Alma Mater

Earlier this month, my teenage daughter and I drove down to my hometown. She was along for the ride because I had wrangled half-price tickets to Hedwig and the Angry Inch, starring Glee's Darren Criss, who is particularly dreamy if you're seventeen. I was going for an even more sentimental reason. My 35th high school reunion.

All right, let me stop you before you say "You must be kidding!" Or "How is that possible?" Or "But, you look so young!"

Yeah, thanks, I know.

Ummm.

Anyway ...

We were also joined by our new canine. My New York family, having seen countless puppy posts, photos, and videos on Facebook, was desperate to meet him. The poor little guy had a couple of vaccines at the vet's the morning we left (rabies and the first of two for Lyme disease), so he wasn't very comfortable. The ride down was long.

Not too sure how the little dog would respond to a strange apartment, we stayed in, ordering (real) New York pizza and watching TV. Even though I hate to miss a single moment of city life, it was good to chill because the rest of the weekend was a whirlwind.

In the morning, there was a program at my high school. I grew up in the west 60s, and the school is in the east 90s. Despite some ominous clouds and a misty rain, I decided to walk diagonally through the park. Between the bikers and the joggers, dog walkers and strollers, suffice it to say, I wasn't alone. 

The school was built on the grounds of an old armory. We moved there when I was in ninth grade, after two years in an office building near Grand Central Station. Later classes dubbed it "the brick prison." We were just happy to have a permanent home. The school, an extension of the City University of New York system, had been placed and displaced several times.

As I walked up 94th street towards Park Avenue, I felt a wave of familiarity. I wished for a moment that I could share it with my daughter or my husband. But, the former was still sleeping and the latter had politely declined. My husband won't go to his own reunions because he doesn't want to compare "hairlines, waistlines or bottom lines."

The morning was very satisfying. Twenty or twenty-five of my classmates had come. We met in one of the classrooms first (I think I had English there, once upon a time), hugged, kissed, caught up and took pictures. Then, we headed down to the newly renovated auditorium, where we were treated to video excerpts from the school's most recent musical, a couple of presentations from students, and comments from each milestone class. Most affecting were two 93-year-old alumnae who reminisced about finding their first jobs during World War II.

I had to rush out as soon as the representative from our class finished speaking to catch a cab down to Times Square, where my daughter would meet me for Hedwig. As soon as we finished at the theatre, we took another cab uptown where I changed, grabbed a bag of nametags, posters and goody bags, then jumped in yet another cab for a ride downtown to our reunion dinner.

What a wonderful evening! We had nearly 100 people and the atmosphere was pure joy. Even the girls who at seventeen were cultivating an attitude of world-weary blasé seemed genuinely happy to be there. We caught up with old friends and in some cases made new ones. And together we remembered the handful of classmates who passed away before their time.

These reunions mean more to me as I get older. Partly, I think, it's a natural nostalgia. But a lot of it has to do with watching my own high schooler negotiate her education and her friendships and all the changes she's going through as she moves from childhood to adulthood. I also have a much greater appreciation for my old school and the respect it afforded each of us. The building may have looked like a prison, but we had freedom that my daughter and her cohorts only dream of.

More than anything else, I look forward to the next reunion and celebrating who we were and who we've become with the remarkable women and men who shared that time with me.

Despite too much stress and too many rules, I hope my daughter will relish her reunions someday too.

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

Hey, Upper Eastsiders

One of the really nice things about coming from New York is that you don't have to look very far to find movies and TV shows that feature your very own hometown. There's Blue Bloods, Girls, Elementary, How I Met Your Mother, Ugly Betty, 30 Rock, CSI: NY and, of course, Sex and the City. The Good Wife is supposed to be set in Chicago, but it's filmed in New York, and if you think about it, Washington's Embassy Row in Madam Secretary looks just like Manhattan's Riverside Drive. 

Oh wait ... it is Manhattan's Riverside Drive.

Whenever I'm homesick, all I have to do is find You've Got Mail on cable or pull out my well-worn DVD. Meg Ryan's adorable "Shop Around the Corner" is quite literally around the corner from where I grew up. The whole movie is pretty much a love poem to my neighborhood (not surprising, it was Nora Ephron's 'hood too). I may live in New England, but I'm still an Upper Westsider.

Maybe that's why I don't get Gossip Girl.

Maybe you have to be from the East Side.

In the last two weeks, we've had four snow days (the first and only snow days of the year — so far at least). Once she slept in until 11, once her homework was (halfheartedly) done, once she and a neighbor and the neighbor's little brother went sledding, my daughter was b-o-r-e-d. Bored. Luckily, despite snowmageddon rounds one and two, we never lost power or cable service or WiFi. My high honors high school student — who has been exposed to fine art and world-class culture since, well, birth — did what any red-blooded American teen would do.

She binged on Netflix.

Did she watch documentaries? The Colin Firth Pride & Prejudice? Downton Abbey? The BBC's Little Dorrit? Of course not. She watched back-to-back (to-back-to-back) episodes of Gossip Girl.

Here's where I came in. I was getting some cabin fever of my own. Although most of my clients were working through the blizzards, it was fairly quiet. The Y was closed and the lack of sidewalks and 8-foot snow piles at every intersection kept me from my usual walks. So, I decided to settle in and watch with her.

"Hey, Upper Eastsiders," saluted the anonymous and oh-so-snarky eponymous narrator at the beginning of the show. She then proceeded to air all the dirty laundry of Serena van der Woodsen, Blair Waldorf and assorted other prep school pretties with preposterous names. Apparently Manhattan's elite high schoolers party very hard, wear multiple designer outfits each day and live in absolutely palatial apartments on Park Avenue. (Except for one artsy family that lives in a funky, though equally palatial, loft in Brooklyn.) There are affairs and intrigues and eating disorders. The mothers (all of whom look considerably younger than I do) veer toward the frowsy and slightly inebriated. Then again, they aren't the main event. Their kids are. They own Manhattan.

Just like we did back in 1979, right?

Um ... not!

I went to high school on Park Avenue myself, but my experience couldn't have been farther from that of Serena and Blair. We were a school full of brainy kids, and accordingly most of us were, shall we say, fashion-challenged. No designer outfits (except, naturally, my Calvin Klein jeans). No outrageous parties. No last minute trips to Rio with a new boyfriend. We did homework, and went to the library and violin lessons and play rehearsals, and babysat on the weekends so we'd have pocket money.

It makes me wonder if today's teen audience thinks that there are really people living the Gossip Girl life. Not many, I'd tell them. Not many, if any.

Then again, people still ask me if living in NYC is like Seinfeld or, worse, The Real Housewives. No. It's not. And growing up there wasn't like The Carrie Diaries either. 

Maybe someday I'll write a TV series about what it was really like. 

Then again, I don't think it would do very well on Netflix.

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

Good Seat? Good Head!

My teenage daughter started riding horses before she was six years old. (In one of those parenting moments of truth, the ones where you set a questionable example, we actually lied about her age — slightly — to get her lessons going a couple of weeks before her birthday. In our defense, she had already been begging for them for nearly three years.) From virtually day one, we heard "She has a good seat."

According to equiculture.com, a rider with a "good seat' (they prefer the term "independent seat"):

• Has body parts that can function independently. Legs can apply rider signals without causing any loss of balance.

• Does not rely on the reins for balance and does not grip with the legs to stay on the horse.

• Can absorb the movement of the horse correctly and therefore doesn't bounce.

• Has correct hip-to-ankle alignment and can easily go from sitting to standing (or vice versa) in the stirrups.

• Can quietly and effectively influence the movements of the horse and stay in balance with the horse.

My daughter inherited many wonderful traits from me. But, her "good seat" ain't one of them. (Basically, they lost me at "stay on the horse.")

I can Google and joke as much as I want, but I'm very proud of my daughter — seat and all. At horse shows, it isn't unusual for a judge or a coach or an experienced rider to come up and compliment her. I may not always understand exactly what is being praised, but I'm still known to swell with maternal pride.

This week, she showed us that she can keep her seat while riding and keep her head in a crisis.

We drive down to New York every New Year's for a second Christmas with my city family and New Year's Eve. (No, if you're about to ask, we do NOT go down to Times Square. No, no, no.) My sister and brother are performing artists and they typically line up something unusual and urbane and utterly fab-u-lous for us.

But, with all this Big Apple fun to look forward to, we more or less dread the drive itself. Fairly long and monotonous on a good day, the ride can be a nightmare during the holidays. Various work schedules kept us from leaving until the morning of the 30th. And, unless we wanted to hit the road before 6:00 am, we had to wait until after Boston rush hour.

"We're leaving at 10:00," I decreed to my daughter.

"Can I ride first?" she asked.

"If you're all packed and back here, showered and in the car by 10:00."

Off she went. I was on a call with an important new business prospect when the text came in.

we went on a trail and S______ fell off i just called ambulance

Okay, you try to sell your ad agency services with that in front of you! Two seconds later ...

so won't be home by 10 sorry

At this point, our estimated time of departure is rather far from my mind. Fortunately, my husband was working from home, so I opened his office door, tossed him my cell and pantomimed "Call her!" I wrapped up quickly.

About two hours later (and about an hour late), she showed up. It turns out that as they neared the end of the trail ride, she and her horse took off cantering toward the stable. (Remember, she has a "good seat.") The other girl's horse got excited and did two "power bucks," the first of which left the girl hanging onto the horse's neck. The second unseated her.

Our daughter acted fast. She circled back and told the girl (who, at this point was lying on the ground, hysterical) to stay where she fell. She called the stable to warn them that the other horse was returning without a rider. She immediately called 911 for an ambulance. Meanwhile, the barn manager called the girl's parents (who, thankfully, live close by) and their trainer. By the time the ambulance arrived (just five minutes later), everyone was on the scene.

"Why didn't you call the ambulance first?" we later asked.

"Because the stable needed to catch the horse and make the other calls."

"How did you know to tell S______ not to try and sit up."

She rolled her eyes. "Everyone knows that."

We were a little over an hour late leaving for New York. My daughter's young friend has four broken ribs and "a tear." My daughter has a good seat.

And a good head on her shoulders.

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

I Live Here Now

When you first have a child, older and wiser mothers warn you to savor every minute. "Time will fly," they tell you. "Yeah, yeah," you think as you get caught up in the minutia of motherhood. Diapers and bottles and sleepless nights and croup (just once, thank goodness).

You blink and your baby is a toddler, then a child, then a tween, and suddenly a teenager.

On the one hand it's reassuring, I guess. It feels good to know that we share a common human experience. "Where did the time go?" is the lament heard 'round the world.

On the other hand ...

As my now seventeen-year old (all right, I'll say it ... where did the time go?) needs me less and less, I've found myself looking at my own life and wondering the same thing. For example, I started dating my husband when I was twenty-five, more than half my life ago. I've been out of school considerably longer than I was in school. In fact, my thirty-fifth high school reunion is coming up.

And, I've now lived in this sleepy New England town twenty-four years — that's longer than I've lived anywhere. Longer than I lived in New York or Boston.

I guess I live here now.

It's a sobering thought because my life, my home, my career, this town are not what I had in mind back when I was a teenager planning my extraordinary life. Don't get me wrong, I'm blessed in many ways. I make a fairly good living doing something that's appreciated (and that I often enjoy). I have a lovely family, good friends. It's just not what I expected.

I'm a native New Yorker and will always think of that wondrous city of cities as my hometown. Inherent in that is a heightened sense of vitality, excitement and constant change. And potential. That feeling of potential is what I think I miss most.  

The town I live in now places tremendous value on history. Despite a good number of multimillionaires in multimillion dollar mansions on the water, the locals who are most respected are the ones whose families arrived many — many, like two hundred and fifty — years ago. Even though I know I'll forever be a newcomer here no matter how long I stay, I do appreciate the town's collective pride in its heritage. 

On the other hand, people become New Yorkers in ... well ... a New York minute. I love that about the city. About my city. Immigration reform aside, the promise of Lady Liberty is still very much alive in NYC. And I miss it. Almost as much as I miss the art, and the theatre, and the restaurants, and, and, and ...

Where I live now has been a great place to raise a child — it's small and safe with good schools; it has beaches and bike paths, and it's just half an hour from the stable where my daughter spends most of her time (and much of her love). But, she (and the horse) are off to college in less than two years. I'm starting to wonder where I want to be.

If I returned to New York in my mid-fifties (once again, where did the time go?), could I ever recapture the thrill, the sense of potential? Probably not. Could I ever convince my husband to leave this place he loves so much? Probably not. And if I could, could we ever afford the real estate?

Probably not!

I'll daydream about it, but chances are I'll stay here. It may have snuck up on me; it was never my plan.

But, I guess it's home.

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

Concerts (and Cookies)

It's official. My seventeen year old daughter is a groupie. 

This isn't something I planned for. Who does really? We all want the best for our children, and here in suburban New England, most moms like me have rather lofty goals. A lawyer, maybe. A veterinarian. A journalist.

Not a groupie.

What immediately comes to mind is the movie Almost Famous. Suffice it to say, the film included plenty of sex and drugs as well as rock and roll.

Oh boy.

Of course, I went to my share of concerts in high school. But, growing up in New York City, two subway stops from Madison Square Garden, I tended to see really big shows. Elton John, David Bowie, Wings, Billy Joel, even KISS. Would I have liked to "hang out" with the boys in the band? Um ... probably. But, at that venue and with those headliners, it would have taken a much more enterprising teen than myself to get backstage. (Plus, I always had too much homework waiting back at the apartment.) 

When I think about the girls who used to follow bands back in my day (that would be the late 70s, early 80s), I picture free spirits in those skirts that looked like table cloths. The first week of freshman year of college, I met a girl who had followed The Grateful Dead around the country the entire summer before. Her greatest accomplishment was sleeping with an assistant lighting guy.

Probably not what her mother had planned for her either.

Years later, I was taking a bus from Boston down to visit my then boyfriend, a medical student at University of Connecticut. A group of hippies stepped out in front of the bus as we left the highway and headed into Hartford. The Dead were playing at the Civic Center and they needed directions. I got the sense they had hitched (or walked) a long way. And hadn't bathed in a while.

See above comment about parents' hopes and dreams.

So this past weekend, when my daughter explained that she and her BFFs were heading into town at noon for their 7:30 concert, I was a little concerned. Why so early? I really didn't relish the idea of them sitting on a sidewalk outside the club all afternoon.

"No," she explained, "The band is going to tweet where they'll be before the show so we can meet them."

Say what?

Back in my day, as a fan, you took the initiative to sleep with roadies or step in front of buses. That's how you got the attention of your idol (or got an STD or worse). Well, times have changed, apparently. Today's bands stay in touch with their fans through Facebook and Twitter. They let them know where they'll be and when. 

Granted these aren't the equivalent of the huge rockstars I mentioned earlier. But, these are bonafide recording artists and their fans are just as loyal and starstruck as we were (and they're shrieking just as loud too). I have seen the iPhone videos, trust me.

Of course, once I understood the reason for going in early, I became a practically perfectly paranoid parent. I launched quite suddenly into a list of all the things the girls should be sure not to do. Like take anything, smoke anything, drink anything. Go anywhere with anyone at any time.

My daughter rolled her eyes. "Our bands aren't like that," she explained. It was my turn to roll my eyes. "That's what you think," I told her then.

Here's what I think now. She was right.

The night before, my daughter and her friend made posters and toll house cookies for the band. They went in early, waited outside the club and when the band arrived, sure enough, the young musicians were thrilled to see them, to admire the posters, to eat the cookies and to pose for priceless selfies together.

My daughter had an amazing night — and I couldn't be happier to have been mistaken. 

We assume that "back in our day" was better. Not always. Not this time.

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

Testing 1, 2, 3

If you're the kind of person who likes organization and planning ahead, and if you're also the kind of person who suddenly finds herself with a teenage daughter ... well ... you can just kiss all that order good-bye. The thing to keep in mind is that your life and (especially) your schedule are no longer your own.

About three weeks ago, my daughter sent me a text from school. (This, btw, happens all the time. Not just with me and my daughter but with every mom and every daughter I know. It continues to surprise me that the school lets kids text while they're in class. Sheesh! But, I'll stop before I sound like an even older old lady than I actually am.) Here's the text:

can you sign me up for world history sat? i'm late so there will be a late fee

There was a little emoticon sad face referring, I assume, to the additional fee. (No "Hello," though. No "Thank you.") 

I was walking when I received the message and I thought that thanks to the miracle of modern mobile I would be able to register her for the test from my phone.

Nope.

Turns out, when you go online to the College Board (the organization that manages all the standardized testing), you practically need security clearance from the CIA. Not only do they warn you that the process takes 20 minutes, but you have to upload an official photo of the test-taker (would that be the testee?). I didn't have one handy and when I went to get it, I timed out. So, the 20-minute process was more of a 38-minute process. The late fee wasn't so bad, but finding an available venue proved to be.

My daughter's high school was no longer available (read, "sold out," like a Rolling Stones concert, although probably quieter and with less drugs). None of the schools in a 5-mile radius were available. Or a 10-mile radius. Or 20. Or 50. I found a location in Rhode Island, one in New Hampshire, and one in Maine. So what did I do? Booked a different location in New York. It's my hometown and we were planning a visit anyway.

We drove down Friday afternoon, arriving at about 8:45 pm. My daughter had to arrive at the downtown high school early (early, early), so we went to bed soon after. The next morning, we took two subways (and an unexpected cab; one "local" turned out to be an "express") and arrived exactly when the official paperwork said to be there.

I guess the official paperwork didn't know what it was talking about. We stood outside the school (with about 1,200 other nervous teenagers) for 40 minutes. Finally, a guard came by and asked all the "subject SAT" people to go on in. I gave my girl a quick squeeze and headed off.

The test was supposed to be an hour. Some quick math and I predicted she's be done by about 9:45. This gave me 75 minutes to explore Chinatown and the lower Eastside. I timed it well and arrived back at our meeting place (Union Square park) at quarter to ten. In some ways (although not in the way that mattered most), my timing was perfect. I had just sat down when I received a text:

hi mom, it's me we haven't started yet

Uh-oh. I had at least another 60 minutes to kill. I bought an iced decaf with soy milk and trolled around the Nordstrom Rack, which was just opening. Eventually, I found a couple of those free newspapers and sat and read them. Finally (a mere four hours after we'd arrived for her one-hour test), I received the last text:

leaving now will meet you in park

'Turns out my daughter and another 35 students had spent the first two hours sitting in a school hallway (where my daughter had the pleasure of seeing not one, not two but three gigantic cockroaches). Apparently, they didn't have enough proctors. This was inconvenient for us, but would have been downright maddening if my daughter, like many of her fellow test-takers, had been there to take multiple exams.

This was her first SAT, and the way I look at it, the system let us down in more than a few ways.

Why did no one (neither her guidance counselor, who has her class schedule, or her AP World History teacher) clue us in to the fact that it would be a good idea to schedule the exam this spring? She learned about it, by accident, in the cafeteria. Thus the late fee (and proverbial fire drill).

Why did more than a thousand kids have to stand online outside the school when they had arrived on time, as requested?

Why were there not enough proctors?

And why were there more than enough cockroaches?

The SATs are terrifying enough. It seems to me that all the additional angst could have been avoided. Except, maybe the cockroaches. It's NYC, after all. 

I think we'll stay closer to home the next time.

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

Resolved

Yesterday, as my teenaged daughter, her father and I drove home from our annual New Year's in New York, I halfheartedly brought up the idea of resolutions. 

No one bit.

I myself love resolutions. Making them that is; not necessarily following through. Like all resolution-makers, my heart is always in the right place on December 31st. It's just my head (and stomach) that shift gears later.

For me, resolutions fall into the same category as brand new datebooks (yes, I'm still an analog girl when it comes to my beloved New Yorker magazine desktop planner, an annual Christmas gift from my husband). It's all about the clean slate. The chance for a perfect (well, at least a perfect-er) new year.

I'm not sure when I made my first of these infamous lists, probably fourth grade when I started keeping a diary. At that point, my dreams were pretty ... well ... dreamlike. I wanted to write the (next) great American novel (my best friend Naomi and I had discovered Gone With the Wind by then). I wanted to be an actress. Or a singer. Or a flight attendant.

By junior high, my annual goals were less lofty. In fact, they were less everything. Just plain less. From then on, the first page of all my journals began with a list of resolutions that began with ...

1. Lose weight

Oh sure, sometimes I would shake it up a bit and pretend to be concerned with my health ...

1. Exercise regularly and eat a more healthy diet

But, the subtext was always the same ...

1. Lose weight

Now, in my fabulous (and, let's face it, fatter) 50s, I find it astonishing that my teeny tiny teen self was worried about her weight. What I wouldn't give to fit into those Calvin Klein size 8s! Today, I'm in NYDJ ("Not Your Daughter's Jeans"), and we'll just gloss right over what size they are.

It's not like I haven't tried to stay slim. By the time I was 16, my daughter's age, and long into my college and young adult years, I worked at it. Take it from me, I've tried a multitude of diets and diet aids, such as ...

• TAB (was there ever a more disgusting taste?)
• The plain yogurt diet
• The cucumber diet
• The egg drop soup diet
• The pear diet
• The write everything down in a little notebook diet
• Tiger's Milk protein bars
• Fasting
• Carnation Instant Breakfast
• Dexatrim (over the counter, so it had to be safe, right?)
• Bran muffins
• Salads with day-glow diet French dressing
• A 21-Day Cleanse
• Vegan eating
• Vegetarian eating
• "Pescetarian" eating
• The Zone and Weight Watchers
• No carbs, low carbs, all carbs

The latest craze is IF, Intermittent Fasting. I did this for three days and finally came to my senses with a big, fat "WTF?" that would have made my texting teen proud.

Yesterday, I was hoping for a more enthusiastic response to my resolutions suggestion (in fairness, my daughter was listening to "American Authors," her new FAVORITE BAND EVER, OMG!). But, I am so happy that she isn't obsessing about her weight. She is fit, she is active, and she really enjoys food. Really, really. In this, as in many things these days, I should take a lesson from her.

So, in that spirit, here is my number one resolution for 2014:

1. Have more fun

And number two?

2. Invest in another pair of NYDJs

Happy New Year!


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

Once Upon A First Trip To New York

When teenagers in other countries think about visiting America, chances are their thoughts tend more toward "bright lights, big city" than "main streets and backroads." 

So, when my daughter's Facebook friend from Barcelona confirmed her visit, I knew I'd be taking them down to New York.

I asked our young guest what she wanted to see in the Big Apple. She mentioned all of the famous landmarks: the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, Abercrombie & Fitch. 

I decided that a Broadway musical was also de rigueur.

Having recently watched the Tony Awards, I was eager to see Matilda and Kinky Boots. So, apparently, was everybody else. The shows were sold out, with tickets available through secondary market agencies at sky-high prices. I don't care how old or arguably successful I am ... I refuse to pay $200 or $300 a ticket!

My first Broadway show was Raisin, a musical adaptation of Lorraine Hansberry's A Raisin in the Sun. I went with my sixth grade class in 1974 and I'm assuming we got a group rate. My second was Pippin. I took my best friend to see it for her birthday and I paid for the tickets myself. Balcony seats: $7.50 each. Given that I was earning $1 an hour babysitting at that time, this was a significant investment. (And, Pippin remains one of my all-time favorite shows. The tickets for Broadway's current production are a little more ... but worth it!)

I decided I would do what savvy New Yorkers have done for the past four decades. I'd stand in line at TKTS. Run by the Theatre Development Fund, the TKTS booth offers same-day tickets at 20%-50% off. They don't typically have the latest and hottest titles, but there are plenty of options. The trick is to go with an open mind and have a list of several choices. For this trip, I was looking at Newsies, Jersey Boys, Mamma Mia! and Once. My daughter surprised me by asking that I add Phantom of the Opera as well. She's seen it with her grandmother, and I've seen it too (oh, about twelve times). But, she argued that as penultimate Broadway musicals go, well, Phantom is way up there. Truth.

As I joined the snaking line around Father Duffy Square, the girls headed off to Forever 21. But, just as they left me, they added one more show and advised me that it was actually their first choice.

Rogers and Hammerstein's Cinderella.

Really? Here I had tried to focus on grownup fare (no Annie, thank you very much, I'd rather drink Drano), and they were suggesting the musical I might have taken them to if they were five rather than fifteen. Really? Turns out they had heard great things about it from another teen with whom we'd had lunch earlier in the week. 

Frankly, I was surprised.

Frankly, I was thrilled.

So, that evening, we went to Cinderella. Our (discounted — yay) seats were terrific and the show was absolutely magical. The music was wonderfully familiar, but the costumes, sets and even some of the major story lines had been reimagined. For example, did you know that Cinderella doesn't leave her shoe on the stairs after the ball? Nope, first she brings both shoes home, befriends one of her stepsisters, helps advocate on behalf of the kingdom's 99%, resolves a revolution, and only then drops the shoe. Truth.

We left the theatre bedazzled, singing and dancing all the way to 57th Street's Brooklyn Diner for late-night caesar salads.

You see, all modernization and social commentary aside, Cinderella and her Prince Charming still lived happily ever after.

And that magical night in New York, my daughter and our new friend did too.

The Lady Is A Punk

My teenage daughter and I spent the last several days showing our guest from Barcelona around my hometown, New York, New York. The city so nice, they named it twice.

What fun! The weather was gorgeous and we were able to do all the fabulous touristy things that native New Yorkers rarely bother to. 

Empire State Building? Check. Statue of Liberty? Check. Times Square, Greenwich Village, Central Park? Check, check, check. Shopping? 

Hello, I had two fifteen year old girls with me. Do you even have to ask?

Let's see ... we hit Abercrombie & Fitch, Hollister, American Eagle Outfitters, H&M, Forever 21, American Apparel. (Don't get me started on the mall-ification of America, puh-lease.) Whenever possible, I suggested smaller, independent retailers, or at the very least, venerable New York institutions like Tiffany's, Henri Bendel and Saks. 

I was outnumbered.

So on our last morning, having seen the sights (and shopped the shops), I pulled parental rank and insisted that we visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Besides being one of my favorite places in NYC (or anywhere, for that matter), I was desperate to see Punk: Chaos to Couture.

The new Costume Institute exhibit displays about 100 outrageous ensembles, clearly inspired by the punk rock scenes in London and New York about four decades ago. The concept basically is that the world of haute couture (then but to some degree now) owes a lot to do-it-yourself — and "f*ck the establishment" — street fashion. Music and video enhanced the experience as we wandered through room after room. 

It was outrageous, yes, but also familiar. Bittersweetly so.

I may be a middle-age mom now, but I'm no stranger to mohawks and safety pins. C'mon, I lived in the East Village in the mid-80s. And while my look then was certainly one of the tamer ones in the neighborhood, I went to clubs in jumpsuits and high tops, ripped shirts and rubber jewelry.

At one point in the exhibit, I turned to my sister who had joined us, and bemoaned my current life. Where was my downtown loft? My asymmetrical hair? My edgy punk couture? "I live in a preppy town in a tiny antique house," I wailed, "I buy clothes at Talbots!"

This is the second time I've felt this way in just about as many months. At a young friend's graduation this spring, I met rock legend Jim Steinman. If you don't know the name, you most surely know his work. He wrote Bat Out of Hell (1 and 2) and singlehandedly created the bigger-than-life persona of Meatloaf. I was thrilled to talk with him after his rather unconventional commencement speech. He was wearing a leather jacket with spikes; I was wearing embroidered capris. 

WTF?

I wanted to say, "Don't look at me. This isn't how I normally dress." But, sadly, it is.

One of the many places we visited in New York was Urban Outfitters. While my daughter and her friend looked through the sale area, I was drawn to another part of the store. There, I saw tank tops with embroidered skulls, lace-up combat boots, ripped and pinned shirts, baggy cargo pants. A young salesgirl eyed me curiously.

I wanted to say, "Don't look at me. I wore these clothes before you did. I wore these clothes before you were even born."

Because, I did.

Teen Pregnancy: If the Ad Fits ...

When I'm not mothering a teen or writing about mothering a teen, I create advertising. So, a recent story in the ad industry trades resonated with me on multiple levels.

The New York City Human Resources Administration/Department of Social Services is spending almost half a million dollars on a program designed to educate teens — and dissuade them from prematurely making babies.

Creatively, the campaign puts words in babies' mouths. The little ones featured on the NYC transit ads upbraid their moms (and in one case, dads) for making the wrong decision. Or the right decision several years too soon. 

Here's what the little ones have to say ...

"Got a good job? I cost thousands of dollars each year."

"Honestly, Mom ... chances are he won't stay with you. What happens to me?"

"I'm twice as likely not to graduate high school because you had me as a teen."

"Dad, you'll be paying to support me for the next 20 years."

Most of the ads end with the line "Think being a teen parent won't cost you?"

The idea being ... "Think again."

They are invasive, a little bit irreverent, and most importantly sobering. That is no doubt the objective. But, not everyone agrees with the approach.

Planned Parenthood, an organization that I support 100%, has issues with the campaign and is being very vocal about them. According to Vice President of Education and Training Haydee Morales. "Hurting and shaming communities is not what’s going to bring teen pregnancy rates down." She insists that the campaign "creates stigma, hostility and negative public opinions about teen pregnancy and parenthood rather than offering alternative aspirations for young people"

"The city's money would be better spent helping teens access health care, birth control and high-quality sexual and reproductive health education, not on an ad campaign intended to create shock value."

In response, the mayor's office defended the campaign and its ability to "send a strong message that teen pregnancy has consequences — and those consequences are extremely negative, life-altering and most often disproportionately borne by young women." 

I'm torn. As an advertising creative director, I love the campaign. As a woman who waited to have a baby until she was thirty-five, I'm nodding in agreement. Even at that (according to my OB-GYN records) "advanced maternal age" and with a good career and a husband, raising a baby was no picnic. As the mother of a teen, I want us to get these messages into my daughter's head in any and every way we can.

And yet, of course, the issues are not so black and white. As Morales points out, often "It’s not teen pregnancies that cause poverty, but poverty that causes teen pregnancy." 

In the end, I think we have to judge the campaign by a couple of factors: who is the target audience and what are the current market conditions? In other words, what messages are already out there on this subject, how have they been received, and how do we effectively reinforce the good — and counter the bad.

It's called fighting fire with fire.

Let's start with the teens. They are generationally the poster children for attention deficit disorder. You better deliver your key points STAT or you lose them. These ads, which Planned Parenthood, described as "shocking," do that. Second, other than well-meaning but apparently ineffectual advice from parents, clergy or (if allowed) high school health ed teachers, these teens get their information from the media. Shows like "Secret Life of the American Teenager," 16 and Pregnant," and "Teen Mom" tend to glamorize the condition even as they dramatize the issues. Then there are the celebrities like Bristol Palin, Jamie Lynn Spears, Solange Knowles. No matter what goes on behind closed doors, they always look pretty happy on the cover of People magazine. "Having a baby was the best thing I ever did." Blah blah blah.

The thing is, if you aren't a pop princess before you get pregnant at sixteen, you won't be one afterwards either. Sorry.

So, I'm all for this campaign which delivers such important information out of the mouths of babes. 

From their lips to teens' ears.