Grown-Up Bullying

There is a tremendous amount on the news and in talk shows lately about the epidemic of bullying going on in the United States today. The things that children are doing and saying to each other are horrifying, and yet we can't seem to put a finger on the causes of these horrible behaviors. Also, there is no shortage of people who will complain about the behaviors, but entirely too few who are willing to step in and put a stop to it when it is happening.

I have spent a lot of years studying and teaching psychology, and way too many years being the parent of a child who was bullied, almost to the point of suicide. I was lucky, I guess, in having the knowledge that my local school district would do nothing to help, so I quit wasting my time trying and transferred both of my children to a tiny private school, where there was zero tolerance for any form of bullying. It drained us financially, and got rid of any college funds we might have had, but we were rewarded with healthy kids who are doing well as adults. Thank you, scholarships and loans!

This essay, however, is not at all about the failings of our school systems, and the inability of adults to intervene when desperate help is needed. Those are problems being dealt with on an enormous scale right now, and I hope some corrective measures will develop as a result. What I find myself angry about at the moment is based on a psychological maxim that most adults have yet to learn - that children don't do as you say, they do what you do.

Now I will break one of my most basic rules in the design of this blog, and that is to never talk about politics. I am completely fed up with the way we "adults" practice politics in this country, and in the way the current candidates for office have run their campaign advertising designs into a bullying contest, may the meanest liar of them all be elected!

Where on earth do we get the idea that we must teach our children to treat each other with basic courtesy and understanding, even if we do not agree on some point or other, while at the same time we are name-calling and back-stabbing at our fellow adults in nonstop election TV ads, posters, radio spots, or speeches. This candidate calls his opponent an "ignorant airhead," while she fires back that he is a money-grubbing tax hog.

Another one insists that his opponent has misused public funds and lost thousands of jobs (Gee, it seems the economy had nothing to do with it - I wonder where he put them?). Then that ad is answered with the accusation of harboring aliens. Personally, I thought all of them had been corralled into Area 51.

I have heard more taunting, character assassination, name-calling and truth twisting in the last couple of months than I would expect in an average lifetime. The candidates have done a magnificent job of showing our young people that the one with the most capacity to bully is the one most likely to win. Every election season we make a big deal out of the problems with negative campaign ads, but every time that season rolls around again, we don't make it clear to our candidates that we won't tolerate that kind of behavior in the adults we are supposed to respect.

There are only a few days left in this election, and voting is already underway for this year's races. It may be too late to do anything about it this time. The next time there is an election, why don't we try something really radical - the first time we see a negative campaign ad, call the offices of the candidate running the ad and let his campaign workers know that you will not vote for that candidate unless he/she stops that kind of campaigning. Encourage everyone you know to do likewise. Tell them you don't care what the other guy did, you want to hear exactly what this candidate is going to do to make things better.

If an ad does slip through the radar and appear when the youngsters in your household are watching, take the time to let them know what a despicable thing it is to dump one's insecurity and small-mindedness on another human being instead of learning to deal with it in a positive and responsible fashion. Explain that only those with a very poor opinion of themselves try to belittle anyone else, to try to make themselves feel better.

Children are way smarter than we are. Without our bad behavior as an example, they might just learn to get along with one another instead of looking for any differences as a reason to bully. Political meanness is just as poor a behavior as schoolyard meanness. We all need to take a quick look in the mirror to see what types of grown-up activities we silently condone. Those are the behaviors the kids will learn to copy.

Leaves and cool breezes

I love fall. It is probably my favorite season of the year. As soon as the temperature dips into the low 70's and 60's, I come alive. After this summer, when it was above 90 in Philadelphia for 53 days, it would be a relief to sit in the shade and have 80-degree breezes wafting over you. I can't remember a summer when I was less productive. Anything I could get done while sitting in an air-conditioned house on a nice, comfy sofa was all right with me.

I did crochet four baby blankets, for various new babies in our circle of friends and family. It did get warm, as they were in my lap while I was finishing them off, but at least I didn't have to move very much. I also worked on and finished three small paintings, so I guess I was more productive than I felt.

But now that is over, and now fall is beginning to set in. I have energy to get up and do stuff. That is, to do stuff that takes a certain amount of physical exertion. The paint cans will come out and I will finish the painting of walls and doorway that I started last fall in my sun room, which is also my front porch. When I am done there, I will head up the stairs and paint my bathroom, even tackling the sponge effects that I am determined to get on those walls. I am equally determined to not have to pay someone to do this.

The other stuff I have been doing is the best stuff for my mental well-being, and that is the task of throwing out. I recently found boxes in my garage labeled "Halloween," and knew that if I opened and inspected the contents I would find something to keep, but I did it anyway, throwing out two of the three boxes and their contents. For me that is a major victory, and one which will continue through other containers and their mystery contents until it gets too cold to spend time on the porch or in the garage.

On days when cabin fever sets in, and it does at least once a week, I am determined to get in my car and drive out into the country, looking for mountains, rivers, and lakes touched with yellow and gold and the deep green of evergreens. I am happy to have a nice new camera, so my internet friends will get a glimpse of fall in Pennsylvania, which can be pretty spectacular.

Fall is also a great time for walks. I am thoroughly annoyed that I have to deal with nerve damage in my legs, making it less than comfortable to go on any long treks. However, short walks and walks in the woodsy and lake-dotted areas not far from my home are still a possibility. I find myself wishing I had my wonderful Irish Setter that accompanied me through middle and high-school years, as she loved fall walks and playing in piles of leaves, looking for whatever live toy might be lurking.

The true sign that fall is setting in is the bringing inside of the first large canvas bag of firewood. My neighbor has a wood-lot way up in the mountains, and supplies us, for a fee, with perfectly aged oak logs, cut to match the interior measurements of my wood stove. Soon it will be stoked, kindled and lit, and the neighborhood will catch the scent of burning wood and household warmth. Then, of course, we have to think about winter.

Outside the Lines

I seem to have been in one of my more philosophical moods today, actually for a few days. It is probably due to the cloudy and wet weather we keep having. I have also had the occasion to be in quite a few lines over the past week or so, which got me to wondering about them, and observing how different folks handle the process of being in line.

I have come to the conclusion that our lives are indeed made up of a series of lines, literal and theoretical. The most literal, right from the start, is that line which initially attaches you to your female parent, known as the umbilical cord. Even though it has been shown many times on TV and in educational films that either the physician or the midwife or the male parent makes a show out of severing that particular line, for some families it seems that the scissors never completely worked. I have had personal experience with individuals who are still firmly connected to their "original line." They are not considered well-adjusted.

We learn in preschool or kindergarten to wait in line, whether to get into the classroom, go for recess, get lunch, use the restrooms, or be dismissed for the day. This is also the first place we learn about another, paper-associated line. That would be the thick black line drawn around everything that exists for the application of color in art class. It is the line within which we must always keep our creativity, according to the art teacher. Some unknown disasters await the poor soul who dares to venture outside those lines with a wayward purple crayon or too-wet paintbrush.

Later in school the lines of people take on more significance. We line up for every activity with our best friends, or with friends we would like to acquire of the opposite sex. We line up at school dances: boys on one side and girls on the other, and most of them stay in those lines for the entire duration of the dance. At late-teen and later adult events we are introduced to "Line Dances," which seem to be specific for each song played by a knowledgeable DeeJay. There is always one person in these lines who has perfected each dance, and shows off that perfection with a real flair. The rest of the line is inevitably confused and conflicted, feeling out of line physically and emotionally.

As adults we are introduced to a few too many lines, from the movie theater to the drugstore to the sale at the department store, to the acquisition of groceries on a Saturday afternoon. Those lines are sacrosanct, with firm unwritten rules about maintaining the exact place one has in the line. Anyone choosing to invade any one of those lines is in for a battle.

A recent line I experienced was a reminder of an earlier time, when I had first stood in line at the Motor Vehicle Bureau and waited to take my driver's exam. I passed the first time I took it, so there should have been no anxiety about standing in that line again, but I felt the walls close in on me as I was waiting, not for a test, but to get my license renewed, and a new photo taken. Somewhere in another place I am certain there is someone who is pleased with the photo on their driver's license, but it has never been me.

I was in line this time, however, with an interesting group. I went to a small, out of the way office, thinking there would possibly be no line, but what I found instead was a group of six or seven folks waiting for new photos, all over 55 years of age. I haven't a clue why we all ended up together at the DMV on the same Tuesday afternoon, but we formed an instant friendship and told funny driving and photo stories for the twenty minutes or so I was there. I do know people my age who hate lines, and hate waiting, but I really think the majority of us are just pleased to have an opportunity to stand among friends, waiting for whatever is in store. The prevailing attitude is as follows: as long as we are stuck with it, we might as well make it enjoyable.

As for those other lines, the paper-based ones, I have to let you know that in the first formal drawing class I ever took, at a real art school, the instructor made a loud and definitive point that there was never, never, never a line around anything we might see in nature or the world around us, so he was not ever to see a line around any single object we might create in pencil, charcoal, pen and ink, or any other medium he could recall. The result of an outline was to be a failing grade.

This came as a shock and a relief to me. I was always the one with the wandering crayons, purple or otherwise, and I was thrilled to know that I was right in following the edges of my objects outside those claustrophobic lines. Needless to say, I got an "A" in that class!

I like to find morals in things, and by now you have probably figured out that most of my little meanderings here have some sort of point to them. This one is simple: when learning about lines as a child, the people lines are flexible, while the art lines are not. As an adult, the reverse is true: people lines are absolute and not to be tinkered with, but they can be fun if the right people are in them. Art lines, however, have all but disappeared, leaving a free-formed beauty to nature and our surroundings.

Something to mull over in your spare time, possibly while standing in line?

The Mushroom Factor

I live in a house that was built in 1900. From 1900 to 1975 it was a rental, and had, I am sure, some very interesting tenants in it. We are the first actual owners on the deed, and as a result have needed to fix a never-ending list of problems with electricity, plumbing, walls, plaster ceilings, old ugly wallpaper, asbestos-wrapped pipe insulation, water seepage from under the basement, rebuilding a front porch, adding a family room, rebuilding the kitchen, twice. The list goes on forever.

There is one fact that I have discovered while renovating and repairing this great old house. That is that any given project will take approximately three times the expected amount of time to finish, and will cost up to ten times more money than estimated. This has been referred to as The Mushroom Factor, and is evidently a known part of owning an old house. Take, for instance, my dining room light fixture.

We had only been in the house for a couple of years when we decided to have our first fancy dinner party. Actually, my husband thought I was nuts right off the bat (did I mention I was pregnant?), so it was I who gathered my strength, planned a menu, and got the place cleaned and ready for company. As I was setting the dining room table the morning of the event, one of the light bulbs in the hanging fixture over my head went out. Okay, I thought, this is no big deal. I'll get a light bulb, climb on a chair, and fix it.

Well, the first thing I had to do was run to the hardware store and get some light bulbs, as we were out of the ones that matched the fixture. Then we had to move the table and most of what was on it to reach the light. As my husband (face it, we do need them for the menial chores) was changing the bulb, a bit of plaster plunked down from the ceiling onto the table. As a result, I climbed onto the table and tried to clear away any problem plaster that would potentially wreck my perfect table setting.

There was only one small glitch. The plaster in the ceiling surrounding the base of the light fixture was wet. Not soaking wet so you could see it from a hundred yards away, but damp enough to point to a problem leak somewhere on the second floor. At that point I took everything off of my table and pulled down all of the remaining soggy plaster. Then I went upstairs to see what was going on. I now had a three-foot in diameter hole in the dining room ceiling, and a similar amount of soggy plaster on the table.

It didn't take much searching on the second floor to discover that the drain pipe from the bathtub had a leak. To get to this leak it looked like we would have to pull up the tub, break through the concrete base under it, and figure out which section of pipe was about to be dripping on my party. So I called a plumber. He arrived quickly, but refused to touch anything wet until the electricity under it had been disconnected, so I called my electrician. By now it was after lunch time, and getting dangerously close to the appointed dinner hour.

It took the electrician only a moment to disconnect everything, and happily the plumber found the leaky joint without having to break up the entire bathroom floor. Before he left, I had the electrician hook up the light fixture once more. The ceiling, however, was still in the middle of my dining room table.

Believe it or not, the party was not cancelled. I still had the dinner guests arrive as scheduled. However, the style of the evening changed considerably. We had a lovely buffet set up on a couple of card tables in the living room, and we all ate on our laps. It's a good thing we have understanding friends, but then, most of them live in old houses, too.

There is, I guess, a moral to this story, and it comes in the form of a quiz:

Question: How many people does it take to change a light bulb in an old house?

Answer: The two owners, a plumber and assistant, an electrician, and eventually a plasterer and painter to complete the repairs on the ceiling. Mercifully, I have completely forgotten how much this all cost us.

By the way, I wouldn't trade my old house for anything. As of this November, we have been in it for 35 years. We have rebuilt most of it at some time or other, but the best things we have built are 35 years worth of memories.

Mom, you would like this

In about five minutes it would have been my mother's 91st birthday. I have thought about her a lot this week, as I do every year in late September. She and I spent a lot of our lives trying to figure each other out, and disagreeing a majority of the time. This does not, however, mean we didn't love each other.

As I got older, and she got more mellow, we came together in pretty spectacular fashion. A strong friendship developed, and we had tremendous fun delving into artistic endeavors and intellectual discussions. One chat in particular that I remember had to do with the brain structures that could lead to a sense of humor, and how they could possibly develop. Yeah, deep stuff like that.

I am sure that everyone on this planet has a slightly different behavior style with his or her parents, and that in itself is quite wonderful. We have an infinite ability to adapt, it seems, and to develop a relationship that works best for us. For me this is probably best exemplified in the fact that I finally learned never to discuss politics or religion with my Dad!

Evidently neither did Mom. She admitted to me and my sister, after he had passed, that she had voted Democratic, or even Independent, in a number of presidential races, without ever mentioning it to anyone. Especially not the staunch Republican she was married to!

I am now in the eldest generation of Moms in the family, along with my sister and sis-in-law, and we are all quite similar in our parenting styles. There are four Moms in the next generation, and more to come. I wonder if they will find some new literature that they will swear by in the rearing of their children. For my mother it was Dr. Spock (no, not the guy from Star Trek), and for me and my generation it was Hiam Ginott, Rudolf Dreikurs, and many others. We were smart enough to pick out the parts we agreed with in various theories, and toss out the rest with the disposable diapers.

There do seem to be a few universal truths that go along with being a mom, and as my kids are now into their thirties, I think I might just have enough experience to share a few of them with you:

1. No matter how old you or your children get, a part of you will always treat them like they are about to enter first grade.

2. No matter how much experience you have in any particular area, your children will still look it up on the internet after you have given your best advice.

3. There is always a day in your child's life where you will look at him or her and silently think, "I can't believe you are going to wear that!"

4. A child's hair grows more rapidly than that of adults. Therefore, when children decide to either to a) shave their heads, or b) dye their hair bright purple, it will grow out faster. It is important to remember this when viewing the new style for the first time.

5. Any daughter's skirt that is deemed an appropriate length by her mom will inevitably be hiked up a minimum of six inches the second that daughter is out of sight of the house. This is accomplished by rolling up the waistband so the daughter looks like she is wearing an inner tube under her sweater.

6. If a child arrives home after school with a black eye and a smile, it is best not to ask any questions. They will most likely be answered anyway by the principal when the office calls.

7. Any child who promises to forever and ever look after the needs of a pet is lying. This is not a purposeful thing, it just works out that way.

8. Most children will not take a) their special blanket, or b) their pacifier to college when they leave home for the dorms. This may be a difficult decision, but the odds are in favor of separation, anxiety or not.

9. Every child will have at least one serious relationship with a partner that you hate. Not mildly dislike, but hate. It is imperative that you keep your mouth shut or you may find yourself a mother-in-law to the creep.

10. If you learn to trust your children, they will become trustworthy. If you are constantly suspicious of their motives, they will go out of their way to prove you right. If you are not trustworthy, they will behave like you no matter what stern lectures they are given. If children know you can be trusted, you will find them telling you plenty of things you would probably be much happier not knowing.

11. In spite of all of your efforts, it is probable that your kids will grow up to be smart, kind, funny, hard-working and appreciative adults. You have official permission to ignore the amount of therapy needed for them to get that way. This therapy can either be for you or for them, or both, for that matter.

I am convinced that there isn't a more rewarding job in the world than being a mom. Maybe being a grandmom, but I haven't tried that one yet. For right now I have an endless supply of love available to both of my kids, and an ever stronger appreciation for the hard work my Mom did to help me and my brother and sister reach adulthood intact. Happy Birthday, Mom, and I miss you.

Eyebrows, love 'em or shave 'em off

I was looking at a political ad this afternoon. Yes, it is that season, and I am already sick of the ads for various politicians, or against various politicians who are all evidently spawn of the devil. Negative ads make me furious. That, however, is not the point I am here to make. In this particular ad there is a likable enough gentleman who wants very much to be the next governor of our state. I have no problem with that, at least none that I know of yet.

My problem is that the whole time he was talking I couldn't take my eyes off of his eyebrows. They didn't match. One was sort of tapered and rather long, from the edge of his nose out to the side of his forehead, where one would think eyebrows would go. The other one looked sort of like someone had pinned a piece of carpeting to his face. No taper, no particular shape, just a lump of an eyebrow. I am certain he had some very important political-type things to say in his ad, but all I remember is those eyebrows.

I don't know when I started noticing eyebrows, but it must have been a very long time ago. Back in the late 1960's and early 1970's I went to art school in Chicago, and had an instructor whose eyebrows almost defied description. They sat on top of an astonishing amount of electric-blue eyeshadow, which of course made them stand out more than the usual amount, but she had decided that whatever brows she had been given by Mother Nature simply wouldn't do, and had shaved them off. The jet black, painted on variety that she had replaced the originals with had an arch that rivaled St. Louis, and were a full half-inch above the natural brow bone. This gave her the look of a startled circus clown. Not what she was going for, I am certain.

That was one of many fashion eras during which many women thought they could improve on the looks that nature had bestowed upon them, and a lot of eyebrows were shaved in the mad dash to paint incredibly skinny curves where nice, natural brows once adorned nice, natural faces. That is not to say that Mother Nature doesn't ever screw up. I have seen perfectly lovely girls with eyebrows a grizzly would be proud of.

Many years ago I worked as a representative for a well-known brand of cosmetics, and was one of those gals you see in department stores doing makeup on willing customers. It was a fun job, except for the lingering allergy to all perfume. One afternoon a mom came to me with an entirely miserable-faced young girl of about 13. The kid was adorable, but had a definite problem. She had what is kindly referred to as a "unibrow," one long hedge of en eyebrow, with no discernible break in the middle.

The poor kid was distraught, and that's where I came in. Up until that point her mother had been convinced that she was way too young to pluck her eyebrows. Happily, Mom asked me for my opinion. I gently explained that the hair would not grow back in twice as thick (old wives' tale), and that the resulting uptick in her daughter's self-confidence would be more than worth a couple of minutes of discomfort. I sat the teen in my magic chair, and in a short moment had cleaned up the mess. I gave her instructions on upkeep, and sent off a grinning youngster and very relieved mom.

A friend that I recently worked with sits at the opposite end of the spectrum. She has no eyebrows. I haven't a clue how they disappeared, but there is no sign of any hair growth above her eyes. The hair on her head seems fine, and is definitely her own, so the missing eyebrows are a mystery. I don't think she has eyelashes, either, so some sort of physical disorder has robbed her of her brows. That is not the problem. The problem is with me. I am too chicken to say quietly to her, "could you let me take just a moment and show you how to draw very natural looking eyebrows on your face?"

She has drawn her brows in a single wide line, one line for each brow, and it really is distracting. She is an attractive person with a wonderful personality, yet it drives me crazy knowing she could look so much better with just a minute of cosmetic education, and an education I am well qualified to provide. But, again, I am a coward. I am so afraid of hurting her feelings in some way that I guess I prefer for her to remain imperfect. Silly me.

As certain as I am that a sizable segment of the population needs instruction on eyebrow shaping and maintenance, I am just as certain that my intervention is probably unnecessary. In some cases it most likely would be entirely unwelcome. Therefore, I will keep my opinions of eyebrows to myself, and my offended aesthetic sense well hidden. If the worst thing my probable choice for governor has to deal with is an imbalance in his brow structure, this state might be in pretty good shape.

Victoria, keep your secret to yourself!

I watched a horrifying Victoria's Secret ad a little while ago, and I am still mad. Picture, if you will, a group of underwear-clad lovelies talking about loving their bodies. They are all painfully thin, with ribs showing and gaunt faces. No one who truly loves their body would starve it down to boniness. While some other companies are making a valiant effort to come to terms with the bodies of real women, Victoria's Secret is steadfast in their insistence that beauty only exists in a size zero. Sadly, there are still a great number of women who have been trained throughout their lifetimes to believe this.

In this country it starts very young. I have read that a significant number of 9-year-olds report that they have already been on some kind of diet. There is still an alarming number of girls who suffer from bulimia and/or anorexia. The last statistic I read said that 20% will find their disease to be fatal.

For some reason we women have been well-trained to look for self-satisfaction in our exterior, when in reality it is the interior that should be well-crafted, finely honed, and educated to respect and even like itself.

Now I will switch to the first person. Me. I am a not-so-thin woman, who wears sizes 14 to 18, depending what part of my body is being covered. I spent many years of my life as a size 5, so I have been in both places and have developed a pretty good sense of what it's like to live in both worlds. As a size 5, the primary thing I discovered is that individuals of the opposite sex think it is open season on your figure. They also assume that a large part of your brain must be missing.

I vividly remember appearing as a model back then in a fashion and hair styling competition, with a gorgeously crafted hairdo and a slinky halter-top black jumpsuit. The other girls in the show were introduced by their names, then some complementary statement about their style. When I hit the stage, the only comment the announcer could come up with was that I was wearing the "new bra-less look." I am sure the judges couldn't have survived without that information.

I spent a large part of my life hearing about what a great body I had (as a swimmer and a dancer I was pretty athletic), but very little attention was given to the rest of me. Now that I am well into my sixties, the tables have definitely turned. Actually, they started turning when I was in my thirties. I have been very active politically and socially from my late teens to the present, and when I finally started to gain recognition for my writing, I started to realize how held back I had been by the standards of beauty of the times. Nobody had expected me to have the teeniest bit of intellect.

We have come a long way since the 60's, and women are finding their way into new and better lifestyles. The understanding is out there that we should love, honor and obey our bodies. Loving them means looking in the mirror at a few saggy items, scars, and an extra roll here or there, and being happy that this body has done well by you, taken you through some tough times as well as joyous ones. It deserves respect.

Honoring our bodies means keeping them active, feeding them properly with great, fresh food. It also means not kicking yourself around the block when you eat a jelly donut. Obeying your body means understanding what it needs and following through on achieving that goal. That body is the best judge of what is good for it, and when you feel a strong desire for an activity, an escape (Calgon is acceptable here), or a splurge, go get it! Even chocolate and red wine are allowable, just not as the mainstay of your nutritional intake.

I still see far too many women who believe in the artificial standards, however. They complain constantly about their weight, while forgetting to look at the rest of their unique selves. I know I have found that when my brain is well-fed with interesting information, I tend to automatically take better care of the rest of me. This is the teaching moment: We need to stop worrying about what the advertising media and their Photoshop and airbrushed and starved role-models seem to be dictating as a reachable goal. Friends, it is not going to happen!

Having given my lecture for the day, I will jump back into the advertising world with one two-part question: When the hell are they going to wise up and start looking at the beautiful women who populate this country, in all shapes and sizes? And when are they going to decide to appeal to our intelligence? I will never buy underwear from Victoria's Secret. I don't care what her secret is.