Monday, February 13, 2017
The Princess and I went prom dress shopping on Saturday.
For those of you who don’t have daughters, prom dress shopping is NOTHING like you’re picturing. It’s not like when we were young. It’s not like any of the Disney movies make it out to be.
It’s like taking all the teenaged emotions and attitudes, mixing them with equal parts “Mom knows nothing” and “I can’t decide—Mom, what do you think” and sprinkling a heavy dose of glitter, tacky rhinestones and “Wait, where’s the rest of the dress?”.
First, we went to a boutique she’d heard about. It was organized by an OCD person—type of dress, color and size. Based on what the Princess thought she wanted, we were instructed to look at three—and only three—aisles. The salesgirl took the dresses and placed them in the dressing room, helped her get in and out of each one and was generally helpful.
I stood there, held her coat and was allowed to voice my opinion.
She found a dress. I was amazed. I’d figured we were going to have to hit at least four stores over several weekends. She tried on others to make sure. She liked it. She wanted it.
But we weren’t done yet. First, she had to check with her friends to get their opinions. This required some sneaky photo taking, since pictures weren’t allowed.
They liked it.
Then she had to check Facebook. Because unlike when I was a teenager, no one can have the same dress. And to ensure that this social faux pas does not occur, each class creates a Facebook page. When you purchase your dress, you post a photo. It’s yours and no one else is allowed to wear it.
Stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, but what do I know?
So she looked on Facebook and it wasn’t there.
She hemmed and hawed a little longer. And finally decided she’d found the one.
We walked to the cashier and waited our turn. The cashier smiled and began taking our information.
Oh no. Turns out one of the girls in her friend group had purchased the same dress in a different color.
So we left and went to a different store. That had a ton of dresses. I was sure we’d find something.
And we did. We found about ten somethings. There was no helpful salesperson here, however, so I trailed her, carrying dresses like a pack mule.
She took them back in the fitting rooms and tried them on. One by one, she discounted them, and I started getting worried. Turns out, she purposely started with her least favorites.
Then we got to the ones she liked.
One was pale pink lace with sparkles. It was beautiful. She loved it. Until she realized (thanks to her friends) that it made her washed out. So she tried it on in baby blue. And it was really pretty.
Then she tried a black one with lace in the front. It was gorgeous.
Then she tried a navy one with stuff on the side and back. I honestly don’t know what the “stuff” was. At this point, I’m lucky I recognized it was a dress. It was stunning.
And she couldn’t decide. She hemmed and hawed. Her friends liked some better than others.
She tried the baby blue one on again.
And we left without anything.
I don’t want her to buy a dress she doesn’t love. But I also don’t want to have to do this again. Except I am. Next weekend.
Pray for me.
Monday, February 6, 2017
There’s a spider in my basement.
This wouldn’t be a big deal, except that I just convinced my teen that the basement is an acceptable place to be with her friends or to watch TV on occasion—after many, many, many years of her refusal to go anywhere near it.
I hate spiders. I’ve pretended to be okay with them so I don’t create some phobia in my kids, but I really, really, really hate them. So I’m not killing it.
My other teen is morally opposed to killing creatures. I’d be more okay with this if creatures didn’t include spiders. Her preferred method of disposal is to deposit them outside. Well, that’s where the spider started out, and he figured out a way to get inside once. Putting him back outside is not a long-term solution. Plus, she’s noisy about it. Actually, she’s noisy about everything and there’s no way I’ll be able to keep her quiet enough to prevent her sister from finding out. And then she’ll never go in the basement again.
Why don’t I have my husband kill it? Well, a few reasons. The most relevant one right now is that he’s 5,000 miles away for the next two weeks. If it’s still there when he gets back, I’ll ask him to take care of it.
I could be a total wimp and call my dad. Don’t laugh, I’ve done this before, except it was a cicada on the inside of the window in my living room. I tried calling my husband to take care of it, but he was at work and refused to come home to kill a bug. Do you have any idea how big cicadas are? HUGE. So I called my dad. And he was great. He came right over. But he deposited it outside. Which means it could have managed to get back in my house. It didn’t, but that’s beside the point. So even though my dad is retired and has plenty of time to come over and get rid of bugs for me, I’m not calling him. At least not yet.
For now, I’m leaving the spider where it is. It has eight eyes and eight legs. I figure if it’s going to be in my house, I can put it to work, looking out for bogeymen who might try to hide in my basement now that my husband is away.
Because I’m even more afraid of THEM!
|It's been there for two days now. There's a small chance it might be dead. I don't know and I'm not checking. But if it is dead, i'm still leaving it there as a warning to its friends and family: "Don't let this happen to you!"|
Monday, January 30, 2017
The first time you were put in my arms, I was calm (I was also drugged, so that could have contributed to the situation). I knew everything about you, because you had been inside of me for the past nine months and I recognized your face from the ultrasounds (and no one wants to argue with a hormonal woman who has just gone through 12+ hours of labor).
But really, I knew nothing about you, and when we got home from the hospital and everyone left, I looked at Daddy and said, “Now what?”
Over the years, I’ve laughed and cried and screamed and laughed some more while watching you grow into the young woman you are today. And I can confidently say I know more about you than I did that first day I brought you home.
I know you have the brightest smile and most sparkly green eyes I’ve ever seen, and you make my world a happier place just by being you.
I know no matter how insecure you might feel inside, you project confidence and wisdom that I admire.
I know you’re honest and I trust you implicitly—and I know you can handle the weight of my trust.
I know you’re stubborn, and that your stubbornness will do you well in the future. While you might have occasion to temper it, don’t ever let anyone convince you to lose it.
I know you know yourself, and at your age, that’s amazing. I hope you continue to grow and learn more about yourself and always trust your inner voice.
I know you embody every single dream I had for my daughter when I first dreamed of you; when I first looked at your big eyes and curly hair and big kissable belly; and when I look at and talk to you now.
Happy birthday to my first baby. As you chart your path, remember where you come from, who you are and all your dreams for your future.
And never forget how much I love you.
Monday, January 23, 2017
I’m a terrible person to take on a tour because I always hold everyone up. It’s not that I walk slowly or that I’m uninterested in what’s going on. It’s just that inevitably, there is always something going on not on the tour that interests me. Maybe it’s a dress in a store window we pass, or an interesting looking building we walk by. When I see it, I stop and all of a sudden I realize the rest of the tour has continued and I’m all by myself.
That’s also true, apparently, when I’m in lines waiting to enter places. This past weekend I was in Trenton waiting to enter the War Memorial. As we filed up the stairs, I paused to look up. And I saw incredible ceilings.
I noticed the quotes carved into the buildings.
And I’m pretty sure the people behind me grumbled as I stopped to take pictures.
So to them, I apologize. Just like the tour guides who lose patience with me while waiting for me to catch up, I’m sure none of you appreciated having to wait while I oohed and ahhed and photographed. And I totally understand if you never want to walk near me because it will happen again.
Because I'm a writer, and noticing comes with the territory.
Monday, January 16, 2017
I had the most amazing Twitter conversation with someone. It was amazing because we were able to have a civil, respectful discourse about politics. There was no talking at each other, no screaming and no accusation. On top of that, we were able to get our points across using groups of 140 characters or less, which for two writers, almost never happens.
I don’t know how she feels about my writing this, so I’m not going to name her. But she’s a best-selling writer I’ve admired for years. She’s an Iraqi war veteran, an officer in the Army and she brings that experience into her books. She’s currently getting her PhD at Duke. She’s been featured on PBS and has written widely about her military experience. In other words, she smart and powerful and mighty.
While she’s not sure we’re on different sides of the political aisle (we didn’t actually label ourselves), if we’re not, we definitely don’t agree on everything. But that didn’t matter. And it shouldn’t, because it’s possible for people to disagree to still have meaningful conversations (I would have said “expected,” but these days, I can’t.).
She tweeted her dismay at people potentially boycotting LL Bean because of a board member’s support of Trump. Because I am familiar with her, and have never seen her tweet anything disrespectful—that’s not to say she’s not passionate about things—I responded.
While my knee-jerk reaction is to boycott any company associated with a message of hate, after speaking with her and thinking about it, I’m not sure one board member’s association is enough to warrant it—if you think about it, it’s quite a high standard to start requiring and one which I’m confident would result in failure all around. And although it does leave a bad taste in my mouth, I’m pausing before making a decision that is right for me. I think I’m going to have to do a lot of that for the foreseeable future.
We talked about the need to balance support for companies that bring jobs to the US versus making our displeasure known when those companies show their support for hate. I talked as a civilian, Jewish woman. She talked as an Army officer from a small mill town. We both talked about our intolerance of hate.
In the end, we both agreed with the larger picture, we both expressed fear for the future, and we both appreciated our being able to discuss things clearly and rationally.
There’s a huge risk to starting or entering into these conversations on social media. You don’t know what kind of Pandora’s box you might be opening. And I’m not sure that someone else won’t respond angrily to something either one of us said. Freedom of speech is a scary thing right now. But we were careful with each other and we kept a common goal in mind—hatred, regardless of who it’s directed at, is never okay. And with respect, we can find our similarities even among our differences.
Monday, January 9, 2017
Being my friend on Facebook does not give you license to berate me for an opinion*.
I attended high school with approximately 1,300 other students. Just because you were one of them does not make us good friends (the same goes for any other association you and I might have—college, work, town, organization, etc.). It makes us have a location in common. If you were outside of my immediate friend group in high school, chances are, I had very little interaction with you, as I was a new student freshman year and I had a small group of friends. Since that time, I’ve gotten to know a lot of my fellow high school students better on Facebook than in school, a fact that amuses me greatly. Some of you I really do think of as friends, and I'm grateful for this social media platform that enabled our relationship. Others are mere acquaintances. Most of you make Facebook a fun place to be. But please recognize the boundaries.
If I’m not someone you’d choose to have a conversation with in real life—you know, face-to-face, in person, over coffee or chocolate—then chances are, we shouldn’t be having a potentially contentious conversation on Facebook. If you don’t like something I post there, you can simply continue to scroll down your phone or computer screen. If necessary, you can “dislike” it. If you absolutely can’t let it go, you can respectfully offer an alternative opinion. But there’s no need to make a nasty comment. I don’t do it to you, and believe me, it’s not because you’ve never expressed an opinion I disagreed with.
Social media gives us a false sense of security. It makes us feel as if we’re in a safe place and can say and do what we want with few consequences. It gives cowards a shield and idiots a platform. It gives us a microphone to reach a larger audience—without the annoying audio feedback and the incessant “Is this on?” It can also make us feel more important than we really are, thus giving us a license to say whatever we want, without thinking about the consequences.
Let me be clear. I’m not a huge fan of argument because I don’t like conflict. However, I am happy to put aside that dislike and enter into discussions with someone who disagrees with me if the discussion is civil, respectful and polite. You might change my mind, I might change yours or we both may agree to disagree. Those conversations are often interesting, educational and eye opening.
Disagree with my politics? Great, that’s what makes this a diverse nation. Tell me you disagree. Tell me why. Offer me an intelligent idea I haven’t considered before. Dislike my posts or don’t find my status funny? You’re entitled to your opinion and I believe your opinion is as valid as my own. We’re all different and that’s fantastic. Tell me your opinions nicely.
But--and this is a big one--my wall is my safe space. And it is a safe space for others as well. I will not tolerate anyone berating me or anyone else I might happen to be friends with on my wall. I will not allow bigotry or bullying or anything else that might offend me or make me wonder if your comment might offend one of my friends. I will delete, unfriend, unfollow or block without a second thought, and I won’t miss you being part of my Facebook world.
*99% of my Facebook friends don't cause issues--this post is for the other 1%.