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.   

Sex Ed And Ostriches

I've been writing a lot about my teenage daughter's upcoming prom — about dresses and dates, permission slips and soon, promposals (it's coming, I promise). What I haven't talked about yet is ... 

S-E-X. 

According to a fairly recent survey by Seventeen magazine, 14% of girls will have sex on prom night. 5% of girls (and 3% of boys) will lose their virginity. That may not sound like a lot, until you do the math. There are more than 6 million juniors and seniors in more than 19,000 public high schools in the USA. So, not including private schools, we're talking about 240,000 first-timers.

Maybe the schools should spend a little less on breathalyzers and a little more on condoms.

Maybe the schools should also take a look at their current sex ed curriculum.

I was a PTO officer for four years, two in lower middle school and two in upper middle school (by the time we graduated to high school, I was completely burned out). I once had a major maternal hissy fit at a program called "Don't Panic, It's Just Puberty." What got my knickers in a knot was learning that they taught some semblance of reproduction in junior high, but that they didn't teach sexuality in high school. At all.

"So, waitaminute," I remember saying. "So, we explain the birds and the bees to kids who still think the opposite sex is gross, but we don't address any of it once the kids are actually in relationships?"

The rather exasperated Health Ed Curriculum Director confirmed that my assumption was correct. She then invited me to take on the district administration. I respectfully declined.

In my high school, growing up in the still fairly groovy and free loving 1970s, we learned about sex, about birth control, about STDs. Thanks to the efforts of an exceptionally liberal classmate, we actually had the owner of notorious sex club Plato's Retreat as a speaker. (It was indicative of the nerdliness of my fellow students that we were more interested in his business plan than anything going down in the "mattress room.")

Today's high school administrators prefer to take an ostrich approach: hide their head in the sand and it will all go away.

SparkLife is a colorful blog that's run by SparkNotes (the digital world's answer to those yellow and black CliffNotes we all remember — but never used, surely). They did a survey about high school sex ed, the results of which they summarized as "Extremely Brief and Incredibly Awkward."

31% of students described it as "Abstinence based chit chat that also gives you some information on protection."

25% "An explanation of the role of consent, choice, protection, consequences, and resources so thorough I could pass my O.W.L.S. in Sex Ed for sure." (That's a Harry Potter allusion; Ordinary Wizarding Level.)

18% "Abstinence-only education." (And we all know how well that works.)

17% "A very awkward encounter with a prop box and some info on how to use protection."

5% "A game of rock, paper, scissors that made no sense and contained no reference to the human body."

5% "I'm home-schooled."

The answer options, of course, are meant to be funny. But, the point is this: only one quarter of students are getting what they recognize as comprehensive sex education. School systems (like ours) insist that its the parents' job to provide all that uncomfortable information. But, only 16% of students participating in the survey thought their moms and dads taught them everything they needed to know.

So where do the rest of today's high school students get their information? 

"The Internet, duh."

I feel better now, don't you?   

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

Sophomore Semi-Formal

When you grow up in New York City, you're exposed to a much bigger world than your peers in the suburbs. Diversity and show business and street crime and nightlife. 

On the flip side, you miss out on a lot of the typical teen rituals. Like football games, cheerleaders, malls and "parking." 

And proms.

'Never had one. 'Never missed it. But, now I get to live vicariously.

Tonight, my daughter and her classmates are having a pre-prom of sorts, the Sophomore Semi-Formal.

Organized (as so much is) by the always overachieving class officers, the event will take place at a small hotel in Salem, one town over. There will be a buffet dinner and dancing. There are assigned seats. Everyone has to be at the high school by 6:15 sharp to board two buses that will make two trips apiece. Students will return to the school (by bus, again) at 10:30. They will not — I repeat, not — be permitted to attend if they arrive by any means other than the official buses. No rides from parents, no horse-drawn buggies, no bikes, no pedicabs. No way, no how.

(An aside here: growing up in NYC was different, for sure. But, growing up in the groovy 1970s, even more so. Where did all these rules come from? Sheesh! For heaven's sake, my daughter is in a plain old public high school. Not juvie.)

These kids have had a lot on their plates for the past few months: schoolwork, the polar vortex, Justin Bieber's issues with the law. But, Sophomore Semi-Formal (as with "Prom," the "the" is unnecessary) has risen to the top in terms of attention paid. Even our daughter, who is not and never will be anyone's girly-girl, has been lured into the madness.

The biggest issue, of course, is ... the dress. It isn't simply a matter of choosing one. The stakes are much higher. You need to choose one that no one else has chosen. Or ... sacré bleu! Or, more appropriately, given the demographic we're discussing ... OMG!!!!!!!!!!!

There are only a couple of stores in our town that might have dresses appropriate for this shindig. The nearest mall, about 20 minutes away, has maybe a dozen more. There are about 125 girls in the sophomore class. The chance of dress duplicates is likely and ... well ... it's just too, too horrifying.

Thank goodness for social media! An intrepid young sophomore created a Facebook page where girls can post pictures of their dresses. Some are catalogue shots on professional models. Most are dressing room selfies. The funniest are the ones depicting a pretty girl in a gorgeous dress on top and athletic socks underneath.

My daughter was fortunate. Not only is her mother preternaturally understanding (and quite handsome for her age), but we were spending February break 1,400 miles away in New Orleans. Shopping is always a fun vacation activity. We would make it our quest to find the dress.

First, we looked in all the boutiques of the French Quarter. Most dresses weren't worth trying on, and the first few that were turned out to be "Meh," in the words of my offspring. We finally found one that I liked a lot and she, grudgingly, took a selfie. Not quite committed yet, she sent it to just a select group of buds. The response was positive. Then, my daughter decided that the gold braiding on the bodice of the dress looked like "a uterus." (Say what?!?) And, it was no longer in the consideration set.

We found another dress shop on the corner of Iberville and Dauphine. There, my daughter found something: a cute dress, sleeveless with a short, flaired skirt, made out of turquoise lace over a nude slip. A quick digital convo with her gal pals, a quick credit card transaction, and — Voila! — the dress was hers.

Success. So, one might assume we were done. No, no, no. The next day, we ventured uptown to Magazine Street. There, amongst the galleries and bistros, we found another store with another dress. This was a different look. It was strapless, black and metallic on top with a gauzy "high-low" skirt. It was, happily, marked down about 50%. We decided to use our savings to take it to a local tailor and have the dress hemmed into a "high-high." The "high-low" is, after all, so last month.

Two dress-success. So, again, one might assume we were done. No, no, no, no. Back home, my daughter found yet another dress, this time online. I agreed because (a) it really was quite a bargain, (b) we're going to London in June for a big bat mitzvah and there will be multiple dressy events, and (c) as per usual, I was distracted when she asked. With Sophomore Semi looming, we ordered it in two sizes, planning to return whichever didn't fit.

The third (and final, thank you very much) dress arrived and was deemed "Perfect!" Her BFF came over and agreed with great enthusiasm. In fact, the enthusiasm was so great that I ended up giving her the other, matching dress. (It saved me the return postage and a trip to the post office.) 

I laughed and said, in my most Shakespearean voice "On pain of death, just DON'T wear it to Semi!"

And, here's the catch. The girls have now decided that wearing the same dress will actually be hysterically funny, so they are. 

After all that? I can only take their lead and shrug. Whatever.

But, I can't wait to see the selfies.

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