned and easily burned. In fact, after twelve years of horses, she has pretty much perfected the farmer's tan — or in her case, the equestrienne's tan. (She's dark brown below the sleeves of her polo shirts and above the line of her gloves; below her shorts but above her boots.) Each day, before she leaves for the stable, we go out onto the patio. She spreads out her arms and stands in an "X" while I simply spray her with Coppertone Sport SPF 50. What an improvement!

In two and a half months, my daughter will leave for college. I'll send her off with plenty of spray sunscreen in her wheeled luggage. And, I'll look forward to enjoying another mother of an invention.

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

Friday, May 27, 2016

Promises, Promises, Prom

I have a dream. Someday, when I'm long gone, my daughter will look back and count her blessings that she had me for a mother. I mean, I didn't get anything terribly wrong, right? She's already told me (and I'll be happy to remind her in years to come) that I didn't push my opinions on her too much during the college search process. And (get this!) she "appreciates it." I've been there beside her through wrapping paper fundraisers, standardized test prep, polo lessons, science fair projects, social media predicaments, mean girl encounters. I've stocked our pantry with cheese poofs and cookie dough, orange soda and mozzarella sticks.

For heaven's sake, I bought her a pony!

But, the thing I think I'm most satisfied about is that I set a good example in terms of what women can and should be allowed to achieve. She knows that she comes first but she also knows that my work is a very close second. I'm proud to say that she has never seen me take on less than a leadership role in business. I promised myself that I would not raise a pretty little girly-girl — unless, of course, she turned out to be a pretty little girly-girl who could kick some serious butt in whatever endeavor she pursues.

None of this though will matter one bit if she looks back on my talents for — I should say my utter ineptitude at — the traditionally girly-girl business of prom. 

Yes, it's that time again. The P-word. Prom. 

Here is how we have spent the past few days (and yes, I'm still running an ad agency before, during, and after all this) ...getting her legs waxed, getting her dress shortened, finding an elusive, adhesive, strapless, backless push-up bra (Saks Fifth Avenue and they don't come cheap), scheduling an up-do, choosing rhinestone jewelry, administering a rather sketchy mani-pedi, and coordinating a photographer friend so she can have a portrait taken — in full regalia prom attire — with her horse.

This morning, we had the extra-fun bonus of trying to remove a henna tattoo (compliments of EarthFest, Boston, last week). For the record, toothpaste, baby oil, hydrogen peroxide, rubbing alcohol and nail polish remover don't work; bleach does. Yes, I soaked my daughter's hand in bleach. 

Quick, call Social Services. 

But, suddenly, she's off! A quick stop at the stable to get her trusty steed ready for tomorrow's two-phase equestrian event — good-bye mani-pedi — and she'll be in countdown prom prep mode in earnest. 

We expect her back here at 4:00. (That gives me about half an hour for any last-minute repairs, pins, duct tape, prayers.)

Pictures with friends at the beach are on for 5:00. (Last year, we forgot the camera battery. We have already checked it twice.)

The red carpet is at 6:00. (She is walking with a last-minute girl-friend. The last-minute boy-friend she was supposed to walk with is on another bus and the prison guards — er, I mean, school administrators — won't let them switch buses so they can walk together. Sorry, but WTF?)

Buses leave at 6:30. (After they administer mandatory breathalyzers. I'm not kidding. I wish I was kidding. But, I'm not kidding.)

Drinks with another prom mom at 7:00. (I'll be the exhausted one at the bar with no make-up, sweats and red nail polish stains, nursing the pinot grigio.)

Hopefully, the high school won't send in the breathalyzers. 

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

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Insta, Rinsta, Finsta

If you, like me, thought you were on top of tween and teen things because you knew what Instagram was, I have one thing to say to you ...

Get over yourself.

Unless, of course, you happen to also know what rinstagram and finstagram are. Then, I will gladly bow to you and concede that you are way hipper than I am.

I just found out about them this week.

According to Urban Dictionary (one of my favorite, if often eye-popping, places to hang out online):

Finstagram, finsta for short, is a mixture of Fake & Instagram. People, usually girls, get a second Instagram account along with their real Instagrams, rinstagrams, to post any pictures or videos they desire. The photos or videos posted are usually funny or embarrassing. Only your closest friends follow this account.
Then, in case you just landed a contract writing scripts for The CW or FreeForm (formerly) ABC Family, Urban Dictionary offers some simple, sample usage:
"Hey that picture you posted on your finstagram was so funny."

"That picture is so funny you should finsta it."

"Finsta that sh*t nowwwww!"

"Oh let's take a picture for my finstagram."

A rinstagram, meanwhile, is the "real" account, probably the one your daughter set up at first. This is her public persona, the face she shows the world. And, probably more to the point, this is the Instagram account that her parents know about.
Being perfect and popular is paramount on Instagram. This can lead to endless editing in a neverending quest for followers. 

What's interesting though, is that (despite the naming convention going on here) for a lot of girls, their finsta is realer than their rinsta.

Are you following?
Pretty pictures? Rinsta. Not so pretty? Finsta.
Happy thoughts about life? Rinsta. Darker thoughts about ... well ... the dark stuff? Finsta.
If you've had a particularly horrible week, you don't elaborate on it on your rinsta. You bare your soul (not to mention your zits) on your finsta. That's all good. But, maintaining two accounts can be time-consuming. And, we all complain that our kids are overcommitted already. 
Still, it's probably worth it. Tweens and teens, especially girls, are under so much pressure to look good. And, social media is all about revisionism and retouching. A finsta is a chance to stand up and say "I know the rest of it is bull. Here's my real life."

So the question of the day ... Should you ask to see your daughter's finsta?
C'mon. Get real.

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


Saturday, May 21, 2016

Reality Checks

I will always remember my daughter's first day of pre-school (and not just because her grandmother has a "Kodak moment" permanently displayed on the refrigerator). It was fifteen and a half years ago. My daughter was wearing an adorable red dress, lacy ankle socks and mary janes, a fuzzy jacket with a big felt dachshund on it. She had a new lunchbox and a new backpack. She was very pleased with herself. And, I was really keeping it together. 

Until I wasn't.

We went into her classroom with all the other parents and (really tiny) students. The teacher was warm and welcoming; the room filled with light, a reading area, a play kitchen, art supplies, lilliputian tables and chairs — and a row of cubbies and coat hooks with each child's name neatly printed and taped above.

That's when I lost it.

It was the first of many "reality checks." My daughter, this adorable little blond extension of myself, was going to school. Granted, homework and tests were still many years off. But, starting school, any sort of school, was a major milestone. My baby was growing up. She would someday, if not exactly soon, be grown up.

It didn't take much to make me weepy. 

Fast forward to the final three weeks of senior year. Milestone reality checks are practically daily events at this point. Happily, I've become quite expert at holding back the tears. (Good thing. I mean, sheesh, I embarrass my daughter enough without welling up every twenty minutes.) 

Nevertheless, I'm still reeling a bit.

Visiting colleges — last spring and this fall — may have been the start of it. But, those were planned events. There were tours to take, questions to ask. Big deals, certainly, but not the sudden, catch your breath, moments of truth I'm talking about.

For example, we went to Nordstrom Rack after an accepted student overnight in February. Halfway between "Designer Jeans" and "Outerwear," all 50% off btw, my daughter turned and casually mentioned "If I go there, I start six months from tomorrow."

Reality check!

It knocked the wind out of me.

After careful consideration, in about mid-April, my daughter committed to one of the schools that had accepted her. I sent them her registration deposit.

Reality check!

Then, more recently, they published next year's academic calendar. I wrote "Parents' Weekend" in my datebook, taking a few minutes to count just how many weeks there will be between that and "Drop Off For Freshman Orientation."

Reality check!

Now, Southwest has opened up reservations for November and December. I just booked my daughter's flights for Thanksgiving.

You guessed it. Reality check! 

In that simple act (completed online in maybe four minutes), I ensured that (a) she'll have tickets home and back and (b) we locked in the best fares. But, there's so much more to it than that. Think about it. If my daughter needs (and now has) tickets to fly home for Thanksgiving, that means she is actually going to be leaving me and living on a college campus some 700 miles from here for 98 days leading up to said great American holiday.


At least, this Thanksgiving, I can count on having something to be thankful for. 

And, I'm going to try, really hard, not to cry.

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

Wednesday, May 18, 2016

Forget About It

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.      

Monday, May 16, 2016

See It, Be It, Emoji It

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.      

Thursday, May 12, 2016

Moby Dress — The Hunt For The Elusive White

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.     

Monday, May 9, 2016

Final Final Exam

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.


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.   

Thursday, May 5, 2016

Would You Care To Buy A Vowel?

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.