The Starbucks Cup: What Would Jesus Drink?

As the parent of a teen, I spend a lot of time trying to help my daughter look at the big picture. "Rather than focus on all you don't have, think about all that you do." It's not just a matter of adopting a "cup half-full" attitude. It's recognizing that as middle-class girls in the United States in 2015, my daughter and her peers have it pretty good.

When was the last time a bomb fell on our house? Or, she was forbidden to attend school because of her gender? When has she ever been hungry, truly hungry? (I'm not counting discretionary snacks and cravings ... "Mo-o-om, there's no cookie dough!") Her day-to-day concerns are most definitely "first-world problems."

Perspective. It's not an easy concept for the teen brain. (Or, let's face it, for the adult brain sometimes.) But, practicing perspective is important if you want to have a content, satisfied, happy life.

So, I think that one of my jobs is helping my daughter look beyond the latest designer boots, front-row concert tickets or text fights with friends. And, I try to set a good example in the way I spend my time, my money and — most important — my emotions. She knows what I care about (I'm from a theatrical family; heart is firmly planted on sleeve more often than not) and, consequently, she knows what I value.

Now the holidays are coming, and there are a lot of grownups setting a bad example. 

Yesterday, as I was packing my daughter's lunchbox (Hmmm ... would she prefer Oreos or Chips Ahoy today? Like I said, "first world problems."), I heard a story on the news that made me shake my head in wonder. Apparently, Starbucks has unveiled its holiday cup and — gasp! — it's a plain red cup with a green logo.

The outrage was loud and immediate. "Where are the snowflakes?" "Where are the pine trees?" "Where are the ornaments?"

"Starbucks has declared war on Christmas!"

The last I checked, the colors red and green are visual shorthand for ... you guessed it ... Christmas. One look and we're opening our wallets and humming "Jingle Bells." In fact, running an ad agency, I have often had to advise clients not to use those two colors together unless they want to give their audience that warm holiday feeling.

And, with that in mind, it isn't as though Starbucks has decorated their cups with anything other than Christmas. I see no dreidel, no star of David, no Kwanzaa kinara, no symbols of Islam, Wicca, Buddhism, Hinduism, the Force or even Hogwarts.

Plus, since when did Jesus, Mary or Joseph mention anything about coffee cups? It isn't as though some angel told the Magi to bring frankincense and myrrh and a venti decaf non-fat caramel macchiato to the manger. Sheesh!

Rather than be upset about the designer cup that your designer coffee is being poured into, maybe you should be grateful that you can afford a $5 cup of coffee. I repeat ... Sheesh!

So, as the holidays approach, let's think about what really matters. Would Jesus care if you drank your Pike's Place Roast out of a plain red cup? Would he care if you defected to Dunkin' Donuts? I doubt it. But, if you really want to celebrate his birth or his life, there are ways to do it. Give to the poor, help the hungry, warm the cold, comfort the bereft.

That $5 coffee could go a long way.
 
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book  Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.  

The Boys In The Band

I've done it again, folks. Qualified for the Mother of the Year Award. (I have yet to win this award, btw, but I do qualify quite often.) This go round, it was based on a selfless gift of time, an inordinate amount of hassle, some expense, and superhuman (or at least super-mom) understanding.

Yes, I am all that.

Several months ago, in a state of fatigue or stress, or merely an unguarded moment, I agreed that my teenage daughter could go to a concert. Not just any concert, but "Imagine Dragons." At an arena about 60 miles from our town. On a school night.

As per usual, my daughter borrowed my American Express card to order tickets online. In theory, she pays for these events herself with her own money (actually, between babysitting, and two different weekend jobs, she tends to have more cash on hand these days than either my husband or I do). In reality, I think I lose track of all that she owes me and a lot become gifts by default. Soon, she received plain, old, ordinary tickets; special "Memory Tickets;" and a tour tee shirt. (I began to wonder what kind of V.I.P. package I — er, I mean she — had sprung for.) And, before we knew it, the long-anticipated day was upon us.

I mentioned that the concert venue was some 60 miles from our house. I did not, however, explain that the route there ran through the city of Boston at rush hour. The GPS on my iPhone said that the trip would be 90 minutes.

Not exactly. Try two and a half hours. 

Excited anticipation turned into mild concern into downright anxiety as the clock moved and we didn't. It wasn't merely the thought of missing the opening act. The stakes were much higher.

My daughter had reached out to a radio producer she'd met at a smaller House of Blues concert last fall. The woman had told her to stay in touch, and she had done so, politely but persistently. Lo and behold, the morning before the concert, my daughter had finally heard back from her. "Okay," read the email, "You and your plus-one be at the box office at 7:10, and whatshisname from the record label will take you back to meet Imagine Dragons."

OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

Of course, all of this fortuitous gift from the gods stuff would be null and void if they missed that 7:10 appointment with whatshisname. And, while I can control neither nature nor weather nor traffic, it would be all my fault. It didn't help that mobile technology allowed us to constantly — and I do mean constantly — check our progress, miles left and estimated arrival time.

We finally pulled up in the "Drop-Off/Pick-Up" lane outside the arena at 7:00 p.m. The girls jumped out and I managed to yell "Meet me right here after the show!" A cop motioned for me to move along. Then, I was left to my own devices.

I figured I had four or four and a half hours to kill, and I had done my homework. There was a fairly close, fairly renowned regional theatre that was presenting Cirque Eloize, a French performance/circus arts troupe. I was able to score a half-price ticket for a single seat in the mezzanine. I figured that would kill two hours. The closest Starbucks was open until 10:00 pm. At that point, I could head back to the arena and live park somewhere. I'm not a napper by nature, but I thought I could listen to music or read a magazine.

The first part of my plan worked. I was ten minutes late for my 7:00 performance, but the show didn't really have a beginning-middle-end narrative, so aside from annoying the guy in the seat next to mine, my lateness was okay. Starbucks was clean and bright and friendly. When they kicked me out (cordially, of course), I drove back to the arena and parked outside the same "Drop-off/Pick-Up" sign, congratulating myself on my master plan mastery.

I was there maybe five minutes when a different cop rapped on the window and demanded that I move. "Now!" I did what any self-respecting middle-aged mother would do. 

'Played the middle-aged mother card.

"I'm so sorry, officer," I purred. "My daughters are in there and I don't know this town. Is there somewhere else I can wait?"

He was suddenly all sweetness and light (it occurs to me, with horror, that I may have reminded him of his own mother). He suggested that I circle the arena and then pull up to a meter on one of the side streets behind it. "There's no overnight parking," he advised, "So just be sure you stay with the vehicle, ma'am." Yeah, right, like I'm going to leave my vehicle on some random back street of some random little city that I don't know from a hole in the wall.

His recommendation was apt except for two complications that were beyond his control. The first was a bona fide drug deal that I had the pleasure of witnessing. The other was the 55-minute (I am not exaggerating) dead-stop, grid-lock, traffic jam I was stranded in when the show ended. Thank goodness for cell phones. I was able to call my daughter, change rendezvous plans, and while we still didn't move for a very long time, the two girls were safely in the car with me. We weren't going anywhere, but at least we weren't going there together.

Since that evening, my daughter has been appreciative and responsible. She has very much lived up to her end of the bargain. It was a huge schlep (huge!), but I felt good about following through after making a — let's face it — downright idiotic agreement. I got to see a show. I got to see an illegal transaction. And, I learned something pretty remarkable about my daughter.

For someone who is often too shy to talk to anyone in the cafeteria, that girl can hold her own with radio producers and bona fide rockstars.

And, she has the photo, drumstick, signed CD and exhausted mother to prove it.

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

Not the Target Audience

When I’m not blogging or writing movie reviews (or doing laundry or helping with homework), I run a boutique ad agency. In fact, I’ve been a copywriter and creative director for just over half my life (since September of 1984 — you can do the math). Consequently, I’m acutely aware of marketing strategy, how brands combine emotion with promotion to get us to desire and buy their products.

So, when there’s something I just don’t get (like the Twilight books or Crocs or Ke$ha), I remind myself that, “I’m not the target audience.”

One recent trip to the mall with my daughter required several repetitions of that mantra. “I’m not the target audience. I’m not the target audience.”

Like Julie Andrews and the Von Trapp children, let’s start at the very beginning.

We tend to park along the side of the mall, not in the large but always crowded lot near the food court, but toward the back near an exterior entrance to a home furnishings store called Restoration Hardware. There are benefits to this. I always find a space. I never lose my car. I like walking through aisles of overstuffed sectional sofas and imagining how they could possibly fit into my early 19^th century colonial. And, once we’re in the mall, we are only a half-dressed hop, skip and jump away from … Abercrombie.

For my tween daughter, Abercrombie is the mall’s Mecca, a holy city of to-die-for casual clothing, allegedly meant for young adults but irresistible to younger teenage-wannabes. The shop is dimly lit with floor-to-ceiling peek-a-boo shutters that create a sense of mystery, if not downright danger, as you try to hurry by on your way to Macy’s. Too late! You are seduced by Abercrombie’s siren song.

Walk in and you’re met with stunning black and white photos of superhumanly gorgeous boys and girls, all of whom look like they’ve just rolled out of bed and need a cigarette. Your pulse begins to pound like the music that’s playing several decibels too loud. The place has its own distinct odor, their signature perfume, which permeates the store, the clothes, and your car the whole way home.

We are here for jeans. Not just jeans, but “super skinny destroyed jeans.” Apparently, there is real value associated with all the extra adjectives. Plain old jeans would only cost me $68. It’s $20 extra for the super and the skinny and the destroyed. I suggest that we get the regular jeans and destroy them ourselves. It could be fun, like one of those afternoons we used to spend together painting hideous ceramics at Plaster Fun Time. My daughter smiles sweetly and brings the super skinny destroyed jeans to the register. A preternaturally pretty young man flashes his pearly whites, sweeps his blond Beiberesque bangs away from his forehead, and swipes my American Express.

We escape from Abercrombie relatively unscathed — just the jeans, not a single graphic tee or hoodie. My daughter is elated. I’m a bit bewildered, but … “I am not the target audience.”

Next, we track down the store Pink, a colorful, brightly lit shop of cotton undies, sleepwear and Betty Boop-inspired lingerie. It’s the retail equivalent of Victoria’s Secret’s flirty little sister. My daughter needs a strapless bra to wear under a sundress for an upcoming bat mitzvah. Styles change, but there are some things you can rely on. Whether you’re 13 or 48, you buy a strapless bra because you have to — not because it’s comfortable.

As we’re waiting on line to pay for the uncomfortable strapless bra, I see a display of blue sleepshirts that say “PINK” on the front of them. Another display has green hoodies that say “PINK” on the back of them. A final display offers a rainbow of bikini underpants in yellow, red, orange, purple, all of which say “PINK” across their butts. I don’t get it. Then again … “I’m not the target audience.”

Our final stop is Forever 21 (or the store that I think of as “More Ho, Less Dough”). Really, if your tween daughter is playing a prostitute in the junior high play, you can find her some pretty convincing costumes here for a lot less than I just paid for destroyed denim. My daughter needs a little jacket to wear over her sundress in the temple ($9.99 on the sale rack), a pair of flats to dance in ($15 near the register), and a gift card, which will make the bat mitzvah girl very happy and her mother … well … less so. Like me, she is “not the target audience.”

A final stop at Starbucks (one vente decaf non-fat caramel macchiato, one frappucino), and we are all set. I may not be the target audience for Abercrombie, Pink or Forever 21, but I can consume overpriced concept coffee drinks with the best of them. I am, after all, “the target audience.”

Trip to the mall: $256. An afternoon with my daughter without any arguments: priceless.