Great Expectations

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I’m old enough to remember going outside and turning an antenna pole to tune in a television channel. If we were lucky we got all three networks and a fuzzy PBS station. We had one television and it wasn’t a color one until I was in the third grade – or maybe the fourth. I’m not sure now. I do remember the screen. It was round. The remote control was the youngest child being ordered by Dad to get up off the sofa and change the channel. Surfing didn’t happen.

When I was in the seventh grade neighbors told us about cable tv and something called “Home Box Office.” I was fascinated with the idea of being able to see a movie anytime you wanted. The miracle of video tape recorders happened while I was in college. Not that I could afford one. Who knows what kind of degree I would have had, if I hadn’t been required to schedule classes around my daily viewing of Ryan’s Hope.

Today I own three televisions, all with remote controls (the ones you put batteries in), two dvd players, one leased dvr, and a couple of outdated vhs recorders. I also have digital cable with more channels than I can watch. One would think I should be happy with my tv viewing experience.

One would be wrong.

It’s all about expectations.

When I was a child I was happy to run outside in the freezing rain and turn a metal pole so I could watch a grainy black and white episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents on a 20-inch screen. I didn’t expect more.

Today I pay big money to watch too-many-to-count digital cable programs on a 42-inch, high definition, color, flat screen television. And in exchange for my investment in expensive equipment and hefty cable bills, I expect perfection. Or at least the ability to view an entire episode of America’s Got Talent without pixilation (the image scrambling) and the sound dropping out every ten seconds.

Yes, I’m coming off a week of dealing with the dreaded, despised, cable tv company. I know some of you feel my pain.

My first sign of trouble was a couple of months ago when the “cable company provided” (and required for HD channels) dvr started randomly turning itself off and then rebooting. This happened without warning when I’d use the remote to access the menu/guide, change channels, or – hey, sometimes I’d just look at the remote funny and it would take offense and shut off.

This happened once or twice a month – not enough to make that “pain in the you know what” service call. But last week, the problem escalated to three or four meltdown events a day. I couldn’t ignore it any longer. Plus the pixilation and sound problems began interfering with watching any HD channel. I was paying for an expensive “something” that I wasn’t getting – and you can imagine how I felt about that.

The cable company claimed to be there to help and would send a technician out between 10 and 2 the next day. Since this wasn’t my first rodeo, when they asked for a contact phone number, I gave them my cell number. Cell phones are wonderful tools in dealing with the cable company. Remember when you used to wait at home all day for the cable guy to show up? And since they never wanted to waste a service call on someone who wasn’t home, you’d have to sit next to the phone, ready to take that all important verification call? Remember when after eight hours of waiting and they didn’t show up, you complained? And remember when the cable company’s response was that the cable guy called before coming out and you didn’t answer, so they cancelled the appointment? And remember the rage and helplessness you felt at their lie? Evil, I tell you. Pure evil. Today, cell phones with call logs have changed the cable customer’s world.

So at 2:30 pm that day, the cable guy rang the doorbell. (Note: he was only 30 minutes outside my appointment time). He looked at the reception on the television – a little pixilation was all that was occurring. He started the “nothing wrong here” and “you’ve got to expect a little flickering” speech. I showed him what I had recorded from the night before – the episode of Rookie Blue where the sound for every other word was dropped and whole scenes were unwatchable. He told me he couldn’t do anything since the problem wasn’t happening currently. I could sense him inching his way backwards, towards the door. I protested. He started the “I could schedule another appointment” if the problem returned, when a miracle happened. The dvr box shut off and rebooted. Right in front of him. He stared at the tv. I sent up a prayer of silent thanks. There may have been some hand pumping. The cable guy sighed, defeated. His apology for implying I was crazy consisted of, “It’s not supposed to do that.”

So, happy ending right? Not exactly. Although I had complained about the dvr when I scheduled the service call and requested a new one, the cable guy hadn’t brought one with him. But since he now had to do something, he went outside, climbed a ladder, checked a connection and reported it loose, but now fixed. I inquired about the dvr. He told me to call the cable company and tell them the technician said I needed a new dvr.

He left. I made the call. Two days and another vacation day wasted later, I had a new dvr. That evening the pixilation and sound problems were the worst it had ever been. Murder did cross my mind but reason prevailed. Third time was always a charm, right?

I called and scheduled a third service call for Saturday morning, all the while wondering what kind of television reception I might get with an outside antenna on a pole. They still make those, right?

Conclusion: On Friday night my cable reception mysteriously improved 100 percent. Picture was better than it had ever been. Sound was perfect. Something had happened – maybe divine intervention again. More likely a service call in the neighborhood fixed the problem. Tempting fate, I cancelled my service call. I hope the reception is good for tonight. New episodes of The Closer and the debut of Rizzoli and Isles airs on TNT.

Rhonda
aka The Southern Half of Evelyn David

The Opposite of Me

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I’m thrilled to be guest posting today to talk about my debut novel, THE OPPOSITE OF ME. It’s the story of twin sisters who are complete opposites – or so they think. When people learn the premise of my book, the first thing they ask me is whether I’m a twin. Nope; in fact, I don’t even have a sister. But I’ve always been intrigued by the complex relationships my friends have with their sisters, so I tried to make the relationship of my main characters, Lindsey and Alex, as juicy and competitive and loving and tangled as possible.

I’ve heard about twins who are so close that they create their own language, and can feel each other’s pain from miles away – but I wondered what would happen to twins who were completely different. What if two sisters had nothing in common, but were constantly being compared? How would that shape their relationship?

I also think it’s very common in families for children to get certain labels, either spoken or unspoken – like the “pretty sister,” the “smart one,” the “drama queen,” or the “peacemaker.” I’ve always been curious about how those labels are formed – are they really a true reflection of who we are inside? It’s interesting to me that we can go out into the world and re-invent ourselves as adults, yet when we go home to visit our families, they still see us through the lens our childhood roles. And sometimes, despite our best efforts, we get dragged kicking and screaming back into those roles!

So I took both of those notions and spun them around in my mind for a while before they turned into the premise of my novel. The intersection of those themes – sisterhood and identity – is the heart of my novel. The funny thing is, in writing the book; I created a new identity of my own. When I first sat down before my computer to type the opening lines to THE OPPOSITE OF ME, I was a stay-at-home mom, raising two boys and pregnant with a third. And while I loved being able to be home with my kids, I really wanted to find a creative outlet for myself – something that wasn’t just about nurturing the kids. Writing a book was a dream I’d had as a child. In fact, I used to scribble books on three-ring binder paper and send them off to publishers, confidently awaiting the day when I’d see my masterpieces in stores. It was a lot scarier to try to write a book as an adult. I kept hearing how difficult it was to get a publishing contract – how you had to know someone in the business to even get a foot in the door. But that rumor isn’t true – I got my agent the old fashioned way, through the “slush pile” of letters she gets every day from aspiring writers. Now I feel incredibly lucky that I get to blend my work and home life together (I actually take my laptop to movies with the kids and even write in the carpool line if I get there a few minutes early).

I just want to thank The Stiletto Gang again for having me today. I’d love it if you’d visit my website or friend me on Facebook!

Sarah Pekkanen

Just Say “No”

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Since this is a site led by women writers and (mostly) women readers, I thought I’d chat today about one of the questions I’m asked most often – which is how I juggle being a mom to my 5 year old and 3 year old (and our 8 year old very pampered and spoiled dog!) while still maintaining a viable and bustling career.

As I said, this is one of the most common questions that is posed to me, and my go-to answer in the past has always been that I have a great babysitter, and I’m not shy about asking for help when I need it. But recently, maybe with this answer in the back of my mind, I’ve started to pay more attention to how I actually do things, and I’ve noticed a pattern. A good pattern, or at least I hope it is!

And that is that I don’t hesitate to say “no.” I say it often, liberally and without any guilt. I say it when I’m already overcommitted, I say it when I’m to tired to do something that’s asked of me, I say it when – let’s be honest – I just don’t feel like dealing with something and I’d rather spend time in my sweatpants at home with my kids. And as I say that tiny little – but very empowering word – it occurs to me why we, as women, don’t say no more often, and why, when we do, we feel so dang guilty over it. Why are we the ones who are asked to take on everything? Why SHOULD we be the ones who are asked to take on everything? And when we finally decide not to take on everything, why do we feel badly about it?

Well, I’m not a therapist, and I won’t even try to be, but I will say that there is some sort of idealized superwoman in my generation of women: we’re in our thirties, we’ve had great careers, we’ve had great children, and well, we like to be sure that it all keeps staying GREAT. And also, we’re self-reliant and independent and very, very good at what we do. So when we’re asked to do one more thing – whether it’s for our child’s school or a project for work – well, one more thing doesn’t feel like too much. But then it’s like that stereotypical house of cards: when you add one more card, it all comes toppling down.

I’ve felt this way recently – that I’ve added one too many cards – between my book promotion and my kids’ needs and my husband’s new job and my travel demands and all of the little things that add up to life. And so, I’ve started saying no. I have more time to myself, more nights to watch crappy TV if I so choose, more hours to feel rested and slowly, the circles under my eyes are fading (though let’s be honest, they’ll never fade completely). I highly recommend this. Say no. Say it once, then try it again, and pretty soon, it gets easy. No no no no no no no. See? Now, it flies out of me without even a second thought. 🙂

_____________________________________

Allison Winn Scotch
New York Times bestselling author
The One That I Want (Random House)
http://www.allisonwinn.com/

The Good News

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I’ve always tried to be a “don’t worry, be happy” kind of person but if you read the news these days or watch television, you would be hard pressed to stay in the happiness zone. Unemployment continues to rise, oil continues to spew from the rig in the Gulf of Mexico, and the stock market swings with more wild abandon than my butt in a bathing suit.

Depressed yet?

I keep looking for the silver lining and have had to look no further than my backyard to find some good in the world. People constantly talk about today’s disaffected youth, and I have even railed about how today’s teens and young adults need to find worthwhile pursuits. But having read some graduation speeches and met some recent high-school and college grads in the past few weeks, I’ve become heartened by what I’ve discovered: Today’s graduates are more on the ball than I ever was or will ever be.

In the past week, I’ve had the pleasure of attending several graduation parties for the children of friends. At these parties, I’ve met other graduates and their families. I have been struck by the fact that all of the young men and women I have come to fete or met for the first time are articulate, polite, poised, confident, and studious. They are all on their way to some fine institutions of higher learning—the University of Delaware, Columbia University, the University of North Carolina, and even West Point, to name a few. They are people who I am sure will accomplish great things in their lives. They are people I enjoy talking to, getting to know better, and learning more about what they think about the big issues that confront our country and our world.

With my friend, Tina Jordan, I taught a college-essay application writing course at the local high school to a group of fourteen students. Based on what I had heard from their parents, the kids attending had no blessed idea about what to write, nor did they have any experiences that would help them achieve the goal of preparing a well-written, interesting essay. I found the opposite to be true. Even if they came without any ideas, by the time we began the writing portion of the program, everyone was busily writing about things that make them happy and unique: chicken fungus, rapping, super stacking, and the love of Jane Austen. To see a disparate group of kids writing about their passions was truly a joy for both of us.

So if things are getting you down, I’m here to tell you that the future is not as bleak as it seems. If the youth of my little village are any indication, we are in very good hands.

Maggie Barbieri

How I Celebrated the Fourth, Then and Now

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Going way back, what I remember most about celebrating the Fourth of July was playing with sparklers in our front yard.

Another year, I remember organizing all the kids in the neighborhood, helping them decorate their bikes, trikes and wagons with red, white and blue crepe paper and having our own neighborhood parade. (This was during WW II.)

Someone was impressed enough that we got a write up in the newspaper–pretty good since we lived in Los Angeles.

Jumping ahead to when I had my own houseful of children, on the evening of the fourth, we’d all climb on the roof of the patio to watch the fireworks from the harbor. This worked well, except one year when it was too foggy to see much of anything.

Of course there have been many barbecues and big parades to watch on the Fourth of July since then.

For two years in a row, I had a booth at a Fourth Celebration in the park of a nearby town–but it was far too hot, so this year I headed to the Channel Islands Harbor for another Fourth of July Celebration and joined lots of other folks who had booths set up with their wares, crafts, jewelry and food–and as seems to be the case, me with my books.

This year I didn’t have to worry about being too hot because the day started out with a light fog which burned off for a few hours during midday–but it never too warm.

People watching is probably the most fun at something like this. Maybe I should say, people and dog watching, because there were lots of varieties of both.

Of course I enjoyed talking to people about my books–many are surprised that a “real” author would bring her own books and sell them at a place like this event. Some were thrilled to meet me and buy a book.

Most exciting was a 90 year-old-fan who had heard I would be there, who had her son bring her down so she could see me and buy my latest book, Lingering Spirit.

I also met a lady who lives in a city close to me but also has a home at Channel Islands Harbor she escapes to when the valley heat gets too much. She belongs to a book club and asked if I’d come and visit with them sometime–and I’m sure you know the answer to that–I’d love to.

We stayed with our youngest daughter and her husband while we were in the area and had a great time visiting with them too. (And they helped us set up our booth and take it down.)Another plus was having some great conversations with my seventeen year old granddaughter.

And that’s how I spent my Fourth of July this year. (And no, I didn’t see any fireworks though everyone else did–I was too tired and went to bed.)

Marilyn

Happy Birthday America

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Early in the 20th century, my grandfather Mendel left Russia knowing he would never see his parents again. He came to America, to New York, and like many recent immigrants, became a peddler. My great-grandfather invited him home for lunch after Sabbath services and introduced him to his daughter, Rachel Esther. In a nice ironic twist for this blog, my grandmother was born on the 4th of July, a genuine American beauty.

As the story unfolds, Mendel and Rachel were married and moved to Lancaster, South Carolina, then a small quiet town (now an outlying suburb for Charlotte, North Carolina). They opened the town’s mercantile (general store) and began raising their eight sons and daughters, one of which was my mother, the original Evelyn. They were the only Jewish family in the town, but my mother never recounted a single tale of anti-semitism. Her best friend, Lib Ferguson, would take my mother to Tent Revival Meetings – and she loved all the drama and energy she’d find on those evenings. It was an idyllic childhood, with high-spirited siblings and bountiful family dinners. One by one, my grandfather’s brothers immigrated to America, and each would open a mercantile in yet another small Southern town.

I’m in awe of my grandfather’s courage. He embarked on an adventure without a clear roadmap of where he was going or how he would live. Granted, life in Russia was bleak. He would have been conscripted into the Russian army and his hometown was the target of anti-semitic pogroms. So he chose the unknown over the known because America was the land of freedom and opportunity, neither of which he would find in his native land. We need to remind ourselves about that truth on not only this holiday weekend, but also on those days when there are no fireworks and no red, white, and blue bunting draped on the porches of homes across this great land.

Our country is far from perfect, but the foundation of this nation is as close to perfection as humans can get. We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

That’s what my grandfather sought when he crossed the Atlantic in search of a new homeland. It’s what we still must strive to attain.

Happy Birthday America.

Marian, the Northern half of Evelyn David

Murder Off the Books by Evelyn David
Murder Takes the Cake by Evelyn David

I’m Too Old for All This

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At the beginning of the year I had a new Rocky Bluff P.D. crime novel out, An Axe to Grind, which meant putting on a launch party, participating in a blog tour, promoting on the Net and in person.

Soon after, my publisher asked if I’d like for her to put an old book of mine, a romance with a touch of the supernatural, Lingering Spirit, which she’d put on Kindle, out as a paper book. Of course I said “yes.”

That arrived in June at the Public Safety Writers Association’s conference for the first debut. Though it is about the death of a law enforcement officer, it sold well among the police officers and their wives. When I got home I planned and put on another launch at our local bookstore and at the same time wrote a lot of blogs for a blog tour that went on through the month of July.

In the meantime, I was signing up for book and craft fairs, bookstore talks, and filling up almost all of my weekends with one event or another.

I’m still in the middle of all this and trying to write another Rocky Bluff P.D. novel–and it won’t be long before I get the edits for the Deputy Tempe Crabtree mystery that’s due to make its appearance in the fall. I know because the publisher already sent me the cover for my approval.

All I can say is Phew! Almost too much for this great-grandma.

Shall I be honest? I’m loving every minute of it.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com/

Sweet Dreams (Ha!)

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by Susan McBride

I had the weirdest dream the other night. Okay, I have weird dreams a lot of nights. This one was pretty typical. I was in my grandparents’ house, but neither was there (both are deceased). I could see this gang of bad guys approaching, and I knew they aimed to break in. So I called 9-1-1 only to be told by the dispatcher that they’d have a car there in two hours.

Two hours? Hello!

Then the bad guys were at the door, and they looked like they were armed with AK47s. I ended up dropping the phone and running to hide, along with a bunch of other people (I can’t remember who they were, but I knew some and didn’t know others).

The armed band of thugs (who were mostly women) got inside and started trying to round us up. I remember getting outside, where there’s a small lake behind the house, attempting to skirt the lake and nearby copse of trees to get to a neighbor’s house. Unfortunately, one of the AK47-toting chicks saw me and threatened to shoot.

So I went back to the house, but then I reminded myself I was dreaming and started to beat up on the armed gang. I do recall pummeling one of them while she/he (I can’t recall) grinned maniacally at me.

What the heck???

I often have dreams (er, nightmares?) where I’m aware that someone’s coming to get me or the group I’m with, but I can’t escape. Though, at some point, I realize it’s a dream and defend myself, often cartoonishly slugging the offender over and over.

Is this a lingering hazard of my previous gig writing murder mysteries? Or am I taking out my frustrations and subconscious aggressions against people who drive me batty?

Let me look it up in my dream symbols book (yes, of course, I have one…doesn’t everybody?). Okay, “Attack: Similar to Being Run Over, only more aggressive and accompanied by the fear of losing property.”

All right, I’ll flip to “Being Run Over” and see what that says. “This may point to a feeling of being overwhelmed.” Well, yeah, I have a book due in four and a half months, plus two more books due after that. So “overwhelmed” makes sense. Oh, wait, there’s more. “According to Freud, this image, particularly in men’s dreams, appears when one’s id can’t be actively lived out.”

Okey dokey, I wasn’t being run over so let’s nix that Freud analysis and move on to another bizarre recurring dream I have.

I’m in bed, and I think I’ve woken up. It’s dark, and I glance toward the doorway and see a shadow. I feel like someone’s in the house, and I want to scream, but I can’t make a sound.

Hmm, let me look up “shadow” in my handy-dandy dream book. Oh, wow, this is long. Let me paraphrase: “The shadow is, first of all, that which is invisible…[and] is a sign that you’re in the process of becoming aware of your Self. So there is no reason to fear your shadow or try to avoid it.”

But is it my shadow? If I’m just waking up from sleeping in my dream and see the shadow in the doorway? I’m confused. Let’s read on:

“The shadow is usually connected to the past or the future: old injuries are casting their shadow onto today’s behavior and emotions”—now, wait, that sounds plausible, seeing as how I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve and have had my emotions stomped on more than once—“Coming to terms with the shadow is necessary in order to understand life here and now. It brings intensity, wealth, and imagination to life.”

Did it say “wealth?” I think I can deal with that.

Anyone else have that dream where you’re back in school and have to take a test, but you haven’t studied for it yet? Sometimes I’ll dream that I’m the age I am now, yet I’m back in high school or college, taking classes, though I keep telling people I’ve already graduated, that I even went to grad school for a week (yes, I said a week–at SMU in Dallas—but that’s all I could last with my unbearable creative writing instructor).

Here we go: “School: Learning as in School Work and Tests.” All right, the “School Work” definition says: “See also Tests. Something you still have to do.” Man, I could’ve figured that out. So we’ll mosey over to “Test,” which says, “See Exam/Test.” Grrr, this is a stupid book! Finally, “Exam/Test (University): Difficulty at work. Passing a test points to ambition…One of the most common dreams is failing an exam. In the dream, one is not prepared for the exam. In a variation, one is on stage and doesn’t know the lines. Both situations refer to a fear of failing in public.”

I still have plenty of work to do and a definite fear of failing in public. Scary how on the mark those are. Who needs a therapist when you’ve got a dream symbols book to tell you about your insecurities, ambitions and phobias?

Now, if you’ll excuse me for a sec, I need to look up “Flying.” (Yes, I occasionally fly under my own power…in my dreams, that is.) Maybe that’s a sign I should be writing about angels, or at least fallen angels. I hear they’re the new vampires. Or is it that dragonflies are the new vampires? I’ll have to sleep on that one.

P.S. Have a great holiday weekend, everyone! May all your dreams be sweet (or at least sweeter than my crazy ones!).

Archaeology Can Be Murder

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By day, I’m an archaeologist at the University of Illinois. At night and on weekends, I morph into a mystery writer. My series is the Lisa Donahue Archaeological Mysteries, and my protagonist is a lot like me. She’s a museum curator trained in Classical and Near Eastern archaeology, she spent a junior year in Israel, and she has a daughter, a cat, and a medical husband (not necessarily in that order!).

So how does one go from archaeology to murder? I grew up in a household full of moldering old paperback mysteries (mostly Golden Age British novels), and my parents liked to read aloud to us from Sherlock Holmes (The Hound of the Baskervilles) and the like. Then I got a job in a dusty old attic museum where broken windows allowed pigeons to fly in and out and leave their deposits on Greek statues and suits of armor. While working on an interdisciplinary mummy project, I realized that my workplace was the perfect setting for murder.

Thus my first novel, “Bound for Eternity,” was born. In this story, Lisa discovers that an Egyptian mummy holds the secrets to two murders in her Boston Museum. (My old museum was moved from Illinois to Boston to protect the innocent). The prequel, “The Dead Sea Codex,” allowed Lisa to revisit Israel, hook up with an old boyfriend, and crisscross the desert looking for an ancient manuscript before Christian fanatics destroy it. Book 3 in the series, “The Fall of Augustus,” takes Lisa back to her museum at a time when the staff is supposed to move enormous plaster statues of Roman emperors and Greek gods down through an old elevator shaft. Sounds dangerous, right? Some of my colleagues actually did this at Illinois without misadventure, but naturally I changed the facts in my mystery so I could have the vicarious thrill of killing off two museum directors.

Book 4, “The House of the Sphinx,” takes a new direction. Lisa and her radiologist husband, James, take a delayed honeymoon in Egypt, where they stumble upon a plot to infect Western tourists with smallpox. I like to say that this plot (instead of another archaeological caper) is my husband’s fault, and that he’s a ghoul. Actually, Charlie’s a retired pathologist, and a great source of information on all things medical. He used to work for the Centers for Disease Control, and pointed me to their website. There I found a public, fully detailed plan for dealing with a modern smallpox epidemic. Scary stuff. While I Googled bioweapons and tried to figure out how to weaponize smallpox virus, the thought did cross my mind that someone out there might be watching my Internet use…fortunately, no one showed up on my doorstep.

I see many similarities between mystery writing and my “day job.” Archaeology is like a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing; constructing a mystery is like solving a jigsaw puzzle, but all the pieces must be there and should fit at the end. Archaeologists deal with layers (stratigraphy), with the stuff on top being the most recent and the stuff deep down being the oldest. Similarly, the visible story in a mystery is the top layer (what the writer wants you to see), and the deeper layers hold the motives, the clues, and the detailed plot that is gradually revealed. If you want to see how far this analogy can go, check out the wonderful free ezine, Mysterical-E, and the article I wrote for them.

For more on my mysteries, visit http://www.sarahwisseman.com/

Happy digging!

Sarah Wisseman

“I’m Bored!” Today’s Kids and the Dearth of Activity in Their Lives

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You can’t go anywhere in this village without hearing about a terrible problem that exists and that is compromising the future of young minds. It is talked about incessantly at parties, at the playgrounds, and in the gourmet shops in town. It’s the age-old problem that TEENS DON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO IN THE SUBURBS.

I didn’t realize what an epidemic this was or how detrimental it was to our children’s psyches. To combat this horrible situation, the village board proposed the idea of a “teen center,” location to be determined, to be constructed somewhere in the village. This teen center would show movies, have ping pong tables, host discussion groups (ostensibly to talk about one’s feelings, I’m guessing), and be a place where kids could get together in a safe, controlled environment. All of this was received with open arms from adults until the discussion progressed to where this teen center would exist. At that point, it because a classic case of suburban NIMBY or “Not in My Backyard,” which happens with just about everything in this village.

One of the suggested sites was a village-owned building that is right across the street from my house. I didn’t have a problem with it being there because the building is generally unused and to my thinking, no self-respecting teen was going to hang out in a teen center anyway. There are far more interesting things to do than play village-endorsed ping pong when you could be out wandering the streets with your fake I.D. looking for action, which from what I understand, is what many teens do on a weekend night.

The problem with a teen center, in my opinion, is that the kids who actually need a teen center, the real mischief makers, aren’t going to go anywhere near such a place unless it is to make mischief. Mark my words: the teen center will be populated by the good teens and while there’s nothing wrong with that, it doesn’t solve the problem that parents seem to think exists in small towns everywhere which is that many kids have nothing to do. As a result, they get into trouble.

I have pondered this idea of “generation whatever”—heck, what generation are we on anyway?—being forced into a life devoid of intellectual endeavors and/or fun activities and then created a list of what kids could do to make their lives more interesting in the face of daunting boredom and ennui.

1. Get a job: It seems to me that not many kids have jobs these days. Many kids play a variety of sports which make it virtually impossible to get a job that fits their schedule. However, a friend whose son is a star on our high school football team has managed to do so, working at a local bagel store from six in the morning until nine in the morning on the weekends, after which he goes to practice. Another kid I know who is very active in school plays manages to work at the gourmet grocery store in his off hours. It can be done. And it might help with the boredom. Nothing says excitement like a suburban mom screaming about the price of Land o’ Lakes yellow American.

2. Volunteer: Volunteering opportunities abound in this village and the county in which it is situated. My daughter and I volunteer every month at a soup kitchen not five miles from here. I do know that a group of kids goes to Nicaragua each year to build houses and latrines, and spend a good part of the year fundraising to offset the cost of each kid’s trip. In this village alone, we have a group that cares for the sick, homebound, and poor, and opportunities to get involved are plentiful. Our local library looks for volunteers to stack books, manage donations, and keep the library running smoothly. Our church does “midnight runs” to New York City to feed and clothe the homeless. Our Little League team always needs volunteers to play with the “Challengers,” developmentally and physically disabled kids who have their own league. There is no shortage of things that privileged kids can do to help others. Finding a volunteer program to get involved with is a perfect way to stave off boredom.

3. Study: Here’s a novel concept: take even an hour out of the time that you would be out carousing and hit the books. There is so much talk about getting into a good college these days, much more so than when I was a kid. (Case in point: I applied to two schools. Today’s kids average around eight.) Getting into a good school—or the one you have your heart set on—requires good grades and the only way to get good grades is to hit those books. Ideally, I should apply this advice to exercise, but since I’m pontificating, my habits are not up for review right now.

I grew up in a suburb and my parents grew up in the city. When remarking upon today’s kids and their lack of activities, my father said, “I grew up in the Bronx. There was nothing to do. So we hung out.” There’s another idea: just hang out. Walk down to our beautiful river and stroll along its banks. Take the dog. Take your little brother or sister. Stop and smell the roses. Sometimes, doing nothing is the best activity there is.

Thoughts, Stiletto faithful? What should today’s kids be doing to keep themselves occupied?

Maggie Barbieri