Next week, the final installment of The Hunger Games will be released in movie theatres nationwide.
OMG.
I'm hoping that my teenage daughter will deign to attend this major cinema event with me. Not because I'm particularly looking forward to it. (I'm not.) Not because I enjoyed the last book in the series more than (or even as much as) the other two. (I didn't.) Not because I give a rat's you-know-what about what happens to Katniss, Peeta or Gale. (I don't.)
I want to go to Hunger Games: Mockingjay 2 with my daughter because (a) she rarely wants to go to movies, and (b) she even more rarely wants to go to them with me. In truth, I'd happily go to pretty much any movie she suggested, pull out the credit card and pay ridiculous sums for seats and popcorn. Yes, I'm a shameless-opportunist-movie-going-ho and I'll be the first to admit it. My darling daughter who used to love going places with her doting mama is too busy these days. And if it takes a big budget dystopian sequel to bring us together for an afternoon ... so be it.
Four years ago, while she was still in middle school, my daughter insisted that I read the books by Suzanne Collins before she would permit me to see the first movie. By the time the two of us sat down in the local multiplex together, she had already seen it twice.
A year later, we saw the second movie. Again, it was a repeat performance for my daughter who managed to see it, not once, not twice, but three times during its opening week — all supported by my credit card, oddly enough. Still, we enjoyed the time together, and I had to admit that the two films stayed true to the books and gave my daughter a fearless — and female — hero to root for.
So, fast forward another two years and to prepare for our next outing (not yet confirmed, btw), I recently watched Hunger Games: Mockingjay Part 1 on Amazon Prime. I can't recall who my daughter saw it with when it was released last year, but suffice it to say, 'tweren't me.
The third movie picks up where the second left off. Our gal Katniss (the all-around wonderful Jennifer Laurence) has now survived two Hunger Games and despite a lot of PTSD, she has to stand up and become the symbol of the revolution. The districts have finally had enough (about time!) and they are going to fight until they're free. President Snow (a thoroughly evil Donald Sutherland) will stop at nothing to punish the rebels. Meanwhile, President Coin (Julianne Moore in believable bitch-queen mode) has her own agenda and is happy to use Katniss (and anyone else) to promote it. As for the love triangle from the earlier films, Gale (Liam Hemsworth) is finally in his element as an heroic freedom fighter, while Peeta (Josh Hutcherson), brainwashed in the Capitol, has gone bat-sh*t crazy.
Did I leave anyone out? Oh yeah, Effie Trinket (Elizabeth Banks) is fashioning fashion out of trash bags; Haymitch Abernathy (Woody Harrelson in a part he probably paid to play) still acts like a boozer whether there's booze or not; Caesar Flickerman (Stanley Tucci, my favorite) is still prancing about on air; and Plutarch Heavensbee (the late Philip Seymour Hoffman) remains the steady voice of reason whether he was working for Snow (he wasn't really ... shhhhh) or masterminding the resistance.
If nothing else, we have to give Collins kudos for the names of the characters! They're delightful.
So, I paid my dues, sat through the sequels, and now I'm ready for the fourth and final installment. Katniss and company, here I come.
Assuming that my daughter doesn't have any other plans, of course.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
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.
You know when you get a new car and you become incredibly fastidiously perfectionistically nervous about it? Chips and pings and minor scratches that you can only see in a certain light (from a certain angle)? These are suddenly the stuff of nightmares. You basically hold your breath for six months — or until you get a teensy tiny dent — whichever comes first.
Being the mother of a new driver is pretty much the same thing.
We used to have a hard and fast rule that my daughter had to text me when she left place A and again when she reached place B. These succinct missives ("leaving," "here") assured that my panic attacks were as brief as possible. I can tell you exactly how many minutes it takes to get to the stable from our house. 32. At the half-hour mark, I start watching the back gate.
I've relaxed a bit in the 18+ months that she's been driving. I still watch the clock sometimes, but I stay pretty cool.
On the outside at least.
Here in Massachusetts, teen drivers aren't allowed to use their mobile phones while they're operating a vehicle. This is meant to keep them (and others) safer. It also means that any call that comes in while she's supposed to be behind the wheel is probably not good news. We had one such call last year. She was driving home through the neighboring town and — after pulling over, good girl — called to say the car was making a terrible noise. Luckily, I was home and able to rescue her. 'Turns out she had been driving on a flat tire. By the time she parked and I arrived, it was shredded beyond repair.
"I'm soooo sorry," she moaned when I showed her the source of the mystery noise.
Not a big deal, I assured her. "It's a thing, not a person." Her father replaced the tire on his way home from work and with only a minor hassle of car-juggling, it was back and on the road (with new tires) in short order.
After that first call, I actually breathed a sigh of relief. If she was going to have an on-road crisis — and we all have them sooner or later — this was a fairly benign one, right?
Fast-forward a year or so, and I was in the kitchen starting dinner when I got a text from her. "Leaving," she wrote. I smiled and didn't think much of it. Until about ten minutes later when the phone rang and caller ID told me who the caller was.
"I'm at Endicott," she told me (that's a local college). "I got rear-ended."
Breathe, I reminded myself. She's obviously alive and conscious and must still have at least one or two of her fingers or she couldn't have hit "Mom" on the speed dial.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, but the car is really bad."
"Okay, but you're all right. Is the other driver all right?"
"Yes, she's here. She's very nice."
"Okay, there are things you have to do now. You have to exchange licenses and registration and insurance and ... here's your father." I gave the phone to my husband, my hand shaking, grateful he was there to take over.
My daughter was right, the other driver was very nice. When she called a few minutes later to talk to us, she explained that it was "only a tap." But, given that my daughter was driving a Miata (my Miata, my first car, my bright red baby, 24-years-old and perfectly maintained) and the other driver was in a bigger, heavier vehicle, well ... there's no such thing as a "tap." The rear of my adorable sportscar was crumpled like an accordion.
"I'm sooooooo sorry," my daughter moaned about a half an hour later when she and what was left of the Miata arrived home. We could tell she'd been crying.
"It's a thing, not a person," I told her, hugging her tight. "It's okay. It's totally okay."
'Turns out it was totally totaled. In the face-off between damage and book value, 24-year-old cars don't usually win.
But, my enterprising husband has a plan. He's found pristine Miatas like ours listed at higher-than-book-value prices. He's found secondary market parts and body panels. He's found a mechanic a few towns over who is an expert in "antique" Miatas. My bright red baby will ride again. It may just be a while.
And, I'm all right with that. Because I have my real baby.
And she's totally okay.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
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.
From the time our babies arrive to the time we watch them head off for college, we imagine all sorts of bright futures for them. But, when we're not envisioning fame and fortune and happily ever afters, we're thinking — sometimes obsessing — about all the things that could go wrong. Terribly wrong. Like drowning in the bath, choking on grapes, contracting the plague. Most of all, we fear "bad guys:" strangers at bus stops, professional kidnappers and, as our kids get older, perverts stalking them on the Internet.
Consequently, we have to be all-vigilant, all-the-time. We make excuses for helicoptering, smothering our children in the name of protecting them. They're over-scheduled and rarely left to their own devices. Of course, we can't possibly give them the autonomy we had. What kind of parents would we be?
Common wisdom says that the world is a darker and more dangerous place these days. That thinking is certainly common, but it isn't exactly wisdom. According to an extensively researched feature in New York magazine earlier this year, we should all take an enormous chill pill. Reinforced by stories in the Washington Post and the Chicago Tribune, the numbers would tell us that our kids aren't just "all right." They're safer than they've been in decades.
Here are some highlights:
• Since 1992, sexual abuse of children has fallen by 64% and physical abuse has fallen by 55%.
• Since 1997 (the year my daughter was born), abductions of children by strangers has fallen by 51%.
• Since 1994, incidents of violent crime against children has also fallen by 59%.
• And, since 1997, reports of missing children have fallen by 40%.
In our minds (fueled by constant and sensationalized headlines and news stories), our children are at constant risk. And, if we catch ourselves over-parenting and protecting them more than our own parents did for us, we justify it. "Well, they didn't know any better. They weren't aware of what might happen."
That's not exactly true. Here's a 10-minute so-called "educational" video from 1961(the year before I was born, btw), warning teenage girls about exactly what might happen. Comprising several cautionary tales (spoiler: only one of the girls gets out unscathed), Girls Beware doesn't offer much in the way of positive, empowering advice. Essentially, the world is full of bad guys and if you're careless, greedy, vain or stupid ... well, you're pretty much going to get what you deserve. (My favorite is the last tale about a girl who doesn't tell her parents about her older boyfriend until she's "in trouble" and "it's too late." She's taken out of school and "placed under the guidance of juvenile authorities. "Holy Magdalene Sisters, Batman!" Welcome to America.)
You can watch it here. Better yet, grab a teenage girl and watch it with her. She'll thank you for it.
Not.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
Earlier this week, I went to a Zumba class, one of my first since I sprained my ankle in September doing something stupid. (My doctor's advice? "You're 53. You have osteopenia. Don't do things that are stupid.") The previous class was still cooling down and I needed to put on my dance sneakers, so I sat on a long bench outside the studio. There were five of us in a row. All women over 50. As I laced up, I realized that the other four were looking at their smartphones. As soon as my shoes were tied, I pulled out mine.
No "Good morning," no "Hi," no "Hello." Just what my husband long ago termed "FIP" or "face-in-phone." Of course, at the time, he was referring to our teenage daughter.
We all bemoan the time and attention our kids devote to their smartphones. But, maybe we should take a harder look at ourselves first. As a group, grownups aren't setting a very good example these days.
What is it that drives otherwise friendly, sociable people to that tiny screen? All day, every day.
Some of it is the social media phenomenon called "FOMO" or "fear of missing out." In that ten minutes before the fitness class, something might happen and ... OMG ... you might not find out about it until an hour later.
For myself, there are practical reasons why I grab a minute or two online whenever, wherever, I can. You see, I run an ad agency. My staff and/or my clients might have a question or need something from me. They depend on me.
Even I can hear how lame that sounds.
In truth, it wouldn't be the end of the world — or anything remotely like it — if my team or my customers had to wait an hour. I think of my trips to the Y as lunch breaks (remember lunch breaks?). Pre-smartphones, people actually took an hour off each day and actually left their desks and anyone who needed them actually left a message and didn't actually expect to hear back for an hour. This is true. Actually.
In today's always wired (even when we're wireless) world, we're all conditioned to expect or even demand instant access, instant answers, instant gratification. With this, comes an assumption that we are always multitasking. That's really why I check my phone continually. Whether I have five minutes in my car waiting for my daughter or ten minutes on a bench at the gym, I feel pressure to be doing something productive. Just sitting, just relaxing, just thinking ... these things just don't cut it.
I definitely see the error of my ways. (In fact, my recent ankle injury was a direct result of my inability to pause or — God forbid! — do one thing at a time.) But, it's very hard to change my behavior. I do stick to a few rules, however. No phone at the table. No texting when driving. And the phone is charging in the kitchen overnight — so no checking anything if and when I can't sleep.
My daughter follows the same rules, more or less. Sometimes she has her smartphone with her when we're eating dinner because she's waiting to hear from a classmate about an assignment. Sometimes her phone ends up in her bedroom overnight because she was using it to make "Quizlets" in preparation for an exam. (Over the years, my daughter has come to realize that pretty much any rule is bendable if she uses the words "school," "homework," or "test.")
When I think about the vacations our family has enjoyed over the past 18 years, some of the best were deliciously smartphone-free. I refuse to pay exorbitant long distant charges when we go abroad, and (happily) we haven't had signals when we go sailing.
So, I do still understand (and, when I can, thoroughly enjoy) the benefits of hanging up, checking out, going offline. I just need to give myself permission to do so in my everyday life.
And, I will!
Right after I check the text that just came in.
It's probably my daughter.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
It's that time of year again, my friends. Candy corn, "Trick or Treat," ghosts and ghouls and girls dressed like ladies of the night.
Time for my annual rant about the short, the sheer, the utterly inappropriate Halloween costumes available for girls.
In 2011, the year I launched Lovin' the Alien, I wrote about the Candy Cane Ho, a costume so ludicrously offensive, it simply couldn't be ignored. Two years later, I talked about skimpy witches and sexy penguins, and the other classy options available to our girls. (Happily, my daughter has never felt compelled to show that much skin on an October evening here in chilly New England. Brrr.)
This year, my now teenage daughter forwarded a picture of a new costume which has both of us shaking our heads. It's a "Sexy Equestrienne," and it's about as far from depicting an actual athlete as it can be.
Let's start with that word: "athlete." My daughter and her pony-loving peers are athletes. No question. A gym teacher once told her that riding was "a hobby, not a sport." Well, I'd like to challenge him to a little friendly competition. Can he post up and down in a saddle for 45 minutes? Tell a 1,200-pound animal to change gaits or direction by squeezing his thigh muscles? Lug tack trunks in and out of trailers? Or carry 50-pound water buckets uphill to the barn?
Hmmm. 'Didn't think so.
That's all in a day's work for my daughter.
As far as sexiness is concerned, I assure you it is the last thing on any equestrienne's mind while she's training or competing. Don't get me wrong, most girls who take riding seriously have great figures (see typical workout described above) and I've seen many of them, my daughter included, clean up very nicely. But, when they're on their horse, in a ring or on a trail, they are working too hard to worry about how alluring they may or may not look.
The "Sexy Equestrienne" may be new, but it's not exactly news. Most costumes available for girls — even tweens and younger — can aptly use the adjective "sexy." There are sexy policewomen, sexy nurses, sexy vampires, sexy kittens, sexy crayons, sexy bumblebees and, of course, my all-time favorite sexy candy corn. Often, there are sexy girl versions of the same decidedly un-sexy boy costumes, as my friend's then 8-year old daughter pointed out in this video.
Do girls really want to look like ... um ... professionals? According to the much-loved movie Mean Girls, the answer is "Yes." As Lindsay Lohan's Cady Stanton learns "Halloween is the one night a year when a girl can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it."
But, I'm not buying it.
A big part of how girls (and young women) define their attractiveness and value is driven by the media. From very young ages, they're bombarded by sexy images. I also think that a big factor behind the "every costume looks like a hoochie-mama" phenomenon is an economic one. Less fabric, more profit. It's that simple.
Actual equestrienne clothing (as opposed to the "Sexy Equestrienne" costume) requires significantly more fabric: reinforced seats and knees, layers that actually protect and perform.
If someone attempted to do dressage, stadium jumping or cross-country in the Halloween costume depicted above, my daughter and her teammates would choke with laughter.
And their horses probably would too.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
