I love eating dinner alone with my boys. About once a month or so, I take each out for dinner alone and listen. The key is not the food, it's the listen.
I hate the addictive nature of certain video games that have, at times, encompassed the lives of all the males in our house. I've seen everything from "Brood War" to "Runescape" to "Diablo" to "Warcraft." In fact, when I first married The Man Who Puts Up With Me, I had many fantasies of throwing the computer out the window because he disappeared into a game for hours every evening.
I know other women go through the same thing. Hubby and I had to work through this when we got married for our marriage to survive. So when our boys came along, the two of us set a rule of no more than an hour a day of video game time for each boy. Naturally, they cheat when I'm gone or whenever they can sneak it in. I know that. But for the most part, I'm pretty firm about this rule.
Likewise, I get after them about playing online games. I don't like it when they can enter a game where they can talk to another player. Oldest challenged me on this with "Runescape" by showing me that responses are preset. Players are given a choice of several prewritten responses when interacting with other characters. This leaves out any ability for a sexual preditor to engage a child in inappropriate conversations. And just in case you are wondering, no, I don't sit by their side and watch.
So you can imagine my surprise when Oldest began to talk about how he had been hustled on "Runescape." Apparently he left behind preset conversations long ago, without my knowledge. I decided to leave that issue alone, since he was actually telling me the truth and that was the behavior I wanted to reward.
"So this guy told me there's a glitch in the game and if I put a certain amount, it would double in my account. I did it, and he took my million gold pieces."
Huh? Doesn't this sound like the Nigerian internet scam? What a great teachable moment! Soon we were talking about what it meant to be hustled, who in our family had lost huge amounts of money, and how to spot other scams.
Then he said, "You know, there's these party hats that everyone wants on Runescape. They are really expensive, and they do nothing for you other than make you look like you are wearing a party hat."
Sounds like expensive jeans, Izod shirts, Rebok shoes. Is it possible this online game is actually teaching my son similar money values?
"It's so dumb," he continued. "Why would anyone want to spend millions on a hat that doesn't help you with your defense or make money?"
Holy cow! Get my youngest online NOW!
Then, the answer to my prayers came true. When he was done telling me all about that, he actually changed topics. This is an amazing thing because there were times in the past when I've actually had to ask him to talk about something else besides his video game. Truly, I consider there to be nothing less interesting than listening about a computer game. But suddenly he was talking about ancient armor and crafting. It was related to the scamming issue, but soon it led to discussion about historical armor and crafts. This from the boy that I was convinced would never be able to carry on a normal conversation with other adults.
We agreed later how nice it was for him to lose a million gold pieces online rather than thousands of real dollars he spent a lifetime accruing. For a boy who lives in a small town where there isn't even a stoplight, it's a great way to get some street smarts. No doubt about it, my perspective about online games has changed. But mostly, I've gained a great appreciation of how a $20 meal has brought personal growth in a way I hadn't anticipated.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
The Balance of Raising a Teen
"I'm not going to ride all summer with Dad, that's for sure!" announced Oldest. We have been frustrated at attempts to find him a place to stay this June in Fargo-Moorhead, and I'm not interested in him lying around on the couch all summer playing video games. He's just one year off from being 16, and without a sponsoring family in Fargo- Moorhead, he can't attend Trollwood Academy, a theater arts program. So Hubby and I decided that Oldest can join his old man in the semi for the summer.
"Dude, I love you. But Dad could use a cook and you could see the whole country," I said. "If you can't find a job, and you can't find some place to live up in F/M, you've got to do something with your time."
"Fine!" he announced, getting up and heading for the stairs. "I'll go live with my cousins in Minneapolis."
His "cousins in Minneapolis?" Ah, yes. This is the fairy tale land of all people who do not want to deal with reality. This is the place where you can live all the time, run around and do what you want, and not have chores, or wash your own clothes, or clean up the kitchen. This is where the food is the best, everyone is laughing all the time, there's money growing on the tree in the backyard so you can go to museums, concerts, and playlands. In reality, his "cousins in Minneapolis" are a struggling family of five, my nephew's family, who would struggle worse if he showed up on their doorstep one day.
Truthfully, our son is 15, and getting a job may or may not happen. If he does get a job, and not attend the academy in Moorhead, I have to drive him to work. That's not a big deal until you consider that I have to work, too! So transportation coordination might get to be a hassle. First he has to get a job, a tough sell if he's under 16.
On Saturday, his cousin, David, from Minneapolis came for a visit. The man is 46 and has a son about Oldest's age and the boys get along great. I told David about Oldest's plan to come live with their family.
"Ah!" said David. "Where would he sleep?" he asked his son.
"Up in the attic," replied my grand-nephew.
"Yep," said David to Oldest. "That's the only room we have for you. It gets hot in the summer and cold as the world in the winter, but you wouldn't get rain on your head." Oldest nodded as though this were just fine.
"And, "David continued. "We can't afford much meat. So we eat beans and rice, and yogurt for our protein." Oldest hates beans. But he nodded bravely, acquiescing that beans were food he could live on if he had to. "And if you don't like the dinner, you have the choice of going to bed hungry. You can't just reach into the freezer and take out a pizza because there are some nights when we don't have time to cook and have to make pizza"
Again, Oldest nodded. Maybe this experience would be good for him, I thought. But I'd like to remain on good terms with my nephew David!
He's in a funny age, this teen of ours. Tomorrow he could decide, "I'm outta here," and actually leave. I've learned to let him steer himself more. I'm hurrying to teach him skills I've forgotten, to make him take on more every day tasks so he can contribute to the home more. It burdens him to fit all this into his schedule since his has gotten more complicated. But we only have two years left to get him situated, and then he'll be gone, and I'm afraid I'll overlook something to teach him that he'll need. The idea of him wandering off just to avoid being underfoot is suddenly a headache to me. I want him home but not contentious, here learning but understanding that it is to ready him for the future, not to just have him as a slave.
Oldest has not mentioned spending the summer in Minneapolis since that conversation. But the idea of vacating Mom and Dad's house for the carefree life of a hobo is still on his mind. One day he said, "I could pack my bags and go touring to California like Grandpa did when he was young."
"Then I'd have to call the police and report you as a runaway."
'How come? Grandpa took off when he was my age."
"No, he left when he was 21 because that was the age his father told him that he could be on his own."
This left Oldest mulling over the "Escape from Mom and Dad" plan further. A few days later, he said, "I'm going to live with my cousin on her farm in Iowa."
"What farm in Iowa?" I said, thinking of that particular cousin. This is Andrea, age 15, who lives with her parents in Wisconsin. They aren't about to let her go live alone in an abandon Iowan house that belongs to her grandmother. This troubled teen is not the best influence on our son, either.
"She's got a farm there," he said stubbornly.
"Ah! Well, guess what. I won't let you. She is a bad influence." I said. "Sorry."
"Have you ever considered that I might be a good influence?"
"So. I'm not willing to risk you getting corrupted, " I answered. He slumped in defeat. No running to Iowa either. How bad can his plans go?
I remember turning 15, not because of a particular boyfriend, or wanting to run away, or a first job. No, I remember because of an incident. I was pulling weeds in our flowerbed when my father walked up to me. I'm sure my mother and I had had another row, and he particularly hated the fighting between us. "You are getting a job next summer," he said to me sternly. "That's all there is to it."
I remember feeling surprise, as though I had done something wrong. Now, looking back, I see my son struggling with the idea of independence, the square-peg feeling of being too old to sit around and do nothing, and all the while seeing others contribute. We've encouraged him to find his own work, make his own job. But he hates the lawn mowing, the finding work. He needs to work for someone else, give in to their scheduling, their rules. He needs to gain the experience of learning how nice it is to work for yourself, before he can appreciate doing it. He needs to have a boss before he can be a good one. He needs to feel the comradeship of co-workers. I see this, and know that just about the time he is getting interesting, he needs to go.
And so he went to get his first job application. That's a story for another day. But in the meantime, if any readers know of anyone in Fargo-Moorhead that's willing to adopt a teen for thirty days in June so he can attend a theater academy, please let me know. He wants to run away, and that would be a great place to run to.
"Dude, I love you. But Dad could use a cook and you could see the whole country," I said. "If you can't find a job, and you can't find some place to live up in F/M, you've got to do something with your time."
"Fine!" he announced, getting up and heading for the stairs. "I'll go live with my cousins in Minneapolis."
His "cousins in Minneapolis?" Ah, yes. This is the fairy tale land of all people who do not want to deal with reality. This is the place where you can live all the time, run around and do what you want, and not have chores, or wash your own clothes, or clean up the kitchen. This is where the food is the best, everyone is laughing all the time, there's money growing on the tree in the backyard so you can go to museums, concerts, and playlands. In reality, his "cousins in Minneapolis" are a struggling family of five, my nephew's family, who would struggle worse if he showed up on their doorstep one day.
Truthfully, our son is 15, and getting a job may or may not happen. If he does get a job, and not attend the academy in Moorhead, I have to drive him to work. That's not a big deal until you consider that I have to work, too! So transportation coordination might get to be a hassle. First he has to get a job, a tough sell if he's under 16.
On Saturday, his cousin, David, from Minneapolis came for a visit. The man is 46 and has a son about Oldest's age and the boys get along great. I told David about Oldest's plan to come live with their family.
"Ah!" said David. "Where would he sleep?" he asked his son.
"Up in the attic," replied my grand-nephew.
"Yep," said David to Oldest. "That's the only room we have for you. It gets hot in the summer and cold as the world in the winter, but you wouldn't get rain on your head." Oldest nodded as though this were just fine.
"And, "David continued. "We can't afford much meat. So we eat beans and rice, and yogurt for our protein." Oldest hates beans. But he nodded bravely, acquiescing that beans were food he could live on if he had to. "And if you don't like the dinner, you have the choice of going to bed hungry. You can't just reach into the freezer and take out a pizza because there are some nights when we don't have time to cook and have to make pizza"
Again, Oldest nodded. Maybe this experience would be good for him, I thought. But I'd like to remain on good terms with my nephew David!
He's in a funny age, this teen of ours. Tomorrow he could decide, "I'm outta here," and actually leave. I've learned to let him steer himself more. I'm hurrying to teach him skills I've forgotten, to make him take on more every day tasks so he can contribute to the home more. It burdens him to fit all this into his schedule since his has gotten more complicated. But we only have two years left to get him situated, and then he'll be gone, and I'm afraid I'll overlook something to teach him that he'll need. The idea of him wandering off just to avoid being underfoot is suddenly a headache to me. I want him home but not contentious, here learning but understanding that it is to ready him for the future, not to just have him as a slave.
Oldest has not mentioned spending the summer in Minneapolis since that conversation. But the idea of vacating Mom and Dad's house for the carefree life of a hobo is still on his mind. One day he said, "I could pack my bags and go touring to California like Grandpa did when he was young."
"Then I'd have to call the police and report you as a runaway."
'How come? Grandpa took off when he was my age."
"No, he left when he was 21 because that was the age his father told him that he could be on his own."
This left Oldest mulling over the "Escape from Mom and Dad" plan further. A few days later, he said, "I'm going to live with my cousin on her farm in Iowa."
"What farm in Iowa?" I said, thinking of that particular cousin. This is Andrea, age 15, who lives with her parents in Wisconsin. They aren't about to let her go live alone in an abandon Iowan house that belongs to her grandmother. This troubled teen is not the best influence on our son, either.
"She's got a farm there," he said stubbornly.
"Ah! Well, guess what. I won't let you. She is a bad influence." I said. "Sorry."
"Have you ever considered that I might be a good influence?"
"So. I'm not willing to risk you getting corrupted, " I answered. He slumped in defeat. No running to Iowa either. How bad can his plans go?
I remember turning 15, not because of a particular boyfriend, or wanting to run away, or a first job. No, I remember because of an incident. I was pulling weeds in our flowerbed when my father walked up to me. I'm sure my mother and I had had another row, and he particularly hated the fighting between us. "You are getting a job next summer," he said to me sternly. "That's all there is to it."
I remember feeling surprise, as though I had done something wrong. Now, looking back, I see my son struggling with the idea of independence, the square-peg feeling of being too old to sit around and do nothing, and all the while seeing others contribute. We've encouraged him to find his own work, make his own job. But he hates the lawn mowing, the finding work. He needs to work for someone else, give in to their scheduling, their rules. He needs to gain the experience of learning how nice it is to work for yourself, before he can appreciate doing it. He needs to have a boss before he can be a good one. He needs to feel the comradeship of co-workers. I see this, and know that just about the time he is getting interesting, he needs to go.
And so he went to get his first job application. That's a story for another day. But in the meantime, if any readers know of anyone in Fargo-Moorhead that's willing to adopt a teen for thirty days in June so he can attend a theater academy, please let me know. He wants to run away, and that would be a great place to run to.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Another Aspect of The Keystone Oil Pipeline
"And now, of course, Obama had to go kill that pipeline deal," said my friend, warming her fingers around the cup of weak, small town restaurant coffee. I looked at her, startled. We had been having a non-political discussion revolving around her life. Suddenly my friend, a woman I have known since our early teens, looked older, the gray just starting in her hair. She had just spoken of her out-of-work husband, a man who had rarely had a hammer out of his hand in the thirty-two years he had been a carpenter. For the first time ever, she had gotten reprimanded at work for too many mistakes in her copy, for not getting everything done in the time constraints given by her boss, even though flexibility had always been afforded her before, even though she covered for the secretary for several days, too. For the first time ever, she was feeling the heat from work.
So her comment about something political took me by surprise. "Huh?" I said.
She went on with her grumbling about the killing of the pipeline project, how it was all because trains that haul fuel are owned by Buffet, who is Obama's friend. How angry she was that when so much unemployment was all around us with new jobs that would deliver our nation a huge paycheck.
'Hold it," I interrupted.
"What?'
"Should we let some crazy guy shoot a hole in it like that guy did up in Alaska?"
"What?" she shrugged her shoulders. "I never heard about that."
So I told her how some moron was hanging out with his brother and said, "Bet I can shoot a hole in that!" The pressure on the inside of the pipeline sent oil spraying over the land and trees. While the news cameras rolled, the oil company sent people to clean up. But what happened when the cameras were gone? It's so remote that no one would know if the land were ever cleaned for sure.
"Oh," she said. Then after a pause, she continued, "Well, they can make the metal bullet-proof."
"Yeah, but will they?" I asked. With the cost of bullet-proofing the pipeline, I doubt the company will want to put the money into it."
She nodded in agreement.
"And for sure I don't want the beautiful land in Colorado or Nebraska to be covered in the back, goopy oil," I said.
"No, no, not cool," she agreed.
When I related this conversation to The Man who Puts Up With Me, he piped up, "But they could put it underground!"
"And promptly let any holes in the pipeline send oil into the drinking water," I retorted. He had to admit that I was right about that.
It's not an easy project to talk about, no doubt. And when ads are running condemning our President's decision, it might be a great time to remind everyone about realistic sabotage threats. It might be time to consider that there's more at stake than jobs. Yes, we probably do need to run that line somehow. After all, Canada can certainly reroute the pipe and sell their oil to China. We don't want that. But it's imperative we be careful. It's essential we get agreements to keep the area around the line clean, provide the proper security. It's time we think about keeping away terrorists, not just a couple of hard-drinking rabble-rousers. A little more time to think about something this big is not only critical, it's smart.
So her comment about something political took me by surprise. "Huh?" I said.
She went on with her grumbling about the killing of the pipeline project, how it was all because trains that haul fuel are owned by Buffet, who is Obama's friend. How angry she was that when so much unemployment was all around us with new jobs that would deliver our nation a huge paycheck.
'Hold it," I interrupted.
"What?'
"Should we let some crazy guy shoot a hole in it like that guy did up in Alaska?"
"What?" she shrugged her shoulders. "I never heard about that."
So I told her how some moron was hanging out with his brother and said, "Bet I can shoot a hole in that!" The pressure on the inside of the pipeline sent oil spraying over the land and trees. While the news cameras rolled, the oil company sent people to clean up. But what happened when the cameras were gone? It's so remote that no one would know if the land were ever cleaned for sure.
"Oh," she said. Then after a pause, she continued, "Well, they can make the metal bullet-proof."
"Yeah, but will they?" I asked. With the cost of bullet-proofing the pipeline, I doubt the company will want to put the money into it."
She nodded in agreement.
"And for sure I don't want the beautiful land in Colorado or Nebraska to be covered in the back, goopy oil," I said.
"No, no, not cool," she agreed.
When I related this conversation to The Man who Puts Up With Me, he piped up, "But they could put it underground!"
"And promptly let any holes in the pipeline send oil into the drinking water," I retorted. He had to admit that I was right about that.
It's not an easy project to talk about, no doubt. And when ads are running condemning our President's decision, it might be a great time to remind everyone about realistic sabotage threats. It might be time to consider that there's more at stake than jobs. Yes, we probably do need to run that line somehow. After all, Canada can certainly reroute the pipe and sell their oil to China. We don't want that. But it's imperative we be careful. It's essential we get agreements to keep the area around the line clean, provide the proper security. It's time we think about keeping away terrorists, not just a couple of hard-drinking rabble-rousers. A little more time to think about something this big is not only critical, it's smart.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Mediaed to Death
During the Disney movie at home here tonight, Oldest's phone rang every minute or so with a text message. After the tenth time of us being interrupted, I had images in my head from that commercial where people throw their computer out the window, one right after the other, after the other.
"That's me!" I shouted to The Man Who Puts Up With Me the first time I saw that commercial. He's the one who fixes it when it's broken. I'm the one who wants to find a lake and drop it in. I feel the same way about cars, but I digress.
"Who's texting you?" I asked, after my exasperation began to outweigh my patience.
It was the girl who had taken to square dancing with him (another story sometime perhaps). "I think she likes me," he said. But I know him: the look on his face is almost apologetic, like having petted a stray cat that has followed him home. He hadn't meant for anything serious besides dancing, and now she likes him more than he's comfortable with.
Twenty minutes later, he tossed the phone across the room. "Hey!" I exclaimed.
"Don't worry, I tossed it lightly so it wouldn't get broken," he said. "It's just that now there are five girls texting me!"
And I know what this is all about. One thinks her boyfriend is going to break up with her, and Oldest is trying to remind the boy that he'd be making a big mistake. Another girl is bored and texting him entertaining. Another girl is lonely, twenty minutes away and just wants to see what he's been doing lately. His girl cousin is touching base. The last girl is probably caught up in the soap opera that the first couple is going through.
It's not just the phone. It's the computer. He hits it every spare minute to play Diablo or some other role playing game. It's the television, which he would always have on if he had his way. It's the MP3, which keeps his mind abuzz with music.
I'm starting to see Littlest One have the same problems, and I'll admit, I'm getting overrun by a desire to Facebook more than I ever used to. I write on a blog istead of a journal. To unwind, I watch TV instead of read a good book. Or watch a movie. Or listen to music.
I'm starting to understand why people take media-free vacations. For one thing, the electricity in their own space would be greatly reduced! For another thing, it's great to just have peace and quiet. The withdrawls might be unpleasant, but the end result would probably be worth it. Until I get home and have to sift through several hundred emails!
"That's me!" I shouted to The Man Who Puts Up With Me the first time I saw that commercial. He's the one who fixes it when it's broken. I'm the one who wants to find a lake and drop it in. I feel the same way about cars, but I digress.
"Who's texting you?" I asked, after my exasperation began to outweigh my patience.
It was the girl who had taken to square dancing with him (another story sometime perhaps). "I think she likes me," he said. But I know him: the look on his face is almost apologetic, like having petted a stray cat that has followed him home. He hadn't meant for anything serious besides dancing, and now she likes him more than he's comfortable with.
Twenty minutes later, he tossed the phone across the room. "Hey!" I exclaimed.
"Don't worry, I tossed it lightly so it wouldn't get broken," he said. "It's just that now there are five girls texting me!"
And I know what this is all about. One thinks her boyfriend is going to break up with her, and Oldest is trying to remind the boy that he'd be making a big mistake. Another girl is bored and texting him entertaining. Another girl is lonely, twenty minutes away and just wants to see what he's been doing lately. His girl cousin is touching base. The last girl is probably caught up in the soap opera that the first couple is going through.
It's not just the phone. It's the computer. He hits it every spare minute to play Diablo or some other role playing game. It's the television, which he would always have on if he had his way. It's the MP3, which keeps his mind abuzz with music.
I'm starting to see Littlest One have the same problems, and I'll admit, I'm getting overrun by a desire to Facebook more than I ever used to. I write on a blog istead of a journal. To unwind, I watch TV instead of read a good book. Or watch a movie. Or listen to music.
I'm starting to understand why people take media-free vacations. For one thing, the electricity in their own space would be greatly reduced! For another thing, it's great to just have peace and quiet. The withdrawls might be unpleasant, but the end result would probably be worth it. Until I get home and have to sift through several hundred emails!
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Modeling: A New Side Job
Some people know that we went to Florida during December to attend a special event for a selected group of young people who competed in acting, music, and dance. Oldest Son had auditioned in Fargo with 550 other families and was invited because he could sing, a talent he never did use down there. A couple of other contestants from New Jersey told us that 1400 families competed there, and they only chose 20 kids, so the competition to attend was fierce.
The excitement to go was intense all of December. I finally had a conversation with him to explain that winning this event was probably unlikely, and that we needed to judge success by whether or not he got a callback. I think the boy had visions of suddenly getting picked up by some talent agent, working in Hollywood the next week, and I knew that was pretty much a dream. But getting a callback meant you had been noticed, and not everyone gets a callback there.
Sure enough, he got one, and what for? Modeling. This from the boy who had snorted when I asked him to consider whether he wanted to get work doing that. When he found out people weren't standing in line to lure him to the bright lights of a Hollywood backlot, that millions weren't going to come his way overnight, modeling sounded better than pushing a lawn mower.
On a lark, we sent in his headshot and resume to a modeling agent in Minneapolis. The resume never even opened up; she called him just because he looked good on the picture. Four hundred people responded to her ad, but she only chose fourteen to call back. Meeting with her, and from the question and answer session we had in Florida is giving me quite an education in a field I know absolutely nothing about!
First, for every five girls featured in the modeling agency's book, there is only one boy. Adolescent boys who go into modeling aren't exactly rare, but the competition has definitely thinned out. We were fortunate to know that Oldest's cousin had made money for a while in modeling as well, until his attitude about the work changed and he was dropped. It was a great lesson on professionalism for our boys, who still would rather pose for photos than push around a lawn mower on a hot day.
Another thing is that regional modeling agents barely make it on commission. There are upfront costs that models absolutely must absorb, whereas bigger agencies out east upfront the money to models. Researching it online leaves you with conflicting information, so it's important for anyone interested in the profession should know this.
Finally, commissions for agents are now at 20%. Again, that is different from what you might read on the internet. The fact is, even big agencies take that, as we found out in the Q & A session in Florida. This is a big difference from acting agents which only command 15%.
The modeling company is just getting into animals, so we ended up signing on with our cat and dog, which is much nicer than working with people. First, animals don't have to tryout; and the payment is sometimes in the thousands. I suddenly have a new job: taking animals on a three hour drive if they are needed for a photoshoot. I never in my wildest dreams thought that would happen. When I tell other people about it, they suddenly start telling me about their animals and how cute they are. It's an interesting way to get your pets to fund their own vet bills!
This new adventure is just one I would like to share with other people, which is why I'm writing about it here. It's quite fascinating to look into a world which is often closed to other people, a learning experience for all of us.
The excitement to go was intense all of December. I finally had a conversation with him to explain that winning this event was probably unlikely, and that we needed to judge success by whether or not he got a callback. I think the boy had visions of suddenly getting picked up by some talent agent, working in Hollywood the next week, and I knew that was pretty much a dream. But getting a callback meant you had been noticed, and not everyone gets a callback there.
Sure enough, he got one, and what for? Modeling. This from the boy who had snorted when I asked him to consider whether he wanted to get work doing that. When he found out people weren't standing in line to lure him to the bright lights of a Hollywood backlot, that millions weren't going to come his way overnight, modeling sounded better than pushing a lawn mower.
On a lark, we sent in his headshot and resume to a modeling agent in Minneapolis. The resume never even opened up; she called him just because he looked good on the picture. Four hundred people responded to her ad, but she only chose fourteen to call back. Meeting with her, and from the question and answer session we had in Florida is giving me quite an education in a field I know absolutely nothing about!
First, for every five girls featured in the modeling agency's book, there is only one boy. Adolescent boys who go into modeling aren't exactly rare, but the competition has definitely thinned out. We were fortunate to know that Oldest's cousin had made money for a while in modeling as well, until his attitude about the work changed and he was dropped. It was a great lesson on professionalism for our boys, who still would rather pose for photos than push around a lawn mower on a hot day.
Another thing is that regional modeling agents barely make it on commission. There are upfront costs that models absolutely must absorb, whereas bigger agencies out east upfront the money to models. Researching it online leaves you with conflicting information, so it's important for anyone interested in the profession should know this.
Finally, commissions for agents are now at 20%. Again, that is different from what you might read on the internet. The fact is, even big agencies take that, as we found out in the Q & A session in Florida. This is a big difference from acting agents which only command 15%.
The modeling company is just getting into animals, so we ended up signing on with our cat and dog, which is much nicer than working with people. First, animals don't have to tryout; and the payment is sometimes in the thousands. I suddenly have a new job: taking animals on a three hour drive if they are needed for a photoshoot. I never in my wildest dreams thought that would happen. When I tell other people about it, they suddenly start telling me about their animals and how cute they are. It's an interesting way to get your pets to fund their own vet bills!
This new adventure is just one I would like to share with other people, which is why I'm writing about it here. It's quite fascinating to look into a world which is often closed to other people, a learning experience for all of us.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
The Making of An Actor
Oldest brushed the sweat off his face one hot summer day last July. "This mowing lawn is too much like work,' he grumped.
I almost laughed. Poor kid! He should have been out picking rock at 5 a.m, like I had to do when I was young., trudging through mud that stuck to my dew soaked shoes or getting halfway into a sea of thistles, while finding rocks that needed to be hauled to a rock pile. I'm certain this is what makes hell, so I have no sympathy for my son. He's got it easy, pushing around a lawn mower.
"Well, what do you want to do?" I asked. We had hauled a mower to a property we owned, then caught a lunch at a nearby town.
"Well," he said, between bites of food. "I want to be an actor."
Now my parents would have laughed at me if I had said such a thing. They might have told me to get real, to forget it, that it was a hopeless fantasy. Certainly they would have told me that they wouldn't drive me town to attend any after school activity. " But I knew that if I crushed his dream, he would spend the rest of his life wondering, 'What if..."
"How are you going to do that?' I asked.
"I don't know," he admitted.
Now the story goes hyperspeed. Moments later he heard a radio advertisement looking for kids to try out for a special conference/talents show in Florida. With my blessing he tried out. They called back, and he attended an interview and screentest. Thirty-two kids out of 550 families called back, and they didn't care if you couldn't afford the entrance fee. Oldest had the money, entered, rehearsed, and went. The experience was incredible, informative because of the industry executives who served on a Q & A panel, elegant because of a red carpet night, tense because of the competition.
In the two weeks we were in Florida, a change came over him. "He walks differently," commented The Man Who Puts Up With Me. And Oldest had. There was more confidence, maybe because of all the pretty girls that had flocked around him at the Florida event. Maybe it was because he found ot he was neither the big fish in the ocean, nor the littlest.
He signed up to take a summer theater academy in a nearby city to learn more about theater, perhaps even join in the the mainstage musical, a professional performance directed by a New York director. To fund it, he wrote grant, and has to perform for a review board for the money. Sunday he auditions for the musical.
Valentine's evening, he soloed the song, "Save the Last Dance for Me" with a jazz band behind him at a large concert at our hometown gym. I watched as our son went from a kid who used to sing while standing stock still, to walking, smiling, gesturing, entertaining, performing! The transformation in his talents in several short months was simply amazing.
As if that weren't enough, on a lark, we sent his headshot to a modeling agent in Minneapolis, and a couple of weeks later, signed both boys on with her. We head out soon to do photoshoots for the agency, then respond to casting calls as they happen. The money is much better than mowing lawns, so Oldest, who had initially snubbed the idea of modeling, is now anxious to try out for commercials of any kind.
Consider that all of this has happened in less than eight months. Eight! I feel somedays that I'm standing by the breeze off a train engine. Whoosh! The kid mentions his dreams, now he's about to embark on living them. This boy isn't even old enough to drive! There are moments I feel that this whole pathway is a dream, and that because he has believed it could all happen, it just might.
These next few months he will grow, and I get the privilege of watching that take place. Where these adventures take us might be worth writing about in the future. Until them, think of us these next couple of days as we can use just a ton of positive energy coming our way!
I almost laughed. Poor kid! He should have been out picking rock at 5 a.m, like I had to do when I was young., trudging through mud that stuck to my dew soaked shoes or getting halfway into a sea of thistles, while finding rocks that needed to be hauled to a rock pile. I'm certain this is what makes hell, so I have no sympathy for my son. He's got it easy, pushing around a lawn mower.
"Well, what do you want to do?" I asked. We had hauled a mower to a property we owned, then caught a lunch at a nearby town.
"Well," he said, between bites of food. "I want to be an actor."
Now my parents would have laughed at me if I had said such a thing. They might have told me to get real, to forget it, that it was a hopeless fantasy. Certainly they would have told me that they wouldn't drive me town to attend any after school activity. " But I knew that if I crushed his dream, he would spend the rest of his life wondering, 'What if..."
"How are you going to do that?' I asked.
"I don't know," he admitted.
Now the story goes hyperspeed. Moments later he heard a radio advertisement looking for kids to try out for a special conference/talents show in Florida. With my blessing he tried out. They called back, and he attended an interview and screentest. Thirty-two kids out of 550 families called back, and they didn't care if you couldn't afford the entrance fee. Oldest had the money, entered, rehearsed, and went. The experience was incredible, informative because of the industry executives who served on a Q & A panel, elegant because of a red carpet night, tense because of the competition.
In the two weeks we were in Florida, a change came over him. "He walks differently," commented The Man Who Puts Up With Me. And Oldest had. There was more confidence, maybe because of all the pretty girls that had flocked around him at the Florida event. Maybe it was because he found ot he was neither the big fish in the ocean, nor the littlest.
He signed up to take a summer theater academy in a nearby city to learn more about theater, perhaps even join in the the mainstage musical, a professional performance directed by a New York director. To fund it, he wrote grant, and has to perform for a review board for the money. Sunday he auditions for the musical.
Valentine's evening, he soloed the song, "Save the Last Dance for Me" with a jazz band behind him at a large concert at our hometown gym. I watched as our son went from a kid who used to sing while standing stock still, to walking, smiling, gesturing, entertaining, performing! The transformation in his talents in several short months was simply amazing.
As if that weren't enough, on a lark, we sent his headshot to a modeling agent in Minneapolis, and a couple of weeks later, signed both boys on with her. We head out soon to do photoshoots for the agency, then respond to casting calls as they happen. The money is much better than mowing lawns, so Oldest, who had initially snubbed the idea of modeling, is now anxious to try out for commercials of any kind.
Consider that all of this has happened in less than eight months. Eight! I feel somedays that I'm standing by the breeze off a train engine. Whoosh! The kid mentions his dreams, now he's about to embark on living them. This boy isn't even old enough to drive! There are moments I feel that this whole pathway is a dream, and that because he has believed it could all happen, it just might.
These next few months he will grow, and I get the privilege of watching that take place. Where these adventures take us might be worth writing about in the future. Until them, think of us these next couple of days as we can use just a ton of positive energy coming our way!
Friday, February 3, 2012
The Gaggling Goosey Groupies
"Mom!" called Youngest as he burst through the door. "Brother's coming home with three girls."
There are many things a mother would like to hear someone say about her son. Things like, "He's on the A honor role!" or "He's been accepted into a great college!" or "He's won the Pulitzer Prize." All of those statements would make a heart beat with pride. But what do you make of, "He's coming home with three girls?" I suppose it's better than, "He's coming home with three stray cats!"
"Aha!" I said. Minutes earlier I had considered how nice it would be to make a few cupcakes for anyone dropping by. I frantically scraped the batter into cupcake paper holders.
They entered into the door behind my son, giggling and talking. He hung up his heavier jacket, grabbed a Cary Grant style hat, and a lighter leather coat. No doubt, he looked sharp.
I finished and walked over to where they were standing in the dining room. "Hi!" Then I felt an odd panic coming over me. I should recognize these girls. All of them, I would bet, have been in our house before. The problem is that the girls look alike. Skinny. Two have blond hair that hangs down, in a flowing style with a part on the side. Those same two wear makeup.
I took a deep breath as if to jump into a swimming pool. "Okay, I should know you. But I'm old and my mind is going. Let's see if I can remember your name."
"I'm Jenna!" said the first one.
Ah yes. The girl who had the same name as Oldest's former girlfriend. She's got bad acne and actually natural hair color than the ones with bleached out hair.
The next one looked at me as though I were a worm. "Victoria," she said, as if I should have know.
Inwardly I groaned. Oldest's former girlfriend. I should have known. But after a second I found myself secretly glad I hadn't remembered. She broke up with him twice by text. What happened to the days when boys and girls broke up and never talked again?
The third introduced herself again with a gesture toward her heart. "I'm Barb." The tone of her voice somehow assured me that she was used to memory-challenged adults. I felt reassured that the younger generation was just fine with those of us who are innundated with teens who look alike.
"It's just that so many girls come here!" quipped Youngest, who had been somewhat hopping around, chewing an apple.
I caught Oldest shoot his little brother a poision-dart glance. Part of me wondered how karma would address the inequity of the time when Youngest would bring home a girl and his older brother would not be here to say, "Gee, he brings home lots of girls."
Then, the most incredible two things happened. First, the girls didn't stay around for warm cupcakes. All of the teens decided to take off . Second, my Oldest son picked up their backpacks and carried them for the girls. This from the boy that acts like the vaacuum cleaner is too heavy, grumbles when we ask him to open doors when our hands are full, or protests if directed to help with any other menial labor intensive task. He happily went down the street, his groupies around him, shouldering a million pounds of homework, with a grin like a ten-year-old with a new puppy.
I haven't figured out whether it's a good thing or not for our son to have groupies. A part of me wishes that the girls were interested in books, theater or even farming! But giggly girls? It goes against my very feminist core. I realize it's a teenage boy thing, a mating dance thing, a thing. God forbid he bring one of these girls home for marriage approval. But most of all, I hope I can better remember their names, that I can find something distinctive about each so their name information doesn't go into my "garbage in, garbage out" file in my brain. For no matter what, they deserve at least that.
There are many things a mother would like to hear someone say about her son. Things like, "He's on the A honor role!" or "He's been accepted into a great college!" or "He's won the Pulitzer Prize." All of those statements would make a heart beat with pride. But what do you make of, "He's coming home with three girls?" I suppose it's better than, "He's coming home with three stray cats!"
"Aha!" I said. Minutes earlier I had considered how nice it would be to make a few cupcakes for anyone dropping by. I frantically scraped the batter into cupcake paper holders.
They entered into the door behind my son, giggling and talking. He hung up his heavier jacket, grabbed a Cary Grant style hat, and a lighter leather coat. No doubt, he looked sharp.
I finished and walked over to where they were standing in the dining room. "Hi!" Then I felt an odd panic coming over me. I should recognize these girls. All of them, I would bet, have been in our house before. The problem is that the girls look alike. Skinny. Two have blond hair that hangs down, in a flowing style with a part on the side. Those same two wear makeup.
I took a deep breath as if to jump into a swimming pool. "Okay, I should know you. But I'm old and my mind is going. Let's see if I can remember your name."
"I'm Jenna!" said the first one.
Ah yes. The girl who had the same name as Oldest's former girlfriend. She's got bad acne and actually natural hair color than the ones with bleached out hair.
The next one looked at me as though I were a worm. "Victoria," she said, as if I should have know.
Inwardly I groaned. Oldest's former girlfriend. I should have known. But after a second I found myself secretly glad I hadn't remembered. She broke up with him twice by text. What happened to the days when boys and girls broke up and never talked again?
The third introduced herself again with a gesture toward her heart. "I'm Barb." The tone of her voice somehow assured me that she was used to memory-challenged adults. I felt reassured that the younger generation was just fine with those of us who are innundated with teens who look alike.
"It's just that so many girls come here!" quipped Youngest, who had been somewhat hopping around, chewing an apple.
I caught Oldest shoot his little brother a poision-dart glance. Part of me wondered how karma would address the inequity of the time when Youngest would bring home a girl and his older brother would not be here to say, "Gee, he brings home lots of girls."
Then, the most incredible two things happened. First, the girls didn't stay around for warm cupcakes. All of the teens decided to take off . Second, my Oldest son picked up their backpacks and carried them for the girls. This from the boy that acts like the vaacuum cleaner is too heavy, grumbles when we ask him to open doors when our hands are full, or protests if directed to help with any other menial labor intensive task. He happily went down the street, his groupies around him, shouldering a million pounds of homework, with a grin like a ten-year-old with a new puppy.
I haven't figured out whether it's a good thing or not for our son to have groupies. A part of me wishes that the girls were interested in books, theater or even farming! But giggly girls? It goes against my very feminist core. I realize it's a teenage boy thing, a mating dance thing, a thing. God forbid he bring one of these girls home for marriage approval. But most of all, I hope I can better remember their names, that I can find something distinctive about each so their name information doesn't go into my "garbage in, garbage out" file in my brain. For no matter what, they deserve at least that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)