Theatre Manners Matter

I've been writing Lovin' the Alien posts for more than four years now. The question I hear most often is "What does your daughter say about it?" The answer is ... not much. 

But, it's a legitimate query. After all, I'm comparing her to an extraterrestrial right in the title. And, most posts are the blogging equivalent of wringing my hands. As she is ever quick to point out, my daughter is one of the good kids. But teenagers, any teenagers, are easy targets.

So, I think I'll take this particular opportunity to praise an attribute of hers of which I am very proud.

My daughter has excellent theatre manners.

We began seeing shows together when she was a toddler. These were short, silly affairs, full of rhymes and puppets (or rhyming puppets). When she was about three, we graduated to 45-minute versions of classic fairy tales: Pinocchio, Cinderella, The Three Bears. We were lucky to have a regional theatre nearby and every summer they hosted a children's musical series.

For my daughter's first Broadway show, my mother took us to see Beauty and the Beast. We sat in the first row of the mezzanine and my daughter was mesmerized. About a year later, we went to Lion King. I can't count how many shows we've seen together since. 

From the earliest age, my daughter knew not to talk or leave her seat or rattle candy wrappers. And, to this day, theatres are among the few places (very few places) where she knows better than to take out her phone. No selfies, no texting, no tweeting, no Snapchat, no Facebook. Live performance affords more respect than that. And, that's true whether we're at a comped event or we've paid through the nose.

I wish I could say that all audience members were as etiquette-abiding. Even today's so-called "grownups" seem to put the urgency of their mobile lives ahead of the business we call show.

Take, for example, a recent incident on the great white way. At a July 2nd performance of Hand of God, actors and audience members alike were rendered speechless when a theatregoer crawled up onstage to plug his phone in. Not only was his behavior inappropriate, it was ineffective. The outlet wasn't real. Duh.

Just a few days later, Broadway diva Patti Lupone made her feelings about in-theatre cell phone use abundantly clear. She actually stopped a scene and snatched a phone out of the hands of a texting patron. She issued a statement, explaining:
“We work hard on stage to create a world that is being totally destroyed by a few, rude, self-absorbed and inconsiderate audience members who are controlled by their phones. They cannot put them down. When a phone goes off or when a LED screen can be seen in the dark, it ruins the experience for everyone else — the majority of the audience at that performance and the actors on stage.”

The guy with the phone isn't the only audience member Lupone has called out. Just ask the person who once tried to take pictures during a performance of Gypsy. Basically, you don't want to cross Patti. (Didn't any of these people see Evita? Sheesh!)

Grande dames on the other side of the pond have been known to throw theatrical hissy fits as well. In the West End, Helen Mirren left a performance of The Audience to scold people who were drumming outside the theatre. We have to assume her outrage and arguments were even more convincing sine she was still in costume as HRM Elizabeth Regina.

Younger artists can be just as (justifiably) intolerant when faced with theatre rudeness. The amazing Lin-Manuel Miranda noticed a famous audience member (the material girl herself) texting during an off-Broadway performance of Hamilton this past spring. He left word that she was not welcome backstage after the show. 

And, he tweeted about it to his 65,000 followers.

I just hope none of them were in the audience when they read it.

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

It's So Alarming

School's out and you might think our morning routine would be a little less stressful. 

Mais non, mes amis. 

We still go through the same dance of the alarms. Just an hour or so later. 

I'm one of those people who doesn't really need an alarm clock. Generally, I'm awake several minutes (or, in times of stress, several hours) before any alarm goes off. I've always been a morning person, relishing the quiet hours before the rest of the world wakes, enjoying long walks or quiet time to write or read.

My teenage daughter? Not so much.

This past week was the first real week of summer, as in no more classes, no more final exams. My daughter has a job at the stable where she trains and boards her horse; she's one of the counselors of the daycamp they run for junior riders. She also takes care of one of these eager young equestriennes before and after camp hours. She has to be at the stable by 8:30, which means she needs to leave our house by 8:00.

Her first alarm goes off at 7:00. If I'm near the door to her room, I can hear the incessant beeping, followed after several minutes by some moans, tired feet shuffling across the carpet and a determined click. The next alarm goes off at 7:20 and she repeats the process. A different alarm clock closer to her bed goes off at 7:30. At this point, she leans over and hits the snooze button affording herself another ten minutes.

And, if you've been doing the math (as I do each day), you can see that we're tempting trouble as the time passes. She insists that it only takes fifteen minutes to get dressed, wolf down some fruit and a muffin, and get out of the house. (I've already made her lunch and packed a cooler with bottled water — after all, I've been up listening to alarms for quite some time by now.) To her credit, her daily beauty routine is spare and efficient and, in theory, she could be on her way that quickly. The trouble is there's always something she has to check or forgot to do.

Like her cell phone. Apparently major world events happen every night between the time she shuts off Netflix episodes of The Office or Dance Moms and the time she finally succumbs to the cacophony of alarm clocks. She has to catch up on Facebook posts, Snapchats, Tumblr and tweets.

Meanwhile, her laptop is either streaming music or uploading videos or streaming music and uploading videos. It also takes an extra few minutes to find whatever she's planning to wear under the piles of clothing that she isn't planning to wear.

I've learned my lesson over the years, and I try to stay clear of her through all of this. A few minutes before 8:00, I can't help myself. I yell up the stairs — in as friendly a voice as I can muster — with a reminder that she needs to leave. "I KNOW!" she typically yells back, frustrated that (a) I'm nagging her, (b) I'm right, and (c) I exist.

As she rushes through the kitchen, toward one of the cars parked out back, I tell her to have a good day, drive safe and text me when she gets there.

Her irritation is palpable.

And, with my offspring finally off, I can start my own day. 

Just a little later than I might have liked. 

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

Unlimited Data

A week ago, I attended a reception where I met a very successful, very driven, professional woman. She had a cup of coffee in one hand and a smart phone plus an iPad stacked in the other. As we talked, she bemoaned the fact that she never seems to be able to disconnect. Her colleagues and clients send her emails 24/7. And, if she doesn't immediately respond, they call to see if she's all right. For better or worse, this bright young thing has been so responsive for so long that she can never take a break.

Or, as my best friend's Nana Mimi would have said, "She made her bed."

I can't relate to this. Granted, there was a time when I was unfailingly conscientious too. But, at 52 with myriad middle-aged commitments, priorities and responsibilities ... um ... not so much anymore. Send me an email and I will certainly get back to you. But please, dearest, don't hold your breath.

To top it off, my new pal told me how much she hates her smart phone. "But, I can't switch providers," she shrugged defeatedly, "I'm grandfathered into unlimited data."

Now that, I can relate to.

When my now teenage daughter first got an iPhone, we shared a family plan that had all these complicated categories of calls and rollover minutes and a pool of shared data. It wasn't the most expensive plan we could get, but it certainly wasn't the cheapest. The guy at the phone store was courteous and helpful and tried to dumb it down for me ... 

May I stop here, please, and assure you that I am many things, but "dumb" isn't one of them. I'm happy to forward my high school — or university — transcript if you have your doubts. I run a business that actually involves complex marketing analytics (as well as lots of pretty pictures). Dumb, am not I.

I was, however, at least twice the guy's age, so he probably assumed I had already lost whatever cognitive abilities I had once had.

But, I digress.

We left the store with a plan in hand and all was well. Until it wasn't.

My daughter (with a September birthday and an overindulgent mother) was one of the earlier kids to get a smart phone. As more and more of her friends caught up, guess what happened to our data usage? It went up. And, guess what happened to our cell phone bill? It went up.

Through. The. Roof.

I called, frantic, and tried to get to the bottom of the sudden $100+ increase. The customer service rep offered to remove the overage (yes, they can do that!) if I changed plans. He recommended some options — none of which I understood. They all sounded good until the part when he'd say "... then if your daughter exceeds her data limit ..." 

"Just make it go away," I told him.

"Well," he hesitated, "You could upgrade to unlimited data, but it might not be the most cost-effective ..."

I interrupted him. "Just make it go away. Please." And he did.

The bottom line is that we pay a fairly high monthly bill. It's always the same (within about 50 cents, due to variable taxes, which I will never understand). It's predictable. I don't have to check line items of mysterious charges. Or nag my daughter about how much she's texting and what it's costing.

I have nothing against moms who choose to go another direction. In fact, I admire them. But right now, I have neither the bandwidth, nor the patience, to deal with à la carte mobile phone charges. I want the all-you-can-eat buffet. I want the one-size-fits-all. I want to set-it-and-forget-it.

Alas, my carrier has discontinued unlimited data options. We, however, like my harried new acquaintance, are grandfathered in.

Hallelujah!

Changing plans is absolutely not in my plans.

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.   

My Daughter, The Fipster

The other afternoon, I was sitting in Dunkin' Donuts, working on my laptop while my daughter rode her horse about a mile away. (I've never been a big loyalty club member, but with all the time I spend in Dunkin' Donuts, I should be earning something. It's the closest WiFi to our stable, and I'm there ... well ... a lot.) There were four teenagers sitting at the table next to mine.

"Yeah," said one. "My brother's all over it now. But I didn't get a phone 'til I was eleven."

"He doesn't need it. I didn't get mine 'til I started travel soccer."

"I got mine when my mother forgot me at daycare."

"Really?" 

"No sh*t."

"Snap!"

The interesting thing was that as these teens were sipping their massive frozen coffee drinks and carrying on an enthusiastic (if rather shorthand) conversation, what were they doing?

Texting. Four teenagers, four smart phones. They never looked up, even as they spoke to each other. Maybe they weren't texting. Maybe they were SnapChatting, Instagramming, Tweeting. Who can keep track? Regardless ... they didn't miss a beat.

The last time I looked for a job (nearly two decades ago), I'm sure I presented myself as an effective "multitasker." And, in the adult scheme of things, I am one. But, by my daughter's standards? I am SO not. Anyone my age doing multiple things at once — we're talking amateur night compared to today's teenagers.

My daughter almost always (as in always, always, always) has her phone with her. The only times she doesn't is when she's actually riding her horse (never fear, it's close by in a pocket or on her tack trunk) or when she's asleep. And, the only reason we get away with that last one is because we made the rule years ago, when we were still in charge. Luckily, it was during her cell phone honeymoon phase when she would agree to anything.

We would never get away with it today.

My daughter's phone is more than a phone. It's an alarm clock. It's a camera. It's a reminder. It's a stereo and a record collection in one. It's a tool for homework. It's her connection to every friend she has, and — believe me — they expect her to be there pretty much 24/7. This makes it difficult to lay down many laws.

No phones at the dinner table?

"But, I'm waiting for so-and-so to get back to me about the English homework."

"But, whatshername is thinking about going to a different school; she needs me."

"But, the auction for the Imagine Dragons tickets ends in five minutes and I have to make sure I get them."

"But, but, but ..."

You see my point. 

My daughter is an exceptionally gifted multitasker. But, it does rub us the wrong way sometimes. My husband finds it even more aggravating than I do; in fact, he's coined a term for the phenomenon. "FIP" meaning "face in phone." As in, "I asked her a question but she didn't answer; she was fipping."

I don't like it either, but I do understand. This morning, I left for my walk and realized, about a quarter of a mile away, that I'd left my phone. I had the most minuscule moment of panic; I honestly considered turning around. Then I decided to keep going. After all, it would be great to forget about emails and voicemails and just enjoy the beautiful morning. It snowed a bit yesterday, and our seaside town was still encrusted in sparking white.

I walked down to a small beach and suddenly saw two magnificent swans floating in the tide.

"Damn," I thought. "I wish I had my phone."

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

Anti-Social Media, Part I: Are the Kids All Right?

Don't worry, this is not yet another story about cyber bullying. This is about something far less sensational, but far more ubiquitous. And maybe in the long run (except for severe situations that end tragically) more damaging.

I'm talking about the fact that tweens and teens spend more time communicating online than they do off. As my own daughter would say, "Duh," as in "Mom, don't you mean way more!"

Texting, IM'ing, emailing ... these channels offer near instant gratification. They are quick and easy and convenient and by eighth grade nearly universally accessible. All good, right? Wrong. At an age when misunderstandings turn into major melodrama, these modern means of communicating lack important cues that help people understand each other. Like eye contact, tone of voice, the chance to ask someone to stop, repeat something or better explain what they really mean.

Then, there are all the solitary activities that revolve around mobile devices. Games and apps and YouTube and iTunes. Not to mention old text conversations and archived photos (my daughter has, and I'm not kidding, about 4,000 pictures on her iPhone). I'm not the only parent I know who worries that all this alone-time is unhealthy.

When I was fourteen, I was an avid reader and an early-stage creative writer, both solitary activities. But, I was also very happy to pick up my pink princess telephone (yes, really, aren't you jealous?) and call a friend. In fact, I'm certain that my parents would tell you I was on the phone all the time. My eighth grade best friend and I used to have this inane ritual that we performed at the end of every call ...

"You hang up first."

"No, you hang up first."

"No, you."

"No, you."

"Okay, we'll count to three and hang up at the same time. One. Two. Three."

(Pause.)

"Are you still there?"

"Yeah, are you? Okay, you hang up first."

You get the general idea. (By the way, I really need to keep stories like this in mind when I think my own daughter is acting too silly. Sheesh!) Back to what I was saying ...

We all worry that our kids are glued to their electronic devices. In fact, a recent Apple commercial seems to be reacting to that parental fear. You can watch the ad here.

I've worked in advertising nearly twice as long as I've been a mother. It isn't hard for me to imagine the strategy session that eventually led to this commercial. Research no doubt showed that parents are concerned about their offspring's consumption of (and utter absorption in) digital media. They are scared that their tween or teen is spending too much time alone with their precious little machine and not enough with peers. So, the powers that be, at Apple or at their ad agency or both, determined that the best approach was to create this catchy :30 spot, called "Share the Fun." It positions a mobile device (in this case, an iTouch) as the key to a happy, healthy, analog social life.

Maybe because I do make a living writing advertising, or maybe because I see my daughter alone on her phone all the time, this ad feels too deliberate. Methinks the house that Jobs built protests too much.

But, it doesn't matter.

My daughter's iPhone is here to stay (until, of course, it becomes obsolete and I agree to buy her the next generation). I try to get her to call people, but she would rather text. I do worry that she is missing out on in-person communication. I encourage her to talk to her friends. Really look them in the eye and talk.

Of course, as responsible parents, we've created a few rules. No cell phones at the table — whether in our dining room or a restaurant. No electronics before school or after 8:00 pm. Are these rules rocket science? No. Are they going to make me Good Housekeeping's Mother of the Year? No. Are they often broken? Oh, yeah.

But, at least I've made an attempt. And, when my daughter doesn't agree with a rule (or needs a temporary maternal dispensation because of homework or carpool arrangements or an absolutely crucial life-or-death message that can't possible wait another minute), y'know what?

She has to look me in the eye and talk to me about it.