How to Pick Up Girls in Words with Friends

Guys, I get it. You’re looking for a little somethin-somethin, and your local bar scene just isn’t delivering the selection of quality females to which you believe you’re entitled. You decide to try the Internet for picking up women but need a venue that’s low cost and that gives you the greatest return on investment. None of that “swipe left” bullshit. You think, I’ll try Words with Friends (WWF). It’s free, you can meet women all over the world, and once you’ve trapped (er, challenged) them to a game, the women pretty much HAVE to talk to you. It’s perfect!

Before you slip into your sweatpants and pop open that cold Budweiser, anticipating a fun night of stalking, er, chatting with women, here are few pointers to ensure your greatest success:

1. Be mindful of your avatar photo. This is the equivalent of making a good first impression and will be the first thing about you that she sees. I know you’re super proud of your penis, but drawing a smiley face on it and making that your in-game photo will definitely cause women to decline your game invitations. DEFINITELY.

2. Also be mindful of your in-game name. I know you think “bigdick10” is clever, but women will not find it quite so enchanting.

3. Look for women within your same skill level. Trust me on this one, guys. If your average word score is 6, and hers is 23, your gig will be up. She’s going to know that your intentions are for something other than some fun word-play.

4. Use the chat function wisely. Look, I know you’re eager. There are SO MANY WOMEN TO TALK TO! Still, you need to pace yourself or you will scare them off. Don’t immediately start chatting with them. Instead, try playing the game awhile before peppering them with personal questions.

5. If you choose to chat, stick to game-talk. Compliment her plays and word choices. Be witty and interesting. Such banter will make the game enjoyable for her, and won’t chase her away before you have a chance to ask her to send you pictures of herself.

6. DON’T ASK HER TO SEND YOU PICTURES OF HERSELF. Just don’t. What are you, some kind of pervy creep?

7. Take rejection gracefully. If you ignore the advice above, and insist on asking personal questions or demanding photos (I warned you, you fucking asshole), DO NOT automatically become enraged and call her names. She will block you.

8. When you’ve been blocked by a woman, do not create another name so that you can challenge her to a game for the sole purpose of calling her a bitch because she rejected you. She knows it’s you (your photo is the same, duh) and she will decline your game invitation.

9. If your sole purpose of playing WWF is to hunt women, then don’t play. The women who play WWF are smart (smarter than you, Mr. 6-point-average-word-score) and can tell what your intentions are.

Damaged

When I was 14 years old, I was sexually assaulted by a man my parents hired to hang wallpaper in our home. My parents went out for the evening and left me home, alone, with a total stranger.

All of these years later, I can remember every detail of that day: how excited I'd felt because a boy I had a crush on told me he liked me; how it was a warm spring day; how I sat cross-legged on the floor and watched while the wallpaper man worked; how my mother had instructed me to keep an eye on him.

I remember chatting with the man, being the polite good girl that I was raised to be. I remember getting him a glass of water.

I remember looking down at one point and noticing in horror that the shorts I was wearing had hiked up around my thighs, revealing the edge of my panties and a few dark wisps of pubic hair. I was embarrassed and quickly stood up, but it was too late. He'd seen it too.

In an instant, he had me pinned against the wall in the hallway with his body, telling me that this is how it always starts,  with some pretty young girl making him lose control.

I hated his coffee breath as he forced his tongue in my mouth. I hated his fingers gripping my breast and the intrusion of his other hand between my legs. I hated my awareness of his erection - the first one I'd ever felt - against my leg.

I pleaded with him: I don't want to do this. I'm only 14! Please just leave me alone. Please! Pleasepleasepleaseplease. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'M SO SORRY.

His response to my pleas was to pick me up and throw me on my parents' bed in the room across the hall.

I fought against his body on top of me. Remarkably, I managed to get away from him, but I would never be free of the memory of the terror I felt. I tried to block it out of my mind by not telling anyone or even mentioning it in my journal, but it was always there. It colored every relationship I ever had with a broad brushstroke of unworthiness. I felt damaged and guilty for what happened to me. Had I led him on? Were my clothes too revealing?

Even though I realize now that I should have blamed my parents for putting me in a dangerous situation, I blamed myself instead, as if it were somehow my fault by the very fact of my having been born female. I even felt guilty for allowing the assault to wound me as deeply as it did. After all, it's not like it was a full-blown rape. Why couldn't I just get over it already?

Later, as I grew older, feelings of sexual desire were always accompanied by feelings of intense shame. How could my body betray me with such yearnings after what had happened to me? Clearly my body couldn't be trusted. I couldn't be trusted.

Decades later, I'm finally able to talk about what happened to me. Years of self-work have afforded me the perspective of realizing that the actions of that terrible man were not my fault. I did nothing wrong. I was a victim.

Guilt still lingers, though it's of a different variety than over what I was wearing that day. I feel immense guilt that I didn't tell anyone. Because of my silence, some other girl - or girls - may have suffered the same awful violation at the hands of that man that I did. 

This is not an easy burden, and it's one I've lived with for nearly forty years. I don't know that man's name, or if he's even still alive, so I can't make him face the justice he should have faced decades ago. But I can tell my story, and encourage other women to tell their stories. It's time to end the shame and stigma that women feel over finding themselves victims of sexual assault.

Perhaps the most important thing I can do is teach my sons how to treat women with respect; that "no" always means no, without exception. A drunk girl isn't an opportunity, and a young girl certainly isn't an invitation.

Teaching boys about consent isn't a lesson that can be taught once - it's one that must be refined and discussed and revisited as the boy grows. Friends, other parents, and the media have a powerful way of influencing our boys in negative ways. The only way to raise kind, compassionate, and respectful men is to keep the conversation going - a conversation that begins with us. 

(originally published on Medium.com on 10/14/16)

The Waning

(image by Michal G)

I'm at the hospital with my mother. The short, squat woman at the registration desk is asking me questions about my mother's health history as if she isn't there. I look first to my mother to acknowledge her presence, then back at the registration clerk to answer the questions. I double check most of the answers with my mother: I confirm her height, weight, list of medications. I feel embarrassed when I realize there's much I don't know. Being my mother's advocate is a role that feels strange, and I feel a sudden panic about not being able to manage it properly.

My mother is weak and fragile these days, unable to walk unless she holds onto me. I ask her when she'd last eaten since the CAT scan she's going to have requires fasting. She looks at me blankly and doesn't answer. I may as well have asked her the density of Jupiter. Later, she confesses to me that she can't remember the last time she ate.

I know that we need to have a conversation about what's next, but I have no clue as to what that might be. What is next for someone who can't take care of herself but refuses to move into a nursing home? Someone who still smokes and drinks but can't seem to feed herself on a regular basis? Someone so weak she can't stand for longer than a minute or two?

At each point in our hospital adventure, the staff continues to speak to me rather than her. I tell my mother that this bothers me, but she says she doesn't care. As long as I am here to talk to them, she says she's fine not having them acknowledge her. Suddenly, I'm thrust into the role of my mother's communicator. When did this happen? Wasn't she completely fine taking care of herself just a few weeks ago?

I briefly wonder how much longer she'll live. I make a mental wish that when it's her time to go, she goes quickly. No prolonged illnesses or hospitalizations. She's a terrible patient who refuses to listen to anyone, least of all me. It will be better for both of us if she just passes one day in her sleep. I set this intention for her, but then feel guilty thinking it. In the next instant, I wonder if I'll miss her once she's gone.

It's a reasonable concern. She's never been the sort of mother who's easy to love. She's always been more of the irresponsible child in our relationship. My job is to take care of her, bail her out of bad situations, and then clean up the resulting messes and fallout from her poor decisions. Her job is to do what she wants and mostly ignore me.

 

I've never been able to share much of my life - my secret longings, fears, and successes - with her. She will judge and condemn any parts that aren't the way she would want them to be. Growing up, I'd feel hurt and rejected and would blame myself for not being a different person. After a lifetime of poor self esteem, I eventually learned that it's easier for me to simply not tell her anything.

I have to help my mother get undressed for her CAT scan, a tricky task considering she's still in a wheelchair and too weak to stand. I help remove her shirt, then her bra. I can see her bones. Her shoulders are now about the same width as a child's. She has no muscles. Her flesh drapes like heavy curtains over her small frame. I fish her bony arms through the openings of the hospital gown and then cover her with another gown to keep her warm. She smiles at me - her first hint of appreciation all day.

A few minutes later, a nurse arrives to take my mother for her procedure. I feel  secretly relieved that I'm not allowed to accompany her to the testing room.

Once they're gone, I sink comfortably into the solitude of the waiting room. I think about how I used to be a woman raising a family. Now I'm a woman raising a family and being a caregiver for her mother. I feel tiny and alone, unable to avoid feeling as if I'm about to be swallowed whole by the demands of my life.

No one tells you how you can be instantly transported to being a child when caring for an aging parent. Even though my mother is the one needing care, the underlying dynamic of our relationship - me wanting to appease her and not rock the boat - is still there. When I look at her, I still see the face of a woman who always seemed angry, the mother always about to scold me.

A lifetime of mistakes suggests that she may never have known what's truly best for her, but I've not yet accepted that I do. Her mind is still sharp, so I let her make decisions about her own care. I research medical terms and conditions so I can adequately explain them for her to understand. She's still the alpha dog. I am her minion.

The nurse returns with my mother after several minutes. They're arguing about my mother's veins. My mother pushes up the sleeve of her hospital gown to show me four different bandages on her arm.

                "We had a little trouble finding her vein," the nurse explains.

                "I told you to only use my left arm but you didn't listen to me," my mother yells at the nurse. I feel a pang of guilt. I knew about the left arm and didn't say anything. I didn't expect that I had to.

After helping my mother get dressed, I wheel her out to the hospital lobby to wait while I get the car. I walk down toward the parking lot but glance back briefly to make sure she's OK. She looks so small sitting there alone in the wheelchair. In the blink of an eye, I've become my parent's parent.

I pull the car up to the lobby door and help her out of the wheelchair and into the car. She lets out a sigh as she settles into the seat.

                "I'm so glad to have that over with," she tells me.

I don't tell her that it's not over, that it's only just the beginning. Instead, I put the car in gear and drive her home.

Goodbye 2015

As far as years go, I’ve had worse ones, but I’ve also had much better ones.

It feels naive to pin lofty hopes on 2016, that the clock will strike 12:00 and everything will magically improve. I know that’s not how it works. Each year brings a mixed bag of tricks — some delightful, others not so much. The secret, I suppose, is to enjoy the unveiling, and to seek a gem of goodness in everything, no matter what shows up. For most of us, though, that’s the challenging part.

Lately, I’ve been plagued by a restlessness that feels larger than anything I’ve ever known. Like carrying a giant toddler, it’s impossible to ignore. It commands my attention while crushing in on me, threatening to squash me from its demands. My life, now half over, has become stagnant. Is this all there is — an unending cycle of work and bills and responsibility? I feel called to step outside of my little box, to do more, to feel more, to be more. I’m done with austerity; it’s time for more.

If I can ask anything of 2016, it’s that I’ll find greater opportunities to learn about myself and my purpose for being here. I wish for enough security that I’m able to trust myself and take risks but not so much security that I relax into complacency. I want the freedom to experience new things instead of using all of my energy in maintaining the old ones.

I long for something to set my soul on fire.

It’s with both trepidation and expectant waiting that I’ll greet the new year. I’m eager to see what unfolds, while at the same time, hoping that whatever it is, it's merciful.

Be gentle with me, 2016.

Gardening? No Thank You. I’d Rather Clean the Bathroom

(I can't grow anything else but these are nice, right?)

There are few activities that I dislike more than gardening. Between the bugs, the dirt, the heat, and my aching back, it’s impossible to tell which I hate more. Combined with the fact that I’m rarely successful at growing anything that isn't a weed, it’s easy to see why I would rather clean the bathroom, go to the dentist, and call the cable company than engage in any yard work.

A large part of the reason that nothing thrives in my yard is due to the fact that I’m terribly inconsistent when it comes to watering plants. I start out OK in June, when the weather is still mild, but by July, I've lost complete interest in it. Honestly, is there anything more mind-numbing that spending an hour a night spraying plants with a leaky, drippy, hose?  

That's why in my yard, it’s survival of the fittest. To live here, a plant has to be able to survive without my assistance. I may be many things, but no one would ever accuse me of being a plant coddler.

The only flower I have any kind of success with is the day lily. I have tons of them in every color imaginable. They’re my ideal plant: they don’t need to be watered constantly and are tough to kill, probably because they’re really weeds at heart. No one has to water or fertilize their wild cousins that line country roads in a riot of orange color each summer.

Weeding is another problem. I can handle the weeds (sort of) in May and June, when they’re tiny little baby weeds, but not in July when they've suddenly morphed into Audrey from Little Shop of Horrors, complete with thorns and big teeth. By August, you need a hacksaw and dynamite to cut down those bad boys.  

Not to sound as if I'm bragging or anything, but my yard has more than its fair share of weeds. At one time, it used to be a field and has been committed to overthrowing my efforts in order to return to its natural state ever since.  By mid-summer, I’m inclined to let it, having had my fill of the entire gardening experience.

This year, in an attempt to choose the right plants for my yard and my ability, I've consulted with an expert on the subject. Even though he’s 17 and only works at the Home Depot on weekends, I’m quite sure the young man I spoke with knows what he’s talking about when it comes to gardening.

            “Can you please help me?  I’m looking for some plants for my yard.”

            “Ok, sure.  What sort of plants are you looking for?”

            “Oh, any kind will be fine, as long as it doesn't need to be watered and won’t die.”

            “Well, that certainly narrows it down, doesn't it?”

It’s at this point that I’m sent on my way with yet another day lily. Who knew that the kid at Home Depot was some kind of botanical genius?

              

Of Square Pegs

When my son Ryan was born, I was certain he was the most magnificent being I'd ever seen.  As he grew, I became even more convinced of his brilliance.  From an early age, Ryan's intelligence, curiosity, and sensitivity were apparent.  Clearly my child was on this earth to do great things and I was proud to be his mother.  It wasn't until he started school that I was informed otherwise.

 

For some reason, my square peg kid never quite fit into those round peg holes that would earn glowing remarks at school conferences.  More likely, I would hear plenty of examples suggesting that my perfectly wonderful child wasn't nearly so perfect - or wonderful.

During one particular teacher conference when Ryan was in fourth grade, my husband Dan and I prepared ourselves for the usual comments:  Ryan talks too much.  Ryan completes his work too fast and then becomes disruptive.  Ryan isn't organized.

 

We weren't disappointed.  Evidently all of Ryan's flaws had followed him into fourth grade, and his teacher couldn't wait to tell us about them.  While none were serious or harmful to others, I still longed for some positive comment, some concrete evidence, that we hadn't completely failed as a parents.

As we listened to the usual litany of Ryan's shortcomings, his teacher, Mr. Andrew, grew serious.  He leaned in close to Dan and me as if to reveal a great secret.  For a moment, I thought he might finally confess to seeing my child as I see him:  smart, respectful, loving, and empathic.

 

"Last week," the teacher began, "Ryan did something highly inappropriate during our field trip to the art museum."

Dan and I looked at one another.  What could Ryan possibly have done to elicit such a grave response from his teacher?  Yes, he could be unorganized and overly exuberant, but we've never known him to be hurtful or disrespectful toward others.

Mr. Andrew continued, "At the museum, we were greeted by the museum curator.  She told the children that they had to follow the rules of the museum and asked if any of them could guess what those rules were."

I held my breath, certain that whatever infraction Ryan had committed was going to be a doozy.

"Many of the children raised their hands and answered what they thought the museum's rules might be.  Some said 'no running,' 'no touching the artwork,' and 'no bringing food inside.'"

Against my better judgment, I asked, "Did Ryan say anything?"

"He most certainly did," Mr. Andrew huffed indignantly.  "Ryan responded in a most unsuitable way."

My mind flashed to earlier in the week when I'd lost my temper after dropping a soup can on my toe.  Had Ryan mimicked my unsavory language?  Visions of school detentions and expulsions raced through my head.

Mr. Andrew continued, his voice dripping with contempt. "Instead of offering a useful rule, Ryan chose to be a comedian and yelled out, 'no shoes, no shirt, no service.'"

No shoes, no shirt, no service?  Parroting words he'd seen on the doors of retail stores was the crime our son had committed?  I clasped my hand over my mouth, struggling to contain my laughter.  Whether it was Ryan's cleverness or my relief at learning that this really big deal wasn't such a big deal at all, I suddenly felt tons lighter.  I glanced at Dan, who had his head down.  I swear I saw him trying to suppress a smile.

At the end of the conference, we thanked Ryan's teacher and promised to talk to Ryan about behaving more appropriately.  We walked to the car in silence.

Inside the car, though, we burst out laughing.

 

"Can you believe what Ryan said?" Dan asked after a few minutes.

"No," I replied, tears trickling down my face from laughing so hard.  "I had no idea he could be that witty!"

"At least we know he's reading all those store signs about wearing clothes and shoes," Dan laughed, recalling Ryan's recent fascination with the sign on the door of our local convenience store.

Dan and I high-fived each other, celebrating our newly-realized confidence that our son would be just fine.  After all, if it wasn't for our own ability to find the humor in life, we would have been burdened more often by its challenges.  If Ryan has already learned to not take himself or his situations too seriously, he's destined to grow into a more resilient person, one capable of weathering whatever life has in store for him.  As far as we were concerned, a sense of humor would serve him better than conformity ever would.

Later at home, Ryan asked about the conference.

"It couldn't have gone any better," I replied.  And this time, it was true.

The Cool-ish Mom

Growing up, I was what could be considered "cool."  Well, "cool" in that somewhat nerdy, loves-to-read-and-stay-out-of-trouble way.

Then I had kids and they made it their job to remind me - at every opportunity - of precisely how UNcool I've become.  They don't believe me when I say that wearing sensible shoes and getting enough sleep ARE cool, but one of these days, they'll come around.  No way can you look hip if you're sporting bunions and dark circles all the time.

A few weeks back, while believing that I had sufficient coolness to recognize what was currently hip and trendy, I ordered Evan a winter coat.  This was incredibly brave of me, considering he's a teenager with very specific ideas of what constitutes "hip" and "cool."  Still, the coat was an amazing deal on Amazon, and it had been really cold outside.  For the few misguided moments it took to purchase the coat, I truly believed that Evan would like it.  After all, I made sure it did not have any of the characteristics of coats he'd complained about in the past (too puffy, too heavy, too long, etc.) 

My next mistake was sharing my excitement about the coat with Evan. 

            "Hey, Evan, guess what I ordered for you today?"

            "What?" he asked suspiciously, certain that it couldn't possibly be anything good.

            "I ordered you a hip new coat!"

A look of terror came over Evan's face.  "Hip?  Mom, I don't mean to be rude or anything, but your idea of "hip" and my idea of "hip" are very different."

            "I know, I know," I said, "but you're going to love this one.  It really is hip and stylish.  In fact, I bet there are a lot of really cool kids at your school wearing this same coat right now."

Evan was dubious, but agreed to give the coat a fair chance once it arrived.

A few days later, he surprised me by asking when the coat would be delivered.  Aha, I thought; he IS excited about it.  I felt even more certain that I'd chosen a winner.  He would love this coat and I would forever be known as The Cool Mom, the one who understands her teen, the one who actually finds clothes he's excited to wear.

When UPS delivered Evan's coat, I was so excited.  Evan was at school, but I opened the box to make sure the coat was still as hip and cool as I remembered it being when I ordered it.  It was!  The color, the style - all perfect.  I just knew Evan was going to love it.  I put it near his seat at the kitchen table so it would be the first thing he saw when he came home from school.

Those of you with teenagers can probably guess what happened next.  Evan did not love the coat.  In fact, he didn't even pretend to like it.

            "You don't like it, do you?" I asked after seeing the visible disappointment on his face.

            "I'm sorry, Mom, but I would never wear this."

            "But I thought it was hip. I thought I'd gotten it right this time."

            "Actually, it IS hip.  It's just not for me."  Evan tried to break my heart gently.

            "Can you at least try to like it?"

            "MOM!"

            "OK, OK, I'll send it back."

The only thing that gave me any satisfaction was Evan admitting the coat WAS hip.  Oh, and a second thing:  writing on the return form to Amazon that my kid has no taste.

(dedicated to the memory of my friend, Lynn Borders Caldwell, who was cool without even trying.)