The F-Word

What do we want for our daughters?

I think most mothers of teens would agree that we want our daughters to be happy and smart and kind and successful. I think, if we're honest, we'd also say that we want them to be beautiful and lucky in love. (Despite our best efforts, that Disney-princess "happy ever after" thing is hard to get away from.)

In my case, I'd also add that I want my daughter to be a feminist. (I recently wrote an essay for Women's Voices for Change on that very subject.) Every time my daughter stands up for herself, notices an inequity or admires another woman for all the right reasons, my pride is palpable.

That's one reason I've been happy with some of the contemporary books she chooses to read. (Would I be happier if she reached for Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë or Louis May Alcott? Well ... um ... YES. I may be a feminist mother but I was also an English major.) Today's popular YA (young adult) dystopian genre includes some fairly kick-ass heroines.

One of these is Tris from Veronica Roth's Divergent series. Even though she's a little too swoony when it comes to her hunky trainer Four, the girl is one tough cookie. Leaping from moving trains, climbing abandoned ferris wheels, hand-to-hand combat (with boys, no less!), this is not a girl who sits at home waiting for the phone to ring while her manicure dries.

When the movie version was released a few months ago, I was happy that Hollywood resisted the urge to take Tris and glam her up for the big screen. Sure, young star Shailene Woodley looks super sultry on the poster, but in the film itself, she is strong and seemingly make-up free. Both Divergent and its precursor The Hunger Games depict future societies in which women live and work (and, apparently, fight to the death) alongside men.

(And the fictional heroines aren't the only inspiration for our teens. Both bestselling novels were written by, you guessed it, women. You go, girls!)

You'd think all this girl power would rub off on the young actress lucky enough to star in Divergent. Earlier this month, TIME magazine asked Woodley if she was a feminist. But, her answer surprised me. Surprised and, frankly, disappointed.

"No because I love men, and I think the idea of ‘raise women to power, take the men away from the power’ is never going to work out because you need balance. With myself, I’m very in touch with my masculine side. And I’m 50 percent feminine and 50 percent masculine, same as I think a lot of us are. And I think that is important to note. And also I think that if men went down and women rose to power, that wouldn’t work either. We have to have a fine balance.

My biggest thing is really sisterhood more than feminism. I don’t know how we as women expect men to respect us because we don’t even seem to respect each other. There’s so much jealousy, so much comparison and envy. And “This girl did this to me and that girl did that to me.” And it’s just so silly and heartbreaking in a way."

So, according to Woodley, sisterhood and feminism have nothing to do with each other. Oh, and you can't be a feminist and love a man. (This will be unhappy news for my husband.)

Shailene, honey, here's the deal ...

Let's start with the F-word itself. Who better to turn to for an official definition than the movement's mother superior, Gloria Steinem?

"A feminist is anyone who recognizes the equality and full humanity of women and men." 

Even without the last two words, Steinem doesn't say anything about taking away anybody's power. You would think the word "equality" would be inarguable.

What have feminists fought for? Freedom. Respect. True citizenship. Women's rights to make choices, to work outside the home, to be represented in government, to have access to healthcare.

Girlfriend, don't bite the hand that feeds you.

Shailene, the next time you vote or earn a half a million dollars for a movie (or speak your mind in a national magazine), thank your real sisters. 

The feminists.

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

Brought To You By ...

The other day, I was driving back from a client meeting when I had to stop at a red light. In the lane next to me was a post office truck. Not just any truck, but a brand new Spider-Man one. 

Along with the familiar red, white and blue graphics, there was an enormous picture of the infamous webslinger himself ready to deliver a Priority Mail envelope (and fight crime too, we have to assume). 

I've made a living in the direct mail business for nearly three decades. Not quite since the time of the pony express; it just feels like it. I have good friends at the USPS. I've spoken at their conferences. They advise on the creative packages I do for my clients (yes, that's right, direct mail can be creative). Many (many, many) years ago, I actually collected stamps.

But ... I'm confused. 

Is Spidey delivering the mail now? What happened to all those nice letter carriers? Y'know ...

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

I get it. Mailmen and women are super heroes. Indeed, living in New England, there are definitely winter days when I don't envy them their jobs. But, I was still surprised to see Spider-Man on a mail truck.

'Turns out, it's all a promotion for the new movie The AMAZING Spider-Man 2.

My teenage daughter is growing up in a world that is inundated with marketing messages. Promotions and sponsorships are everywhere. From the tallest buildings to the backs of public restroom stall doors. Everything you do, see, buy, eat, drink and breathe is "brought to you by" somebody. (Okay, maybe not the "breathe" part — not yet.)

Remember when stadiums, theatres and performance halls were named after famous people, mythical characters or simply the city they were in? Not so much anymore. My daughter's going to a concert soon and I asked where it was going to be.

"Blue Hills Bank Pavilion," she said.

Say what?

"I think it was Bank of America Pavilion back in your days." Actually, it was Harbor Lights, a lovely outdoor arena on the shore of Boston Harbor. The name meant something. It described the experience; it added to the allure. Naming it after a bank makes no sense — except that it reminds me of how expensive concert tickets have become. Money, not music. That's okay, I guess. The only connection the venue has with either eponymous bank is a financial one.

Suddenly everything is underwritten by some company or product. Still Spider-Man (not just any old Spider-Man, mind you, but The AMAZING Spider-Man 2) doesn't feel quite kosher. I mean, isn't the USPS a federal government agency? Shouldn't that mean they stay above the commercial fray?

What's next anyway? The Department of Transportation, brought to you by Hyundai? The CIA, brought to you by 24: Live Another Day? The Food & Drug Administration, brought to you by the makers of Viagra?

Then again, if everyone else is doing it, maybe I should too. In that spirit, sponsorships of Lovin' the Alien are now available. I am particularly interested in inquiries from the following:

Vineyards and Fine Wine Distributors
Gourmet Chocolate Companies
Designer Handbags and Luxury Leather Goods
Personal Electronics
Spa Getaways

and/or

Jimmy Choo.

Feel free to pay for your sponsorships in trade. Your support will be gratefully acknowledged.

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

Mother's Day

Allow me a quick fantasy. 

It's Mother's Day. I sleep late and wake to those soft chirping sounds you find in a Disney Princess feature-length cartoon. My daughter and husband slip into the master bedroom, quietly in case I'm still sleeping. As they see that I'm up, they present an elaborate breakfast-in-bed: fresh flaky croissant, steaming café au lait (apparently they got the tray in Paris or something), a single flower with petals like velvet. Once I've eaten, my devoted family suggests a marvelous afternoon of activities, each chosen to suit my tastes and preferences: a trip to a local art gallery, a musical theatre matinee, an early evening picnic on the beach. Although, I've told them I don't need presents, they surprise me with some romantic art nouveau estate jewelry. Nothing too grand. Diamonds are always appropriate.

All right. We're done.

Here's how my Mother's Day really went.

I set my alarm for 4:45 am. This means that I was up pretty much every half hour since midnight, counting down. "Oh, I still have three hours." "Oh, I still have two hours." "Oh, I still have forty-six minutes." "Oh, WTF, I might as well get up."

After splashing some water on my face, I went to check on my teenage daughter. Wonder of wonders (miracle of miracles), she was already up. My child getting herself up at oh-god-o'clock can only mean one thing ...

Horse show.

Yes, a big fat USEA recognized three-phase event on Mother's Day. To make it even more special, it wasn't local. No, that would be too easy. It was out in Western Mass. Two hours and forty minutes from our stable, which is thirty minutes from our house, where my daughter had to spend forty-five minutes grooming her pony and loading the trailer.

Do the math if you like. I'm too tired.

My husband, meanwhile, had to prepare for a business trip and look at a new (new, used) car, so I was flying solo. Well, not solo, exactly. I was flying with three very excited teenagers and their trainer.

It was unseasonably warm (after being unseasonably cold for the past two months or more). The event was packed. Hundreds of young women (and the tiniest handful of young men) were there to compete in dressage, stadium jumping and cross-country.

My role at these events is critical. In addition to driving, I do hair (a tight bun in a black net with a smart velvet bow). I pack a lunch and nag my daughter to drink water and eat something. ("Something with a little protein in it, please.") I locate lost articles (a single glove, a collar pin, a hoof pick).

And, I hold my breath while my daughter does her course. That and pray a little.

I'm fairly certain this helps.

On Mother's Day, with my husband otherwise occupied, I also had to use my daughter's fancy-schmancy camera to capture action shots. The directions were clear and to the point. "Get every jump," she told me. Pressure much? But, I succeeded and, in all honesty, I was so nervous about taking the pictures that I forgot to be nervous about my darling daughter and her beloved steed flying over jumps.

At one point, my daughter came up and said "Let's get a picture of the two of us together." It was a nice (and unusual) request, but something interrupted and we never managed to do it.

When we got home that evening, I learned why she had asked.

There, on Facebook was a picture of the two of us from an earlier show this season. My daughter had posted it with the following message:

Late to the game...but happy mothers day to the best (horse show) mom there is! Thank you so much for sacrificing your day today and going to my event! You were and always are so helpful thanks for everything love you

Then there was a little emoji smiley face.

It wasn't breakfast in bed (that's ok, we grabbed Dunkin' Donuts on the road). It wasn't a museum or a matinee.

But, it felt a lot like diamonds to me.

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

Miss Match

Today, in addition to closing a new piece of business, participating in a conference call about a client's website, writing and editing (and editing and editing) advertising copy, and working on a big proposal, I did laundry.

I know, I know. You're thinking, 'Wow, what a glamorous life she leads.' Admit it.

One of the great things about running an agency from a home office is that you can multitask. 

So, there I am, brainstorming headlines for an ad campaign and sorting the whites. It had been a few weeks (in this house, the colored hamper fills up much quicker), so I had eighteen or twenty pairs of athletic socks. They are identical except for the Nike logo at the ankle; the familiar swoosh is in three different colors: hot pink, turquoise and black.

As I was grouping them together, it occurred to me that this was a fairly unnecessary task. As I mentioned, the socks are exactly the same, fit the same, feel the same. When I walk or go to the gym, you can't see the logos because I wear long yoga pants. So no one would know if they were mismatched, right?

Wrong. I would know.

That's me, I am a rule follower. Always have been. Always will be. In fact, one of the things that really intrigued me when I started dating my now husband was his disregard for any rules that precluded him from having fun. The first, last and only time I ever played hooky from work was with him. I called in sick on a Friday morning, but was really already en route to Montreal for the weekend. It was exhilarating and liberating and terrifying. I never did it again.

At any rate, I'm sure I would feel the same way if I wore odd socks to Zumba.

One of my favorite instructors, interestingly enough, always has mismatched socks. She laughs about it, shrugging. Her life, with multiple teaching gigs and multiple kids, is just too hectic. 

My daughter, on the other hand, decided a few years ago that mismatched socks would be one of her (many) signature looks. It wasn't that she was busy or lazy, she actually thought it was cool. She's partial to colorful ankle socks, and particularly likes to wear two different holiday themes (say, Jack o' Lanterns on the right, Santas on the left) when the holidays themselves are months away. 

I used to sort her socks, taking the time to match each one to its mate (tracking down all the missing ones too), then rolling the clean pairs into neat little balls. These would be placed gently in her sock drawer, the drawer that she would later turn upside down and inside out, undoing the rolled sock pairs to find the perfect odd couple. I finally gave up.

So, I wonder if anyone has conducted a research study to align different personality types with their approach to matched or mismatched footwear. How do I, my instructor and my daughter differ in our approach to life, the universe and other items of clothing? And, is there a chicken-or-egg element to this? Do my socks match because I'm a rigid rule follower? Or am I a rigid rule follower because my socks match?

Can we ever really change who we are inside?

If I just threw all my socks in a basket and randomly pulled out any two each day, would I be more relaxed?

Hell, no. I'd be stressed out because my socks wouldn't match.

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

Yik Yak Talk-Back

As parents of teenagers, we hold these truths to be self-evident:

a. Our children are desperate to fit in, to be admired and popular

b. Our children have not developed what one might call "filters" 
c. Our children don't quite grasp the concept of "consequences" yet

None of this is really news. In fact, if you had gathered a group of moms and dads together in the 70s, back when I was a teen, they might have said the same thing. But add another, more contemporary observation:

d. Our children are addicted to technology — social media and cell phones, especially

Things get very interesting. Interesting and disturbing.

Enter a harmless little app called Yik Yak. Anonymous local posting. What could possibly go wrong?

Yik Yak was founded last fall by two fraternity brothers (why does this not surprise me?). Brooks Buffington and Tyler Droll (purportedly, those are their real names) developed it as a social hub "to enable people to be really connected with the people around you, even if you don't know them ... a hyper-local version of Twitter where people can use it to post information and everyone in the area can see it." 

Yik Yak was never meant to be used by high school students. In fact, you have to confirm that you're over 17 to log on. So there shouldn't be any problem, right? After all, identity verification is fool-proof on the web. 

And, teenagers would never lie.

Here's how Yik Yak promotes itself:

Yik Yak acts like a local bulletin board for your area by showing the most recent posts from other users around you. It allows anyone to connect and share information with others without having to know them.

News, funny experiences, shout outs, and jokes spread faster than ever through Yik Yak’s tight-knit community.

Here's how I, as a mother (and a marketing copywriter) might edit this description in order to promote truth in advertising:

Yik Yak acts like a bathroom stall door, a public bulletin board where you can take a magic marker and write hateful and obscene things about your ex, your rivals and your enemies. It allows anyone to say anything about anyone, without having to face them in real life.

Insults, cruelty and bullying spread faster than ever through Yik Yak’s tight-knit community, which — since the app is free and delivered via the Internet — is pretty much everybody.

Sadly, given an opportunity to be mean, a lot of young people rise to the occasion. Fat-shaming, for example, is now easier and more effective than ever:

"Can someone tell whats-her-name that yoga pants are a privilege, not a right?"

The sad thing, though, is that in the world of Yik Yak, whats-her-name is, indeed, named. And what will she do later, after everyone at school has seen the anonymous post and weighed in on it (no pun intended)? Cry, purge, cut. Or something worse.

In its defense, the company has assisted high schools in blocking the app and even tracked down kids who break the law, like in the recent bomb threat we had here. (Guess what, people? Thanks to a little thing called your "IP address," anonymity online ain't a sure thing. Uh-oh.)

My daughter informs me that Yik Yak is already old news. Indeed, kids will move on to something else — fast — if they haven't already. It isn't the app itself that's the problem. There will always be a way to ostracize a peer if that's what someone wants to do. I know plenty of adults who judge others by how they look, what they wear, the kind of car they drive. Rather than ban a particular channel, we need to teach our kids compassion. 

And we need to do so by example. 

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

Influential Women: It's About TIME

As a feminist myself and — especially — as the mother of a teenage daughter, I get emotional when it comes to women's rights. Depending on the situation, I may feel anger, disappointment, sadness, rage, incomprehension. I'm rarely neutral.

It boggles my mind that my sixteen-year-old will likely face economic, political and health care discrimination, social prejudice, maybe even physical danger because of her gender. In this country, in this day and age? A half a century after the women's rights movement? Nearly a century after the 19th Amendment gave us the right to vote?

It boggles my mind.

I was one of those women who felt personally injured when Hillary was forced to pull out of the 2008 presidential race. (And I'll be first in line to cast my vote for her in 2016 if all goes well.) 

Women still make less than men for the same work. The statistic commonly cited is 77¢ to the dollar. This accuracy of this is widely debated, but I don't think anyone would say  there's parity.

Only 20% of U.S. Senators are women, and only 18.5% of the U.S. Congress. And, as I've already bemoaned, we have yet to have a woman in the White House. In this particular category, the United States is lagging behind. According to www.guide2womenleaders.com, there are currently 32 women ruling other countries. These include: 2 Queens, 3 Governor Generals, 15 Prime Ministers, 11 Presidents and a Captain Regent. 

And, let's not even get into CEOs. For every high-powered female Sheryl Sandberg, Virgina Rometty or Oprah Winfrey, there are at least 10,000 male CEOs (and about 1,000,000 thwarted female executives). We hear about the exceptions, not the rules.

I could go on all day, but I'd rather celebrate a rather exciting development. This week, TIME magazine published it's annual "100 Most Influential People In The World" issue. An unprecedented number — 41! — of the influencers included are women.

I love seeing so many women of every age, from every sphere. I love it that this isn't some manufactured (and thereby diminished) "Best Women" list — that the women were judged alongside their male counterparts.

They range from teenage education activist Malala Yousafzai and golf champion Lydia Ko, to notable women up into their sixties. Hillary Clinton's there (of course), but so is Donna Tartt, Alice Waters, Beyoncé, Megan Kelly, and Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala. Many familiar names, many new ones. As I read their bios, I am lost in wonder, admiration and pride.

Women do not control their share of wealth. They do not control their share of political authority. In some places (and sadly, in some parts of this country), they don't even control their own reproductive health. But, hallelujah, they can influence this world.

TIME explained it this way: “Power is a tool, influence is a skill; one is a fist, the other a fingertip.”

Here's to us, our mothers, sisters and daughters (especially our daughters). Power be damned. May the reach of our fingertips continue to grow.