Teenagers Prepared Me for Internet Scammers

I don’t fall for internet scams, pyramid schemes, or strangers promising fame, fortune, or overnight success. Not because I’m especially savvy—but because I raised teenagers. Once you’ve survived a household where logic is optional, guilt is weaponized, and responsibility is endlessly reassigned, an online scammer is just background noise.

Ever since my book Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure was released, I’ve become a magnet for spammers and scammers. Some want to help with marketing. Some want to make a book trailer. A few are legitimate businesses, just trying to make a living. Those don’t bother me. The scammers, however, are another breed entirely—and the publishing world seems to have plenty of them.

I’ve been contacted by fake Facebook accounts claiming to be Robert Pattinson, Oprah Winfrey, J.K. Rowling, Elon Musk (three different ones—apparently cloning is the real business), Haru Urara—who is a dead Japanese racehorse, famous for never winning a race—and even Edgar Allan Poe. I admire the dedication it takes for a man dead since 1849 to message me on Facebook.

The most recent was someone claiming to be New York Times bestselling author Meghan Quinn, using what she said was her personal Facebook account. She had only 121 followers. That alone raised an eyebrow. The second eyebrow went up when I wondered why a wildly successful, NYT bestselling author would be spending her time chatting with little ol’ me—a first-time author of unknown fame. I pictured deadlines, editors, book tours, and somehow penciling in casual Facebook conversations with strangers. It didn’t add up.

Even knowing she wasn’t who she claimed to be, I decided to play along. Call it curiosity. We chatted like two normal people. She asked questions. I answered. Then late one evening, the messages began drifting into spelling errors and questionable grammar, as though English wasn’t her first language. Either that, or she was drunk. Possibly both. A few messages later came the soft sales pitch: she could help get my book noticed. That’s when I got bored and blocked her.

None of this rattled me—not the flattery, not the guilt, not the vague urgency—and it finally dawned on me why.

I raised teenagers.

When my son was a teenager, we had a firm rule in our house: no dating until he was sixteen. A few weeks before his birthday, he explained that if he’d been born on time instead of arriving late, he would already be sixteen and therefore should be allowed to go on a date. I appreciated the creativity. I denied the request.

Years later, my grandson attempted a similar strategy. He totaled Jim’s car, then explained that the accident was actually not his fault—because the headlights weren’t bright enough. Not the speed, not the road, not the driver behind the wheel. The headlights.

If you’ve ever raised teenagers, you develop an internal alarm that goes off the moment logic starts doing gymnastics. You’ve heard “Everyone else’s parents let them.” You’ve witnessed the heavy sigh followed by “It’s fine. I didn’t really want to go anyway.” You’ve endured the long, wounded silence designed to make you feel like a terrible human being without a single word being spoken. You’ve been warned of vague catastrophes “Something bad could happen”, informed of social consequences that will surely last forever, and had responsibility reassigned in advance just in case.

You’ve also seen sudden mysterious illnesses appear five minutes before chores, unexpected hugs paired with “You’re the best mom ever,” compliments carefully wrapped around requests, and the classic courtroom defense: “You didn’t say I couldn’t.” Teenagers don’t just bend the truth—they put it in a yoga pose and expect you to admire the flexibility.

So when an internet stranger with a fake profile and a borrowed name tries to guilt me, pressure me, flatter me, or rush me into sending money, I don’t feel intimidated. I feel nostalgic. Compared to teenagers, internet scammers are rank amateurs. They don’t stand a chance.

So now I’m curious. What’s the most ridiculous argument a teenager has ever used on you—and did you almost admire the effort?

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Super Bowl Sunday: Live From the Chicken Yard

I said “Super Bowl Sunday” out loud, and instantly the chicken yard went silent—that eerie pre-snap quiet where everyone’s waiting for the count.

Mike Crowe puffed up and took a few confident steps like he’d just won the coin toss. Hennifer Lopez lifted her head slowly, eyes locked on my hand, then the ground, then back to my hand again—that same dog-beg look that says, You’re going to want to put the food right here. I’ll wait.

Andrea shifted position, reading the field. Goldie Hen pretended she wasn’t interested, which fooled no one. Dixie Chick edged closer to the feed bin. Meryl Cheep and Reese Featherspoon hung back like veteran defenders, watching for mistakes. Reba McHentire stood her ground like she’d been doing this her whole career. Sheryl Crowe sidled in (last name purely coincidental, no relation to Mike Crowe) already prepared to steal something and deny it later.

I hadn’t even opened the bag, and I was already under pressure.

When the bowl finally hit the ground, the first mealy worm dropped like a kickoff, and the yard exploded. Andrea charged straight up the middle, driving her beak down for yardage. Goldie Hen slid in from the side and threw a solid block, cutting off Dixie Chick and opening a lane wide enough to drive a tractor through.

Hennifer Lopez saw it instantly and cut left, scooping the worm and heading for daylight—but Andrea wrapped her up mid-stride, wings flaring, feathers flying, a clean, no-nonsense tackle that stopped the play cold.

The worm didn’t move.
Everyone else did.

Mike Crowe ran the sideline crowing, a play-by-play announcer who had very strong opinions and absolutely no influence over the game.

In the chaos, Sheryl Crowe darted in, snagged the worm, and took off on a return so fast nobody saw the interception happen. Reese Featherspoon gave chase. Meryl Cheep followed. Dixie Chick joined in late, because that’s her style. Reba McHentire held her ground, unimpressed. She’d seen better plays in earlier seasons.

By the time the dust settled, possession was unclear, tempers were high, and at least one hen felt she’d been robbed by bad officiating.

Then the pace slowed. The hens flopped into the dirt like linemen between drives, dust bathing and pretending this was all very controlled. Mike Crowe strutted past them, chest out, crowing victory for reasons known only to him.

I thought the quarter was over.

Hennifer Lopez stood up, shook off the dust, and stared at the empty patch of ground where the bowl had been. Then she looked at me. Then the ground again.

Same signal.
Same expectation.

That look said, Nice drive. Now bring out the real play.

And that’s when I realized my mistake. I had said “Super Bowl” without clarifying terms. I’d hyped the crowd, crossed midfield on nothing but optimism, and left myself wide open.

Inside homes everywhere, humans argued about refs and commercials.

Out in my yard, the chickens ran their own game—blocking, tackling, intercepting, calling audibles, and demanding a replay in the form of a refill.

And eventually, worn down by relentless pressure and one rooster who would not stop crowing about it…

I refilled the bowl.

Final score:
Chickens—undefeated.
Human—still learning the rules.

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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm