Instagram Balanced

Here’s what showed up on my Instagram feed yesterday. Same, but different.
Shaolin Monks who believe your mind
can do anything you command it to. They believe in discipline, focus and training.

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Next up: Andy Cohen from Bravo. He believes in gays, housewives and International home searches. He also believes in Mazel-of-the-weeks, Padma Laxshmi and alcohol.

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Same, but different.

Top 10 rules for 16 year old drivers that happen to be my daughter

My daughter turns 16 in a few weeks. My daughter turns 16 in a few weeks. My daugh…sorry.  I’m a little spooked. How is this possible? Wanna know something even stranger – she’ll be driving a car soon. DRIVING a car. My baby. On a road.

My husband’s been taking her for test drives, I’ve done a couple of tours with her myself – and it’s all good. She’s careful. She’s smart. She’ll be fine (but did I mention she was a baby?).  I’m coming to grips with it. Cause you know, it’s all about me.

But sometimes, I drive around try and imagine her in one of the cars on the road with me.  This freaks me out even more.  In my head she’s driving really well. Not texting. Seat belt on. Focused.  All good. But then I look at all the other drivers on the road with my daughter in her imaginary car.  I start cursing at the Blue Honda swirving in and out of lanes, and at the truck that’s going way too fast for the curvy road we’re on. I’m fuming at them for being on the same road with my imagination. By the time I get home I decide my daughter will never be let out of the house again.

And by the way, I’m the laid back parent. The go-with-the-flow parent.  If my husband and I were to make lists of the most important things my daughter needs to remember about driving, here’s what our two lists would look like. Guess which list is mine?

Photoneha*

Come on. Admit it. You check for murderers in your backseat too right? Right?

 

*I wrote half this post on my ipad and the other half on my phone. I couldn’t figure out a way to get the list from one to the other when I combined the two – and my iclouds aren’t working or something. So sorry about the weird photo/insert thingie.

 

 

Nobody cares. Work harder.

Well that’s not exactly true. Lots of people care, but I really should work harder. Here’s how I came to this aha! moment (I speak your name Oprah!).
I was in the middle of a whining tirade this morning, complaining about the usual stuff people complain about (oh my job, my house , my blah blah blah) when a good friend said,” nobody cares, work harder.
Geez. Fine.
There are days when this advice would have made me crawl up and go back to bed, or cry in a corner. There are days when I would have said,” F you! I deserve to vent and fume.”
But today, it’s what I needed to hear. There’s no time for tucking into self-pity. What am I an infant? I need to be soothed? Come on! I’m no martyr. Atleast 4 times a day I almost buy a vanilla latte . How bad could things be? Answer: not bad at all.
So tuck that in your pocket or purse for a rainy day. Don’t say I never gave you anything. Good night.

Racism. The old fashioned kind.

I went to get a book for my friend’s son (a boy so beautiful he would blow up the blogosphere – but alas, his smart mama keeps him off the interweb). I try to get a book he will like and his parents won’t hate reading 1,000 times to him.
As I was perusing, I found this Thanksgiving book. I was drawn to it right away. Because of the way it was drawn.
None of that cultural sensitivity stuff from the newer books. Just good old fashioned stereotyping.
I grew up in the 70s and 80s. Everything that we called normal is now called hazing, bullying, sexual harassment, ADHD, cultural insensitivity and it’s evil twin – racism. Many 40+ olds like me are now in therapy or spending quality time in a bar reflecting and learning why none of that was normal. And it wasn’t normal or right. We were just too busy wearing shoulder pads to notice.
That’s why I was so surprised to see this book, published pretty recently.

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Look at these old school images.
Squanto and his pals actually have feathers on their heads – and mohawks – you know, cause their Injuns (which I now know is an offensive epithet and not a cute abbreviation. See, all that time at the bar helped). I’m obsessed with these pics. I can’t figure out why one of the pilgrims has a groovy Afro or why some of the pilgrims have hipster mustaches.

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The picture below brings me right back to elementary school. I’ve seen a version of this pic a million times. The pilgrims facing the cold, hard winter. Why don’t they just go into the warm wood cabins behind them? Duh. I should have been a pilgrim.

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Once they explain the “origins” of Thanksgiving, there’s a picture of a modern family enjoying the feast.

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I’m digging the addition of the African American grandparents – but where are the descendants of Squanto? Atleast 3 culturally insensitive jokes come to mind. I won’t write them. Cause I know what cultural insensitivity feels like, I’m an Injun too. Dot, not feather.
(I did not buy this book. I bought a Halloween book called Dem Bones instead. Much more politically correct )

Forever got a lot shorter all of a sudden

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My beloved made me a pb&j for lunch today. But I ate it on the train. It had to be done.

Know what I think about every single time I eat a pb&j sandwich?  The scene in St. Elmo’s Fire when Billy comes to see Wendy in her new apartment and asks her how it’s going.  She smiles and says that she woke up in the middle of the night last night and made herself a sandwich and …

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There’s something wrong with me right?  Or do you think about that too? 1985 was a good year for cheesy movies you can quote for the rest of your life.  I can rattle off a ton of quotes from that movie, “love is an illusion, but it’s the only illusion that counts.” How about when Jules turns to Billy and says,” you break my heart, but then again, you break everyone’s heart.”  Who needs Wikipedia? Not me.

Don’t even make me start singing Man in Motion, cause I will.

 

Wait, what?

As a blogger I get lots of “helpful” emails. You know, with suggestions on how, what and who to write about. It’s awesome. I also get the usual snarky comments. Those are awesome too. My favorite was an email telling me that I’m using the word awesome wrong. Awesome.
Anyway I’m open to all commentary. When a helpful reader sent me a clip of a New York Times article on the abuse of the em dash (-), I didn’t take offense – and I certainly didn’t stop using it – ahem.
But last week I got an email telling me to stop putting two spaces after a period. This helpful, anonymous reader informed me that I no longer have to follow that golden rule.
Wait. What?
She even sent me a helpful illustration.

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Apparently when I learned to type, on an actual typewriter in the dark ages known as the 80s, the rules were based on spacial issues – not right and wrong. Typewriter letters were in monospace (all letters get the same amount of room) and smarty party computer letters are in proportional space (different letters need different amounts of room). Basically, more letters fit within a given space. And because this reader obviously knows me, she sent me a picture to illustrate.

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So boom.
The rule is no longer needed. Did you all know this? Did I miss this announcement? Was there a tweet? The only people who use two spaces anymore are the same people who still leave voicemail messages. ME!
All those red marks from all those teachers that programmed me to leave two spaces after punctuation are non-existent.
Thanks for nothing Mrs. Manning. 2nd grade was almost unnecessary. Ok, got it. I’ll catch-up. My new world is about twerking, getting semi-nude to board a plane and Ebola – awesome.

I know you didn’t ask but…

Get this book.
It’s so much fun. Even though I probably won’t do all these techniques, it’s nice to know they are there. In my early 20s I would have totally used this book as an instructional. Now, in my 40s, I read it like fiction. Cat eyes and blush contouring. Sigh. I love it. I won’t do it, but I love it.
Anyway. Back to your day.

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