On a Scale from 1 to 10

It was Friday evening when this email showed up in my inbox:

It's okay to rate them if they're famous.

Dear Parent of the Class of 2019:

Last evening I was made aware of a posting on a googledocs spreadsheet being circulated among students in the ninth grade.  The author(s) of the spreadsheet have rated and ranked members of the freshman class in a manner that objectifies female students and may be viewed as a form of sexual harassment.

I have interviewed several students today in an attempt to determine the source of the posting and to do what I can to insure that that list does not exist on school district computers and is not continuing to be spread over technology for which we bear responsibility.  Our investigation leads us to believe the list appears on student phones, and not on district computers, and so we will need the help of parents to eradicate the list from the possession of students.

I have also referred the matter to the Nether Providence Police Department as a case involving possible sexual harassment.  Given that we cannot determine the source of the list, we are unable to issue school discipline in this matter at this point.  If we do identify the source, consequences would fall under our harassment policy, including police notification, school suspension, and parent notification.

Any parent with information regarding the list is asked to contact me via email or phone at your earliest convenience.  All parents are asked to speak with your student about the damaging personal consequences of misuse of social media and technology, the proper and respectful treatment of young females, and the potential legal consequences for those who engage in this type of behavior.

Thank you.

MaryJo Yannacone, Ed.D.
Principal

As the mother of a 9th grade girl, I had a number of reactions to this news:

1. Huh. Interesting.
2. Involving police and harassment charges seems a bit extreme.
3. Those boys are in a heap of shit.
4. I wonder how Abby did.
5. I better burn my 8th grade yearbook in which I "starred" the cute guys. If that gets out, I'll never be able to run for political office.

Frankly, that's about as much thought as I gave to the matter. Until the doorbell rang.

"Mom, apparently, one of the boys who made the list is going house to house to apologize to the girls. So if the doorbell rings..."

It rang, and there stood a tall, classically awkward teenage boy with his mom. He confessed to being one of the boys responsible and apologized for what he'd done. His mom noted that many lessons had been learned. When they left, Abby said, "I actually feel bad for him." And Brooke and Ian, who'd answered the door and then listened in from the kitchen, called it one of the most awkward things they'd ever experienced. I give the boy's mom two thumbs way up for handling it the way she did. All you hear of are parents who do everything they can to keep their kids from having to take responsibility for their actions, and here was this guy, facing 50 female classmates (they ranked the top 50) with his mom at his side. Bravo, mom. Bravo. I'd say the punishment fit the crime, but will the school agree? 

Based on the principal's letter, school suspension, police involvement and sexual harassment charges may be forthcoming. And, despite being the mom of a girl on the list (who was significantly under-ranked, by the way), I want to say, "Isn't that going a bit too far?"

Let's face it, we are hardwired to find each other attractive. It's what keeps the species alive. And males and females have been making these kinds of lists for decades, probably centuries. Somewhere I imagine there's a cave drawing with stick figures of various women ranked in order of attractiveness, hunter/gatherer ability, fertility, dinosaur escape skills, and fire making know-how. And I wasn't kidding about my yearbook. It may not have been 8th grade, but at some point I definitely placed stars next to the boys I thought were cute. I may have even given them scores. If a teen girl did that today and her yearbook was passed around and she was caught, would she risk the same punishment as these boys? Knowing our school district, she very likely would, which makes me sigh and shake my head a bit.

I get it, really, I do. For centuries women have been treated as nothing more than objects in a male-dominated society. It's cost us in innumerable ways--emotionally, mentally, physically, professionally, financially. And because we can't allow women to continue to be undervalued, there have to be repercussions for this type of behavior. But somewhere in this mistake lies one hell of a learning experience that I believe can be achieved without the involvement of our criminal justice system.

Yes, the behavior was wrong. It was wrong to come up with a list of categories on which to rate a grade's worth of 15 year-old girls. It was wrong to put the list online and make it available for input. It was wrong to hurt these girls by deciding their worth in physical terms. But, it is forgivable. And a boy who takes the time to apologize to each and every girl on this list deserves to be forgiven. Lesson learned. Let's leave it at that.

I Can Be Vanna!

I’m not the best barometer for sexism, probably because I have a number of shortcomings as a feminist. For example, I don’t have a problem with being “appreciated” for my physical features. This is partly due to the fact that, being in my mid-40s, I’ll take any compliment I can get, and also because, in the past, before I was married, I was known to acknowledge attractive male specimens.

So, if there’s a scale for feminism, with 1 being “you are an embarrassment to your gender” and 10 being “I refuse to even acknowledge that men and women have different body parts,” I’m a solid 5, or maybe a 6. My feminist beliefs include:

• Equal pay for equal work.
• Equal opportunities.*
• Equal respect and consideration. 
• All women should have the choice to do with their lives and bodies what they please.
• Mom doesn’t stay home and raise the kids because she’s the woman. If she stays home and raises the kids, it’s because she wants to. 
• Women around the world shouldn't be abused, bought and sold, subject to genital mutilation, or worse. Of course, no human being should be victimized in such unspeakable ways.
• History needs to acknowledge the contributions of women.
• Every woman is beautiful, and Barbie dolls shouldn’t be the standard we aspire to.
• No little girl should be told that she can’t do something "because she is just a girl."

Frankly, I would hope all women agree with those points.

On the other hand, I have some feelings that radical feminists (a broad term for which not all of these apply) might be displeased with, including:

• *Equal opportunity based on qualifications—don’t give me a job just because I’m a woman and you have to meet your quota (particularly true in the STEM fields). Give me a job because I deserve it. 
• A man complimenting you on your appearance is not despicable (unless he’s creepy and leering at you lasciviously; and/or he’s your boss or coworker and he acknowledges your legs and not your job performance).
• You can’t hate men for being men. 
• You can wear skirts and dresses and still believe in women’s rights.
• I’m not offended when God is referred to as “He.” 
• Women are no more superior to men then men are to women.
• Giving little girls dolls and dressing them in pink is not anti-feminist, as long as we’re also giving them Lincoln Logs and letting them wear whatever they want to when they’re old enough to dress themselves.

The point of all this is to say that I’m not one to quickly cry sexism at every perceived gender slight; therefore, when I say I was recently the victim of sexist behavior, I mean it.

Last week I attended a creativity and innovation workshop in which we formed teams and had to come up with a product or service, create a logo and prototype, and ultimately present to the rest of the group in a one-minute elevator pitch. I should add that I was one of only 3 women in a room filled with men, and the only woman on my team.

Appropriately, the category is "Around the House"

When it came time to present our idea—which I had proposed in the first place—one of my teammates strongly suggested, more than once, that I should be part of the presentation because “you’re a woman in a room full of men and you’ll get their attention.” To add insult to injury he then said, “You can be Vanna.”

Whew. For a minute there I thought he was going to actually encourage me to speak. Thankfully all he wanted was for me to hold the poster board and smile.

I’ve been asked how I reacted to this Neanderthal (who was in his 50s), and I’m ashamed to say I responded with nothing more than a “Ha.” Yes, I blew it. After the fact I thought of a number of appropriate comebacks, including:

• Too bad I didn’t wear my stilettos and a shorter skirt today. 
• After I play Vanna, can I get you a cool beverage and fawn over you?
• What decade is this? 
• No wonder more women don’t go into STEM careers if it’s filled with assholes like you. 

Women, I’d love to hear of your encounters with sexism, and men, I’d be interested to know if you think I’m overreacting, or if the guy really blew it. I should add that I don’t think he meant to offend; the problem is that he didn’t “think,” period. And that behavior is so ingrained in some men that they don’t even recognize that it’s wrong.

Share your stories, and suggest even better comebacks so if when it happens again, I won’t let the guy off the hook so easily.

Random Musings: Pre-Italy Edition

It's been awhile since I posted my random musings. Here's one for you: Why do women in public bathrooms (don't know if this applies to men) never choose a stall next to one that's occupied if there are others available? And speaking of bathrooms, the only upside to there being fewer women in engineering is that there's never a line for the ladies' room in my building.

I leave on Friday afternoon for a 10-day singing tour with the Strath Haven High School Silvertones (ST). I'm not singing; I'm chaperoning. I wish they'd let me sing. I'm still wondering if I'd make the group.

Yes, I chaperoned two years ago. First, someone has to do it; I'm taking one for the team. Second, my 16-year-old son is fine with me joining him/them. That alone means I have to go. How many teenagers are willing to have their parents go anywhere with them? And it's not just because he considers me a walking ATM. In fact, now that he's a working man I told him he has to provide his own spending money. Of course, this means I won't actually spend any time with him on this trip. But that's okay, too. I'm in it for the tours. As I've gotten older I've developed a strange passion for history. I actually get giddy when I learn something is hundreds or thousands of years old. It's the same reaction most women would have if they were told George Clooney was around the corner.

Did I tell you I've subscribed to National Geographic? I love it. I feel smart reading it. And if I don't feel like reading, I can always look at the pictures. The irony in my subscribing to National Geographic is that my grandfather ordered me subscriptions every year for my birthday when I was a kid and I didn't read a single issue. Threw them all away. Not too many kids are good candidates for that magazine. That's why they now offer the kids' edition. Still, I feel guilty.

Another reason to go to Italy? The wine. Did you know that prior to the previous trip I had never had a whole glass of red wine? And since returning I haven't had any either. There's something about red wine in Italy. It tastes better there. Kind of like mashed potatoes at my mom's house.

I also love Italian meats. This year I won't make the mistake of trying to bring them home in my suitcase. Or, I won't claim them on my official forms at the airport. I'm such a freakin' rule follower. Last time they took all my meat. The only thing I'd brought from Italy for my husband. I cried. Meat's expensive.

To prove to my son that going on this trip is not all about him, I have every intention of chaperoning again in 2017, when he'll be in (yikes!) college. This means I need Cornelia's son Alex, and/or Theresa's son AJ to make the group next year. Not for their own satisfaction, but for my own selfish travel purposes. It would be weird to chaperone if I didn't actually know any of the kids in the group. And I'm fully expecting Cornelia and/or Theresa to accompany me. Girls' week in Italy. Woo hoo!

This year I have a bit of anxiety about the trip for a couple reasons. One, there have been recurrent issues with paying for it. It went something like this:

1. I sent an electronic check through my online bank. 
2. Check was apparently lost in the maze of school district offices.
3. Check was found and sent to ST director.
4. ST director misplaced check. 
5. ST director calls me; I stop check; incur $25 charge from my bank.
6. Write new check; hand delivered to director.
7. Receive text from director weeks later noting that my check did not clear.
8. I go ape shit, insisting that I'm loaded with money; no way check bounced.
9. Turns out mystery person in school district tried to deposit rediscovered original check.
10. It's declined; school district charged fee.
11. New check was cashed, but school district account shows negative balance. 
12. Not my problem.

This might be a sign that I should not go on this trip. If I don't make it home alive, let's just say "I knew it."

Second concern: Roommate situation. For months leading up to the trip it looked like I was going to be the only female chaperone. A status I was quite happy with. I prefer to be the lone woman. It makes me feel powerful. But no, the director had to go and encourage others to join me. I don't really know the other ST moms, but there was only one I really didn't want to come with us. No particular reason other than that she's one of those moms who make us normal moms look bad. In other words, she's super attractive in a rock-n-roll kind of way. Great hair. Cool clothes. Way more hip than yours truly. So hip she probably knows the 2015 word for "hip." Then there's also the fact that her email and blog name are "I am Bossy." Personally, I'm more passive aggressive. 

Did I mention that her blog has tons of readers and gets bunches of comments? If you truly care about me you'll share a comment on this post, just to make me feel better about myself.

A third concern: My flat iron. At the time of the previous trip I had not yet discovered the magic of the flat iron. Of course my hair was short so I didn't need one. Now I need one, but I'm afraid if I use it I'll blow a fuse at the hotel, cutting  power to the whole place. Everything I read says you need a voltage adapter, and even then, hair dryers and the like are risky to use because of their voltage. Do I risk it or accept bad hair for 10 days? Keep in mind that my roommate has great hair. Long, blond, curly. If I come home with a k.d. lang cut, don't be surprised.

Finally, I've decided "Uptown Funk" is this decade's version of "Celebrate Good Times" by Kool & the Gang. I love Uptown Funk, but really hate Celebrate. Maybe I started out loving Celebrate, but they played it to death. Maybe I will one day hate Uptown Funk. 

The Risk of Dirty Roses

It's amazing how something that lasts only about three minutes can make me feel so dirty. One bad decision before 8 a.m. and for the rest of the day I'm wishing I could take another shower. You would think that feeling this way just once would be enough to teach me a lesson, but I'm ashamed to say that I continue to go back for more.

The temptation begins around 7:20 a.m. when I consider my arrival time in the parking lot at work. I know I'll be there before 7:40, but will it be 7:30 or 7:39? Those few minutes make all the difference. I'm not so far gone that I'm willing to wait for 10 minutes, but a minute or two is a different story. If the timing is right, I wait. The regret will come just minutes later.

I blame one of Rob's coworkers for turning me on to this cheap thrill.  He once told me his daughter is obsessed with War of the Roses on MIX 106.1 FM. It airs at 7:40 a.m. The premise is simple. An insecure man or woman has suspicions about their significant other. Rather than speak with the individual whom they purportedly love, they call a radio station to air their concerns. The morning show host Chio involves "Marie from Accounting" who calls the presumably unfaithful, pretending to be from a flower shop. Said flower shop is giving that individual a dozen long stemmed roses, the only hitch is that said individual cannot accept them him/herself, but rather must send them to someone special. If that someone special is not the suspicious partner listening online, well then Houston we have a problem. What follows is ugly. Screaming, crying, general nastiness, and most recently threats of bodily harm when a guy played this game to see if another guy was into his girl, which naturally he was, otherwise they wouldn't have bothered airing it.

I've learned a lot listening to this program:

1. There are entirely too many people in this world happy to air their dirty laundry for a couple minutes in the spotlight.
2. There are bunches of people who should not marry, and most definitely should not procreate.
3. There's something seriously wrong with those who listen to this shit. 
4. This is a great example of what happens when you hang out in the wrong neighborhood.

Just like the wrong crowd can lead you astray, apparently, so can the wrong radio station. Not only have I heard stories that involve cheap whore earrings and lip gloss found in the husband's toolbox, but I now know that Kim Kardashian and Amber Rose had a huge blow up on Twitter. Thank God for Mario Lopez or I'd never stay up to date with this stuff. And, did you know that this past weekend more than a dozen teenage Sudanese boys were kidnapped by a militant group while studying for school exams? It's obviously not that important because Mario didn't mention it. I stumbled upon this bit of news while skimming the paper. It was only a short paragraph in small type in the back of the national/international news section, so don't feel bad if you missed it. 

I confess that prior to this fall from grace, I'd felt pretty damn superior to the rest of America. I read "real" literature, I watch independent films, and my television program choices are, for the most part, respectable. (Although I watch America's Next Top Model, I do fast forward through the tawdry portions.)

So why this, why now? Perhaps it's nothing more than the same sick need we have to look at car wrecks, in which case God is responsible for messing up our hard wiring. Or maybe I listen to that relationship absurdity to feel downright giddy about the blissful state of my marriage. Whatever the cause, I know it's a habit I must break if I ever want to regain my place of superiority in our great nation of fools.

If you've personally experienced an unhealthy addiction such as this, please share your story. I hope it will be more disturbing than mine. That way I'll feel better about myself. But I promise I won't judge.

It's Greek Season. Rush. (Away)

Wow. It's been a whole month since I last wrote. It's nothing personal, I just haven't had much to say. And I've been whinier than usual, so I've done you a favor by not posting. Today, however, I have something "stuck in my craw" that I need to put out there, even at the risk of "wrankling" my Greek readers. And by Greek, I don't mean those whose last names end in "opolis." In this case I'm referring to those of you who were/are members of sororities or fraternities. I expect this post will be even less popular than the one in which I unintentionally offended women from the South.

For years I've considered writing on the topic of Greek life, but I just haven't taken the plunge. Yesterday, however, I read a piece in the Villanovan (the University student newspaper) that demands my response; even at the risk of wrankling some of you. The article "Sorority recruitment does not end in smiles for everyone" was written by a freshman who's been a sorority sister for all of one week. With memories of recruitment/rush still fresh in her mind, Deanna details a process she calls both "horrifying and exciting." She explains that rush requires every girl to attend nine 20-minute "rounds," one with each of the University's sororities--and then she describes the experience:

Lines of girls stood outside rooms of screaming sorority girls chanting songs about their chapters, wondering how they would be assessed once in the room and how they should act, if any different from themselves.

The rounds were exhausting, as I’m positive they were for the sororities as well. I like to consider myself a fairly social person, but I've never experienced a situation that called for so much social energy and effort in my life.

On the first day we all met two or three girls from each chapter and were expected to hold a conversation with them, about literally anything, for the full allotted time, without awkward silences. During each of these meetings all I could think about was “how is she judging me right now? The way I talk? My eye contact?” I’m still not sure I know.

By my final round I felt like a robot programmed for small talk and smiling—I was exhausted. And while that seemed like a lot of complaining, I did somehow have fun with many of the girls I met and I was happy to be able to meet so many of the faces I pass on campus every day. I didn't really know what to think when I “went to sleep” (stayed up all night re-living each conversation) on day one.

The writer goes on to report that she received a text the following morning at 4:30 a.m. telling her her schedule for day two. This is when you learn which chapters "dropped you." Deanna says, "If you thought your conversations went well, it’s difficult to not take the rejections personally." At the beginning of day two, she recalls the number of women she saw crying. By the end of that day, she was "seriously starting to wonder if recruitment was worth the social and emotional exhaustion." She continues:

I have to say, my wake-up text on the third day of rush was one of the worst rejections I’d ever felt. I now know that it was a blessing to have been dropped by the sororities that I was, but at the time I had no perspective, and I really just felt worthless. I know this isn't the intention of the sororities, and they “don’t want to drop any girl” but the reality is awful. And I didn't just feel sorry for myself. I felt horrible for my friends and even for strangers too. 

No woman should have to feel unwanted, but at the same time, how else would sorority recruitment work? 

Our writer says she couldn't be happier with where she ended up and she's glad that things worked out the way they did. She concludes, however, "I still look back on recruitment with negative memories, and I wish there was another way to do it. I think it may just be a necessary evil that some women won’t escape from with a smiling face. I know so many great women that fell through the cracks and I wish I could convince the sisters to go back on their decisions."

Wow. Where do I start?

My feelings about the Greek system have been firmly in place for 25 years, since I was a wee freshman myself. Deanna's honest evaluation of the sorority rush experience only adds to my conviction that this system is at best ludicrous, and at worst, cruel. Why any bright, personable college student would put themself through it is beyond my comprehension. And yet I have several friends who have nothing but great memories of their Greek experience. Even my husband is a former fraternity boy (though I'm not sure "former" ever applies to frat brothers).

I could go through Deanna's article line by line and comment on what I perceive to be madness, but I think I can sum it up by saying no one should voluntarily put themself in a position of being assessed/judged/evaluated unless there's a career move on the line. Don't we tell our kids, especially sensitive teenagers, to not let others determine their worth, to not let what others think or say bother them? I know that's a message I hope my kids hear, and yet, in just a few short years they may actually choose to have that very experience. And if selling yourself with fashion, a smile and small talk isn't enough, many of these groups will ask you to humiliate yourself and even risk your life to prove you have what it takes to be one of them. My husband would say it's about creating a bond, but I would say, "No thanks."

I understand that your first year in college is difficult. I know that making new friends isn't easy, and that there's something appealing about the idea of having a ready-made group of sisters or brothers to help you adjust. But no matter how hard I try, I just can't imagine allowing myself to be evaluated by my peers and waiting to hear whether I've impressed them enough that they want me to join them. Everyday in real life we're judged in some form or another; do I want to volunteer for a formalized version wherein I may be rejected not by one mean girl in high school, but by a couple dozen from different sisterhoods who are kind enough to turn me away by text message? I don't get it.

If all of that doesn't have you "rushing" for the hills, consider this:

Screaming sorority girls chanting songs about their chapters.

Enough said.

Has Anyone Seen My Mind? It Seems to Be Missing.

Have you ever wondered if you're losing your mind? I certainly have, and on more than one occasion. Last night being one of them. As I seriously consider the possibilities that this is happening to me, I find myself wondering if people who lose their minds actually realize it, or, does the fact that I'm asking mean that I'm not. And what does it mean to lose ones mind anyway?

On one hand I have real concerns that I'm headed for early onset dementia. Sure, everyone forgets what they walked into a certain room for, and forgotten names of folks you don't see that often is normal, but it's worse than that for me. I will completely blank on the names of people I'm close to. I  can't recall the title of that book, movie, or TV show to save my life (there goes my trivia game show dream). I remember dates and times wrong. My "brain farts" happen so frequently that I'm getting used to the smell.

Then there's the "crazy" side of losing ones mind. While I feel like my depression symptoms are, for the most part, under control, lately I'm wondering if I'm bipolar or just ridiculously moody. It's like my teenage and young adult years all over again. Come to think of it, I should call my college roommates to apologize. Anyway, last night I went from having a grand ole time with friends to walking a mile home at 11 p.m. because I was angry for no particularly good reason. (Though you'd think by now that husbands would know not to ask their wives, "What's your problem?" in that tone of voice. At least when the kids ask why I'm in a bad mood it's an innocent, albeit foolish, mistake.)

So what is my problem exactly? Well, that's the thing. Looking at the big picture, I have no problems. I have a job, a home, my health, my parents' health, my kids' health, a good great husband, and food for the table (when I actually go grocery shopping). But close up, everything is a problem. I have moments (they last no more than an hour, tops) where I try to be adult and not complain about life to my friends (whom I will be lucky to still call "friends" after my increasingly bad behavior), but ultimately I succumb to all the sh*t that's dragging me down:

Missed deadlines
Divorce news
Diagnoses
Family obligations
To do lists
Job searches
Aging
Cancer treatments
Parenting

Some of that has nothing to do with me personally. But it's affecting people I care about and that affects me. I'm well aware that this is the same sh*t that's dragging down nearly everyone I know, but it's just that I feel everything so much more acutely. I recently asked Rob if he thinks everyone experiences the world like I do (albeit without talking/blogging about it), and his immediate answer was "No." No thoughtful consideration required before responding. Isn't he the lucky one to have married me!

You're probably (hopefully) thinking that I'm normal and that this is life. You might say that every mom of a teenager goes through this crap, but I think it'd be so much easier if I didn't jump on the roller coaster with them. I can literally go from happy to bitch in 3.5 seconds. One minute I'll be dreaming of the day when the kids are out of the house and Rob and I can downsize and move somewhere warm and live happily ever after. The next minute I'm seriously doubting that I can stand even one more day together, listening to him pass gas breathe. The poor guy never knows who he's coming home to and a spouse can only be patient for so long. Hence, my walk home last night.

I realize that this post is probably better suited for my personal journal (yes, can you believe there are things I actually keep personal!), but these worries kept me tossing and turning last night and I guess I'm hoping someone will say that they get it, that they've been there, too.

That I'm not losing my mind.

Just a Cliche and a Decade Away from Being the It Girl

I am officially too old to ever again be an "It Girl." This painful realization hit me a couple of weeks ago when I learned of a much younger colleague's designation as the cat's meow, the cream of the crop, and the best thing since sliced bread. Okay, no one used those exact words, but the sentiment was communicated clearly enough.

While I will agree that this colleague is a terrific person and a hard working, competent and mature professional, I am not happy about all the chatter. My reasons for being envious concerned are completely rational:

1. If this individual were to learn that she is so highly regarded, the ego boost could make her very difficult to work with.
2. Those who think this individual is all that and a bag of chips may become blind to her weaknesses and willing to overlook her flaws.
3. For leadership to heap the majority of praise on one employee can have disastrous affects on the self-esteem of others who may feel the need to retaliate.

While, none of this applies to me personally because I don't compete work that closely with this individual, I have become aware that older women like myself are clearly being discriminated against when it comes to being the bees knees. Simply put, It Girl status can only be bestowed upon those under the age of 30. This is evidenced by the fact that business journals publish lists of the "Top Professionals Under Age 30," or "40 to Watch Under Age 40," but you never see anything for "Fantastic in their Fifties" or "Successful in their Sixties." The reality is that, once you turn 41, you're expected to be a performer. There's no special recognition. No talk in the break room about the new superstar. No grumbling about the girl who thinks she's "all that."

This is a hard reality for me to face because in my 20s and 30s, I was an It Girl. I worked hard to make sure I was bringing the very best to whatever position I held so that the bar would forever be set at "Kim level" and my replacements would always have very big shoes to fill. Gave everything 110%, never content with the merely the old college try. Raised my hand for every new job responsibility. Kissed butt ad nauseum. And for what? The same Wawa gift card everyone else received. And more responsibility at the same salary. It Girl status doesn't really pay off in the non-profit sector. Ah, hindsight. The point is that I enjoyed the heady feeling of knowing I was appreciated and recognized, and now I'm being forced to rely on my self-confidence to get me through the day. This is why middle-aged people turn to drinking and prescription drugs. They're much more accessible than self-esteem. 

In retrospect, I should have seen this coming several years ago when I noticed that I was no longer the youngest employee in my department or organization. I remember being truly shocked to discover that not only was Susie Q not older than me, but in fact, she was a good decade younger. Clearly I was am in denial of my advancing age, and this new performance-based "reality" is adding insult to injury.

In trying to decide how to handle this delicate situation, I can think of only a few options:

• Sabotage my colleague's work so her performance is of concern versus congratulations.
• Find ways to highlight my own work in such a way that it overshadows hers.
• Encourage her to find employment elsewhere and then recommend a clearly inferior individual to take her place.
• Find a new job in which I likely am the youngest employee. Maybe the library or the school cafeteria?
• Put on my big girl panties and deal with it.

I welcome your advice, really. I especially look forward to hearing from you if you've personally managed to maintain It Girl status into your 40s or 50s. I probably won't talk to you again, but I'm still eager to know how you did it. 

The #1 Challenge in Raising a Daughter

It's often said that it's easier to raise boys than girls. I guess that's true, though for me it's not about Abby herself, but rather her interaction with the world that makes having a daughter more challenging. I don't worry what people will think if Ian's shorts are too short. I'm not as concerned that someone will try to physically take advantage of Ian. I don't give much consideration as to whether Ian's "behavior" will cause people to talk, or whether others think he's a "bitch" for being smart, competitive and driven to succeed. These are real concerns for me with my daughter, however. And I would add to this list: society's definition of beauty.

No matter how confident we are, regardless of our level of self-esteem, at some point in our lives every single one of us has wondered whether we're good enough. I was at the pool this weekend, and as I walked the perimeter looking for an empty chair, I felt like I was on display. I was self-conscious about my less than perfectly toned thighs and I cursed the blemishes on my face. And when I found a chair and settled in, I looked at every other woman who walked by and tried to figure out whether I was more or less attractive than her. At the age of 13, I'm sure Abby already has compared herself to her peers, and if her self-confidence is what it should be, she's not concerned about how she measures up. But, unfortunately, someday she will be.

Though I stopped reading parenting books when the kids were little because they made me feel badly about my skills (the same reason I don't read Better Homes & Gardens, Self, or a single cooking magazine), the one thing I remember is that, as parents, the example we set is the number one influence on our children's lives. If we are committed to our faith, eating well and living a healthy lifestyle, our children are more likely to be similarly committed (maybe not as quickly as we'd like, but someday). If we demonstrate kindness, service to others and a strong work ethic, our children will likely do the same (or at least one of our children will pick up these traits). Naturally, the negatives apply here as well. If we put ourselves first in every way, judge others and allow ourselves to be consumed by bitterness and hate, we're raising kids who may do the same (unless they decide to be completely different because they are ashamed of us). If we have no use for reading and lifelong learning, exercising or spending money wisely, well, you get the picture. What I'm taking a long time to say is that a mom's self-image can have dramatic effects on her daughter(s). If I complain about my weight and my blemishes and I constantly compare myself to others, Abby may very likely follow suit. And let's face it, the last thing our daughters need is any help in feeling badly about themselves.

So why this topic now? Probably because I watched the whole season of American Idol and Jennifer Lopez is just depressing as hell at look at every week. And then there's Jennifer Aniston who reportedly wants to lose 10 pounds before her wedding, which is good news because her shape was starting to concern me. But then, on the opposite end of the spectrum, you have Aussie mom Tara Brumfitt who has embraced the "reverse progress body movement," showing off her rock solid body builder physique "before" and her soft, beautiful, mommy figure "after." With her daughter as her motivation, Tara's working on a documentary called Embrace. “How will I teach my daughter to love her body?” she wrote on her website. “How am I going to encourage her to accept and love her body, when I am standing in front of her with a surgically enhanced body? What type of hypocrite or mother would I be?”

I had a friend recently confess that she considered breast implants, but when she thought of the message it would send her daughter, she decided against it. This was in sharp contrast to another friend who offered her physically fit, athletic 12-year-old daughter a reward if she lost some weight.

I don't generally say much about my weight in front of Abby, but where I increasingly have expressed frustration and insecurity is with the appearance of my face. From first time fever blisters and recent breakouts that take weeks to clear, to those obvious fine lines above my lips and the dark circles under my eyes, I know I'm growing older and I feel considerably less attractive. And this is obvious to Abby because I recently bought stock in Mary Kay cosmetics and am having their makeup and skin care solutions shipped directly to our house by the palate.

I used to be an all-natural kind of girl like my mom, who never wore anything on her face except lipstick, But now I'm using special facial cleanser and zit cream. I bought foundation powder. And just last week, I asked my Mary Kay rep to stop by and give me a makeup lesson. She showed up with a case larger than most of my pieces of luggage, and tried to sell me everything under the sun. Rather than just covering those dark circles, I really need their special heavy duty eye cream. If my blemishes aren't clearing up with the treatment she sold me, then I may need to wash with another Mary Kay product. She showed me numerous combinations of eye shadow colors, and lipsticks that I could brighten with a separate purchase of gloss. She left with my order for mascara (waterproof, of course), eye shadow, eye liner and blush/bronzer, but what was most interesting about this sales call visit was the rep's interaction with Abby, who sat at the table and judged whether what I was being pitched actually made a difference.

The Mary Kay rep tried to hook Abby like a drug dealer. "Ooh, I bet you'll like this eye shadow." Nope. Abby doesn't wear eye shadow. "Oh, how about these great lip pencils." Nope. Abby doesn't wear lip color. "This gloss would be fun, right?" Abby explained that she prefers the EOS lip balm. Mission Failed. That's my girl. You don't need makeup, my dear. Your natural beauty is undeniable. I can only hope that she will avoid painting her face simply because mom does, and as a teenager, it's important to avoid anything that makes you look like your mom.

So that's my two cents on how society's notion of beauty makes raising girls more difficult than parenting their brothers. I'd love to know your thoughts on the subject!

Not So Cruel to Be Kind

One of the gifts I requested and received for Christmas was a magnifying/make-up mirror. As I grow older and face the distinct possibility probability that it's time to start applying spackle and paint on a regular basis, I thought it important that I had an accurate view of my true self. When I saw the price tag on this fancy mirror, however, I decided it wasn't worth that kind of money to see myself in what is never a flattering light. Therefore, over the weekend, I returned the high-end mirror and picked up a cheap plastic one. It requires me to squint to avoid a distorted view, but shows my flaws just the same. Let me tell you, examining your face magnified 10x is no way to spend a weekend. I nearly rushed out to the Vietnamese nail salon and apologized for assuming they were scamming me when they recommended a whole-face wax.

While self deprecation is always good for a laugh, as a rule, I'm not terribly hard on myself, though I know my blog would lead you to believe otherwise. I'd say I'm more "self-aware" than "self-critical." I'm pretty good at acknowledging my flaws and weaknesses and accepting myself for who I am. That's one of the few benefits of age. What I still haven't figured out, however, is to how to deal with the criticism of others.

The old Kim would have criticized
his misspelling of Critisize.

Criticism can take a variety of forms, from the obvious "you are so stupid," to the thinly veiled, "I wish you would think before you speak." Criticism can be blunt: "I love you, but you're really not a very nice person;" or couched in concern, "I'm worried about your children growing up without discipline." Criticism can even be communicated with nothing more than a tone of voice or the curtness of a reply. Regardless of how it's delivered, it hurts, and over time those hurts begin to scar both our sense of self and our relationships.

I doubt there's a single one of us who can claim to have never criticized another, even someone we love. But, I'm becoming more aware of its effects. Though I don't usually bother with New Year resolutions, this year I decided that I need to be kinder to others, especially those I care about. I have to decide if I'm truly offering what I like to call "constructive criticism," or if I'm finding fault "just because." I also have to consider how I'm delivering the message, based on the person on the receiving end. One of my children, for example, reacts with strong emotion to what they perceive to be criticism or "being yelled at." Being yelled at, by the way, almost never involves actual yelling or raising my voice, but that's the way it's perceived. Their reaction is usually anger, followed by profound hurt. It can be a challenge to not react in the moment so that both parties aren't frustrated and saddened by the exchange.

Our relationships might be overwhelming positive and full of love, but memories of being judged or scolded leave a definite mark. For example, I remember being criticized for things as unimportant as the cleanliness of my car or the clothes I chose to wear for Ian's baptism. And criticism (whether delivered or perceived) of the big things, like our parenting skills, cut particularly deep. To be criticized or seemingly disrespected by the people we love most leaves an ugly mark on what may otherwise be a wonderful relationship.

I think I take criticism so hard because I want nothing more than to please those who are important to me: my children, husband, parents, friends, boss, etc. I take great joy in those rare occasions when I clearly impress my spouse by adding something valuable to a conversation or managing a challenging situation all by myself (I'm such a big girl!). I still tell my parents about any success I have at work or something I manage to fix at home without my dad's help. This need for approval might be a Shimer girl thing. Even my sister -- who is considerably thicker-skinned than I am -- calls home after every performance evaluation (of course her evaluations result in bonuses worth more than half my salary). Just picking a good movie provides me with a sense of fulfillment.

Two of my favorite critics.

I might be am most likely more sensitive than the average person, but the hurt I feel when on the receiving end of criticism has opened my eyes to the negative, lasting effect I can have when I am the one dishing it out. Hence, my vow to be kinder and gentler in the year to come so that no one ever tells me I'm "not a very nice person."

The Painful Realities of Socializing

'Tis the season ... for socializing, which is fine if I'm socializing with people I've socialized with before. But put me in a new setting with new people and it's like high school all over again. I'm awkward, self-conscious, anxiety-ridden and convinced my time would be better spent studying.

During the past couple years, my social life has seen relatively few new faces. My circles have stayed basically the same, and in some cases they've begun to overlap as friends from one circle get to know friends from another. There's comfort in those intersecting circles, unless things go too far and friends from those ven diagrams of my social life start getting together without me. Admit it. We all want our friends to like us more than they like any of the competition their other friends. Learning that a friend is going away for a weekend with college buddies or ditching me for someone I don't know can cause slight pangs of jealousy and concerns that I will be forgotten and left behind. It's creepy and controlling immature and silly, I know. If you're my friend I simply request that you don't put me through that. Then everything will be okay. But I've gotten off track here. We were discussing the great Dale Carnegie test of socializing with new people.

Two weekends ago, when Rob and I were in Charleston, SC, I was challenged with a scenario that I hadn't faced in years. We were spending time with Rob's fraternity brothers, two of whom threw their significant others into the mix even though I was relishing having them all to myself doing fine without them. These were women I'd never met before. I don't know about you, but it's been a very long time since I had to put on my game face and spend an evening with complete strangers. Do you know what's involved when a woman meets another woman for the first time? It's second only to prom night in terms of the stress level. All your feminist tendencies go out the window as you become ridiculously obsessed with your appearance. You want the competition her to be unattractive. Preferably with bad hair and a big butt. You want this "cheese" (fraternity-ese for "that girl is mine") to be shallow, vapid, clueless and completely without humor, wit or charm. You hope that she will be dressed inappropriately. That she didn't go to a more prestigious college than you. That whatever job she has involves no brain power whatsoever. You pray she's not one of those fitness freaks who makes you feel like a schlub. Rather than face the possibility that you won't measure up, you decide to suddenly develop chills and a fever, rendering you unable to leave your bed. Just like high school.

This coming weekend I am again faced with the opportunity to socialize with others whom I do not know well. Though I will most likely recognize many faces at this party, I will fail to remember the names of 95% of them. That's assuming we were ever introduced in the first place. While the presence of men means I won't be subject to a head-on, woman-to-woman competition, I will be even more likely to feel insecure. See, although women in the South are beautiful and have charming accents, they aren't nearly as smart and accomplished as women here in the Northeast. That's a fact. Women in my community are typically bright, cultured and excellent conversationalists. They usually dress well and have terrific figures given that 90% of them are freakin' triathletes. They make good money and/or are married to men who do quite well in their impressive careers. Most own another house somewhere in the mountains or at the beach. And should you naively believe you can hold your own with your intelligence, witty banter, basement renovations and Nordstrom Rack shoes, you'll soon learn that their kids are attending Ivy League schools on scholarship.

Besides setting women back 50 years with my gross generalizations and focus on physical appearance and income levels, what this post is really trying to say is that once you have a circle of good friends who don't cheat on you, you should show your appreciation and stop socializing.

Happy Thanksgiving to all my faithful friends!

Putting an End to the Nightmare that is Gym Class

Television, radio, websites and publications — in nearly every form of entertainment there is something that appeals to our individual interests, quirks and passions. There’s no reason to be like everyone else or even engage with anyone else when it can so easily be all about you. By immersing ourselves in that which fits our personality, IQ and emotional needs, we can be assured that no harm will come to our confidence, self-esteem or self-image.

With this in mind, three years ago in “Food for Thought,” I suggested that supermarkets designate lanes based on the kinds of food a customer buys. That way, those of us who purchase crap loaded with preservatives and artificial sweeteners won’t feel badly about ourselves when we’re in line with the organic health food buyer. I’m sorry to say that I have yet to see a grocery store implement this excellent idea. I can practically guarantee they’d enjoy an impressive customer base and strong sales.

Along those lines, today I would like to propose separate gym classes based on body type, athletic ability and basic level of fitness. And I recommend that these segmented classes begin as early as kindergarten so those of us who require remedial hand-eye coordination activities will not find ourselves ostracized during snack time. The reasons for despising gym class tend to vary from age to age and person to person, but the end result is always the same: emotional scarring, night terrors related to dodgeball and long-term aversion to anything physical.

For some, what they most loathe about the experience of phys ed is the actual performance part. Run a mile in 6:30. Finish 10 pull-ups. Catch this ball. Walk in a straight line. These requirements can be brutal and cause one to break out in tears hives at the mere mention. Others may not dread the activities so much, but find undressing in front of their peers is a fate worse than death. Are you as well “developed” as your classmates? Are you clean shaven? Did you forget today was P.E. and wear your Thomas the Train briefs? This is the stuff that keeps therapists in business. That, and our parents.

Personally, I still have nightmares about the choosing of teams in gym class. Who in the world thought it was a good idea to put a couple of kids (usually insensitive bastards athletes) in charge of picking teams? While you can try to blend in with a group of fellow gym class haters for the activities themselves, or disappear in a toilet stall to avoid comparing bra sizes, when you’re lined up against the wall for team selection there’s absolutely nowhere to hide. As each captain starts calling names and the wallflower lineup gets shorter and shorter, it’s basically the equivalent of someone shouting, “We don’t want Shimer! She’s the worst athlete ever!” I was usually chosen second to last, saved only by the significantly overweight kid or the one on crutches.  Good memories.

My simple solution, separating kids into appropriate groups, has the potential to be life-changing. Imagine no more…
• mysterious illnesses on gym class days
• terror at the prospect of playing dodge ball with the football players in your class
• standing alone against the wall like the girl who never gets asked to dance
• shame at wearing granny panties
• fear of ridicule when you fall over your own two feet at the starting line
• hyperventilating when you run out of air during those aptly named “suicides”
• concern that you’re overweight, underweight, undersized or oversized
• costly long-term therapy to address issues of self-esteem

With separate gym classes all kids can feel comfortable in their own skin. There will be no pressure to improve skills, get in shape, lose weight or talk mom into buying you appropriate underwear. Simply put, gym class, high school, and the world in general will be a kinder, gentler place. Now that's something worth cheering for!

Not Despicable, but Replaceable Me

When I heard my previous employer had hired someone to replace me, I had mixed feelings. On one hand I was glad they filled the position (especially since authors were starting to contact me on Facebook for help), but on the other hand, this hiring was proof that I am, in fact, replaceable. All I could hope for was that this person was already failing to perform, was completely unlikable, or passed gas during meetings. Apparently none of the above applies to the new Kim new marketing director whom everyone is speaking highly of. Well, goodie for them. I hope they'll be very happy together.

While I confess to having had this terribly immature response, you'll be glad to know I didn't dwell on it for long. I've chosen something else to fret over instead, namely, the superstar I hired to be the new Associate Director of Marketing and Communications. Kelly started last month and without question, she's terrific. She's smart, hard working, inquisitive and pleasant to be around. She has a passion for office supplies and to-do lists. I can tell from the tchotchkes on her desk that her family and boyfriend mean the world to her. She's showing signs of a compatible sense of humor. In other words, I think I hired a younger version of myself. Except that I realized after looking at all the photos on her desk that I don't have a single picture of family or friends on mine.

Aside from the photographic reminder of my shortcomings as a mom/wife/friend, things with Kelly look promising.Though I have to say that there have been a couple times I've found my ego crushed myself slightly hurt by faculty and staff who behave like we've hired the savior. One of the deans actually introduced her as "the future of the College." To which I replied with a not-in-the-least-bit bitter "Whoa! Hello? What about me?" That little episode was followed by a marketing-related meeting in which the director of one of our programs directed absolutely everything in the conversation to Kelly. At one point I blurted out, "I've been working on that and will continue to do so. I mean, Kelly and I will work together on these things." Geez. Talk about insecure. Afterward I immediately felt like a jerk for appearing to be desperate for control and power. I apologized to Kelly and a faculty member in attendance, both whom said they didn't see it as such. In fact, the faculty member said he could see I was being a mother hen in protecting Kelly from all the work that was being dumped on her. Yes, that's it. I was protective. Not petty and insecure. Let's go with that!

I have very little experience being someone's "boss" and I can't say I was looking forward to it when I was informed that I would be hiring someone to work with me. I'm kinda the lone ranger type. Not "kinda." I'm definitely a lone ranger. Tell me what needs to be done and I'll do it. Don't make me be part of team and don't tell me how to do my job and we'll get along just fine. Given this controlling personality of mine, my biggest concern with working with someone was that I wasn't going to be willing to give up any part of what I consider to be "my" job. That I'd want to hold on tight to everything, or at the very least, give very specific direction on how to get the work done. In other words, I foresaw myself as a micro-manager, the very thing I hate in a supervisor.

The good news is that I haven't found myself doing much of that micromanaging or even withholding of work (heck, there's so much of it and so much that's challenging, that I've been more than happy to hand it off). What I didn't expect, however, is that I'd feel threatened, bordering on jealous. During that meeting in which Kelly was the star of the show, and given her glowing introductions and interactions with faculty and staff, I suddenly realized that I had hired someone who could replace me in the not so distant future. My reaction during that meeting wasn't so much about control (and certainly not about mothering), but rather it was a direct reflection of the threat I felt when I realized if they gave her all the work, I would no longer be needed. Once again, in the span of a few weeks, I've been shown to be replaceable. This is does nothing to boost one's ego.

To add insult to injury, last week I had my first official "Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day" at work. It started with a security violation citation for leaving the office door open and the lights on with valuable equipment in the room. On Saturday. When I wasn't here. Four people in my office and I'm the only one with a citation. I hope this doesn't go down on my permanent record (insert "Kiss Off" Violent Femmes music here). The week only improved when I discovered a mailing piece I sent out was half the size I thought it would be (I'd only seen the computer file), AND that there was a major mistake in the title I bestowed upon the professor whom the postcard was for. Totally not my fault, but guilty by association. Then there was the insider information I received that clued me in to another rouge department pursuing a printed publication without me. And did I mention the number of occasions on which I've said too much about certain issues (so unlike me)? Have I told you about the tension that's been building in my office space because no one has the quiet place they need to accomplish their work? The honeymoon is definitely over, but the good news is I've gotten that officially crappy day out of the way and I'm still employed.

Yes, getting older sucks. Learning you're replaceable is a bummer. Knowing someone you hired will eventually be doing your job is threatening. Envying your kids for the opportunities they have that have officially passed you by stinks, too. But on the flip side, getting older means I'm closer to living the dream. Hiring someone amazing means I have a colleague who doesn't frustrate, disappoint or require me to watch over her. And envying my kids means they have a life worth envying, and what more could a parent ask?

Wow. That was so weird. Me looking at the positive side of things. I better stop here before I revert back to my old self.

This was a Job for the Sociable Spouse

You knew this was coming when you read on Facebook that my son had offered our home as last Friday's pre-Frosh (freshman/sophomore dance) gathering spot for picture taking. I believe my status update ended with *+%#@!%&!. I was at work on Thursday when he asked if it was okay, so I had nonchalantly said yes without asking for details. Important details like, "How many people are coming," and "What's required of me beyond snapping a picture?" At 9:00 p.m. that evening I learned he was estimating about 30 people. Oh, and could I maybe provide some food? Hence the *+%#@!%&!

Much like everything these days (from Sweet 16 parties to senior prom invites), the pre-dance gathering has become a bit excessive. I guess I shouldn't say "has become" because actually I have no idea what they were like "back in the day." I don't recall ever gathering at anyone's house before a prom. The guy just came over to pick me up, my parents took some pictures and we were on our way. But then again I wasn't one of the popular kids and didn't exactly have a "group" of friends. Maybe the cliques got together and maybe their parents came too, and maybe the hosts provided food and drink and turned it into a brief, but well prepared party. That's what it's like now, anyway.

Thankfully I had some idea of what I was in for needed to do after experiencing one of these little gatherings last year. Before the 8th grade dance, we all converged on the home of one of the young ladies in Ian's circle of friends. There, I was shocked to discover a whole spread of food and soft drinks for the kids, and beer and wine for the adults.It was a more impressive soiree than I put on when I'm having a "real" party.

In addition to the woefully inadequate amount of time I had to prepare (damn my full time job!), to add to the pressure was the painful realization my understanding that the kids coming to my house that evening were not any old upper middle class kids. These were Silvertones (members of a select singing group at our high school). And Silvertones is code for "Swarthmoreans." I believe Ian is the token Wallingford kid. The director must have had a quota to fill. If you're not familiar with Swarthmore, which is part of our school district, it's home to the brightest of bright, most artistically talented, and all around green-living, peace-loving and healthy-eating Democrats. Home to the #1 ranked liberal arts college in the country, the borough attracts brilliant Swarthmore College professors who often are married to equally brilliant professors who work at Penn. I'm not positive, but I believe each home in Swarthmore is required to have at least one professor, one medical doctor, or an artist, writer or musician. Basically, compared to people in Swarthmore, I'm a hillbilly with a 6th grade education.

Clean cut, albeit clumped together

Although Swarthmoreans are not exactly unfriendly, I sense they're more comfortable with their own kind. Therefore, I was not looking forward to entertaining these folks and dealing with my petty insecurities. And then there's the fact that I can't remember any of their names when I see them. Clearly this was a job for Rob. And he was in Clearwater, Florida, hard at work taking clients to Spring Training baseball games, expensive meals and golfing. Talk about shitty jobs. Anyway, the point is, Rob was not home.

Rob is a much better entertainer / socializer / networker than I am. (Hence, his job.) He knows which cheeses, crackers and dips to buy, and he always buys enough. (I'm getting better at that.) He knows which wine to pull out of the cellar (No, we don't have a wine cellar. Just a cellar). And somehow he seems to know twice as many people living in our school district as I do. Did I mention Rob wasn't home for this grand affair that I was blowing completely out of proportion?

The older woman...

I'm sure you're anxious to know how it went. The good news is that the kids were pretty decent. One of them in particular, I think they call him D.G., was just about the nicest, most genuinely friendly kid I've ever met. Maybe he's not from Swarthmore. Clearly his parents have done an excellent job raising him. Another good thing about Swarthmore kids is that they tend to not offend my delicate sensibilities, a.k.a. prudishness. No skanky tarts panty-high mini skirts, bared midriffs, or plunging necklines in the bunch. Ian's date was a perfectly dressed, pretty young lady.

The bad news is, as anticipated, I couldn't remember the names of any of them -- kids or parents. And the living room was crowded and clumped with no good setting for a group picture. Then there's the fact that no one ate. I spent $50 on food and I think the only thing that was touched was the watermelon on the fruit platter. By the way, I have to give a big shout out to Freakin' Angel Cathie who made a BJ's appetizer run for me while I was at work.

Now, lest I leave you on a sour note, I should mention that I will have an opportunity to learn the names of all the Silvertones when we spend ten days together in Italy, beginning next Thursday, March 21. I'm chaperoning the group's biennial singing tour of what I have heard is a beautiful country with wine that's less expensive than soda. While I've never been there, I believe all the Swarthmorean kids have already traveled the world. I should be in good hands.

Saying Goodbye to Sandra Dee

There were signs that I was moving in this direction, but I do believe it's now official. I have become a prude. As I reflect on this development, I can point to three things that pushed me to my "prude awakening:"

1. Young girls in short, and I mean short, skirts and dresses.
2. Laundering the skivvies of a certain young woman 
3. The musical Grease as performed at our high school.

Each of these forces combined in a relatively brief period of time so as to effectively "wig me out" and cause me to panic about my rapidly maturing tween and teen.

A couple weeks ago I addressed the dress, or lack thereof, of today's young ladies. Picture me in Downton Abbey attire with a British accent saying "Improper, unrefined, and in bad taste. Does your mother know what you're wearing?"

Regarding the undergarments of a charming and beautiful almost-18-year-old ice hockey player, well, let's just say she's not shopping at Target or through the Hanes catalog. Frankly I'm not sure why women bother wearing things that are so barely there. If I'm being honest, I'm most upset because her lingerie confirms that I have been wearing granny panties for the past 40 years. I missed my sexy lingerie stage altogether.

The reason this is affecting me to such a degree is because my own daughter is a teenager-to-be. While I sure as hell won't buy her Frederick's of Hollywood bras and panties, what's to stop her from purchasing them herself? I can see it now, I'll be doing the wash and pull out a piece of dental floss, um. I mean a thong, and I'll have a small stroke. First I'll accuse Rob of adultery and then I'll wonder if Ian's dating a hussy, and finally I'll come around to my little girl. I'm having heart palpitations just thinking about it. If Abby suddenly offers to start doing her own laundry, I'll know I'm in trouble. I'll bet she's hiding a super short skirt and midriff baring top along with the sexy undergarments.

Put your filthy paws on my silky drawers?

Now to Grease. Yep, the same one I told you all to go see in Friday's Facebook post. Well, I saw it. And the next day I texted my friends with elementary-school-aged children and warned them that it might be inappropriate for the young ones. Those under age 21 18. I'm still trying to figure out what possessed the director/producer (who happens to be a friend) to perform a brief part of the show at the local elementary schools and then give the young-uns free tickets. I'm sure the piece they performed for the kiddies did not include the smoking, drinking, dirty dancing, or making out that the complete performance put front and center, but why in the world would you encourage 6-11 year-olds to come to a show with these pervasive elements?

For some reason I expected the musical, performed by teens, would be toned down compared to the movie, not more salacious. I was wrong. While I get that those elements were part of the story, I really felt they could have been less in your face without taking away from the show. But here's the biggest problem I have with the selection of Grease as the school musical - there's absolutely no redemptive quality to the story. Most of the time when a story presents us with a badly behaving character it ends with them learning a valuable lesson. What did sweet innocent Sandy learn in Grease? To trade in the pony tail and tease her hair, pierce her ears, apply her makeup, dress like a hussy, learn to smoke, and say goodbye to Sandra Dee. Exactly the life lesson that we parents try to teach.

I guess I shouldn't complain too much, however. Word has it that the show they really wanted to perform this year was Spring Awakening. Yes, that kind of "awakening." This musical was banned for a time in Germany because of its frank portrayal of abortion, homosexuality, rape, child abuse and suicide. I can't imagine why the school administrators said no to that one. It sounds like the perfect show to invite the grandparents to.

Believe it or not, I do understand theater is art. I do understand the need to address controversial issues. I do understand allowing young adults to express themselves, but I don't think the public high school is the place to do it. I think there are some parents who may actually have a problem with their child (they are still children) performing a show with those themes. I know it would have freaked me out if Ian's character was up on stage smoking, drinking, or getting nasty on the dance floor. And no, I'm not naive enough to think it's not happening in real life for many teens, I just don't think it needs to be encouraged or celebrated.

While I'm on a roll, I'd like to throw Go-Daddy commercials and Beyonce's half-time show into this mix so that we can effectively eliminate all innocence from childhood.

Yes indeed, I have officially become a prude.

Random Musings, Volume 5

After Tuesday's post, let's keep it light today with a new edition of Random Musings.

1. Why do people buy the super cheap toilet paper when it just requires you to use 5x as much to wipe? Even I buy decent toilet paper, and that's saying something.
2. Speaking of bathrooms, in your office restroom, do you wait in the stall until everyone else has left? Because, yikes!, what if they heard you? These are the same people who flush while they're going because their bodily noises are so much different from the rest of ours.
3. One more bathroom-related thought: Despite hand soap having been in liquid or foaming form for years, I still wet my hands first. I have no idea whether this is necessary.
4. It can be difficult to get your husband's attention at times. One surefire way to get him to speak to you is to reduce the number of sports channels you get in your cable package. Of course, there's no guarantee you're going to like what he says.

5. Don't you love bite-size candy? Did you know bite-size is industry lingo for "they'll eat lots more this way?"
6. Why do we still sign credit card slips? Is someone actually looking at them?
7. Buffets are a bad idea for cheap frugal people. We They overeat just to get our their money's worth.
8. Is there a rule regarding how many days or weeks have to pass before you can wear the same outfit to school or work again?
9. I love that boots are so popular. My mismatched socks have been given new life.
10. I don't mind looking unpresentable when going out in public in the area where I currently live, but I wouldn't be caught dead looking that way when I'm out in public in my hometown. You just don't want the people who knew you 25 years ago to think you've fallen apart. The people who know you now assume you've always looked that way. 

Finally, I leave you with two bonus musings with a Christmas theme:

1. Please don't put a to-from sticker on the gift bag you're using for my present (subliminal message). You realize I want to reuse that bag, right? I'm running dangerously low, and may be forced to purchase some. Gasp!
2. If the gift you're giving requires batteries, for God's sake include them! The same applies to the necessary items for juicers (fruit), journals (a nice pen), and televisions (a year's worth of cable television).

Now it's time for you to log off and mail me a check for the Silvertones Twelfth Night Revelry on Jan. 12. Don't miss it!

Random Thoughts from the Gym

So in case you're wondering, the new job is going really well. I haven't cried yet! The people are very nice and no one has put my age after my name on my office nameplate. Of course, I don't actually have an office, or a nameplate for that matter. But still, I don't think they'd do that.

While I am happy at Villanova, I am disappointed to report that they're giving me nothing to work with in terms of blog post material. Therefore, in an effort to share something/anything, I offer you:

Random Thoughts from the Gym

The class I take most often is Body Pump which is basically a weigh-lifting class that hits every muscle group in an hour. It's an awesome class with mostly terrifc instructors except for the new girl. When I take class with the new girl I can't concentrate on my form because I'm always thinking about how much I'd like to slap her for her ultra chipper, annoyingly motivational, non-stop jabber. Plus, she's wafer-thin and no one needs to look at that for an hour.

I have another Body Pump confession: I will load more weight onto my bar than I can actually handle just so I look stronger than those standing around me. It goes without saying that this can have disasterous results. I'll leave it at that.


This is how no one in my class looks. Thank God.



I've recently discovered the Red Hot Dance class. Despite my two left feet and complete lack of rhythm, I love this workout. Two reasons: 1) I'm thinner than the instructor (though she knows how to get down and boogie, or whatever the kids are calling it these days) and 2) the rest of the class is actually older than I am (though most of them can dance circles around me).

I would be so much better at Red Hot Dance if I had a few drinks first.

On that note, I would probably have a lot more to show for my working out if I didn't stop for dessert or drinks after leaving the gym.

I have two recommendations for improving self-esteem for women at the gym (don't know that it's an issue for men). 1) In the summer, when the kids are home from school/college, I recommend they establish "Adult Hours." Kinda like adult swim at the pool, except in this case, everyone under the age of 23 would have to work out at a different time than us considerably older folks. 2) 1) I think they should have two separate entrances to the locker room based on weight and age. Not only will this preserve your self-esteem, but it could also come in handy when you inevitably forget your underwear and want to borrow a pair in your size.

Speaking of the locker room, I've learned it's never appropriate to ask "Are those real?" Also where body parts are concerned, while I would find it terribly flattering, some women are not comfortable being told "I would kill for an ass like yours."

Speaking of asses, I hate the way we have to walk past the power lifters to get to our classroom. It's like a freakin' catwalk. I wouldn't mind it so much if the men didn't hold up scorecards. Or, if I scored above a 6.

Finally, based on solid scientific research, I have determined that people who pay more to work out are less likely to have intestinal issues than those who choose less expensive options. A couple years ago I took pilates classes held at our local high school. I also arranged for "Fitness & Fellowship" yoga and pilates classes at my church. These were both bargain priced and during nearly each of these classes someone had gas. Nope it wasn't me. Well, just that one time. In contrast, I have noted that never once has anyone let out a little stinky during Body Flow (pilates, yoga, and tai chi) at the Health Plex. It's a fascinating discovery that clearly requires more research.

Unfortunately, folks, that's all the time I have today. Be sure to stay tuned for our next Freakin' Angels post which will likely be on one of the following important topics:

• Parental involvement in teenage lives
• A culture of entitlement and what it means for mission work
• The mating habits of the Brown Throated Three-Toed Sloth
• The addiction known as Homeland