Category Archives: aging

“20 Things 20-Year-Olds Don’t Get”

Dig this Forbes contributor’s advice to 20-somethings in the workplace. A trifle condescending, but (1) he hires Jason Nazar20-somethings and (2) who among us “elders” didn’t endure a lifetime of condescension? There’s little to be gained from being treated like you know it all when you just don’t.

Wish I had read his thots about time, networks, & mentors eons ago, & I’m all for the plugs for PHONING and READING versus CHRONIC DEVICE USAGE…even if he was just a tiny little boy when I worked at Forbes.

Stand Up for Others ~ And Self

Apex Tech Logo gif One trait is evident in today’s Young People (hereinafter, the “YPs”).  In print at least (meaning, on Facebook), they seem to have more of a grip than we did. Better advised by parents and schools, they understand more which roads to go down—and which not to. We were kind of shooting in the dark, as I recall.  “You must have a liberal arts education!” we were told.  Sadly, I’d have been better off with a welding certificate from Apex Tech.

With their impressive grip, the YPs seem willing to protect and defend what they believe in. In prior generations, people considered it rude to speak up in polite conversation—at, say, a dinner party—regarding, say, marriage outside of one’s race or (specific!) religion.  Really, there’s nothing noble about listening to someone excoriate what you believe in, or (politely!) watching someone catch abuse. The YPs make a stand without being nasty about it.  We can be like them. Just say, “I disagree. Can we change the subject?” Or when it’s unsalvageable: “Hey wow, I forgot have a dental appointment. It starts in 10 minutes, and lasts the rest of my life.”

Sure, it’s uncomfortable to confront people, but as Rudolph the Reindeer’s father (Donder!) notes with a (Yankee?) disdain for self-indulgence, “Some things are more important than comfort. Like self-respect.”  Okay, so he says it regarding a fake nose cap he’s making his son wear to fit in.  I’m using it anyway.

Speaking of Rudolph, I have a friend with that name. He introduced himself to me years ago with, “Rudolph…as in ‘the Red-nosed Reindeer,’” a thrilling and crisp addendum. Ever since, when meeting people I imagine (silently!) what they could say to jazz it up (“White, as in the absence of color”; “Creamer, as in ‘non- dairy’”; “Joseph, as in ‘Jesus, Mary, and…’”; “Lava, as in ‘molten”; “Polly, as in “’…wanna cracker?’”) Let’s face it, in hard tymes, we can use all the laffs we can get. So if you have a name that’s a word in the English language, you might try this out for the benefit of All.

Back to protect/defend: many motorists dig those construction road signs with giant letters, “LET ‘EM WORK ~ LET’ EM LIVE.”  Succinct; clear; a trifle threatening. I’d like shirts saying that for protecting/defending. See someone getting picked on? Wear the shirt and stand around him all day. Hear an employee getting wailed on by an employer or customer? Speak up! Throw the shirt at the perp! Do something. Do it!

I have a post-menopausal acquaintance that looks younger (dammit) than I. There was a guy she liked who seemed interested but wasn’t asking her out. She told her friend that he’d better make his move because, “My clock is ticking.”  Friend’s response?  “Yeah, the big one.”  Not the biological clock, the big clock. The big clock is ticking, people. Don’t tarry. At age 32, another friend started getting cold feet about his relationship. Someone advised him to stay, suggested he was just panicking about giving up his solitary lifestyle. Two decades later, he’s glad he did. So I say if you’re (1) dilly dallying: knock it off and (2) putting up with dallying/dallying: knock it off. Speak up for yourself. Time’s a wastin’.

Now if you’re taking repeated punches from someone, the smart thing is to nip it in the bud. Let your attacker know his or her unkind behavior is being noted and that you are not falling for it—that this is not something you somehow “deserve.”  They’ll move on to other prey and, generally, it’s much more fun sticking up for someone else than for yourself. That’s why god invented bodyguards, wingmen, tailgunners, right-hand women, and riding shotgun. But remember, the pen is mightier than the shotgun.  As is a well-arched eyebrow.

Your monthly good news is that eco-protector/defender Mayor Bloomberg is crusading for New Yorkers to separate their garbage for composting. NYC plans to compost 100,000 tons of food scraps yearly, then build a plant to process this into bio-gas to generate electricity. Frisco and Seattle have already mandated same.  Right on.

I’ll leave you with this quote from John Caruso’s excellent YA novel, Hard Magic:  “They knew from then on… they could depend on each other. That was real. It was one thing to sit around a room and share information and speculate about the truth of things; it was another thing to use what you knew and go out into the world and change things for the better or, at least, keep things from getting worse.”

Get up. Stand up. Don’t give up the fight. Good day.

Margaret and Helen Rip it Out Over Texas

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Wendy Davis, D-Ft. Worth
Eric Gay/AP

This gem was written before articulate State Senator Wendy Davis pulled it off. I can’t leave it up long (you’ll see why), but I post because Margaret and Helen are a riot (if they exist) and in honor of today’s good news from Texas. Apologies to my Republican friends for Helen’s, um, approach. And shame on those who tried to tinker with the official time on the vote records.

The actual full story is astonishing in every way.

For those agreeing with single mother, Harvard grad, and champion of low-income women Wendy Davis, the outcome is a fresh breeze of good air. Thank you, Miz Davis. Thank you.

Spring Fever: Spring Sprang Sprung

We’re all just daffy.

Vermonters are duped by none of spring’s standard heralds:  the calendar, the lusty hammering of the male woodpecker, or flower bulbs emerging.  The 2013 groundhog’s malfeasance in violation of the public trust was widely rebuked, his handlers penalized, justice served—and Vermont stood solidly behind that decision—but we know better. We don’t shelve our snow tires ’til deep into the month even when it’s 75 degrees mid-month.

It’s not just us enduring global weirding.  Motorists in MA were doing 360s on I-91 in many inches of ice balls pouring from the sky last week, and in NY there were tree-felling microbursts. In two recent trips to the Carolinas, I failed to witness the Carolina blue skies. They were more like Carolina Pre-owned Off-White Skies, from Sears.

Carolina Off-white.

Carolina Off-white.

Yet the return of spring is promised by the reappearance of air freshener (canned fresh air!) named Spring Breeze. They must be canning it elsewhere because the spring breezes in my area smell exactly like the tons of fertilizer trucked into a nearby corn field.  Brings tears to your eyes, and not in the puppy-sleeping-in-a-meatloaf-pan kind of way, more in the my-eyeballs-are-boinin’-up way. I hope the canned Spring Breeze smell better than ours, and than Yankee Candle’s  “Country Linens,” which smells like you hosed the place down with bleach.  They should call it “Country Clorox.”  If there’s anything more fun than naming candle scents, nail polish colors, or ski trails, I don’t know what that is.

Tappin' it old school.

Tappin’ it old school.

Due to travel screwed up by the [nice people] at Expedia.com, I am behind in local news. I’m guessing mud season was a banner year for sap, and for the sapsuckers far and wide who guzzle the glorious maple nectar of the Land. It’s nice when nature smiles on you for a change, along with the elusive orb that had Vermonters asking all winter, “Where’s that big yellow thing usta be in the sky?”

Well, Spring Fever is definitely in the air. It’s pretty much Antics City as cloudy skies haven’t stopped woodpeckers from advertising for dates, squirrels from chasing each other around their condos, and children’s eyes from swapping out the blackboard for the window. Reminds me of when the Lorris twins moved to town in the 70s. The girl was a law- (and Safety Patrol-) abiding citizen; her brother anything but.  On a spring day, we had for 8th grade English one of education’s most sad combinations: a timid substitute teacher. Naturally, we seized our advantage. Someone’s bright idea was to jump out the windows and make a run for it. They should call it Spring Idiocy.

To facilitate our escape, one Lorris twin graciously offered to “create a diversion.” We weren’t sure what that meant, but it became evident when, five minutes into class while Miz Timorous struggled through roll call, said twin suddenly howled, waved his arms wildly, then sprinted out of the room. Miz Tim, terrified, sprang after him while the rest of us made a break for it out the windows.  We made the two-foot drop to the grass and ran full-throttle to the tennis courts where we shrugged. “OK, we’re sprung. What now?” We had no plan, you see. We ended up back in the classroom with no authority the wiser (it was the 70s) and a nice little shenanigan under our belt.

In closing, to put a spring in my girlfriends’ steps, a longtime male friend had this to say just last week: “What’s the appeal of 35 year-olds? To me, there is nothing sexier than a woman our age that looks good.” I adore him because, I assure you, “our age” is more than a couple years above 35. They should call it “old.” Oh wait, they do.

You don’t have to take my advice—you rarely do—but consider this:  roll around half-naked in the sun, huff spring breezes, feel good about your age, get the fever, have a plan, execute it, do a shenanigan, and call it a (good) day.

Vermont Spring Bumper Stickers:

Gone Muddin’

Got Mud?

My Dog for Mayor

If We Ignore The Environment, It Just May Go Away.

This Land is Your Land, This Land is My Land. Now Stay on Your Land.

If There’s One Thing You Can Count On

AYE, ‘TIS SPRING!

Except for a portion in the middle, our entire lifetime is about nonstop change. When you’re growing up, it’s all change always; in the middle, while others around you change, things can stay the same for you for a long stretch (enter career burnout); then, without warning, you’re over the crest and there’s a mess of other changes. Some are okay. Most are no good at all.

Some folks are flexible with change. I’m not one of them. I’m accepting in minor ways (flight delays), but not in major ones (wanting children to stay the same age forever). I recently visited my hometown library. It was exactly the same (good) except for more computers (okay) and people gabbing at top volume (bad).  The librarian was loud. A tutor was yelling. A woman pitched a fit with her belongings, unpacking and repacking them noisily. I was frothing and dying to bray at the lot of them, “That’s why God invented Starbucks, you crazy ruders. This is a library!” but I didn’t. New Yorkers blast each other but I’ve been Vermontized (good), so now I can’t (bad).

I couldn’t stand it when The River and WEBK went country years ago; I’m still angry.  WEBK had this stoner-sounding DJ who’d play the Hot Breakfast—a slamming live version of a song—while we non-farmers drove to work.  One day it was Van Halen’s “Feel Your Love Tonight”, a song I’ve never thought about twice. The content is fratty, but oh, the live harmonies!

The River was a truly great radio station and KCRW, fun. I like how country music shuts my brain down but not how it takes over other stations. Country didn’t change for decades (good), but it’s changed a lot in recent years (bad), as have its award shows (sooper bad). Between that, our loss of privacy via creepy surveillance, technological advances we can’t keep pace with, and now—get this—brides-to-be dieting via nasal feeding tubes, the seventh sign of the apocalypse cannot be far off. The seventh sign is reportedly silence, so you’re safe at my hometown library.

Yes, you’ve definitely topped the hill and are skidding down the descending side when (1) noise gets to you and (2) you’re in Shaw’s asking “Who is this ‘Katy Perry’?” with the teen checkers eyeballing you like a squawking, wing-flapping pterodactyl. I can deal with that. What’s vexing is celebrities getting younger. Is he shaving yet? Is kissing legal at her age? Who are these people?

I like Adele, because she cusses and sports her luscious heft without apology. But geez, can’t anyone have a last name any more? Is it a sign of unimportance? There’s someone named, simply, Fantasia? Isn’t that like being called Song of the South? I’m naming my kid Dumbo.  Dumbo’s gonna be huge. I hope it’s a boy.

We went to a multiplex near Manhattan and no one was there (bad). No one’s going to movies! Easy to miss this new development in Vermont, where sparsely-attended movies are common. But in Westchester County, the cultured pearl of NYC suburbia?! Where are her ill-mannered youth threatening to sue each other in the parking lot? Gone to the screening rooms in their McMansions?  (Good!)

As for the McAutomization of Planet Earth, with billers urging us to Go Green because they care deeply [about cutting costs], let’s just automate the crap out of everything.  Have one employee doing it all, with endless recorded “customer service” loops (“Press 666 for a Horseman of the Apocalypse to ride to your house and finish you off.”)

The Olympics are coming. Brace yourself: the athletes are different. Who are these children? Forget the former Olympians (washed up at…25?) pastured out to commentary and well-wishing; where’s Peggy Fleming? That’s who’s supposed to be at the podium, people. Help me out. Switch the channel to Lawrence Welk. I mean Dick Clark. I mean Don Cornelius. I mean that show with the host. The young guy.

If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s change. Terrible, terrible change.  It’s smart to save yourself a ton of grousing and just adapt. After Hurricane Irene pounded my garden last August, I’m white flaggin’ it for a more surefire hobby. A hammock-based activity, perhaps. Like any bad habit, I’ll have to nurture it to make it grow. But that, dear Reader, is a topic for another—and good—day.