Why improv makes you a better human being

Posted on October 26, 2015 by Jean

Facebook reminded me that four years ago today, I completed the Improv Program at the Second City Training Center. If the college degree is what prepares you for a job or profession, it’s the Second City certificate that prepares you to be a decent human being. It corrects flaws you didn’t even know you had (though very likely most of your coworkers did). It makes you a better writer. It makes you lose 15 pounds and gives your hair a healthy shine.

Completing the Improv Program...the best 40 weeks you will ever spend on the path to being a better human.

Completing the Improv Program…the best 40 weeks you will ever spend on the path to being a better human.

I might have made that last one up.

I got the first class as a gift one Christmas. It is easily the best gift I ever got largely because it turned into 40 weeks of Saturday afternoon adult play dates. Minus the juice boxes.

And, yes, these classes also help you be funny, but that’s the least of it.

Improv teaches the importance of listening to what those around you are saying. We all have friends or colleagues (or maybe have been that colleague…*raises hand sheepishly) who is only listening for the Charlie Brown parents sound to stop coming from your pie hole so that they can say what they want, which is clearly more important than what you said. They look like they are listening, when in reality, they are thinking about what they are going to say.

Or worse, they are restating what you just said, and as they are the last one who said it, they catch the ear of the boss, who says “great idea, Joe…you and your team should take the lead on that.”

Thanks, Non-listening, Restater Joe. You cannot be on my improv team. Or any team, for that matter.

In improv and in life you have to listen to what is said, and build on it, if you are going to move the scene (and your relationship with your icky colleague Joe) along.

It’s the concept of yes, and. Yes, I heard what you said, and instead of making a face like you are the man-bun sporting guy on the train who takes up an extra seat and a half with your messenger bag and your man spread, you accept what is proffered and add to it. Sort of like raising the stakes in a card game.

“Yes, Joe, your idea of giving out Jell-O shots when the company provides flu shots would make more people sign up…and perhaps we could add a whooping cough booster and then promote it as ‘Shots, shots, shots…everybody!’”

I can’t play poker. Largely because I don’t really know how. But also because my tell is my entire face. I have been known to make the “who stepped in dog doo?” face when someone comes up with what I think is a bad idea. Whether your stage is an actual one, or a corporate conference room, improv teaches you take what is offered and go with it, without the sour face. You can scrape your shoe off later.

As an art form, improv requires moving a story along quickly, and using fewer words to paint a picture for the audience, all while giving clues to your scene partner of where you are heading. Like when you cannot escape an awful dinner party and your spouse declares that he has gotten a call from the babysitter.

You: “Oh, no, is the rash on Tommy’s torso pustulating?”
Your spouse: “Afraid so, and given the incubation period, and our exposure, we are both carriers of the live chicken pox virus.”
You: “So sorry that we have to leave, Doris. I must get the veal shank recipe, and super sorry if we’ve gone and infected you all with shingles. Bye!”

And scene.

My classmate Lauren...one of the funnest people to yes, and.

My classmate Lauren…one of the funnest people to yes, and.

Improv also teaches you to face your fear. Lean into it. Actually, just fall altogether. Yes, being on a stage and wholly reliant on the other people with you to build a scene and hopefully garner a laugh is scary. It’s like a big public trust fall. So is presenting in front of a large meeting. Or going to your high school reunion. Or any group project with Joe.

But you are not going to die in the process. You are going to be better for the experience.

I still need to work on my yes, and…not for performance purposes, but for life purposes. I love the concept…accepting something someone has offered, not judging it and building on it.

I try to do this with my colleagues. And my friends. And my kids.

It’s a work in progress, as I know building any of those audiences up makes me better, too.

Many thanks to all my great teachers and classmates at Second City, who made yes, and ridiculously fun, and made me a million times more tolerable in the corporate world. I’m ever appreciative that they always took whatever I offered – no matter how dumb it was — and made it better.

The holidays are approaching. I suggest sending someone you like—or don’t like—or yourself to a class. The weekly comedic affirmation and life lessons are well worth the price of admission.

Your version of icky colleague Joe will thank you for it.

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College visits in the time of long-forgotten hot pots

Posted on October 16, 2015 by Jean

I went on my sixth college visit with one of my daughters this week. Making it exactly six more college visits than I went on with my parents. I didn’t even visit the college I went to. I just showed up donning an Ogilvie home perm with my acid wash jeans and hot pot. No disrespect to my parents. I don’t recall that that was a thing back then. I also don’t recall how we possibly looked up and applied to colleges before the internet. Thanks, Al Gore.

It’s a funny thing, looking at colleges with your kids. It’s a little bit like “Say Yes to the Dress.” You figure out a price point you’re comfortable at, try a few on, get the opinions of your friends and parents, and figure out which bridge connecting high school to adulthood you are going to traverse.

But instead of fashion director Randy clutching his hands under his chin and looking at you lovingly under his well-groomed eyebrows asking if you are going to say yes, you have fellow student Julie, who is decked out in school colors down to a red and yellow statement necklace. Julie hopes you liked your visit. Julie hopes you will join her. Julie will let you borrow her school logo infinity scarf.

In each visit I have been on, it’s the parents who ask the questions in the group settings, while the kids look mostly like they want to die because their parent drew attention to them, or worse, asked a dumb question.

Confidential to kids: we can’t help it. As parents, we listen to admission advisers about acceptance standards, look at dorms, and ask about meal plans and try to make sense of the new world of higher education that has evolved since we showed up at college with our electronic typewriters, back in the day when our schools didn’t have six rec centers. With rock-climbing walls. And a lazy river. And a smoothie bar.

As much as I might want to make the decision about where my kids should next call home for four years, I can’t. I’m trying not to be a helicopter parent. I’m trying to be more like a paper airplane one. Gliding in, and not hovering overhead. And instead focused on asking them what’s important to them. And figuring out if they can see themselves on the various campuses we visit.

My oldest wanted to continue running track in college, and when she found her school, she knew it. She knew like you know a good melon. Conversely, she knew almost instantly schools she didn’t want. Like the one where the track coach tells us they don’t actually have a track, and they run on a nearby high school track. And, he offers the fact that the school doesn’t have a football team as a selling point because my daughter won’t have to share weight machines with football players. That was about the point when she says, “um I date football players.”

We haven’t hit that “aha!” moment with my middle daughter yet, but we will.

Roundtrip driving time for sixth college visit: 10 hours. 36 hours of one-on-on time with my second born=priceless.

Roundtrip driving time for sixth college visit: 10 hours.
36 hours of one-on-on time with my second born=priceless.

While on the campus on this latest visit, I saw a woman taking a picture of her daughter in front of the college sign. I asked her if she wanted me to take a picture of the two of them. She said no, her daughter wouldn’t let her. Then she asked if I wanted her to take one. I did.

“Your daughter is going to take a picture with you?” she asks, incredulously.

“Yes,” I tell her.

“Well, YOU have a good daughter,” she said, more to shame her own than to praise mine.

“Yes, I do,” I said.

Actually, I have three. And pretty soon, I have to hand another one off to live somewhere else and make new friends and figure out what she wants to do with her life in a place she chooses. Fortunately for her, she will do so without the perm and bad jeans.

As for me, I am focused on enjoying the ride. I mean that quite literally. We had 10 hours of car time together on this visit. Through acres of cornfields. And stops at Taco John’s. And odors coming from some farms that made my eyes water, like hearing “The Christmas Shoes” song.

And like the five visits before this one, I would not trade that one-on-one time with some of my favorite humans for anything.

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What brings you joy? Decluttering your closet and your relationships

Posted on October 7, 2015 by Jean
When it doubt, throw it out. Or donate. Not just talking clothes here.

When it doubt, throw it out. Or donate. Not just talking clothes here.

I’m getting new carpet this week. Paying for things like new carpet, or water heaters or tires…necessities to your quality of life and safety, in the case of tires, decidedly do not bring me joy.

Surprisingly, installing new carpet is not as depicted on the Empire Carpet commercial. Perhaps you have seen it…the Empire guy enters the room, and, as he apparently has super human strength, he is carrying an entire bolt of carpet by himself. He shakes the carpet out like a beach blanket, and as he does, all the furniture in unison pops into the air a foot to make room for the carpet. False advertising. Furniture, outside of that in Linda Blair’s bedroom, does not levitate. And certainly not in unison.

“Sorry,” the carpet sales guy tells me. “And,” he says, “you are going to have to clear the floors of the closets.” He says this like he has just eaten cottage cheese about four days past the sell by date. His face is contorted. He’s also been in my closet to measure it. I opt not to apologize for the wreck that is my closet floor and instead just avert my eyes in shame and acknowledge that I know it needs to be cleared for the installers. (Admitting there is a problem is the first step, right?)

As with everything in life, I choose to see the opportunity. To clear, clean and purge. Much has been written lately about Marie Kondo’s “KonMari” method of organizing and de-cluttering. In a nutshell, as you touch each item you own, you ask yourself if it brings you joy. If it doesn’t, you thank it for its usefulness and say goodbye.

It’s not dissimilar from what I tell my daughters when shopping for clothes. In order for me to buy something, they have to love it…how they feel, how it makes them look…or we don’t buy it. Pre-emptive fashion joy, if you will.

So, I support the concept, much as thanking inanimate objects that I no longer love is a little weird to me. “It’s not you, purple cowl neck sweater from the first time cowl necks were popular…it’s me. I hope we can still be friends. And I hope whoever picks you up at Goodwill buys the matching legwarmers, too. I’d hate for you guys to be separated.”

At one point, this sweater (and hairstyle) would have brought me joy. I will thank 1983 for is usefulness and say goodbye.

At one point, this sweater (and hairstyle) would have brought me joy. I will thank 1983 for its usefulness and say goodbye.

What brings you joy is an important question…that extends beyond the floor of the closet.

Why not declutter the rest of your life in the same manner, starting with relationships.

If you live by the motto that life is too short to drink cheap wine, as it is possible I might, it’s certainly too short to waste with people who bring out your own “I ate bad cottage cheese” face.

At times I feel like Dorothy when she is being held captive by the Wicked Witch. I don’t have an Auntie Em or the ruby slippers…but I do have the feeling that I am sitting with a very large hourglass. With each grain of sand goes a bit of my most precious resource…my time. (Anybody else just hear the voice over: “Like sand through the hourglass, these are the Days of Our Lives.)

I have less than six years before the last of my daughters leaves for college. And I will spend every possible moment I can with them, even it it means doing things I would never choose for myself, like watching “The Bachelor” or driving to 7-11 for Slurpees or eating at the Olive Garden. Because those are a few of the things they like. And time with them brings me joy.

In the last two weeks, I recommitted to finding windows for people who make me better for having spent time with them. Two dinners, a week apart, both spur of the moment. Bob Seger was right when he wrote, “see some old friends, good for the soul.”

These dinners were instructive when I got a text over the weekend from someone who decidedly does not bring me joy. Largely because our conversations generally are an infomercial. About him. A friendfomercial. I get his usual answer to the “how are you?” question: “I’m great. Changing lives. Going on a speaking tour. Probably going to be Knighted at the end of the month.” (Slight writer’s embellishment. But only slight.)

“We should get together soon,” he texts.

“Yep,” I say. With a “I just ate bad cottage cheese” emoji.

I mentally thanked him for his usefulness. And said goodbye.

And that brought me joy.

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Must be nice. (Translation: I hate everything about what you just told me.)

Posted on September 25, 2015 by Jean

Must be nice.

Three little words.

And yet they evoke such emotion. Envy. Disdain. Jealousy.

FYI, she is not actually happy for you.

FYI, she is not actually happy for you.

Those words are usually uttered when one feels like someone else has something he or she doesn’t.

Like, “Hey, I’m off for a week…going to sleep in, and drink wine at lunch, and binge watch Law & Order SVU.” (That may or may not be my dream vacation.)

“Must be nice,” says the person you ride the train with, who has just taken a mental count of her own vacation days compared to yours, and is convinced you are enjoying some bloated European leave schedule.

As if you enjoying time off somehow made her life, and her long weekend lamenting the fact that she was the only one in the Wisconsin Dells without a tattoo, that much worse.

I worked with a woman several jobs ago, who hated me before she even met me. She had already identified the “in” crowd, and I was not to be in it. (Raise your hand if you’ve ever felt personally victimized by Regina George.)

She also said “must be nice” about 10 times a day. As though she was keeping a running life tally about who was doing better or worse in the actual game of Life than she was. I started making things up for sport to skew the tally. I was going to set the “must be nice” curve. And she was definitely grading on a curve.

To hear me tell it, my material acquisitions alone were like I had won the Showcase Showdown. Twice. I only lasted a year in the job. I nearly died from boredom and the weight of my own manufactured luxury trappings. And when I left, I made the job I was going to sound impossibly big and important. “Have you seen the West Wing? Think C.J. Cregg.”

Must be nice.

Ok, it was not a proud moment. In my defense, my emotional intelligence at that point was around the same as my shoe size.

Years later, I find myself less affected by an intended “must be nice” jab, and instead I am curious as to what drives the response.

Worldwide happiness is not zero sum. If someone else in your universe has something wonderful happen to him or her (new car, new baby, hot date, amazing vacation, promotion, random extra Burrito Supreme in their bag when they pull away from the drive thru), it does not make your life less awesome. (Unless of course you happen to be up for an Oscar with Meryl Streep…must be nice, Meryl.)

Why does the mental scorekeeping only apply to good things? When someone loses a job or a loved one or gets a terrible medical diagnosis, we don’t silently high-five ourselves that it’s not us. We console, we hug, we pray. We bring casseroles.

Why can’t we celebrate the good in others’ lives, with a tray of carbs covered in Durkee onions?

Must be nice, people. That’s a directive, not a negative aside.

Must. Be. Nice.

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Redefining who you are and what you do

Posted on September 18, 2015 by Jean

I got the most beautiful thank you note this week, from a dear friend, reminding me that it was her and her husband’s 18th wedding anniversary. She sends a similar note every year at this time. I introduced them.

Humble brag: It was a bit more direct than a casual setup. Her (now husband) had gone through a breakup with his girlfriend, and he was having a party. I asked if I could bring a friend I thought he would like. He was a little hesitant, and I told him, “I’m bringing your future wife to your party, and you’re going to have to toast me at the wedding.”

And they did. (Drops mic…)

Outside of my children, it may be my most proud achievement. My friend’s thank you note popped up at the same time as a random LinkedIn endorsement…from someone I don’t know, for a skill I don’t have.

Two endorsements…one meant the world. One made me think, “what in the world?”

At this point in my life, I would much rather be known for things that are not on my resume or my LinkedIn profile, like having the forethought to connect two amazing people. Or raise children who are kind and decent humans. Or be the person who always gets seated at the weird, out-of-town cousin table at weddings because I can (and do) talk to anybody.

I’m sure all of these life skills are in some way marketable, but that’s not really the point. So often we are defined by how we earn a living. I find this especially true in D.C., where I work. “She’s chief of staff for Senator So and So,” or “he’s a lobbyist for the Creamed Corn Association.” (There may in fact be one of those…we don’t know.) And while those labels are accurate, they are not complete.

They don’t reflect that the chief of staff may also be the friend who everyone calls when they are sick because she dashes over with homemade chicken soup, or she can outlast everyone in yoga class standing in tree position. Or that the creamed corn lobbyist took that job because his dad was a farmer who lived in a little pink house by the interstate and thought he had it so good.

I would like to be thought of as my kids would have described me when they were six. “She is awesome and makes great chocolate chip pancakes.” Or, as one of my daughter’s best friends told my daughter when I checked on her when she was upset during a sleepover: “Your mom is very comforting.” That was probably 12 years ago, and it’s still one of my favorite compliments.

A friend in D.C. shared an article about not introducing people by occupation. It spoke to me. Chances are, if you are out with friends, you are not out with them because of what is on their business card. You like their company. They have a wicked sense of humor. They make you feel better about yourself. They provide great counsel on love, work, kids and the importance of Spanx. They are the ones that consistently (and discreetly) point out the lingering spinach in your teeth. I like to heed the advice of the article, and when introducing friends or colleagues to others, I try to do so with a compliment. “Meet Robb…if you are ever in jail, or want the world’s best smoked salmon, he is who you call.”

But that’s only one side of the conversation. So often upon meeting someone new, the first question is, “What do you do?”

I said there would a wedding toast...and there was.

I said there would a wedding toast…and there was.

There was a time when having had my job go away in a layoff, I opted to take the summer off and hang out with my then very small children. I would meet people, and that was always the opening question. And that question stupefied me. I froze. I’d become so wrapped up in what I did for work, I hadn’t even contemplated talking about what I did.

Now, I’d like to answer that question a different way. Maybe something like: “I work so I can support three mostly glorious beings, who are the smarter, prettier, more confident and all around better versions of me. I make killer breakfasts with sometimes upwards of five different food items that are hot and on the table at the same time. I’m quick with a joke and a light of your smoke. And once, I connected two awesome people, who send me thank you notes annually.”

What do you do?

One of my greatest accomplishments: their marriage and our friendship.

One of my greatest accomplishments: their marriage and our friendship.

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A labor of love

Posted on September 8, 2015 by Jean
My oldest always seems this big to me when I drop her at college.

My oldest always seems this big to me when I drop her at college.

I moved my oldest daughter into her dorm room yesterday for the start of sophomore year of college. On Labor Day.

Ironic to me. The word. And the day. You labor to bring a child into the world. And then you get to leave the hospital with her.

Then, you labor for 19 years, doing your best to raise her to be the best possible human she can be, and bring her to college, and leave empty-handed. On Labor Day.

You would think the second year would be easier. We have already had the teary goodbyes. Gotten accustomed to walking by her empty room at home. Sent the care packages. (Thank you Amazon Prime!) Got the “miss you” texts. And had the happy homecomings.

But it wasn’t easier. I still felt like I was leaving my baby unattended. Like a fluffy white seal cub alone on the beach. Or the geometric baby on the warning sign of the McDonald’s changing table, stranded right before it rolls to the floor.

To be candid, the last few weeks were tough to have my 19-year-old at home. For both of us. As anyone knows who has gone to college and come back to live under Mom’s house rules, even if just on summer break, the struggle is real. She was living in a no curfew world, and I am a curfew girl. (I sang that last sentence to the tune of “Material Girl.” Totally works.)

The struggle is made worse by the fact that all of her friends had gone back to college in early August. So she was stuck under my rules. With just me. And we both struggled.

Even though she views me through the Mom lens, I knew well what she was going through. I went to college. A million years ago, granted. I loved every second of it. To the point that come mid August every year after I graduated, I got depressed. I mean, I’m sure I could have sat around the dinner table and paid my family for quarter beers in plastic cups while I blasted some Wham! but it would not have been the same.

My daughter also knows what she is missing while at home and not at school. She and her friends refer to college as “camp.” I hold my tongue and don’t say, “well, then that’s the world’s most expensive camp ever.” Because it would be.

Instead, I embrace the concept…time away with friends, where you grow as a person, learn new skills, forge new friendships and hopefully don’t roll off the McDonald’s changing table.

It IS camp, in a sense. Time away from me, knowing I am just a text or Chase Quick Pay away in the event of an emergency. Time to figure out what you like, what you want to do and who you want to be when you grow up.

Enjoy your time at camp, beloved firstborn. Find a path. Follow it. Change the world. I will stop, lest I sound like a Macklemore song.

I promise to love you and send care packages and supportive texts. And not apply for a job as camp counselor. Much as I would like to.

Even though she is actually not a baby at all.

Even though she is actually not a baby at all.

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We all have baggage (fees). And that’s a good thing.

Posted on August 21, 2015 by Jean
Paying for what you value...like line jumping at Six Flags. I like it. Not just when I fly.

Paying for what you value…like line jumping at Six Flags. I like it. Not just when I fly.

Professionally, I spend a fair amount of time talking about bag fees. And why they are good. Because they are. They help keep base airfare low and ensure that you only pay for services you use. And they make you appear 10 pounds lighter and 10 years younger.

I might have made that last part up.

I never check a bag. Ever. Which explains my aged and puffy appearance. I’m actually a 26-year-old, size 0 supermodel.

And supermodels are like the rest of us…in that they don’t want to pay more for airfare that includes the cost of a bag they didn’t check. In general, I don’t like paying for things I don’t like or value…like my property tax bill, or a new water heater or anything to do with Justin Bieber or Nickelback.

Let’s remember that this model of keeping the base price low, and then paying for optional services that one values, is not new. Nor is it unique to airlines. Consider car buying. Would you like a new Nissan Rogue? That will be $22,790. Oh, you want it to go in reverse? Make that $23,500. I kid. But really what do you expect when buying a car named Rogue? Apparently the Nissan Miscreant did not test as well in focus groups.

I took my kids to Six Flags Great America. I paid for the tickets. And, then made the equivalent of a car payment so that we could Flash Pass. Thankfully this involves no actual flashing…it just lets you get near the front of the line without waiting. I do this mostly because of my own insecurities brought on by the fact that, unlike so many in the line, I am without a date who is wearing a matching outfit to mine. And neck tattoos.

I took my oldest daughter for new glasses. We went to a store where she had gotten her contacts as she had a half-off coupon. She frets trying to pick out just one pair out of the eight she has winnowed her choices to. She finally settles in on a tortoise shell frame that looks great on her. I think the hard part is over. I am wrong.

Geremie…yes, with a G. I already feel badly thinking his parents never played the “how are kids at school going to mock this name?” game before putting it on his birth certificate…sits down with us.

He proceeds to tell us about lens types. And polymers. And sealants. And scratch resistance levels. Based on what he is recommending, she could wear these glasses in a brawl with rabid badgers and come out unscratched.

I’m already questioning the level of upsell (and full disclosure: I don’t wear glasses so I have no idea whether any of this is necessary, but do know the risk of a rabid Badger encounter is low), when he lays on the medical necessity upgrade.

“With your extreme astigmatism, you are really a hazard to yourself and all of the other pop ups in the Driver’s Ed movies—especially that kid with the ball—if you do not get the anti-glare protection,” Geremie says. (Not actually what he said…but definitely what I heard.)

He throws in the protection plan, and next thing I know for the price, we could have gotten two round-trip plane tickets from Chicago to San Francisco. And even pay for a checked bag.

If I ever did that.

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A little self awareness when walking through airports (and other places) goes a long way to keeping people from hating you

Posted on August 10, 2015 by Jean
When you walk like this, people hate you.

When you walk like this, people hate you.

I’ve noticed a trend when people are walking in public. Not the face in the phone, walk into traffic like you are some grown-up version of “Baby’s Day Out” that goes miraculously unscathed despite paying more attention to creeping on a colleague’s Instagram feed rather than oncoming Uber drivers. But let’s be clear: that IS a trend.

No, it’s more the complete lack of awareness about one’s personal space and laws of physics. As though everybody is the boy in the plastic bubble, not just a young John Travolta.

Like at the airport, where I spend a lot of time. People walking in airports have baggage. Emotional. And the kind that extends behind them like a 2,800 cubic inch tail. I have had my feet run over. My calves clipped. My faith in humanity and all that is good in the frequent flier challenged. All at the wheels of a rollerboard commanded by an unaware human.

When traveling, be mindful of the 2,800 cubic inch tail behind you.

When traveling, be mindful of the 2,800 cubic inch tail behind you.

Aside from being thwapped by the tail of travelers, I encounter a lot of the same awkward body Elaine dances we all do, trying to avoid full frontal contact with strangers, which I categorize as follows:

  • Bathroom, aka I really have to go! I know you would like to get into the bathroom, but it would be easier if you let me out first. At most airports, this applies to both entering the bathroom itself and the stalls. I assure you that you, and I and our rollerboard tails are not both going to fit into this stall together, fun as that would be. Let me out, so you can get in. Help me, help you. And whatever you do, don’t touch me.
  • Escalators, aka, the top of the ride, is usually where I like to stop and read my texts, look for my boarding pass, start fishing around in my purse for Fruit Stripe Gum. When you stop here, you are practically inviting me to a game of Red Rover. And you will lose. Keep walking forward, or step to the side. Have none of you seen the marching band scene at the end of “Animal House”? It does not end well.
  • Moving sidewalk, aka, it’s not a ride, people. Stand on the right, walk on the left. And, if your width when standing, facing forward, does not allow another human and his rolling tail to easily pass by, please stand parallel to the rail. Not a judgment, just trying to enable the people mover to live up to its name. And by all means, do not stand side by side. This is not some moving couples’ moment, and everyone else on that belt not so secretly hates you.
  • Speaking of sidewalks, let’s not act like every time we are on the sidewalk, we are in a “Sex and the City” and have to walk four across. (Credit to my friend Chaya Carey, who told a joke in stand-up class about this that makes me laugh every time I see it happen. Which is every day.) Actual New Yorkers, had they been stuck behind four women walking abreast, would have run Carrie over, and stolen the Manolos, leaving Charlotte crying, and Samantha hitting on the responding police officer. And Miranda just being angry.
  • Revolving doors, aka, again, NOT A RIDE. When it’s our turn to enter the revolving door, odds are nearly 100 percent that the person already in the glass pie wedge wants out. LET THEM OUT. Unless you are looking to re-enact a “Godfather” scene, in which case I say, don’t. And also, RIP Moe Green.
  • Elevators…it’s a sequence. Exit first, then enter. In other words, let the people off who want off, before you get on. Also, women get to get off the elevator first. No, it’s not the Titanic. It’s just the rules. Act like you have been somewhere and know that. And face the door. No one likes the guy who faces the crowd.

A warning…if you are in public, and you hear loud huffing or groaning directed your way, you may be in violation of one or more these scenarios. Or you may be being hit on. Hard to tell without the context. A little self awareness comes in handy when moving amongst the people. And unlike high school algebra, so does physics.

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Sure, we all know about Resting Bitch Face, but what about resting tell-me-about-your-day-because-you-think-I-care face

Posted on July 31, 2015 by Jean
Resting Bitch Face..I may need to try this out.

Resting Bitch Face..I may need to try this out.

Much has been written about resting bitch face, the dour look that some women have when their faces are not engaged in some other activity. Like talking. Or eating. Or actually being a bitch.

I suppose men can also have this affliction. And dogs, given the name. But apparently it’s largely women who have it. And the affect was certainly named by a man. Women who have it are often commanded by others to smile. Largely because women who are not smiling make men nervous and awkwardly uncomfortable.

Less is written about resting tell-me-about-your-day-because-you-think-I-care face. I have that face. It’s an affliction marked by people, generally strangers, offering peeks into their lives and insight into their minds that you never sought.

It starts like this, with me approaching the cashier at the grocery store:

Cashier: Hello. How are you?

Me: Fine, thanks. How are you?

Cashier: Well, I’ve already been here for two hours, and they put me in the checkout lane closest to frozen foods, so I’ve been getting slammed all day while the other cashiers are hardly busy at all. I don’t get a break for another hour. I’m overdue for a Pap smear, and I have to get the oozing boil on my back lanced after work.

Me: Sorry. And eww.

I might have made that last part up. But just barely.

I have been told about couples therapy for people just dating (you should move on…like now), details of divorce settlements and an ex-husband’s proclivity for impersonating Al Bundy watching TV on the couch, and lap-band surgeries. (FYI, apparently it’s totally ok to eat nothing but pork rinds following that procedure. Which seems counter intuitive but reflects super successful marketing by the pork rind producers.)

I was once at a BBQ and met neighbors who lived next door, whom I hadn’t previously met. In the first five minutes of our conversation, they went into great detail about all of the difficulties they had had with infertility and the strain it had caused on their marriage. Tragic to be sure. And information that would normally make one offer a conciliatory hug to the people sharing the information. If you actually knew them.

I don’t remember what I said in response. I hope it was caring and comforting and not callous or weird, like offering them one of my own children on a part-time basis.

The very next day a for sale sign went up in their yard. That’s the trouble with resting tell-me-about-your-day-because-you-think-I-care face. It does not invite useful information that may affect your life. Like the fact that the house next door to you is going on the market. (Still not clear whether there was a causal relationship in my response to them and their need to immediately move away. I like to think it was probably just witness protection.)

The more I experience the tales of woe and medical procedures and dating gone wrong that are unwittingly thrust upon me like spritzes of cologne whist walking through Macy’s at Christmas time, the more I realize that everyone did not get the good counsel my grandma gave me.

Gram Sal always said, “no one actually wants to hear how you are when they ask how you are. They are just being polite. The polite answer is always ‘I’m fine, thank you. How are you?’ ”

In Gram’s perfect world, the answer to that returned question is fine, thank you. And you’re out of the conversation in fewer characters than a tweet. She held firm to that. My mother-in-law was the same way. There was a time when she had actually severed a tendon cutting vegetables for dinner, and was still saying she was fine. And she was. In a Dan Aykroyd playing Julia Child on SNL kind of way. (Save the liver!)

As problems go, resting tell-me-about-your-day-because-you-think-I-care face is not the worst. Some times you learn useful things…like how much weight you lose in your standard colonoscopy prep.

I’ve thought about trying out resting bitch face. But the thought of people commanding me to smile (it don’t cost nothing!) before chronicling their successful career path as an Herbalife sales rep is more than I can contemplate.

But, if you want to know how I am, I’m fine. Thank you. How are you?

It’s a trick question. Don’t answer.

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Keeping up with the Kardashians. And your kids. Not exactly in that order.

Posted on July 27, 2015 by Jean

kardashian

I get a text whenever one of my daughters tweets. It’s partly a control thing. Watching out for unnecessary swearing, pics that have the potential to keep them out of college or from becoming gainfully employed and the inevitable use of your when you’re is the right word choice. But it’s also because I’m too lazy to scroll through all the people I follow or to head to their Twitter feed every day to see what they are saying to the world. I like my phone buzzing at me, the equivalent of a slap upside the head to say, “Pay attention…parent.” Noun. And verb.

My 19-year-old views this monitoring more like an electronic home arrest ankle bracelet than the warm embrace of the parental iCloud I see it as.

“You’re obsessed with us,” she says to me. I don’t respond. I’m not obsessed. Kim Kardashian is obsessed with her younger, half-sister Kylie. Taylor Swift is obsessed with Beyoncé. People Magazine is obsessed with the royal family. And Matthew McConaughey. Neither of which I understand. But I learn these things not to keep up with the Kardashians. Just to keep up with my teen-aged girls.

Since I am not vegan, don’t take Thrive and don’t do CrossFit, I think I am decidedly unobsessed. I’m just trying to stay connected with my kids in an era that has electronic challenges that extend far beyond what my mother had to worry about. (The streetlights are on. Are my kids home? No? OK, I’ll just yell out the door. Or wait for them to call me collect from the payphone to pick them up. And I may at some point have to ask them to put down the Mattel Electronic Football simply because the pings of the blinking dashes are making me insane.) 

I have joined some social media channels for the sole purpose of staying connected to them. So, yes, Twitter. And Facebook (though, FYI that’s just for old people now. And anyone out of high school who wants to post a ton of pics at once.) I have lost count of the number of times I got the “Mom, go like my pic” texts, referring to an Instagram post. I’m fluent in Snapchat and emojis, and apparently need to get on VSCO. If only to see the random pics they have taken of me and posted.

It would be easy to say we had it easier growing up. Largely because we did. We never had to worry about people sub tweeting about us.

And I understand the parents (and grandparents) tired of looking at the tops of teen heads that are forever face in the phone. Everyone needs a break from the all-too addictive screen. (Myself included.) But in life, and in handheld digital media, I choose to see the positive.

My kids are up on current events. And they know the Kardashian view on said current events. (We take the good with the bad. Sort of like hot dogs with ketchup. Which, for the record, I like.)

My kids are honing their creative and their writing skills. My oldest has an amazing eye for photography…both people and nature, and social media provides her that outlet. My middle daughter has perfectly captured the voice of the teen girl. She simultaneously makes people laugh and feel better about themselves in 140 characters. My youngest, the introvert, is more of a social media follower than participant at this point, but what she reads feeds what is an impressive intellectual curiosity.

They have evolved their online presence. Thanks to things like Time Hop and scrolling through their own feeds, my 17-year-old declares, “Oh my god…I used to tweet like 20 times a day last year. Why didn’t you say something??” We did.

Their world is changing fast. One tweet, post and Insta at a time. I want to stay a part of it. In an thoughtful and observant and sometimes grammar-correcting, but not hovering way. Like a less manly Mrs. Doubtfire. One text at a time.

 

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