A Vacation or a Trip?

We are at the rental car desk in San Francisco after traveling for seven hours with two young children, it’s almost midnight Chicago time and we’re hungry and impatient. My husband and I are exhausted; our kids are not. 

Our son is climbing on our luggage, knocking it over into a mountain and sitting on top; he is drinking from a water fountain with his mouth hugging the spout. I am too tired to care.

Meanwhile, my daughter continues a line of questioning she started a full ten minutes ago: “But,why is she giving us her car?”

“Who?” I ask, distracted by my son biting his grimy fingernail.

“Avis.”

I sigh and explain for the fortieth time, “Avis is not a person, it’s a company. We are paying to borrow a car from a company.”

“Oh, okay, so we’re not keeping it.”

“That’s right.” Relief. Finally, she’s got it. She starts wrestling with her brother. I know as sure as I sit here on this sticky vinyl chair that this match will end in tears. 

My daughter pauses, mid half-nelson, to ask, “But will we get to meet her?”

And we’re back to talking about Avis again--like she’s some long-lost Aunt we’ve come to California to visit and frankly I don’t have the stamina for it. I tell her, “It’s late. Avis is sleeping.” Note to self: next time rent from Enterprise.

My son’s head hits the metal chair base with an audible conk. Tears. 

If you were to walk past me at this moment, you’d see a mother wiping her son’s tears with her sleeve; you’d hear her say, “I know, that hurt. It’ll feel better soon baby.” But if you could zoom past my empathetic expression and move into my thoughts, you’d hear: of course you got hurt, you’re treating the waiting area like it’s the WWF; enough with the crying already, it doesn’t hurt that much and I can see your sister starting to calculate the uneven distribution of attention and preparing to cry herself; when, oh, when will I get the break that is the hallmark of vacations?

The tears reach a crescendo with both children crying now, overtired and irrational (which also describes my state). Then I realize that this is it--this is what a vacation with children looks like; there is no break. There are questions, negotiations, nonstop interaction and tears. In fact, it looks suspiciously like being at home. 

My husband jokes, “I’m having second thoughts.” About this trip? I ask. “No. About having children.” In this moment, in the hum of the fluorescent lights and the drone of the rental agent’s apology for the wait, the next nine days look a little bleak.

Prior to our trip, my daughter and I made homemade granola bars in anticipation of long drives up and down the coast with very few places to stop for snacks. Granola bars are exactly the sort of thing I always imagined I’d make as a mother--that, and my own baby food. I’d love to be the type of mother that mixes her own cleaning supplies and buys only organic produce. Instead, I pack artificially-flavored Cheez-Its and environmentally-unfriendly Capri Sun foil-packs for snacks. On a daily basis, convenience trumps wholesomeness.

I decide that I can be that mom, if only for spring break. My daughter and I mix old-fashioned rolled oats with oil and salt for toasting. We are supposed to bake until they are “pale gold” like fall leaves but when we pull them from the oven they are dark brown like dead, fallen leaves that have been flattened by my car. I also cook the honey/brown sugar mixture a tad too long. Yet, I still have hope that the oats, nuts, vanilla, cinnamon, and syrup will yield a tasty, nutritious snack.

It turns out that homemade granola bars are surprisingly easy to make. Good homemade granola bars? You’ll have to ask someone else. Mine taste awful. There is a burnt flavor; not smokey, but burnt. Their aftertaste requires a chaser and they smell strongly like sugared leather--like a sweet, worn saddle--not bad, exactly, but not appetizing either. And I have 36 of them. 

I pack them up anyway, hoping that if I pretend to like them, the kids will be tricked into enjoying them too. Look, the Emperor’s fully dressed--now have a granola bar! The smell of the bars is seeping through the soft sides of our luggage as we wait at Avis (and my daughter waits for Avis). My children are running around like animals and my bags smell like a zoo.

My husband and I have a code word that we use when our tempers reach a boil, when we are about to say something to our kids that might thrust them into psychotherapy: man-down. Man-down tells the other spouse that it’s time to take over; tag, you’re it. The first couple of days of our trip has us uttering “man-down” so much that you’d think we had word-specific tourette's. 

But then something happens to our children--they break. I somehow forget in the first frustrating days of any trip, that our kids are disoriented. They crave routine and theirs has been upended. They need reminding for everything. Brush your teeth. Yes, of course you have to wear underwear. Yes, seatbelts too. In a new environment, they are seeking re-definition of their boundaries.  

There is an almost tangible moment when the kids snap into their vacation selves. Finally, they stop whining and start noticing what’s around them. They ease up. And once they realize that the rules of behavior haven’t changed, we are able to start the small indulgences that vacations are all about. With no schedule, we can linger in the magic shop or turn back for ice cream at that quirky hippy place we passed earlier (the one where we are the only patrons and “Hey Jude” plays on repeat). By the time my daughter is squealing over the hills in “San Fran-six-go,” I am in love with her all over again. 

At home, my kids don’t play well together. They are a boy and a girl separated by three years. But on this trip, I see them shedding their roles--or at least setting them aside for small stretches of time. They collaborate in the backseat of our rental car. My daughter says, “I’ll be the baby and you can be the dad.” My son says, “Yeah, but you don’t know I’m a spy.” Spy and baby play quietly and happily. 

That’s how our vacation goes: moment to moment. There are happy surprises like Big Basin National Park, which finds them balancing on logs and jumping off of stumps and in general acting like free-range children. By this point in the trip, all of our clothes reek of burnt, oily oats. I momentarily worry about bears, walking as we are, smelling so pungently of food. But even they are discerning. Indeed, when my children perch at the bottom of a skyscraper-high redwood to rest, my son takes one bite of a granola bar and says conspiratorially to his dad, “These are terrible.” I realize that my children know more than I give them credit for.

Travel gives me an opportunity to see who they really are. At home, they are dependent upon their physical space to cue their actions--this is what is okay at home, this is what we do at school. Going to new places teaches them how to be in the world. It need not be expensive or extravagant, the important part is the away.

A friend recently commented after traveling with her kids: “It wasn’t a vacation, it was a trip.” A trip is something you take for work; it infers long exhausting days filled with tasks you wouldn’t necessarily choose to do. Check. A vacation, on the other hand, requires sunblock and implies levity and laughter. Check. 

Our travel unfurled the luxury of time together without television, email, phone calls, and the relentless crush of the everyday. There were tears but also inside jokes. We bonded. In the end, ours was a trip and a vacation.

Tweaking Tradition

You have to love a holiday tradition that teaches kids the skills of either stealing from or negotiating with their parents--both things we would discourage any other time of year. This is the construct of the Passover afikomen custom.

At Passover, Jews gather for an extended orderly dinner called a seder to commemorate the story of Exodus when the Israelites were freed from slavery by the Pharoah. Most religious practices seem kooky to the uninformed, but Passover especially so: there is a place set for an invisible guest named Elijah, lumps of minced fish bullied into oval shapes, and a plate containing random items like a shank bone, a sprig of parsley, and a puddle of salt water. Judaism wrings meaning from these things. There is also wine--lots of it--as the ceremony calls for the drinking of four glasses each.

Whereas adults have wine to grease the wheels of ritual, the kids have the excitement of the afikomen. In fact, when I tried to suss the origin of afikomen hiding, I found one source after another pinning it on the need to jazz up the seder for the kids--an acknowledgement of the difficulty of keeping them planted in their seats during the recitation of bible stories. “We know, this is boring, but there will a scavenger hunt and some cash in it for you later.”

The afikomen is a piece of matzoh that is ceremoniously drawn from the middle of a stack of three during the seder. Then either this matzoh is stolen by the kids and ransomed back to the parents (turning your children into greedy warlords), or the matzoh is hidden by the parents for the kids to find then sell back at a negotiated price (creating mini-bounty hunters). The seder may not conclude until the afikomen is back in adult hands; trust me, after several hours of shushing children then alternately encouraging them to read aloud from their prayer books, everyone wants the seder to end. What we have are motivated sellers and motivated buyers--it’s a quick transaction.

Passover seders are generally held the first two nights of the eight-day holiday. This year, we spent the first night at a friends’ house. They tweaked tradition by hiding seven pieces of matzoh--one for each child. I initially felt conflicted about this endorsement of the “everybody wins” philosophy that permeates modern parenting. Then I thought of my son’s room--littered with sports trophies when the only basket I’ve ever actually seen him make was for the other team--and I felt heartened by the idea of focusing on the effort rather than the result.  

In advance of our second-night seder, this one held at our home, my husband and I discuss his family’s tradition of kids clamoring over one another in a race to garner the hidden cracker. He’s partial to his own custom. But is a religious holiday really the time to teach tough life lessons? “Life isn’t fair kid, get used to it. Oh, and Happy Passover.” At least in the Easter made-up tradition of a giant bunny hiding eggs, the kids get chocolate. On the other hand, without competition, the afikomen hunt has no excitement. It’s like watching a lion fed at the zoo versus seeing one chase a gazelle.

My husband and I discuss the interpretations of the tradition beforehand and choose the Serengeti: one afikomen, one finder, one prize of one dollar. Done.

Imagine my surprise, then, when after dinner I look up to see my husband and the other parents frisking their purses and wallets and so much cash waving that it feels like we’re at the track. They’ve decided that each kid will get a dollar just for searching while the finder will receive two dollars. So now we have one matzoh hidden but seven payouts--you don’t even need to find anything to garner a buck. It’s like paying unemployment benefits to someone who was never employed. Major policy change has been instituted without me.

My husband has forgotten that in parenting, there is no backsliding. You can’t, one year, give everyone a dollar then the next year go back to paying only the finder; that’s a recipe for anger and tears. That’s why, when my daughter asks if she can have a sleepover in our bed, I know my answer it isn’t just for that night but for all the nights to come; my response in that moment will fuel every coming negotiation.

We don’t usually have the luxury of making well-thought out, advance decisions; most parenting is done on the fly. Kids can’t possibly grasp the complex interaction of stress level, sleep deprivation, and mood that fuels parental choices. “But you let me have popcorn for breakfast that one time.” Yes, but then mommy was tired from being out late the night before and now I have just read an article on childhood nutrition and you must have a quinoa egg-white omelet for breakfast. It’s understandably difficult for kids to keep track of it all. Which is why, having a considered, pre-made decision going into a night like this is a plus. Unless, your husband is caving to his own set of unseen rationalities.

During the afikomen search, the kids run around in no discernible pattern, searching and re-searching places that have already been checked and ignoring other potential spots. One child checks the fireplace, then the next child peers into the same fireplace while both ignore the card catalog containing 50 drawers next to it. Their search is so haphazard and without reason that I wonder how any of them will make it in the world at all.

Finally, thankfully, and with many hints, the eldest child finds it. His negotiation with my husband goes something like this: My husband--“I’ll give you a nickel for it.” The kid--“Sure.” It’s the opposite of a hard bargain; it’s downright soft. We can cross “sales” off of his potential future career options. My husband shakes his head and hands the kids two bucks while the other children line up for their dole. Then, dessert.

My daughter and I have prepared what has become a passover mainstay in our home: caramel matzoh crunch. A quick online search reveals hundreds of recipes and as many names (matzoh brittle, chocolate caramel crackers, toffee matzoh candy) but almost all of them give a nod to what has become its street name: matzoh crack. It’s that addictive.

All feature four simple ingredients: matzoh, butter, brown sugar and chocolate. First, a crispy cracker layer, next buttery caramel, then a layer of bittersweet chocolate before the topping fun begins--the combinations are endless. This year, my daughter and I make dark and white chocolate versions, some with Heath toffee crumbles or nuts, and others with mini m-and-m’s.

The result is a fast-disappearing mound of colorful, crunchy deliciousness. Why do we only eat this once a year? We more than make up for the time by gorging ourselves. The kids dip theirs in ice cream and eat like they’re being timed. They run from the table with fingers still chocolate-coated, rejoicing at their freedom; we, their captors at the table for the evening--their evil pharaohs--linger at the now-childless table.

The kids strike up a quiz game in the next room. They, in turn, encourage and taunt each other. Answers are whispered; alliances are formed; there are winners and losers. These kids are going to be just fine. Someday they will look back at their trophies celebrating little more than participation, and wonder why they took such pride in them. Soon enough the competitive realities of the world will bear down upon them. Soon enough. But for now, it's right that they appreciate the uncomplicated joy of rummaging through fireplaces and sofa cushions and getting one over on the adults.

Sex and Santa

St. Patrick’s Day is a religious holiday commemorating the arrival of Christianity in Ireland and a catch-all celebration of Irish culture. In our pre-kids, city days this meant a dyed river, crowds and subsequent cursing over parking, and witnessing morning-after men and women stumble home still wearing green. Now, our suburban family holiday is filled with crafts covered in green glitter (my car looks like I gave a lift to an Irish stripper) and my kids’ excited talk of the leprechauns’ yearly visit to our home--our excuse to trash their rooms like they do our whole house then blame it on imaginary creatures. Finally, parenting gets fun.

I stoke the leprechaun fire when I visit my daughter’s classroom right before St. Pat’s. Each parent (read: mom) is invited/expected to visit the class as “chef of the day” during the year.  It’s an opportunity to observe your child in her natural school habitat and for her to thrill at the novelty of having you sit in a tiny tiny chair while trying to corral her schoolmates into participating in a food-prep activity. 

I lead the class in making rainbow cupcakes--basically cupcakes hopped up on food dye--with green frosting and a chocolate-gold coin on top. Thus creating the rainbow and the imaginary pot of gold at the end of it.  The kids are eager to help. They want to measure, pour, stir, and sit next to me; in fact, an argument breaks out on that last point, the same as unfurls everyday in my house at mealtime. My husband and his siblings used to fight so much over sitting next to their mom at dinner that finally his dad outlawed anyone sitting there; his mom sat luxuriously alone at one side of the table while the three kids crammed onto the other, with dad at the head. Apparently, in the case of my daughter’s class, any mom will do. They clammer.

I discover that the two most coveted jobs are turning the mixer on and off and adding the color to the cupcake batter. I witness some leprechaun-like mischievousness when one boy adds more than the prescribed eight drops of food coloring. Then the next boy adds even more. By the time we’re at the last boy and the last bowl, he’s glancing at his friends and smirking as he squeezes the entire tube into the bowl, turning the batter and his hands and his shirt blue. It doesn’t take much to thrill kids; bright colors and frosting are winners--add a gold coin you’ve got yourself a trifecta.

At home, our kids eagerly await their leprechaun visit with a mix of fear (from my five-year-old) and skepticism (from my eight-year old). Several months ago my older child pressed me for the umpteenth time on the improbable existence of Santa and the Tooth Fairy. His logic was hard to deny. He raised valid points about Santa fitting into the chimney and the unlikelihood of someone actually wanting our discarded teeth, much less paying for them. The cincher in his argument was a comment about the creepiness of the fat man and the fairy sneaking into our homes in the middle of the night unwitnessed and undetected by our senses or alarm system. Creepy, indeed.

After the latest interrogation, my husband chastised me for continuing the ruse. He said, “our son is asking you, point-blank, if we are Santa and the Tooth Fairy and you refuse to level with him--it seems wrong.”

I am forced to ask myself, where is the line between whimsy and lying? It lies somewhere between encouraging make-believe and willfully discouraging our children’s inquiries about these improbable characters by stacking detail upon false detail. That’s right, darling, Santa not only fits down the chimney but magically goes back up it; the Tooth Fairy is a miniature sprite but somehow manages to tote a sack of heavy coins around with her.

I remember the year I discovered that Santa and my parents were the same. I was nine when I spied my Christmas gifts in the closet a week early. I closed the door and walked quietly away. Cue Christmas morning and my surprise to find the same gifts under the tree with tags marked “from Santa.” I kept mum, mainly to keep the present pipeline a-flowing. But I it gave me the feeling that my parents were in on something that I was left out of. I didn’t, however, feel robbed of my sense of wonder, which is the argument I use now to fend off my husband’s urgings to tell our son the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

This push-and-pull plays out daily in our house. My husband tries to speed up our kids growth, while I sneak my foot onto the brake. He encourages the kids to cross the street alone as I follow them to the door reminding them to look both ways then watch them longingly from the window. He makes them get their own drinks while I ask them if they want ice with that. With only my husband as a parent, the kids would be grilling their own dinner and juggling fireballs. With just me, they’d be little Veruca Salts. It takes both of us to bring a measured approach to our parenting. This is why I give serious consideration to his suggestion to confirm our son’s suspicions.

It forces me to confront why it’s so important to me to uphold our children’s magical thinking. Why do I need them to keep believing in these adult-constructed fairy tales? Upon examination, I think the answer lies more in my own needs than theirs. Motherhood is a job that’s ever-devolving--with a mother earning less and less authority as the years pass. At the start, the job is critical to the operation, by the end it’s mostly advisory in nature. Thankfully, there’s no pink slip but the position does get seriously downgraded. As long as the children are still young, and by proxy, innocent, I am still integral.

Ultimately it is my one of my own parenting principles that convinces me to confess to my son. I have always encouraged my children’s intellectual curiosity. I patiently answer questions and levy my own to stimulate thinking. I listen. I explain. I don’t rely on, “because I said so.” I offer a full briefing then rebuttal, often leaving myself exhausted from the sheer quantity of interaction I have with my kids. And now I have a child coming to me with legitimate, well thought-out questions and I am basically saying, “believe what is unbelievable because I said so.”

So I sit my son down, away from the prying ears of his blissfully-unaware sister, and tell him that, yes, Dad and I are Santa. “I knew it!,” he exclaims. “I mean the writing on the gifts is always the same as yours.” He hesitates, “And the Tooth Fairy?” Yep, us too. I sense a little deflation in his demeanor now.

“So you guys come in while I’m sleeping and leave me money?” Yes. He seems unconvinced and remains skeptical until I show him my jewelry box, filled with his his and his sister's teeth, all jumbled together. This is such a dramatic departure from his Tooth Fairy book that depicts her carefully labeling a box for each child--walls and walls of boxes surround her--before gently placing the teeth in. The reality is so much less spectacular than the myth. Isn't that always the way?

He sits back on the bed with me, his palm still full of tiny teeth, and announces, “But I still believe in leprechauns.” He looks at me expectantly, daring me to respond. It’s a make or break moment. I smile and say, “Me too.” He lights up.

With this being all he has left in the department of holiday fantasy, I’ve gotta make it good. On St. Patricks Day, my husband and I compare notes with another couple. In the past, our leprechaun has made a mess in the kids’ rooms and left a trail of hand-cut-out shamrocks on the floor. Our friends’ visitor takes it up a notch, spilling Lucky Charms cereal on the table and peeing green into the toilets; theirs is a Chris Farley version of a naughty gnome--eating and drinking his way through their home. I ask if he also leaves lines of green coke on the table.

Our PG-rated leprechaun adds gold chocolates and 3-D glittered shamrocks to his repertoire this year. He gets more creative, hanging stuffed animals from lamps and fans and twining toy snakes around bedposts. The kids are thrilled, running around the next morning with chocolate mustaches before breakfast and excitedly showing each other their overturned rooms.

I realize that their inquiries--their desire to make sense of the world--are not going to stop. Instead, the frequency and difficulty of their questions will increase. At each juncture, it will be up to us to figure out the way to answer truthfully without dashing their hopes or revealing more than they can handle. The adolescence train just keeps rolling along, picking up speed; next stop: the sex talk. 

Outsourcing our Snark

Some things are best watched en masse: football games, royal weddings, any cheesy reality show (which is all of them), and the Oscars. Men don’t seem to dig the self-congratulatory, over-hyped, uber-styled, singing, crying, tribute-deluged event; that’s why my Oscar invite-list is female only.

Planning a party for women is easy, it goes something like this: invite them; accept their immediate offers to bring food; sit back and enjoy. I like to theme the food to the movies--a task made harder now that Best Picture nominations have gone from 5 to 10 movies--so I issue vague assignments to my guests: bring something black and white for “The Artist,” Hawaiian or with nuts to symbolize the kooks in “The Descendants,” and something with alcohol, preferably French, for “Midnight in Paris.” One friend makes delicious chocolate cookie sandwiches held together with vanilla frosting. Another brings a yummy macadamia and coconut-encrusted ice cream cake. When it comes to desserts, these girls aren’t fooling around. 

I decide to make mini-chocolate tarts to invoke a seminal scene in “The Help” (though my ingredient list is different from that in the movie). I can’t find a single suitable recipe in my hardback cookbooks so I turn to the Internet to find delectable-looking bittersweet chocolate tartlets on a food blog called Dessert First Girl. 

My daughter loves pressing the dough into the pan of little tart cups. For her it’s not about the end result. In fact, neither of my children will even eat chocolate desserts though they’ll practically take off your finger if you hand them a Hershey’s kiss or candy bar. For my daughter, baking is about the joy of doing it, not what it yields. 

The tarts end up being dark and rich with a deep cooked chocolate flavor and a great buttery crumb in the crust. Dessert First Girl lists suggestions for toppings to increase the complexity of flavor. I leave some plain but dust some with cinnamon, others with chili powder, and the rest with sea salt. The problem with this plan is that I am obliged try each iteration. My favorite is the sea salt one since I'm always one to prefer salty to sweet--both together? Heaven.

Our spread of food omits anything found near the wide good-for-you bottom of the food pyramid and anything even appearing on the government’s new “choose my plate” program--we’re talking all fats and sugars here. My friends and I squeeze onto the couch, making room for everyone, and turn on the red carpet coverage. We split our attention between the big screen main event and the ipad on my coffee table displaying an E! app with a Twitter feed and live video. 

When “The Dictator” Sacha Baron Cohen spills “ashes” all over Ryan Seacrest--aside from being secretly happy that his shellacked demeanor has been dented--we are delighted to see it play out in real time in a ticker of twitter messages. Tweets are asking if Ryan has another tuxedo to change into and if the security that whisks Cohen away is real or part of his scheme. These are the same questions volleying around my living room. (I will note, however, that no one actually laughs at the supposedly-funny antics).

By the time J-Lo and her low-cut dress take the stage, half of the women have out their phones. It starts with one girl checking Billy Crystal’s age because it’s simply impossible to tell from his unnaturally air-brushed appearance (I am as uncomfortable looking at him as I am Barry Manilow or Meg Ryan). Another friend snaps a picture of our group and uploads it as her Facebook status. One uses her phone to look up what other movies Juan Dujardin has been in, while another searches online to make sure that the annoying beeping we hear is from the telecast and not my sound system.

Pretty soon a friend announces that we have “Twitter confirmation” that there has, in fact, been a nip slip while yet another reads a text from her husband aloud: “is that an areola I see?” After we all marvel at her husband’s grasp of anatomy, we tune back in for Angelina’s awkward right leg out pose. Again, phones are lighting up with mocks and snide comments being read to the group. 

Before the show is over, the following Twitter accounts have been created and are actively participating in the national conversation: @JLosNipple, @AngiesRightLeg, and @AngiesLeftLeg. JLosNipple is by far the most prolific with 141 tweets since the broadcast, saying things like, “I was a quarter-inch from being famous, do you think I need a publicist?” AngiesRightLeg has more than 48,000 followers reading tweets like, “Check me out!” and “I’m right here.” Poor AngiesLeftLeg fares the worst with the least actual attention and the fewest followers with posts like, “Perhaps I’ll be nominated for Best Supporting Role.” Before the sun rises post-Oscars, photo-shopped pics of Angelina Jolie in all sorts of awkward positions involving her lower limbs have hit the web. 

It strikes me that we have stopped creating our own snark--we have outsourced it. We are no longer lauded for a fast, witty aside but for the quickest search engine and the best choice of funny post to share with the group. Perhaps the idea is that comedic minds better than ours are already on the task. 

Whereas, in years past, we might have collectively brainstormed Dujardin’s prior movies (if we had ever heard of him before to this year), now we don’t bother with the discussion. How many other things have we stopped thinking about in favor of quick thumbs tapping it out on mini-screens? No more sleepless nights trying to figure out that the freckled girl from Little House who dated Rob Lowe was--um, I think I have it now, it’s on the tip of my tongue, she wore that shockingly low-cut-yet-primly-netted dress a few years ago--Melissa Gilbert! 

We want instant answers. We also want to share our own impressions, comments, photos, likes and dislikes and what we are doing--right now (but not necessarily with those in the same room). Our era is one where telling a joke is as easy as hitting “forward” and reacting to said joke is as easy as hitting “delete.” We are part of a collective, if impersonal, conversation. We are connecting more and less. Is it sentimental to wonder if our experience is being enriched or diluted by technology?

In years going forward, will my friends and I tune in to the Academy Awards from our own homes and share the experience virtually? Will we watch each other watching? If so, I’ll miss the face-to-face, un-pixelated camaraderie and the cookies (not the kind my computer rejects). 

It’s difficult for me to be too critical of technology as I eat my second/fourth/seventh delicious bittersweet chocolate tartlet made from an online recipe and as I write my blog--a form that doesn’t even exist without the Internet. Instead of fighting it, I’m going to try to harness some of its power for good--so if you enjoyed this piece, please tweet it, like it, pin it, digg it, favorite it, plus-one it, share it on tumblr or flickr or reddit, or simply forward it along with a joke or some warning you’ve already vetted on snopes. Thanks!