Give Me Something I Can Hold On To

I contemplated titling this post "What's Old is New Again." Despite our penchant for the next best thing and forward momentum in all facets of life, Americans (I can't speak for the rest of the world) are known to occasionally turn back time (Cher is usually involved). We see it most commonly with fashion when someone decides that bell bottoms, leg warmers, high waisted pants, shoulder pads, Bermuda shorts and pantsuits should be reintroduced to society. What's less common is taking a step back when it comes to technology and how we spend our time. This year I'm struck by the return of coloring, Polaroids, and old-fashioned printed books.

Though I've never considered myself a trendsetter, apparently I was on to something when in 1989, while in middle school college, I purchased a coloring book and crayons. You might assume this was because I had no social life and needed something to do, and that's true, but it was also a reflection of my need to disconnect (though I'm not sure what I was plugged into except my hot rollers) and allow my my mind to get the rest it needed. Coloring is also known to improve focus, relieve stress, and improve fine motor skills. When combined with wine, it also becomes an social activity. I can't say I've been invited to any coloring parties lately, but I suppose those Painting with a Twist places are the more upscale equivalent to getting together at the dining room table with your preschooler's crayons and colored pencils.

I acquired my first post-1989 coloring book just a few weeks when I found one at Five Below. The kids even treated me to a box of crayons to go with it. Having finished my first picture with crayons, I recommend using colored pencils instead. Just a bit of free coloring advice from me to you. Coloring is an excellent pre-bedtime activity. The blue light emitted from tech devices is said to affect sleep, whereas the blue pencil, crayon or marker has no known side effects. And if all of this doesn't convince you to pick up a coloring book, consider this: inexpensive artwork!

Now, on to pictures of a different sort. The 1977 Polaroid. When I think of the Polaroid, I think of my Aunt Faify who brought hers to every family gathering. The quality of those photos was never great, but there was something special about the instant results. Of course, with today's technology we're accustomed to immediacy, but what our smartphones are lacking is something to hold on to. Think of the billions of photos floating around in cyberspace, resting in the cloud and eating up valuable space on our devices. With the Polaroid, we can generate actual prints that we'll later stuff in shoe boxes, which eat up valuable space in closets and attics.

And finally, books. It appears that books--the kind made of paper that require you to physically turn the pages--are making a comeback. In the past year, news headlines have included:

"The Plot Twist: E-Book Sales Slip, and Print Is Far From Dead" --NY Times
"Paper is back: Why 'real' books are on the rebound" --GeekWire
"E-book sales plummet as print stages comeback" --Fortune

Of course there are a variety of theories as to why this is happening, but at Christmastime, I can say with relative certainty that few people are gifting e-books for the holidays. They're just too hard to wrap. It could also be related to that blue light e-reader issue, and our need for healthier sleep habits. I know I'm all for anything that helps me sleep. I love sleep the way other people love parties. But I digress.

When it comes to "kickin' it old school," I have a prediction for 2016. I would wager a bet that friends will start hanging out again. In the flesh. There's just something to be said for reading the expression on someone's face instead of responding to the emoticon. And real hugs are much nicer than virtual pokes (does anyone do that anymore?). And making actual memories that last a lifetime is so much sweeter than snappy exchanges that disappear in a moment.

Here's hoping your holidays are filled with something you can hold on to!

Top 11 Things I'm Thankful for this Thanksgiving Day

In no particular order:

1. A multitude of angels in my life, freakin' and otherwise.
   
2. A teenage son who treats his wonderful girlfriend like a princess, demonstrating what a kind, thoughtful, loving and mature young man he has become.
   
3. Radio City's Christmas Spectacular for actually leaving the Christ in Christmas. It's nearly impossible to see Christianity on display in a secular environment these days. So nice to see they didn't sanitize it to avoid offending anyone.
   
4. A fulfilling career in which I get to share the stories of those who are truly making the world a better place.
   
5. Those who help others--around the corner and around the world--not for recognition or reward, but because it's the right thing to do.
   
6. Books, so many wonderful books!
   
7. A teenage daughter who will hold my hand walking through NYC, and ask me to lie down with her on a rare night when she can't fall asleep.
   
8. The opportunity to pursue a lifelong dream and the friends and family who encourage and support me.
   
9. A teacher whose childlike joy and passion for his craft make being in school again an amazing experience.
   
10. Puppy love.
    
11. Being married to my best friend--a man who makes me laugh, think and look to our future as empty nesters with anticipation instead of sadness.

Finally, thank you for your friendship. I can't imagine walking through this life without one another to lean on!

"Service" Spelled with an F U

Let's rant, shall we? The topic: customer service. Or the lack thereof. In 24-hours I moved from bemused to pissed off thanks to two separate service fiascos.

Incident #1: The Acme Cashier

I was already irritated by the elderly. I say that with utmost respect for those who consider themselves to be in that category, though I'm relatively certain no one I would classify as elderly is reading my blog (mom and dad, you're old, but not elderly - insert winky, smiley face here). Anyway, I was irritated because slow, confused women with clown makeup and crazy hair were wandering around the aisles at Acme at 5 p.m., making it difficult for us young and busy professionals to do what we came to do. Why do they need to go to the grocery store between 4-6 p.m.? Shouldn't they be eating an early bird meal at their favorite diner?

This is not related to my service complaint, however, as I write, I believe I may have stumbled onto a brilliant service concept. Much like the "adult swim" at the pool, perhaps there should be separate hours for shopping based on age group. Those 25-54 can shop between 7-9 a.m and 4-6 p.m.; those 75-plus and moms with infants are given a big chunk of time between 10 a.m.-2 p.m.; and teens can come by after school, 2:30-4:00 p.m. and at stupidly late hours when they're in need of cheese curls. There should probably be a similar schedule at the health club.

But I digress.

My main Acme complaint was with Louis, my couldn't-be-happier-to-have-this-job cashier. I don't know if I set him off by letting him know I didn't mind bagging my own groceries--perhaps he took it as a personal affront, like I didn't think he'd do it right--but the dude literally threw my groceries. Not at me, thank goodness, but onto the grocery collection area. This was fairly amusing until he came to my bananas and apples, and then the bread. Apparently no one told him that fruit bruises when tossed, and that bread can be bent out of shape, much like his increasingly grumpy customer.

Incident #2: The Jiffy Lube Guys

In my never-ending quest to save money, I drove out of my way to Jiffy Lube for an oil change and state inspection. I had a coupon (turns out I had a coupon for Midas, which made this incident even more irritating).

When I went to pick up my vehicle, the guys at the counter decided to mess with me. "That's $249.00." Seriously? "Nah, just messing with you. It's actually $____." (I'm not going to tell you how much I paid because I don't need my dad or anyone else tell me I was ripped off.) Of course, now I'm wondering if what I paid was the real price because nowhere in the place were the service prices listed. Still, I smiled gamely at his delightful sense of humor. Then I got into my soccer mom minivan and prepared to drive off. Until I noticed the pond.

A nearly full travel mug of tea that I had left in my cup holder had spilled in that handy little tray/console area between the front seats. Crumbs, bits of paper, and my parking pass were floating in a half-inch of liquid; the empty cup holders also were filled. And I was pissed. I returned to the shop and asked for towels to clean the mess. Did I let them know it was their spill and that I was displeased? No. They were bigger than me, had already intimidated me at the register, and I'm not good with confrontation. I sopped up what I could and drove away.

About a half-mile down the road I stopped at Philly Pretzel Factory to address my constant carb craving, but before I could even get out of the car, I had to write. An angry Yelp review was burning a hole inside of me. I had to let it out. I deal with my problems much better in writing:

"Just had my car inspected and oil changed at this Jiffy Lube location. I'm uncomfortable with what I paid because there were no posted prices for their services, which is what I find at Midas where I normally go. I went to Jiffy Lube because I had a coupon. Probably a big mistake. Most disappointing, when I got into my car I saw that an entire travel mug of tea that I had left in a cup holder had spilled in my center console and nobody bothered to clean it up before giving me my car back. Something so simple that would've made such a big difference in how I feel about my service. Because their service requires them to vacuum the floors, they did that, but since it didn't say anywhere that they should clean up when they spill something in a customer's car, they just left it. Classic lazy customer service. I won't be back."

After letting out my frustration and picking up my pretzel--which was cold and kinda hard and itself worthy of complaint--I headed home. And then it occurred to me. The son-of-a-bitch hadn't returned my insurance card and registration. And freakin' Jiffy Lube is on Baltimore Pike, the busiest damn retail road in Delaware County. And I hate running "errands" more than going to the dentist. And it was almost 5 p.m. and traffic was already brutal. I contemplated asking them to mail me my stuff, but wondered what the odds were that it would ever reach me.

I called and the assistant manager answered the phone--not the same guy who totally made up the price of my oil change and inspection. I told him they forgot my paperwork. He informed me it was on my passenger seat. Ah yes. Indeed. I figured this was an opportunity to share my thoughts about spilled tea. He apologized, wasn't aware of it, will tell the big scary guy who worked on my vehicle. Awesome. Originally I had posted my Yelp review with my photo; I took that down. I don't want him to find me. There are risks associated with speaking ones mind.

These delightful experiences are ripe for political commentary, which as a rule I stay away from because I'm generally in enemy territory with my views. But I do find myself thinking about personal responsibility and its role in the lives we live. If you hate working as a grocery store cashier, what could you do about it instead of taking it out on your customers, and ultimately, your employer? And I wonder about the debate over minimum wage. If the cashier and the Jiffy Lube guys were paid more, would they care more? Or would they be paid more to deliver the same shitty service? Tough subjects, indeed. Perhaps Ian, as an economist in training, but with a servant's heart, will one day help solve these problems plaguing our increasingly polarized country.

Wow. This post took a turn, didn't it? Sorry to end on such a heavy note. To make it up to you, here's a picture of a kitten. Make it a good day!

But, they're only suggestions

It's crunch time. In a mere five days, applications will be due for two of the three colleges my son Ian is applying to: University of Chicago (early action) and Villanova (for consideration for the Honors College). If it were up to me these applications would have been submitted a month ago, but Ian is not me. And I've been trying hard to keep that in mind, not only where college admissions are concerned, but also with regard to his collegiate life.

One of the things I have struggled with during his high school years is allowing my son to be himself. Personality-wise, he's good to go (except for his excessive computer time and tendency to procrastinate), but I confess that I have been disappointed more than once in the decisions he's made. Not with regard to classes, behavior, friends or that special someone (a shout out to B.Q.), but rather his choice of extracurriculars. That's not quite accurate. It's not the activities he's been involved with that bother me, it's the ones he hasn't taken part in that bum me out.

Ian should have appeared in every play and musical for the past three years. He should have competed in the oral interpretation category in speech and debate--I personally found him the perfect material. He could have pursued fencing or martial arts, both of which he showed promise in when he was younger. And I'm sure there are a myriad of other activities that I would have wanted him to take part in if I'd known about them.

You may think this is about me. That I want to relive my youth through my son. Well, not's entirely true. He did show great potential in these activities, particularly where acting and speech competitions were concerned. It's not like I pushed, prodded, nagged at encouraged him to take on the school newspaper or yearbook. I didn't recommend more than once or twice robotics or other appropriately geeky science-related clubs that I knew he wasn't interested in, despite being eminently qualified for. Honestly, I had the best intentions. And, if Ian loves his mother, he might just prove it by auditioning for the musical this year. One last opportunity for him to make the right decision.

Until college, when I'm he's given a fresh start.

I have recently experienced Ian sightings at Villanova. I'll be walking across campus and envision bumping into him. Or seeing him in the cafeteria. That's not so bad. I probably won't embarrass him much if/when that happens. What's more problematic is that I've started to take note of opportunities that I don't want him to miss if he comes here. I hear one of the many acapella groups perform and think, "He's got to try out; he'd be great!" I learn of a student-run homeless shelter in the city, and I can't wait for him to get involved. I know of a certain professor who is conducting research on a topic that will interest Ian and I tell the professor that my son would love to work with him/her. The Global Leadership Fellows Program? Where do I sign him does he sign up? My The excitement is palpable!

I'm in trouble here.

And this post may have just squashed the possibility of Ian attending Villanova.

I have his best interests at heart. But he knows his interests and he's becoming an adult and he will need to make all of these decisions for himself.

Perhaps if I just refer to them as suggestions?

P.S. Did I mention there's Irish dance? And an ethics bowl team?

Gotta Get Myself Connected

When my kids were in middle school, their day ended with a period called "Connections," which was the equivalent of "home room" in my day. Today, though my children are no longer at the middle school, I find myself thinking about that word choice, and I think I really like it.

The idea of connections has been on my mind of late. Though if I reflect on the posts I've written through the years, I suppose connections are a running theme for me. It's basically the purpose of my writing. While blogging may be perceived as a cry for attention, in my case, the need for attention is really the equivalent of a desire for connections. And if we zoom out for a wider view, I think we can agree that my posts generally are about the real issues, feelings and life experiences that connect us.

Whether we put it into words or not, most of us crave connections. It's what makes us human. Nearly every day I think to myself, "Today is the day I'm going to say hello to every individual I encounter." Why is that always on my mind? For one thing, I think it'd make for a fascinating blog post, but more importantly, I think I could make a small difference in someone's day. Not because there's anything special about me, but because we all want to be recognized. And honestly, there is something surprisingly lovely about someone offering a simple greeting, an acknowledgement of our existence.

One of the nicest encounters I've had recently occurred while I was walking on campus. I passed by an older gentlemen and he greeted me with "Good morning, Miss." Now, it could be because he called me "miss" instead of "ma'am," but I'm pretty sure just the "good morning" and a smile would have had roughly the same effect. Even though that encounter was weeks ago, it's stuck with me. That's how powerful a greeting can be.

So why haven't I followed through on my desire to greet everyone I see? It's hard. Way harder than it should be. People don't make eye contact anymore. If their heads aren't down, looking at their phones, they're likely to look away if you look at them directly. Friendliness, sadly, has become uncomfortable instead of commonplace. A couple years ago, Villanova, which boasts its friendliness and sense of community, tried to institute "tech-free Tuesdays" in an effort to get us to stop looking at our devices when walking across campus, and instead look at one another and say hello. It failed miserably.

I honestly worry that within a short number of years all we will see when we walk down the street is the top of people's heads. No one will look up anymore. We'll all need chiropractors to work on our aching necks. And sales of hair growing tonic will dramatically increase as men worry more about balding.

Given the challenge of exchanging basic niceties with strangers on the street, I thought I might have more success trying to connect with those whom I interact with on some level. The gym is the perfect example. If we're in a class together, we should be bonded by a shared misery experience. We should connect over a good groan when the instructor calls for burpies or mountain climbers.  If we're walking out of the building afterward and it's refreshingly chilly, you should acknowledge my witty comment about it. Unfortunately, for most people it doesn't even register that you're speaking to them.

I leave you with this quote from Dr. Brene Brown, a young American researcher who studies vulnerability, courage, authenticity, and shame:

"Vulnerability is the birthplace of connection and the path to the feeling of worthiness."

So put yourself out there and connect to another member of our human family. I can almost guarantee the good feelings will be worth it!

Suck it Up

I was all set to write a post in which I declared my shortcomings and threw in the towel where this acting thing is concerned. After all, I am two classes in to the semester and the professor has not yet declared me the best student he's ever had. Nor has he asked me where I've been all his life or why I am not on Broadway. This lack of positive feedback combined with the fact that "all the other kids know each other and I feel left out" leads naturally to my decision to move on. Yep. I'm a quitter. Not my best personality trait, I know.

On Saturday, Rob and I were at the beach, just the two of us. And I decided to open up and share my thoughts and feelings. As if that's a rare thing for me. So I said something along the lines of "Do you ever get bummed out thinking that you're never going to do anything amazing with your life?" Like write a book, or make an impressive career move, or be a star on the stage? Being the rational man that he is, he suggested 1) that raising two pretty awesome kids can be considered having done something amazing, and 2) what's the point of thinking about what you haven't done with your life when all along it's been your choice. And he's right, of course.

This conversation led to another in which I told him I'd read in an advice column a letter from a young mother of an 8-month child. She wrote that both she and her husband were unhappy with parenthood. Not just sleep-deprived or anxious about it, but downright miserable. She noted that this was obviously not something she could share with anyone else. Most folks don't think kindly of those who would like to undo the whole baby thing. My heart broke for her because I could have written that letter 16 years ago. Or 10 years ago. Alright. Probably five years ago. The point is, I could relate, especially to feeling alone. Wondering if you've made a huge mistake entering into motherhood is not something most women are comfortable confessing, even women like me who open up our lives like a book for others to read.

Rob's response to this went something along the lines of "And a woman definitely can't tell her mother how she feels in this situation, especially if her mother was of my mom's generation." Rob's mom--who turns 85 in December--would have told her daughters (and probably me, if I'd confessed), "Too late for that now. You have a child to raise. Get to it." My reaction to my husband's comment on behalf of his mother? Ouch. Harsh. But Rob continued the conversation by asking if that kick in the pants isn't what we do need to hear when we find ourselves in difficult situations.

In today's "you're okay, I'm okay" society, we're encouraged to share our every thought and feeling and to accept them for what they are. To reflect, meditate, indulge, and caress our emotions. We whiners will not be denied that opportunity. How dare we be told to suck it up and take responsibility for fixing what's wrong instead of wallowing in it!

I am conflicted in my reaction to my husband's comments. They certainly hit a bit too close to home, given that I'm a living, breathing example of one of those people who mulls over every emotion as if it's the key I need to unlock the rest of my life. I can see where that's not always the best decision. Perhaps I'd be better off just living instead of analyzing. But then again, what would I possibly blog about?

I'd love your thoughts on this. Should we stop coddling and instead call one other out when it comes to that which we allow to stymie us? Is it okay to extend sympathy/empathy only so far as to say "I get that you're bummed/unhappy/miserable, but this is life, so start living?" Or is the world cruel enough that we owe it to each other to be kinder and gentler, as George H. W. Bush suggested back in 1988? Maybe this whole trend toward emotional overindulgence is his fault. Well, it would be one more thing we could blame on the Republicans. But I digress. Tell me what you think.

I've Got Class

You know those anxiety dreams you used to have/still have about school? The one where you forgot to go to class all semester and now there's a final exam? Or you wore a ridiculous outfit or forgot to wear clothes at all? Or you showed up and it was the wrong night or the wrong time or the wrong place? Well, last week I lived out one of my anxiety dreams in the very first class of the graduate certificate in practical theater program that I started this semester. (You may recall that I'm going to be a famous actress as soon as my kids move out of the house.)

Here's how my dreams/nightmares became reality:

I showed up for my Principles of  Acting class about 15 minutes early on Thursday evening. I was anxious and I didn't want to be late. When I got to the room there was a sign on the door that said "Do Not Disturb. Studio in Use," but I chalked it up to my early arrival and I waited. And waited. At 7:30, the door still hadn't opened and no one else had showed up. Obviously not a good sign. Given my increased tendency to remember things incorrectly, I double checked my calendar. I had the class start time correct. My calendar didn't indicate a location, but I was certain it was Vasey Studio. Well, I was certainly wrong. My acting class was in another building. The one furthest from where I was currently, and I wasn't wearing running shoes. So I took off my sandals and started sprinting barefoot across campus. I can just imagine how many heads I turned. And not in a good way.

I arrived at my class 20 minutes late, dripping with sweat. I explained to the professor and my classmates that I was going for "a dramatic entrance" and then took my seat in the circle on the floor. I had missed everyone's personal introductions and the syllabus review, and was put on the spot with a request to tell the group something interesting about myself. I played the 2nd degree black belt card so all the other students would think I'm a badass. A sweaty, late, middle aged badass.

From there, things got interesting. The class started with movement. Lots of movement. On the floor. Yoga positions, which I must say I nailed as compared to my considerably more youthful classmates. Of course, being an acting class, we couldn't merely stretch into the locust position. We had to breathe at the same time. Audibly. With feeling. Being born without the capacity for embarrassment, I let it all out. Including my underwear. Bad choice of granny panties with pants that sat too low on my hips to cover them, particularly when rocking back and forth on my stomach while holding my feet in my hands. By the time we finished on the floor, I was so sweaty that I looked like I'd peed myself. And they say you only get one chance to make a first impression.

After we returned to vertical positions and circled up, we began throwing knives at one another. No surprise there. And if we didn't catch the imaginary knife being thrown at us, we had to die a dramatic death. I died relatively early in the process. So I spent more time on the floor. I'm not sure what actors have against chairs.

The good news is that the highlight of the evening was still to come.

We spent the final hour (seriously, a full hour) of class staring at each other. But at least we got to sit for it. We each took turns on a chair in the front of the room where our assignment was to look at each person for longer than is comfortable. Frankly, I enjoyed it. We were given permission to gawk and I gave myself permission to also judge everyone I looked at. I made up little stories about them in my head. It was good fun. The sitting while others stared wasn't quite as enjoyable. Way too much down time for someone who constantly needs to be doing something (or sleeping). I didn't mind being stared, though I did have trouble not breaking into a smile, winking, licking my lips, or tossing out a Joey Tribbiani "How you doin?" just to break up the monotony.

Next week's class will begin with one word to describe how we feel, followed by more floor moves, a physical destination exercise and a read through of the monologue we've selected for our semester performance. I'm psyched. Seriously.

Though I'm the only one in class who didn't major in theater or performance as an undergraduate, and am probably the only one who hasn't auditioned or performed in anything for 25 years, I'm surprisingly comfortable. I rather enjoy the age difference (especially given my impressive level of flexibility), I don't have to think twice about letting my freak flag fly, and honestly, the other students are super friendly. I think this is gonna be good. And if it's not, I'll at least get some great blog material out of the experience!