And Speaking Of Young People

So the other day I got up to no good. I won’t get into the possibly X-rated activities that went on with a British guy 10 years younger than me — oh, looky here, I just did! — but I can share with you some experiences leading up to that encounter that possibly prompted me to drink with more gusto than usual.

I ended up hanging out with a large group of people ranging in age from about 25 to 36. I was by far the oldest person there. They were lovely people, very welcoming, kind and generous, but I really felt the generation gap when each and every one of them kept taking photos. Camera after camera after camera. OK, pose with her. You pose with him. You, over there, get in the picture. OK, come back over here and pose with me. Take our picture! Smile! OK, now you guys sit over there — get closer — and I’ll take your picture. Here, take my camera, and take my picture with him. Say cheese! Oh, that one’s no good, let’s take another one. Your tits look great in this shot, look! Let’s take another one! Oh no, my eyes are shut in this one. OK, here, take another one of me and him. It went on and on and on and on.

And I realized — this is the Facebook generation. Every encounter must be documented on film and then posted somewhere. This is so NOT my generation. Occasionally at our get-togethers, someone might have had a camera and then taken a few shots and if you were lucky, weeks later, someone remembered to get the film developed and might get doubles so you’d have a couple of pictures. In a way, there was something sweet about that — it required you to actually remember good times, and not have to look at photos to recall what went on.

Another generational divide: All the girls had tattoos. And in all the e-mails I got the next day, including from the Brit, emoticons were used. Smiley faces, winks, whatever the hell these things mean — :), :(, ;), :0

I don’t mean to sound old-fashioned, but I so prefer the use of words and nights out when you weren’t constantly being asked to pose. Other than that, however, a fine time was had by all.

 

Diverting: STFU, Parents

To be honest, I actually have a pretty high threshold for people babbling about their kids.  I like kids, I used to work with them, and I genuinely find them fascinating and their parents’ sense of delight charming.  Kids are great.  I am interested in their first words, the playground throwdowns, and how their respective parents are tackling puberty issues.  I’m a good audience for kid stories in general.

What I have a lower tolerance for, however, is both the total overshare aspects of childrearing and the stupified superiority complexes exhibited by some parents, which is why I had to stay at work an hour late today to make up for the fact that I read every single entry in the STFU, Parents tumblr.  I was alerted to this blog courtesy of a Salon Broadsheet post, and it happily exceeded my expectations.

STFUParents is a lovingly-crafted wee gem that encapsulates (and takes to task) the smug and pedestrian tendencies exhibited by some folks the second they discover they’re about to birth their own “little miracle.”  Specifically targeting the mind-numbing and nausea-inducing Facebook updates people impose on their friends (and by friends I may mean people-they-have-not-actually-spoken-to-in-twenty-years) about their shitting, puking bundles of overachieving joy, STFUParents hilariously skewers obsessive parenthood, lack of awareness, and the self-satisfied “Supermom!”

What breed of parent are we talking about here?  Not necessarily the nice people you work with, who might bust out with a wry and exhausted anecdote about their firstborn teething.  Not your cool friends who have, yeah, experienced a life-changing event and share some of the joys and punishments with you, without losing their perspective or their ability to relate.  Rather, the blog tackles those folks who have taken the self-congratulatory and exclusive road by proclaiming things like:  “You can only relate if your (sic) a parent!!!! lol :).”  Or:  “Baby Cleopatra unleashed an atomic bomb today!!!  I didn’t know poo could explode out the back of the diaper and into the hair!  LMAO!!!”

 

If It Doesn’t Cause Cancer, It’s Not Worth It

Ahoy, fellow Bargain Shoppers!  If you’re anything like me, you take great pleasure in picking up a cute, functional purse from Target or H&M or Forever 21.  What’s not to love?  It’s thrifty, fashionable, and you can wear the hell out of it for six months and then toss it, satisfied you’ve gotten your twenty bucks worth out of a bag you’ve enjoyed.  You’re not worried about leaky pens or loose tobacco or half-melted breath mints or snotty kleenex in your purse, because it was cheap to acquire and fun to carry.  Am I right?  I am so very right.

So here’s the bad news.  Apparently, those cheapo purses from which we derive great pleasure and utility are chock-full of THE CANCER.

Only four of the purses from my Target collection, actively trying to kill me

 Here’s part of the total lady-bonerkiller from the San Francisco Chronicle:

The Center for Environmental Health filed the complaint in Alameda County Superior Court and sent separate notices to manufacturers of at least 26 brands notifying them that testing showed their products contain lead at levels high enough to pose a health threat. Most are vinyl and faux leather items.

 

Sweden So Egalitarian, Does Away With Gender Entirely

Okay, not the whole country, but the Swedes continue to kick the rest of the world’s ass in terms of making gender equality a central issue.  On the extreme edge of a wholly worthwhile effort comes news of a young Swedish couple who have raised their child, “Pop”, gender-free, refusing to reveal the sex of the two-and-a-half-year-old.  Pop is allowed to wear dresses or pants, play with whatever toys Pop chooses, and is not referred to by either masculine or feminine pronouns.  As AOL reports:

Back in March, the parents gave an interview to the Svenska Dagbladet newspaper, saying they decided not to reveal their child’s sex because they believe gender is a social construction.

 

“We want Pop to grow up more freely and avoid being forced into a specific gender mold from the outset,” said the child’s mother, “Nora.” (The paper used fake names for the entire family to protect their privacy.)

 

“It’s cruel to bring a child into the world with a blue or pink stamp on their forehead,” the mother said.

 

 Predictably, a lot of people think this is a terrible idea and potentially long-term damaging to the child.  I’m not so sure.  First off, Pop’s well-meaning parents say that Pop’s sex will be revealed when Pop decides that it is time, and seem to accept that this will likely be at school-age when social pressures dictate.  They’re not enforcing a gender-free lifestyle on a kid going through puberty.

 

It’s Hard Out There for a Yachter

Even though we get the Financial Times at work, I don’t generally pick it up for a browse, which is a shame because a supplement laying in reception caught my eye today, and seemed worth sharing.  Here’s what I decided to ostentatiously flick through on the bus on my way home, occasionally murmuring, “indeed, indeed” in earshot of other passengers:

CLICK HERE FOR IMAGE.

With less than 4,000 yachts in the world, it seems like, I dunno, those actually involved in yacht-building, yacht-buying, yacht-racing, and yacht-cruising could, I don’t know, just get their yacht news in a special yacht magazine.  It sort of seems like the rest of us non-billionaire plebes don’t need to pick up an FT Wealth that boasts the headline: 

Damage control:  As the financial crisis sparks anger and envy, how can the wealthy protect their image and privacy?

The shipbuilding industry is a huge one and employs a lot of people globally (particularly in the UK, Caspian, Middle East, and Southeast Asia), but that’s a little subheader up there that’s hard to get behind (you can read the actual article here, if you’re interested in the trials of the super-rich). 

I actually found it more humorous than embittering, and a funny little portal into a world that bears little resemblance to my day-to-day existence.  For those of us on the outside looking in, it’s hard to work up a sad face about the prospect of people being forced to time-share their yachts.  But I guess everybody’s got problems.

 

A Week of Empty Nester-hood

So my son’s been gone a week and while yes, I miss him, I must admit there are some delightful pleasures about living completely on your own, without even the chance of a friend dropping by unexpectedly.

1. Laundry once a week.

2. The ability to eat any of the following for supper whenever you want: a hunk of cheese and some olives, a bowl of honeycrisp applesauce, one sausage with a bowl of cherry tomatoes, a bowl of raisin bran, a pot of steamed brussels sprouts.

I am quite certain it wouldn’t have gone over so well with my teenaged boy if, when asking what’s for dinner, I replied: “A handful of almonds and some dried apricots. With maybe a hard-boiled egg.”

3. The ability to walk around naked and do housework naked.

4. The ability to blast Ryan Adams and/or Wilco for hours on end, without the plea: “Can you please put something else on or at least hit shuffle??” Ditto: dancing to A Tribe Called Quest for hours in the living room

5. No demands to fix the XBox, the laptop, the cellphone, the PC, the microwave, the TV, the remote, etc.

It’s really not been as traumatic as I expected, but even so, I wish he’d hurry home. I miss having him around although it’ll be quite some time before I miss making the same five dinners for him night after night after night.

 

How To Correct a Chronic Game-Player

I love my friend Stacy. We have been pals since childhood, despite some of her serious eccentricities that I won’t go into here but let’s just say I can no longer travel with her due to the many neuroses.

But Stacy is a stunning, drop-dead gorgeous woman. She is smart and funny and fit and compassionate and a good, loyal friend. My whole life I have been completely overshadowed by her sheer physical beauty — guys didn’t even see me when she was around. And yet I had more boyfriends, more dates and more proposals. Why? Because Stacy is a terrible game-player when it comes to dating. Everything is over-analyzed and strategized. She is constantly fretting about men and how to play them, even if they simply approach her to say hello. She has rules about when to call, how to act, what to do that has ended up sabotaging every decent relationship she ever had. At 45, she is alone, unhappy because she always wanted children, and involved with a married man who treats her like shit.

 

Bushwhackers vs. Junglelovers

BCP Reader Missbish asks:

I recently saw this photo of T.I. and there was a lot of commentors who were saying that he should trim that bush yada yada but I found his shrub to be hugely erotic and I could not stop thinking about it. I know – I need to get laid yo, but I wonder – is manscaping what most women want or am I old-skool?

What say you?

kadinsky: check this pic of TI and his crotch ‘fro.  Opinions on that much pube?

Tailfeather: I don’t know who this Mr. TI is, but he looks GOOD, and I am not afraid of his Bermuda.  I say wear it loud and proud.  Although, um, public dick-grabbing is a no-no in general.

kadinsky: is it grabbing if he’s offering?  I say no, there is another pic to go with this one that shows him damn near taking his pants off.  I don’t mind a slightly unruly nappy dugout but that shit looks long enough to floss with.  or braid a rug.

Trixie: There was also that recent EW cover or Ryan Reynolds looking really hairy and it was hot as hell.  I  am FOR. I like men to be manly and that means hairy. I am against all this waxing shit.

kadinsky:  Panda likes the girly men, I bet she is a NAY.

BiscuitDoughJones: Actually, I’m for it.

A) nothing is as gross/creepy as a dude who shaves or waxes.  I’ve been unfortunate enough to snag 2 guys who regularly bald-ified themselves down below.  It’s no coincidence that both of them mentioned how they thought that ’scaping made the junk look bigger (it didn’t).  Uh, and the stubble down there hurts like hell.

B) The funny thing about pretty boys is that they have no hair anywhere, not on the chest, arms, even legs – but you take off the pants and a lot of times there is a giant power bush.  It’s fucking funny.  And kind of cute.  Like, most dudes I’ve known haven’t been ’scapers I think because it’s the only upfront sign of virility they have, so they must nurture it.  Or something.

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Well, it looks like I’m all alone on this one – BCP prefers their men au naturale.  What about you?

 

Hello, Random 90’s Psuedo Alt-Pop Song

I remember be-boppin’ along to this in the early nineties and always found it catchy.  Today I caught it on satellite on my way in to work, and with the sun shining (finally) accompanied by a relatively good hair day, it’s put me in a good mood.

As always, I want to know what you’re jamming to today, hit the comments!  (Amoreuse, you always have something good).

 

Empty Nester and It Feels So Weird

Today I packed my kids up  and kissed them goodbye and sent them to Toronto for eight weeks with their Dad. Of course, I have become accustomed to the separation from my 18-year-old daughter; she left for a faraway university last fall and was only here for a brief visit before starting her summer job back in Canada. It was painful and sad but it was made slightly less horrific because of my son’s continued presence in my nest.

But I have not been apart from him for more than a week his entire life, and no more than a handful of nights since we moved here.

I must confess I thought it would be liberating to have the house and my life to myself for eight weeks, but instead, after he hugged me good-bye and they drove off, I felt a sort of low-level panic at the idea of being separated from him, and totally childless for the first time in almost 19 years.

What will I do with myself? Who will I talk to, other than the cats??? (DING DING DING — crazy cat lady alarm bells ringing!!!) Who will I cook for? Will I even bother cooking? Will I only do laundry once a week? Who will I rush home to? What will I do when he’s not shrieking from the basement for me to come and kill a bug (he has some serious issues with bugs, and they grow ‘em big here)?

I am going to be relieved when eight weeks is up, and I am seriously dreading when he goes off to university too.