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.)

A Call to Life

(image from www.animalabusersspotlight.com)

Like many of us in this area, I'm trying to make sense, if that's even possible, of the brutal murders this week of an entire family. I'm trying to understand what would motivate someone described as "a nice guy who would do anything for you" to kill the mother of his children, her mother, her grandmother, her sister, her brother-in-law, their fourteen-year-old daughter, and leave their seventeen-year-old son critically wounded and fighting for his life.

 

As a further thumb of his nose to his family and our community, this deranged killer took his own life in a peaceful wooded setting that clearly didn't deserve to be blighted with his darkness.  If this was to be his chosen end, couldn't he have just killed himself first and avoided all of those other horrific steps?

I keep thinking about the victims and how they probably went to bed Sunday night like the rest of us, taking for granted that life would continue on the next day as it always has.  The adults may have been thinking about what they'd have to do the next day at work or what still needed to be done in preparation for the Christmas holiday.  They might have left dishes in the sink and grocery lists on the fridge.  The kids were probably thinking about upcoming finals at school and getting together with friends over the winter break.  Did they ever suspect that there'd be no next day, no Christmas, no winter break?

No future?

With one man's sick and twisted decision, an entire family is eliminated.  Just like that, three children are orphaned.  Just like that, life stops.

 

My youngest son attended kindergarten with fourteen-year-old Nina Flick.  Her smiling face and ponytails live on forever in their class photo on my bookcase, so full of promise and innocence, unaware of the horrors that would eventually befall her family.

If there is any wisdom to glean from this tragedy, perhaps it's to serve as a reminder to the rest of us of how quickly life can change.  In one maniacal moment, all that we know and love can be snuffed out.  When you think about it that way, what's really important in our lives rises to the top of our consciousness and lesser things fall away.

 

These days, I hold my own kids tighter, getting in one last squeeze before they pull away from me to go to bed or leave for school.  I'm so very grateful that they are here with me and safe, their lives a brilliant promise ahead of them.

 

Perhaps by simply living our lives, and doing our best to love those around us, we can most appropriately honor those who were taken from us too soon.

I encourage all of us to begin.

**For those interested in helping, a fund has been established by Univest, WordFM, and the Rotary Club to benefit the surviving Stone and Flick childre. You can go to WordFM.org to make a donation or send checks payable to Univest Foundation with “Stone & Flick Children Fund” written in the memo line. If individuals wish to direct donations to a specific child, they can include their name in the memo line. Checks should be mailed to Univest Foundation, 14 North Main Street, P.O. Box 559, Souderton, PA 18964.  

The Truth Comes Out

(image from mentalfloss.com)

A few nights ago, the kids and I were in the living room after dinner.  It was a rare night when the oldest two were home, and all three of them were talking and teasing each other.  I was engrossed in the book I was reading until their banter suddenly caught my attention.

            “Well, at least I didn’t give you toilet water to drink when you were sick, Matt!”  This protest from my youngest son toward his older brother was the first time I’d heard such a thing.  I mean, sure, we discuss toilet water like every other normal family, but it’s usually in the context of “the cat is drinking it,” or “it’s overflowing all over the place.”

            “Wait…toilet water? Matt, you gave your brother toilet water to drink?”

            “Evan, aren’t you ever gonna forget that?  I was EIGHT!”

            “So you did give your brother toilet water to drink.  Matt, how could you?”

Evan, happy to now have an audience, proceeded to tell the story of how he asked Matt for a drink of water while he was sick on the couch and Matt gave him toilet water instead.

            “How did you know it was toilet water?”  I asked Evan, hoping that this story was just one big exaggeration.  I mean, my kids get along great, don’t they?  They’re decent and respectful to one another when I'm not around, right?

Evan was more than happy to shatter my cozy image of sibling harmony.  “I knew it was toilet water because it was warm.  Also, because Matt told me it was after I drank it.”

Matt, knowing he was snagged, simply had to report on a misdeed of Evan's. “Well, at least I didn’t lock you in your room all the time like you used to do to me.” 

I did know about this particular infraction.  Our house is old, and the door to Matt’s bedroom has a skeleton-key lock on the outside of the door rather than on the inside.  Whenever Evan and Matt would play together in Matt’s room and have a disagreement, Evan would storm out, slam Matt’s door, and then lock it from the outside.  Matt would be trapped in his room, pounding on the door and yelling, until someone freed him. 

Evan, anxious to return the attention to his own mistreatment, said, “That’s nothing like giving someone toilet water to drink.  Toilet. Water.  When they’re SICK.”  Evan was clearly going for maximum sympathy.

            “It’s not like I peed in it first or anything.  Geez, Evan!”

That’s true.  If Matt wanted to be truly evil and malicious, he could have peed in the toilet first.  I briefly wondered why Matt hadn't thought of that because if he had, he surely would have upped the gross-out factor.

They continued to tell tales of sibling pranks on one another, each trying to secure the title of Most Tormented Brother.  Apparently, they only behave like civil human beings when I'm around.

At least something good came from these confessions:  I now know to not ever ask any of them for a drink of water when I'm sick. 

Achievement for the Old and Overwhelmed

(image from thebumpyride.blogspot.com)

Recently, my son and I were talking about the idea of achievement and how this varies at different points in your life.  Obviously, as kids grow, their achievements are many:  walking, talking, potty-training, starting school, earning their drivers' license, graduation, etc.

 

This made me realize it's been a while since I've achieved anything significant (assuming not strangling that guy making sales calls on his cell phone in the middle of the restaurant where we celebrated my birthday doesn't count as an "achievement.") 

I know, I know...I have managed to keep all of the kids alive, and I don't usually embarrass myself in public (not often, anyway,) but I'm talking about medal-worthy achievements that I can claim in my increasingly "mature" age. 

The way I see it, anyone can earn an advanced degree or survive a jump out of an airplane, but you need the perfect combination of age and apathy to master these feats:

1)  I can ignore laundry piles like a BOSS.  My laundry pile is so high that we have to place caution tape around the clothes hamper.  If the pile were to fall over on a child, we'd likely never find him again.  While I do manage to wash the items on the top of the pile once in a while, I'm certain there are items of clothing on the very bottom that haven't been seen since the Bush administration.

2)  I can carry five plastic grocery bags at one time and still manage to unlock the door.  This is a true feat of dexterity and fortitude. Placing the bags on various fingers according to weight is a skill that is learned over years of dropping said bags in the middle of the driveway. Having to fish cans out from under the minivan is always a good time.  And then there's the matter of pinched off circulation.  If your fingers don't cramp up or fall off by the time you reach the door, it is a good day indeed.

3)  I can gain weight so easily that Sumo wrestlers are jealous of me.  I am so good at this that I don't even have to actually eat any food to do it.  My body has apparently found a way of  extracting calories right out of thin air.  Talk about a talent!  As soon as I increase my exercise to combat the weight gain, my body immediately assumes I'm lost in the woods and works even harder to conserve body fat.  As soon as the current thin craze is no longer popular, everyone is going to be begging to know how I do it.

4)  I can routinely miss huge areas of hair on my legs while shaving in the shower.  This one is probably less of a talent and more of a side effect of poor eyesight.  I can't understand why someone hasn't invented glasses that you can wear in the shower.  They should put tiny windshield wipers on them, too.  Then I could actually see to shave.  Until that happens, I double-dog-dare you to find someone with more patches of overlooked leg hair than me. 

I'm still perfecting my ability to scold a child without saying a word, as well as trying to break my current record of keeping houseplants alive without any water.  

Not to brag or anything, but I guess you could say I'm a bit of an overachiever.  I'm always looking for ways to improve myself!

Diving in the Deep End

(I think he shows a healthy amount of trepidation, don't you?)

My youngest son, Evan, started high school this week.  He wasn't looking forward to it.  I understood his apprehension as there's much to be anxious about.  He's coming from a school with 200 kids and going to one that has over 2000.  He'll be changing classes, obeying bells, and dealing with lockers for the first time ever.  Plus, the school is huge.  Schools this size eat smaller ones like his old school for lunch.  Speaking of lunch, he didn't even know how to use a cafeteria as he's never had to navigate one before.

I did my best to prepare him in whatever ways I could.  We studied a map of the school and plotted out routes to his locker and all of his classes.  I showed him where the bus would be parked so he could find it at the end of the day.  I reminded him to ask a teacher if he gets lost or needs help.  I assured him that everyone feels nervous when they start high school but it will get better after a few weeks. 

I don't think he quite believed me. 

During the summer, I enrolled Evan in swimming lessons. He'd never learned to swim, and since he'd need to know how for gym class, lessons seemed like a good idea.

  

Over the span of a week, his instructor guided him through a predictable sequence: first, kicking with a board, then swimming freestyle, then the backstroke, and then the breast stroke.  The final lesson would be diving.

Evan did not want to dive.  Every day, he worried about it and every night, he lost sleep over it.  I told him he'd easily bob back up to the surface and that it's incredibly difficult to sink all the way to the bottom.  We watched small kids diving in the twelve-foot end of the pool with ease.  None of this calmed his fear.  Each day, his instructor would ask, "Are you ready to try diving today?"  Each day, his response would be no.

Finally, at the last class, he couldn't avoid it any longer.  His instructor knew he was nervous, so she had him progress to the diving board in steps:  first, jump off the side of the pool straight into the water; next, squat and arc a bit into the water; finally, stand and arc into the water.  Evan performed all of these tasks, surprising himself with each success.

The only thing left to conquer was the diving board.  I knew that the diving board was a symbol of dozens of other little fears that Evan had allowed to consume him.  If he succeeded with this one thing in spite of his fear, it would give him the confidence to push through all kinds of other challenges in his life.

 

Evan's anxiety was visible as he reluctantly approached the diving board.  He paced in circles at the base of it, unable to move onto the actual board.  His instructor assured him he could do it.  His father and I assured him he could do it.  His instructor even agreed to walk out on the diving board next to him.  Evan wasn't having any of it.  He was frozen with fear.

As someone who understands anxiety well, I thought of things that help me move through fear.  In my experience, the quickest way out of fear purgatory is to get angry about being there in the first place.

"Evan, you've got to get angry at your fear," I shouted.  "It's keeping you a prisoner.  You've got to get mad and just do it!  Don't let your fear have control over you any longer.  Do it and get it over with!"

I'm sure this advice made him more angry at me than the diving board, but at least it convinced him to move.  As his instructor encouraged him, Evan inched out to the end of the board.  His dad and I cheered him on until finally - miraculously - probably just to shut us up - he dove in the water.  He bobbed back up to the surface with a huge grin on his face, jubilant over his success.  He took a dive in the deep end and he survived.

 

No doubt Evan's triumph over the diving board was on his mind as he started his first day of high school. 

When he arrived home, I asked him how school was and if he was able to find all of his classes.

"I nailed it," he said.  "It was much easier than diving in the deep end at the pool."

I don't think I have anything to worry about.  This kid's going to be just fine.

You're Never Too Old to Forget Something New

(Mewcifer, helping me study)

Recently, I've been studying for an exam that my employer wants me to take for my job.  Passing it is entirely optional unless I prefer to remain employed.

So I gathered my five remaining brain cells together - you know, the ones not busy keeping track of kids, pets, and car keys - and began studying.

 

Reading the information was fine, even with the subject matter being a bit on the tedious side.  Still, I put in the required number of reading hours and thought all was well.

My problems began when I attempted to actually recall what I'd read.  As I finished each chapter and took the practice quizzes at the end, it became clear exactly how much of what I'd read just wasn't sticking in my brain.

 

Funny thing - remembering stuff is pretty critical to passing an exam.

Considering I'm as old the invention of the ZIP code, my learning-stuff-to-pass-an-exam days are far behind me.  Combine that with the fact that you lose a quarter of your brain cells in childbirth*and it's easy to see why I'm struggling.  I've had three kids, so doing the math tells me there's very little left in the way of brain capacity to work with.

 

Yet here I am, trying to make the same demands on my brain that I did when I was twenty.  No wonder it laughs at me:  "You want me to juggle your life AND learn something new?  At the same time?  NOT GONNA HAPPEN." 

This is the same insolent brain that allows me to walk into a room without actually clueing me in as to  why I felt compelled to walk in there in the first place.  My mind can be a real jerk at times.

To have any hope of passing this exam, I knew I needed some new strategies - ones that don't rely on memorization.

I decided to increase the number of hours I sleep each night.  I figure it can't hurt, and maybe my brain will be a little more accommodating if it's not always sleep-deprived.

 

Next, I'm trying to read more carefully.  In this age of information overload, it's easy to fall into the habit of skimming content instead of reading it.  It's kind of like how you listen to every word your spouse says for the first five years of marriage, and then after that, you're lucky if you catch the fourth or fifth sentence.

My youngest son suggested that I highlight the critical words in each question (such as "is NOT correct," "is true EXCEPT") so that I don't miss them.  Looking over my incorrect answers on the quizzes revealed that skipping over those words is indeed something I've been doing.

What really seems to be making a difference is that I've also begun relating each concept I'm studying to something I already know.  I didn't make it this far in life without experiencing a ton of things, so why not put that hard-earned wisdom to work?

 

Can't remember the elements of a contract?  I'll just think back to that rock climbing participation agreement  I had to sign so Evan could go with his class.  Not sure I can recall how loss assessment coverage works?  Thinking about the Hurricane Sandy damage at my mom's condominium will certainly jog my memory.

 

My five brain cells and I are going to rock this thing.  We may not be twenty anymore, but we are wise, mighty, and determined.  And that's even better.

*OK, I totally made up that childbirth thing, but it sure feels that way!

The Early Bird Catches the Teenager

(Yes, there is a kid under there.)

Recently, our family took a break from our responsibilities and headed to the shore for the day.  Having to wake up teenagers reminded me of how I'd rather do just about anything else.  Getting five people up, showered, and out the door by a certain time is no easy feat.

Actually, only four of us have trouble waking up.  My husband is a morning person, though technically he wakes up so early that it would still be considered night by the sane among us.  By the time I stumble downstairs, eager to plant my face in a hot cup of coffee, he is already well-caffeinated and ridiculously perky.   

I don't handle "perky" well on a good day, let alone first thing in the morning while I'm still trying to unglue my eyelids.  The only reason I haven't stabbed him yet is because he moves faster than I do.  One of these days, I'm going to switch all the coffee in the house to decaf so that I have a chance of catching him.

It wouldn't be so bad if he kept quiet and stayed out of my way for, say, three or four hours while I wake up.  Instead, he hits me with questions the moment I come downstairs.  Have I seen his shoes/camera/keys?  How much money is in the bank account?  Did I remind (insert child of choice here) about (insert forgotten chore here)?  I don't know why he can't just write this stuff down on a note so that I can properly ignore it until I've had a chance to wake up.

The kids, on the other hand, are not perky at all.  On the Perky/Dead continuum, they are somewhere around Comatose.  They sleep so soundly that I'm tempted to stick spoons under their noses to see if they're still breathing.  If I can manage to rouse them at all, they will lie and tell me whatever is most likely to make me go away.  Thirty minutes later, I realize that the child who promised he was getting up and in the shower is still in his bed, sound asleep.  Believe me, no one feels more homicidal than a mom who has to start the wake-up routine all over again.

While getting ready for our shore trip, I realized that I've been doing this waking-up business all wrong.  Why should I be the one to wake up the kids when Mr. Perkypants has been up and fully conscious for hours?

 

My kids think that I'm annoying when I wake them up.  Muahahaha!  They have no idea how annoying their well-rested and super-caffeinated father can be.

I can't wait to see how this goes.  It may actually be worth getting up for.

Going Off-Duty

I am what could best be described as a crier.  Not the kind from the old days, riding through the streets, delivering news, but the weepy, snotty, need-to-bring-tissues-wherever-I-go kind.

I cry if I'm sad.  I cry if I witness something beautiful.  I cry if someone is kind to me.  I cry at movies, weddings, and funerals.  Mostly, though, I cry at the endings of things.

In the span of a week, two of my kids have graduated from something:  my middle son from high school  and my youngest from eighth grade.  Both have successfully ended one part of their lives and are moving on to a new part.  Although I am happy for them, it was inevitable:  tears were going to flow.

I worried about these graduations all year.  I hate crying in front  of other people; it's embarrassing and makes me feel overly sentimental.  What's worse is that I suffer the after-effects of crying for the rest of the day.  After a  crying spell, my eyes remain red, dry, and itchy, and  I have trouble seeing properly.  My nose and cheeks turn red and splotchy.  Definitely not my best look.

In an effort to prevent the tears, or at least minimize them, I began researching ways to prevent crying.  The "solutions" ranged from harmless but ineffective (pinch the bridge of your nose) to the odd and outrageous (open your eyes as wide as you can.)  Right.  Try not to attract attention with that one.

Out of desperation, I tried them anyway, and still ended up leaving the graduations looking as if I'd just been to a funeral. 

Since there doesn't appear to be any way of preventing my tears, I decided to find out why tears happen in the first place.  Surely they're not there just to make us miserable and self-conscious.

From what I've read, tears do everything from washing away toxins to healing our corneas to enlisting comfort and support from those around us.  But one explanation I read in an article by Jay Efran and Mitchell Greene really hit home with me:

"Physiologically speaking, emotional tears are elicited when a person’s system shifts rapidly from sympathetic to parasympathetic activity—from a state of high tension to a period of recalibration and recovery.  Depending on the circumstances, individuals typically describe such shifts as 'letting go,' [or] 'going off duty'...” 

The authors explain:  "The shift from arousal to recovery is almost always triggered by a psychologically meaningful event, such as when lost children finally spot their parents and realize that they’re safe. Typically, children don’t cry when they first realize that their parents are gone; instead, they become hyper vigilant and start searching for their missing caretakers. It’s only when the parents reappear—perhaps rounding the corner of the supermarket aisle—that their child “goes off duty,” and tears begin to flow."

To me, that process seems pretty typical of parenting.  When you're there in the trenches, taking action and  just trying to get through something (the school year, the teen years, Algebra), you're too involved to have an emotional response.  You're doing what needs to be done to survive.  It's only when you're on the other side of whatever it is that you break down and cry, releasing all of that built-up stress and tension in the process.

Considering that my two boys are about to embark on exciting new chapters of their lives, crying at their graduations was an appropriate response.  All of that preparation and guidance to get them to this point required massive amounts of both action and patience.  Going forward, I'm not going to be needed quite as much.  Instead of parenting from the front line, I'll be more on the periphery - allowing them to experience new things but ready to re-direct them if necessary.

Then again, maybe it's a simpler reason.  Maybe it's seeing these people you love so much, these people you've nurtured and guided and kept safe, achieve something so wonderful that it's more than the heart or mind can hold.  The pride and potential of the moment can't help but spill over in the form of tears.

Whatever it is, I can't wait to see what the future holds for them.

For more about why we cry:  http://www.alternet.org/story/155447/why_we_cry%3A_the_fascinating_psychology_of_emotional_release

A Cautionary Tale About Debit Cards and the Awful People Who Steal Them

Recently, I had my debit card stolen.  Well, not physically stolen, as I still had the actual card in my wallet, but its numbers were stolen.  A person in Oregon made (or bought) a fake card with my information and then used it to purchase prescription drugs in Canada.  Someone must have compromised a local card machine with one of those card scanner things that grab all of your information when you swipe your card to pay for something.

Needless to say, I wasn't happy about this.  I was even less happy when it happened again the next day with my husband's debit card.

 

Both cards were tied to a PayPal account that we have.  I reported each theft as soon as I discovered it, which was almost immediately since I get an email notification of every purchase made.

 

PayPal was great to deal with.  I called and was able to speak to a human being, and the money was returned to my account within a few days.  Waiting a few days for the cash to be returned wasn't a huge problem since I still had the debit card to my checking account.

Two weeks later, though, it happened again - this time to the debit card linked to our bank account.  The thief spent over $200 at a Food Lion in Delaware, enough to overdraw the account and cause serious financial turmoil if we didn't get some money in that account fast.

 

At first, I felt compassion toward the thief.  He didn't buy drugs from a French Canadian pharmacy; he used the card at Food Lion.  I imagined him similar to us, living paycheck to paycheck, and struggling to make do with income that's never enough.  The thief probably doesn't want to steal but is forced to in order to feed his family. 

My oldest son straightened me out.  "He probably bought liquor, Mom.  Something he can re-sell for cash.  That's what those people do." 

So much for compassion.  If I could, I would've hunted him down and given him a stern lecture about how despicable it is to steal.  Then I would have kicked him in the groin - HARD - so he remembers.

I called my bank who told me that they wouldn't be able to return the money for ten days to two weeks.  Apparently debit cards work differently from credit cards.  With a credit card, the card is killed and you're not responsible for any charges.  A stolen credit card also doesn't tie up funds in your bank account while the fraud is being investigated.  With a debit card, you could be held responsible for a portion of the charges if you don't discover them right away, plus you're without the money that was stolen.

 

Fortunately, I discovered the fraud right away.  I'm always so broke that I check my account every day to make sure nothing surprising came out that would topple our financial house of cards.  This loss of over $200 definitely qualified as a surprise!

Thanks to this terrible person who stole from us, we had to borrow the funds to cover the amount that our bank account was in the hole so that nothing would bounce, and then not spend any money until pay day.  No food, no gas, nothing.

Apparently, this type of theft is becoming increasingly more common, even in tiny towns such as mine.  Our technology is so outdated that nearly anyone with criminal intent can steal our credit and debit card information by compromising the card swipe machines.  Until technology improves, we are all vulnerable.

In our situation, the thefts likely happened a local grocery store.  We're now using checks when we food shop and cash at gas stations to prevent this from happening again.  Any place with unattended credit card machines, such as food stores or gas pumps, is a prime target for thieves to insert their number skimming devices.  Since ATM machines are also frequently compromised, it's best to get cash directly from the teller at the bank.

One good thing in all of this is that the less we rely on the plastic in our wallets, the more money our local merchants get to keep.  They won't have to pay the surcharges imposed on each transaction, whether debit or credit, by the credit card companies.  Each time we swipe our cards, that merchant pays approximately 3% of the purchase amount to the credit card companies - a significant amount, especially for small businesses.  By paying cash or using a check, the merchant won't have that expense, which will help to boost our local economy even more.

For more information about unauthorized use of credit or debit cards: 

http://www.nolo.com/legal-encyclopedia/unauthorized-credit-debit-card-charges-29654.html

http://www.usa.gov/topics/money/banking/atm-debit.shtml

What could possibly go wrong?

The other night, I sent my oldest son to the drugstore for what some might consider to be an "uncomfortable" item.  Ryan doesn't usually embarrass easily.  He's the kid who still allowed me to hug him in front of his friends when he was in high school, so I didn't think anything of asking him to pick up a package of hemorrhoid wipes for me.  (Oh grow up - they're for hygiene purposes.)  Besides, it wasn't as if I'd asked him to pick up something really embarrassing like tampons, right?

                "Are you going to be OK getting these?" I asked him through the window of his car.

                "Sure," he replied playfully.  "As long as I don't run into a girl I'd like to date."

The rest of the story, as relayed by Ryan, went something like this:

When he arrived, there weren't many people in the store, but a cute young girl was working the checkout area.  Knowing he'd have to encounter this girl as he paid for the wipes, he came up with what he thought was a brilliant idea.

                "Excuse me," he said to the girl.  "I was sent here for something and I'm not sure where to find it.  Can you help me?"

                "Sure," she said.  What are you looking for?"

                "Well, it's these wipes that are supposed to be for hemorrhoids?"  He made the statement into a question, pretending he'd never heard of such a thing before.

                "Oh yes, those are in Aisle 9, at the end."

Ryan thanked her and headed over to Aisle 9, very pleased that he was able to think up such a convincing story.

Somehow, in the time that it took him to walk to the back of the store and then up to the front again, the store had filled with people and they were all standing in the lone checkout line.  The cute girl was still there, ringing up everyone's purchases.   Ryan was glad he'd already explained to her that the wipes were for someone else.  Now he won't have to feel awkward when it's his turn at the register.

 

The line was moving slowly and Ryan was at the end of it.  He had to stand there, holding the hemorrhoid wipes, for what seemed like an eternity.  A man with seventeen bottles of soda was insisting that they were all on sale and it took a while to get all of that sorted out.

Ryan thought he was home free until two young girls "even cuter than the first girl" got in line behind him.  Only it wasn't exactly behind him.  Because the line was so long, it formed horizontally along the front of the store, forcing the girls to stand next to him.  Now he was really feeling uneasy.  He tried his best to hide the wipes from view.

At last, it was his turn to check out.  He smiled at the girl behind the counter, relieved that this whole embarrassing ordeal was almost over.  She took the package from him to ring it up and announced brightly, "So I see you found the hemorrhoid wipes!"

And that was the very last time Ryan would ever agree to go to the store for his mother.

A Dog Park for Introverts

My dog Bailey has never met anyone - of either the two-legged or the four-legged variety - that she doesn't

like. When we're out for a walk, she eagerly pulls toward anyone that she sees, her tail wagging in happy anticipation. 

Once, a woman walking toward us stopped and asked of Bailey, "Is that dog smiling?" I'm sure she was.  I have no doubt that if dogs are capable of smiling, Bailey would be just the dog to figure it out.

When I'm out for a walk, I'm not nearly as keen as my dog about meeting other people.  Sometimes I just want to be alone with my thoughts and the occasional birdsong.  Other times I'm not interested in sharing small talk with strangers.  Still other times, the reason I am out walking with my dog in the first place is because I need to get away from people for awhile so that I can avoid the urge to strangle some of them. 

Sadly, Bailey's encounters with other people and dogs do not always go the way she'd hoped. Occasionally, she will be much more excited about meeting someone than they are about meeting her.  Of course, to Bailey, their rejection merely means that she has to try harder to win them over.  I can imagine her canine brain reasoning, "maybe if I sit adorably and offer my paw, they will love me."  She doesn't realize that the only hope of that person loving her would be if she ceased to be a dog.  Ever the optimist, Bailey continues on her walk, certain that the next person will find her agreeable.

A few times, encounters at the dog park have gone horribly wrong.  Once, a woman with a small white dog insisted that I allow her dog to meet Bailey.  Before I could object, her dog went all Cujo and nearly bit Bailey's face off.  Another time, Bailey nearly crushed a tiny dog in her enthusiasm to play with it.  A fifty-five pound dog is not usually a suitable playmate for a fifteen pound dog in spite of numerous pocket-sized dog owners suggesting otherwise.

These experiences convince me that a trip to the dog park would be much more enjoyable if there weren't any other people or dogs around to spoil it.  My introverted nature, which tends to present itself as crabby, anti-social behavior, would do best if I could just walk the dog already and then go home.  Move along folks; there's absolutely nothing to see here, and I certainly don't want to socialize.

Thus my idea for Lisa's Anti-Social Dog Park:  a place where people and dogs keep to themselves and do their best to avoid one another.  No eye contact, no small talk, and certainly none of that let's-get-acquainted butt-sniffing dogs are so fond of.  Plus, everyone - human and dog alike - would be safer thanks to the park's mandatory fifty-feet personal space requirement.  No chance for dog bites if you're no closer than a nod-and-wave distance. 

Everyone moves along the walking path and then goes home.  The end.  Wouldn't that solve so many problems?

Just don't tell Bailey about it.  I don't think she'd quite understand the concept.