Sunday, June 2, 2013

Don't Be THAT Girl

 
“I always tell my daughters—Don’t be THAT girl. Don’t be that stupid girl who gets into the car with a stranger, takes a drink from someone you don’t know, walks down a deserted street…DON’T BE THAT GIRL—You Hear Me?!” My co-worker relates her maternal warning to me and The Beast. We are both quaking.

But that is how you feel as a mom—you see news reports, photos on milk cartons, stories in local papers about a girl…a nice girl, who was probably just being polite, not thinking and there she is…gone. Just the shattered family left behind. How could she have been so stupid, what was she thinking? But that is the thing—girls are taught to be nice and it is so easy not to think when you already know how to be polite.

The other day I was driving The Beast and her friend, The Bulldozer, into the city for a YouTube concert thang that I will not even pretend to understand and I was giving my pre-subway lecture for the benefit of The Bulldozer. " Don’t stare, if there is trouble in the car or some creepy guy—change cars. If someone actually bothers you—call out loud and clear: NO, Leave Me Alone! and New Yorkers will respond and help."

Thanks to my co-worker The Beast and I now just a code phrase to avoid the long lecture—"Don’t Be THAT Girl."  And I pray when the smooth talking guy pulls up in his car or a cute boy offers a drink or the short cut down the deserted street beckons that the fear of Being THAT Girl will overpower all other thoughts.

Saturday, May 25, 2013

"I Want a Divorce!"

“Shhhh!” I said to my friend who had called in a tizzy after a fight with her husband. “Never give them hope. If you mention divorce they see a light at the end of the tunnel. Just tell him that you want to go to couples therapy. Because, really, what is worse for a man than talking to his wife about his feelings…that’s right—adding a third-party.”

She was unconvinced, but then I reminded her about how difficult it is to move and who would lift the heavy boxes. “Let’s not go crazy. It is a tight real estate market again just try it--mention therapy, wait for the look of horror and then disgust to cross his face when it finally dawns on him that you mean he HAS TO GO TOO, then open a bottle of wine and see how responsive and nice he is.“

I hear her breathing calm… “I tell you—Therapy REALLY does work.”

Sunday, July 29, 2012

College Crazy

“Your life will be completely taken over by this one obsession.” The deep, dark voice of doom echoes across the small wood table as I sit down to the lunch special at the sunny and cheerful local Chinese restaurant on the Upper Westside. He continues with in a heavy Boston accent; “Every minute will be consumed by the quest of finding the right college, strategies to get in, and then creative financing to pay for the stupid school.”
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The possessed man who sit across the table from me was, at one time, a happy-go-lucky guy whose only concerns were NYC real estate and art. He is another friend who is part of the One Perfect Daughter Club. His strikingly beautiful, blue eyed, blond haired daughter was adopted from Texas. The little troll of a man with his piercing dark eyes and leprechaun beard said—“yes, yes—we tried to play the race card because, you know, my wife is Cuban, but the kid looks like some corn-feed cheerleader from one of those square states.” He said with real disappointment in his voice.
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“Yeah…that beauty is a real millstone around the neck--if only she looked like you, she might have been awarded the Lord of Rings scholarship.” I said in an attempt to cheer him up that was unsuccessful.
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Another friend tells a tale of college admission intrigue….
“I don’t care what else you write” she said to her son” —you just better get in there that you have two mommies. The admissions people will overlook the fact your parents’ names are Suzy and Betsy—so write about it and make it good. “ said my friend as she related the story of prepping her son to write his college essay.
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Apparently it is not until you are in the mix do you really get caught up in. Mr. Troll, I thought, would never get involved in something as trivial as college selection, but low and behold—he talked of high school summer programs leading up to the college applications, special trips to Cuban for that fruitless race card…and all the other strategies that the REALLY “crazy” parents were trying. And you have got to wonder—is all worth it?
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Although I live in a town where many parents have been thoughtfully building a clear trajectory for their children from preschool to Harvard—we, of course, have not. We want our child to be successful in life, but what is success? If the path to a successful adulthood leaves out childhood— what is the point?
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As The Beast approaches college age her interests are varied—writing, world history, international travel, online design communities, Japanese anime, Chinese language, music, cooking…to be honest…we are not even really sure anymore—we can only hope her eclectic interests point her in the direct of a college that is ideal for HER….with lots and lots of scholarship money.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Texting and Boyfriends



“Do you read my text messages?” The Beast asked feigning nonchalance, but I could tell there was anger behind the question.

“Sweetheart, I can’t even manage to go on the school’s Parent Portal to check whether or not you handed in homework. I am not even sure if I can turn on your phone.”

“You can’t” she said triumphantly “It is locked” and then added with pride—“with a very difficult password.”
The Beast is just like her father—smart and annoying with all things electronic. I, on the other hand, would still be using a rotary phone if I could find one anywhere.

Not sure what started this line of questions...so I decided to asked one of my own: “Should I be reading your text messages? Is there something I should know, but you don’t want to tell me?” I tried to sound concerned, but not panicky—the way I really felt.

“Zoe’s mother read her text messages and found out she was dating Craig and she told Zoe she had to break-up because she was too young to date.”

“Really? Did Zoe break-up with Craig?!” I said—intrigued by the power.

“Of course she did.” My daughter said—with anger clearly in her voice. “ Her mother said she had to.”

“Interesting.” I said. “would you break-up with someone if I told you to? Even if you felt I was wrong?” trying to gauge just how much power I had without knowing it.

The Beast looked straight ahead through the windshield as we passed the strip malls and the odd accountant offices on our way to the orthodontist’s office—not saying yes or no. The husband and I raised a polite and honest, but hard-headed child so I did not expect an answer.

It is strange about our car conversations when we go to the dentist—it is just far enough away from our house to provide the beginning of the a good story, but never quite long enough to get full satisfaction. We pulled into the parking lot and, of course, we were late and the conversation could not be rekindled.

But I guess these are the questions:
How much can you dictate your child’s life?
Why didn’t Zoe ’s mother know she was dating someone before her stealth text reading?
What works better--an iron grip or constantly reminding them—that we love them and want them to be safe.

So I said to The Beast on the way home. “ I want to tell you ‘ No drugs, no sex, no alcohol’, but these are things I can’t stop you from doing…I can only hope (to quote Ms. Churchlady) that you make good choices.”

I have mixed feelings about the whole texting scandal…I am not sure if I am more angry at—Zoe’s mom for reading her daughter’s texts or for Zoe for blindly obeying her mother. Does she not know that “Good Girls Seldom Make History.”

Sunday, September 11, 2011

The Ethan Allen Houses



Six pairs of gnome eyes stare at me from my desk…the gnomes are refugees from daughter’s room as we tear apart walls and paint. They mix well with the silk screened poster of a horse in vibrant primary colors (a gift for my daughter on her birth), the Native American “courage” fetish (my sister gave me that when I started a new job so many years ago), the big pink H (brought back by The Beast and the Husband from their visit to the Sesame Street backstage over a decade ago) and the cup from Lithographers’ Union (scored at Housing Works Thrift Shop in NYC). These tokens of my past and present are mixed in with my old philosophy books, poetry collections and theater of the absurd books that my father passed down to me. This is one small corner of our house. But everything in our house is a memory and also a reflection of who we are…who we were…who we want to be.

Like my childhood home, we live in a busy, messy house which constantly annoys The Husband. We do not live in an Ethan Allen Showroom House. Sometimes when I pick up The Beast from a random birthday party at a McMansion development and I am forced to enter these showroom style homes. Here, where every bit of personality has been scrubbed from living spaces, I desperately search for information about the parents. I look for books, travel souvenirs, hobbies, interests, yet there is nothing to help me.

Walking past the matching wing chairs that flank the seemingly never used fireplace and into the perfect kitchen which makes me clandestinely look for Alice from the Brady Bunch—I wait for The Beast to collect her things from the basement “family room” after a sleep-over. I smile at the flawlessly coiffed mom in leisure attire. She is holding a small dog that is so perfectly groomed he looks like a plush toy come to life. I think—drugs would make this experience truly enjoyable or, maybe, scarier. I wait for the commercial to start, because for a second I think I am transported to a commercial for a cleaning product when suddenly I remember—“oh that is right—this IS reality. “ I continue to search for clues about who these people are or what they do or what they are interested in…a photo of a vacation, a memento of an event, signs of interest in cooking, music, art so I can strike up a conversation….but there is nothing but clean. I finally sink back into the alternate commercial reality and I know my lines…“How do you keep the white rug by the fire place so clean?”

Sometimes when life is surreal—you just have to go with the flow and wait patiently until the commercial ends.