Why is Generation Y so RUDE?

Okay, that may be a generalization, but when did teenagers get so rude? Yes, I must be that old.

Driving in town, down a one-way street. Three guys, three girls. Skinny, scantily clad, tattooed and smoking. So what?

They were in the middle of the road, so I assumed they wanted to cross. I waved them on  - you know – hand motion that indicates they are safe from the hazards of your front bumper?

Should’ve given them the bumper.

One guy gestures for me to go around them. I wave them across.

“B****, go around. We ain’t crossing!!”

Oh.No.He.Did.Not.

I calmly roll down my window and ask “Why are you yelling at me?” I am calling his bluff. It’s easy to yell at a tinted window.

“Cuz, b****, we ain’t crossing. I told you to go around us!”

(So this is what it feels like to have your blood pressure shoot to the top of your skull and out the sunroof.)

“Then get out of the middle of the road.” Notice how I am still rising above?

“F*** YOU! Drive AROUND US you F*B*”  By this time, all six of the lost, misunderstood teenagers are yelling profanities at me, but to give the girls credit, they did have the smarts to get out of the middle of the road.

At this point I am picturing all sorts of ways to teach these kids the difference between sidewalk and road, and what belongs where. These lessons all involve Dodge engineering and teenage angst, so just keep yelling, brats (see road rage in any urban dictionary).

But I rose above and drove on, fighting off the red mist at the edges of my vision.

I almost made it to the corner with my halo intact.

I almost turned out of their lives forever; sad and bewildered that the parenting skills of many of the next generation has bred such disrespect. and yet still, my halo intact, not instigating any blood baths.

But before I knew what happened, my brain triggered my finger straight up and out of the sunroof, giving them all the one-fingered salute.

People are Funny

You know easy it is to get to road rage, right? You don’t have to own a particularly nasty temper or a short fuse – you just have to, oh – I don’t know. . . drive a car. . . eventually, it will happen.

Say you’re driving on a country road, no cars anywhere. There’s a utility truck pulled off the side of the road about 50 yards ahead and a stoplight about 20 yards past him. All told, a pretty nice drive.

Until the utility truck decides he needs to get ahead of me at that red light and whips a u-turn to shoot in front of me and slam on his brakes. My purse flies off the seat and I curse in Disney language.

Since I am somewhat polite, I don’t do the clichéd finger-flipping and name calling and honking. Instead I shake my head while he watches me in his side mirror. I hope I am channelling the what-on-earth-did-that-get-you-buddy-I-am-so-disappointed-and-your-momma-would-be-too look. I continue to shake my head as he lumbers forward at the green light. And you know he’s lumbering, because really, what good would it do for it to be a fast truck that was worried about getting behind a little ol’ Dodge?

Oh, and I might add that I could understand his urgency if there were a pile of cars behind me. Nobody can be blamed for wanting to beat a long line of traffic. But NO, there was no other traffic. Of course not.

So in my head, I am running the litany of complaints about general incompetence.

After several miles the road became two-lanes. There was a car in front of me. I was parallel to utility man. The light, about 50 yards away, was about to turn yellow.

Oh yes, I took my chance.

Butted right in front of him like he did to me and coasted to a smooth stop in front of him at the red light.

I see hand gestures in my rear-view mirror and know what he’s saying, though I don’t think it’s sign language.

And it made me laugh. He saw me laugh in the mirror, and it made him laugh.

I stuck my hand out the window and gave him the finger. Okay, not really – I gave him a thumbs up. He returned with a thumbs up as well, knowing I’d technically won that little round of road sarcasm.

If only we could take all of life’s little annoyances and turn them into laughter.

Staying Young Has Nothing To Do With Miracle Creams

I think I’ve found the secret to staying young. And I don’t think it has much to do with lotions, potions, make up or plastic surgery.

Not long ago, I was near a Toys R Us. I was going in just to look, really, and possibly to pick up a gift for my nephew and niece in California. However, about thirty seconds after I walked through the door, I forgot all my dear little what’s-their-names and what child-like delight they would show at whatever gift I picked for them.

My eyes were drawn in all directions at once, which, let me tell you, causes a ridiculous eye strain. The colours were so bright, inviting you to touch, to want. The glitter and shine of the pinks and purples of the ‘girlie’ toys, the masculine blacks, reds and blues of the ‘boy’ toys all made me realize one thing.

It stinks to be a grown up.

I’d like to know who made the rules that say we’re not allowed to play with toys, not allowed to pretend after a certain age. Are you thinking “Nobody told me I couldn’t play with toys anymore…”?

Exactly. Somehow, we let an interest in the opposite sex take away our desire for the very things that made us laugh, stretched our imaginations, allowed incredible fantasies and made us forget about anything that made us sad as children.

Why don’t we do that now? For some reason, we adults change from toys to dates, to bars, to marriage, children, jobs, careers, other people…whatever. Simply said, we grow up.

Who makes the rules on when it’s time to grow up, anyway? Who says you can’t be an adult and still enjoy total reality abandonment like a child does? Like your children do?

Put down your cell phone, PDA, laptop, wallet, glass, newspaper and dinner preparations. Put them all down. Go to your child’s room, the attic or a toy store. Find a toy you used to love when you were a child. Smile at it and remember.

Remember what it was like to pick up your Barbies and immediately fall into their world. Find Ken and make it happen, ladies. Men, go find a Hot Wheels track, or build a fort under the dining room table. Make a tent out of your bed sheets and play doctor with your wife. Grab the pots and pans from the bottom drawers. Raise that wooden spoon and bring back the Racket Band that you used to love when you were in diapers.

Life is meant to be fun, to be enjoyed. Sure, there are responsibilities to be handled on a daily basis. But if we handle them, and then forget them for awhile while we play with the Easy Bake Oven or the Erector Sets….what’s the harm? Find a refrigerator box and climb in. It’s your world. Have fun with it.

Watch children for examples. They’ve got it down to an effortless

science. And, me – I’m working really hard on this and should be an expert in no time.

LiveJournal Tags: humour,life,children,toys,playing,growing old,childish,family,adult,stress busting,laughter,young at heart,jkm asylum,joyce menyasz

February is Already Half Over!

And I'm sitting here thinking, it's 2009.

2-0-0-9.

How did that happen?

I have a very vivid memory of my very first marriage proposal. I was 8. Christopher was also 8. We had a mutual crush that transcended the playground boundaries of elementary school.

We played together even though other children taunted us about marriage.

You know that familiar taunt - "two little lovers, sittin' in a tree . . ." When they got to the part about marriage, I raised my hand and stopped them with a declaration of such wisdom, they closed their mouths immediately.

"I will not get married until the year 2000."

The only reason they were all quiet is because they were trying to figure out how old we'd all be at that time. Christopher didn't care. "Then will you marry me?" He asked.

Alas, 2000 came and went with no Christopher (thank goodness, since I met Peter in 2001).

Being on the playground, I remember thinking that the year 2000 was so far away that I probably wouldn't even be alive to see it. The year then was 1973. Funny how to an 8-year-old, 27 years is a whole millennium (not that I knew that word at 8).

And now it's February 2009. I was so sure we'd be flying like the Jetsons. I couldn't wait to have Rosie do the dishes, to have my dinner appear as if from nowhere.

Let's face it. The Jetsons gave me unrealistic expectations about the future, just like Disney gave me unrealistic expectations about princess hair.

I wonder if the 8-year-olds of today are saying crazy things like they won't get married until the year 2050? That being said, I'm sure mothers everywhere are going to train their 8 year olds to say just that.

So I guess I am a little disappointed that we aren’t quite as technologically advanced as I’d hoped when I was 8. But with the invention of the Roomba and microwaves, I guess it’s just a matter of time.

However, I would like to formally request my flying car first.

Rollercoaster Lovin'

Dear Readers: This column was published just after Nuria's departure back to Spain. Am I little behind in posting much? Or did I already post this one? Ugh! Getting old blows.

Nuria has only been gone a week, back to her home in Galicia, Spain. Peter and I still miss her like we've only just said our tearful goodbyes.

Really, it was only three weeks. How attached could we be?

Nuria phoned when she arrived home safely, seeming to have forgotten English. Apparently lack of sleep has that effect on the brain. I can barely speak English at the best of times, so I will always be impressed with our 17-year-old-four-language-speaking wonder.

I’m glad I don't have my own children, because any of them leaving would kill me outright.

Anyway, come back with me to Brockport, New York, after the soccer tournament . . . remember, Terry now has a GPS, so the cornfields no longer frighten us, and my Google Maps reading skills no longer frighten Peter.

Sunday afternoon, several of us in the group were on our way to Darien Lake theme park (a former Six Flags resort). Thanks to the GPS and Superkathy’s sense of direction from an actual map, the cornfields didn’t swallow us as Darien Lake rose out of the trees right smack in the middle of nowhere.

Peter and I have never ridden a roller coaster together (I know!). Even though Peter didn’t see the romantic implications as much as we tender-hearted women-folk, I was ready to cross roller-coaster-screaming-as-a-couple off my things-to-before-the-‘til-death-do-us-part-thing list.

You see, I love the coasters. LOVE them.

The weather was fully clouded over and a constant threat of rain. We didn’t care. The lines at the park were short, and it was still as humid as the deepest of rainforests. Oh, and the mosquitoes must know that Lanark County residents have sweeter blood, because there wasn’t ONE bug in all of that park.

I’m pretty sure that our tough-16-year-old-year-old-soccer-chicks were a little surprised (and hopefully suitably impressed) when after we all giggled right through the turnstile in our excitement to get to the first ride, I was asked if I’d ever been on a roller coaster before.

Pulleeeeze.

I gave them my most superior look and informed them that there wasn’t a roller coaster in California that hadn’t seen my backside on its seat or my hands up in the air (up until about 7 years ago, anyway).

But when they pointed to the ride where your feet dangled AND you turned upside down, I knew I was out of my realm of experience. So I started giggling like a little girl again.

Nuria pointed to another ‘ride’ that wasn’t much more than a steel cage bouncing about a hundred feet between the sky and the ground hanging by two giant rubber bands. If it hadn’t cost extra, I would’ve done it. That’s my only excuse. Really.

Ahem.

The foot-dangly ride called the Mind Eraser was the coolest. But ladies, don’t wear your earrings. I was seriously afraid that my ceratoid and jugular arteries were in peril as the backs of my earrings stabbed my neck repeatedly.

Oh, and that piercing, high-pitched shriek that you hear is not the ride coming apart, it’s your own scream, or that of your husband.

We tackled all the other rides with a fierce bravado. And roller coasters are just as thrilling as I remember, especially when you have your guy (or girl) next to you for a quick kiss or a hand-holding-scream.

The water slides were just as much fun, but I have a feeling all these mysterious bruises came from screaming down fibreglass tubes at 40 miles per hour. Might have to wear a protective bubble suit next time.

Check out all the exciting photos when you log into your Facebook account and add me as a friend.

Is it Possible to Take Too Many Pictures?

By no means is this all I have to say about Riverside Jam, but Sunday night was completely bewildering.

First, I ended up hanging out, watching Mark Chesnutt then meeting Mark and the band by myself, my pal happier to hang in the beer tent?

Hey, all access means beer tent too.

Second, for some reason, a couple of staff members backstage decided to make my night uncomfortable.

When I asked whom I should speak to about possibly getting a couple of minutes with Lorrie Morgan and Mark Chesnutt, I was told with much condescension that I should have contacted this guy three weeks ago.

Bummer. He said he couldn't promise anything but he would see what he could do.

I admit I wasn't very hopeful. I thanked him and left it at that, but he informed me that basically, my 'all access' pass meant nothing, and he could revoke it any time he wanted.

Huh? What'd I say that merited that from mister-too-big-for-his-responsibilities?

I was a little ticked off but knew that even though I'd missed Lorrie (apparently, not only did I have to check with him three weeks earlier - a volunteer with Riverside Jam and a very important engineer for the musical gigs) but I should have foregone my kick-ass interview with Gord Bamford to even hope for one minute with Lorrie Morgan.

Fast forward - tonight I take advantage of my pass and use it to continue (done the same Friday and Saturday) to take pictures in front of the stage, at interesting corner angles, etc.

Next thing I know I'm accused of being bitchy and being asked nicely, ONE time only to move from where I was, because really, how many pictures do I need for the paper?

WTF?

I was told it was a highly restricted area, to which I apologized profusely. I almost wasn't allowed to get my stuff from the fence line.

At the end of the show a group of women went into the 'highly restricted area' to dance.

When I pointed out to the volunteer complainer that his restricted area was being abused again, I thought his head would explode.

I have to admit, I would have enjoyed it immensely.

I Rock. That's All.

Okay, I rock because Guitar Hero told me I do. And so did the legions of screaming fans through the encore session of my latest concert, somewhere on the back of a big-rig truck. It was all so crazy rock-n-roll that I don’t remember where the concert was. But that’s okay, because tonight it will be another concert, another night of desperate, screaming groupies, clamouring for my rockin’ guitar abilities.

Ah, the life of a rock star.

Like the road of any musical genius, my path to superstardom started with guitar lessons that were not as easy as I thought they would be. But eventually (15 minutes), my fingers found the correct colour-coded chords to press, and my strumming hand managed to find its own rhythm. My instructor told me I was ready to start playing in a garage band, and maybe follow them around on their quest for fame.

It was an intimidating offer. Was I really ready? Did I have what it took? Gulp.

I accepted the offer. I donned my torn leathers, teased my hair and shined up my Gibson. I was as ready as I would ever be.

My first song in my first concert? Slow Ride, by Foghat.

I must say that the crowd was not very forgiving. After messing up the first 30 chords or so, those ungrateful fans booed me right off the stage.

Whatever.

Good thing my band members were more forgiving. Slow Ride, one more time please.

After being booed off three more times, I finally got it. 79% of chords hit. YEAH! I rock. What? That's like a C+, right?

But as the songs went on, I didn’t rock so much. Even though I was booed off the stage more times than I was congratulated on my guitar playing prowess, I soldiered on, and it was all worth it, when the final song was played, and the crowd wanted an encore.

That’s right. An encore. From me, the rock goddess. And I gave them one. A rockin’, shockin’, jumpin’, clappin’, throw your bra at me encore.

Oh yeah, I rock alright. When I finally put my guitar down for the night, I was exhausted. My arm hurt from strumming, my fingertips were sore from the guitar chords, but it was a fulfilled exhausted. Because. I. Rock.

Wait – did I tell you that was on the easy level? Doesn’t matter – I still ROCK. And I beat Slash. Who's the rock god now, huh? Huh?

Here’s the thing. It’s just not acceptable to let all the kids have the fun with video games. Although it’s not healthy to spend every spare moment trying to obtain the status of deity in a video game, it’s also not healthy to go all ‘adult’ and pretend you’re too old to enjoy playing one.

I am convinced that Guitar Hero is for our generation, not that of our kids. Go ahead, ask them – who is Foghat? Who is Cream, or Heart? Their blank stares alone should have you kicking them off Guitar Hero so you can show them how to really rock.

Promise me, parents. Promise me you will take just two minutes to try out some of these games that your kids love so much.

After all, we had to play outside when we were kids. We didn’t have this cool stuff. It’s your turn to zone out on the video games that you probably bought in the first place, while you kick the kids outside to study plant or highway life.

I wasn't the only one Dad told to go play on the highway, was I?

Have fun, parents. And don’t forget to get your ROCK ON!