Someone asked me recently if I thought my generation was wasting the resources of our elders. I was so surprised at the question, one of my disposable contacts popped out and I could hardly see to keep my SUV on the road.
As one of the youngest of the generation that knows all about life and has tried it on like a clearance rack sweater, I am, by birthright, a baby Baby Boomer. Sure, I’m over fifty, if hugging the back side of fifty like a first-time skydiver hugs a parachute counts as over fifty. So I know a little bit about resources: Green stamps, recycleable plastic, and the theme songs to twenty years worth of television advertisements, situation comedies, and bad movies.
I’ve lived through hard times. As the youngest, I was the one who always had to do the antenna aerobics to get a good picture on the television. When Romper Room came on I had to hold the rabbit ears skyward like the Statue of Liberty’s torch, and I didn’t dare move until Miss Nancy put down her magic mirror. These days I automatically do arm rotations whenever the HDTV signal goes bad. My kids think I’m crazy, but I'll pose like the Frankenstein monster until we get the signal for Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader, strong and clear.
I also remember a time when a shiny foil plate full of tater tots and fried fish was a gourmet meal. When you had to wait til the other people on your party line finished their conversation before you could use the telephone. When you had to wind the film in the camera before you could take another picture. When the flash was something you needed to take a picture, not something people were taking pictures of.
Knowing something of this kind of hardship, Baby Boomers are wary of wasting resources. But as sure as the Beatle’s hit, “Hello Goodbye” is now an advertising jingle for Target, we’ve recycled enough resources to provide fertilizer for generations to come.
So the kids these days had better not pick on me.
I know all the words to the Mountain Dew jingle, the Green Acres theme song, and the big screen version of Born Free.
And I’m not afraid to use them.
Laugh
Showing posts with label Baby Boomers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Baby Boomers. Show all posts
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Friday, March 6, 2009
Bloghopping around the web not long ago, I came across (tripped over) something that puts the jingle in my bells like nothing else. The chance to talk. (Thanks to Eileen for lighting the way.) As long as I hop on the soap box that Baby Boomer extraordinaire popartdiva picks out, I can expound away and nobody, neither Superman nor the Nintendo-playing teenagers on the couch can stop me. I haven't felt this kind of power since I ate all the Girl Scout cookies without giving the dogs a single bite. (That line is a lie, they still have peanut butter breath, but it's a good example.)
This week’s topic is “Are We Wasting the Resources of our Elders?” and while I stumbled on the topic late, I still managed to come up with an opinion. Those of you who know me well will not be surprised. You may sigh deeply, roll your eyes, and catch the latest episode of Lost, but you're not surprised.
As one of the youngest of the generation that knows all about life and has tried it on like a clearance rack sweater, I am, in fact, a baby Baby Boomer. Still, I’m over fifty, if hugging the back side of fifty like a first-time skydiver hugs a parachute counts as over fifty. So I know a little bit about resources: Green stamps, plastic, and the theme songs to twenty years’ worth of situation comedies.
I’ve lived through hard times. As the youngest, I was the one who always had to do the antenna aerobics to get a good picture on the television. When Romper Room came on I had to hold the rabbit ears skyward like the staff of Moses, and I didn’t dare move until Miss Nancy put down her magic mirror. These days I automatically do arm rotations whenever the HDTV signal goes bad.
I remember a time when a tin foil plate full of tater tots and fried fish was a gourmet meal. When you had to wait til the other people on your party line finished their conversation before you could use the telephone. When you had to wind the film in the camera before you could take another picture. Civilization was in its infancy.
Knowing something of this kind of hardship, Baby Boomers are wary of wasting resources. But as sure as the Beatle’s hit, “Hello Goodbye” is now an advertising jingle for Target, we’ve recycled enough resources to provide fertilizer for generations to come.
So the kids these days had better not pick on me. I know all the words to Green Acres.
And I’m not afraid to use them.
This week’s topic is “Are We Wasting the Resources of our Elders?” and while I stumbled on the topic late, I still managed to come up with an opinion. Those of you who know me well will not be surprised. You may sigh deeply, roll your eyes, and catch the latest episode of Lost, but you're not surprised.
As one of the youngest of the generation that knows all about life and has tried it on like a clearance rack sweater, I am, in fact, a baby Baby Boomer. Still, I’m over fifty, if hugging the back side of fifty like a first-time skydiver hugs a parachute counts as over fifty. So I know a little bit about resources: Green stamps, plastic, and the theme songs to twenty years’ worth of situation comedies.
I’ve lived through hard times. As the youngest, I was the one who always had to do the antenna aerobics to get a good picture on the television. When Romper Room came on I had to hold the rabbit ears skyward like the staff of Moses, and I didn’t dare move until Miss Nancy put down her magic mirror. These days I automatically do arm rotations whenever the HDTV signal goes bad.
I remember a time when a tin foil plate full of tater tots and fried fish was a gourmet meal. When you had to wait til the other people on your party line finished their conversation before you could use the telephone. When you had to wind the film in the camera before you could take another picture. Civilization was in its infancy.
Knowing something of this kind of hardship, Baby Boomers are wary of wasting resources. But as sure as the Beatle’s hit, “Hello Goodbye” is now an advertising jingle for Target, we’ve recycled enough resources to provide fertilizer for generations to come.
So the kids these days had better not pick on me. I know all the words to Green Acres.
And I’m not afraid to use them.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Top Ten Memorable Things About Being Pregnant
(I’m going from memory here. This is History, not Live at Five.)
1. Because you’re not famous, you don’t have a “bump.” You have a baby.
2. You finally have cleavage. And it’s not in the back!
3. You get to decorate the nursery – but nobody will let you lift, paint, or use harsh cleaners. Sweet. Interior design without the gruntwork. It's like ordering dinner from the Martha Stewart cookbook and instructing Martha to be gentle with the egg whites.
4. You cry over sentimental things like Budweiser commercials. Or because they’ve run out of Choco Tacos at the corner store.
5. The gas station before your exit has the bathroom key ready for you every morning at 7:30. And they remove the chain and tire iron it was originally attached to and replace them with a ribbon and a cookie.
6. Cravings – Like who doesn’t cross four lanes of rush hour traffic to peel into the Quick Stop for a Slim Jim?
7. Stressful things like, say, naps make you want to take a nap.
8. Getting so accustomed to giving urine samples, you feel the urge to empty your bladder every time you go down the Dixie Cup aisle at the grocery store. Sometimes you feel the urge after it’s too late.
9. Lying on your back for nine months like fried bologna on an open-face sandwich.
10. Your belly button pops out like the timer on a Butterball turkey when the baby’s done.
1. Because you’re not famous, you don’t have a “bump.” You have a baby.
2. You finally have cleavage. And it’s not in the back!
3. You get to decorate the nursery – but nobody will let you lift, paint, or use harsh cleaners. Sweet. Interior design without the gruntwork. It's like ordering dinner from the Martha Stewart cookbook and instructing Martha to be gentle with the egg whites.
4. You cry over sentimental things like Budweiser commercials. Or because they’ve run out of Choco Tacos at the corner store.
5. The gas station before your exit has the bathroom key ready for you every morning at 7:30. And they remove the chain and tire iron it was originally attached to and replace them with a ribbon and a cookie.
6. Cravings – Like who doesn’t cross four lanes of rush hour traffic to peel into the Quick Stop for a Slim Jim?
7. Stressful things like, say, naps make you want to take a nap.
8. Getting so accustomed to giving urine samples, you feel the urge to empty your bladder every time you go down the Dixie Cup aisle at the grocery store. Sometimes you feel the urge after it’s too late.
9. Lying on your back for nine months like fried bologna on an open-face sandwich.
10. Your belly button pops out like the timer on a Butterball turkey when the baby’s done.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Swine Dining
“Let’s hit the feed trough.”
Recently I ventured out on a shopping expedition with Laudy and Quirky, my dear sisters whose lives are devoted to my best interests. In the name of fellowship, and because at least one of us exhibits the beginnings of unladylike behavior when hungry, I suggested we stop on the way for a bite at one of the all-you-can eat buffet restaurants that have spread across the country like heat rash on a baby’s behind.
“I guess we’d better,” Quirky rolled her eyes at Laudy. “Remember last time we waited too long for lunch and she called the saleslady that ugly name.”
“Yeah,” Laudy giggled. “Procreating Peanut Head.”
“I meant procrastinating,” I answered huffily. “She took forever at that cash register. You’d think there were cheese soufflés under those keys.”
“That’s because you made her check every price by hand when she accidentally charged you the extra dime for that chipped dessert plate. I’d make a mistake too, if I had you looming over my cash register like a buzzard on a dead possum.”
“Are you comparing me to an unsightly scavenger whose main goal in life is to seek out helpless prey?”
“If the beak fits. . .”
“Let’s go eat at the buffet.”
Calming words for troubled charge cards.
We whipped an emergency buffet turn, and in barely the time it takes to say mashed potatoes and gravy we were headed to our table lugging a tray covered with enough plates and bowls to serve everyone at the Kennedy family reunion.
An hour and a half later, I laid down my dessert fork, which had also served handily as my salad and dinner fork, and glanced around the table. Quirky was licking the cellophane from her coconut pie and Laudy was napping face down in her salad plate. I leaned back in my chair, caressing my stomach like it was a freshly baked creampuff. Luckily I had on trousers with an elastic waistband and did not have to resort to unorthodox clothing alterations.
“I’m glad you wore those pants.” Quirky observed. “Last time when you tried to unfasten your top button, it shot across the table, popped me in the eye and dropped into my iced tea. “I almost swallowed it and the busboy had to perform the Heimlich maneuver to get it out of my throat.” She rolled her eyes, an unbecoming character trait designed to draw attention to herself.
"You're a fine one to talk." I shot back. "Remember when you and that lady with the cane both went after the last yeast roll?" When I tried to break up the fight, you poked me with your salad fork and she whacked me with her walking stick."
“Yeah,” Quirky smiled fondly. “That was a good one. Did you see that lady in green?”
“Sure did. I used to date a man with a mustache like that.”
“Well she tried to bump me at the roast beef. I gave her a look and turned my back.”
“I’m sure you won that battle. Nobody can beat your backside."
We sat quietly for a moment, digesting our lunch and picking food from our teeth.
I belched delicately. “Wanna go to the mall?”
Quirky snorted. “I don’t even want to walk to the car.”
Laudy’s head rolled to the side as a snore echoed across the table, rattling coffee cups against their saucers. Her cheek was freckled with poppy seed dressing and a radish was stuck in her ear.
"I hate to wake her up," Quirky said wistfully, casting a longing glance toward the doughnuts.
Just as I was about to reply with an invitation for a short stroll to the dessert bar, a large woman waddled past us clutching a loaded plate in each hand. Thousand Island dressing cascaded down the side of a mountain of greenery and dropped in large dollops down the side of her housedress and puddled into her house slippers as she walked.
“You are what you eat,” Quirky observed, licking her finger to pick up the last of the coconut on her plate.
“You know, some people should take better care of themselves,” I agreed, brushing cookie crumbs off my chest.”
We watched the woman as she made the tedious journey back to her seat. She lumbered to a stop at a table in the corner where sat a man whose body was the size and texture of a piece of uncooked spaghetti. Placing the overflowing dishes carefully in front of him, she dropped with a thud opposite him where sat a delicate dish of fresh fruit.
Quirky and I exchanged glances. “Care for dessert?” I asked.
“Your plate or mine?”
Recently I ventured out on a shopping expedition with Laudy and Quirky, my dear sisters whose lives are devoted to my best interests. In the name of fellowship, and because at least one of us exhibits the beginnings of unladylike behavior when hungry, I suggested we stop on the way for a bite at one of the all-you-can eat buffet restaurants that have spread across the country like heat rash on a baby’s behind.
“I guess we’d better,” Quirky rolled her eyes at Laudy. “Remember last time we waited too long for lunch and she called the saleslady that ugly name.”
“Yeah,” Laudy giggled. “Procreating Peanut Head.”
“I meant procrastinating,” I answered huffily. “She took forever at that cash register. You’d think there were cheese soufflés under those keys.”
“That’s because you made her check every price by hand when she accidentally charged you the extra dime for that chipped dessert plate. I’d make a mistake too, if I had you looming over my cash register like a buzzard on a dead possum.”
“Are you comparing me to an unsightly scavenger whose main goal in life is to seek out helpless prey?”
“If the beak fits. . .”
“Let’s go eat at the buffet.”
Calming words for troubled charge cards.
We whipped an emergency buffet turn, and in barely the time it takes to say mashed potatoes and gravy we were headed to our table lugging a tray covered with enough plates and bowls to serve everyone at the Kennedy family reunion.
An hour and a half later, I laid down my dessert fork, which had also served handily as my salad and dinner fork, and glanced around the table. Quirky was licking the cellophane from her coconut pie and Laudy was napping face down in her salad plate. I leaned back in my chair, caressing my stomach like it was a freshly baked creampuff. Luckily I had on trousers with an elastic waistband and did not have to resort to unorthodox clothing alterations.
“I’m glad you wore those pants.” Quirky observed. “Last time when you tried to unfasten your top button, it shot across the table, popped me in the eye and dropped into my iced tea. “I almost swallowed it and the busboy had to perform the Heimlich maneuver to get it out of my throat.” She rolled her eyes, an unbecoming character trait designed to draw attention to herself.
"You're a fine one to talk." I shot back. "Remember when you and that lady with the cane both went after the last yeast roll?" When I tried to break up the fight, you poked me with your salad fork and she whacked me with her walking stick."
“Yeah,” Quirky smiled fondly. “That was a good one. Did you see that lady in green?”
“Sure did. I used to date a man with a mustache like that.”
“Well she tried to bump me at the roast beef. I gave her a look and turned my back.”
“I’m sure you won that battle. Nobody can beat your backside."
We sat quietly for a moment, digesting our lunch and picking food from our teeth.
I belched delicately. “Wanna go to the mall?”
Quirky snorted. “I don’t even want to walk to the car.”
Laudy’s head rolled to the side as a snore echoed across the table, rattling coffee cups against their saucers. Her cheek was freckled with poppy seed dressing and a radish was stuck in her ear.
"I hate to wake her up," Quirky said wistfully, casting a longing glance toward the doughnuts.
Just as I was about to reply with an invitation for a short stroll to the dessert bar, a large woman waddled past us clutching a loaded plate in each hand. Thousand Island dressing cascaded down the side of a mountain of greenery and dropped in large dollops down the side of her housedress and puddled into her house slippers as she walked.
“You are what you eat,” Quirky observed, licking her finger to pick up the last of the coconut on her plate.
“You know, some people should take better care of themselves,” I agreed, brushing cookie crumbs off my chest.”
We watched the woman as she made the tedious journey back to her seat. She lumbered to a stop at a table in the corner where sat a man whose body was the size and texture of a piece of uncooked spaghetti. Placing the overflowing dishes carefully in front of him, she dropped with a thud opposite him where sat a delicate dish of fresh fruit.
Quirky and I exchanged glances. “Care for dessert?” I asked.
“Your plate or mine?”
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Layla & Levi's
Now that the kids are old enough to leave at home without having to shell out the bucks for a SLED check on a babysitter, we’re able to go out more often. A year or two ago, the man who promised to love, honor, and make sure the dishwasher never quit sprang for tickets to an Eric Clapton concert.
You could tell by the crowd outside that it was going to be an interesting evening. A businesswoman in black heels and hose jostled for position next to a sixty year old hippie in a gauze tie-dyed shirt that looked like it had been stitched together from a box of Fruit Loops. I think he was her date. Worn Levi’s with the red tag far outnumbered designer jeans.
At the concert, I learned three things. Baby Boomers have wide and varied, by which I mean bad, taste in clothes, Baby Boomers think they can dance, and Baby Boomers automatically stand for Layla like a seven-ten split for a cross-eyed bowler.
But when the lights go down, we have one thing in common. We have the music in us. I saw three old men with tattoos where their biceps used to be, cover something in the vicinity of their Rock ’n Roll hearts with sun-basted hands when the opening chords of Layla split the speakers. And when “Beautiful Tonight” blasted romantically across the crowd, there wasn’t a woman among us that didn’t zip back through the Time Tunnel of Youth to the most romantic night of our lives. Couples locked eyes, lip-synched the lyrics, and fell in love all over again.
We may drive minivans, SUV's, and hybrids by day, but we still “get off on ’57 Chevies” at night.
You could tell by the crowd outside that it was going to be an interesting evening. A businesswoman in black heels and hose jostled for position next to a sixty year old hippie in a gauze tie-dyed shirt that looked like it had been stitched together from a box of Fruit Loops. I think he was her date. Worn Levi’s with the red tag far outnumbered designer jeans.
At the concert, I learned three things. Baby Boomers have wide and varied, by which I mean bad, taste in clothes, Baby Boomers think they can dance, and Baby Boomers automatically stand for Layla like a seven-ten split for a cross-eyed bowler.
But when the lights go down, we have one thing in common. We have the music in us. I saw three old men with tattoos where their biceps used to be, cover something in the vicinity of their Rock ’n Roll hearts with sun-basted hands when the opening chords of Layla split the speakers. And when “Beautiful Tonight” blasted romantically across the crowd, there wasn’t a woman among us that didn’t zip back through the Time Tunnel of Youth to the most romantic night of our lives. Couples locked eyes, lip-synched the lyrics, and fell in love all over again.
We may drive minivans, SUV's, and hybrids by day, but we still “get off on ’57 Chevies” at night.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Mental Pause
At major malls and grocery stores, there should be special parking places between the handicapped spaces and the spots for car seat-carrying minivans for those of use who have successfully reached the point in life when our mind is so full of important information such as when Son Two's biology project is due and which store has the great sale on toilet paper, that we can't bother with trivia, like say, which entrance we used upon arriving or where we left the car. Nobody needs a front row space more than the poor soul who is squinting through a crooked pair of drug store reading glasses and wobbling about on knees that have been overdue for replacements since the year the phrase “Google It” ousted “Dial Information” in popular conversation. And how long have we had a red car, anyway? I distinctly remember driving a blue one to take the baby for his first checkup. The baby is now 17 years old and trying to decide how to turn a Nintendo hobby into a profitable career to support his trading card addiction. I figure he'll eventually serve two terms. But whether it'll be in the White House or the Big House is still in question.
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