Author: Karebare42@aol.com

Wait!  Wait!  Bad Advice!!!!  Be a Follower!!  Like me! Love me!  Share me!  Comment on me!  Just don’t troll me because then I think of a little naked guy with glassy eyes and colored hair with too much static.  Being a follower has sure changed connotations over the years.  No more sheep baaaabaaaaing.  We’ve become a world of followers.  We follow people, pages, links, groups, and more nonsense then I care to admit.  And we get great satisfaction from how many millions if not trillions of followers we have.  I have never been so popular in my life!  It’s an odd pecking order when you have hundreds of  ‘friends’  but nothing to do on a weekend.  Soooo you follow more sh*t and hope you get more followerrrrrs.  The young man who got his picture taken with JT at the Super Bowl was more excited about all the online traction he got then the actual selfie.  He became an overnight rock star and didn’t have to do too much.  Of course he was so busy getting the video that the whole encounter probably blew right by him but oh well.  He has lots-n-lots of followers now and I’m just jealous.  Like ME!  Love ME!  Leadership be damned!  Follow ME!   Just to be clear, I really don’t care about any of that but since there are enough people who do I try to be relevent.  The Boomlennial has a unique perspective and voice that sometimes needs to BE SHOUTED in all caps baaaaaa.

I don’t even know where a sandwich lives.  Cooking, eating, and drinking have become quite an endeavor recently.  Beer has somehow become a craft, and like crocheting can be quite complicated.  The are millions to choose from (at least) and they are catogrized with fancy initials, and grain choices, and countries they come from, or at least that’s what you are led to believe.   I know some of these craftsmen and they are the same dudes that used to be banging on cheap guitars in garages and basements, but have created an industry that seems to be working.  Winemakers can’t have all the fun.  But much like the snobbishness of winos (take out the alchohol and would anyone really be drinking that juice??),  beer aficionados know their stuff.  And that’s probably what really gnaws at me.  I know everything.  EVERYTHING.  Truly brilliant.  But I have been publically ridiculed for ordering something generically lite, or natural, or cheap.  (Yes that was overly dramatic but I like to ridicule others since I am an expert on everything.  EVERYTHING).  But much like cooking I just don’t care that much.  If my kitchen were filled with vending machines I’d be good with that.  I don’t want to talk about it.  I was in a bar of all places where two men were trying to one up each other on how they smoke tenderloin.  Yes the kind that comes from an animal.  They had dualing rubs, and temperatures, and times, and spices, and all kinds  of heated debate about whose was bigger and better.  Yes still talking tenderloin here.  My tongue was bloody from biting it so hard because there were way too many good jokes going to waste.  But once men got into the cooking thing it got ‘craft’ status and full on competition.  Women cook to feed people,  men cook as an art form.  Simplistic, of course, but there is a whole channel devoted to food and cooking and someone’s watching it.  I’ve never seen it because it would make me hungry and I’d have to go searching for quarters to get my lunch.  Now craft vending machines hmmmm??

 

If that title doesn’t pull you in like a pair of pantyhose with too many runners,  you have no imagination.  Which is the reason I couldn’t come up with a better way of expressing my favorite symbol.  Long story longer.  A friend of mine was giving me a play by play of a horrible thing he did.  So horrible.  It was a beautiful spring day and his kids came home from school and wanted to go out and play.  He thought it was a grand idea oh dear oh dear.  So out they went ooobla dee oobla da.  I’m starting to shake now.  SPOUSE comes home, sees the kids outside in school clothing, and lights into the world.  Yells at him, yells at kids, yells yells yells.  Such a big, bad blunder.  So smooth guy that he is draws a Big Circle with a Small Dot in the Middle, and explains calmly that the Circle is his world, and the tiny Dot is how much he cares about the kids playing in their school clothes.  Perfect gentleman, perfect sense.  I think many things that make us want to yell yell yell are just Little Dots.  Perspective.  This happened over ten years ago but I often think of that symbol which I wish I could name and patent.  Goose poop on your clothes is a tiny Dot.  Wait I take that back.  It’s disgusting.  But making yourself crazy over trivia is not good when we live in a trivial world.  SPOUSE is a bit of a wack job (oh yeah that’s rude), and I might be losing another follower here, but I’ll always be so appreciative of a path to categorize my life dot dot dot….

 

usually takes the bitch right out of me.  Unless of course the frumpy waitress keeps telling me it’s her favorite.  Or the meal I ordered is her favorite.  Or the screeeeeeam.  Why in the world would anyone care about the palette of the no name waitress?  Or maybe the question is what training manual has been circulating in the culinary field.  I’ve heard the line before and roll my eyes maybe, probably, but stop it no name.  I don’t know you and you don’t know me and free range squirrel is delightful and what do you think of that?  It reminds me of the diet commercials that say ‘if I can do it anyone can do it’.   Really?  You are the role model for the ENTIRE WORLD???   Who gave Marie Osmond that awesome responsibility?   I don’t know you, you don’t know me.  Eating out of cardboard boxes that have been sitting on my porch all day is not my go to plan, but thanks, Marie, for thinking you got my back.  Now about those blown up lips that are about to explode Botox…  Oops, off message.  Back to me.  A great tidbit I heard is never take advice from someone you wouldn’t want to switch places with.  Yes that sounds snooty and kind of brilliant.  Sometimes you just have to narrow the field of who you listen to.  No Name shouldn’t be advising me.  And if I’m thrilled that her and I share similar tastes in wine, might need to delve into that more deeply.  Bet the docs Oz and Phil could beat that one for an hour.  Also role models for the world. Or maybe I need to lay off daytime TV and just drink water.  Sparkling, flat, bottled, tap?  What do you suggest?  Help glug glug glug….

 

As I reach a new year of insobriety,  it’s time to ponder the Boomlennial folklore and see how we’re doing and where we are going.  The millenials get a lot of attention but I’m not so sure that a populace that can’t stop eating Tide pods is getting my respect.  The Boomlennial does need to step up their game a bit and be somewhat inventive, however.  Way too many of us go to Florida in the winter which is nice and warm and bright and ok now I’m just jealous.  But sometimes you go there and hang out with the same people you do up north.  Bad Boomlennial grade for that.  Meet new weird people.  You see the old weird people enough.  Or go west young (wo)man.  Lots-oh-beautiful hot spots.  Retirement is on a lot of minds, but a good exit plan is hard to come by.  Unless you have forty hours of fun, enriching, mind expanding things to do, reconsider.  Bagging groceries at the local supermarket isn’t going to cut it for most of us.  And your children really don’t want to see you that much.  Volunteering in the community is a lofty goal but let’s face it.  If you haven’t been doing it all along its probably not going to happen.  The best community activists have been involved while they were working and/or raising families and/or having too much fun and/or making it a priority in time and/or $$$.    Just trying to help out my peeps here and evaluate a generation that needs to hold their own.  Don’t be complacent.  I need to pad my lucrative book deal and if my Boomlennial brothren aren’t sculpting me a new Adonis I’ll have to rely on YouTube for content and start inhaling cinnamon and work my way up/down to Tide pods.  Think I’ll start with birthday cake #alsoloftygoal

my metabolism.  It’s that time of year and all the new diet books and chit chat shows are just giving me too much credit but thanks. The latest book says if you fast for twelve hours a day you’ll lose weight.  Call me crazy here but don’t most people do that??  If you have dinner at seven, twelve hours will pass until you eat again or am I missing out on that luscious 4am  snack?  Of course there’s always that evening binge or those glasses of Chardonnay that majically appear in my hand well into the evening, but on a whole I’d say I’m generally into a fourteen hour fast and nothin.  The obit on my metabolism was written long ago.  Nothing gets better with age except your perception of how wonderful you used to be.  I joined Weight Watchers for the first time when I was eighteen and have been a member most of my adulthood.  There are those who might think that is a failed relationship  but au contraire.  They continue to be my best buddy and have not overestimated my metabolism, relationships, common sense, and get my love/need/want for food.  Every diet works.  (Okay maybe not that dumb twelve hour fast thing).  But I think the Boomlennial has finally conceded that we need to live life.  Which of course includes being healthy and digging chocolate and trying our best to keep all the bad things at bay.   WW has grown and evolved with me, which includes doing your homework and not being complacent, and being a very good Boomlennial.  Once you stop fighting there ceases to be a war.  Mindfulness.  A very good word which makes me feel very Oprahesque and not the one yelling during award shows but the old school one that pulled a wagon of fat across the stage.  Being in the moment.  Making thoughtful decision.  Even the bad ones.  Very Boomlennialesque.

#newbeginnings#freshstart#resolutions#overitsigh.  The optimism of the new year is over.  Almost a week into it and I still haven’t lost twenty pounds.  The new calendar is still under the tree.  Covered in dirty needles.  Did manage to throw all the sweets out and not dig them back out of the trash so maybe should give myself credit for that.  Scratching for positivity here……  But as the year is wearing on I’m getting cranky.  And some of you are just ticking me off.   The women broadcasting from New York during a cyclone bomb (sounds like something I’m ordering tonight shots!)  dressed in sleeveless summer dresses.  Just seems dumb.  People are stupidly waving at you through the windows with nothing showing but their frost bitten eyes and you are flexing your toned arms.  If it was sweltering outside and you showed up in a sweater and turtleneck it would look absurd during the summer.  Get where I’m going with this??  Just annoys me.  Probably have white heels on your bare legs.  If you want credibility don’t cover the frigid blizzard dressed for an umbrella drink on the veranda.   I know this isn’t a topic that requires this much space but I’m trying to deflect the No Names Please people who tick me off.   If I’m your boss don’t argue with me.   If I’m your mother don’t argue with me.  If I’m buying something from you don’t argue with me.   If you’re serving me food don’t argue with me.  And so it goes.  My dog pooped in the house because it’s too cold for his big hairy *ss to squat outside.  Not forgiving this.  There is as much salt inside the house as on the driveway.  Nope not happy.  Schools are closed which I really shouldn’t care about but I know the mall and the ski slopes will be packed and it annoys me.  Why??   Deep thinking tells me that all the things put off during ‘the holidays’ must now be addressed.  And I still don’t want to.  I want to sit and look at the beautiful snow and dig those cookies out of the trash.  Only the clean ones.

The weather and discussion of it has gotten a bad wrap.  There are those (not the enlightened, sophisticated Boomlennial I’m sure) who use it for conversation when they got nothin or needing to change the subject.  How bout those Browns??  My go to.  When the Big Chill in the air chit chat comes up I start sweating with anticipation of more to come.  What about the Polar Vortex (also my late fishes name, may he rest in toilet bowl pieces) which was an attention grabber a few years ago.  And still excites me as I scan the frozen tundra maps hoping it makes a reappearance.  But generally people don’t really want to get into it.  I know.  How crazy is that??  Certainly not polite conversation in passing.  Let’s dig in.  What does it mean?  What are the repercussions?  When one of my wee dearests is visiting I’m pretty relaxed in my pretend parenting.  Are those scissors sharp enough for you or would a knife be better?  The dog doesn’t really need a tail.  He’s not a boat after all.  But shall we play in lotsandlots of water until you and the floor are soaked?  (Good thing my X follower isn’t reading anymore or I could be busted.).  BUT….when my wee dearest plays with my weather station that’s when I may or may not lose it.  (Just in case X is sneaking a peek.)  I need to know the temp in Akron, not Atlanta!?$!  And what is the wind speed I wonder in a panic.  The screen changes color with every ten degree threshold so when it’s blazing green I know something’s amiss when we’ve been tettering on a pale to vibrant purple the last few weeks.  Thankfully I can get it readjusted but there is some extremely important information gone in that thirty seconds. Whew.  So next time someone says it’s fricken cold out maybe it’s just a cry for help and they want to have more intimate discussion about it.  Or I need to get inside and realize the time for outsideish bloguing is over.  Must get inside and check what color temp makes your hands numb.  All fascinating stuff.

So now that we’ve made it through round two of ‘the holidays’ we should be ready for more meat.  And I don’t mean turkey, ham, or lobster which seemed like a good idea at the time. Who knew that days later the fridge would reek, my hands are in shards, and my dog’s breath is very suspect.  No pine scent to be had.  I know I’ve let my million followers down (picked up a new one a few weeks ago) and he tried to be diplomatic in his review.  Interesting.  Different perspective.  I know what all that means so probably don’t have him back.  Which is ok.  He can still say he knew me when and I’ll sign my book for him.  In pencil.  Now that I’m totally off target I need to focus.  #notmetoo.   I have not been sexually harassed.  And I’m offended.  You like my dress?  Really?  That’s it!!  No comment about how sexy it makes me look??  Throw me a bone.  At least say it brings out the color of my eyes for gosh sakes.  Of course I’m being an ahole here but that’s kind of my schtick. There are, of course, many degrees of harassment and legitimate complaints but what happens in 1964 stays in 1964.  We were not a nice people then.  Different time, different place.  We were evolving and becoming civilized and I’m quite proud of who we are.  Woman have come a long way, baby, and if they don’t be careful they are going to face some backlash.  You want to be one of the guys?  Included in the boardroom and golf course and for after dinner cigars?  It wasn’t too long ago that men would retreat to another room so they could joke and laugh and not worry that they might be offensive.  So be careful of what you are trying to accomplish or you’re going to lose your place in line.  I, for one, don’t want to be sent back to 1964.  Of course you men cannot utter a word of this but I got your back.  I know you are not the fiends the media is trying to portray you as.  The actions of a few should not be representative of the masses.  And to almost quote Pamela Anderson (laughing to think I’ve come to the place where she’s my voice of reason)  when a man invites you to a hotel room for a meeting, shows up at the door in a robe, and you go in, that’s on you.  Take some responsibility.  That’s a use use situation.  This, of course, is a subject that can’t be covered in one brilliant blogue so go back to Facebook and look at everyone’s magical Christmas and beautiful families and the cookies with little chocolate kisses and make those resolutions.  I resolve to use paragraphs and not say of course so often.  I always have lofty goals of course.

but you need someone to tell that solitude is fine.  This is a hard post to write mainly because No Names Please is a rule, and the Boomlennial is a total rule follower hahahahahaha.  So I will just talk about my Manfriend(s) and my long weekend without him(s).  I’m not new to the being alone game, but when I went to revisit it after a long spell of coupling it was just a bit rattling.  I have such fascinating stories to tell and the fish that has lived five years floating on his back just isn’t a good companion.  (A very good pet BTW.  Just throw food at his head every couple days.).  The dog cries when I yell at the Buckeyes and runs when I yell at the Browns.  We will analyze my anger issues another time.  Fortunately, sports gets the brunt of it so you are all pretty safe.  For now.  So my Manfriend(s) went to visit his family(s) out of town for Thanksgiving which is what that day is for.  And to be thankful that it is only one day of massive eating and smiling and watching the parade which calls me and yes I still get excited when Santa make his appearance.  Which probably does explain why I was watching alone.  Weirdo.  But my manfriend(s) is ok with that.  Something to be grateful for.  He is ok with the smart stuff, and the cray cray stuff, and the boring stuff of which there is none.  Ever.  All fascinating.  Manfriend(s) is back and I guess all the cliches about being away are true but I would never use a cliche.  How cliche.  Manfriend(s) funs me, calms me, strokes me (eeeeewwwww) and lets me tell him(s) anything while biting his(s) tongue.  And I think he would say the same about his Ladyfriend(s).  We(s) do not take it for granted this late in the game to make this connection.  Yahtzee!