Imagine a place where every disparate segment of your life collides. In this alternate universe you can spend quality time with people from your past, your present and possibly even your future. Your ninth grade nemesis is there. So is your first crush. Your high school prom date is chatting with the guy who dumped you for your (former) best friend. Your husband and your ex are chumming around too, bonding over music trivia.
Your old boss has shown up, and frighteningly, so has your current boss, along with a whole posse of girlfriends – college roomates, bridesmaids, work friends and PTA pals. Your pastor has dropped in, oh, and just for good measure, some of your crazy relatives did too: first, second, even third cousins and their kids. These people have no common interests and no real desire to get to know each other. Their sole purpose for being here is the fact that they have (or had) some kind of relationship with you. The problem is most of them know WAY to much about you (I mean, who introduces their Bible study friends to their drug buddies from back in the day?) Naturally, there are all kinds of alarms are going off in your head since clearly these people should NOT be mingling. But it’s too late. Even if you leave now, everyone will still be here when you get back. Watching. Waiting. Posting. Tagging.
Welcome to the very weird world of Facebook.
I just got a friend request from someone whose name was only vaguely familiar. Her picture offered no clues, but since she knew me by my maiden name I assumed it was a legit request and not some MLM team building scheme. I accepted. Turns out she and I were buds back in junior high – 7th grade according to her. A mere 36 years ago. She gushed that she was so excited to “find” me (really? She looked?) She assumed I remembered her – I’m still not sure I do, but I’m playing along. She wants to know what I’ve been up to. So… how exactly do you tell someone what you’ve been doing since you were 13? Who remembers? And why would you even want to? There’s a reason nobody goes to junior high reunions.
Of course now I’m in a junior high school friending freefall because accepting a friend request from one former acquaintance now opens you up to everyone else on their FB page – people who may also think they remember you from somewhere. I’ve already had two more requests from people I can’t place. It’s the “If you give a pig a pancake” rule of social networking.
Used to be there were old friends, former friends and new friends. This new category of FB friends has me baffled, because here the old become the new, former become the current, and nobody ever drops off the rolodex.
So where do you draw the line at ignoring people and hoping they just go back into the once closed door of your past where they belong? Is it rude to simply not respond to friendship requests on FB? Or is there a polite way to say “thanks…but no thanks.”
Friday, November 13, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Judgment Call
I recently read a blog by Irene Vilar, a self-described “abortion addict.” Irene had 15 abortions in 16 years, but today has two young children – she claims finally yielding to motherhood saved her from the cycle of habitual pregnancy termination. She also admits getting pregnant with the intent to abort – often waiting until the second term of pregnancy to end it. Her blog promotes her recently published memoir entitled Impossible Motherhood, which cites among other things, a background of neglect and abandonment that led her to end more than a dozen pregnancies. Her tone is one of measured remorse; she’s sorry, but it’s not her fault.
Whenever I read controversial pieces, I’m always eager to see how people weigh in. Many read this blog and expressed feelings of sadness, outrage and disgust. Others extended compassion and understanding. Some politicized and still others proselytized. Not surprisingly, quite a few people were harshly critical. But what struck me was the number of people who were quick to label anyone judgmental who dared question this woman’s choices. In response to one particularly caustic comment, one irate reader ranted: “Who are YOU to judge HER?” It’s a fair question.
As a Christian I know all about withholding the first stone. I’ve made some very poor choices of my own, including two abortions – one in high school and a second in college. Am I morally superior to Irene Vilar because her aborted children outnumber mine? Of course not. Some will of course argue that abortion is not a moral issue to begin with; I’ll table that for another discussion. What I’m wondering though, is when did it become virtually impossible to criticize someone or something without having the “J” word hurled your way? Frankly, in this case, I think if you put yourself out there and write a book about unconventional behavior, you are asking for reactions. Reactions do, after all, sell books.
I’m not purchasing the book but I do have a reaction. I find it abusive and irresponsible to abort for sport. To purposefully skip your birth control pills (which Irene says she did repeatedly to rebel against a domineering husband) is reckless and foolish. I also think describing abortion as an addiction minimizes the very real problems that afflict millions of people – dependence on drugs, alcohol and other destructive substances and behaviors. That Irene felt empowered killing babies she says she intentionally conceived is more mental illness than addiction. That she will now parlay her troubled past into talk show appearances and an income stream is akin to taking blood money.
True, I have never met Irene and did not read her book, so I’m ill-equipped to comment on the whole of her life circumstances. I can draw conclusion only from the facts provided: her pregnancies occurred primarily in the confines of a marriage to a man who did not want children. But he did not force her to abort; she never told him about the pregnancies.
For her part, Irene blames her choices on a “hypersexualized society that at once values the perfect mother, but also expects women to be sexually attractive to men and to achieve professionally.”
So it is society’s fault she had 15 abortions. A society that unfairly made her choose between her sexuality, her career, her marriage and her unborn children. Given her current age of 40, the timeline for these archaic ideas she felt beholden to was around the mid-80s through late 90s, so I can’t say I’m buying that idea. But if you want to play the blame game, then you are essentially admitting there is blame to be assigned.
15 children died at this woman’s whim – that’s more than half of your average kindergarten class, just to give some perspective. Who bears the burden of guilt here is not for me to decide, but I do have an opinion about it. And I don’t think that makes me judgmental.
To read Irene’s blog: http://community.todaymoms.com/_news/2009/11/02/3453446-after-having-15-abortions-motherhood-saved-her
What do you think of this story? Can you judge behavior without judging the person? And where do you draw the line?
Whenever I read controversial pieces, I’m always eager to see how people weigh in. Many read this blog and expressed feelings of sadness, outrage and disgust. Others extended compassion and understanding. Some politicized and still others proselytized. Not surprisingly, quite a few people were harshly critical. But what struck me was the number of people who were quick to label anyone judgmental who dared question this woman’s choices. In response to one particularly caustic comment, one irate reader ranted: “Who are YOU to judge HER?” It’s a fair question.
As a Christian I know all about withholding the first stone. I’ve made some very poor choices of my own, including two abortions – one in high school and a second in college. Am I morally superior to Irene Vilar because her aborted children outnumber mine? Of course not. Some will of course argue that abortion is not a moral issue to begin with; I’ll table that for another discussion. What I’m wondering though, is when did it become virtually impossible to criticize someone or something without having the “J” word hurled your way? Frankly, in this case, I think if you put yourself out there and write a book about unconventional behavior, you are asking for reactions. Reactions do, after all, sell books.
I’m not purchasing the book but I do have a reaction. I find it abusive and irresponsible to abort for sport. To purposefully skip your birth control pills (which Irene says she did repeatedly to rebel against a domineering husband) is reckless and foolish. I also think describing abortion as an addiction minimizes the very real problems that afflict millions of people – dependence on drugs, alcohol and other destructive substances and behaviors. That Irene felt empowered killing babies she says she intentionally conceived is more mental illness than addiction. That she will now parlay her troubled past into talk show appearances and an income stream is akin to taking blood money.
True, I have never met Irene and did not read her book, so I’m ill-equipped to comment on the whole of her life circumstances. I can draw conclusion only from the facts provided: her pregnancies occurred primarily in the confines of a marriage to a man who did not want children. But he did not force her to abort; she never told him about the pregnancies.
For her part, Irene blames her choices on a “hypersexualized society that at once values the perfect mother, but also expects women to be sexually attractive to men and to achieve professionally.”
So it is society’s fault she had 15 abortions. A society that unfairly made her choose between her sexuality, her career, her marriage and her unborn children. Given her current age of 40, the timeline for these archaic ideas she felt beholden to was around the mid-80s through late 90s, so I can’t say I’m buying that idea. But if you want to play the blame game, then you are essentially admitting there is blame to be assigned.
15 children died at this woman’s whim – that’s more than half of your average kindergarten class, just to give some perspective. Who bears the burden of guilt here is not for me to decide, but I do have an opinion about it. And I don’t think that makes me judgmental.
To read Irene’s blog: http://community.todaymoms.com/_news/2009/11/02/3453446-after-having-15-abortions-motherhood-saved-her
What do you think of this story? Can you judge behavior without judging the person? And where do you draw the line?
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Lighting is Everything
Every time I look in the mirror lately there seems to be something new to lament. A deepening wrinkle. A freshly emerging sunspot. A slackness to skin that was formerly taut. Have I always been so vain? Or is the very approach of the big five-oh making me just a wee bit paranoid about my appearance?
Whatever the reason, I find I have fewer and fewer of those “high five yourself in the mirror” moments these days. You know the feeling, when you get a new dress or perfect pair of pumps that make you want strut and twirl. You may not actually say so, but on some level you know you look good.
So I’m chatting with my plastic surgeon recently (O.K. not really but he’s the guy who does my Botox who happens to be a plastic surgeon). Anyhow, he passes me a hand mirror and asks if I mind if he “makes a few suggestions.” Sure I say, bracing myself. He very gently offers that I might consider an upper eyelid lift to get rid of that “tired look” and shave a few years off my apparently haggard appearance.
As he uses his thumbs to lift my drooping lids and show me what I might look like if I were fully awake, I have to admit I’m tempted. But then I remember that the reason I look tired is because I am tired. Bone tired. Everyday. All the time. There’s no surgery for that.
After stopping at the mall for a skin-tightening eye cream and a sugar-free vanilla latte, I go back to the office, pausing briefly to check my appearance in the poorly-lit bathroom. Now I look wired and tired.
My friend Helen and I discussed this very subject the other night as we sat in very flattering light admiring each other. She said she actually moves into better light for photos now that she knows what angles works for her. We joked about finding pocket lights that could be whipped out of our purses at a moment’s notice to chase away unwanted shadows and make sallow skin glow.
On the heels of that conversation, I came up with a few tips for all of us ladies of a certain age who want to avoid being blindsided by unflattering images of ourselves:
· Resist checking your reflection in windows of any kind. If you do, you will find yourself thinking things like “when did I get a double chin?” for the rest of the day.
· Avoid last minute makeup checks in rear view mirrors. Your lipstick is fine but you’re likely to find one of those long granny hairs sprouting from your chin. And you won’t have tweezers.
· Do not look at your thighs in three-way dressing room mirrors. These are sadistic trick mirrors that add pounds and cellulite where none previously existed. I can’t prove it but just go with me on this.
· When plucking eyebrows, skip the magnifying mirror. You will frighten yourself silly. Just make a waxing appointment – it’s easier on the psyche.
Lastly, use the purse compact judiciously. Mirrors that small are ok for looking at portions of your face, like your lips, for instance, or a lone freckle. Holding it at arms length to get a full face view tends not to be pretty.
Then again, it could just be the lighting.
Whatever the reason, I find I have fewer and fewer of those “high five yourself in the mirror” moments these days. You know the feeling, when you get a new dress or perfect pair of pumps that make you want strut and twirl. You may not actually say so, but on some level you know you look good.
So I’m chatting with my plastic surgeon recently (O.K. not really but he’s the guy who does my Botox who happens to be a plastic surgeon). Anyhow, he passes me a hand mirror and asks if I mind if he “makes a few suggestions.” Sure I say, bracing myself. He very gently offers that I might consider an upper eyelid lift to get rid of that “tired look” and shave a few years off my apparently haggard appearance.
As he uses his thumbs to lift my drooping lids and show me what I might look like if I were fully awake, I have to admit I’m tempted. But then I remember that the reason I look tired is because I am tired. Bone tired. Everyday. All the time. There’s no surgery for that.
After stopping at the mall for a skin-tightening eye cream and a sugar-free vanilla latte, I go back to the office, pausing briefly to check my appearance in the poorly-lit bathroom. Now I look wired and tired.
My friend Helen and I discussed this very subject the other night as we sat in very flattering light admiring each other. She said she actually moves into better light for photos now that she knows what angles works for her. We joked about finding pocket lights that could be whipped out of our purses at a moment’s notice to chase away unwanted shadows and make sallow skin glow.
On the heels of that conversation, I came up with a few tips for all of us ladies of a certain age who want to avoid being blindsided by unflattering images of ourselves:
· Resist checking your reflection in windows of any kind. If you do, you will find yourself thinking things like “when did I get a double chin?” for the rest of the day.
· Avoid last minute makeup checks in rear view mirrors. Your lipstick is fine but you’re likely to find one of those long granny hairs sprouting from your chin. And you won’t have tweezers.
· Do not look at your thighs in three-way dressing room mirrors. These are sadistic trick mirrors that add pounds and cellulite where none previously existed. I can’t prove it but just go with me on this.
· When plucking eyebrows, skip the magnifying mirror. You will frighten yourself silly. Just make a waxing appointment – it’s easier on the psyche.
Lastly, use the purse compact judiciously. Mirrors that small are ok for looking at portions of your face, like your lips, for instance, or a lone freckle. Holding it at arms length to get a full face view tends not to be pretty.
Then again, it could just be the lighting.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
TMI
Remember when there was such a thing as “polite” conversation? When people didn’t talk openly about bodily functions, extramarital liaisons, personal fetishes or unseemly addictions?
I miss those days.
I’m not superficial. I relish heart-to-heart conversations with good friends, and thanks to months of counseling, consider myself to be pretty “authentic.” I’ve worked hard to be real, transparent, approachable. Hey, my life is chronicled in a blog. But unless you are my doctor, I’m pretty sure there’s no reason you need to know what’s going on with me “down there.” If you are not my pastor, I will not be discussing my questionable late night Internet habits with you. And if you are not my husband, the specifics of what brings me to the brink are none of your business.
Apparently, not everyone feels this way. There are in fact a whole lot of people who think that when I ask how they are, I REALLY want to know. As in:
“Hey how’s it going?”
“Crappy. My husband left me for another woman, the slut. Now he won’t even pay child support. The kid’s are angry and think it’s my fault because I gained so much weight.”
Alrighty then.
Or
“Hey welcome back! How was the honeymoon?”
“Great! You know I never had an orgasm during intercourse before so I didn’t know if I could. But boy was I wrong! It was fantastic!”
Okie dokie.
Or
“How was your visit to the spa?”
“Good until after the Brazilian bikini wax –I always go Brazilian you know. Anyhow, I got an ingrown hair and man does it hurt. Have you ever heard of that?”
Can’t say that I have.
It could be argued that at least among good friends, sharing the intimate details of one’s life indicates a certain amount of bonding and trust. But casual conversation should not rival truth or dare drinking games when it comes to being candid. So the question is: when does sharing your life cross over into showing your behind? Translated: exposing waaaay too much of your personal bid-nez.
Here’s the distinction: Heartfelt communication is typically unrehearsed (meaning you haven’t said it a dozen times before and then paused to wait for a reaction). And it isn’t manipulative – it isn’t secretly attempting to elicit pity, shock, envy, or disgust. TMI, on the other hand, paints a picture in the listener’s head that proves nearly impossible to erase, even after several hot showers.
As a person who blogs about menopause, I realize the soapbox I’m on leads to a slippery slope. There is something about aging that makes you just want to share the experience with others.
A few weeks ago, my mom and I were shopping for a new mattress and the salesman was trying to get mom to buy a waterproof mattress pad. I immediately piped up, “No she doesn’t want that. They are way too hot with all that vinyl underneath.”
The salesman went on the defense and claimed the mattress pad was not hot, that no one had ever complained it was hot, and that it was specifically manufactured not to be hot.
I glared at him, the beginnings of a hot flash creeping up my neck, and snarled “Obviously the people making vinyl mattress pads are not sweaty, menopausal women.” Snap!
The poor guy actually blushed and went to busy himself with some pillows that suddenly needed restacking.
So I got the last word but broke my own rule in the process. Right then and there I made a mental note to stop using the “M” card in public. Unless I’m with very close friends of a certain age who actually want to discuss how many months it’s been since Aunt Flo showed up, I’m keeping my estrogen-challenged lips sealed.
But that's probably TMI.
I miss those days.
I’m not superficial. I relish heart-to-heart conversations with good friends, and thanks to months of counseling, consider myself to be pretty “authentic.” I’ve worked hard to be real, transparent, approachable. Hey, my life is chronicled in a blog. But unless you are my doctor, I’m pretty sure there’s no reason you need to know what’s going on with me “down there.” If you are not my pastor, I will not be discussing my questionable late night Internet habits with you. And if you are not my husband, the specifics of what brings me to the brink are none of your business.
Apparently, not everyone feels this way. There are in fact a whole lot of people who think that when I ask how they are, I REALLY want to know. As in:
“Hey how’s it going?”
“Crappy. My husband left me for another woman, the slut. Now he won’t even pay child support. The kid’s are angry and think it’s my fault because I gained so much weight.”
Alrighty then.
Or
“Hey welcome back! How was the honeymoon?”
“Great! You know I never had an orgasm during intercourse before so I didn’t know if I could. But boy was I wrong! It was fantastic!”
Okie dokie.
Or
“How was your visit to the spa?”
“Good until after the Brazilian bikini wax –I always go Brazilian you know. Anyhow, I got an ingrown hair and man does it hurt. Have you ever heard of that?”
Can’t say that I have.
It could be argued that at least among good friends, sharing the intimate details of one’s life indicates a certain amount of bonding and trust. But casual conversation should not rival truth or dare drinking games when it comes to being candid. So the question is: when does sharing your life cross over into showing your behind? Translated: exposing waaaay too much of your personal bid-nez.
Here’s the distinction: Heartfelt communication is typically unrehearsed (meaning you haven’t said it a dozen times before and then paused to wait for a reaction). And it isn’t manipulative – it isn’t secretly attempting to elicit pity, shock, envy, or disgust. TMI, on the other hand, paints a picture in the listener’s head that proves nearly impossible to erase, even after several hot showers.
As a person who blogs about menopause, I realize the soapbox I’m on leads to a slippery slope. There is something about aging that makes you just want to share the experience with others.
A few weeks ago, my mom and I were shopping for a new mattress and the salesman was trying to get mom to buy a waterproof mattress pad. I immediately piped up, “No she doesn’t want that. They are way too hot with all that vinyl underneath.”
The salesman went on the defense and claimed the mattress pad was not hot, that no one had ever complained it was hot, and that it was specifically manufactured not to be hot.
I glared at him, the beginnings of a hot flash creeping up my neck, and snarled “Obviously the people making vinyl mattress pads are not sweaty, menopausal women.” Snap!
The poor guy actually blushed and went to busy himself with some pillows that suddenly needed restacking.
So I got the last word but broke my own rule in the process. Right then and there I made a mental note to stop using the “M” card in public. Unless I’m with very close friends of a certain age who actually want to discuss how many months it’s been since Aunt Flo showed up, I’m keeping my estrogen-challenged lips sealed.
But that's probably TMI.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Junk in theTrunk
I work as a marketing writer and many of my clients are plastic surgeons. Recently I had the pleasure of researching a new procedure that claims to “improve your rear view.” Intrigued (who doesn’t want to look better in their True Religions?) I read on. But this was not a nice little nip and tuck to make your butt look leaner, meaner, tighter or cuter. This was a popular form of plastic surgery to make your butt bigger. Bigger.
Excuse me?
The procedure is called the “Brazilian Butt Lift” (because ample posteriors are apparently greatly admired in Brazil) and to perform it, the doctor takes fat from elsewhere in your body so that it can be repurposed and injected into your tush. Oh, and the cost of adding a bit more junk to your trunk? Just under four grand. Right. Cuz I know when I get dressed in the morning I often think “Wow, if I had four thousand dollars lying around l’d run right out and get myself a little Ba-donk-a-donk!”
I come from a culture that places a high premium on generous hindquarters. We write songs about them, make videos and movies about them, and squeeze them into too-tight pants at every opportunity. Since I only dated black guys until I was well into my twenties, the fact that I have a “bubble butt” was always considered an asset (pun intended). Still, when it came to body types, I always wished for the opposite of what I had, thinking long legs, boyish hips and big boobs were the ideal. My petite curves made me self conscious, and left me always battling the fear that I was just a little too plump. I remember one guy I dated attempting to pay me a compliment by offering an affectionate swat and exclaiming “Damn girl, you’re really packing some hams!”
I took up jogging shortly after kicking him to the curb in hopes of trimming some slices off those hams. That remark, along with hundreds of others that preceded it (jokes about “Trudie Booty” followed me well into adulthood) made me long for a flatter fanny.
So that leaves me wondering. Who are these women who are paying big bucks for a bigger butt? My inside informants in the plastic surgery industry tell me it’s women of all backgrounds, mostly in their 20s and 30s, some single, some married, some moms. What, nobody over 40? Now there’s a surprise.
So maybe it’s just a generational thing, a byproduct of now ubiquitous thong underwear, Victoria Secret catalogs, J-lo, Shakira and the ever-bootylicious Beyonce. My generation, we avoid dressing room three-way mirrors, put on robes before walking away from the bed nude, don sarongs for a beachside stroll, and will spend half a paycheck on a perfect pair of black pants that seem to diminish our derrieres.
One thing’s for sure, beauty trends fluctuate more than my hormone levels. Straight hair, skinny jeans, chunky jewelry, big butts – in one day, out the next. Regardless, from where I sit, when you ask a girlfriend “Does this make my butt look big?” the answer you are praying for is not now, not ever, an enthusiastic “yes!”
Excuse me?
The procedure is called the “Brazilian Butt Lift” (because ample posteriors are apparently greatly admired in Brazil) and to perform it, the doctor takes fat from elsewhere in your body so that it can be repurposed and injected into your tush. Oh, and the cost of adding a bit more junk to your trunk? Just under four grand. Right. Cuz I know when I get dressed in the morning I often think “Wow, if I had four thousand dollars lying around l’d run right out and get myself a little Ba-donk-a-donk!”
I come from a culture that places a high premium on generous hindquarters. We write songs about them, make videos and movies about them, and squeeze them into too-tight pants at every opportunity. Since I only dated black guys until I was well into my twenties, the fact that I have a “bubble butt” was always considered an asset (pun intended). Still, when it came to body types, I always wished for the opposite of what I had, thinking long legs, boyish hips and big boobs were the ideal. My petite curves made me self conscious, and left me always battling the fear that I was just a little too plump. I remember one guy I dated attempting to pay me a compliment by offering an affectionate swat and exclaiming “Damn girl, you’re really packing some hams!”
I took up jogging shortly after kicking him to the curb in hopes of trimming some slices off those hams. That remark, along with hundreds of others that preceded it (jokes about “Trudie Booty” followed me well into adulthood) made me long for a flatter fanny.
So that leaves me wondering. Who are these women who are paying big bucks for a bigger butt? My inside informants in the plastic surgery industry tell me it’s women of all backgrounds, mostly in their 20s and 30s, some single, some married, some moms. What, nobody over 40? Now there’s a surprise.
So maybe it’s just a generational thing, a byproduct of now ubiquitous thong underwear, Victoria Secret catalogs, J-lo, Shakira and the ever-bootylicious Beyonce. My generation, we avoid dressing room three-way mirrors, put on robes before walking away from the bed nude, don sarongs for a beachside stroll, and will spend half a paycheck on a perfect pair of black pants that seem to diminish our derrieres.
One thing’s for sure, beauty trends fluctuate more than my hormone levels. Straight hair, skinny jeans, chunky jewelry, big butts – in one day, out the next. Regardless, from where I sit, when you ask a girlfriend “Does this make my butt look big?” the answer you are praying for is not now, not ever, an enthusiastic “yes!”
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Don’t cha wish your mom was cool like me?
“You’re waaaay to old to be listening to Miley Cyrus mom. Seriously, you need to stop. It’s not cool.”
I turned from the video I was glued to on You Tube and for once my son’s sarcasm left me speechless. All the possible responses like “Hey it’s a free country!” or “What’s it to you?” seemed hopelessly lame. Besides, at least on the surface, my son is right. At 49 I am decades past the age when I could justify downloading Miley. Sadly, the hours of Radio Disney my daughter listens to in the car have infiltrated my subconscious and hijacked what remained of my musical taste. Which is why I walk around the house humming silly little ditties like “Party in the U.S.A.” by Cyrus, and “Crush” by David Archuleta. It was only a matter of time before they made their way onto my iPod. Wasn’t it?
But let’s digress, shall we? My unabashed enjoyment of what used to be called “bubblegum pop” might have something to do with my own adolescence. I was not a cool kid – short, shy, frizzy hair, too black to be white, too white to be black. An A-student and sheltered only child, I hung with what others probably called the nerds until around 9th grade when I suddenly developed, lopped off my girlish pony tail and invested in shiny platform Candies, tight Dittos jeans and cropped halter tops. This earned me a tenuous spot on the fringe of the in crowd where I almost blended in, but for my ineptitude when it came to music. I never seemed clued in to what was popular until way after the fact.
I remember one conversation (amazing you can recall particular humiliations as far back as age 14) where an especially cool girl said to a group of equally cool girls (and me) how much she liked Bette Midler. Me, wanting to fit in piped up, “Oh I LOVE Beth Midler!” The cool girls turned their collective heads to shoot me daggers of disdain, as the ringleader sneered, “It’s BETTE Midler,” before tossing her hair and effectively dismissing me.
Although I can tell that story like it happened last week, I am completely over the trauma of it. Really. I consider myself popular enough, thin enough and most days competent enough to pass muster, so I’m not out there still trying to fit in or be cool. Plus I rocked my black dress at my 30-year high school reunion, so it really is all good.
But am I chasing lost youth by listening to songs written for and/or by pre-teen girls? Upon reflection (because as a mom blogger it’s what I spend a lot of my time doing) I don’t really think so. The fact that I know all the lyrics to every Taylor Swift song notwithstanding, I remain unconvinced that occasionally grooving to teeny bopper top tens veers me towards the edge of a mid-life crises. These frothy, pointless songs just make me feel good. They tempt me to lock my bedroom door and sing along with my hairbrush. They help me to stop taking myself so seriously.
So the next time my son accuses me of being too old for my playlist, I’m going to smile and answer him with a loud, off-key chorus by teen queen Selena Gomez: “Tell me, tell me, tell me something I don’t know, something I don’t know, something I don’t know!”
Tune in for my next post, “How to annoy and embarrass a pre-teen boy without really trying.”
I turned from the video I was glued to on You Tube and for once my son’s sarcasm left me speechless. All the possible responses like “Hey it’s a free country!” or “What’s it to you?” seemed hopelessly lame. Besides, at least on the surface, my son is right. At 49 I am decades past the age when I could justify downloading Miley. Sadly, the hours of Radio Disney my daughter listens to in the car have infiltrated my subconscious and hijacked what remained of my musical taste. Which is why I walk around the house humming silly little ditties like “Party in the U.S.A.” by Cyrus, and “Crush” by David Archuleta. It was only a matter of time before they made their way onto my iPod. Wasn’t it?
But let’s digress, shall we? My unabashed enjoyment of what used to be called “bubblegum pop” might have something to do with my own adolescence. I was not a cool kid – short, shy, frizzy hair, too black to be white, too white to be black. An A-student and sheltered only child, I hung with what others probably called the nerds until around 9th grade when I suddenly developed, lopped off my girlish pony tail and invested in shiny platform Candies, tight Dittos jeans and cropped halter tops. This earned me a tenuous spot on the fringe of the in crowd where I almost blended in, but for my ineptitude when it came to music. I never seemed clued in to what was popular until way after the fact.
I remember one conversation (amazing you can recall particular humiliations as far back as age 14) where an especially cool girl said to a group of equally cool girls (and me) how much she liked Bette Midler. Me, wanting to fit in piped up, “Oh I LOVE Beth Midler!” The cool girls turned their collective heads to shoot me daggers of disdain, as the ringleader sneered, “It’s BETTE Midler,” before tossing her hair and effectively dismissing me.
Although I can tell that story like it happened last week, I am completely over the trauma of it. Really. I consider myself popular enough, thin enough and most days competent enough to pass muster, so I’m not out there still trying to fit in or be cool. Plus I rocked my black dress at my 30-year high school reunion, so it really is all good.
But am I chasing lost youth by listening to songs written for and/or by pre-teen girls? Upon reflection (because as a mom blogger it’s what I spend a lot of my time doing) I don’t really think so. The fact that I know all the lyrics to every Taylor Swift song notwithstanding, I remain unconvinced that occasionally grooving to teeny bopper top tens veers me towards the edge of a mid-life crises. These frothy, pointless songs just make me feel good. They tempt me to lock my bedroom door and sing along with my hairbrush. They help me to stop taking myself so seriously.
So the next time my son accuses me of being too old for my playlist, I’m going to smile and answer him with a loud, off-key chorus by teen queen Selena Gomez: “Tell me, tell me, tell me something I don’t know, something I don’t know, something I don’t know!”
Tune in for my next post, “How to annoy and embarrass a pre-teen boy without really trying.”
Thursday, September 17, 2009
A Little Respect
Mothers tend to set the civility standard in the home, teaching children about table manners, acceptable social skills and the need to respect their elders. We navigate the sassy years, the rebellious years and the defiant years, believing that with any luck, the values we’ve instilled in our offspring will take root and bear fruit. We hope to raise children who engage in heated discussions without becoming boorish, who listen attentively to teachers, professors and eventually bosses, even if they disagree with them. Children (and later adults), who respect those in positions of authority.
Truth be told, any of us would be mortified if one of our children shouted out the words “You lie!” to a teacher during a classroom discussion. And yet we find ourselves at a chapter in our country’s history where this kind of outburst is considered defensible by some, under the umbrella of free speech.
This is not a political commentary so don’t start drafting rebuttals to what you think I’m about to say. I’m simply wondering how, as adults, we have managed to set such low standards in terms of what is and is not acceptable behavior, standards we are modeling for our children, our youth, and the rest of the world. The South Carolina congressman’s blatant display of disrespect for our nation’s highest office, in my opinion, is representative of the gradual yet steady erosion of etiquette standards we formerly held dear, things we used to teach our kindergartners: Don’t interrupt when someone is speaking. Show consideration for others. Be courteous. To me, respecting others even in the face of huge ideological differences is essential if we are ever going to move forward as a nation, as families, or as individuals. To refuse is to behave like the red-faced toddler who jams his fingers in his ears and shouts “La! La! La! I can’t hear you!” because he doesn’t like what you are about to say.
In one of my recent blogs, I shared my own failings when it comes to losing my temper. I too have been given to angry tirades, ususally directed at my children, and have been publicly contrite about my admittedly bad behavior. When I looked at the replay of Joe Wilson flying into a rage and heckling the president of the United States on national T.V., I felt embarrassed. Later I was saddened and angered when I heard various talk radio personalities practically high-fiving each other as they discussed the outburst. One particular pundit was ecstatic that someone finally had the guts to “speak their mind.”
The following day I sat down and talked to my children about what happened. My son, who just started middle school, is hyper-aware of disciplinary consequences for breaking rules, and immediately wanted to know if the man who insulted the president would be punished. “Can the president fire him? Will he go to jail?” he asked. I told him I thought the main consequence for Mr. Wilson was a high degree of shame and embarrassment. Like the kind I felt the last time I yelled at my kids in public.
So I guess my question is: When did we all become so angry that we have lost all measure of self control? And again, I don’t mean just politically – I think what’s happening in that arena is symbolic of a greater national virus more insidious than any flu pandemic. We rage at store clerks who service us too slowly; hold wait staff in contempt if our order is served up wrong; think murderous thoughts towards drivers who dare to merge in front of us; and scream at teachers and coaches who constructively criticize our kids. We judge and demean those with different religious beliefs and sexual orientations than our own, and are puzzled when they don’t see things our way. Are they blind? Deceived? Stupid? Or is it possible that as we point our fingers in judgment, we really do, as the Scripture suggests, judge ourselves accordingly.
As a suburban working mom, I’m not likely to solve the world’s ills any time soon. But I do want to give a call out to my fellow members of the “motherhood sisterhood” to remind us all that we remain among the most influential members of a society for whom manners and social decorum have become optional. Our voices ring loud and true because they have the ability to shape the next generation’s views and behaviors. So let’s take a stand. Let’s decide not to raise kids who use shout-each-other-down tactics to make a point, who slander those with differing beliefs or lifestyle choices, or who demonstrate disdain for authority figures.
We begin by modeling good behavior. By treating our children and those around us with respect. By practicing the very things we preach.
Truth be told, any of us would be mortified if one of our children shouted out the words “You lie!” to a teacher during a classroom discussion. And yet we find ourselves at a chapter in our country’s history where this kind of outburst is considered defensible by some, under the umbrella of free speech.
This is not a political commentary so don’t start drafting rebuttals to what you think I’m about to say. I’m simply wondering how, as adults, we have managed to set such low standards in terms of what is and is not acceptable behavior, standards we are modeling for our children, our youth, and the rest of the world. The South Carolina congressman’s blatant display of disrespect for our nation’s highest office, in my opinion, is representative of the gradual yet steady erosion of etiquette standards we formerly held dear, things we used to teach our kindergartners: Don’t interrupt when someone is speaking. Show consideration for others. Be courteous. To me, respecting others even in the face of huge ideological differences is essential if we are ever going to move forward as a nation, as families, or as individuals. To refuse is to behave like the red-faced toddler who jams his fingers in his ears and shouts “La! La! La! I can’t hear you!” because he doesn’t like what you are about to say.
In one of my recent blogs, I shared my own failings when it comes to losing my temper. I too have been given to angry tirades, ususally directed at my children, and have been publicly contrite about my admittedly bad behavior. When I looked at the replay of Joe Wilson flying into a rage and heckling the president of the United States on national T.V., I felt embarrassed. Later I was saddened and angered when I heard various talk radio personalities practically high-fiving each other as they discussed the outburst. One particular pundit was ecstatic that someone finally had the guts to “speak their mind.”
The following day I sat down and talked to my children about what happened. My son, who just started middle school, is hyper-aware of disciplinary consequences for breaking rules, and immediately wanted to know if the man who insulted the president would be punished. “Can the president fire him? Will he go to jail?” he asked. I told him I thought the main consequence for Mr. Wilson was a high degree of shame and embarrassment. Like the kind I felt the last time I yelled at my kids in public.
So I guess my question is: When did we all become so angry that we have lost all measure of self control? And again, I don’t mean just politically – I think what’s happening in that arena is symbolic of a greater national virus more insidious than any flu pandemic. We rage at store clerks who service us too slowly; hold wait staff in contempt if our order is served up wrong; think murderous thoughts towards drivers who dare to merge in front of us; and scream at teachers and coaches who constructively criticize our kids. We judge and demean those with different religious beliefs and sexual orientations than our own, and are puzzled when they don’t see things our way. Are they blind? Deceived? Stupid? Or is it possible that as we point our fingers in judgment, we really do, as the Scripture suggests, judge ourselves accordingly.
As a suburban working mom, I’m not likely to solve the world’s ills any time soon. But I do want to give a call out to my fellow members of the “motherhood sisterhood” to remind us all that we remain among the most influential members of a society for whom manners and social decorum have become optional. Our voices ring loud and true because they have the ability to shape the next generation’s views and behaviors. So let’s take a stand. Let’s decide not to raise kids who use shout-each-other-down tactics to make a point, who slander those with differing beliefs or lifestyle choices, or who demonstrate disdain for authority figures.
We begin by modeling good behavior. By treating our children and those around us with respect. By practicing the very things we preach.
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