Prama!

by Joanie Butman

Prama \’pra-ma\ n :  Term used to describe the unnecessary drama that ensues before, during or after a high school prom. Usually frustrating and doesn’t seem to end. The guys don’t have much to do with this, or you do not hear as much. The term prama is widely unknown, but it is believed to have originated in the early 20th century somewhere in southern United States.

At 54 and having never attended a prom, this term was as new to me as this strange territory I’ve been forced into twice now. Webster doesn’t define it, as he was probably spared this agony, but any parent of a teenage girl doesn’t need an explanation of this phenomenon—they’ve lived it. With the prom safely behind us, I am certain there are a lot of relieved parents happy that everyone arrived home safe and without incident – at least that we know of.

The duration of prama varies widely depending on:

1. How quickly one is asked and by whom.
2. How quickly one finds an appropriate dress within a reasonable budget that no one else has claimed (not an easy feat).
3. How the night goes.

The amount of money spent on prom could probably feed a small country. How did things get so out of control? Is it just in the area in which I live where everything seems to be lifted to an unsustainable level or is it generational?

The definition above from Urban Dictionary claims that boys “don’t have much to do with this,” but I beg to differ. The pressure put on them to be creative with the manner in which they ask is enormous. I am impressed but not fooled that they come up with these scenarios totally by themselves. I know too many moms, sisters and friends who have confessed to “helping” them out just a bit. There are websites you can visit for ideas and step-by-step execution instructions. When I see the lengths to which they go, I wonder how their marriage proposal could possibly top their prom invitation. There seems to be nowhere to go but down from here on so many levels.

Prom expectations are impossible to satisfy. After all, it’s just dinner and dancing. It’s not your wedding or the Oscars. With all the buildup and hype, the following scenario is not surprising. It began with the notice that the decorating committee couldn’t get on the boat until later in the day when they would all be deep into the beautifying process. No big deal, who needs decorations? But we should have known it was a harbinger of things to come. Drop my daughter off at 1:30 for a hair appointment expecting to pick her up at 3:00 ready to roll. When I arrive at 2:45 it looks like a rat has built a nest on the back of her head. Trying to hide my panic much like mothers do when their child walks in with their arm at an unnatural angle, I secretly pray, “Please don’t show her the back,” which of course is unrealistic. We decide it needs to be “fixed,” which takes another ½ hour and the application of enough product to tame Don King’s hair. Now she is 35 minutes late for her makeup appointment. We get stuck behind a school bus on the way home turning a ten-minute ride into a 25-minute ride. The tension mounts. There are numerous proms on the same night so driving is treacherous as crazed teenagers race around in preparation. We arrive at the makeup place already in a fragile state where she is swept up by a panicky beautician because now everyone is running behind. With nothing else to do, I decide to get my makeup done as well and am pressured into buying $200 of makeup that I will probably never use. With surprise at what my beautician has been able to accomplish in very little time and ready to unveil my new face, I walk over to Hannah only to discover a girl on the edge. “Did you put mascara or eyeliner on?” I ask her makeup artist. I don't know much about "smoky eyes," but I know enough to realize I'm not looking at them. I expect Hannah to take over and explain what she wants, but she can only mutter, “Please get me out of here. I need to go home.” We manage to get to the car before she breaks down into sobs. “I hate prom. It’s too stressful. Too many expectations. Everything’s gone wrong. I’m not going.” Not thinking she is serious nor that it is an option at this point, I try to be flippant and throw out, “I didn’t go to my prom and I survived.” Bad choice. That only makes things worse as she looks at me and quickly determines she does not want to suffer that fate. “Okay,” I think, “This is not going well.”  We get home and attempt to get what little makeup he put on off and realize it is some kind of no smudge, waterproof variety which won’t come off without Goof-off. Now her face is red and swollen from the scrubbing never mind the crying. This is going from bad to worse. She is expected for pictures in FIVE MINUTES. She gives up, “I am not going. This day is a disaster.” SLAM!

Staring in disbelief at the closed bathroom door, I carefully consider my next step. “Take a deep breath,” I remind myself as damage control instincts shift into high gear. “I am no quitter.”  I call to my daughter, “Oh yes you are. You are not going to do that to your date. Go put your dress on and pack your things.” While she is doing that, I call the makeup place explaining the situation and throwing myself at their mercy. I beg, “What can you do for me to help salvage this?” I am instructed to bring her down immediately.

“Don’t you want to put jewelry or perfume on?”

“No, I told you I’m not going.”

“Fine, just get in the car.”

Then, “Let’s just say you were to go, what necklace were you going to wear?

“I don’t have one. You said I couldn’t buy one. “

“No, I said I wasn’t going to buy an expensive one and suggested you borrow one for the night. Anyway, five minutes before you are expected for photos is not the time to be having this discussion.”

As we arrive in the salon buzzing with excited, giddy promees, Hannah’s friend and her mom are checking out. When I inform the salon my daughter is here for a redo, I am told there are two people ahead of her. I can’t remember exactly what happened next, and if I did I probably wouldn’t say; but Hannah’s friend and her mom said the normally dormant New Yorker in me came out in full force. Next thing I remember Hannah is in the chair being “repaired,” and I am dodging back and forth from the jewelry store across the street bringing affordable jewelry options to match the outfit. Amidst one of those trips I remember calling over my shoulder, "This is CRAZY, even Princess Kate does her own makeup!" Fifteen minutes later makeup salvaged, bedazzled in moderate necklace and bracelet, we are on our way for pictures. Oops, almost forgot boutonniere despite the panicky messages from my son telling me that the florist has been calling to remind me what time they close. Having considered all contingencies, I already have a backup plan in place. I tell my daughter “Not to worry, if we miss the florist I’ll just swing by the cemetery and grab something!" Fortunately, we make it to the florist, which indeed is about to close, and miraculously arrive at the pre-prom party only 30 minutes late and BEFORE her date. When he arrives, all I can think of to say to this unsuspecting young man as I eagerly pass the baton is "Good luck."

My daughter looks beautiful, but I thought she was beautiful before the makeup and hair appointments. Mom, on the other hand, has now sweated-off whatever makeup was applied an hour ago and is bedraggled yet victorious that the Fixer managed to pull this off. That was until my friend began her imitation of Joanie the New Yorker who surfaced briefly in the salon. I laughed as hard as anyone else because:

1. I was manic by then.
2. There was no denying it. There were witnesses!

Without a doubt, I was on a mission at that point, and nothing was going to stop me.

Already appalled by my own behavior, someone in the group voiced their opinion that there is no need to have anyone do makeup and hair, and her daughter was wearing her dress. I felt even more embarrassed that I had succumbed to prama. If I wore makeup, knew how to do an up-do and had won an Emmy, which I accepted in a stunning sequined gown that I could lend my daughter, that thought might have occurred to me. However, since my wardrobe consists of jeans, t-shirts and flannel shirts and I don’t even own makeup, I admit I BOUGHT INTO THE INSANITY. Me, who considers herself pretty down to earth, had taken the bait and ran with it. Of course I had a choice, but I didn’t think this was the forum to take a moral stand on gross excess – not alone anyway. There is safety in numbers, and I will be leading the way if there is a movement to revamp the prom. At this point though, given the amount of money we spent on her high school education, I rationalized that the prom expense pales in comparison.

Still, who was that crazed woman mumbling to herself and darting back and forth in an effort to salvage what seemed to be an unsalvageable evening? It was a mother doing what we do best: fixing what appears to be unfixable. My mother did it for me numerous times, and I’m sure my daughter will do it for her children. The mother bear in me roared to life determined to save the day and live to laugh about it in the morning – which we did, which we always do. That is the test – if you are able to laugh about it the next day, you’ve done a good job without any permanent damage – except to my reputation. As Hannah said the morning after, "that was a Modern Family episode, and you were a great Claire." I took that as a compliment. Yes, Claire’s a headcase, but she will do anything for her children.

I left early in the morning for a much-needed retreat with my Bible Study gals and spent the entire ride up to Vermont confessing my questionable behavior from the previous day. Good thing I have a God who forgives so readily because I don’t think those women in the beauty salon will be that gracious. Now, does anyone need any beauty products? I’ve got some I’m looking to unload.

The calm lasted only a few days before this announcement, “Mom, you’re going to kill me.” Oh no, please don’t confess something you did on prom night. Ignorance is bliss. Hesitantly, I respond, “Dare I ask why?”

“I’m going to another prom!”

Someone shoot me….

The Real Me

by Joanie Butman

I bumped into someone this week who unexpectedly thanked me for sharing my stories. I was honored for two reasons:

1. Someone other than my mother was actually reading them.
2. Someone recognized the value in them.

From what she said, I knew it had nothing to do with me being a particularly good writer or that my stories were worthy of a screenplay. Their value was simply their “realness.”

She said, “If I didn’t know your stories, I’d look at you and think you had a perfect life – making mine seem even less so.” A perfect life is more of a fantasy than the perfect mother I discussed last week. So why are so many people chasing one? They’ve bought into the lies I suppose. If you buy this house or product, or get this job, or get into this school, or get into this club, or get to know the right people, or earn enough money, or loose enough weight, THEN your life will be perfect. I often hear people use the term “living the dream,” but I’ve never been able to determine what that means. Whose dream and what is it? Is this the imaginary bar against which people measure themselves?

Regardless, I laughed out loud at the idea of anyone looking to me or my family for perfection – unless, of course, they were looking for the perfect example of a very real family, warts and all. She obviously didn’t know me well because I’ve always been the person who is held together with duct tape and safety pins, who only irons the collar of her shirt so can never take her sweater or jacket off no matter how hot it gets, who despises the thought of living with a permanent wedgie so thinks walking backwards is an excellent solution to panty lines, the one whose skirt ended up around her ankles on a crowded escalator because the pin that was holding it together popped, the one whose children’s hems are taped up, or the one who sent her son to the choir concert in his first communion jacket – five years later! I’m easily recognizable - the one with the duct tape over her mouth on the sidelines trying to spare her children further embarrassment, which they have determined is her mission in life. An excellent and inexpensive way to remove unwanted facial hair by the way. You’d be amazed at what you find when you look under the hood of most families. The one thing I guarantee you won’t find is perfection.

That woman’s comment illustrates how isolating the ideal of perfection can be along with the comfort and encouragement derived from sharing life stories. Simply put, our shared stories offer strength, inspiration, comfort, empathy, compassion and encouragement. They connect us. They break down boundaries of perfectly manicured lawns and picket fences. They help give us perspective. They lighten our burdens. However, in order to accomplish this, you have to be willing to be real. I asked a friend recently why people find that so terrifying. She answered, “Because people can be hurtful.” True enough, but whether or not we’re authentic isn’t going to change that. That’s a choice they make. I would rather people like or dislike me for who I am rather than someone I’m pretending to be. The way I see it, I’m of no use to anyone if I hide behind a façade of perfection - even if I could manage to carry it off, which is doubtful.

My friend’s answer reminded me of the children’s book, The Velveteen Rabbit. If you remember, the Velveteen Rabbit desperately wanted to be real and learned the price of being real is sometimes pain, but at the same time he also experienced the incredible joy and freedom that it brings.

The Rabbit could not claim to be a model of anything. He was naturally shy, and some of the more expensive toys snubbed him. The mechanical toys were very superior, looked down upon every one else and pretended they were real. Between them all, the poor little Rabbit was made to feel very insignificant and commonplace.

One day the Rabbit seeks out wisdom from the Skin Horse who had lived longer than any of the others in the nursery. He was wise…for nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it. (Sounds a lot like life, don’t you think?)

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit.

"Real isn't how you are made," answered the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand. Once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."

Well said, Mr. Ed. Therein lies the essence of my Christian faith.  Why am I not afraid of being real? Because the only one whose opinion matters already knows the real me and loves me anyway. Just like the Skin Horse explained, it took a long time but when I finally realized just how much I was REALLY loved, that gave me the freedom and confidence to choose to be real. And the older I get, the more real I become. It’s one of the best parts of aging. Yes, we lose our gloss and get a little frayed around the edges, our eyes (and everything else) droop and our joints ache, but the magic of being real exudes a different kind of beauty that goes deeper and lasts longer than any Botox treatment.

Here is a great audio/visual that resonates strongly with me about this particular subject. Click on to play.

The Perfect Mother

by Joanie Butman

If you are of a certain age, images of Donna Reed, June Cleaver, or Carol Brady probably come to mind when you imagine the perfect mother. I think we could all be better mothers if we had another set of hands around like the Brady Bunch’s eminently capable Alice, don’t you?  The perfect mother – there’s an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one. Let me just say with confidence, “She doesn’t exist!” because if she did, surely one of us imperfect ones would have killed her by now. The perfect mother today may be the raving lunatic you observe in the grocery store tomorrow as she and/or her children are experiencing a total meltdown. Or in the dressing room trying on prom dresses. Regardless of our children’s ages, we all have our own stories of imperfect parenting moments and they grow exponentially with our children.

The only definitive thing I can say about parenting is that there is no such thing as perfect. First of all, “perfect parenting” (and I use the term loosely) for one child may be disastrous for their siblings. Unfortunately, children don’t come with instruction manuals. It’s a process of trial and lots of errors – which is why we all end up in therapy sooner or later – or if we don’t, we probably should.

Anytime I’ve ever patted myself on the back and mumbled to myself, “Okay, I think I’ve figured it out. I can do this,” I am immediately humbled by some new problem or circumstance I totally mishandle. Another thing about parenting is that the person who excels at being the mother of an infant may fail miserably at parenting a toddler, pre-teen or teenager. The job changes with your children, and we are all better in some stages than others.

The secret I’ve learned to survive being an “imperfect mother” is to avoid all of the so-called “perfect” ones out there. You know who they are. As a new mother, it was the ones who proudly claimed their child slept through the night since they were a week old, as if they had discovered some secret formula that helped bring about this coveted and miraculous feat. Or the ones who toilet trained their children in one day before the age of two. Or the ones whose children were reading Shakespeare at age four. Or the ones who serve their sandwiches in shapes. How about the ones who boast never having to raise their voice or how “good” their children are in everything? My personal nemeses were always the ones who teared up when they sent their kids back to school in September – a day I’d been fantasizing about for weeks at that point!

If I were a “perfect mom,” I would enjoy preparing a perfect meal every night and serving it with a smile to my perfect family who only had nice things to say to each other and always thanked me for being so attentive to their every need and shared how blessed they feel to have me as their mother. But alas, I am just a humble woman trying to survive another family dinner without incident – a rare event.

It is also the eternal optimism of a mother’s love that props up the illusory perfect “family vacation.” Silly as it seems, I always cling to the delusion that they are going to be as heavenly as they sound. Not so! But I am ever hopeful in continuing to plan quality time with my family, which I’ve discovered can be highly overrated. Einstein must have been referring to the family vacation when he defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. BUT, those few times when the stars align and all goes smoothly you understand why you make the effort.

The interesting thing I’ve noticed about moms is that you rarely find women who are willing to be honest about the ups and downs of parenting, as if they would be admitting defeat by acknowledging they are not always in control, nor do they always enjoy being with their kids. If I was forced to come up with my version of a perfect mother, it would be someone who is willing to share just how imperfect she is without shame.

The truth is, we do our best to impart our values to our children; and surprisingly, every so often we will be rewarded by hearing them say something that indicates they’ve actually been paying attention. However, at some point, they will make their own decisions – all of which won’t necessarily be good. In fact, you can count on it. What we need to remind ourselves is that good kids sometimes make bad choices, as do good parents. We’re here to pick up the pieces and help them learn from those choices. Perfection should never be the goal for either of us, because we set ourselves up for failure and disappointment. Furthermore, overcoming the mistakes binds you closer together. Sure the road is bumpy, but it’s better than not being on it at all.

Choosing to become a parent is not to be taken lightly and definitely qualifies as a life-defining choice. Once that baby arrives, your life is never the same, nor would you want it to be. There is no quitting, no retirement, no vacation, no sabbaticals, no weekends off (double time only), and no return on investment for years. However, despite the long hours and low pay, it is the best job I’ve ever had.

In eighteen years of parenting I’ve learned the most important ingredients to being a good mom are commitment, time and love. In a recent Purpose Driven Life Daily Devotional, John Fischer describes it as Family Ties.

“It’s all about commitment.  In spite of how bad it might get, no one’s leaving.  If the ties are strong, we can put up with almost anything (with the obvious exception of abuse).  The real key is not how perfect we are, but how committed we are to each other.  How much are we tied together at the end of the day?”

Family Ties doesn’t necessarily refer exclusively to your nuclear family.  We are all members of many families in our lives - some we are born into, others we choose: school families, soccer families, lacrosse families, church families – you get the picture. However, the most important family we will ever have the “choice” to be a part of is God’s family. And that’s where that question, “How much are we tied together at the end of the day?” takes on a whole new meaning. Yes, it is often a difficult journey, we will all make mistakes again and again; but it’s worth remembering John Fischer’s question, “The real key is not how perfect we are, but how committed we are to each other. How much are we tied together at the end of the day?” We can be committed to God and each other without perfection. The effort in trying is all God asks from us. After all, he knows our imperfections better than anyone.

So, will I be receiving the mother-of-the-year award or even the Christian-of-the-year award any time soon? Based on my performance over the years, definitely not. But I know without a doubt that if it depended on a measure of commitment, there are an abundance of “imperfect mothers” and even more “imperfect Christians” out there who would certainly qualify – myself included. It is our relationship and our commitment to those bonds that will warrant our reward, not necessarily our performance along the way.

Happy Mother’s Day to every imperfect mom I’ve ever had the honor to know and love.

Tootsie Pop Personas

 by Joanie Butman

There is no denying the tootsie pop personas of Northeasterners: hard coating on the outside with a soft, chewy center. Being one of them, I felt compelled to write something in our defense. Surprisingly, that same southern friend who provided the material for last week’s Have a Coke and a Smile also offered the answer to the familiar question,“How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?” Less than she originally thought.

Undoubtedly, Yankees have a hard protective coating – perhaps as a carryover from all the layers we need to wear to shelter ourselves from the cold. Maybe that explains the scarcity of smiles my friend noticed. It’s hard work keeping yourself bundled up like that!

The fastest way I know to melt away that tough exterior is with any small gesture of kindness. It’s just so unexpected, we don’t usually know how to process it. As I mentioned last week, our first reaction is often suspicion. “Is she talking to me? Is she for real? What does she want?” But when people realize the answers are “Yes, yes and NOTHING,” they are pleasantly surprised and usually warm up immediately. For example, one Valentine’s Day I handed the cashier at the grocery store a rose, and after her initial confusion, she burst into tears. It is a tradition I continue, and she cries every time.

The reason I revisit the subject is because my southern friend wasn’t just bashing Northerners. She also told me a story that reveals that gooey center everyone can’t wait to savor. There is a family in town who recently lost their home in a fire. The Boy Scouts were preparing for their annual tag sale, and my friend was working on the setup team. Being the kind-hearted soul she is, she suggested to the leaders that maybe this family could come and shop before they opened for business. They lost everything so needed to equip an entire house quickly. The Boy Scouts embraced the idea and welcomed the family into their temporary “outlet.” When the family went to check out, the cashier waved them through saying, “You’ve been taken care of.” Outside, a team of family friends waited with pickups to transport the bounty to their new rental house so that it would be ready for their arrival later that same day.

I got goose bumps for two reasons:

1. That northern outer shell had cracked wide open to reveal the best of ourselves to a skeptical Southerner.
2. She just summed up our shared Christianity in one short sentence. "You've been taken care of." So much for my 15 years of Bible study.

Only because I was talking to a Southerner did I feel comfortable sharing that second thought. Northerners DO NOT discuss their religious beliefs openly for fear of being politically incorrect. Those are best kept for Sunday mornings. “A place for everything and everything in its place.” In the south, EVERYONE talks about God. For instance, here in the north our first question when meeting someone at a cocktail party might be, “What do you do?” as opposed to the southern, “What church do you attend?”

Regardless of their religious beliefs, the Boy Scouts lived up to their slogan:  Do a good turn daily. They explain it on their website:

DUTY TO OTHER PEOPLE: Many people need help. A cheery smile and a helping hand make life easier for others. By doing a good turn daily and helping when you're needed, you prove yourself a Scout and do your part to make this a better world.

I wonder if I can plagiarize that into the Choose Wisely! mission statement. It compliments so beautifully the mission we've been given  to “encourage one another and build each other up.” 

The Scout’s, by illustrating their commitment to make this a better world, taught that family firsthand just how sweet and delicious the center of a Tootsie Pop can be.

We may be a serious bunch, but don’t be deceived. There is a surprisingly soft, sweet side at our core. It’s called heart. We just guard ours more closely than our southern counterparts. It might take a little extra effort, but when you melt away the layers of protective veneer we've spent years polishing, you will find deep, lasting relationships that we protect just as fervently.

We may not all be Boy Scouts, but we can all certainly choose to do a good turn daily wherever we reside.

Do you have a story about someone choosing to do a good turn and how it helped make our world (or just one person’s world) better?

Have A Coke and A Smile

by Joanie Butman

Last week I mentioned fear being the number one reason people choose not to open themselves to others. The conversation continued during lunch with some friends from Texas who described how difficult it was to assimilate to the Northeast culture. It was then that I realized the protective veneer, which is de rigueur where I live isn’t universal but regional.

From that luncheon I stopped to do an errand and met another friend from the south in CVS who offered me a coupon for a free beauty product. In typical northern fashion I replied, “Why? Do I look like I need a beauty product?”  We laughed, but my response illustrated the suspicious nature northerners have towards people who are ‘too friendly.’  She asked me why people up here find it so hard to connect on a daily basis. What’s everyone so angry about? “Maybe because you think they need beauty products.” was the first thing that popped into my cynical northern head. She went on to describe driving through town and stopping to say hello to a friend who happened to be a police officer. While he was at her window exchanging niceties, the woman behind her impatiently leaned on her horn. Who beeps at a police officer? I can’t repeat what my friend called her, but it wasn’t the all-encompassing southern, “Bless her sweet little heart.” Shocked by the woman’s rudeness, she commented to her friend, “that’s nervy.” The officer wasn’t surprised at all and proceeded to tell her how he had just gotten written up the prior week for SMILING. “No, Dorothy, you’re not in Kansas anymore.”

I’ve come to learn the southern expression “Bless her heart” can mean anything from ‘what a jerk’ to ‘that is so stupid but I can’t tell you.’ For example, your friend tells you “I didn’t know I had a flat tire so kept driving and ruined the rim.” How does someone in the south respond? “Oh, bless your heart.” Northern translation, “I can’t believe anyone could be that stupid.”

Years ago I attended a talk entitled, “Hard-wired to Connect,” which I thought was going to address the concept of community in today’s society. I was surprised by a number of things.

1. That a group of intelligent people actually thought they had to conduct a scientific study to arrive at this conclusion.
2. That I wasted an entire evening listening to someone support such an obvious fact instead of “connecting” with my family.
3. No solutions to improve connectedness within our society were suggested.

Only in the Northeast would people have to go to a “program” to discover that humans are born to connect. It says right in Genesis “It is not good for man to be alone.” Yet, someone thought they needed to do a study to prove what God said at the beginning of time? I don’t think they would have gotten much of an audience in the south. However, there would certainly be a lot of head shaking and “Bless their hearts” going around.

My daughter will be heading south to college this Fall. I am going to have some of my southern friends give her a crash course before she leaves. On our first trip to the Carolinas to look at schools, we almost made it to the gate before our first argument. Knowing her distaste of my habit of speaking to strangers, I gave her a ten-minute warning that I was going to talk to a lacrosse team in the airport. She disappeared immediately then began texting me, “What is wrong with you? Why do you have to talk to everyone?” Maybe I brought home more than a hat from my one and only visit to Texas.

As a mini-orientation, a friend recently sent her an email entitled Suthunuhs! offering a number of truisms about Southerners such as:

• “Only Southerners make friends while standing in lines ... and when we're "in line"... we talk to everybody!”
• “Southerners know everybody's first name: 
Honey, Darlin',  
Shugah.”
• “There ain't no magazine named Northern Living for good reason. There ain't nobody interested in livin' up north, nobody would buy the magazine!”

Her college prep curriculum did nothing to prepare her for this transition. I thought back to my conversation with my Texas friends and wondered whether it is easier for a northerner to move south or vice versa.

I actually have relatives who live in Texas – some of them born and bred there, some not. One of the transplants wrote me recently about how she is not recognized as Texan by most "True Texans" and gave me a perfect example of being profiled by a northern police officer.

A couple of years ago when I was at the cottage in Michigan I was stopped for speeding by an Elk Rapids policeman. I was going 70 in a 55 mph zone and I pulled over immediately, but the cop was beside himself once he saw my driver's license. He had his hand on his pistol (still holstered, thankfully) but he was talking so fast and in such an agitated way that I couldn’t understand him the first four or five times that he demanded to know "if I had a weapon in the car." I was convinced that he was a deranged maniac, and probably not even a cop, but it turned out the he was equally sure that anybody from Texas would surely be packing and probably deranged. Yikes!

Yes, I would say us northerners are a suspicious bunch and have some trust issues.

As my southern friends reminded me, every interaction we have with others is an opportunity to have a positive impact or not. There is no neutral, so as she suggested, “Why not choose a good one?” This choice takes on many forms: a smile, a wave, a nod, a kind word, a compliment, a thank you, an attentive ear, anything that conveys to that person that he or she is worth your time, your conversation, your attention.  Nothing makes us feel better than being greeted with a smile. That’s why the “Have a Coke and a smile” ad campaign was so successful. It even ignited a National Smile Week (first week in August if you are wondering), which I am sure was instituted for those of us who live north of the Mason Dixon line.

Coke’s Mean Joe Green (probably from the north) commercial is a classic example of what the Choose Wisely! effort is all about. Click on the link if you don’t remember it. As Mean Joe heads toward the locker room limping and dejected, a small boy walks up to him and asks, “You need any help?” Mean Joe grunts in reply. Then the boys says, “I just want you to know you’re the best ever.” and offers him his coke. Mean Joe’s brash veneer melts away as he drinks and he, in turn, offers his jersey and a smile of gratitude to the boy.

It is during times of trouble, discouragement, anguish, fear, stress, etc. when we need the support of others for strength, guidance, comfort and encouragement. We will all experience times when we feel like a Mean Joe Green, dejected, beaten up and limping through life. We will also experience even more times when we can choose to be the one offering a coke and a smile.

When we choose to take the time to share in each other’s daily burdens, struggles, joys, sorrows, triumphs and failures, I believe we will find that those veneers we tout around in the northeast aren’t as hard as many southerners think.