Actual depiction of my expression whilst walking around my room for the past 20mins after listening to 'When Terry Met Terry'

"holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit holy sh-"

Order Up! (Coffee Shop AU) Chapter 5

Well, I guess Alex is going through the motions. I am really starting to love how well-rounded this is getting. Flirty fics are fun, but they always need heart and perseverance!

Chapter

1 - 2- 3 - 4

Fuck. Why did she do that? Alex wanted to toss her phone but knew she couldn’t afford a new one yet. Memories. Social media keeps track even if you don’t. She was bundled on the ground of the bathroom she just cleaned and sobbed.

All she wanted to do was look at this real estate agent that Lucifer texted her. She glanced down at the picture of her and her mother while she was getting dressed for prom. Would she be upset that she was thinking of selling their home? Would she be proud? She felt so fucking alone.

There was a knock at the bathroom door, and she stuttered on a breath. Fucking get it together, girl. She wiped her face and nodded. “I’ll be out momentarily,” she said in a cheery tone.

Breathe. Stand up. Bitch, buck the fuck up, you’re at work. Alex listened to her inner dialog, turned on the water to the sink, cleaned her hands and face, and fixed her makeup. After she was satisfied, she picked up her tool tote and walked to the door with a plastered smile.

Solomon was on the other side of the door. “Hey, Alex,” he said with a curl to his lips.

“Hey, Sol, how are you doing?” she asked.

“Not horribly. I’m a bit stuck on this formula, but it’s bound to come to me,” he voiced while walking in step with her.

She rocked her head and shifted at the entrance to the counter. “Let me just go put this away and clock out. We can chat a minute after I’m off the clock.”

He rocked his head and leaned on the wall nearby. “Want to take a walk with me?”

She tilted her head and hummed. “Maybe.”

“Good, I’ll order, and we’ll head to the park.”

“Oh, good, we’re taking a walk to the park?”

Alex glanced over to see Satan wander over with his tea and pastry bag. “Oh, hey, Satan. I didn’t see you there.”

He tilted his head and gestured to his messenger bag. “I was grading pages.”

Solomon crossed his arms before touching his chin with his fingers. “You want to join us?”

Satan rocked his head. “A little fresh air would be great.”

“Okay, let me just go finish up,” Alex smiled and walked to the back of the shop. Well, it was quite the variation, but after how interesting her Sunday had been, it wouldn’t be a bad thing. She turned to the computer after putting the tote away and clocked out. Shaking out her body and taking off her apron and hat, she rolled her neck.

There was something to be said about the smears on her uniform. Alex stripped off her overshirt and straightened her purple tank top, and pulled out her ponytail. After checking her face in the mirror and reapplying a few touches on her eyeliner and lip gloss, she was ready.

Better. Alex smiled and collected her bag before marching to the front again. Solomon and Satan seemed to be in a discussion about the book in Satan’s hand. Their hand gestures only confirmed the estimation as Alex walked over to collect her drink.

“Hey, babes,” Jess hummed. “Do you think you could do me a favor and take my Friday shift, and I’ll take your Saturday one. It's closing, and I have a date.”

Alex rocked her head. “Yeah, I can. You never ask me to trade, so they must be pretty hot,” she teased.

Jess smirked and rocked her head. “Yeah, Mr. Macchiato, who comes in the evenings.”

“Nice, well, I hope you have tons of fun. Text Jordan and let him know, alright?”

Jess beamed and blew a kiss. “You’re a lifesaver for my social life, hun.”

Alex waved and met up with the two intellectuals holding their beverages. “I’m just saying that Dickens wasn’t as extraordinary as we make him out to be,” Solomon huffed.

“Oh, no, we’re on about Charles again?”

Satan laughed and shook his head as they walked out the door. “Just Solomon’s primary dagger.”

“Solomon, do you just enjoy debating?” Alex asked.

Solomon smiled and shifted his head from side to side. “Occasionally, but so does Satan, so we have a mutual understanding never to take it to blows.”

“I think the Brontë sisters are probably a staple for every woman,” Alex added to the conversation.

“And men,” Satan nodded.

“Very true, but we need to selectively decide what mannerisms are dated in order to value the interpretation,” Solomon voiced.

Alex smirked and raised her hand to her chest. “'Do you think I am an automaton? — a machine without feelings? And can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! — I have as much soul as you — and full as much heart!'” She paused after the quote and laughed. “Imagine declaring equality to a man who was higher in rank and stature than you in that time. The dated behavior is only setting.”

Satan let out a stream of hearty laughter. “Oh, Alex, I would have loved to have you in my class today. There was a sexist animal who was definitely in need of a strong female to set him straight.”

“My little Jane isn’t very plain,” Solomon chuckled and waved his hand.

“No, she isn’t,” Alex laughed before sipping her iced tea.

“I was referring to you,” Solomon hummed.

Alex smirked at him and shrugged. “I do pretty well, I suppose.”

Satan cleared his throat, drawing Alex’s attention to her left. “So, you realized that half your customers are my brothers.”

Alex rocked her head. “Yes, I was informed of that by Belphegor in a rather creative way.”

“I heard,” Satan laughed. “We all live together.”

“So I’ve heard,” she smiled.

“Interesting dynamic,” Solomon voiced. “All seven of them together.”

“They also throw some ridiculous parties,” Alex said and then waved her free hand in a circle. “From what I’ve heard.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I know you live across the street,” Satan snorted with a smug smile. “I’ve known longer than Lucifer.”

Alex gasped as they walked on the sideway in the park. “What?”

Satan chuckled and rocked his head. “Yes, I knew from Jordan. I was the one to buy his motorcycle.”

She shrieked and gasped. “Oh! That’s why I’ve seen it around the cafe.”

Satan wagged his eyebrows. “So yes, I’ve known for about four months. He pulled it out of your garage and brought it over. When I asked why he moved, he told me about your circumstance and why he was torn, but family comes first.”

“It does,” Alex smiled. “His mother was great to me when my parents died. She practically lived with me for the first six months. Then Jordan moved in, and he got me a job at the cafe. He’s always been like my big brother. So when his dad got injured at work and couldn’t work, I told him to move home to help.”

“How did you both meet?” Solomon questioned.

“Oh, that’s a funny story, actually. So, in middle school, he was a grade above me, and I was super shy. He saw me being harassed by some asshole. He stepped in and smoothed the situation. I was so shocked he was able to do so without violence. Jordan took me to the bathroom, cleaned me up, and told me that the only bitches in our life are the beautiful bitches we can be, so I needed to learn to walk like it. From then on, he just started pulling me into his antics,” she explained and laughed while shaking her head.

“You were shy?” Satan questioned.

Alex stopped drinking her tea and nodded. “I actually am in general. I took his advice to heart. I’m friendly and enjoy people, but I don’t have very many people I consider close with.”

“Is this why you aren’t dating anyone?” Solomon questioned.

Alex narrowed her eyes at him and smirked. “Yes.”

“Liar,” Solomon smiled.

“Wait, I really find this fascinating. You aren’t close to any family?” Satan asked.

Alex shrugged and hummed. “My aunts and uncles all live in different parts of the country. I was an only child, and now that my parents aren’t here, the only people I see are Jordan and his parents. Jordan’s sister left for a university across the country two years ago. I see them probably once a month.”

“You live alone? Like no one ever comes to knock on your door or calls your phone?” Satan questioned with a scowl.

“Well, I won’t be living there much longer,” Alex sighed. “I have to sell the place, so I’ll have to clear it out in the next couple of weeks. The financial officer, my parents, left in charge, said that the funds wouldn’t cover the expenses this next year, so it would be a good idea for me to sell.”

“Hm,” Solomon murmured. “I could help.”

“No,” Alex shook her head. “It’s time. I don’t need handouts, Sol. I appreciate it, but no.”

“Why do you feel like you have to do everything alone?” Satan asked as they rounded the outside of the park.

Alex breathed and shook her head. “It’s such a long story.”

“Your parents?” Solomon voiced.

This analysis was cathartic in a way, and Alex felt this heavyweight being pulled from her shoulders. “Well, yes and no. I was telling my mother before she passed that I was thinking of taking a year off to go with my boyfriend at the time to travel the world. She was so supportive, even though it would put my education in jeopardy. When they died, he bailed with some other girl, so I kind of just stopped relying on others.”

Satan tutted and exhaled. “To be an idiot teenager who couldn’t handle grief. I’m sorry you had to go through that, especially at such a young age.”

Alex smiled and shrugged as they made their way back to the cafe. “I’m pretty good. I have a degree. I’ll have a decent nest egg to pay for my schooling for an even better education and my best friend. I’m doing pretty well.”

“I have an intrigue before we conclude our adventure into your life,” Solomon hummed.

Alex tilted her head as she grinned at him. “What’s that?”

“You are strong without someone, but it makes it so much richer to share your heart with others,” Solomon declared.

“Says the man who has done his fair share of that,” Satan snorted.

Solomon rolled his eyes. “Satan, don’t cast stones in glass houses.”

“You have been married three times now,” Satan snorted.

News. Alex raised her eyebrows. “Three times? Aren’t you like barely forty?”

“I resent that,” Solomon scowled. “No, I am not. However, marriage and love are difficult measurements in a formula very few understand. I’m difficult.”

“I actually like that about you,” Alex laughed.

Satan scowled as they stopped at the sidewalk near the cafe. “You enjoy that he’s difficult, but you won’t text me?” he questioned with a sly smile.

She puffed and pulled his phone from his bag’s pocket. It was sticking out and available. Alex then went to his keypad, dialed her number, and pressed the call. Her phone soon rang, and she hung up.

“Now, you have my number. Stop trying to make me do all the work, you pushy professor,” she snorted and handed his phone back.

Satan was grinning as he pocketed his phone. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Solomon handed her his phone, and she groaned but did the same exact thing. “If you both call me all the time, I will block your number,” she teased.

“If you need any help with your house, please tell me,” Solomon nodded. “I am quite organized.”

“I will,” Alex smiled.

Solomon tossed his cup in the trash and smiled before walking to his car. Alex watched him wave and climb inside before driving off in the silver vehicle. Satan shifted and tilted his head when she turned back to him.

“Did you want to have dinner with me tonight? I’ll cook,” Satan offered.

“Just because we’re temporarily neighbors does not mean I’m a booty call, understood?” Alex questioned.

Satan snorted and straightened his shirt. “You’re far too interesting to blow on a booty call, Alex.”

“Just had to make it clear. I would take your offer for dinner, but I’m actually exhausted. Diavolo came in for a coffee tasting, and I hosted it. Since then, I’ve just been drained.”

Satan rocked his head. “Well, I’ll ask tomorrow then,” he smiled and shrugged. “You’ll eventually say yes,” he chuckled and walked over to the motorcycle.

Alex smiled and observed as he slid on his helmet, waved, and climbed on the bike. Bad boy, professor. Pretty sexy. That tickled her to no end. He pulled out with a roaring shift of gears and headed in the same direction she needed to go. Home. Even if it was just for now.

@rsmrymnt-tea @otome-scribbles

Some (Pre-Insanity Gas) Personal Eccomiah Headcanons! Part Three

Yes, you heard right! I’m back on my BS and am creating a part three of this series of posts! This one seems to have a common theme!

1st Prom (11th Grade)

For their first prom, Ecco wore a red dress and had her hair put up all nice. This was the first time that she really dressed up in her life, as her time in Russia didn’t allow for that. Jeremiah got so distracted when he saw her for the first time because she looked so beautiful. This was before he officially had a crush on her, as they were just friends when they were at St. Ignatius.

Jeremiah wore a nice tuxedo. Nothing too special, but something that fit the event. Ecco also thought he looked handsome.

They didn’t go as each other’s dates. They met up there and took a few pictures with one another. 

They got a few photos at the photo booth.

After a little bit of time, they ate dinner and danced for about half an hour. It wasn’t slow dancing, more like the type of stuff you do with your friends.

Jeremiah had to go to the bathroom, so Ecco waited outside for him. She was just staring to an abyss thinking when she realized that there was no closed off parts of the school. When Jeremiah walked out, she pointed this out to him. They both looked at each other and had a smirk on their faces. 

After that, they then proceeded to look through the school into rooms they hadn’t seen before and those that were locked. Ecco used one of her bobby pins to unlock the doors.

The music was so loud through the school, so they were doing this all while bopping and dancing around. 

They spent some time in the library looking at old books. This is where Ecco finally told Jeremiah why she saved him from those kids when they first met. It warmed his heart.

When it got to 10 minutes before the dance ended, they ran back to where they were supposed to be on the dancefloor. They promised that next time they would pick up where they left off. 

2nd Prom (12th Grade)

The two pretty much had the same beginning routine that happened the last time. They were mutually amazed by how each other looked, got a few pictures together, ate, danced a little, and then slipped away to explore!

Ecco wore a light blue dress this time around. Jeremiah wore a tuxedo.

They started where they left off the last time, and found even more hidden areas. This time, Jeremiah made a map of what they knew and drew out the route that they would take. 

This time, they found a place that took them to the roof of the school. They were amazed on how they found the place, and stayed there for a good amount of the night, sitting and talking. They discussed their futures, as they were going to graduate that year. Jeremiah talked about how he had an internship from Wayne Enterprises already set up for him at Meyer and Hayes, while Ecco was unsure of what she was going to do. She always wanted to be a dancer, but decided that it wouldn’t work out in Gotham as easily as it would’ve in Russia. She talked about her interest in psychology and psychiatry, but she then said that she didn’t want to leave Jeremiah because of how good of a friend he was. He said he was afraid of the same thing, and that night they agreed that they would work together, her as his bodyguard/proxy/assistant.

She then explained to him what happened in her childhood, on how her father left, how she was taken away, and how she got to Gotham. She was afraid he wouldn’t believe her, but he did. Due to this, Jeremiah was so close to revealing his real name and his truth, but they both saw it was almost time to leave. 

As they were running back to the dancefloor, they found a room with huge doors. They didn’t go in, but they promised that next time, whenever that was, they would go in there and continue to explore. 

Reunion Gala

All of Jeremiah’s mail goes to Ecco’s mailbox because of the fact that he didn’t want anyone to know his location. The two of them got an invitation to a high school reunion gala at St. Ignatius a few years later, after they had started dating. In Jeremiah’s letter, it said that he would be receiving an award for his work at Wayne Plaza. 

Jeremiah was very reluctant to go. When Ecco told him, he panicked a bit and told her that he couldn’t go because it would ruin his whole image of him being under the radar, and his social anxiety had heightened dramatically because of his lack of interaction with other people. They compromised, and agreed that Jeremiah would accept the award without a speech. Another reason why they went is so they could continue to discover the room in the school that they didn’t get to at the last prom. Ecco promised that she would write a letter to the school and tell them this, and she did.

The day of the gala/reunion, Jeremiah was super stressed out. When it came to the time that they had to get dressed, he got into one of his tuxedos and Ecco got into a black, off of the shoulder gown. When he saw her in the gown, his anxiety stopped and he was absolutely mesmerized by her. She felt the same way.

They rode there on Ecco’s motorcycle. Yes, she had a gown on, but it looked really cool.

When they got there, they tried to be as low-key as possible. They ate and he accepted the award. No one even thought they were a couple, as that was the overall goal. (Their relationship was private). They also got a few pictures in a photo booth, and they were adorable.

One of their popular peers that used to pick on Jeremiah tried flirting with him, as she saw that he had a huge glow up. He was very uncomfortable and when she asked if he could go back to her place to “catch up” he straight up denied her and walked away. Ecco, who was watching, had a smile on her face. 

They both snuck away to find the place where they left off all of those years ago. When they unlocked the door with one of Ecco’s bobby pins, it was revealed that it was an abandoned ballroom. Jeremiah admired the architecture’s design, and realized that the acoustics of the room were perfect. He offered her to dance.

The rest of the night, they danced in the room. They waltzed, bopped, slow danced, tangoed, and did so many other dances according to the music that played. They had the most fun they ever had, and lost track of time. Like always, when it came time to go, they dashed back to the main area. They took his award and the photos they had gotten, and rode back to the maze.

The whole night they were absolutely in love with one another. The way that they looked at each other when they were alone was the purest thing ever. 

When they got back, she followed him back to his room, where he would start to change and put his award. They kissed, and one thing lead to another. 

Random Stuff

Jeremiah had the dance moves. Whether it be for dancing with a partner or not, he was pretty good. 

Sometimes when he was little, Lila would turn on a record player, and her, Jerome, and Jeremiah would dance around together. These were one of some of the better memories from his childhood.

When Ecco was at GRU, they taught her gymnastics so she could be quick on her feet. Due to this, she could do flips, cartwheels, and a whole bunch of cool tricks.

Jeremiah helped build his maze.

Ecco, before the insanity gas, refused to kill.

The two of them had a movie night every Friday where they would watch a rented movie and talk about it, both about the technicalities and opinions on the film.

Sometimes in his office, the two of them would sing jazz songs together.

So, that’s it for part 3! I know that there aren’t nearly as many Eccomiah shippers anymore, but I decided that I would write this again because why not. I may do another Pre-spray one next, or one of the ones after they became evil. Thanks for reading! 

rhondastephens To Catch A Falling Cactus

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Parenting: Are We Getting a Raw Deal?

Summer 1974. I’m 9 years old. By 7:30 am, I’m up and out of the house, or if it’s Saturday I’m up and doing exactly what my father, Big Jerry, has told me to do. Might be raking, mowing, digging holes, or washing cars. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); Summer 2016. I’m tiptoeing out of the house, on my way to work, in an effort not to wake my children who will undoubtedly sleep until 11 am. They may complete a couple of the chores I’ve left in a list on the kitchen counter for them, or they may eat stale Cheez-its that were left in their rooms 3 days ago, in order to avoid the kitchen at all costs and “not see” the list. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); If you haven’t noticed, we’re getting a raw deal where this parenting gig is concerned. When did adults start caring whether or not their kids were safe, happy, or popular? I can assure you that Ginny and Big Jerry were not whiling away the hours wondering if my brother and I were fulfilled. Big Jerry was stoking the fires of his retirement savings and working, and working some more. Ginny was double bolting the door in order to keep us out of the house, and talking on the phone while she smoked a Kent. Meanwhile, we were three neighborhoods away, playing with some kids we’d never met, and we had crossed 2 major highways on bicycles with semi-flat tires to get there. Odds are, one of us had crashed at some point and was bleeding pretty impressively. No one cared. We were kids and if we weren’t acting as free labor, we were supposed to be out of the house and out of the way. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); My personal belief is that the same “woman with too little to do”, that decided it was necessary to give 4- year old guests a gift for coming to a birthday party, is the same loon who decided we were here to serve our kids and not the other way around. Think about it. As a kid, what was your costume for Halloween? If you were really lucky, your mom jabbed a pair of scissors in an old sheet, cut two eye holes, and you were a ghost. If her friend was coming over to frost her hair and showed up early, you got one eye hole cut and spent the next 45 minutes using a sharp stick to jab a second hole that was about two inches lower than its partner. I watched my cousin run directly into a parked car due to this very costume one year. He was still yelling, “Trick or Treat” as he slid down the rear quarter panel of a Buick, mildly concussed. When my son was 3 years old, we had a clown costume made by a seamstress, complete with pointy clown hat, and grease makeup. His grandmother spent more having that costume made than she did on my prom dress. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); At some point in the last 25 years, the tide shifted and the parents started getting the marginal cars and the cheap clothes while the kids live like rock stars. We spend enormous amounts of money on private instruction, the best sports gear money can buy, and adhere to psycho competition schedules. I’m as guilty as anyone. I’ve bought the $300 baseball bats with money that should have been invested in a retirement account, traveled from many an AAU basketball game, or travel baseball game, to a dance competition in the course of one day, and failed to even consider why. Remember Hank Aaron? He didn’t need a $300 bat to be great. Your kid isn’t going pro and neither is mine, but you are going to retire one day and dumpster diving isn’t for the elderly. My brother and I still laugh about how, when he played high school baseball, there was one good bat and the entire team used it. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); Remember your clothes in the 70’s? Despite my best efforts to block it out, I can still remember my desperate need to have a pair of authentic Converse shoes. Did I get them? Negative. Oh, was it a punch in the gut when my mother presented me with the Archdale knock-offs she found somewhere between my hometown and Greensboro. Trust me. They weren’t even close. Did I complain? Hell, no. I’m still alive, aren’t I? We’ve got an entire generation of kids spitting up on outfits that cost more than my monthly electric bill. There were no designer baby clothes when we were kids. Why? Because our parents weren’t crazy enough to spend $60 on an outfit for us to have explosive diarrhea in or vomit on. Our parents were focused on saving for their retirement and paying their house off. The real beauty of it is that none of these kids are going to score a job straight out of college that will allow them to pay for the necessities of life, brand new cars, and $150 jeans, so guess who’s going to be getting the phone call when they can’t make rent? Yep, we are. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); Think back; way, way back. Who cleaned the house and did the yard work when you were a kid? You did. In fact, that’s why some people had children. We were free labor. My mother served as supervisor for the indoor chores, and the house damn well better be spotless when my father came through the door at 5:35. The battle cry went something like this, “Oh, no! Your father will be home in 15 minutes! Get those toys put away nooooow!” The rest of our evening was spent getting up to turn the television on demand, and only to what Dad wanted to watch. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); On weekends Dad was in charge of outdoor work and if you were thirsty you drank out of the hose, because 2 minutes of air conditioning and a glass of water from the faucet might make you soft. Who does the housework and yardwork now? The cleaning lady that comes on Thursday, and the landscaping crew that comes every other Tuesday. Most teenage boys have never touched a mower, and if you asked my daughter to clean a toilet, she would come back with a four page paper on the various kinds of deadly bacteria present on toilet seats. Everyone is too busy doing stuff to take care of the stuff they already have. But don’t get confused, they aren’t working or anything crazy like that. Juggling school assignments, extracurricular activities, and spending our money could become stressful if they had to work. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); I don’t recall anyone being worried about my workload being stressful, or my mental health in general. Jerry and Ginny had grownup stuff to worry about. As teenagers, we managed our own social lives and school affairs. If Karen, while executing a hair flip, told me my new Rave perm made me look like shit and there was no way Kevin would ever go out with my scrawny ass, my mother wasn’t even going to know about it; much less call Karen’s mother and arrange a meeting where we could iron out our misunderstanding and take a selfie together. Additionally, no phone calls were ever made to any of my teachers or coaches. Ever. If we sat the bench, we sat the bench. Our dads were at work anyway. They only knew what we told them. I can’t even conceive of my dad leaving work to come watch a ballgame. If I made a 92.999 and got a B, I got a B. No thinly veiled threats were made and no money changed hands to get me that A. Ok, full disclosure, in my case we would be looking at an 84.9999. I was the poster child for underachievement. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); Back in our day, high school was a testing ground for life. We were learning to be adults under the semi-vigilant supervision of our parents. We had jobs because we wanted cars, and we wanted to be able to put gas in our cars, and wear Jordache jeans and Candies. Without jobs, we had Archdale sneakers and Wranglers, and borrowed our mother’s Chevrolet Caprice, affectionately known as the “land yacht”, on Friday night. No one, I mean, no one, got a new car. I was considered fairly lucky because my parents bought me a car at all. I use the term “car” loosely. If I tell you it was a red convertible and stop right here, you might think me special. I wasn’t. My car was a red MG Midget, possibly a ’74 and certainly a death trap. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); Look at your coffee table. Now imagine it having a steering wheel and driving it. I promise you, it’s bigger than my car was. The starter was bad, so after school I had the pleasure of popping the hood and using two screwdrivers to cross the solenoids or waiting for the football players to come out of the dressing room headed to practice. Those guys pushing my car while I popped the clutch, is a memory no 16-year old girl around here will ever have, and it’s a great one. Had I driven that car in high winds, it’s likely I would have ended up airborne, and there were probably some serious safety infractions committed the night I took 6 people in togas to a convenience store, but I wouldn’t go back and trade it out for a new 280Z, even if I had the chance. I was a challenging teenager, and in retrospect the fact that it was pretty impressive every time I made it home alive, may not have been an accident on the part of my parents. Go to the high school now. These kids are driving cars that grown men working 55 hours a week can’t afford, and they aren’t paying for them with their jobs. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); And those new cars don’t do a thing for telling a good story. I tell my kids all the time, the very best stories from my teen and college years involve Ann’s yellow Plymouth Duster with the “swirling dust” graphic, Randy’s Valiant with the broken gas gauge, and Carla’s burgundy Nissan that may or may not have had a complete floorboard. A story that starts, “Remember that time we were heading to the beach in Carla’s Nissan and your wallet fell through the floorboard onto the highway?” is so much more interesting than, “Remember that time we were going to the beach in your brand new SUV, filled up with gas that your parents paid for, and the…well, no, never mind. Nothing happened. We just drove down there.” To top it all off, most of them head off to college without a clue what it’s like to look for a job, apply for it, interview, and show up on time, as scheduled. If they have a job, it’s because someone owed their dad a favor…and then they work when it “fits their schedule”. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); We all love our kids, and we want to see them happy and fulfilled, but I fear we’re robbing them of the experiences that make life memorable and make them capable, responsible, confident adults. For the majority of us, the very nice things we had as teenagers, we purchased with money we earned after saving for some ungodly amount of time. Our children are given most everything, and sometimes I wonder whether it’s for them or to make us feel like good parents. The bottom line is that you never value something you were given, as much as something you worked for. There were lessons in our experiences, even though we didn’t know it at the time. All those high school cat fights, and battles with teachers we clashed with, were an opportunity for us to learn how to negotiate and how to compromise. It also taught us that the world isn’t fair. Sometimes people just don’t like you, and sometimes you’ll work your ass off and still get screwed. We left high school, problem solvers. I’m afraid our kids are leaving high school with mommy and daddy on speed dial. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); We just don’t have the cojones our parents had. We aren’t prepared to tell our kids that they won’t have it if they don’t work for it, because we can’t bear to see them go without and we can’t bear to see them fail. We’ve given them a whole lot of stuff; stuff that will break down, wear out, get lost, go out of style, and lose value. As parents, I suppose some of us feel pretty proud about how we’ve contributed in a material way to our kid’s popularity and paved an easy street for them. I don’t, and I know there are many of you that are just as frustrated by it as I am. I worry about what we’ve robbed them of, which I’ve listed below, in the process of giving them everything. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); Delayed gratification is a really good thing. It teaches you perseverance and how to determine the true value of something. Our kids don’t know a damn thing about delayed gratification. To them, delayed gratification is waiting for their phone to charge.Problem-solving skills and the ability to manage emotion are crucial life skills. Kids now have every problem solved for them. Good luck calling their college professor to argue about how they should have another shot at that final because they had two other finals to study for and were stressed. Don’t laugh, parents have tried it.Independence allows you to discover who you really are, instead of being what someone else expects you to be. It was something I craved. These kids have traded independence for new cars and Citizen jeans. They will live under someone’s thumb forever, if it means cool stuff. I would have lived in borderline condemned housing, and survived off of crackers and popsicles to maintain my independence. Oh wait, I actually did that. It pisses me off. You’re supposed to WANT to grow up and forge your way in the world; not live on someone else’s dime, under someone else’s rule, and too often these days, under someone else’s roof.Common sense is that little something extra that allows you to figure out which direction is north, how to put air in your tires, or the best route to take at a certain time of day to avoid traffic. You develop common sense by making mistakes and learning from them. It’s a skill best acquired in a setting where it’s safe to fail, and is only mastered by actually doing things for yourself. By micromanaging our kids all the time, we’re setting them up for a lifetime of cluelessness and ineptitude. At a certain age, that cluelessness becomes dangerous. I’ve seen women marry to avoid thinking for themselves, and for some it was the wisest course of action.Mental toughness is what allows a person to keep going despite everything going wrong. People with mental toughness are the ones who come out on top. They battle through job losses, difficult relationships, illness, and failure. It is a quality born from adversity. Adversity is a GOOD thing. It teaches you what you’re made of. It puts into practice the old saying “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”. It’s life’s teacher. Our bubble-wrapped kids are so sheltered from adversity, I wonder how the mental health professionals will handle them all after the world chews them up and spits them out a few times. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); I know you are calling me names right now, and mentally listing all the reasons this doesn’t apply to you and your kid, but remember I’m including myself in this. My kids aren’t as bad as some, because I’m too poor and too lazy to indulge them beyond a certain point. And I’m certainly not saying that our parents did everything right. God knows all that second hand smoke I was exposed to, and those Sunday afternoon drives where Dad was drinking a Schlitz and I was standing on the front seat like a human projectile, were less than ideal; but I do think parents in the 70’s defined their roles in a way we never have.I worry that our kids are leaving home with more intellectual ability than we did, but without the life skills that will give them the success and independence that we’ve enjoyed. Then again, maybe it’s not parents that are getting the raw end of this deal after all. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kJQP7kiw5Fk Watch: most watched video on youtube source Read the full article

It's your SENIOR year of high school! The longer ago it was, the more fun the answers will be!

Class of 2003 1. Did you know your spouse? i don’t have a spouse. but given the pool of folks that i still communicate with from high school i’d say there is pretty much 0% chance that i knew my spouse in high school. that’s not to be derogatory to this pool of people at all, just to say i’m pretty sure none of them will ever be my spouse haha. 2. Did you carpool? Yup, cause out school didn’t have its own bus routes. we lived outside the vicinity to grab a bus.

3. What kind of car did u have? a bright yellow  ‘73 volkswagen super beetle, haha

4. It's Friday night where did you go? most likely and most to my liking i was spending friday night alone in my bedroom, tinkering with old computers or drawing or writing and listening to music. maybe playing video games. 5. What kind of job did you have? i had a summer job at a pool snack bar, haha. i also did a ot of mural painting back then. i remember painting winnie the poo scenes on many walls for people’s kids. 6. Were you a party animal?   no. well, maybe in my own way. i did go to anime cons after all.

7. Were you considered popular? hahahaha, uh. no? maybe in some weird cryptic way. but our school was different and i don’t know if there really was one single popular clique. there were many groups of friends and people were cool to each other. i was bulled by some people whom i considered to be friends, which sucks. but whatever. 8. Were you in band/choir? there wasn’t a band at my high school, and i dont think there was choir either. there was a voice training department but i was not part of that. i was in the visual arts department. i’m pretty sure there were extra-curricular groups like jazz band and acapella but i never participated.

9. Were you a nerd? well i suppose you could say that.

10. Did you get suspended or expelled? i don’t remember any specific occurrence of this. 11. Can you sing the fight song? the what?

12. Where did you go to lunch? a lot of times i would eat in the painting studios.

13. Where was your high school? towson MD

14. What was your mascot? wildcats i think.

15. If you could go back and do it over again, would you? I’d rather not, but i do sometimes wonder how different things would have gone if the person i am now was in that situation again. i wonder what a more experienced version of me would have done with the bullying and manipulation, for one. i wonder what i would have done with my college decisions, etc.

16. Did you have fun at prom?  i didn’t ...really... go? i didn’t buy a ticket. me and some other friends got ugly 80′s dresses from thrift stores and walked around downtown baltyimore. we crashed the prom late in the evening without tickets but we didn’t stay long. it was a good night i’d say.

17. Do you still talk to the person you went to the prom with? i don’t really talk to those friends anymore, though i am connected to them vaguely through social media. at most i know they are doing alright!

18. Are you planning on going to your reunion? uh, no.

19. Are you still in contact with people from high school? a few people but not very many.

20. Did you skip school/class? Yes, a lot. But i was pretty good at getting away with it. Mostly I would attend school on time, and sneak out early if I had the chance. it was easy since i had my own car and as a quiet, responsible student I could slip under the radar of teachers. I don’t think I ever got in trouble for cutting school even though i did it A LOT, haha.maybe the teachers knew and didnt rat me our cause i was doing well in the classes. i guess i will never kn0w.

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Pandemics and The Price of Productivity

Hi everyone!!

Isn’t that the best way to begin a blog? Introduce yourself, so you seem as friendly in and out of the virtual realm? 

I’m kidding; I am friendly always and welcome you to my very first blog post!

 So, Hi! Hello! I’m virtually greeting you! I’m waving the way you’ve been greeting your family and friends for the past several weeks. Did you think I was going to write something during this time without mentioning the quarantine? It is everywhere you look! On Instagram, your Facebook walls, and Twitter. The quarantine is on dirty dishes and unopened Amazon Prime boxes that have been sitting in your house for over a week. The past three weeks have been hard on everyone. You are not seeing your friends, engaging in five-minute hangouts six feet apart, and, most importantly, being an essential worker during a worldwide pandemic. But, if you aren’t an “essential” worker, you’re at home make shifting a  work from home (WFH) space next to your roommate or significant other crammed next to a litter box.

The joys, right? How lucky are we to be able to WFH in our pajamas and binge watch “Tiger King” during our lunch break? How lucky are the entrepreneurs and media folk trying to crank out content now that we have all the time in the world to get our newest blog and web series started? Before we became quarantined, we had access to everything distracting. 

       We were preoccupied with happy hours with our friend groups at the local brewery, Sunday brunch on the belt-line, and my favorite, people watching at my favorite coffee shop trying to break a bout of writer’s block. Now that we are in the middle of a mandatory shelter in place, all of our usual activities stopped—no more outings, no more family visits, no more in-person happy hour.  At the drop of a hat, our lives changed, and now we have all the time in the world! Now we can start the podcast, start the blog, start something in general! Now is the time! Shelter in place is the time to be productive, right? Since the quarantine began, we immersed ourselves in the digital world of memes and Tik-Tok challenges. People aspiring for the blue checkmark can now create the content they have been putting off due to our supposed distractions and social obligations. 

While I am in full support of a creative endeavor and goal setting, I saw a post on my Instagram feed that was rather unsettling. The message read: “If you don’t come out of this quarantine with a new skill, your side hustle started, more knowledge. You never lacked time; you lacked discipline.” This post made me beg the question of why our culture so obsessed with being productive.

   If you’ve made it this far in my post, then you’re probably rolling your eyes—another millennial “triggered” over a meme they scrolled past while not understanding the bigger picture. While I am notorious for being overly sensitive in my social circle, this person is presumptuous in their attempt to encourage productivity by assuming another person’s shortcomings. Yes, I am that aspiring content creator I was speaking about above who is trying to produce content to the masses in the name of WFH distractions. I need to get my podcast recorded. I need to post more to my blog. I also need to be more productive and organized. While this person’s post is in good faith and motivation, it conveys judgment and shame.  Our society is so obsessed with “hustle culture” that even during times of crisis, we still expect ourselves to produce.      

I see it everywhere. Influencers are giving out quarantine makeup advice and graphic designers creating t-shirts making references to “social distancing” and washing our hands ( Yes, I bought one. Guilty as charged).  Podcasters are also dishing out unsolicited advice on dating while we self isolate. We capitalize on everything. Hell, at this point, I’m surprised people aren’t trying to make personalized COVID kits complete with your monogram (“BOGO on my newest Etsy account, this Friday only”). I understand, and this person is entirely valid in their opinion of using your free time to produce what you have wanted to create. Being stuck in traffic on Monday through Friday sucks up most of our time outside of work, and now that we are void of that responsibility, it is time to take action on our heart's desire. 

       In a matter of seconds, many people lost income they relied on to keep a roof over their heads and food in their fridge. Some people are now working and living full time with their significant other, which I’m sure has caused a little bit of strain on some relationships. Parents are now trying to teach their kids from home while simultaneously re-adjusting their living space to make it more work AND school-friendly. Some of these parents are doing this alone.  A vast majority have already worked from home, but fear of catching a possibly life-threatening virus that has yet to see a vaccine causes a lot of anxiety. When trying to make everything as “normal” as possible in times of crisis and sudden upheaval, is the side hustle and the exploitation of your hobbies that important? If we aren’t learning the language we’ve been putting off for months during this time, are we undisciplined? If we don’t pick up our art supplies and become the newest art sensation on the front of the Instagram explore page, are we wasting our lives in the pursuit of being lazy? Or are we more disciplined in the pursuit of trying to do our best given that most of our typical day to day turns upside down? 

I am lucky, however, to still have an income and no kids to aid in my distraction of “exploiting” my time for productivity purposes. But, I am still facing a ton of challenges. I am a flight attendant who typically has three to four days off during the week, which to most (and myself), is a pretty flexible schedule. I also am trying to break into the world of multimedia and have several other hobbies. So you could very well argue that I am the queen of the side hustle and understand the importance of using time wisely. You could also say that I am hypocritical as I launch my very first blog post as the constituent in the grand scheme of becoming an influential content creator. I use my time “productively” to question the toxic relationship we have with hustle culture. While I am here to get my content off the ground, I am mostly here to empathize.

     Thriving from structure and routine when I am not jet setting around the globe, I have also been thrown through a loop. Before COVID  took hold of our daily lives, I began establishing a routine that would allow me to be my most productive self. I would wake up early, grab breakfast, and head to whichever coffee shop struck my fancy—ideas and laptop in tow. Unable to follow the routine I spent weeks establishing, along with the looming torment of a pandemic, having to start all over, became another source of anxiety.  I am struggling with this sudden change just as much as anyone, and comparing a person’s shortcomings based on society's standard of an acceptable work ethic, is the very attitude that fosters shame in so many when they face life appropriate distractions. 

        All of a sudden, the home Keurig became our source of morning coffee and the kitchen island, our brand new work cafe. Overnight, our spouses and children needing our attention became our co-workers. My main point is that everyone’s life got turned upside down in an instant, and we now face other immediate distractions that garner our attention rather than the “hustle” or “grind." People who were laid off are now asking themselves how they are going to pay rent. Teens bummed out because they are missing graduation and prom. Now spouses everywhere are wondering why their partner wants to begin the conversation regarding kitchen repairs as soon as they start a conference call.

         If you are working on a side hustle, have been trying to learn a new language, or engage in a new hobby you’ve been putting off for months; don’t feel bad if it hasn’t transpired by the time the world is up and running again. Our “new normal” has fostered a brand new host of problems we need to manage, along with adjusting and maintaining our regular responsibilities. When an unexpected crisis happens, it isn’t a time where we have absolutely nothing to do. Right now is a time when we have more to think about and adjust on top of our already busy lives. Messages that are aimed to spark inspiration are often worded as messages that cause shame. Speaking as if those who have yet to start something they’ve wanted to accomplish aren’t disciplined are viewing life through a narrow lens where everything exists in a world of black and white, where everyone is living in a world void of imperfection and equal opportunity. Our mindset that if you haven’t accomplished or started anything AMAZING, GREAT, or PROFOUND during a  period of necessary rest lies at the heart of our obsession with hustle culture. 

Our value shouldn’t be held on the pedestal of production. Our value as people should be based on whatever it is that helps us feel safe, rejuvenated, and like we live a fulfilling life. If being productive makes you feel good about yourself, that’s great! However, we are all individuals with different expectations and visions for how we wish to live and spend our time. We are all in such a rush to be the “next best thing” that we sometimes forget to prioritize our values and take care of our needs.

    My notion isn’t to be proud or self-righteous, because I also have issues succumbing to the pressure of hustle culture. More often than not, I feel guilty for resting or taking the day to read a novel for my enjoyment when I feel overwhelmed or stressed. During my time in self-isolation, I slowly realize that I am allowed to feel just as anxious and unfocused like everyone else regardless of my goals. I know that with a change in routine also comes a period of readjustment and realigning of priorities. If we treated people as individuals and understood that at our core, we are all human, not machines meant to run on empty for the sake of production; maybe we could allow more room for understanding and empathy- even for ourselves. While the quarantine is a good time to start that fantastic business venture you have been putting off, or read the book you have put down several times because you are always on the go; you are not undisciplined if life got in the way like it always does. Sometimes, learning to be present, knowing your limits, and not holding on to others' expectations is the only discipline we need.

04/18/99

    3:47 PM

    I did something last night I never in my life thought I would ever do. I went to my senior prom. I consider it my prom, even though I dropped out. And you know what? It wasn't all that great. Pretty boring. I went with Jennifer. We went to a restaurant beforehand, with some of Jennifer's friends. Lenore, Regina, Amanda, another Jennifer, and Jennifer's date, I forgot his name. We ate, chit chatted, then went on to the place where the prom was being held at. We met up with some more of Jennifer's friends. These friends were people I had socialized with also. Andrea, Angela, Julie, and Angela's date, I forgot his name. It was nice seeing those people again, they were some of the very few nice people at Reitz.

    So we took a trolly ride around downtown during the prom. Julie is a crackhead and was just being crazy. Not that it's a bad thing. We got back to the prom, and I tried to get some of the girls to dance with me to make people think we were lesbian lovers, but they refused because they're pussies. I saw Stacy there. All I can say is wow. She was wearing this black dress, with jewel studded spaghetti straps. She looked really nice. I guess I'm not used to seeing her old and mature instead of the 8/9/10/11/12/13 year old girl I used to be best friends with.

    I kept looking around at all the couples kissing and being lovey dovey and all I could think about was how I wanted Rob there to be with me for my prom. I called him about halfway through, and talked to him for a few minutes. I felt better.

    I started getting bored, and I asked Jennifer if we could leave and go somewhere else, and so we did. We went to K-Mart so she could pick up her last check, then we met Andrea and Julie at Los Bravos for some non-alcoholic daquaris. After that, we drove around Green River Road and kept screaming "HONK IF YOU'RE HORNY!" Then we went to Arc Lanes bowling alley for the private party Reitz had reserved. That was the most fun part of the whole prom. Me and Jennifer went home around 3 AM, and I crashed, I was so tired.

    So that was last night. I went to the driving test Friday. They told me that I couldn't take the actual driving test because I was supposed to get there 15 minutes early so I could take the written test too. They never told me that on the phone when I called to schedule the appointment. So I took the written test, and now I have to go back this Friday to take the actual driving test. At least I don't have to take that stupid written part again.

    The HIV test. They called me and told me that everything was fine, the papsmear was all negative and the test they did for hepatitis, syphilis, gonnorreah, chlamydia, and herpes was all negative, but they didn't test for HIV. So I had to make an appointment to go back down there and get more blood drawn so they could test for it. I did that Wednesday, so I won't have the results until this Wednesday or Thursday or Friday.

    This is driving me crazy! I'm trying to get all this stuff done so I can lead a normal life without having to wait for stuff to happen. Now I still have to wait to get my license, and wait for the results of my test, and I have to apply for another job closer to home. It's going to be another fucking week til I can just lay back, go to work, and not have to worry about getting shit done. I'm more than sure that my test for HIV isn't going to turn up positive, but it's still just having it out of the way, knowing for sure, being able to just have sex with Rob and never have to worry about it again, you know?

    Oh, Ryon called. That was interesting. He said he was sorry. He asked me if I wanted him to come over so we could fuck for old time's sake, and he said he was just kidding. Then he asked me what I would say if he hadn't have been kidding. I'm like, "No!" He asked if I was seeing anyone. I let him know that I was very taken. I told him I had to go, and he said, "Well, okay, I just wanted to say I'm sorry." and I said, "I'm sorry too." He said, "For what?" I said, "I'm sorry that I ever got involved with someone like you. We obviously had very different intentions. I wanted a relationship, you didn't." He said, "No, towards the end, when I was ignoring you, I was really starting to like you, and I was wanting a relationship. But I doublefucked myself on that one, because you're happy, you're with someone, and I'm not." I said, "Yes you did. Talk to you later, bye." Oh that was delicious.

    I guess that's all that's been happening. Rob is leaving for New Mexico sometime today or tomorrow. I think he already left, because I called his house a couple hours ago and I got his answering machine. I'm going to miss him so much. I just hope he can stop by here on his way back home. That would be so nice. I would be so happy if I could see him this week or next week. Also, my dad is going up to Chicago the 2nd week of May, and I'm going to go with him if Rob's still going to be there, and hasn't moved down to New Mexico already. So hopefully, I'll be able to see him once or twice before I go back to school later on in May.

    Another day, more waiting.

rhondastephens To Catch A Falling Cactus

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Parenting: Are We Getting a Raw Deal?

Summer 1974. I’m 9 years old. By 7:30 am, I’m up and out of the house, or if it’s Saturday I’m up and doing exactly what my father, Big Jerry, has told me to do. Might be raking, mowing, digging holes, or washing cars. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); Summer 2016. I’m tiptoeing out of the house, on my way to work, in an effort not to wake my children who will undoubtedly sleep until 11 am. They may complete a couple of the chores I’ve left in a list on the kitchen counter for them, or they may eat stale Cheez-its that were left in their rooms 3 days ago, in order to avoid the kitchen at all costs and “not see” the list. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); If you haven’t noticed, we’re getting a raw deal where this parenting gig is concerned. When did adults start caring whether or not their kids were safe, happy, or popular? I can assure you that Ginny and Big Jerry were not whiling away the hours wondering if my brother and I were fulfilled. Big Jerry was stoking the fires of his retirement savings and working, and working some more. Ginny was double bolting the door in order to keep us out of the house, and talking on the phone while she smoked a Kent. Meanwhile, we were three neighborhoods away, playing with some kids we’d never met, and we had crossed 2 major highways on bicycles with semi-flat tires to get there. Odds are, one of us had crashed at some point and was bleeding pretty impressively. No one cared. We were kids and if we weren’t acting as free labor, we were supposed to be out of the house and out of the way. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); My personal belief is that the same “woman with too little to do”, that decided it was necessary to give 4- year old guests a gift for coming to a birthday party, is the same loon who decided we were here to serve our kids and not the other way around. Think about it. As a kid, what was your costume for Halloween? If you were really lucky, your mom jabbed a pair of scissors in an old sheet, cut two eye holes, and you were a ghost. If her friend was coming over to frost her hair and showed up early, you got one eye hole cut and spent the next 45 minutes using a sharp stick to jab a second hole that was about two inches lower than its partner. I watched my cousin run directly into a parked car due to this very costume one year. He was still yelling, “Trick or Treat” as he slid down the rear quarter panel of a Buick, mildly concussed. When my son was 3 years old, we had a clown costume made by a seamstress, complete with pointy clown hat, and grease makeup. His grandmother spent more having that costume made than she did on my prom dress. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); At some point in the last 25 years, the tide shifted and the parents started getting the marginal cars and the cheap clothes while the kids live like rock stars. We spend enormous amounts of money on private instruction, the best sports gear money can buy, and adhere to psycho competition schedules. I’m as guilty as anyone. I’ve bought the $300 baseball bats with money that should have been invested in a retirement account, traveled from many an AAU basketball game, or travel baseball game, to a dance competition in the course of one day, and failed to even consider why. Remember Hank Aaron? He didn’t need a $300 bat to be great. Your kid isn’t going pro and neither is mine, but you are going to retire one day and dumpster diving isn’t for the elderly. My brother and I still laugh about how, when he played high school baseball, there was one good bat and the entire team used it. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); Remember your clothes in the 70’s? Despite my best efforts to block it out, I can still remember my desperate need to have a pair of authentic Converse shoes. Did I get them? Negative. Oh, was it a punch in the gut when my mother presented me with the Archdale knock-offs she found somewhere between my hometown and Greensboro. Trust me. They weren’t even close. Did I complain? Hell, no. I’m still alive, aren’t I? We’ve got an entire generation of kids spitting up on outfits that cost more than my monthly electric bill. There were no designer baby clothes when we were kids. Why? Because our parents weren’t crazy enough to spend $60 on an outfit for us to have explosive diarrhea in or vomit on. Our parents were focused on saving for their retirement and paying their house off. The real beauty of it is that none of these kids are going to score a job straight out of college that will allow them to pay for the necessities of life, brand new cars, and $150 jeans, so guess who’s going to be getting the phone call when they can’t make rent? Yep, we are. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); Think back; way, way back. Who cleaned the house and did the yard work when you were a kid? You did. In fact, that’s why some people had children. We were free labor. My mother served as supervisor for the indoor chores, and the house damn well better be spotless when my father came through the door at 5:35. The battle cry went something like this, “Oh, no! Your father will be home in 15 minutes! Get those toys put away nooooow!” The rest of our evening was spent getting up to turn the television on demand, and only to what Dad wanted to watch. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); On weekends Dad was in charge of outdoor work and if you were thirsty you drank out of the hose, because 2 minutes of air conditioning and a glass of water from the faucet might make you soft. Who does the housework and yardwork now? The cleaning lady that comes on Thursday, and the landscaping crew that comes every other Tuesday. Most teenage boys have never touched a mower, and if you asked my daughter to clean a toilet, she would come back with a four page paper on the various kinds of deadly bacteria present on toilet seats. Everyone is too busy doing stuff to take care of the stuff they already have. But don’t get confused, they aren’t working or anything crazy like that. Juggling school assignments, extracurricular activities, and spending our money could become stressful if they had to work. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); I don’t recall anyone being worried about my workload being stressful, or my mental health in general. Jerry and Ginny had grownup stuff to worry about. As teenagers, we managed our own social lives and school affairs. If Karen, while executing a hair flip, told me my new Rave perm made me look like shit and there was no way Kevin would ever go out with my scrawny ass, my mother wasn’t even going to know about it; much less call Karen’s mother and arrange a meeting where we could iron out our misunderstanding and take a selfie together. Additionally, no phone calls were ever made to any of my teachers or coaches. Ever. If we sat the bench, we sat the bench. Our dads were at work anyway. They only knew what we told them. I can’t even conceive of my dad leaving work to come watch a ballgame. If I made a 92.999 and got a B, I got a B. No thinly veiled threats were made and no money changed hands to get me that A. Ok, full disclosure, in my case we would be looking at an 84.9999. I was the poster child for underachievement. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); Back in our day, high school was a testing ground for life. We were learning to be adults under the semi-vigilant supervision of our parents. We had jobs because we wanted cars, and we wanted to be able to put gas in our cars, and wear Jordache jeans and Candies. Without jobs, we had Archdale sneakers and Wranglers, and borrowed our mother’s Chevrolet Caprice, affectionately known as the “land yacht”, on Friday night. No one, I mean, no one, got a new car. I was considered fairly lucky because my parents bought me a car at all. I use the term “car” loosely. If I tell you it was a red convertible and stop right here, you might think me special. I wasn’t. My car was a red MG Midget, possibly a ’74 and certainly a death trap. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); Look at your coffee table. Now imagine it having a steering wheel and driving it. I promise you, it’s bigger than my car was. The starter was bad, so after school I had the pleasure of popping the hood and using two screwdrivers to cross the solenoids or waiting for the football players to come out of the dressing room headed to practice. Those guys pushing my car while I popped the clutch, is a memory no 16-year old girl around here will ever have, and it’s a great one. Had I driven that car in high winds, it’s likely I would have ended up airborne, and there were probably some serious safety infractions committed the night I took 6 people in togas to a convenience store, but I wouldn’t go back and trade it out for a new 280Z, even if I had the chance. I was a challenging teenager, and in retrospect the fact that it was pretty impressive every time I made it home alive, may not have been an accident on the part of my parents. Go to the high school now. These kids are driving cars that grown men working 55 hours a week can’t afford, and they aren’t paying for them with their jobs. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); And those new cars don’t do a thing for telling a good story. I tell my kids all the time, the very best stories from my teen and college years involve Ann’s yellow Plymouth Duster with the “swirling dust” graphic, Randy’s Valiant with the broken gas gauge, and Carla’s burgundy Nissan that may or may not have had a complete floorboard. A story that starts, “Remember that time we were heading to the beach in Carla’s Nissan and your wallet fell through the floorboard onto the highway?” is so much more interesting than, “Remember that time we were going to the beach in your brand new SUV, filled up with gas that your parents paid for, and the…well, no, never mind. Nothing happened. We just drove down there.” To top it all off, most of them head off to college without a clue what it’s like to look for a job, apply for it, interview, and show up on time, as scheduled. If they have a job, it’s because someone owed their dad a favor…and then they work when it “fits their schedule”. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); We all love our kids, and we want to see them happy and fulfilled, but I fear we’re robbing them of the experiences that make life memorable and make them capable, responsible, confident adults. For the majority of us, the very nice things we had as teenagers, we purchased with money we earned after saving for some ungodly amount of time. Our children are given most everything, and sometimes I wonder whether it’s for them or to make us feel like good parents. The bottom line is that you never value something you were given, as much as something you worked for. There were lessons in our experiences, even though we didn’t know it at the time. All those high school cat fights, and battles with teachers we clashed with, were an opportunity for us to learn how to negotiate and how to compromise. It also taught us that the world isn’t fair. Sometimes people just don’t like you, and sometimes you’ll work your ass off and still get screwed. We left high school, problem solvers. I’m afraid our kids are leaving high school with mommy and daddy on speed dial. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); We just don’t have the cojones our parents had. We aren’t prepared to tell our kids that they won’t have it if they don’t work for it, because we can’t bear to see them go without and we can’t bear to see them fail. We’ve given them a whole lot of stuff; stuff that will break down, wear out, get lost, go out of style, and lose value. As parents, I suppose some of us feel pretty proud about how we’ve contributed in a material way to our kid’s popularity and paved an easy street for them. I don’t, and I know there are many of you that are just as frustrated by it as I am. I worry about what we’ve robbed them of, which I’ve listed below, in the process of giving them everything. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); Delayed gratification is a really good thing. It teaches you perseverance and how to determine the true value of something. Our kids don’t know a damn thing about delayed gratification. To them, delayed gratification is waiting for their phone to charge.Problem-solving skills and the ability to manage emotion are crucial life skills. Kids now have every problem solved for them. Good luck calling their college professor to argue about how they should have another shot at that final because they had two other finals to study for and were stressed. Don’t laugh, parents have tried it.Independence allows you to discover who you really are, instead of being what someone else expects you to be. It was something I craved. These kids have traded independence for new cars and Citizen jeans. They will live under someone’s thumb forever, if it means cool stuff. I would have lived in borderline condemned housing, and survived off of crackers and popsicles to maintain my independence. Oh wait, I actually did that. It pisses me off. You’re supposed to WANT to grow up and forge your way in the world; not live on someone else’s dime, under someone else’s rule, and too often these days, under someone else’s roof.Common sense is that little something extra that allows you to figure out which direction is north, how to put air in your tires, or the best route to take at a certain time of day to avoid traffic. You develop common sense by making mistakes and learning from them. It’s a skill best acquired in a setting where it’s safe to fail, and is only mastered by actually doing things for yourself. By micromanaging our kids all the time, we’re setting them up for a lifetime of cluelessness and ineptitude. At a certain age, that cluelessness becomes dangerous. I’ve seen women marry to avoid thinking for themselves, and for some it was the wisest course of action.Mental toughness is what allows a person to keep going despite everything going wrong. People with mental toughness are the ones who come out on top. They battle through job losses, difficult relationships, illness, and failure. It is a quality born from adversity. Adversity is a GOOD thing. It teaches you what you’re made of. It puts into practice the old saying “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”. It’s life’s teacher. Our bubble-wrapped kids are so sheltered from adversity, I wonder how the mental health professionals will handle them all after the world chews them up and spits them out a few times. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); I know you are calling me names right now, and mentally listing all the reasons this doesn’t apply to you and your kid, but remember I’m including myself in this. My kids aren’t as bad as some, because I’m too poor and too lazy to indulge them beyond a certain point. And I’m certainly not saying that our parents did everything right. God knows all that second hand smoke I was exposed to, and those Sunday afternoon drives where Dad was drinking a Schlitz and I was standing on the front seat like a human projectile, were less than ideal; but I do think parents in the 70’s defined their roles in a way we never have.I worry that our kids are leaving home with more intellectual ability than we did, but without the life skills that will give them the success and independence that we’ve enjoyed. Then again, maybe it’s not parents that are getting the raw end of this deal after all. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kJQP7kiw5Fk Watch: most watched video on youtube source Read the full article

rhondastephens To Catch A Falling Cactus

Parenting: Are We Getting a Raw Deal?

Summer 1974. I’m 9 years old. By 7:30 am, I’m up and out of the house, or if it’s Saturday I’m up and doing exactly what my father, Big Jerry, has told me to do. Might be raking, mowing, digging holes, or washing cars. Summer 2016. I’m tiptoeing out of the house, on my way to work, in an effort not to wake my children who will undoubtedly sleep until 11 am. They may complete a couple of the chores I’ve left in a list on the kitchen counter for them, or they may eat stale Cheez-its that were left in their rooms 3 days ago, in order to avoid the kitchen at all costs and “not see” the list. If you haven’t noticed, we’re getting a raw deal where this parenting gig is concerned. When did adults start caring whether or not their kids were safe, happy, or popular? I can assure you that Ginny and Big Jerry were not whiling away the hours wondering if my brother and I were fulfilled. Big Jerry was stoking the fires of his retirement savings and working, and working some more. Ginny was double bolting the door in order to keep us out of the house, and talking on the phone while she smoked a Kent. Meanwhile, we were three neighborhoods away, playing with some kids we’d never met, and we had crossed 2 major highways on bicycles with semi-flat tires to get there. Odds are, one of us had crashed at some point and was bleeding pretty impressively. No one cared. We were kids and if we weren’t acting as free labor, we were supposed to be out of the house and out of the way. My personal belief is that the same “woman with too little to do”, that decided it was necessary to give 4- year old guests a gift for coming to a birthday party, is the same loon who decided we were here to serve our kids and not the other way around. Think about it. As a kid, what was your costume for Halloween? If you were really lucky, your mom jabbed a pair of scissors in an old sheet, cut two eye holes, and you were a ghost. If her friend was coming over to frost her hair and showed up early, you got one eye hole cut and spent the next 45 minutes using a sharp stick to jab a second hole that was about two inches lower than its partner. I watched my cousin run directly into a parked car due to this very costume one year. He was still yelling, “Trick or Treat” as he slid down the rear quarter panel of a Buick, mildly concussed. When my son was 3 years old, we had a clown costume made by a seamstress, complete with pointy clown hat, and grease makeup. His grandmother spent more having that costume made than she did on my prom dress. At some point in the last 25 years, the tide shifted and the parents started getting the marginal cars and the cheap clothes while the kids live like rock stars. We spend enormous amounts of money on private instruction, the best sports gear money can buy, and adhere to psycho competition schedules. I’m as guilty as anyone. I’ve bought the $300 baseball bats with money that should have been invested in a retirement account, traveled from many an AAU basketball game, or travel baseball game, to a dance competition in the course of one day, and failed to even consider why. Remember Hank Aaron? He didn’t need a $300 bat to be great. Your kid isn’t going pro and neither is mine, but you are going to retire one day and dumpster diving isn’t for the elderly. My brother and I still laugh about how, when he played high school baseball, there was one good bat and the entire team used it. Remember your clothes in the 70’s? Despite my best efforts to block it out, I can still remember my desperate need to have a pair of authentic Converse shoes. Did I get them? Negative. Oh, was it a punch in the gut when my mother presented me with the Archdale knock-offs she found somewhere between my hometown and Greensboro. Trust me. They weren’t even close. Did I complain? Hell, no. I’m still alive, aren’t I? We’ve got an entire generation of kids spitting up on outfits that cost more than my monthly electric bill. There were no designer baby clothes when we were kids. Why? Because our parents weren’t crazy enough to spend $60 on an outfit for us to have explosive diarrhea in or vomit on. Our parents were focused on saving for their retirement and paying their house off. The real beauty of it is that none of these kids are going to score a job straight out of college that will allow them to pay for the necessities of life, brand new cars, and $150 jeans, so guess who’s going to be getting the phone call when they can’t make rent? Yep, we are. Think back; way, way back. Who cleaned the house and did the yard work when you were a kid? You did. In fact, that’s why some people had children. We were free labor. My mother served as supervisor for the indoor chores, and the house damn well better be spotless when my father came through the door at 5:35. The battle cry went something like this, “Oh, no! Your father will be home in 15 minutes! Get those toys put away nooooow!” The rest of our evening was spent getting up to turn the television on demand, and only to what Dad wanted to watch. On weekends Dad was in charge of outdoor work and if you were thirsty you drank out of the hose, because 2 minutes of air conditioning and a glass of water from the faucet might make you soft. Who does the housework and yardwork now? The cleaning lady that comes on Thursday, and the landscaping crew that comes every other Tuesday. Most teenage boys have never touched a mower, and if you asked my daughter to clean a toilet, she would come back with a four page paper on the various kinds of deadly bacteria present on toilet seats. Everyone is too busy doing stuff to take care of the stuff they already have. But don’t get confused, they aren’t working or anything crazy like that. Juggling school assignments, extracurricular activities, and spending our money could become stressful if they had to work. I don’t recall anyone being worried about my workload being stressful, or my mental health in general. Jerry and Ginny had grownup stuff to worry about. As teenagers, we managed our own social lives and school affairs. If Karen, while executing a hair flip, told me my new Rave perm made me look like shit and there was no way Kevin would ever go out with my scrawny ass, my mother wasn’t even going to know about it; much less call Karen’s mother and arrange a meeting where we could iron out our misunderstanding and take a selfie together. Additionally, no phone calls were ever made to any of my teachers or coaches. Ever. If we sat the bench, we sat the bench. Our dads were at work anyway. They only knew what we told them. I can’t even conceive of my dad leaving work to come watch a ballgame. If I made a 92.999 and got a B, I got a B. No thinly veiled threats were made and no money changed hands to get me that A. Ok, full disclosure, in my case we would be looking at an 84.9999. I was the poster child for underachievement. Back in our day, high school was a testing ground for life. We were learning to be adults under the semi-vigilant supervision of our parents. We had jobs because we wanted cars, and we wanted to be able to put gas in our cars, and wear Jordache jeans and Candies. Without jobs, we had Archdale sneakers and Wranglers, and borrowed our mother’s Chevrolet Caprice, affectionately known as the “land yacht”, on Friday night. No one, I mean, no one, got a new car. I was considered fairly lucky because my parents bought me a car at all. I use the term “car” loosely. If I tell you it was a red convertible and stop right here, you might think me special. I wasn’t. My car was a red MG Midget, possibly a ’74 and certainly a death trap. Look at your coffee table. Now imagine it having a steering wheel and driving it. I promise you, it’s bigger than my car was. The starter was bad, so after school I had the pleasure of popping the hood and using two screwdrivers to cross the solenoids or waiting for the football players to come out of the dressing room headed to practice. Those guys pushing my car while I popped the clutch, is a memory no 16-year old girl around here will ever have, and it’s a great one. Had I driven that car in high winds, it’s likely I would have ended up airborne, and there were probably some serious safety infractions committed the night I took 6 people in togas to a convenience store, but I wouldn’t go back and trade it out for a new 280Z, even if I had the chance. I was a challenging teenager, and in retrospect the fact that it was pretty impressive every time I made it home alive, may not have been an accident on the part of my parents. Go to the high school now. These kids are driving cars that grown men working 55 hours a week can’t afford, and they aren’t paying for them with their jobs. And those new cars don’t do a thing for telling a good story. I tell my kids all the time, the very best stories from my teen and college years involve Ann’s yellow Plymouth Duster with the “swirling dust” graphic, Randy’s Valiant with the broken gas gauge, and Carla’s burgundy Nissan that may or may not have had a complete floorboard. A story that starts, “Remember that time we were heading to the beach in Carla’s Nissan and your wallet fell through the floorboard onto the highway?” is so much more interesting than, “Remember that time we were going to the beach in your brand new SUV, filled up with gas that your parents paid for, and the…well, no, never mind. Nothing happened. We just drove down there.” To top it all off, most of them head off to college without a clue what it’s like to look for a job, apply for it, interview, and show up on time, as scheduled. If they have a job, it’s because someone owed their dad a favor…and then they work when it “fits their schedule”. We all love our kids, and we want to see them happy and fulfilled, but I fear we’re robbing them of the experiences that make life memorable and make them capable, responsible, confident adults. For the majority of us, the very nice things we had as teenagers, we purchased with money we earned after saving for some ungodly amount of time. Our children are given most everything, and sometimes I wonder whether it’s for them or to make us feel like good parents. The bottom line is that you never value something you were given, as much as something you worked for. There were lessons in our experiences, even though we didn’t know it at the time. All those high school cat fights, and battles with teachers we clashed with, were an opportunity for us to learn how to negotiate and how to compromise. It also taught us that the world isn’t fair. Sometimes people just don’t like you, and sometimes you’ll work your ass off and still get screwed. We left high school, problem solvers. I’m afraid our kids are leaving high school with mommy and daddy on speed dial. We just don’t have the cojones our parents had. We aren’t prepared to tell our kids that they won’t have it if they don’t work for it, because we can’t bear to see them go without and we can’t bear to see them fail. We’ve given them a whole lot of stuff; stuff that will break down, wear out, get lost, go out of style, and lose value. As parents, I suppose some of us feel pretty proud about how we’ve contributed in a material way to our kid’s popularity and paved an easy street for them. I don’t, and I know there are many of you that are just as frustrated by it as I am. I worry about what we’ve robbed them of, which I’ve listed below, in the process of giving them everything. Delayed gratification is a really good thing. It teaches you perseverance and how to determine the true value of something. Our kids don’t know a damn thing about delayed gratification. To them, delayed gratification is waiting for their phone to charge.Problem-solving skills and the ability to manage emotion are crucial life skills. Kids now have every problem solved for them. Good luck calling their college professor to argue about how they should have another shot at that final because they had two other finals to study for and were stressed. Don’t laugh, parents have tried it.Independence allows you to discover who you really are, instead of being what someone else expects you to be. It was something I craved. These kids have traded independence for new cars and Citizen jeans. They will live under someone’s thumb forever, if it means cool stuff. I would have lived in borderline condemned housing, and survived off of crackers and popsicles to maintain my independence. Oh wait, I actually did that. It pisses me off. You’re supposed to WANT to grow up and forge your way in the world; not live on someone else’s dime, under someone else’s rule, and too often these days, under someone else’s roof.Common sense is that little something extra that allows you to figure out which direction is north, how to put air in your tires, or the best route to take at a certain time of day to avoid traffic. You develop common sense by making mistakes and learning from them. It’s a skill best acquired in a setting where it’s safe to fail, and is only mastered by actually doing things for yourself. By micromanaging our kids all the time, we’re setting them up for a lifetime of cluelessness and ineptitude. At a certain age, that cluelessness becomes dangerous. I’ve seen women marry to avoid thinking for themselves, and for some it was the wisest course of action.Mental toughness is what allows a person to keep going despite everything going wrong. People with mental toughness are the ones who come out on top. They battle through job losses, difficult relationships, illness, and failure. It is a quality born from adversity. Adversity is a GOOD thing. It teaches you what you’re made of. It puts into practice the old saying “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”. It’s life’s teacher. Our bubble-wrapped kids are so sheltered from adversity, I wonder how the mental health professionals will handle them all after the world chews them up and spits them out a few times. I know you are calling me names right now, and mentally listing all the reasons this doesn’t apply to you and your kid, but remember I’m including myself in this. My kids aren’t as bad as some, because I’m too poor and too lazy to indulge them beyond a certain point. And I’m certainly not saying that our parents did everything right. God knows all that second hand smoke I was exposed to, and those Sunday afternoon drives where Dad was drinking a Schlitz and I was standing on the front seat like a human projectile, were less than ideal; but I do think parents in the 70’s defined their roles in a way we never have.I worry that our kids are leaving home with more intellectual ability than we did, but without the life skills that will give them the success and independence that we’ve enjoyed. Then again, maybe it’s not parents that are getting the raw end of this deal after all. source Read the full article