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.

Hangin’ with the Parental Units

When I was first swept away to Canada, there weren’t too many people from the mother land that were very understanding. Not that we knew this until years later, but nobody in California could understand why I’d choose igloo-land over the sunshine coast.

So when my mother came for that first visit, three years ago for the occasion of my 40^th birthday, I was almost anxious with my need for approval. I wanted Mom to love Lanark County as much as I did.

It worked.

When Mom left three years ago, she said she understood why I’d never move back to California. She said she would be my ambassador and let everyone know.

So when Peter and I found out that Mom and Dad were scheduling a visit for October (this year) , I was really excited to introduce Dad to the wilds of Lanark County. Two ambassadors are better than one, right? Actually, I was just really excited to see them, to have them all to myself. I was loving the fact that I didn’t have to share them with my two brothers, one sister or any one of the six grandchildren that live in the vicinity of grandma and grandpa.

I was selfishly giddy, I admit it.

Mom and Dad were celebrating a wedding anniversary – and wanted badly to visit Niagara Falls, as well as experience the fall colours that grace us every year. So, when they landed at night – I’m guessing it was a bit of a let-down for them. The colours, at least, would have to wait until morning.

However, Lanark County knows how to treat its visitors. When we pulled down our road, we slowed to stop just before our driveway. I pointed to the crab apple tree in our front yard, where three does were munching on the trees offerings on the grass below.

While one greedily munched on the small apples, the other two looked up, inevitably startled by our presence. They disappeared after a few seconds, but it was enough. Mom and Dad were suitably impressed.

I couldn’t wait for them to wake up the next morning, so they could see our quiet country street, check out the awesome colours of the maples nearby.

I was like that kid on Christmas morning, waking too early, jumping on my parents’ bed yelling ‘wake-up wake-up!’

Mom, of course was already neck deep in a hot cup of coffee in the living room. Dad was up and dressed, but the shades were still drawn tight against the day. I snapped it up and bright light flooded the bedroom.

“Look dad, look!” I pointed at our young sugar maple in the yard, then dragged him to the back of the house so he could see the back part of our property. “Whaddya think?”

Here it was, what I was waiting for. Dad’s approval. We walked through the sunroom to the tiny back deck.

Dad looked around at our small slice of paradise.

“It’s beautiful, honey. Your nephew would love it here, So peaceful. If it weren’t for the snow and grandbabies at home, your mom and I could see ourselves here.”

Well now. It doesn’t get much better than that, does it?

But seriously. I’d received the approval I thought I’d needed so badly (I don’t of course. I’m ridiculously happy no matter what), I wondered. . . would I really want to live with my parents again?