Thursday, January 22, 2015

KIDS ARE THE NEW BOOTY CALLERS

As a typical girl, I've had my share of booty calling boys who did not know my worth but had that smile and those abs that somehow excused such behavior. I'd swear him off at 8 pm when he didn't call. Promise my roommates I would not give in when he didn't invite me to his formal because of our "incredible friendship." And, vow this was the last time I was picking him up because he was too drunk to get home. Eventually, I matured. By senior year in college, I knew my worth and didn't tolerate such disrespectful behavior. In fact, I already knew my husband then and figured my days of being treated like, well, shit, were over. Boy was I wrong.

Yesterday as I lay in my bed with the flu barely able to lift my head off the pillow, I had a realization. My children are that guy. It started in the morning when I somehow got out of bed to make lunches (a panini-pressed sandwich on pretzel bread by the way) and breakfast since my husband had an early meeting. As I stumbled around the kitchen hacking and moaning, neither child took notice. Then, I got in the car to drive my kids down to our carpool meeting spot and my daughter screamed that she wasn't coming because her favorite sweatshirt wasn't clean. Can you believe I didn't do the laundry in the middle of the night? Finally, when she came raging into the car, I handed her a bag of cereal. She threw it back. It apparently was not a cereal kind of morning. As we headed down the street, my son looked up from his important texting and asked if I was driving. Did I mention I was wearing pajama pants, a thermal with no bra and my hair on top of my head? "No, Gabe, I'm actually going back to bed because apparently you didn't notice, I'm sick."

After dropping them off, I went straight to bed and slept for four hours. I woke to a gnawing feeling in my stomach. My son had a school basketball game and I felt horrible that I just knew I couldn't make it. I, of course, try and support him with my presence at all of his sporting endeavors. I worked the phones and found a wonderful mom to help out. Then, I made sure my daughter could go home with another friend and her helpful mom (by the way, other moms are the best boyfriends ever!). Feeling relieved that I had it covered, I laid my head back on the pillow only to be startled by an incoming text. My son was now on the bus to his game and wanted to let me know I didn't pack his lunch. He was starving and it was all my fault. Feeling fairly sure that his lunch was, in fact, in his bag, I asked him to check again. "NO!," he wrote back. It was not there. I felt so guilty. My son was starving and it was my fault. I went downstairs and checked. No lunch. So strange. I texted said wonderful mom and lowered myself to admit my bad mommmying and ask if she had any snacks in her car. She went above and beyond and picked him up Subway. When I texted him to tell him the good news, he responded, "Make sure it's on Italian bread." It was.

A few hours of quiet. A little more sleep. Then the doorbell. My son was home. He dropped his bag and went to the kitchen telling me what homework he needed help with. I unzipped his bag and pulled out his lunch underneath his dirty P.E. clothes. When he saw the lunch, he laughed. I didn't see the same humor in the situation.

And so the night progressed. I did homework, fed my kids and wondered if either child might ever ask how I was feeling. My husband took over when he got home and I was able to get a good night sleep. Feeling a little better, I headed back downstairs this morning to make lunches and breakfast again. My son yelled at me because the printer wasn't working and he needed his work for school. My daughter freaked out because I didn't read her book last night. Somehow, we got in the car and drove to our meeting spot. Yet another incredible mom was driving her second day of carpool to help me because moms are the committed and loyal type.

Then, I got back in bed and cried. That's when it hit me. I knew this feeling--that of being treated without respect. That feeling that despite the ungrateful behavior, you keep going back for more. Yes! My kids are like those college boys--and just as outwardly cute too. The difference is I do unconditionally love them and while I am not going to excuse their behavior, I have to tolerate it because I am committed in this relationship for life. Still, if Zoey thinks she's coming in my bed at 2 am, she's got another think coming. I draw the line at booty calls.

Sunday, January 4, 2015

THE "G" WORD

A few years ago, my writing partner and I pitched a show to the networks called "The G Word." It was basically about the new generation of grandparents who, well, weren't exactly the warm, fuzzy gray-haired definition we had grown up with. They were more of the face-lifted, over socially scheduled, ombre hair colored variety. We were met with blank stares from the young twentysomething newly appointed TV execs who just "didn't get it" and wondered who would want to watch older people on TV. Thus, that idea went where far too many other good ones reside--my old desktop Mac. But the G-Words in my life just keep on giving when it comes to material so I can't let it die. This brings me to the best part of blogging--I no longer need a clueless exec's permission to present you (the much smarter and savier audience than anyone ever gives you credit for) with my musings and observations. So here goes...

I always knew there would come a time when the roles begin to shift in the child/parent relationship. My Dad passed away years ago but I was prepared that as my mom got older, I would have to take on more of a parenting role. I figured much further down the road, my sister and I would organically become more of the caretakers. I pictured being an advocate, a nurse, a sort of aid to her at some point. But that's not what's going down. I've already become the parent--the voice of reason and caution and...dating advice. My mom? She's the teenager. And this is not an anomaly. It's becoming the norm. Most of my friends have parents who are either divorced, widowed or in second marriages. Some of them have lost money along the way and are having to learn to budget their lives the way a college graduate figures it out in that first year of sorta independence. The stability of Grandma and Grandpa quietly sitting in their paid-off home ready to offer words of wisdom or, well, even help with the babysitting is disappearing faster than your latest Snapchat. They are way too busy. Going back to work. Going out. Going online. Put it this way, the Zeke and Millie Bravermans of the world are an endangered species. Even they sold the family home and moved to the city!

Let's start with their relationships because those are way complicated. If you thought Carrie Bradshaw had it tough in Sex and the City, you've never seen over-sixty and single in the suburbs. It's all about online dating and let me tell you, it's ruthless, dirty and absolutely nothing you want to ever hear your mom or dad speak of but unfortunately the only thing they want to talk about. I get that being older allows you to skip the games and go for honesty but the profiles some of these G-worders put up could make even Samantha blush. They talk graphically about all of their wants, needs and desires. I find myself lecturing my mom on why she absolutely may not respond to this guy or that guy. I now give the "self-worth" speech to both my mom and my 8 year-old. I am constantly reminding Mom to meet in public places and never give her phone number or address out. Then there's the finances. Unlike college where breakups and hookups leave you with his sweatshirt or her toaster, there are assets and retirement plans. But the G-Worders are comingling and cohabitating without communicating with each other or their kids on this subject. A few of my friends have had to call meetings with thier parents and intended ones to make sure everyone was being careful. My almost teenage son is about to start dating and I'm already exhausted thanks to my senior citizen mom (who--full disclaimer--is not old and looks young in case anyone, mostly her, was wondering!)

Then there's the problem of putting technology in the hands of Grandparents 2.0 which I've already opined on in previous posts. Grandparents are worse than teens for two reasons. They have more hours in the day (without school getting in the way) and they don't really know how to use it. So, in addition to the numerous discussions, er fights, about social media boundaries and etiquitte, there are the annoying tutorial phone calls. The Facetime attempts where they just can't seem to get a picture. The voicemail asking if she should start "twitting?" The panic that sets in when the screen freezes. Should he go to the AT&T store? Nevermind that he has T Mobile. A few weeks ago, I was up early and didn't want to call and wake my mom but needed to give her directions. I texted her instead so that she would have them when she woke up. A minute later my phone rings. My text woke her up. Why? Because she keeps the phone right next to her bed with the alert sounds on. I think it's time for some technology rules. Maye she needs a technology basket for nighttime. However, I fear, unlike my son, she won't be able to part with her iPhone at night and really she's not afraid of me.

The good news is that this booming generation is living longer and healthier than ever before allowing for much fuller lives in the 60s, 70s and 80s. They are always cruising (both the seas and the scene), taking in shows and trying out whatever cuisine is trending. The bad news is that having such a full life doesn't allow much time for dance recitals, spring concerts or heaven forbid Saturday night babysitting. When my daughter calls my mom for plans, I have to remind my mom to let her down easy. My friend told me a great story about her Mom and Step-dad reccommending a new restaurant that they had been to with great detail about the magnificent wine list and savory small plates. "You must go," demanded her mom. When my friend replied that she would love to but it was expensive to get a Saturday night sitter, her mom insisted, "It's worth it!"

There's a new Nana in town and she looks a lot like that rebellious teenager down the hall. The only difference is that she does want to talk to you and tell you about everything. Yup, it's complicated.

P.S. If any new twentysomething execs do "get it," G-Word is registered with the WGA. You can pass on the idea but can't steal it.

Thursday, January 1, 2015

NO MORE FAKING IT IN 2015

I've decided 2015 is the year of truth. I'm over 40. No more bullshit. No more #blessed (although, let's be honest I could never stoop to such a hashgag). Social media has begun to feel like an invasion of my mind and soul. A black hole of braggadociosness. A ticket to the False Frontier. I can't help but hear the "do do do do" chiming in my mind as a Rod Sterling-like voice reminds me each time I click on Facebook that I am willingly about to enter a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind (fuck). A journey into a land whose boundaries are that of imagination (in that there are no boundaries). I am about to enter--The Highlight Zone. And then all the highlights come scrolling down photoshopped to perfection with accolades, achievements and superlatives. Don't get me wrong, I love my friends and want good things to happen to and for them. But I've also lived long enough to know that there's unfortunately more of life with bad hair days, blotchy skin, kid meltdowns, disappointments and cranky episodes than one would think based upon any (mine included) facebook status streams. My kids, however, do not know better.

Since granting Gabe, my 11 year-old son, persmission to enter this new dimension, I have watched him continuously capture moments for the sole purpose of creating a filtered Instagram image to garner "likes." Likes apparently equate with number of friends. Because everybody needs 81 friends who "like" your show-off Laker game seats. I'm sure you can call each and every one of them when you need help moving furniture or running to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription. I listen to conversations between my kids and their friends about which photos to put up as they carefully craft supposedly casual taglines about what they are doing. My son takes greater care with his postings than he does with his homework. They must be "perfect." I get it. He's creating a brand to compete with all the other brands, er, kids out there.

It's not just the younger generations getting caught up with keeping up. My 71 year-old mom and her peers use Facebook as the Grandma Brag book 2.0. Each grandchild is smarter, cuter and more advanced than the next. Every time my mom whips out her camera phone, my kids plead with her not to post the picture before they have "approved it." They are apparently the self-appointed editors of my mom's lifestyle story. And it's not all about the grandkids either. After endless practice pics, Grandma has perfected the selfie so that she looks "younger and thinner." I know this because Zoey, my 8 year-old daughter, told me so.

Let's face it. Facebook is more like Fakebook. All of us who take part in social media are contributing to the marketing and branding of human beings. I am just as proud of my kids as you are of yours but I'm pretty sure it's not helpful for them to grow up in a world where we only share our triumphs. So for the next 365 days, I'm stripping it down to the raw me-- going Real World (and not in the MTV kind of way). I've decided to post one Facebook status a day that is real. That doesn't mean they will all be complaining, bitter and grumpy. I am grateful that I do have truly wonderful days and feel lucky and priviliged often. But I also feel like crap a lot too. That's the point. Life is complicated and ever-changing unlike a static glossy magazine advertisement.

I may embarrass my husband and kids, but ultimately I hope to show them what a real life looks like. Happy 2015!

First Facebook Post - January 1, 2015

Licked the frosting off 2 cupcakes for dinner after Zoey kicked, screamed and massively melted down with an NYE hangover to rival partying like 1999. Oh and then Ohio State won.*

*I wonder how many likes I'll get?