A Ridiculous Number of Journals

I have eight active journals. Really. Among them are the personal processing journal, the family quotes journal, a reading journal and my five-year journal. I also keep a gratitude journal. This year's journal was made by Ashley Chassé from New York by way of Ottawa, Canada. Much more about Ashley's work in a post later this summer.

As we round second toward the last half of 2010 I thought I'd publish a few snippets from this journal. My journal can be both a list of the obvious and a measure of the quality of the problems.

Some days the best I can do is be grateful that it's nearly over. I'm sure you can relate. For example the entry for June 1st is a good-problem-glad-the-day-is-nearly-over kind of entry:

I am grateful for the gas in my car and the money in my bank account that provided me with the opportunity to be snubbed by five employees at Jerry's Artarama in Tempe, Arizona - to be specific.

The day before (May 31st) I wrote: I'm grateful for misunderstandings and the chance to set them right. For the courage to see the ending and the endurance to see it through. For the heartache and bruised ego wedged in between.

No major revelations; hopefully a little special in the yuck. We as a family are stuck in the yuck. Trudging to be sure, and we've a fair ways to go. Since I drive that train, we seem to share a bit more laughter and shed a few less tears when I pull out Miss Chassé's journal and scribble a couple of sentences. It helps, maybe just because I think it to be so, and that is good enough for me.

"I'm on the Road to Nowhere..."

I drove 93 miles today. And I'm still waiting.

Waiting for the text to come or the phone to ring, waiting for a Yes or No, waiting for something.

I talked to a few friends on the phone - some new, some from quite a long time ago. I wrote 781 words today. I shared a bit of experience that I never thought would be useful to anyone. It seemed to help.

The sun is setting here, and I am tired. This is one of my favorite beach pictures of Connor. It brings me peace and seemed like a good fit tonight.

Tomorrow is Wednesday. :)

Today's Entry -

Top Five Wishes for my birthday:

5. Breakfast in bed

4. The entire house all to myself for 48 hours.

3. NO laundry for one week (but it all gets done anyway)

2. A Tano purse of my choosing

and my number one wish for this birthday ---- *drum roll*

1. A Pretty Princess Easy Tear Out Coloring & Activity Book **

** If it doesn't have the activities section, I don't want it. :p

*** Btw, my birthday is the 29th. Of this month. It's a week from Thursday. ;-)

Image courtesy of Pink Cake Box

The View From Above & The Walk on the Ground

I sat down yesterday afternoon to write what I loosely refer to as Chapter 19. I have a 500 word per day goal which has proven to be a stretch but attainable. In fact, generally once I hit 400 words I'm well on my way to 600 before I come up for air again.

Chapter 19 involves the only appearance of one particularly malignant character. He is both introduced here and left here. I worked on a collage to represent this man - to get my arms wrapped around his appearance and his interior workings. I propped this up in my workspace, put the MacBook on my lap, and opened Word. I tapped "Chapter 19" and wrote the first few lines:

"Spinning-sign-guy. Still staring at him. I don’t really care who he is. I’m staring at him because he reminds me of that nameless boy from Gracie’s party. My shameless act; a ha

ppy ending. And this makes me pull my phone out yet again. I keep checking, and there’s nothing. Not a single text. From anyone."

I intended for this chapter to be intense and dark, the big "reveal", and it was, it's just that it all happened in 227 words. Really? I tapped out three significant words, one important sentence, and my hands left the keyboard. I thought, is that it? That can't be it. But I think that's it, right? I reread those paragraphs and landed in the same spot every time. Except I did add one last sentence, and then I had the hook to the back-story for later. Or maybe not. Who knows.

The cool part about that experience yesterday was being surprised. Chapter 19, at least in this first draft, is only 227 words. I queued up another new window and started on Chapter 20, and that really surprised me. I can't wait to see what happens toda

y. I keep thinking I should reign this all in. Make it bob and weave with just the right rhythm and intrigue. Throw out enough rope to hook the reader and lull them into My Girl's world ever so quietly without really noticing how attached you're getting to her, so when the hammer falls, you, the reader, are devastated. I should make that all happen in a fairly cohesive way in my first draft.

Snort. Right. I think there are writers who make that work. Writers who actually shape their work to that degree of precision while progressing through their initial draft(s). I started down that road and wound up paralyzed. For me it was a wonderful exercise to sketch out the plot lines, since I have three, and lay the conflict across the top to give a look at my landscape. An aerial shot. But after that, I still have to hike the trail myself. I could extend this metaphor into its own entire post, I'm sure. I guess the point here is that I tend to come from the school of "both". Do we teach our kids to read using "phonics" or "whole language"? Both. And so on. I need the aerial shot, and I need to walk the good walk. When I'm lost and not sure what comes next, I can pull out the schematic and refer to the larger picture.

At the end of the day yesterday, I had drafted Chapters 19 & 20. I packed up my gear to head home and wondered, okay, now what? And then I had an idea. I pulled out my dozens of index cards with elements of the aerial view, laid them out and surveyed the arrangement. Aha! This! My Girl wants to talk about this and that makes total sense. Of course that's next.

So - To Sum Up...

Well, this week I shaved three minutes off the time it takes me to hike up this puppy and tumble back down again. This is not all that impressive since I was nearly carried off the first climb on a stretcher a few weeks ago. Even today a woman in her 70’s totally kicked my ass up the first two hills, but I wasted her on the moguls. :)

Remember the “unfortunate laundry incident”? (That’s a great bit from one of our local sportscasters, Tom Leander. Originally he used the phrase “the unfortunate golf cart incident” when discussing an NBA player’s injury.) Well, that ridiculous little finger pull is now swollen fingers – plural – and hand pain. I’m so sure. And yet I am still expected to perform household tasks. Clearly these people do not understand the escalating nature of my injury.

The novel (working title: Name Period and Date) is progressing quite nicely. My warehouse space has a bug or two to get worked out, but I am already finding my way through the words in a whole new way. Today I had a hard time wrapping my arms around the nature of a new character. He makes a one-time appearance in the book, but he’s extremely important. All I had to do was walk over to my collage table and spend an hour piecing him together. I absolutely love the space.

It's good to stand back and take inventory. Look around at what has been accomplished and where we need to go now. This post shows part of my week. Another part of my week begged for a little more attention. Future attention. Some now. Some soon. I’m summing up today to set the stage for my future absences. For a bit I’ll be here less, and unfortunately I’ll be reading your blogs less. Life is a funny thing. It’s not too terribly concerned with convenience.

Anyway, talk amongst yourselves, and I’ll be back shortly.

Be well -

When You Tear the Cellophane Away

Last night I caught the bug. The “I must read now” bug. I am of the one-day-click-order-from-Amazon school of lit-tra-ture. Imagine my surprise when I drove to the library. My memories of the library of my younger summer days were not wonderful. Mom had MS, and part of her maintenance therapy was to rest her legs every day for two hours. Lying down. I was eight; my brothers, five and three. We did not want to lie down for two hours every afternoon.

Mom dragged us (me) to the Yucca Branch of the Phoenix Public Library every single week. She made a haul of six or seven books, my brother John found three or four science fiction books, and Dave, the toddler, drooled on his picture books. I wandered. And sighed. And protested. “There’s nothing to R-E-A-D.” Moments later mom had pulled a random volume of Nancy Drew (in which the 15 year-old heroine wore gloves - gloves) from the shelf.

Last night I read Hemingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea”. The last time I made contact with this material was as a freshman in high school. Funny how different a work feels and sounds after 30 years. (I wish I’d kept Miss Schner’s reading list from my senior year.) I fully intended to write about my lovely experience with this piece of miraculous prose, but a funny thing happened on the way to the typewriter.

I went to the library again.

Today, though, I noticed people were culling and perusing and flipping through books, and they were happy about it. I turned my attention to the books and really took them in. Mostly cool plastic wrapped hardcover books. Have you ever noticed that when you crack the spine of a library book it crackles like fire? Or do you think the pages of an old book smell like your grandma’s couch from when you were ten? Of if the book is newer, do you think the pages smell just like a fresh pack of three-ringed notebook paper at the exact minute you tear the cellophane away?

I slid my index finger across titles looking for just the right words. Those words that stop a strolling finger in its tracks: “Ash Wednesday” by Ethan Hawke. Ahh…. See, in my writing, I just made reference to an Ethan Hawke string of dialogue from “Reality Bites” and this was surely providence.

After my daughter’s rehearsal, after a late dinner, after my son hugs me three times, I will take my book and kiss my husband heading down the hall to our room. I will lie down and read my new book. For two hours. While I rest.

Social Media Sets the Stage: From Ottawa to Phoenix

On February 11, 2010, Space 55 Theatre Ensemble, in Phoenix, Arizona, premiered an unlikely double feature: the U.S. premiere of "Tangelico" by Sterling Lynch and the world premiere of "A Cube With A View" by Mare Biddle. Barely a year before, the two playwrights had not yet known of each other’s existence. Thanks to social media, they met, shared their work, and became friends. Eventually, Mare introduced Tangelico to Space 55 and wrote A Cube With A View as a companion piece to it. As a result, Sterling and Mare’s unlikely double feature was born. This volume includes both plays and the playwrights’ reflections on social media and their international collaboration.

When you buy a book, please use the links below. It won’t affect the price you pay, and Sterling earns a commission!

If you want to order from Amazon.ca (Canada), please click on this link:

Social Media Set the Stage: Tangelico and a Cube with a View

If you want to order from Amazon.com (U.S.), please click on this link:

Social media set the stage: Tangelico and A Cube with a View

If you want to order from Amazon.co.uk (U.K.), please click on this link:

Social Media Set the Stage: Tangelico and a Cube with a View

Please spread the word. Social media got us this far. I’m sure it can take us even further.

Something Old

Last night I folded about 27 loads of laundry. Seriously. Between friends, family and work I am that behind on the domestic front. I gathered up two hoodies and went to hang them in the front hall closet. As soon as I opened the door it became apparent that there was no way I could fit another jacket in there let alone two.

So began the organizing. That was going well, but I still wasn't creating space, just reshuffling what was already there. In the next instant I was calling my kids out of their rooms, mind you it's 9:00PM, and ordering them to participate in a fashion show of sorts. I even had them trading jackets, which turned out to be quite fun.

We finished piling their jackets onto the "keep" and "give away" stacks. Then it was my turn. The first jacket I tried on was a red & black nylon jacket. I paraded for my daughter, "um...you sort of look like a super hero, Mom." "That could be good though, right?" "Yeah. Not in this case." Dejected I threw the jacket in the "give away" pile. I slid hangers across the rail. And in the back. On the right side. Against the wall. Was my mother's blue corduroy barn jacket. My mother died in August of 2007. I inhaled and wasn't sure what to do. I wasn't even sure if I should touch it.

It eventually occurred to me to exhale, and I reached for the coat. It was soft; the brown suede collar worn and faded. I held it up to my nose and inhaled again. Oh. Even after two years, it really did smell like her. I slid the coat around my back, put my arms through the sleeves, stuck my hands in the pockets and pulled it tight. My right hand fingered something soft. A kleenex. I pulled the tissue out of the pocket and help it up. Her lipstick. A perfect imprint of her blotted mauve lipstick. Most likely three years old.

The coat didn't fit me, and I probably wouldn't have worn it anyway. I took it off and laid it carefully on the "give away" pile. And the kleenex. I moved it from hand to hand, tracing the outline of the lipstick. I let out a little whimper and put the tissue in the trash. I have to keep practicing the process of letting her go.

I turned back to the closet, exhaled hard, and slid the jackets across the rail again. I pulled down my old jean jacket and tried it on. I didn't much care for the cut and the sleeves never were exactly right. I shoved my hands in the pockets - well, because when we're trying on clothes, pocket-shoving is what we do in a last ditch effort to talk ourselves into keeping something we don't really like anyway.

In the right pocket, was a kleenex.

Photo courtesy of The Enabler

All Great Lessons Are Learned At America's Taco Shop

Brad and I went to America's Taco Shop last night - the one on 7th Ave and Campbell - for carne asada tacos and the trio. Gorgeous weather for outside munching too. We had a lot of bases to cover regarding family and personal logistics. Always gotta get the business portion of the program out of the way first. Sometimes, too frequently, we only have time to run through the show and set to the top for the next night. But last night we lingered...

The patio was really crowded so we had to kind of lean into each other to talk. We talked about the class he's teaching at ASU's law school, some of our co-projects in the community, and my impending move into the warehouse. So exciting and so forth. We got up to go, tossed our trash, clasped hands and headed across the street. To where we were parked. Illegally.

And then I started talking about the novel. What this experience is like - Sara's story and how she tells it and where she seems to want to spend her energy. How interesting it is to sort of hear her telling it to me. Sometimes I get to a certain transition and think, "where was i?" and then I know to circle back to Sara and her mom at the bus stop. Current timeline. I think the story should be more focused on the old memories, but Sara really really really wants to talk about what's going on at school this year. She wants to talk about the systems and structures and that are stealing her air.

When we pulled into the driveway, I felt a little silly for going on about it. I thanked my husband and he said, "No, it was great. I'm glad you wanted to talk about it." I circled back to our conversation today. I wondered about Sara, and truly contemplated that idea of spending more time with this school year and how much sense that made to me.

I processed. I listened. I learned.

About Sara.

The Bull's Eye

I am a relatively private person. For those of you who know me personally this is not surprising to you. I am rarely "public" in public. Anne Lamott talks about writing three or four rings out from the bull's eye. Where we live.

She spoke at a conference in San Diego several years ago and talked about the nightmare of giving a very long interview in which she thought she remembered discussing her mother. When the article was printed she was mortified to read the quote about her mother. Anne had been lulled to sleep, and made a reference to her mother that was "too close to the bull's eye."

Her words were a cautionary tale. My husband frequently reminds me to speak in short declarative sentences and to talk in sound bites during interviews. Ironically, the only television interview I gave wound up on the editing room floor because I wouldn't bite. The reporter chatted and massaged the other women and eventually got them to give her the crap she was after. And I was really okay with that because I wouldn't want to own those words.

Sometimes I think blogs, email, and all social media are the "lull". For me anyway, I forget that I'm attaching words - immortalized-in-the-cloud words - to real emotions, experiences & people and then putting all that out there for anyone to read. Stories about myself and my family. My friends. My colleagues.

Tonight I sat down to write and was going to post about a very personal experience between my daughter and me. Something very close to her bull's eye. And I wondered if I was willing to look into her baby blues and own those words. Later. Forever.

So I wrote about Anne Lamott instead, who by the way, is my favorite author. :)

Sticky Fingers

I have been fortunate to have written and produced plays over the last decade. The process is very different from writing a novel. Most notably, collaboration over solitude. For the most part I enjoy the collaborative effort of writing for the stage - writing groups, early readings, staged readings, workshops and then production. Lots of feedback and the thrill of watching actors pick up the material for the first time.

Over the last three years, in subtle ways, I started to suffer from sticky fingers. Too many finger prints on the work, and pretty soon it didn't look anything like what I intended to write in the first place. I was too eager to please and consequently abandoned my characters and their stories. I have purposely stayed away from participating in any writers' groups with this novel. I may, and I may not, eventually find myself sidling up next to one.

For now, it's so exciting to pound out those 500 words every day. Even more so when I reach 630 or 1,326 in any given day. Listening to My Girl is thrilling. She has so much to tell me, and who knows, maybe the first 30,000 words were necessary to get to the heart of the story. Maybe I only think I know what her story looks like. As Anne Lamott says, "follow the guy behind the chain link fence". I did in fact meet a guy who showed up out of the blue. I suppose it could even wind up being his story. The cool thing is that I just feel like I'm along for the ride with this first draft. Sticky or clean, so far the only finger prints are mine.

There's Chocolate On His Ear Again!

My kids munched on chunks of chocolate at The Carnation Restaurant in Disneyland last Sunday night. My 12 year-old son has an incredible talent for getting chocolate on his ear. Of course my teenage daughter took a picture with her phone and threatened to text it to… He glared at her then wiped his face – and ear. At the next table a woman hauled off and slapped her already crying 3 year-old son’s face in front of about 20 people. Nobody moved.

The little boy with smudges of chocolate on his cheeks gulped big breaths and cried, “Mama!” She grabbed his shirt collar and wrestled him toward the door. Her right hand reached for the door –

Like the bullet in Anders’ brain, my mind reeled with a life before and after. Who will this little boy become? Will he be the kid who takes too long at the tetherball? There are thousands of kids who survive unthinkable atrocities every day in this world. I believe some – most – find a way to smile at the person behind the counter. And some of us who come from a supportive upbringing turn out to be complete assholes. It seems so random sometimes. And then I thought, what does my philosophy of “good manners and taking turns” look like in these circumstances? It’s easy for me to ask the bank teller how her day is going, or the waiter, or the nice husband and wife who own the dry cleaner – and their little schnauzer. But what about now? What was her life like? “Mama’s” life? How did she grow up? Did she take turns and hold the door? Did someone take her life away from her? Or has she always been a bully? Can I show kindness to such a woman who injured her child right in front of two-dozen people? Can I hold the door open for her? She reached for the door, struggling to keep a hold of her son’s shirt. He wriggled free then collapsed to the floor in the dead-weight move toddlers are famous for. This woman he calls Mama bent down, and my son stood up. The woman grabbed her son’s shirt, yanked him up to his feet, and reached for the door again. I quietly told my son to sit back down. He couldn’t do anything. None of us could do anything. Not really. Not really at all. My eyes returned to “Mama” as her right hand connected with the glass pane in the middle of the door. And I knew. I knew for sure that I should open the door for her. I naturally help the people I like, but I must show good manners to the people who create the hurt too. This turned my stomach when I thought of the rapist, the bully and the vicious girls in my life. How can I hold the door for them – for Mama? I blinked. Her hand pressed against the glass. Last chance I thought. Get up. Her son looks back our way. My daughter and son so upset. We need to talk. I look back toward the door. The woman had pushed the door ajar and was struggling to pull the little boy behind her. Just get up and go help her, I tell myself. It’s the right thing to do.

But I don’t.

And the worst part is that I don’t feel all that bad about it.

[Photo courtesy of Zen Cupcake]

Buttons

I wrote this piece in May of 2008, and it never found a home. This morning I pulled a load of laundry out of the dryer and noticed a loose button on my daughter’s shorts. I thought, I better sew this back on before it gets lost. I set the shorts aside and suddenly remembered this bit of writing. It’s a conflation of memory and a chunk of one of the “firsts” after a loss. I think it’s true. But memory and grief and regret often weave their own distinct narrative. A wish for something different.

BUTTONS

Sewing all the buttons.

I’ve sewn dozens of buttons back onto shirtsleeves, sweaters, and even doll clothes. And of course there is the inevitable “Mom, the button fell off again!”

One such call to arms came from my daughter last night, “Mom, the button fell off my shorts.” So I said, “put them on my desk. I’ll get to it later.” Then the wailing started, “But Mooom, I want to wear them tomorrow. I’m going with so-and-so to such-and-such a place after school. Mom, I need these shorts. Please Mom… are you even listening to me, Mom?” For god’s sake, how could I not be listening?

So I sat down in my office to sew this button back onto my daughter’s favorite pair of shorts. I started to cry. The more I tried to control myself, the more tears rolled down my cheeks. I tried to wipe my face and of course smeared make-up on my daughter’s shorts. Great. Now I had to wash them too. I grabbed a Kleenex to wipe my nose and cheeks.

I thought, “What is your story?” I was so irritated with myself. I wanted to get this done quickly so I could get back to my writing, but I could not pull myself together. More tears. More make-up running down my face… and suddenly it occurred to me what was happening.

We have lived with my parents for the last eight years – ever since my daughter was four years old. She was born in San Diego. As she approached school age, and since most of my family was still in Phoenix, we decided to move back to the desert. I know what you’re thinking – visit… and suck up the school situation like the rest of us in the state of California! Yeah, we know.

There was another reason we wanted to come back to Phoenix. My mother had been suffering with Multiple Sclerosis for nearly 30 years, and we wanted to be closer to her. When the opportunity to live with them came along, we just couldn’t pass it up. So, here we are with no ocean, no marine layer, and no freeway system. But at least it hits nearly 120 degrees every year, so we have that to look forward to!

Last night, while I sat there holding the needle and thread, the tears started to make sense to me. Since we moved back, my mother did all the mending. Mom sewed all the buttons. I lost my mother nine months ago. Not from complications related to MS, but because she was consumed by cancer. Mom lived two weeks from diagnosis to death.

Sobbing, I realized that though I miss my mom every day, and I can still smell her perfume, and hear her laugh, I need to let her go. I needed to sew this button for my daughter, tears and all, and let my heart… and my mom… rest. Now it’s my turn… to sew all the buttons.

the road to god knows...

Generally speaking I don’t follow the graphic novel genre. Three months ago I couldn’t name one author – okay well, I could name one, but I definitely couldn’t name two. Von Allan changed that for me.

Von Allan lives in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. I met Von on Twitter (@VonAllan). We immediately talked “story” and found we had a great deal in common. When I saw the mock up of “the road to god knows…” I was easily taken with Von’s artwork and his beautiful ability to illustrate “silence” on the page. The cover art is actually my favorite frame in the book. The detail of the "Lost Cat" sign on the light post sets a perfect tone. The more intriguing part of this book, and what made me Von’s fan, is the story.

Marie is 13 years old and lives a very difficult life – one that must be told fearlessly and honestly in order to resonate with an audience. The first part of her story is that of an 8^th grade girl navigating the landscape of teachers and peers. It’s pretty daunting for our girl.

The second layer of complexity is Marie’s mother, Betty, who is just home from a stay in the hospital. Betty suffers from schizophrenia – an illness that not only comes with a clinical diagnosis but also a societal moral judgment. Marie struggles to make sense of her teenage world while trying to protect her mother from others and herself.

I know something about chronic illness. My mother was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis when I was eight years old. The medical community didn’t know much about MS in the 1970’s. My mother’s neurologist said there was a 90% chance she would be dead within 10 years. By the time I was 13 I was so resentful that I was almost absent from my mother’s life. After I started driving, I rarely saw my family.

MS doesn’t carry a stigma the way most mental illnesses unfortunately do. One symptomatic crossover is the lack of appearing sick – at least in the beginning. I had to field a lot of questions and deal with a lot of awkward silence.

When I read this book the first time, I immediately wondered how I would’ve felt about it when I was 13. Would I have pushed it away? Would I have exhaled warm air from my lungs in the kind of way that can change a teenager’s trajectory? Marie’s future is uncertain. Her giggles are stolen between day-to-night worries. Von leaves Marie’s story open so the reader can walk with her on – the road to god knows…

The Girl Next Door

I wear shirts that say things like: “Support original theare: Dial S for Stripper.” Or, “phx fringe festival: go fringe yourself.” My dentist didn’t even know what to do with that shirt. It’s like when people found out that I smoke(d): “You smoke??!!” I seem to have this whole girl-next-door thing going on, and I’m just so, well, not. I don't fit into a category. Most of us, most of the women I know, are not one anything. I think we aspire to be more...and less...than is expected of us.

My friend Sterling and I were discussing one of his plays a few weeks ago. First you have to know that Sterling is brilliant, generous and hilarious. He is a good friend of mine. In our exchange, he commented that his experience has shown him that young women are possibly becoming the men that they were taught not to be. (Alright, everyone, take it easy… J) He was disturbed by this observation and open to my comments. Below is my response (in part) to his suggestion. I addressed him, and his cohort, directly. Tell me what you think:

You all are Gen X and as such the women in your generation totally got the shaft in terms of finding mentors and roll models. Agreed. I am the very last year of the Boomers. I worked in Corporate America – specifically in public accounting – for more than 10 years. The women who managed to scratch their way to the glass ceiling did so by using all of the women around them as ladders.

When my peers left Corporate America – and we did in droves in the mid-90’s – we justified our departure by having children. My kids were born in ’96 and ’97. And the fascinating thing about this “career” change was the birth of the Mommy Wars. More of the same competitiveness, and again, we had no roll models. And yes, pre-feminist male roles are the obvious fall back. Sadly.

However, women in their 20’s are being lazy. They do have a generation of women to look to – namely my peers. We may be making a mess of our own lives in the process, but we are positing alternatives for the next tribe. To that end, 20-somethings whining that they can only be pimps or sluts is bullshit. J Get a grip. (…)

And for the record, nobody can ever figure me out. I’m a designer purse whore, jewelry snob, and if I could afford it, I’d get a pedicure every week. I’m also devoted to all things Converse and denim, and I have no friggin idea what’s in style nor do I care. I have three pairs of cowboy boots and 3” platform sandals. I talk to my kids about everything from group-think to bigotry to date rape and the very real possibility of being prosecuted as a sex offender for sexting. My kids can use every cuss word properly in a sentence. Other mothers generally don’t like me. I don’t mind; I kind of like it. J

If those young women have to fall back on stereotypes at the close of this decade, then I have one thing to say - stay out of the next generation’s way. My daughter and her friends know who they are, where they want to go and who they want to become. They are ready to kick some ass. J