How to Win the Battle of Words with your Teen

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Satire is not my bag, neither is the soldier story genre, but the chance to hone a new skill (plus the lure of cash and prizes) led to this lampoon, inspired by some struggles to connect with my teen. (Glad to say we enjoy more truces than active combat these days:) I didn't win Medium's Slackjaw Challenge, but I hope it gives you a laugh

How to Win the Battle of Words with Your Teen

Tired of playing cook, maid and laundress to your teenager and getting nothing in return? Feel like you’re sharing space with a month-to-month boarder who doesn’t speak English, instead of the fruit of your loins—loins marked by a C-shaped battle scar from his breech birth? I get it. It used to be like that here. But I live in a brave new world today, I conquered my teen, and I can show you how to bring yours into submission too. Attitude and timing are everything. Live by those bons mots of ‘Old Blood and Guts’ and “Do more than is required of you.” Be on the lookout for invitations to dialogue, then storm these secret bunkers below, and take communication with your adolescent from radio silence to minimal talking in no time! 

Bribery 

Your shallow teen’s no match for your booby traps—new clothing and technology, two salvos aimed straight at his mercenary core. Indulge him in yet another pair of ugly white sneakers in exchange for coming clean about what really happened in the locker room freshman year, when his post went viral on the school’s Instagram account and he got suspended. Tell him money is no object when it comes to buying him the 12k followers and million likes he needs to be cool like his cousin. Promise this, and watch him lay the spoils of victory at your slippers: a mother/son night spent making gnocchi from scratch, followed by a marathon Scrabble match, interrupted only by spontaneous confessions of the heart. 

Hunger

“Give me Food.”  Hunger is your ally.  For five hours straight now, he’s been running through back alleys, up cobblestone stairs, and across plazas, pulling daggers and switching out cartridges of ammo, then blasting terrorists to kingdom come!  Well this sort of thing really builds an appetite for a heaping bowl of reheated pasta Bolognese. And you are right there, armed with ziti, and your point of entry: “What do you think your chances are for making the tennis team this spring sweetheart?” “Shut up. Feed me,” he grabs the plate and stalks away. Only four words. A . You’ll have to regroup. 

Patton’s words ring in your ears as you think of all those nights spent reading the classics to your prodigy, tucked snug under flannel sheets: Jules Verne, L. Frank Baum, Hans Christian Anderson. Yes indeed, no dumbed down Disney versions, no Little Golden Books for your little prince—only the real Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, in the original French. Never mind that neither of you understood a word of it.  Ahh, the unabridged Jungle Book and The Swiss Family Robinson, with all their dated, sexist, racist, imperialistic nuance… So much investment in one prepubescent mind—for what? A vocabulary reduced to two word-commands. Yes, more is required of you, you’ll need to reconnoiter.

Keep him in your sights as you follow him into the dining room and wait for him to come up from his phone for the shaker of Romano you’re dangling over his head. He won’t. Pull quickly from your quiver: “You’ll make the team darling,” you lie, as you tuck a benzo into the saucy tube stuck to his fork. You seriously doubt that. One Saturday tennis lesson plus six days spent playing Counter-Strike Global Offensive won’t add up to him making the final cut on the court, but you’ll start on this wholesome subject, then cross enemy lines into direct interrogation on sex and drugs. “Shut up. I’m not talking to you.” Oh no? He grabs the cheese and starts shoveling macaroni. Suddenly, he starts spilling about the cute girl in Computer Science class, the one with the ‘80s asymmetrical bob, who he finally got up the nerve to ask out on the last day of the semester. He describes how they left school together last Friday, and made out behind the falafel cart. Aww... 

Guerrilla Warfare

Perchance, is the bathroom light switch on the outside of your bathroom door? If so, you’re in luck! Listen for when you hear the shower running, then lights out!  “What the fuck?” he’ll cry. “You think you’re so fucking funny! Turn the light on you idiot!” Fifteen easy words, expressed with integrity, and he won’t pin it on you. When he gets out, he’ll put his kid brother in a half-nelson. 

Or try this: When he finally gets off his bony ass at midnight to take out the garbage, follow him to the front door and quick—lock it behind him!  When he starts pounding, say: “What’s the password?” “You’re hilarious,” he’ll reply, “Now open the door.” You can draw this out as long as you like. “No sonny boy, the password is swordfish. Remember Horse Feathers? Remember that summer we watched Marx Brothers movies at Nana’s? Duck Soup, A Day at the Races... How old were you? Nine? Ten?...” “Shut the hell up and open the door NOW.” 17 words. Positively conversational. You’re really getting somewhere now. 

Capture an AirPod 

Of course the biggest tactical error of your whole campaign happened when you caved to his heart’s desire and bought him those AirPods Pro for Christmas. Noise cancellation mode is not your friend. Your teen can tune you out whenever he wants, which is always. You’ll need a General MacArthur maneuver to undo this mess, an amphibious invasion of the Korean peninsula, a recapture of the capital city. Your Seoul has got to be his left AirPod.  

At noon, creep to his bedside table and slip it from it’s fungal case. Don’t worry, it’ll be there. Those pricey little plugs are the only things that find their rightful homes in your teen’s universe. 

Now replace it with the one you had “tweaked” by Kiev Yegor, your neighborhood cobbler and former KGB agent. Cue the continuous loop: “RESISTANCE TO QUESTIONING IS FUTILE” alternated with John Philip Souza marches at 82 decibels. When he breaks, offer him a cool washcloth, and negotiate your terms. “When you get home from school son, mother will ask: ‘How was your day?’ And you will answer her in cheerful, complete sentences.” He will reply:  “Yes mother, I will volunteer an earful of amusing anecdotes about my colorful day, from 1st Period through 8th.”  “And what about your commute?” you press. “Yes mother. I will report any transit delays caused by sick passengers or goats on the tracks.” “AND??” you add. “And I will hang up my wet towel mom.” BATTLE OF MIDWAY!

Doves Lose*

No time to rest on your laurels. Send your  twelve-year old to the front line often. He’s expendable. Maintain aggression and start enjoying dinner table debates over the existence of God and which is the most important kitchen appliance: the panini press or the Nutribullet.

*Note to Doves

I’m throwing this one in for you olive branch wavers.  Reverse psychology is totally overrated—you do know that— but still, you could just try chillin’ sometimes, to get your teen’s attention. When he finally pulls off his gaming headphones at midnight and sits down to that warmed burrito you’ve put in front of him, you could say absolutely nothing and just dollop extra salsa right on his plate. You could pour him a tall glass of milk and offer him a brownie, then sit back and shut up. Check your IG feed. Watch a Southeast Asian food blogger go live making fresh turmeric powder. Rest your chin in your hands and close your eyes. Pretend to fall asleep. Actually fall asleep. “Mom, mom!” he may wake you. “Go to bed mom. Thanks for the brownie. I’ll take out the trash and lock up. Let’s watch an episode of The Office tomorrow night okay?  I love you mom. Good night.”  All that could  happen. It’s possible.  It hasn’t happened yet in this camp, but it could.

What Happened When I Spent Christmas Eve in a Basement with a Crazy Cat

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It was Christmas Eve, 2013, and I was scooping poop from a litter box in my neighbors’ basement. Leticia and Dana had rescued a feral kitten whose new habitat extended from the hot water heater to the washer/dryer. Although it was icy outdoors and toasty within, this foster feline wasn’t buying into her rehabilitation. But I was. I was three months sober. That’s how my piece for the now dismantled Fix starts. If you’re curious to read how I got through that holiday season newly separated from my husband while also recommitting to my recovery from alcohol, you can read the rest here.

Return to Sender: What An Unsent Postcard Taught Me About Addiction

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Has anything ever happened to you, so expertly timed, that it made you doubt it was mere coincidence? This past summer I had such an eerily aligned experience. I found a postcard from my twenty-five-year-old self—a greeting that I’d written and addressed to my friend in Paris, sandwiched here instead, within a box of blank postcards. No postage, never mailed. Reading it now, 29 years later, I felt inspired to articulate the emotions sparked by that 4”x 6” card. I

Eight

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I wonder if you’re like me when it comes to past birthdays? If so, there are one or two that emerge from the mists of time and shine in your memory with crystal ball clarity. For me it was a Halloween party, and my last birthday celebrated in New Orleans, before my family up and moved to New York City. I remember everything about that one, from the invitations to the after-party. And I am thrilled and honored to be able to present Eight now, my first piece published in Global City Review, which you can read here. I hope this spooky bit of memoir floats you back to some fond haunts of your own. And I hope you read everything else in this issue, I am!

This Very Good Time

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“This time, like all times, is a very good one, if we but know what to do with it.”

— Ralph Waldo Emerson

For years now I’ve puzzled over this quote taped to the inside of my spice cupboard, alongside other inspirations. I’ve always liked it, but now it’s starting to make sense too. It’s a call to action of course, but one that demands thoughtful, precise response — nothing sloppy. In the last few weeks, humans young and old, from all walks, here and abroad, have shown me that they know what to do with this time. It’s heartening.

Another saying that isn’t attached to the inside of my cupboard, but taped in my brain instead is this: “Children don’t listen to what you say, they watch what you do.” This holds true for the two male adolescents in my care. With these two mottos in mind, I keep going back to one powerful memory — a choice my mother made — more than fifty years ago. As it turns out, that was also a very good time.

New Orleans, circa 1969

I did not eat a single grape for what felt like my entire childhood but actually, I was only deprived of my favorite fruit for the first few years of my privileged life. The Delano Grape Boycott started the year I was born, in 1965, and ended victorious in 1970, when the growers agreed to union contracts that gave workers better wages and working conditions. I missed grapes badly. Mom would roll our cart straight past the plump green globules in the produce aisle of Schwegmann’s. She’d explain that by not buying grapes we were helping Mr. Chavez and the migrant farm workers who picked those grapes, way across the country in California. This made zero sense to me. My appreciation for the purchasing power of money was limited to my understanding that, with the right combination of coins from my change purse, I could purchase a large cola ICEE from the corner store. It was impossible for me to understand how reallocating the family budget from table grapes to bananas could possibly help. Yet my small sacrifice, added to that of countless others around the world, brought those vineyard bosses to the bargaining table: grape pickers were finally allowed to take water breaks and collect unemployment insurance.

The concepts of conscience, sacrifice and solidarity were modeled for me at a tender age, by a women’s libber in oversized sunglasses and head scarves, who went for peaches and pears over grapes. These three ideas stuck in my scalp at age five, much better than the plastic barrettes forever sliding off my baby-fine hair. Conscience, sacrifice and solidarity. I remember these three right now, at this very good time.

Sober Reflections from the Dance Floor

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“I got sober here almost thirty years ago. That’s what struck me last December 31, as I danced my butt off in the basement of St. Anthony of Padua’s Roman Catholic Church on Sullivan Street in New York City, welcoming in the New Year with a mob of sober drunks. Yes, here I was dancing under the influence of something more heady than Moet this New Year’s Eve, surrounded by mylar waterfall curtains, and the familiar pull down shades of AA’s Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, changing color with every turn of the disco ball.” That’s how my piece for the now dismantled The Fix starts. If you’re curious to know why I find it so satisfying to move to the beat—clean and sober—you can read the rest at Sober Reflections from the Dance Floor.

No Pink Roses

In No Pink Roses, my second story appearing in The Good Men Project, I reflect on a Mother’s Day where I let go of expectation, and appreciated what was left.

Is It Still Okay To Be Picky In Your Fifties?

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Are you too picky in choosing mates? It’s good to ask this question at any age. Explore possible answers to this one, and nine other related questions.

Is it still okay to be picky in your fifties? I think so. But then I’m still single. And I’ll be the first to admit I’m a work-in-progress when it comes to functional intimate relationships. Still, I think I can scatter some seeds of hope, harvested from six years of post-divorce dating. And I do think it matters to this conversation that in all those other ways humans interact—ways that don’t engage prolonged mouth-to-mouth contact—relations with friends and family, with my kids’ teachers, the letter carrier, the super—those are all skipping along quite well. I have a thicket of friendships that needs regular watering, and gets it. And at fifty-four, I’m not devoid of self-awareness—a working romantic partnership does feel within reach. Close enough anyway, for me to share some thoughts—not advice—on dating for the long-term. I toss these questions out with humor and heart, to take to your own heart, or to ball up and toss in the single-stream recycling bin.

Are you being picky or just choosy? It’s a good question to ask, whether you’re deciding on peanut butter or people. Where should you compromise, and where should you hang tough? At the supermarket or on the dating site, there’s a difference between being hyper-critical and just discerning—which are you? I personally like someone with good teeth and well broken-in boots—and arty. But in New York City, those are easy items to check off your shopping list. Apart from these quirks, I don’t really have a type—yet I still seem to harbor some illogical deal-breakers that may not help my chances of finding love.

Take the guy who was allergic to garlic, onions, leeks and pretty much everything else in the allium family. I asked two friends and got two answers. From the one who didn’t cook: “No big deal.” From the one who did: “Next.” But he was a great guy: smart, stable, empathetic and gainfully employed doing meaningful work he loved. And he treated me well. That all counts for a lot. I passed on no-garlic guy because I couldn’t accept that I’d never feel free to slather garlic butter on bread in our someday home. 

Is there a workable solution here?  As I’ve puzzled losing good men for bad reasons, it’s never helped matters to make mean faces in the bathroom mirror—or worse, when I’ve fallen into that manhole of fearful thinking, shouting at my reflected self: You’ll die alone. I find comfort when I remember that, while we humans share space on Earth for a few revolutions, we all enter and exit this world alone. This is usually enough to pull me out of my funk and into more productive reflection: Yes I bailed, now how valid was my complaint? Have I ever actually shared a bag of garlic knots with someone? Would this be an especially meaningful shared activity? And thinking back to the one before: Did he really have to love David Bowie, or was it enough that he babysat my purse and didn’t hustle me off the dance floor?  Before I roll my cart past another good guy, could I take a closer look at the first five ingredients? A friend recently used this question to help her decide between three candidates she’d been dating: If I lock my keys in my car at one a.m., which one is going to show up to help me fish them out? 

Are you making excuses for bad behavior? The problem is, historically speaking, I forget to ask myself this question going in, and also to re-ask it regularly, throughout the relationship. While my friends may be drawn to qualities in mates that don’t matter to me, there is one thing we can all agree upon: we want to be treated well. Who doesn’t? The following questions, when asked then answered honestly, might help clarify things: Is he checking in regularly, or do you do most of the reaching out? Does he pay you an occasional, well-timed and authentic compliment? Or does he drop hints that he’s not really looking to be in a relationship?  Does he wash your pots? When you turn in at night, is there a fresh glass of water by your side of the bed? Does he ever show up to your place with three ripe avocados and a lime?  Taken alone, no single gesture is essential, but all together they add up to this: an appreciation of you.

Is this relationship more fun than work? Does the person you’re seeing plan fun dates? If you’re like me, a single working parent head-of-household, your bandwidth is stretched microfiber thin. You love your kids, but you also look forward to those Saturday night dates. In relationships established on equal footing, combing the weekend calendar of events is a joint effort. I’m always happy to suggest a walk in the park, followed by a stop at a taco truck.  I won’t lie though, it feels good when someone comes up with something to do that would never occur to me, but that feels like something I may want to do every Saturday for the rest of my life. 

Is this relationship more work than fun? Relationships “require work.” We know this. But how much work are you willing to put in? I’m full of bright ideas to fix other people’s lives. But now, before I push up my sleeves and overdo for others, I’m asking myself: is this person basically together? Do they have friends and take fairly good care of themselves? How bad are their vices? I don’t want to come off as judgy, I for one can’t kick the caffeine habit, not even close, but I don’t think my trenta matcha latte is going to prove too burdensome for someone else. And their idiosyncrasies or indulgences shouldn’t feel too heavy on my back either. 

Is he officially de-coupled, or almost there?  Where is he at with his ex?  Are they at least on civil terms? Are they too close? Ideally, I hope to see signs of a clean, dispassionate break. I once dated someone who had a polaroid of his ex in plain sight, in his bedroom. I still don’t know how I feel about that. Okay, I do. I feel weird about that. 

Is he open to trying new things in bed?  How willing are these men I’m dating—men pushing sixty or past it— to leave their comfort zones and change up their games between the sheets?  When they discover new glitches in their lovemaking—or mine—how enthusiastic are they to explore new paths to mutual pleasuring?  Can they lighten up and still find their sexy?  Or do they just get defensive and roll towards the wall?  Can I lead them along to a sex shop where we’ll take suggestions from some smart, sex-positive consultant, thirty years our junior? And if they aren’t already sold on tantric sex, are they now willing to look into my eyes, share breaths and try the modified lotus position? 

How much time do you want to give this? That’s a big one, isn’t it? For me, it’s until I have clarity. And until then, I take it one-date-at-a-time. Despite advancing age, I embrace my relaxed philosophy, even when my shrink doesn’t. He’ll say: “I think we both see the writing on the wall.” Maybe. But I’ve got to play this out. The heart wants what it wants. This is not orthopedic surgery, where sometimes you have to re-break broken bones that had already started to knit together poorly on their own. Doctors do this all the time. They break bones and realign them, so they fuse together straight and strong. But repeated break-ups and make-ups with men have led me more often to mangled relations and hard feelings than to warmth and wellness. Today I’d rather sit in ambiguity, for as long as it takes.  

Do you really want to be in a relationship? My son’s barber, a widower whose marriage was unfortunately cut short somewhere between the silver and golden mark, asked me recently: “Are you happy?” In my defense, I rattled off  my “list of goods”: “I’m good. My sons are good. My parents are still good—thank God. Things are good with the ex. Work is good. The car is still good. And the weather! Wow! The weather is so good!” The barber waited to respond until I  gave him what he wanted. “Oh and I’ve been dating a little.”  “Aha! Good! Good!!...”  Do I look miserable? I thought. I don’t think so. Sure, on most nights I’d rather spoon a warm body than three wedge pillows, but I still think I’m good. Yes, I’m good where I’m at right now. Which brings me, perhaps, to the most important question: Am I happier being alone today, than I’d be if I were in the wrong relationship? The answer there is yes.