boomlennials.com

Somehow in my world I’ve become the Matriarch of Everyone, relatables and nonrelatables alike. It is a job I’m not very fond of, and not very good at, but the competition isn’t all that stiff.  Some of it I understand.  If you are the ticket owner, inviting guests to join you makes sense even to me.  But….that should be the end of my goodwill.  And patience.  On your own buddy.  Nope.  Now I have to start herding cats.  Which is why I’m a dog person.  I suppose I’ve brought it on myself, but Matriarchology (yep it’s a word if I say it’s a word) needs some tweaking.  Recently I went on a riverboat cruise which was very lovely and very scripted.  Lots of specific mealtimes, off boat excursions, and bingo.  Fortunately I was too afraid to play games with the old people so dropped that from my daily to do list.  My traveling companion (no names please) was up for anything and everything, except looking at the itinerary.  He would ask (yes calling you out sorry) manymanymany times whowhatwhenandwhere, but then not quite listen to the answer.  Or look at the paper we were given everyday with the complete schedule.  Herding cats.  I am a back row person.  Haven’t wanted to be the line leader since second grade.  (Ok sixth).  It’s very frustrating to try to keep the cats orderly when they seem to be wandering aimlessly.  I guess in the big scope of Boomlennial life this isn’t a huge problem, but then again those creatures are sneaky, and just when you are feeling oppressively in charge they might just scratch you in the back.  Especially when you’re writing smack about them.  #youareallgettinganelectricshockcollar #femaledog

She SHOUTED.  After spending a week on a boat with the Silent Generation (they aren’t), I was ready for some mental regrouping.  Normally a five hour wait in an airport would have me rubbing my a$$ before I even sat down, but I was ok with it.  I had a good book, one last People magazine where I could read about strangers I never even heard of, and QUIET TIME. But…..why is everyone SHOUTING ON THEIR PHONES?!$&?!!!???   Just because you have cute little earbuds doesn’t mean I give a sh*t about your conversation.  I can’t even think grrrr.  Fortunately, this blogue doesn’t require that so it’s all I’ve got about now.  The only perk left in traveling are these nice little ‘clubs’ where they have a mimosa or two(ish) and let you relax away from the chaos of the masses.  But EVERYONE IS SHOUTING ON THEIR PHONES and I can’t even read let alone catch up in my head. When did it become socially acceptable to annoy me??  My traveling companion and I did start talking REALLY LOUD to each other and got one man to move.  Sorry to disturb you. Right.  Just not cool.  And yes they are all men.  Just sayin.  At least the turnover in an airport is pretty quick so hopefully a new, more polite group will move in.  And I can read the Wall Street Journal (hahahahahaha).  And wish that I had spent more time in the weed stores and less time with a boat load of old people who bored me senseless.  Maybe I saw myself hitting that road sooner then I want.  Although I can’t imagine this #brilliantboomlennial ever being that dull and living so far in the past that you’re believing history as your reality.  You did not travel with Lewis and Clark.  I guess I need to study up on that People magazine and learn who all these women are with really swollen lips, and why they are important.  (They aren’t).  I mean they are!  So important!!  Stay relevant!  SHOUT on your phone!  Don’t get cranky.  #majorfail

is going to burn in Hello.  I love the feature, actually, but it is having a very negative effect on my writing.  (Or is it affect?  Where’s that help when I need it?).  When you write a blogue, the real fun is grammar and spelling be damned.  No red pen is coming after you.  But that darn AC (not to be confused with the freezing summmer air which makes said wardrobe obsolete)  just thwarts my creativity.  And probably annoys them no end.  Even AC doesn’t know what I’m trying to say half the time but keeps trying.  Which basically makes me lazy as if I need help.  Put in a couple letters and AC takes it from there.  I just get tired of fighting with them.  Have it your way, whatever.  I know if you can’t keep up with the world, it’s not the world’s job to slow down.  But just give me some pregame options.  You can pick your own font and letter size (wish you could see how jumbo it is on my end.  I’m on page three already) so let me decide to be an idiot, aka brilliant.  Options, options.  Only correct words with less than three letters.  Let cuss words slide.  If you write something in one giant paragraph it speaks for itself.  I recently spent a week with my wee dearests and was just amazed by the scope of their language and understanding.  And it was a bit disconcerting that they were trying to parent me and succeeding.  I kept asking advice and they kept delivering.  Freaky.  I couldn’t even let the water out of their bathtub without help.  Maybe that should have been our little secret shhh.  Anyway, my weeest (damn AC) saw some flowers petals all spread out on the floor in a public restroom and asked why.  I explained that someone’s flower must have fallen apart.  She let out the best daaaamit I ever heard.  Totally modular and heartfelt.  What else was appropriate to say at that time?  I couldn’t correct her (or laugh daaaamit) but sometimes there is only one word or phrase to make a point.  Which leads me to zero-0-Oh-O-o.  Time to go.  I’ve spent way too much energy wondering if something’s an O or an 0?  I can’t be the only one.  (Can I?  Oh dear).  AC should figure it out but let me be my own critiquer. Hah!

The struggles of my beloved football team have been well rehashed by every snarky bleacher report and sports genius.  Which every male thinks he is and some females #metoo.  So now that they have actually won a game or two (who can remember?) it doesn’t mask the fact that they are still keepin it Brownsy.  Nothing comes easy in the Hardland.  Including that terrible tag line which would make a great name for a gentleman’s club. Before I digress, I’m going to digress.  Keeping it Brownsy should be in the Urban Dictionary.  V.-when you can’t move past your reputation;  N.-you are what your record says you are.  (Don’t overthink those V’s and N’s.  It’s a blogue remember.).   Many Boomlennials approach life that way.  This is who I am.  This is what I do.  And they get stuck.  I don’t have to worry about winning.  My game is my game.  Which is great unless you’re Brownsy and then you need to step it up or end up in the dregs of mediocrity and boringnesdom. (Gosh I love a blogue.).   Which brings me to the Suannee River.  Which I bet you thought was spelled Swanee River like the Al Jolson song.  Which has nothing to do with keepin it Brownsy but I heard on GMA that a hurricane might be headed that way and I had to do some reconnaissance to see where it was.  And I’m not telling.  Do your own research Beahch.  Anyway, if I ever get another dog Swannee is his name.  I have lofty goals.  Which brings me to fruity essence.  Which has nothing to do with rivers but I liked how it sounded and don’t really think that cute little phrase could be poisoning sparkling water media be damned. Which makes me think that perhaps I have had too much coffee this morning and am basking in the glow of a Brown’s victory and beautiful fall weather. Which is ok but I was just going to start counting all the times I used the word which, which is way too Brownsy for a #brilliantBoomlennial #Brownsyisacutedognametoo

Got nothin. Nada. One of them.  As much as I like to be the spokesperson for a whole generation of amazing people, I realize I’ve succumbed to the blah.  Have already bitched about everything.  Sometimes twice.  Is it really possible that the Boomlennial experience is passé?  Not a chance!  Now I’m fired up!  This week my Manfriend and I had a midweek play date.  It felt like being on vacay.  Wander weekly, right?  Historically, I’ve mastered the bus tour.  (Grabbed you yet?). Whenever I’ve visited a new city, my first stop is Greyhound or Lolly the Trolley, or whatever catchy name they come up with.  You see the sights, get the history, and learn what you want to revisit during your stay.  But I realized I’m probably missing a lot locally because I just don’t have that background.  And since Manfriend is also a trier off we went to Cleveland.  First stop, West Side Market for grungy brunch and to decide if triers eat pig feet.  They don’t. Yet.  Then hoppin on the bus for an afternoon of sightseeing and mind expansion.  And a$$ expansion. Those Lolly seats are really hard.  And tight.  And you can’t cross your legs or move them.  That’s alright!  Part of the flavor!  Boomlennials don’t care (yes they do shhhh).  Final leg, through rush hour which should have been no biggy in a bus, but it was a bit harrowing. And the bus driver took a turn for the worse and had more conversation with the other drivers while still wearing a microphone ouch.  Flavor remember, flavor.  And need for a drink #strong#martini.  Then up to the 32nd floor of the Hilton to enjoy a beautiful view of the city and Lake Erie.  If I wasn’t immediately nauseous and vertigoish.  Damn getting old sucks.  However, who knew that the cure was alcohol.  My doc and I need to have a talk.  Think she’s steering me wrong with way less fun drugs.  Brief viewing opportunity but off again!  We were on a mission. Great dinner at an old ethnic restarant that has withstood the test of time with great food, Boomlennial waiters who might still actually like their job, and medicinal wine.  What a day!  Did the Boomlennial proud. #Tappedintoanunforgettableexperience #canIgetanamen

I’ve inherited a new group of peeps in the last couple years from my main Peep, alas.  What could have been an interesting learning experience has become a Boomlennial flagellation (word porn). When you have long term peeps, you like them and accept them and don’t have to judge.  But new ones?  Gasp.  They think they are interesting.   Reeeeeeeally interesting.   Or so consumed by their life that they can’t imagine anyone else not being as fascinated.  Or maybe never had anyone just say hey dude, you are boring the sh*t out of me.  And it’s not just one snoozer.  There are lots!  I guess it’s a sign of being a seasoned citizen that you just don’t care about other people anymore.  You are entrenched in you and that is satisfying enough.  How they keep themselves awake still baffles me but I’m starting to think I’m the one that just doesn’t get it.  I’ve sat through whole dinners #vacations with people who couldn’t pick me out of a lineup.  Or play the game where you give three answers to questions and have to pick the one that is a lie.  And my questions would be are you male or femail?  Do you speak English?  Are you endlessly fascinating?   Maybe I’m just missing my old peeps who know way too much about me and like me anyway.  And are capable of having a conversation and not just talktalktalktalk.  I’m starting to get worried about my Boomlennial bretheren.  We have to remain somewhat interesting because those generations behind us sure don’t think we are.  And they aren’t.  Don’t prove them right.  Stay relevant!  Don’t babble!  Pretend to care about other people.  Fake it till you make it.  Your manifest lack of interest is an egregious failure (sentence porn).  I know you think you’re interesting but yeaaaah, you’re not.

I hate history.  The more I learn about the world I’ve been inhabiting for long enough to know something something, the more I admonish myself for being so clueless.  Over the Labor Day weekend I visited the third tallest national monument in the country.  Gotcha!  I’ve seen it every summer for most of my life but didn’t know why it was erected (and yes it looks like a big phallic symbol) and what it stood for, ahem. (There is another great joke on the tip of my tongue if I wasn’t so darn classy.).  So I visited it once again and really tried to learn something.  What I learned was don’t visit a big, tall d*ck when it’s a hundred degrees out and the sun is beating down on you.  The good thing, however, was there was an air-conditioned visitor’s center where I could pretend to watch a movie of the battle of 1812 and know I wasn’t going to be tested.  Even could shut my eyes when necessary.  And dream of floating on an inflatable swan in the cool water while cannon fire was going on around me.  I may or may not have drifted off a bit.  Which leads me to Spam.  I don’t know why.  And I’m not talking about the stuff that shows up uninvited on your computer, but that cool stuff in a can that no one eats unless you live in Korea or Hawaii, but might  remember from your childhood.  If you were poor.  But now I’ve done some research since I’m into history(ish) and learned way more than is necessary to get through this life.  It is a portmanteau of spiced ham and pork probably.  (Think brunch, linner.  I just wanted to use a big word for a lame subject.).  Did you know, however, that it only has six ingredients and they seal it in that cool can with a key and THEN cook it?  Fascinating stuff!  What a piece of history I discovered!  It fed the soldiers during WWII as if they didn’t already have enough problems. Of course I don’t know much about that war except what they ate so need to visit some kind of erection to peak my ahem interest.  It is no fun being classy(ish).  Maybe history could have been taught in a different way.  I would have had a lot more interest in our founding fathers and Alexander Hamilton if I had known what a great rapper he was…….

I am so sorry if I offended you.  I am so sorry if we are walking into each other.  So sorry if I parked perfectly and you didn’t.  Must be my fault.  No, none of that applies to me.  Sorry/not sorry.  For some reason my Boomlennial peeps keep apologizing.  For nothing.  The wrongs of the world are not your fault.  Yesterday I went to church with a Manfriend because I am that wonderful.  Sorry/not sorry.  As we were pulling into the lot this huge pickup truck was parked terribly taking up two spaces and hanging out into the drive so everyone had to maneuver around him.  Yes, it had to be a man.  Little man probably.  Sorry/not sorry.  Throwing everyone off a bit.  So Manfriend parks and we get out and examine how we faired and were pretty askew but kind of the norm.  (Sorry/sorry).  The lady next to us parks perfectly and comes over sorrying sorrying saying small man truck messed her up.  It didn’t.  She was just at that age where the world seems to do everything right and for some reason what isn’t right is your fault.  I see it again and again and always want to yell Knock It Off but then I might be truly sorry/not sorry.  Which leads me to a totally unrelated topic except that I was deep thinking about it in said church when I should have been paying more attention.  Some attention.  Color your gray hair.  Is that too much to ask?  Nice looking woman, cute outfit, ugly hair.  Just such an easy fix.  Losing weight haaaaard.  Growing two inches also hard.  Box of Nice and Easy?  Nice and easy.  That natural look is not good.  Be a peacock.  Slap on some bright lipstick.  Fan your feathers.  Maybe gray is a way to fade into the shadows so you don’t get noticed.  And be sorry about everything.  Maybe I should have paid more attention in church so I wouldn’t have to be so shallow and trivial.  As if that’s a bad thing.  Sorry.

I’m starting to realize that all my Boomlennial peeps have run out of words of wisdom and oh-so-fascinating stories.  Too much energy this summer has been spent on listening to a rehashing of people’s lives that weren’t that interesting the first go round.  Let us reminisce!  Let us retell those great (huh??) stories from the past that weren’t really those glory days to start with.  I know everyone’s lives take different paths so when you get together it’s fun/creepy to go back to what you had in common.  I like to think, however, that in those fifty odd years where we haven’t been in touch SOMETHING sponge worthy must have happened #Seinfeld.  (Google it).  I’ve always hated to reminisce. (BTW that word is really hard to spell and even auto-correct doesn’t know what the hell I’m talking about.).  I like to think that I always have stuff going on today or tomorrow that hopefully is a better story than that old sh*t.  And if those stories still fire you up dear-oh-dear that is a problem.  One of my wee dearests was facing a change in his life.  He was processing it in his own way and probably making more sense of the situation then the big people.  But we kept yak yaking about it and thought we were cagey enough that he wasn’t really paying attention to our conversation.  Finally, wee one says “we don’t need to be talking about the past”.  Brilliant!  I couldn’t have said it better myself.  And I’m always sure I could have.  He was moving on.  Just like that.  We big people looked at each other, smiled, and that was that.  Done.  Saved us endless angst filled conversations for no apparent reason.  Now I need to prophesise this new age thinking to my Boomlennial brethren.  Wonder if they are going to story time at the public library?  Maybe they should. And perhaps take out a current book.  And read it. And talk about it.  Has to be more intersting then that great mullet they had…..

Since I’m not into naming names, I’ve resorted to Pig Latin, or igPay atinLay.  Any good Boomlennial is fluent in this language, or at least has picked around the edges.  I could write a whole missive with it but the auto correct is already doing me in.  When my bebes were little and starting to spell, I had to find another form of communication to talk about other people.  Not that I would ever do that of course.  Weirdly my dearest and I could actually speak this awesome language.  Or enough to realize how creepy it was and stop already.  So back to Ponderings from Aulpay.  Divert daily.  Wander weekly.  Meander monthly.  Abandon annually.  I like!!  Sometimes we just need to get out of our head and out of our space.  Ruts are easy to flop into and without a good plan to get out it becomes home.  Comfortable.  Closed in.  Dark.  Boring.  And that my friends is a word we’ve got to nix.  A life we’ve got to adjust.  This past month has been filled with the slow demise of way too many people.  And not getting better.  Yesterday was a new experience for me and I tried to think it was a good idea but it wasn’t.  A friend had his own funeral/celebration of life.  And he was there.  And his family. And people were arriving with balloons pointing up and buying drinks for each other and trying to be festive I guess.  It was not festive.  Of course then the stories started flowing with the beer about surgeries, cancer, who is next, just loads of fun and games.  I’m not there yet.  Those are not conversations I’m ready to banter about at a gathering of any kind.  Death is not funny.  Illness is not funny.  I had the feeling that the ‘organizing commitee’ had just come from the PTA bake sale and was relishing in how wonderfully they were orchestrating this non-event.  They were probably far enough removed from the situation to not have that horrible feeling in their gut.  Let’s cut the cake!  Let’s take up a collection!  Party time!  Fortunately, my companion was feeling the same way so we left.  I’m done.  I Choose to find the young in spirit to fill my life.  I Choose to find things everyday that get me out of my head.  I Choose to have a new experience weekly that makes me go hmmm.   I Choose to meander monthly just because I love the word meander and want to use it in conversation.  One can never have too many vacays because it just dusts you off.   And gives you something  to talk about that has to be more interesting then disease and pestilence.  Enough aidsay.