Fame: Fleeting, Fake and In Your Face

Before today, had you ever heard of Essena O'Neill?

Me neither.

Well, apparently we're a little behind the times. 

Essena, a 19-year old Australian model and social media personality, has hundreds of thousands of followers on the likes of YouTube, Instagram, Snapchat and Tumblr. (She also seems to have a number of Facebook pages, but since the 'book of face' is quickly becoming more of a midlife community, her numbers there aren't quite as staggering.)

For the past few years, Essena has spent countless hours posing and posting. Blonde with a preternaturally tiny waist, she's perfected the swimsuit selfie. You know, that pose that says "Just puttin' myself out there because I'm so hot. So hot. You know I'm so hot. But yo, if you don't know, well now you know."

Her online popularity has led to a modeling contract with a major ("the biggest") agency down under, as well as advertising revenue and product endorsements.

By her own account, she is a product of — and addicted to — social media. When she was 12, she began posting and thought she was worthless because she had no likes or followers. For years, she perfected her pretty pouts, sometimes shooting an image 100 times before it was deemed attractive enough to get the reaction she was looking for. Now, at the wise old age of 18 (and after 3 years of pretty much living online), she knows better. "Validation from numbers? It means nothing," she insists.

Recently, Essena stunned the interwebcyberdigisphere by publicly resigning. She explained why she's not going to post anymore in a video (that she posted, of course). "I don't agree with social media as it currently is. It's so detrimental to human health and human abilities."

Wow. Profoundy.

To add cred to her cause, she made the video without makeup ("Gasp!"), a fancy blow-out ("Oh my!") or even a bikini ("Say it ain't so!"). 

She's challenging her fans to swear off social media for a week. If they do, she promises they can have life-altering (she really uses that phrase) experiences just like she has. For example, she's spent her newfound offline time "Looking at trees." And, "Listening to people."

With due respect to Kafka, Essena is clearly going through a metamorphosis. And, she's going to share it with us. In fact, she'll be posting about her life post-posting 3 times a week: Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. ("Australia-time.") She'll talk about books she's reading, what she's doing, "game-changing projects and plans." Her focus won't be on how she looks but how she feels "insiiiiiiide." She caresses the word with a sense of wonder, as though she were the first to coin the concept.

So, Essena has launched a new "Game Changers" blog where she is — through the use of social media — encouraging people to turn away from social media. "Let's talk about real stuff!" After a couple of days of jubilant observations and tearful gratitude, she realized that her new venture, as noble as it was, wouldn't pay her rent. So she posted a video asking for donations and added a "Support" tab to the site where you can demonstrate said support with a major credit card. This was picked up by the media and opened her to a veritable hailstorm of cynics and detractors. (The plea has since been taken down.) 

But, crowdsourcing aside, she insists that her new venture is "Not about likes; not about money."

In fact, she boasts in her initial video, "I almost took this off YouTube." 

But ya didn't. Did ya? 
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book  Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.

One Thing At A Time

In his youth, my husband waited tables for many years at diverse fine dining establishments. (He was also once the "Wharf Rat," wearing a fuzzy life-sized rodent costume in honor of a seaside restaurant's concept cocktail — but that's another story.) When we go out for dinner, it drives him nuts if a member of the waitstaff doesn't work efficiently. For example, if he or she is carrying a pitcher of water to someone else's table, passing by your half-empty glasses along the way. Or if they come over when you've finished eating, ask if you'd like coffee or dessert, then leave with your new order in hand but without any of your finished plates.

I never worked at a restaurant, but I did sell shoes all through college and after hours to supplement my first job in publishing (because the salary they were paying made it very clear that they only wanted to work with young people who had trust funds). The same concept of efficient traffic applied there as well. If I was going back into the stock room for a pair of red suede boots, I should pick up the pile of discarded high-heeled pumps and strappy sandals on my way.

Despite years of yoga, I still try to do more than one thing at a time — often with alarming consequences. My office is on the top floor of a nearly 200-year-old house. The stairs are steep, winding and uneven. When I need a coffee refill, I'm never content to simply carry my mug downstairs. Oh no, that would be too easy and shockingly inefficient. Instead, I grab the cup, my empty yogurt container and spoon, the outgoing mail, rough drafts to be recycled, and my cell phone. This leaves no free hand to hold the stair rail. 

Suffice it to say, I don't need yet another broken foot.

Nevertheless, fractured metatarsals aside, I'm not satisfied unless I'm accomplishing as much as possible. People like me typically point with pride to such obsessive and foolish behavior as "multitasking."

Of course, my teenage daughter and her generation have brought the concept of multitasking to a whole new level. When she heads up to her room after dinner to do homework, there's a lot more going on than one might think. Yes, she has her colossal AP U.S. History textbook open, notebook next to it, pen at the ready (only 24 pages of notes tonight, no worries). But, she also has her laptop running. She's uploading a video to Vimeo, streaming iTunes and emailing a teacher. Meanwhile, her iPhone is also in use. She's participating in multiple group texts, reviewing another teacher's PowerPoint slides, taking and posting study selfies, and playing Trivia Crack.

My best friend has three children several years older than mine. (Two are in med school and one is pursuing a PhD in nursing — underachievers all.) She told me that it took her youngest much longer to finish homework than the other two. The reason being that by the time the youngest was in high school, the kids had smart phones and access to all of the life-enhancing apps I've outlined above.

The idea of simply sitting in one place and studying for an hour or two (or four) is absolutely alien now. So I wonder are we raising a whole generation of people with attention-deficit disorder? Or are we witnessing the rise of a race of super efficient multitaskers extraordinaire?

And, if so, how will we pay for all those broken feet?

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of 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.   

Selfies Are A Lousy Way To Take A Picture

I've been a mother for sixteen and a half years and we have never had lice. 

Quick, give me something made of wood so I can knock on it!

I'm not one of those snobby people who thinks lice could never ("neveh, neveh, neveh") happen in my emaculate home. This is the real world. Sh*t happens; so does lice. And, believe you me, we've had close calls. A voicemail from daycare, a notice sent home in an elementary school backpack, a veritable epidemic at gymnastics camp. I've bought the skinny-toothed nit combs; I've examined the scalp. (I've even experienced the psychosomatic itching.) But, to date, thank-you God, we have not had a single louse in the house. 

Amen, sister. 

What we have had our share of are "selfies," the ubiquitous self-portraits that today's teenagers take (and take and take). These get posted on Facebook; they are Instagrammed and Tweeted and Tumbled and who know what else. "Here I am in my room." "Here I am with a bowl of Doritos." "Here I am with my new haircut." "Here I am trying on Sophomore Semi-Formal dresses." "Here I am." "Here I am. "Here I am."

Old-timers like us don't know from "selfies." I'm not sure whether it's because shooting a self-portrait with an old-fashioned camera (remember film?) would be awkward, or because we had nowhere to show them off. My husband (a high-tech professional, but an analog guy at heart) once told me that he was about to take a "facey" because there was so much snow out front. I, being slightly, but only slightly, more fluent in mobile lingo, knew what a "selfie" was, but not what a "facey" was. I thought he was about to fall on his face.

For those of you who weren't born after 1990, basically the "selfie" drill is this: you pose, you point, you post, you wait for all your friends to hit "Like" or make insightful and original comments like "U so pretty."

My daughter isn't vain about her looks. (In fact, if anything, I think she underestimates how pretty she might be to the opposite sex, which makes my husband very happy.) But, she certainly puts up her share of "selfies." I know this because whenever I help backup her iPhone, I get to see all her photos. I try not to make a big deal out of it. So far, they've all been nice, smiling, fully-clothed.

That's the issue, isn't it? Between Justin Bieber, Amanda Bynes and Anthony Weiner (really, could the man have a more unfortunate name?), it's painfully obvious that "selfies" can get you into quite a lot of trouble. People, please. Put your junk away. No one really wants to see that.

And now there's something new to worry about. According to several stories in today's news, taking "selfies" is contributing to the growing cases of lice among teenagers.

Altogether now ... "Ewwwwwwww!"

Yes, the popular plural version of the "selfie" (a bunch of besties crowding together for a group self-portrait) seems to be the culprit. According to Marcy McQuillan of Scotts Valley's Nitless Noggins (a place I will never work), “I’ve seen a huge increase of lice in teens this year. Typically it’s younger children I treat, because they’re at higher risk for head-to-head contact. But now, teens are sticking their heads together every day to take cell phone pics." She goes on to warn that "Parents need to be aware, and teenagers need to be aware too. Selfies are fun, but the consequences are real."

On behalf of mothers of teens everywhere, thank you, Ms. McQuillan. Just what we needed, right? 

One more lousy thing to worry about.

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

Ten Years, Ten Pounds

My brother went to film school. One of the bonuses of this is that we get wonderful little home movies when he comes to visit. Another is that I now know about "Ten years, ten pounds."

A couple of years ago, we were all at my mother's for Thanksgiving. My sister and I, feeling particularly festive and chummy, asked my brother to take our picture. He agreed, but had to do a little art direction first. He arranged us sitting together on my mom's bed, then he stood and prepared to shoot us from about a 45-degree angle above. I asked why.

"Ten years, ten pounds," he explained.

Wow!  It turns out that if you shoot someone from slightly above, they lose the aforementioned ten plus ten.

I repeat. Wow! The picture looked fabulous. 

Now, I can't swear that it works all the time. A 98-year-old woman might still look 98. A 9-year-old girl probably won't appear to be minus-one. But for a couple of (then) 40-something sisters, it was better than a tummy tuck or day at the spa.

Of course, I immediately filed this little trick away for future use. (Thank you very much, NYU Film School!) From then on, any time I've had my picture taken, I've urged the camera person (usually my husband or teen daughter), "Shoot from above! Shoot from above!" As you can imagine, there is much eye-rolling. But, I am generally satisfied with the results.

Now, compare my carefully choreographed posing to my daughter's pictures. She takes thousands of them. Literally, thousands. She has two cameras plus an iPhone plus a Mac laptop with a photo booth app, so in reality, she has four cameras. Plus, she's never shy about shooting with my phone, my husband's phone or our iPad. 

You get the picture. And, so does she. All the time.

A typical afternoon with friends includes dozens of "selfies" (those are the self-portraits millenials take by holding their phone at arms length and smiling at it). I was so proud of myself when I first learned the term: "selfies." I probably used it a bit too much ...

"Stop saying that word, Mo-o-o-om!!!"

Anyway, my daughter and her BFFs shoot themselves and each other all the time. Running, jumping, lying around. From above, from below, from the side, from the back. They pose fully clothed; they pose in bathing suits. (This has nothing to do with sexting. They are just happy teens who are comfortable in their own skins.) If they're going to the pool or diving off a pier, why not capture it for posterity?

I wish I could be that un-self-conscious. I'm afraid those days are gone. I think if someone took a picture of me in a bathing suit now, I'd probably shoot them. 

And, I don't mean with a camera.