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You are a pink Starburst.  Remember that!  The Boomlennial woman has been put under a lot of pressure throughout the decades.  We were the first generation of women who were expected to work outside the home.  And we needed it and wanted it or fell under the spell of it all.  Our mothers made housekeeping a fulltime job and it probably was.  They hung the laundry outside on the clothesline.  On Monday.  The whole neighborhood.  On Monday.  They actually cooked meals everyday,  all day,  like three of them.  What’s that about?  Most families in my hood only had one car, so they didn’t spend a lot of time at the mall, the non-existent mall, or running the kids around, or finding ways to get ‘out of the house’.  The Boomlennial woman found lotsnlots of ways to get her enlightened buttocks OUT.  Staying at home all day was just not a good fit.  Thus began the battle between the ‘working’ mother and the ‘stay at home’ mother.  The WM said I have to work to make ends meet and because I’m brilliant and really enjoy my job and I’m really good at it.  And I’m a pink Starburst.  And the SAHM said I want to take care of my kids and I don’t need another car and my job is a fulltime one and I’m brilliant.  Also a pink Starburst.  What we didn’t realize at the time tho is that it all just fell to the woman.  All that bringin home the bacon and fryin it up in a pan and never lettin him forget he’s a man who should be pickin up the slack here and wipin up the grease and snotty little noses boom!   But we did teach the next generations how to mix the worlds and parenthood and how to share.  It’s also not easy being green.  Just ask Kermit.

Yep.  I heard it.  You said I was right.  And I have witnesses.  It has taken way too long for you to understand that I know everything and eventually something I’ve learned over the course of a lifetime might actually have some merit.  And no it’s not my manfriend because he’s intuitive enough to know that the Queen is always right and nothing can be gained from thinking otherwise.  Off with your head!  So no names please but it kind of sounds like one of those new sugars that are good/not good for you but makes you think that maybe/maybe not they are.  The Boomlennial knowssss thingssssss.  Experience is a great textbook if you can throw out the facts and figures and just do a gut check.  The stomach has a way of sending clues to the truth and sometimes takes over when the mind just needs a break.  We had to be resourceful.  Our parents actually had a life and didn’t look to us for entertainment.  I love hearing today’s parents saying they were so busy all weekend because they had soccer and cheerleading and lacrosse and football and dance and things that I know they are too out of shape to do and probably never did but somehow they’ve taken ownership of the fun and games. But you are just a spectator.  Which is fine but sometimes don’t you have the feeling like you want to play too??  Except golf because that’s just boring. So you see I’m right again.  And I knowww thingssss.  I can help you not Truvia.

Or not.  Just when I think this Boomlennial is overflowing with wise nuggets of worthless info that everyone is clamoring for I realize I got nothin.  My mind might be shooting in a hundred different directions with hurricanes, satellites that I don’t understand, and beach vacations that I do understand now more than ever, but nothing Boomlennial worthy.  We still need a bit of Zing to keep our interest and I don’t think my theory on the locust invasion as the next unnatural disaster will pull you in.  Just trying to keep your attention here and waiting for some brilliance to overtake me.  Not happening.  But do come back.  #locustsouprecipe

Don’t Wanna Know.  Don’t Wanna Care.

I saw this sign in a bar in Montana and took a picture of it which was kind of pathetic in it’s own right since I was surrounded by beautiful scenery in 3D and didn’t take many shots (oh yes I did).  Did I say I was in a bar in Montana?  Anyway,  bars are where all the great world philosophers hang out.  And they get wiser as the evening wears on, and better looking BTW.  Until they also think they can dance and end up looking like Elaine from Seinfeld.  Time to go.  But the sign stuck with me as a reminder that sometimes you just have to hit the ‘pause’ button.  Most Boomlennials have big lives.  Big families, or little families that seem like big families.  Big jobs, or big thoughts on looming retirement and what to do about that.  Or not.  Appointments with doctors, lawyers, and Indian Chiefs.  Important stuff, or trivial sh*t that we treat as important sh*t.  And it all just makes us care too much about sh*t.  We no longer have one calendar hanging in the kitchen, but another always at our side sending out pings and pongs notifying us that something oh-so-important is happening Beware!  Which is great when your football pick is due, but not so great when yoga starts in fifteen minutes and you are trying to pretend like you forgot about it.  Which just happened and now I’m feeling like I probably should just go to yoga instead of rattling on about sh*t.  Don’t care, don’t wanna care.  Namaste.

What a great word!!  After you write a blog instead of hitting enter or post or some other benign word you touch Publish and voila.  You are a ‘published’ author and I like it.  It’s the little things….

Ok those last two words were totally unnecessary.  I’ll give you a minute for a huh and a brief chuckle.  Over the years I imagine we have all tried to run for what ever reasons.  Weight loss, fitness, an excuse to buy new shoes, to be able to join in lively reparte at a cocktail party, and of course because we are basically pack animals and everyone was doing it.  And some actually liked it which still baffles me.  But now?  Most of those hardcore runners are facing some hardcore truths.  Some of those body parts weren’t really made for that constant pounding and are ready for the scrap heap.  Hip, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.  Hip, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and okay you get it.  And just try not to continue singing it in your head.  Eyes and ears and….. So back to not running.  I am finally glad that I didn’t enjoy one second of it and was content to do lots of other fun, physical things that hopefully spared my original pieces and parts while providing some health benefits.  I can walk in Forrest Gump’s path and feel great in mind and body afterward.  My Fitbit tells me I’ve walked the Paris subway system and from San Fran to Seattle and lotsnlots of other fine destinations but I don’t feel like I’ve abused myself.  Although the runners high might have been lacking, the walking got/gets rid of a lot of demons and cobwebs and that is  a benefit that isn’t as sexy as a high, but having your original knees has a certain amount of sex appeal.  Or maybe I’m still feeling guilty for not running….

Now that my followers are up to hundreds, if not millions, I realize my B- game is gone.  Probably stolen by the eclipse.  When you start out with an A game it’s ok when shorter days start zapping your best hours.  But as little T would say ‘this girl is a problem’.  There are the morning and the night people.  But this Boomlennial is only good between ten and two.  In the summer.  When the sun is giving me energy and a tan and lotsnlots of vitamin D.  No brittle bones here my friends.  But now the days are getting shorter and I’m fading like the tan.  The farmers have this one down.  Sun you up. Sundown you down.  Got it.  And so does my mind but it’s expected to keep going.  All the live long day.  Whatever that means but I bet you Boomlennials know the song about working on the railroad.  Which we don’t. I just need to find a different oomph.  Yes that’s a word.  Pumpkin spice everything??? Why do we all seem to want this now?  Of course if it comes in an M&M that question is answered.  Scary costumes.  For adults. Which is what really makes that scary.  Houses decorated with tombstones and fiberglass hanging from bushes and orange lights.  Always fun.  Bonfires ok if you like that smell.  In your hair.  Tomorrow.  Not quite getting that boost I’m looking for.  So don’t leave me yet.  I do know that this will be the next season of dreams for the Browns and I will be rahrahing all over the place.  And I’ll be obnoxious.  And will have nothing but oh-so-fascinating commentary.  Which I know is nuts but ‘wait till next year’ has to arrive sometime, right?  Going to milk the cows now…..

 

Thank you my five followers for reading/reacting/zzzz through my posts.  It is a momentous day as I head out to a field to sweat with the masses and say goodbye to my retinas.  I have the cereal box ready to go but I know as a tryer that it’s just not going to keep me from sneaking a peak at the eclipse.  Big peak.  Challenging the gods peak.  The Boomlennial made the rules to break the rules and science be damned.  At this point the best I can hope for is a big cloud or a bebe that needs a distraction because I would NEVER let them look up heaven forbid.  My irresponsibility only applies to me which is another subject for another time which I hope to explore with perhaps a keyboard with raised dots on it.  Or better yet the fake news is in the cardboard sunglasses business and it’s all just media hype.  You have to think that the people in the world not controlled by others telling them what to think might just be a bit curious why it’s getting dark in the day and take a gander skyward.  And continue on with their day not realizing they were supposed to burn their eyes out.  So they don’t.  Or maybe they do.  Will check out CNN in the morning so they can tell me half the country has gone blind.  And it’s Trumps fault.  Fortunately,  I can switch to FOX where they don’t even address it and my day will continue in ignorance.  And hopefully light.  Or maybe grateful there’s medicinal weed.  Goldenrod, that is, which I will pick in the field while I can still see. Continue reading Goodbye my dear retinas

I won’t tell you a story about my cousin’s friend who died of lemons.  Words can be tricky.  And scary.  And sometimes totally worthless.  My thoughts and prayers are with you.  Really?  Are they?   I’m sorry for your loss.  Who even talks like that?  When ‘you know who you are’ utter those banal sentiments there is surely a message you want to convey.  But what is it?  Would it be so hard to come up with an original phrase that at least made the receiver not immediately throw the card away?  No I wouldn’t do that.  Ok maybe. Once(ish).  ‘You know who you are’ wouldn’t want to do anything to add more pain to the situation so they fall back into the socially acceptable, unmemorable tried and not necessarily true phrases.  Sometimes a genuine, emotional outburst at least conveys that you are trying to connect.  One of my dearest was at the funeral of one of her dearest and a friend told her that she understands how she feels because her Rolex died and she was so upset.  Can’t make this stuff up.   But telling time is important.  And it was a Rolex after all.  But, as ridiculous as that sounded at the time it was just someone trying to connect as best they could.  If you pray for me thanks but don’t stand and wait for a pat on the back.  ‘You know who you are’ stood and told me three times that she was praying for me until I realized I wasnt giving back the response she was looking for.  Yes you are wonderful and thanks so much for going beyond anything I could imagine and no I’m not worthy of your prayers but let me comfort you.  Ok that was snarky but still.  Words are powerful but a totally inappropriate comment at least makes me know that ‘you know who you are’ is wishing they had just said I’m sorry for your loss.

……you’re on your fifth dog.  People leave your life for a variety of inexplicable reasons.  Some with wings, some with two men and a truck and all your nice furniture and the cats.  Please.  Some because it just becomes too much of an effort to stay in it.  But the dog(s).  Very poor shelf life.  Very bad bathroom habits.  Can’t keep a fur coat on no matter how cold it gets.  And yet.  And yet.  Here I am with my fifth dog and not quite sure why.   Do I want to sleep with him? No.  Do I want him to schedule my life?  No.  The fur situation?  That’s just an embarrassment even I don’t want to talk about.  Fortunately, I gave up trying to remember the gender of the dog(s) so suffice it to say I  have a male.  Or a female.  But the why still baffles me.  He/she is asleep at my feet and will get up leaving a fur outline that resembles a crime scene.  And yet. And yet…..