When Your Freezer Breaks

Posted on October 27, 2011 | 34 comments

So our refrigerator broke down.

More specifically, our freezer stopped freezing.

The ice cream could not be saved.

Neither could the meat.

Of course, this happened at the worst time.

But then is there ever a good time for your freezer to go on the fritz?

Remaining, calm, I did what every person with a broken appliance would do.

To which Lenore responded:

But it was way too late for that.

At 1 pm, I was feeling optimistic.

And then something magical happened!

So instead of focusing on how much meat I’d just thrown away, I focused on this:

Treats from Pittsburgh!

Because I won this contest that Clay and Leanne Shirtliffe did a while back.

It was nice of Clay to include a crumpled up bag of Starbucks coffee. It made the box smell really good.

Then I read Clay’s note which explained that if I return the empty bag, the folks at Starbucks will give me a free coffee.

He also included this:

Because I'm worth it!

Thank you, Clay! 😉

Unfortunately, the coffee would have to wait.

Because I couldn’t leave the house.

At 2 pm, the repair guys still hadn’t come.

And I had a terrible realization:

Whaaat?

So I was in my jammies at 2 o’clock in the afternoon?

It was my day off!

Don’t judge me!

One tweep invoked Murphy’s Law:

I stuck this on the front door — just in case:

Time dragged like the time my brother dragged me by my hair.

And then it all happened so fast.

I so wanted to get a picture of Patrick, my freezer repair guy.

But I never even had a chance to ask for it.

Or explain why I wanted it.

Or get his permission to post it.

He was in and out of that freezer so fast you’d have thought I hadn’t showered or something.

Which I did, thank you very much.

Anyway, he’ll be back next Thursday.

Meanwhile, tomorrow the student who gave me the tip on how to bet in that hockey contest will be getting a little somethin’-somethin’ from me.

Whaaaat?

I mean chocolate from Pittsburgh.

Sheesh! Y’all can take something innocent and delicate and gentle  — like hockey — and twist it like the towel Patrick used to dry out my dripping freezer, and turn it into something nasty.

And, by the way, that towel is nasty now.

What is the last appliance you had to service? And how many times did it take for the repair-person to come back until it was really fixed? And what do you think about extended warranties?

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Posted in When Life Doesn't Fit in a File Folder

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Those Who Can’t Teach: Guest Post by Tamara Lunardo

Posted on October 26, 2011 | 77 comments

Tamara-Out-Loud

I am beyond thrilled to have Tamara Lunardo as my guest blogger today. Where I sometimes get mired in the details, Tarama is a big picture kind of girl. Tamara’s writing is as fresh, edgy and vibrant as she is. Gentle and compassionate, Tamara (pronounced Ta-MAH-ra) is a wonderful read. Note: Just don’t mispronounce her name or call her Tammy or she’ll punch you in the throat.

Tamara has an essay featured in Alise Wright’s book Not Alone: Stories Of Living With Depression, a compilation of a wide range of experiences, voices, and opinions of individuals who have lived with and continue to live with depression. And whether she’s writing about depression or tattoos, Tamara makes you think. She makes this little Jewish girl think about Jesus a lot. And that’s something.

You can find Tamara at HERE or Twitterstalk her at @tamaraoutloud.

• • •

Those Who Can’t Teach

It was my senior year of high school, and I was a frequent skipper of my coast-able classes, as bored, brainy teens are wont to be. One class in particular was on my skip list, partly because it was the last period of the day and partly because I felt I could gain nothing from it whatsoever: Yes, I hated English.

To be accurate, I loved English; I hated that English class. I hated hearing the assistant principal use the pseudo-word “irregardless” when he visited our classroom, and I hated seeing the teacher blink blankly as I railed against it in intellectual-teen angst. I hated her insecure explanations and her flimsy lessons. I hated being so ill instructed in a subject I so well loved. And so I opted out of attendance when I could, and I snapped out right answers when I couldn’t. I was not high in the running for teacher’s pet.

And then I had a change of heart.

I took my SATs and got a near-perfect score on the verbal portion, which resulted in letters of courting from various collegiate English departments. So I decided that this was the time and way to make amends, to offer this teacher evidence that perhaps I’d listened to and learned something from her after all, even though we both knew the truth. I approached her after class with uncharacteristic zeal and shared my exciting news.

“Yes,” she vocally shrugged, “that happens sometimes.”

• • •

I walked into a restaurant in my old hometown last year, and I saw that teacher eating alone at a table. She was thinner, fainter, and still as blank. My heart went out to her, and I had to say, “Hello.”

I reintroduced myself and let her know of my modest successes with the English language since my 12-year departure from her class. I offered my degree and freelance writing and editing career as evidence that perhaps I’d listened to and learned something from her after all, even though we both knew the truth. She blinked worn eyelids toward my contrite face and said without a shred of remembrance or interest, “Oh, that’s nice.”

And I walked away with uncharacteristic zeal because I thought, It really is.

And we both knew the truth.

Did you have a teacher you could’ve done without? Were you a class-skipper or a teacher’s pet? And on a scale of 1-10, how much does “irregardless” piss you off?

• • •

If you have writing chops and are interested in submitting a memory about a teacher you had and can explain how that person helped you (or really screwed things up for you), as well as the life lesson you took away from the interaction, I’d love to hear from you! Contact Me. Essays should be around 700-800 words.

If you write for me, I’ll put your name on my page of favorite bloggers!

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Who’s the “Derpy-est” One of All?

Posted on October 24, 2011 | 30 comments
Cover of

Cover via Amazon

Today I continue with Made-It-Up Mondays.

Every once in a while, I throw out a made-up word and ask you to a) define the word, and b) then use the word in a sentence that indicates how the word could be used.

Why? Because someone gave me the book The Meaning of Tingo: And Other Extraordinary Words from Around the World.

For example:

You know that feeling of anticipation when you are waiting for people to show up at your house and you keep wandering over to the window to check to see if they are there yet? Yeah, well, the Inuit call that “Iktsuarpok.”

We don’t really have a word for that in English, do we?

When I can’t find the right word on the word-shelf to fit my mood or predicament, I often just make one up.

The last time we did this the word was “castanurgle,“ and I created a poll to find out which answer readers thought was the best answer. Folks voted for Chrystal from The Spirit Within.  She said a castanurgle is “a dilemma for which there is no easy solution.”

Funny, I always thought a castanurgle was when you just so happened to be stuck in a castle with a case of the sniffles and you don’t have any tissues handy! Shows you what I know. 😉

Continuing alphabetically, this week, the made up word was:

DERPY

But then I learned DERPY is a real word! Kind of.

I mean, it’s in Urban dictionary! See definition HERE!

So, who’s the derpy one today?

I’m guess I’m revising things retroactively.

What’s the “derpy-est” thing you’ve done lately?

Like I sprayed perfume in my mouth this morning.

Also, I spit my mouthwash into the garbage can.

Also I wrote this blog about a word that isn’t a word that is a word.

Derp.

30 Comments

Posted in Tingo Tuesday

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A Piece of the Action

Posted on October 22, 2011 | 38 comments

We are always searching for the next big thing: the good stuff. Back in the 1970s when early talk-show host, Mike Douglas, was around, he really had an eye for the next big thing. He knew how to give us a piece of the action. Just look at Thor here. He’s positively thrilling. I mean, he can blow up a hot water bottle until it explodes! Is that hot, or what?

In an effort to try to bring you a piece of the action, I thought I’d bring you some yummy morsels of goodness that I’ve read this month. Feel free to check out something that tickles your fancy.

From the Publishing & Social Media Department

Catie Rhodes has fabulous suggestions for Internet travelers in Catie’s Social Media Do’s & Dont’s.

Jane Friedman hosted Kristen Lamb this week with 3 Blunders That Can Kill Your Author Platform.

Kristen Lamb shows us the wonky part of publishing  as she tries to convince us Numbers Are Our Friends – Writers and the Wild World of Metrics.

From the Writing Department

Nobody likes a cheater, and Jami Gold explores How Bad is Plagiarism? and its damaging repercussions.

From the English Department

Carol Brown sent me a link to The Twenty Best Books for Language Lovers. It’s a pretty dang good list.

From the Math Department

I don’t understand this at all, but my 12-year-old son did. From WildABoutMath A Great Triangle Exploration.

From the Science Department

From ScienceBlog Gratitude as an Antidote to Aggression. Anything that helps folks be a little more civilized to each other is worth a try.

From the Art Department

Carl D’Agostino is a cartoonist whose stuff ranges from satirical to political to naughty.

From the Political Science Department

Piper Bayard brings us Bayard/Lamb 2012 – Because Blonde is the New Black. So snarky that it just might work.

From the History Department

Kathy Owen makes me want to put on a hoop skirt in the history of Ice Skating in Central Park.

Gene Lempp writes about the History of the Ancient Silk Route. I wish he was teaching my son social studies.

From the Pop Culture Department

Clay Morgan writes about 10 Television Characters I’ve Wished I Could Be. I so wanted to be Jamie Somers, The Bionic Woman.

From the Contest Department

Julie from go Guilty Pleasures is having a Vlog contest. If you want to enter you have until midnight. She’ll tell you all about it HERE. You can try, but I’m telling you I have it locked and loaded. Just sayin’.

From the Products Department

Kathy Owen shows us what we can purchase to embrace our inner nerd in Get Your Geek On!

From the Just Plain Funny Parenting Moments Department

Steve at Brown Road Chronicles has a discussion with his son about Skim vs. Fat-Free Milk.

News From the Department Chair

Chrystal from The Spirit Within had the highest percentage of votes in my “What the Heck Does Castanurgle Mean?” poll. Part of her cyber-swag package involves this beautiful new car. And by new car I mean, I’m giving you a link to her blog, which is lovely. I’m also decorating her invisible mantle (you know, the one where she keeps all her invisible blogging awards) with an autumnal theme. Isn’t it pretty? Congratulations Chrystal!

Before you head off to get “a piece of the action,” here’s a picture of me when I last performed Muscle Rock with Thor at Aladdin’s Hotel in 2005.  I guess I was looking for a little satisfaction. Or my hot water bottle.

I’m Thor’s sister. Can you tell me where to find a piece of the action?

 What are your Halloween plans? Anybody going like Thor?

38 Comments

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To Get Up or to Zzzzzzzz

Posted on October 21, 2011 | 45 comments
alarm clock, bought from IKEA

Image via Wikipedia

Monkey started 7th grade this year. When I think back to 7th grade, I recall I awoke each morning at 6:30 AM with the help of my digital alarm clock which I had carefully set to 62 WHEN the night before.

Once showered, I made myself breakfast — either a bowl of Lucky Charms cereal or a bagel with cream cheese — and by 7:15 AM, I quietly walked into my parents’ bedroom, took four quarters from my father’s dresser (with his permission), so I could buy lunch. I then kissed my mother and my father who were sprawled in their king-sized bed beneath a giant comforter. I was generally met by sleepy sounds, sometimes a little muttering, and bad breath; it was a daily routine, and it worked. They got a good night’s rest, and I got to watch The New Zoo Revue on our 7” black and white television, uninterrupted, for about a half an hour.

Eventually, depending on the weather, I put on the most appropriate outdoor coat — if it was cold, I popped on mittens and a hat. Since UGGS had not yet been invented and boots were totally uncool in 1978, I always wore my clogs. From there, I made opened the front door carrying whatever I might have brought home for homework (read: nothing) and walked about 1/4 mile from my parents’ little house to the closest bus stop and waited with a cluster of other neighborhood kids.

Fast-forward 30 years. Monkey completes a similar ritual where he wakes, dresses, makes his breakfast, gathers his stuff — paper stars, drawings of dragons, pencils, books, two huge binders filled with worksheets and completed homework — and crams it all into his backpack.

I hear Monkey moving around starting at 6:20 AM, and I stick my pillow over my head. Unlike my parents who stayed in bed, confident in my organizational abilities — or never really even thought about if I had everything I needed or not — I feel totally guilty for staying in bed. I mean I suppose I could drag myself downstairs at that unseemly hour, but I am just so dang tired.

And warm.

I don’t know why I feel I should go downstairs and smooch Monkey before he leaves the house. Maybe I feel like I should make sure his clothes match – because he’s not very good at that. Or maybe I feel I should check to make sure that his hair is brushed – because, to be honest, he is pretty lax in that area, too. Maybe it’s his teeth I’m worried about. You know, I just like to make sure that he in minty-fresh before he heads out the door because, again, the whole hygiene thing is currently not his forte.

I don’t do this though.

So typically Monkey does just what I used to do. He comes upstairs to announce he is leaving.

Except some days, he doesn’t.

Some days, the kids he walks with show up at our sliding glass doors and I hear the glass doors roll across the floor followed by a slam. I lie there, imagining him walking down the back steps, towards the enormous school that looms in our backyard. (I know it was designed to look like a dairy farm; still, it looms.)

On those days, I miss him.

My husband wonders what is wrong with me.

He says I should be thrilled that we have raised an independent person who can make cereal and bagels and waffles and eggs and (sometimes) remembers to brush his teeth and hair.

And I am.

But it doesn’t mean I’m not working against some weird maternal energy that wants to “just check” on him.

My parents never sweated over this stuff.

At what age did your parents step out of the picture so you could start doing things independently? How are you about completely stepping out of the picture? And more importantly, what morning TV shows did you watch while your parents were sleeping?
© Renée Schuls-Jacobson 2011. All rights reserved.

45 Comments

Posted in Memoir, Parenting

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Yo tengo el gato los pantelones! Guest Post by Tyler Tarver

Posted on October 19, 2011 | 44 comments

Hola! Tyler Tarver is my guest blogger today!

I am so lucky to have Tyler Tarver as a guest blogger today. Tyler’s awesome blog is called chaos meets capitalization. I wish I thought of that, but that would imply my brain would work like Tyler’s and Tyler’s brain does not work like mine. In fact, Tyler Tarver’s brain does not work like anyone else’s brain. Which might be why I like him so much. He thinks in metaphors. And colors. And he raps. And he teaches. And he has published books! These are all qualities that I admire. Plus, did I mention he is wicked funny. Wait, do I sound like I have a little crush on Tyler Tarver? It might sound like that, but really I just wish my brain worked like his. Like a little bit. Like on weekends. Or even once a month would be fine. It would be cool to see an MRI of what is going on in Tyler’s head. Because his synapses fire. Seriously. Can we make that happen, T?  Enjoy Tyler’s memory of his Spanish teacher then follow him at @TylerTarver. (He digs stalkers.) Also he wrote an awesome book that he is selling here.

• • •

Yo tengo el gato los pantelones.

That’s literally all I know after two years of high school Spanish. I’m not even certain it’s correct and I learned it from Blue Streak starring Martin Lawrence. I’m fairly certain it means “I have a cat in my pants.”

So you know where I stand, this is not a story about how much I learned in Mrs. Harris’ class, but how much freaking fun it was and the kinda crap we got away with like DB Cooper (huge crap stealer).

First, how’d I get a Hall Pass to Mrs. Harris’ heart? Easy, I took up for her when the class tool was bashing her about grading something wrong. My spider-senses started tingling and I knew she was about to cry, so I tell the kid to shut his face, she said she’d fix it. Boom, I’m more her favorite than The Notebook.

I think Professor Jacobson wanted me to talk about someone that made a difference or made me who I am, but I was forged in the fires of Mt. Doom, so no credit due to anyone.*

*mostly bull crap, except for parts based in fact.

So, here’s some stuff we did to make Mrs. Harris laugh, make some memories, and mostly make her distracted so I didn’t have to learn a useful subject like la Espanola.

  • Scotch taped my binder, pencils, and book to my desk. Along with her stapler, tape dispenser, picture frame, and flower vase with flower. Why? Just in case we lost gravity but I still wanted to el learna the wordsa of la Spanishas.
  • Made her authentic Spanish puppet dirty dance with her sweet tea (one hand on da butt and one in da drink, like da playas do).
  • Make that authentic Spanish puppet do the same with the side of Mrs. Harris’ head.
  • When she left the room, we turned off the lights and adjusted the overhead light with a sidewalk outline of a person wearing a crown. So when she walked in, we flipped the light on her and blasted the radio up and everyone in the class started singing “HERE SHE COMES MISS AMERICA…”
  • Reenacted a story about a momma dinosaur who wanted to make in on her own in New York city via shadow puppets.
  • Squirted Arby Sauce in a compartment of her desk and drank it out with a straw.
  • Proceed to throw up the aforementioned Arby sauce plus previously consumed school biscuits and gravy into the trash can in front of the class.

My personal favorite prank I got to perform needs some setup.

Our school burnt down my 10th grade year, so classrooms took place in these real classy trailers that smelled like moist feet with hair. Hobbit feet I guess would be a visual, moist Hobbit feet in an older buttered croissant roll. So, we would have to walk outside from class to class. Okay, that’s all the setup I got, I might have been wearing blue. No, it was yellow. Classy yellow.

Regardless of shirt pigment (maybe black, it brings out my eyes, the center part), I leave from my class and head straight to Harris’ and place an official looking piece of paper on her door stating, “Mrs. Harris’ class needs to go to the library.”

(We didn’t.)

After sitting in her class by herself for about 10 minutes, she walks outside to see what’s up.

Let’s just say our class enjoyed our 10 minutes of free-time playing Minesweeper in the library.

Sorry, no big punch line or hook. Except that after I graduated, Mrs. Harris because Miss Harris and now she’s Mrs. Tarver.

I made that very last part up.

But I’m sure she’s still cool.

The End.

So what teacher did you crush over and what did he/she do to make you love him/her?

• • •

If you have writing chops and are interested in submitting a memory about a teacher you had and can explain how that person helped you (or really screwed things up for you), as well as the life lesson you took away from the interaction, I’d love to hear from you! Contact Me. Essays should be around 700-800 words.

If you write for me, I’ll put your name on my page of favorite bloggers!

44 Comments

Posted in Guest Writers

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In the Middle of October

Posted on October 18, 2011 | 28 comments

I recently had a nostalgic moment. The tree reminded me of something I hadn't thought about in a long time.

I remember you mornings mostly, emerging from showers: towel-clad, shoulders bare and water-speckled.

Wrapped in the orange glow from overhead heating lamps, enveloped by thick bathroom mist, you shined, luminescent. Poreless, your skin, bronze and pure, and I noticed you (as if for the first time) golden curls, heavy and weighted with water, still catching light and reflecting syrupy-sweetness.

So solid, you stood like some kind of crazy tree, and like the long-armed, wobbly-kneed tomboy I used to be, I wanted to climb your branches.

Wanted to become part of your limbs’ history.

Wanted to climb your sweet boughs, surrounded by soft reds and browns and gold, press my nose to hair which I remember smelled like autumn, musky and damp.

Everything about you reminds me of Fall, a time that, as a child, I called “tree-turn season,” a time that reminds me of a drum beat, or a heart beat, or some kind of gentle pounding, like a child’s fist on a brass knocker at Halloween.

(Was this why I loved you?)

There were more reasons, I’m sure, but in that moment, time spilled through air, an emptiness filled, and I scooped up fallen bits of my reality, throwing them invisibly overhead like the crinkly leaves of my childhood, as golden drops of water slipped down your back and you moved behind our bedroom door.

I didn’t recognize it then, but I should have known that winter was coming.

After apple-picking and pumpkin-carving and Halloweening, what do you remember about autumn?

This week writers were asked to use the weather, or a photo of an autumn day to inspire a memoir piece in under 300 words. For more wonderful pieces, click on the button above.

Tweet this Twit @rasjacobson

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Posted in When Life Doesn't Fit in a File Folder

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The Day Monsieur Said Non

Posted on October 17, 2011 | 30 comments

In 11th grade, I needed three stellar recommendations that I could send off with my college applications. I felt confident that I would receive solid letters from two of my former English teachers, but then I was kinda stuck. There was no way I could ask any of my math teachers. I mean, I had enjoyed Geometry, but I wasn’t necessarily good at it; my Algebra teacher had retired two years prior; and I wasn’t on good terms with my homeroom teacher.

Monsieur gives me the finger.

Finally, I decided to ask my French teacher.

I’d been in his class for two years. I was reasonably interested in the material (kinda); I liked him a lot (that should count for something, right?); I did my homework (sometimes); and I tried not to laugh too much. Yes, I decided, Monsieur Stephenson would be the perfect person to write me the outstanding recommendation that I was seeking.

You can imagine how shocked I was when he flat out said no.

“Think about your performance in my class,” he said. “Do you give 100% ? Do you take everything seriously? Do you show me that you want to be here? Do you do anything extra?” He pushed his hair back with the palm of his hand and sat up straight in his chair. “Think about the answers to those questions and then you’ll understand why I can’t write you a letter.”

He did not say he was sorry.

Fast forward 25 years, and here it is, recommendation letter writing season.  Like frantic homing pigeons who have been lost for an awful long time my former students are returning to me, asking me to write all kinds of letters: to get into four-year colleges, to enter the military, to give to potential employers — so I find myself thinking of Monsieur Stephenson a lot.

Mr. Stephenson in the 1980s

When Monsieur refused me that day, he gave me a big dose of reality. It is not enough to simply show up: a person must do more than make a good impression.

Many of my former students think that because they liked me – that because I was kind to them and they passed my class – that they are entitled to strong letters of recommendation.

However, the best letters of recommendation are not just about “passing the course,” but about work ethic and character, growth and potential.

I am strangely grateful to Monsieur Stephenson for refusing to write me that letter, and I see his wisdom in holding up a mirror before me and having me take that proverbial good hard look at myself and the choices I had made that brought me to that day.

I even understand that his mediocre letter could have prevented me from getting into the college of my choice.

Students need to think carefully and be direct in asking any potential letter writer if that person can produce a strong letter of recommendation on their behalf.

If a student cannot find a professor or teacher, they may have to get creative and look to coaches, neighbors, religious leaders, perhaps someone who has witnessed their involvement in community service.

I learned more than just French from Monsieur Stephenson: as teacher now, myself, I have learned how to be selective about whom I consider writing letters of recommendation; after all, they are time-consuming endeavors, unpaid labors of love.

Having said that, I am happy to write one for you – if you deserve it.

Anybody refuse to write you a letter of recommendation? How’d you take it?

Tweet this Twit @RASJacobson

© Renée Schuls-Jacobson 2011. All rights reserved.

30 Comments

Posted in Education

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The Terrible, Beautiful Tattoo

Posted on October 14, 2011 | 72 comments
Sacred Heart

Image by slurv via Flickr -- NOTE: This is not a picture of my tattoo. This is gorgeous!

It was out of character for me, but I showed up without a plan.

Just a little scribble on a scrap of paper.

I asked a few million questions about the needles.

“Lady,” said the man at the counter, “we ain’t interested in spreadin’ diseases.”

Jed, the newest apprentice, was available.

I agreed. Jed would be fine.

What did I know?

I wanted a tattoo.

So I dropped my pants and allowed a stranger to drag needles across my skin.

As I laid on the table, I listened to the rain that pummeled the tin roof over our heads.

And through the open door, I watched the rain sweep cigarette butts into the sewer.

Any other day, I would have been sitting cross-legged on the futon in my apartment grading student papers. Lying there, I was grateful I didn’t have a dog that needed to be let out at any particular time. I remembered how – before I was a teacher, a role model — I liked a little spontaneity.

Eventually, Jed finished.

I couldn’t wait to see it.

I had shown Jed that initial sketch, but he had taken some liberties.

And he left me with a permanent lopsided heart.

I paid seventy-five dollars in cash for my little act of rebellion.

Initially, I was annoyed by its wrongness.

But I quickly grew to love it.

And twenty years later, each time I look at my tattoo (that has become even more crooked over time), I remember a lazy day in New Orleans. An in-between time, when I was neither wife nor mother but dangerously free.

My tattoo reminds me of a place I love fiercely. It reminds me how love without patience and care can become unbalanced. Most of all, my tattoo reminds this Type A control-freak that when a person acts impulsively, sometimes the results can be pleasantly imperfect.

What do you think about tattoos? Art or self-mutilation?

• • •

I so rarely have time to do the fabulous prompts from Red Writing Hood, but this week, it spoke to me. The assignment: Write a piece in which a tattoo figures prominently in 300 words.

Tweet this Twit @RASJacobson

72 Comments

Posted in When Life Doesn't Fit in a File Folder

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Whoa, What Are You Doing?

Posted on October 13, 2011 | 20 comments

After my post went up at I Survived The Mean Girls, I learned that Anderson Cooper had run a television special devoted to bullying awareness and prevention called Bullying: It Stops Here.

The special aired from Rutgers University about one year after freshman Tyler Clementi’s suicide. Clementi killed himself by jumping off the George Washington Bridge after a recording of him having a sexual encounter with another man was posted online.

Cooper has been a strong opponent of bullying. He has spent a lot of time on his show and on other programs speaking out about the suicides among young men and women that were done in response to years of being bullied.

If you can, watch all four parts of Cooper’s video clips below.

Watch with your kids.

Cooper asks students to take a pledge to speak out against bullying.

Because studies show that if even one person speaks up and points out the behavior, bullies are likely to stop doing what they are doing.

All it takes is one person to say, “Whoa, what are you doing?!” or “Hey, that’s really mean!”

As usual, it is silence that is deadly.

And cyber-bullying is a disaster.

Because once words and images go viral, there is no escape for the target.

Only torment and embarrassment and shame.

It’s time to stop using our technology to hurt.

How do we teach our children to stand up against the bullies? How do we get them to risk everything to protect someone else? How do we get them to make better choices? How do we move toward civility and tolerance?

If you have a child who has been bullied, or a child who is complaining about feeling like a bystander (which is how many of us feel during our middle and high school years), please check out I Survived The Mean Girls, which offers a supportive community for people who have been bullied or who have witnessed bullying.

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