2013-05-24T04:43:10-04:00 Jennifer Pellegrini http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/author/index.php?author=jennifer-pellegrini Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Jennifer Pellegrini Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3300713 2013-05-19T20:29:57-04:00 2013-05-19T23:57:55-04:00

Jennifer Pellegrini http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jennifer-pellegrini/ Tuesday came the heart-wrenching news that the body of missing Ancaster, Ontario man Tim Bosma had been found.

Wednesday, we learned that Dellen Millard, a 27-year-old aviation wunderkind, had been arrested and charged with, among other things, first degree murder in the Bosma case.

Thursday, Senator Mike Duffy resigned his seat in the Conservative caucus, after news broke that the Prime Minister's Chief of Staff had bailed him out to the tune of $90,000 so he could repay housing expenses he had inappropriately charged to the Senate. Duffy's resignation was followed Friday by news that his fellow Senator (and former colleague) had also quit the Tory caucus while her expense claims are investigated by auditors.

Rounding out the week was the bombshell allegation that a video depicting Toronto Mayor Rob Ford smoking crack cocaine has surfaced and is for sale.

It was heady, heavy stuff in a week of very defined 24 or 48-hour news cycles.

Lost in the shuffle were two stories that were of no particular importance, relatively speaking, to Canadians, but still managed to generate some discussion on blogs and radio stations on Wednesday.

On one hand, there is the story about Avenues, a tiny $43,000 a year private school in Manhattan that seeks to teach its young charges humility through its diverse curriculum. On the other, is this story, in which we learn about the way well-heeled Manhattan moms have worked the lineup system at Disney by hiring a disabled person to be a "family member" for the day.

No swiping a Fast-Pass for them. No teaching their progeny that good things come to those who wait. Nope. Instead, they teach them that everything is available if you're willing to pay for it, and everyone has a price. In this case, it's $1,000 a day, plus free admission to Disney.

I'm not sure if it's one disabled person servicing wealthy Manhattanites, or if there's an actual business where people who use motorized scooters or other assistive devices can apply. Either way, I'm not knocking those folks who sign up for this gig. I don't know their financial circumstances and am in no fit place to judge. Perhaps a dozen days at Disney will pay a year's tuition for their son or daughter to attend university. Maybe it will get them a prosthetic limb, pay for a reconstructive surgery or allow them to retrofit their home. Maybe it just gives them joy in otherwise hollow lives. All of them are worthy reasons to hire yourself out for the day to hang out with a family that likely wouldn't look at you twice if you passed them on Fifth Avenue. That is, of course, if you can stomach the task.

Why a family would want to hire a complete stranger to be part of their family vacation from a random company is beyond me. They could simply contract out Disney's own VIP service, although it does come at nearly three times the price.

Full disclosure: I've been on a press trip to Walt Disney World. And to Sea World/Discovery Cove. And also to Universal Studios/Islands of Adventure. And to Busch Gardens, too.

I've been that "front of the line" person. It's honestly the only way to endure the truly brutal pace of dragging a family through five amusement parks in four days. I heard children ask their parents why me and my motley group breezed right past them and walked in without waiting in line. And I can tell you this: No amount of justification about time crunches could take away the fact that it was uncomfortable to see the looks and hear the whispers and know that, had I paid for the trip myself, I'd be the one standing in line shaking my head in disbelief while some yahoo cut the queue.

Which brings me to humility. The Avenues school opened in September 2012, with the express purpose of instilling a sense of humility in young up-and-comers that college admission officers reported were lacking in young people coming out of the 212. It seems to me to be a noble enough cause and, hey, if parents can afford to shell out about half a million dollars in tuition fees before their child heads off university, more power to them. Again, who am I to judge? If my husband and I were movers and shakers in midtown Manhattan instead of workaday folks in Southern Ontario, we might make the same choice ourselves.

Still, it's impossible to miss the disconnect between the lesson who group of "one per cent" parents purport to want to instil in their children and the sense of entitlement members of that same exclusive club (perhaps, even, the same PTA) are instilling in their special snowflakes by teaching them that good things may come to those who wait, but if you don't have to wait, it's even better. ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3276597 2013-05-15T12:23:18-04:00 2013-05-15T12:23:25-04:00

Jennifer Pellegrini http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jennifer-pellegrini/
What, in the name of all that is good, is wrong with people?

By now, most Ontario residents and probably many Canadians, are aware of the tragic discovery of Tim Bosma's burned body on a rural property in Kitchener, Ont. It's filled the news and Twitter feeds, as media pundits and ordinary folks struggle to make sense of a story that is seemingly incomprehensible: A young father tries to sell a truck online, disappears on what he thinks is a test drive and is found dead a little more than a week later. The young man charged has seemingly no connection to the victim and police have stated that the image of 32-year-old Bosma as an upstanding, church-going father and family man is spot-on.

In mere moments, Facebook was filled with the ubiquitous "R.I.P. insert name here" posts imploring us all to light a candle in our Facebook profile windows in loving memory, including the one sent out by the no doubt kind-hearted folks at Tiny Hearts 3D Ultrasound Studio in Oakville, Ont.

Which is where this rant begins.

Somehow, the thread turned from well-intentioned condolence messages to a post by one snarky lady who insisted the post had misspelled Bosma's name incorrectly (it hadn't) and the inevitable backlash against her which ensued.

Next up, the official Help Find Tim Bosma Facebook page, administered by family friend Peter Lowe: A member queried about a previous (apparently deleted) post by a woman who said she dreamed of Bosma being tied up in a barn. When last I checked, there were about 170 threads from people criticizing her for asking the question, criticizing the people who criticized her and calls from a whole raft of people to just shut up and/or delete the post so the thread would go away.

The once slow slide in civility in our society is accelerating faster than a kid on a Wet 'n Wild slicked with sunscreen. And living in a world where you can say what you want, to whomever you want, whenever you want, without ever having to look that person in the eye and face the consequences is, at least, partly to blame.

When I was younger, I had no filter. Words came into my head and out of my mouth at Mach One. If my mother had a dollar for every time she warned me "think before you speak," my parents would be millionaires today. I used to roll my eyes every time she would say it, but (as is so often the case as we get older), I can say with absolute certainty that my mother was right.

Social media can be a wonderful thing.

It allows us to share our collective grief for a mother living the nightmare of no parent should ever endure; a wife who lost her husband in unimaginable circumstances and a baby girl who will likely have only spotty memories of her daddy.

It allows us to reach out to families, a sort of online book of condolences from far and wide.

It allows us to share our experiences as consumers in an online world, where posting items for sale on Kijiji, Craigslist and other "Sell or Swap" groups is quickly replacing the hassle of a garage sale.

It allows people to dissect the case (as human nature is wont to do) and the opportunity to have spirited discussions about our justice system with a broader circle than our own.

But social media magnifies every online windbag's big mouth a thousand-fold by providing them with anonymity as effective as Harry Potter's invisibility cloak and a global audience with which to share their bile.

It provides a platform where angry people can debate minutia, derail threads and look for ways to make themselves look clever or important -- often while being spectacularly wrong, almost always at the expense of others.

Which brings me back to my mother's advice.

Sure, write your post. Then walk away. Read it, re-read it and (if you're not sure your actual intentions are getting across), have someone else read it. Maybe the act of typing out the words will allow you to vent your frustration enough that you don't actually have to hit the post button. If it doesn't, walk away again. Have a bath. Watch a sitcom to disengage the rage.

Then do yourself and the rest of us a huge favour. Go back and hit delete.

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3257028 2013-05-12T17:52:49-04:00 2013-05-12T17:53:11-04:00

Jennifer Pellegrini http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jennifer-pellegrini/
Generally speaking, I'm about as much a fan of the day as I am of Valentine's Day and the other so-called Hallmark holidays, which means that I'm really not.

Don't get me wrong. I loved the handmade, Popsicle stick picture frames and plastic bead necklaces and bracelets. I still have them. And I look forward to having one day in the year when "Clean your room" is said once and the end result is an actual clean room.

For me, Mother's Day has generally meant trying to negotiate time slots for my mother and my mother-in-law (preferably when each can have their whole families there, as it should be) and then trying to wedge in a bit of time with my own little family. Not that I begrudge a minute of it. I know there will be a time in my life when I wish I was trying to fit in those visits around my own selfish schedule and long for a busy Mother's Day again.

As a writer, Mother's Day also allows me the opportunity to wax poetic on the magic -- and the mayhem -- that is modern mummyhood.

Like the time when our daughter was five and she and I were at Discovery Cove in Orlando.

I was a magazine editor at the time, and on a press trip. I was supposed to participate in everything they offered, including the Dolphin Experience, so I could write about it later. But it was strictly for the seven-and-over crowd, and it seemed awful to do it without her, so over we went to the stingray pool while the others did their dolphin thing.

She was wearing the prettiest, multi-coloured bathing suit that day. I don't know if colour attracts stingrays, but as she stood up to look at them, I saw what must have been a baby stingray make a beeline for her. In two great flaps it crossed the water at a speed I didn't know a baby stingray could achieve. Before I could warn her, it glided over half the pool, skimmed up her legs and was belly to belly with her. I'm sure they heard her scream in Miami.

I stood there, unable to move for what seemed like forever. Then I did what I believe many mothers in the same situation would do. I burst out laughing.

Or the time when she was maybe 10, and we were visiting a friend of mine down south. A friend of hers invited us for a cookout. It was a sultry summer night and he offered to bring out the kayaks so the kids could paddle around in the river behind his house while the adults chatted. All went well until my daughter realized she was drifting out from the shore. Despite our best efforts to convince her to the contrary, she panicked and cried, declaring for all who could hear that she was going to die out there ("out there" being about three feet from land). My friend's son - nine months older than her - took control of the situation and stepped out of his boat alongside hers, into roughly shin-deep water, and pulled her back in.

She was furious. And embarrassed. And furious. And (again), all I could do was stand on shore and laugh.

Which brings me to my very favourite mothering story of all time, which does not involve anyone in my immediate family (you're welcome):

My friend has two boys and lives in very rural area of the south and there's a strong military presence nearby. Her home is surrounded by pine trees and as boys will do, her sons would spend hours playing epic (and authentic) games of war and manhunt with the boys next door.

One spring evening five or six years ago, we were on the phone as she was trying to herd her boys into showers, then bed.

"Mom!" came a call from upstairs at her house.

"Shower," she yelled back, barely skipping a beat in our conversation.

"Mom!!" came the call again a few minutes later, with a little more urgency.

"Shower!!" she echoed, with slightly less patience.

After a few more volleys back and forth - him yelling for her to come, her yelling for him to Get. Into. The. Bloody. Shower. Already. - his final call came; this one tinged with desperation:

"Mom! There's a tick on my dick and I need you to get it off!"

"I need to go," she said, stifling a laugh as she hung up the phone.

This Mother's Day, I will wake at an ungodly early hour to shuttle my daughter 45 minutes to a regatta (she's overcome the boat issues) for 6:45 a.m., then visit my mother and my mother-in-law to deliver gifts and cards I have bought them. I will hopefully come home to a house where I don't have to do anything but relax. I will probably come home, do laundry, work out and take the dog for a walk. There won't be macaroni and glue Mother's Day gifts for me this year. Nor will there be anything extravagant.

Either way, it's O.K. I'm grateful to be a mom, and to have moms to celebrate again this year. I don't need a new ring or necklace or diamond earrings, no matter how much the jewellers try to tell me I do.

But if someone would like to do the laundry, I wouldn't say no.

Happy Mother's Day one and all. Here's hoping it's tick-free.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3197748 2013-05-02T12:22:23-04:00 2013-05-02T12:22:29-04:00

Jennifer Pellegrini http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jennifer-pellegrini/
Day One -- 50 squats. Day 30 -- 250. In all, an astounding (sorry) 4,400 squats.

She tossed out a casual "Anyone up for this?" and despite the seemingly daunting task, one by one, 24 women (including three of us who first met inside Ryerson's tiny journalism building on Gould Street in 1986), jumped on board.

With that, Squat Club was born.

The premise was simple: Follow the chart -- three days of incrementally increasing squats then a day of rest -- for the next month, and together we'd get to the other side.

What's remarkable isn't that we made it through the challenge; that was a foregone conclusion. It's that a completely disparate group of women -- all of different ages, backgrounds and with varying levels of fitness -- came together to cheer each other on when we had a breakthrough and to help each other through days when couch surfing with a bag of Doritos was a far more appealing option.

That isn't always the way, especially when it comes to women and weight and fitness.

A few years ago, a friend came to me saying she wanted to lose the weight she gained during two pregnancies. I was carrying more weight than I should have been as well -- and didn't have a recent pregnancy as an excuse, since my daughter was 12 -- so we committed ourselves to WeightWatchers, eager to be in short-shape by the following summer.

Over the next nine months, I lost 25 pounds. That may not sound impressive, until you take into account that, at four feet, nine (and a half) inches tall, 25 pounds on me looks like 40 or 50 on someone who doesn't have to get their petite pants shortened.

Throughout that first winter, my friend and I planned weekly menus Saturday nights, shopped together Sunday mornings and cooked a week's worth of meals (for two households) Sunday afternoon as we got into our regime. The buddy system helped us lose the weight and keep it off for two years.

An added bonus -- we doubled our wardrobes!

But not all friends are that supportive. Some will offer you backhanded compliments, with the singular goal of having you fall back into your old habits, while others will skip the passive part of passive-aggressive behaviour and go straight to the snark.

Like this comment from a (now former) friend not long after I'd reached my goal. She had her own weight issues, and I think she secretly liked that the last time she'd seen me, I still fell squarely into the category of chubby, even though I was smaller than her.

Then I went and wrecked things by getting healthy.

"So", she sniffed, "what size are you now? Like a double 0 or something? You know, skinny women look older than women with a couple of extra pounds on them. I suppose you're one of those fitness nuts now, too."

In that moment, I realized two things: One, some women cannot be happy for another woman's success because it forces them to look at their own failures and two; that the friendship really wasn't worth salvaging.

It's not like that for the Squat Sisters.

I have seen my three university friends exactly once since we graduated from school. I have never met most of the women in the group. They're friends and family and co-workers of my friends. But it quickly became apparent that it didn't matter how long it had been since we'd seen each other, or whether we had actually met in person. We were there for each other in a way that many of the friends we see every day might not be. Bad day? We'll boost you up. Bust a plateau? We'll celebrate with you. Got a great recipe, fitness tip or idea to share, pass it on!

We're a week into our second month of workouts, Bombshell Beauties, and we've picked up a few new members along the way. We've modified and amplified our workouts since we started in April and we're already looking toward June's program. I've suggested we call it Absolutely Fabulous, not just because it will focus on our abs in time for swimsuit season, but because we are.

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3096865 2013-04-17T12:42:39-04:00 2013-04-17T12:24:05-04:00

Jennifer Pellegrini http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jennifer-pellegrini/
Beside the photo of the solitary runner, the words "Retweet for Respect" and "R.I.P. to the 8-year-old girl who died in Boston's explosions, while running for the Sandy Hook kids."

Haunting, heartbreaking and utterly fake.

The unidentified, little girl in question wasn't running in the Boston Marathon for Sandy Hook or any other reason on April 15th. Marathons aren't child's play.

She did, however, run the Joe Cassella 5K race in Virginia last May, raising funds for families of sick children to help offset their hospital bills. There's a photo of her on the Joe Cassella Foundation website, taking off from the starting gate, her bright orange T-shirt and number 1035 visible for all to see.

And the Marathon was dedicated to the memory of the 26 victims of the Sandy Hook shooting -- 26.2 miles, one mile marker for each victim.

That's pretty much where the truth ends on this sad story of how Internet trolls manage to take a nugget or two of the truth, combine it with a little magic of Photoshop and concoct a load of soap a carnival huckster would be hard-placed to sell.

The post -- from the "Hope for Boston" Twitter account, which was suspended after many throughout the Twitterverse decried the photo as fake -- had made the rounds hundreds, possibly thousands of times on Twitter, Facebook and other social media sites, seemingly before emergency workers had finished triaging and treating those injured at the scene, and long before the first victim -- eight-year-old Martin Richard, of Dorchester, Mass. -- was identified among the dead.

For every image of Mister Rogers' smiling face, reminding people to "look for the helpers" in times of trouble, and Patton Oswalt's stirring message to the people in Boston on my Facebook news feed, there was this little girl's face, shared by well-meaning friends who only wanted to feel that, in some small way, they had paid tribute to the people impacted by the tragedy.

It didn't move me. It made me angry.

I couldn't help but wonder what kind of individual downloads a photo of a cute little girl running a race, then, with the full knowledge that what they're doing is fraud, fobs it off as the victim of a heinous attack? Was it not tragic enough that we knew three people had died, dozens were seriously injured and thousands profoundly affected by what they heard and saw that someone had to scam the world with a fake victim (or victims) until we knew the faces and names of the real ones?

And (somewhat less charitably, I admit), I also wondered this: Why do intelligent people seem to fall for these charlatans over and over again?

For the record, here they are: Martin Richard, an eight-year-old who pleaded for peace in the world; Krystle Campbell, a 29-year-old who lived with her grandmother and cared for her; and Lu Lingzi, a Chinese student who travelled to Boston to obtain a graduate degree in mathematics and statistics from Boston University.

Think back to the hours and days after Princess Diana died -- the massive outpouring of grief as people struggled to come to terms with what seemed to be the unimaginable loss of a woman they had never met.

Back then, the gates to Kensington Palace literally flooded with flowers, teddy bears, poems and candles. Today, those memorials would be virtual.

I'm not a big fan of that kind of thing. Some, perhaps more cynical than me, would call it grief porn, where people 'like' every memorial page for the tragic event of the week, whether it's a teen's suicide after bullying, shooting victims at an elementary school or a bombing at an event that should have been a source of joy for the 18,000-plus participants and the thousands volunteers, medics and ordinary folks who lined the route to cheer them on.

I prefer to think of it as part of a visceral need to feel a connection to something, even in a peripheral way, to help us comprehend what is seemingly incomprehensible; a kind of reaching out the digital universe in search of a cosmic hug. If it's your thing, that's great. But like online petitions where people manage to muster outrage as far as typing a few words their keyboard but won't step outside to protest in person; this type of social networking isn't my bag.

I know two people who were in Boston for the race. I was beyond relieved in the hours afterward to learn that they were not among those wounded by the shrapnel from the bombs and turned to their Facebook pages to let them know. There were others I knew of who were there -- a teacher at my daughter's high school; a cousin of another friend of mine, and I am equally glad they are coming home safe and, at least physically, sound.

If you're looking to share something on your page connected to the tragedy, share a good news message about someone you know, or a complete stranger. This is a great one.

Post a photo of eight-year-old Martin Richard, the real child killed that day, after rushing out to hug his father at the end of the race. Pray (or, if you're not that way inclined, send the universe good thoughts) for his mother and sister as they recover from critical injuries and for his whole family, as they come to terms with the loss of a child with his whole life ahead of him and for everyone left grappling with the yet-unanswered question, "Why?"

We'll never stop trolls from coming up with new, reprehensible ways to play on a shocked global community's grief. It's what they do and sadly, they do it well enough to fool even the savviest surfer among us.

When next it happens, all we can do is look for the helpers and remember that good people outnumber the trolls, and always will.

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3066040 2013-04-12T08:18:41-04:00 2013-04-12T08:18:33-04:00

Jennifer Pellegrini http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jennifer-pellegrini/
My very good friend's date was someone she had met at sailing camp over the summer. Charming, good looking and very well-to-do he was the kind of guy we all aspired to date one day.

The after-party took place at a friend's house. His parents were home. Yes, there was alcohol. They only asked that we not get too drunk. My friend's date made me a drink. A male friend of mine took one look at the watery vodka and orange, dumped it down the laundry sink, rinsed the glass, put in fresh ice, OJ and a splash of vodka -- really, just enough to call the drink a Screwdriver -- and handed it back to me.

One minute, I was sitting on the chest freezer, fully engaged in a conversation. The next, I was lying sideways, unconscious. Then the puking started, and by all accounts, it was violent and awful.

I have no memory of it at all.

I vaguely recall standing at my front door, trying to get in. I kind of remember my date and my mother leaving me on the living room floor when it became obvious I was never going to make it upstairs. But I definitely recall the sick feeling in the morning, my mother's fury and my shame at having to go to my friend's house to apologize for disrespecting their one rule.

The problem was; I hadn't. I had part of one drink. That's it. That's all. No-one could figure out how I managed to get into the state I did with the speed that I did, but there I was.

The mystery was solved two years later, when the date showed up at our apartment. "Do you remember that time I put drugs in your drink and you puked everywhere at that party?" he asked me. He laughed, said it was a fun night, too bad I couldn't really remember.

Oh yeah, I remember it; 27 years later.

I also remember having to show up at school on Monday to face the taunting. And was there plenty of it. I was called "carrots" (for the semi-digested carrots I had spewed everywhere) for my entire senior year and part of university.

Thank God there are no photos of my humiliation, no digital footprint to haunt me on Facebook or YouTube. I probably remember it more than anyone. And I am thankful for the friends who looked out for me and defended me, knowing that what had happened to me was something that had happened to me, not something I did to myself.

I believe in my heart that's what happened to Rehtaeh Parsons. She went to a party and something went horribly, tragically wrong. Instead of supporting her, her so-called friends tortured her until she felt that the only way to get peace was to die.

However Rehtaeh left herself vulnerable to teenaged boys with questionable impulse control, it was a poor choice. But here's the thing: Every adult alive today made decisions as a teen that they lived to regret. But the key is that we are still alive. No-one, no-one, should literally die from disappointment or embarrassment caused by the folly of youth. And whatever happened to Rehtaeh, it's a cruel irony that guys frequently become so emboldened by booze that they think taking whatever or whomever they want is okay, but don't drink enough to render themselves unable to complete the task. Steubenville taught us that.

My husband and I have tried to instill in our 15-year-old daughter the importance of avoiding situations where something bad can happen. But bad things happen when they shouldn't. It's a fact that I and the parents of Newtown and now, sadly, Rehtaeh Parsons, know all too well.

The mourners for Rehtaeh are legion. Thousands have sent messages across social media, sorry for the loss of a girl her father Glen describes as one whose "heart was too big."

Where were her friends during her alleged assault? Was no-one brave enough to stand up and say "Hey, this is wrong?" Were the girls too afraid of dropping a notch on the social scale to say "Hey, that's probably not a good idea," or call for help if she seemed unable to make the decision on her own? Were the guys too afraid of being branded as weak, or worse, gay, to intervene? Was there no-one among the many who allegedly shared images of it across social networks who thought to share it with a teacher, parent or police?

How many count themselves as mourners today?

My daughter knows you go to a party with friends, you stick together and look out for each other. You get into trouble, call. Someone else gets into trouble, call. I don't care what time it is, I don't care what led to the trouble -- call. Something seems wrong, intervene as best you can, and call. I will come and, if necessary, I won't come alone.

We must say these things to our daughters. We must teach our sons to value the girls in their lives. While we teach about taking responsibility for our actions, we must also teach the value of humanity, starting with the golden rule.

Rehtaeh's parents did all they could do to help her. But the voices of those who taunted Rehtaeh for 18 months were louder than the voices of those who tried to help her, and she finally chose to silence them all by silencing herself.

And there, but for the grace of God -- or a smaller heart than Rehtaeh Parsons -- goes all of us.

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2880952 2013-03-16T08:41:14-04:00 2013-05-16T05:12:02-04:00

Jennifer Pellegrini http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jennifer-pellegrini/
Your dad does, too. You're our reason for getting up in the morning; and neither one of us could ever imagine our lives without you.

Anyhow, what I'm doing here is putting together some things to keep in mind as you go through the next year -- and decade. Some of this stuff you already know. Partly because you're wise and partly because they're things I've been telling you for years. How's Been There, Done That, Now Take My Advice? No? Well, it's a working title. We can always tweak it before it hits bookstores.

On self-esteem
It's easy to love other people, but much, much harder to love yourself. Love yourself, even when it's not easy. When your face is broken out and your nails are chipped and raggedy and some guy ditched you and your best friend blew you off to hang out with someone else -- love yourself. Your value isn't tied to how tall you are (or aren't), whether you're good at music or sports or art, and whether some random guy or group thinks your face fits on a particular day.

On boys
They will come, and they will go. Many times. You will break hearts and your heart will be broken. Just remember -- when you have to break a heart, do it with kindness and compassion. You would want someone to treat you the same way. And when your heart is broken, I will always be there with a pint of the ice cream of your choice to listen to you vent, hold you while you cry or just sit in silence with you.

Never forget who you are and where you came from. Remember the tiny wartime house we lived in when you were first born, the one where the furnace was behind a fake wall in the living room. It will keep you humble and grounded in reality. Remember that your parents worked hard for you to have the things we have, and that our parents worked even harder before us. Be grateful for the sacrifices made for us, and for you, and take none of it for granted, because we expect you to earn your own way in the world.

Don't squander money, talent or time.

A day on the couch with a book is not squandered time. A week on the couch is.

Challenge yourself to meet new people and learn new things.

Don't let anger or negativity rule your life. An hour wasted in anger is 60 minutes you can't get back. Your life expectancy is about 82 years. That's 718,797 hours. That may sound like a lot, but factor in time for sleeping and it's a lot less. Why waste those hours on letting someone else make you miserable?
Be kind. It costs you nothing and means the world to people who are the recipient of your smile, words of encouragement or aid.

Be patient with others, like small children, the elderly or people who don't get things as quickly as you do. Remember that you were young once, will one day be old and don't know everything as well as you think you do.

Sleep in on weekdays when you can.

Wake up early on weekends when you can.

Laugh at yourself, but laugh with others.

Keep your word whenever possible. When you have to let someone down apologize and offer an explanation.

Never spend more than you earn or give more than you have. One is a sign of greed; the other is a way of showing off. Neither is a good way to live.

Share your wisdom, your experiences and your chocolate.

Remember that your success in life is limited only by your willingness to work hard, dream big and occasionally fail.

Accept failures at face value for what they are -- opportunities in disguise.

Don't take the easy way out of something. It may save you time and energy, but you won't get the same experience out of whatever you're doing than you would if you did it the right way. Don't make things harder than they need to be, but don't look for shortcuts so you can hang out with your friends an hour earlier. You won't have to ask if you had done the best you could, because, in your heart, you'll already know.

Settle for anything but the best effort from yourself or people you're working with and you'll get exactly what you deserve. That doesn't mean you should be a drill sergeant, but it does mean you should encourage people to work to their full potential.

Choose your friends wisely. Over the next several years they will influence your decision about guys, school, jobs and hobbies. Choose friends who share similar values to your own and will respect your decisions, even if they disagree with them. Be respectful when you disagree with theirs, too.

A cup of tea, warm blanket and a loyal pet are sometimes all you need to make you feel better on a day when you feel down.

If I think you are making a mistake, I will tell you. If I think you are wrong, I will tell you. But I will always be on your side to support you, because I love you.]]>