There Are No Hurricanes in the Midwest

....But every time there is one, you'll hear opinions on it.

Hurricanes are major events, that come in and severely disrupt the lives of many coastal occupants. Big events make big news, so even living many miles away, when it's tropical storm and hurricane season, our nightly news is still bombarded with stories of incoming disaster. We watch the projected paths of destruction and see helicopter footage of crowded highways headed inland as evacuations are called for. We watch the newscasters awkwardly standing in torrential rain, being whipped about in the wind, talking about when things will "reach landfall." And then we watch the footage of destroyed cities, upended homes, and massive flooding. We see the poor stranded souls waving for aid from atop their roof, desperate as the water continues to rise around them, and the heroic rescue forces coming in to save them.

And then you'll hear a similar sentiment, almost every time: Why didn't they evacuate when they were told? They knew this storm was coming, they were warned, and they chose to stay there. And now someone else has to go in and risk their lives to rescue them. And now our taxpayer dollars are being spent to send in aid. All because that person didn't listen. 

I've heard these words come from the mouths of family members. From friends. From coworkers. From that rando sitting a few stools down at the bar as a news clip flashes between the innings of some sporting event. From many Midwesterners who've never lived in a place where they've had to deal with that sort of natural disaster.* As far as they're concerned, that person waving from atop their roof, clinging to a child, a dog, and/or a small bag of their last remaining earthly possessions: it's their fault they're there. They made a choice. They should've known better. Should've listened. They knew the risks and should've understood the consequences. 

But here's the thing: people don't like disruption. They don't like change. They don't want to put their lives on hold and don't want to be told how to live. Those people on the roof probably thought, when they saw those same projections on the news, "Well, maybe it won't be that bad. They're just predictions. Science gets it wrong sometimes. I can't just stop going into work, and throw my family's schedule and our lives into disarray because of some forecast."

And then they were told to evacuate for their safety, but they still didn't want to deal with the inconvenience (cancelling plans, dealing with the kids, etc.). They didn't want to be told what to do. Their neighbors heeded government warnings, and took the necessary precautions, and made the hard choice to evacuate. And when the hurricane struck, and those people found themselves on the roof, while their neighbors were safe elsewhere, they wished that they'd have dealt with the temporary disturbance and had evacuated. They wished they weren't the person on the roof, suffering because of their choices. They wish they'd listened to science. And, I'd like to think, they regretted how it had played out. 

So, here we are. As a nation, and as a global community, we're being told that we need to deviate from our normal routines. We need to make a stark departure from what we previously considered normal in order to help save the lives of others. We need to stop going into work, limit our travels, temporarily suspend group activities. We need to evacuate, not from our homes but into them. We are in the path of a major storm and the forecast shows a potential for devastating destruction. Scientists and governments are providing us with warnings. And we're meant to listen and abide as much as we're able. 

But it can be hard, as so often one's perspective is entirely local. When there is talk of this pandemic, it can be a lot to take in. We hear staggering numbers on the news regarding infection and death rates. Of mass unemployment. We are inundated with images of overwhelmed hospitals, of healthcare workers lacking protective equipment. Of unattended funerals, and ever growing mass graves. But here, outside my window, right at this moment, it's a beautiful and sunny day. Right now, in some counties in Wisconsin, there are still no reported cases of Covid-19.** Many Midwesterners are not (yet) personally living in one of those hellscapes on the news. 

And that's when I begin to hear those same folks from before start to spout sentiments that sound an awful lot like the people on the roof: Maybe it won't be that bad. Science gets it wrong sometimes. I can't just disrupt my life. Why should I have to limit myself for a problem that's not here on my doorstep? 

Because, in the Midwest there are no hurricanes. This seems foreign to us. It's a problem happening somewhere else, to someone else. But the disaster we're all dealing with now isn't a hurricane. It's not limited by a shoreline. It doesn't feed off of warm ocean water and die as it comes inland. It also doesn't understand invisible borderlines we've drawn on a map. It is a virus, and it is spread by people, not Mother Nature. And while, yes, sometimes projections aren't perfectly accurate, and, yes, we all don't like having to make hard choices and forced changes; but we have been warned and know what precautions need to be taken. We've been told how to protect our loved ones and ourselves, and we need to listen and evacuate inward. Because else, you'll end up being that asshole on the roof. The one who didn't listen, who waited too long to heed warnings, and then put someone else at risk (one of our frontline healthcare workers) to try and save them. 

Imagine you're watching your own actions from somewhere else: how would you be judging you? Would you be proud to see the actions you're taking to save others and help our global community? Or would you be thinking that you too regret how things played out  up until this point, from atop your roof?

This isn't a prison sentence: it's a choice to save lives.

* Here we just have tornadoes and don't worry, we get almost no warning for those lolz So we just get the total destruction part without the choice to evacuate and take our families out of harm's way. 

** Probably due to lack of testing but.... don't get me started. 

*** Extra disclaimer: I fully realize the privilege in being able to social distance and self-isolate. I'm very fortunate to have a safe and comfortable apartment, a loving spouse, and a job that allows me to work from home. I know that many people have been forced out of work and into financial hardship due to some of the restrictions being put in place to flatten the curve and slow the burden on our healthcare infrastructure. That unfortunately many don't have a safe environment to call home. I understand that loneliness, depression, and a myriad of mental health issues are rampant when we naturally social creatures are forced to isolate (especially for those in a solo household). And that many don't have the luxury to stay home, as they are essential workers, and have to go out into the world every day. I know there are those with pre-existing conditions and illnesses, and those who are further along in years than I, that are in a more complete and terrifying form of quarantine.  I. Know. This. Is. Not. Easy. And that it's easier for some than others. And that there are a lot of complexities. But we're all in this together, and our borders aren't solid barriers which a virus can't travel through. So this is really the most important group project of our lives. The assignment: to protect the vulnerable and our essential workers, and to limit the loss of life and spread of this disease as much as possible until a vaccine becomes readily available. Don't be the weak link. Don't be that asshole who doesn't do their part. Don't think that you getting a fucking haircut is more important than someone's life. Do your part. Make your future self proud. Listen to the old adage, because it really is better safe than sorry.

**** Extra extra disclaimer: I know people end up being the one on the roof for a lot of different reasons. I get it. Life isn't black and white. Just go with the example being drawn here. 

No, thank you.

Time to let you in on a little pet peeve: I hate it when people try to change my mind about something. 

Sure, if I'm being unreasonable, or am not understanding the bigger picture, explain away. Tell my why I'm wrong, or making an incomplete decision. Give me a logical explanation and let's move forward. Happy to be enlightened. Wonderful. 

But when it comes to an ordinary decision, with no right or wrong answer, then just calm down and don't make an argument where there doesn't need to be one. More than anything, this bothers me in the service industry. If I'm being indecisive or have questions, then yes, I most definitely want feedback and help decision making. Else, nope. Don't push your agenda on me.

A case study....

Walk into a bar with friends. Everyone is still perusing the beer menu. Bartender asks what we want. Since no one else is ready, I step up and say, completely clear and confident, "Brand old fashioned, sweet. Thanks." 

Bartender smiles, "Did you want just a regular one or our version?"

I repeat, "Regular. Just a regular brandy old fashioned, sweet. Thanks."

She continues, "Oh well have you ever had ours before? It's really good."

Strained smile, "I'm sure it is. But no thanks. Just a regular one."

Undeterred, "Trust me on this, it's great though...."

Knowing that it's her job to upsell, and that "their version" is probably ten bucks instead of six, I politely say, "Okay, what's in your version that makes it special? Explain it. Sell it to me." This is something I often say to people who are too pushy with their wares: sell it to me. If you're a great salesperson, and your pitch is solid, I'll often buy it just out of respect for the trade. I know that being salesy in a genuine way is tough. I let them do their best. 

My offer in this case though was disingenuous. I knew what I wanted and I didn't care what she had to say, I just was looking for something to punch a hole in. She jumped on it and started explaining. Some local brandy, something fancy about the bitters, and (since their specialty is beer) a raspberry beer of some sort. I cut her off, "Oh yeah, yep, I'm sure people love that. I don't drink beer though, so... That's right out. Just a regular brandy old fashioned, please. Sweet." And I turn to see if the beau had selected his beer. 

Brandy. Sweet. Not asking for your first born.

Bartender laughs, "Well I mean, you won't hardly know it's a beer. It's more like a splash of raspberry liquor in it kind of." My eyebrows disappeared up into my hairline (Elrond style), and my clearly inauthentic smile was plastered on. She continued, "Listen, I'll make it for you, and if you don't like it, I'll make you a different one."

At this point, the friends have selected their beers, and are waiting to order, and I'm so internally pissed about being forced into this decision that all I say is, "Fine." Then, to be polite, I excused myself to the restroom while the others ordered, so I wouldn't literally bore a hole through her head with my rage eyes. In the bathroom, I quietly bitched to my friend. It sounded so irrational that I was mad about something so silly, so I just got over it and we went to go sit.

She brings the drink to our table and says, "Let me know what you think." 

Forcing my smile once more, I say, "I'm sure it's lovely. Thanks." And she proceeds to stand there. Waiting for me to drink it. I stared into the glass, thinking maybe I should just like, spaz out and spill it everywhere/drop it. I looked at the hazy ripple of raspberry beer, discoloring my desired drink, tainting it. I chanted a little mantra of "not my drink" in my mind, and took a sip. "That's fine, thanks." 

Bartender proceeds to tell my friends that they'll have to tell her later what I really think. Ha, ha ha. All the chuckles. 

Hours later, one of my friends says, "So, did you like that drink?" 

My internal response: "I fucking hated it."

My actual response, something like: "It wasn't what I wanted." 

It's a little sad, that for some things my breaking point is so far past the line it should be. I can have infinite patience and never snap. Then, for something little like this, I get all bothered. Really, this was probably just a manifestation of my own worries. Feeling like I don't have control and am not certain how to get what I want out of life. Sometimes, you tell life what you want, and it comes back and says, "Why not this instead?" And you look at what it's offering and it's not your pick. You have to decide if you just accept it, or stand up for yourself. You don't have to be rude. But maybe a firm "no, thank you" will suffice...

Yes. Thank you. I'll have what I ordered.
I am a woman of my own mind, thankyaverymuch.

One for You, Nineteen for Me

Confession: I am not a real life adult.

This fact was made all the more clear by my display of utter childishness and grown-ass woman faceplant-level failure tonight. What was the special occasion you ask? Oh, quite simple. For the first time in my life, I ventured to file my taxes alone.

Hint: it did not go well. I'm not proud of the events that unfolded. Only now, as I write this, shoveling brownies into my face, can I look back and fake a semblance of a laugh at this awful awful process of patriotic torture.

You see, all year, Uncle Sam borrows your money. Your hard earned cash frickin' money. And every spring, you go through a mound of paperwork and online filing madness (or pay more of your hard earned money to have someone else do it for you) in order to tell Uncle Sam exactly what he owes you back. He already knows what that number is, but like a middle-school math teacher, he wants you to come up with that number yourself.* And then, the funny part, is you celebrate it. The tax refund splurge: time to go on vacation and buy a new car! WHAT? That's your money. It could've been yours all along. Instead, it was being used by the government, and whatever you manage to argue back via a series of complicated forms, that's your prize!

And if you don't fill out those forms, then guess what, it's tax evasion... and that's what gangsters and bootleggers go to jail for. That's how they got Al Capone. Do you want to be in jail with frickin' Al Capone?? No. Not really, even if you think gangster hats are neat. So you comply, and go through the process.

I'm not embarassed to say that up til this point, my mama has helped file my taxes. She does payroll for a living. I trust her with my money numbers and she's a trained professional, so, why wouldn't I want her help? But, in an effort to "prove my adultness" or whatever, I decided to e-file alone. My mom and I had gone through the paper form over the weekend and calculated my returns. I had all the details, I was set. I figured online filing would just be popping in those same numbers, no big deal.

Ignorance was bliss. Filing my taxes online... was not.

If the forms were so important, they wouldn't be so easy to lose in the mail. 

So I put on Patsy Cline's greatest hits album. And Patsy sang me through my hysteria. There were all these questions that I didn't have answers for. (Apparently I have an HSA account that I didn't know about - who knows where that money is hiding.) "Crazy" carried me through the income portion of my federal, as I frantically threw papers about, grasping for numbers (can't I just write "income = not enough"?). The beau, who of course filed weeks ago (because he's a mature human and has done his own taxes since before he needed to shave), looked on empathetically and offered help. I stubbornly hulked out (total grownup move) and rejected all offers and instead called my mom. "I fall to pieces" appropriately came on, as I sobbed on the phone with my poor mother (bless her heart) while the e-filing site I was using proceeded to tell me that this filing was not free after all,** logged me out, and erased my entire form.

Freeze frame me, at the table, tax form papers strewn about, catching my tears. Beau hiding out in the kitchen (baking the Thin Mint brownies that I'm now eating, that wonderful man) while Patsy Cline blared out "Leaving on your Mind" and I seriously hoped he wasn't listening to the lyrics too closely and thinking about leaving me - since I'm clearly a crazy person incapable of completing adult tasks. A newly blanked out e-form pulled up on the laptop. My pride, no where to be seen.

So, how does this story end? Well. I put my boss-lady pants on and redid the form. And now my federal taxes have officially been submitted.*** The state ones? Listen, point blank, that shit ain't gonna happen today. They can wait til tomorrow. If they can't, well, then call me Capone and take me away. There's only so much energy a gal can muster at the end of what was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. In fact, the ridiculousness of my ambition, in deciding to do my taxes tonight, that's where this went wrong. Sometimes, one should just settle for phoning it in and picking up the receiver again later.

What a mighty good man. All the "brownie" points!

Overall note: to be fair, not only did I go into this after an awful day, but I also watched an episode of "This is Us" which just opened the floodgates for emotions, as always.  * Only this middle school math teacher is drunk and instead throws calculus worksheets in front of 12 year olds - sure, maybe they can figure out what numbers to put where but they probably don't understand why or what the hell the final number means. I'm the 12 year old in this scenario.
** It was free, if you lived in a certain state and made below a certain income - which I did and I do. BUT if you haven't clicked through to file from the IRS website, you do NOT get a free filing. If you go to the website any other way, they screw you over and charge you. Dirtbags. Total dirtbags. 
*** And they sure as shit better not get rejected come tomorrow, or this gal will be out looking for a higher place to jump.

Time to Get Some Work Done

As an "adult," one is expected to have a certain level of responsibility when it comes to health, appointment making, etc. Somehow, instead of accepting this duty to myself, I have avidly dodged and made a game of avoiding. (Shame. Start shaming here.) Despite being properly insured and able to pay for said appointments, I've failed to adult in this regard.

The eye doctor? How long can a one-year supply of contacts last? Welp, over five years, if you play your cards right. How long can a pair of glasses hang in there? Um, if you buy your own little glasses repair kit and have some tape, at least ten years.

The regular doctor? No. That one I don't avoid. Yearly checkups for my lady bits and overall health, those are important. Though blood draws I've shied away from at times.

Then there's the dentist. The damn dentist. Bane of my existence. After some awful experiences in my youth, I have avoided dental work like the plague. My teeth are 50% robot as is, with all the ancient fillings lurking about, so handing over more cha-ching to get more metal and torture wasn't a high priority on my list.

But then last week happened. I know I already recapped some of the emotions I went through on election day itself, but those were nothing compared to the vast swings of my mental state in the past seven days. As I laid awake, alone on the couch, staring into the early hours of Wednesday, November 9th, I was deep in the first stage of grief: denial. When they announced that the call had been made, and that the woman who should have been our first female president had conceded to the system, I morphed straight into the stage I shall reside in for the next four years: anger.

That little spark that said: don't grow complacent. This is not acceptable and you now have to take fate into your own hands. You need to work harder to improve yourself, to enhance your community, and to help others. Because things could get very scary in the years to come; but they don't have to, if we all do our part to shine a light on dark spaces, to build each other up, and do right by the planet. As youths, we were starry-eyed dreamers who wanted to save the world, but some of us got distracted along the way. Time to get back at it (even a little at a time).

So. Every day/week I'm making a list (don't worry, I won't share it all the time!) to make sure I've accomplished at least one thing in the following areas:

1. Something to improve myself (me)
2. Something to bring joy or show support to another (you)
3. Something to better my community or our union (we)

Here's some of the "you, me, we" items from week one:

• (we) Donated to Planned Parenthood
• (we) Researched and paired down the short list for charities in my community that I can volunteer for (based on timing and requirements for volunteers) - apps and phone calls to start up following my return to town after Thanksgiving
• (we) Started a positive-post-it girl-power mirror wall in the ladies room at the office

A positive spin, when real life gets shitty.

• (you) Discussed the election and positive ways to move forward with concerned friends and family
• (we) Yes, I wore my safety pin 
• (me) Saw a documentary on Maya Angelou - trying to watch more documentaries and read more works outside of my usual scope to get a broader look at the human experience - and OH this one was so fascinating
• (you) Went out to support a family member going through a rough time
• (you) Wrote a few letters / sent out care packages to a few friends - just because
• (me) Fell back into the movie watching and reading wormhole - taking time for the things I love (like seeing Fantastic Beasts and reading the next Outlander book)
• (we) Started following a organizations that post action items for citizens to influence government policies / help defend groups who could be at risk come January
• (we) Picked a child's name for our office holiday giving program
• (me) Re-listened to the speech Gwen Ifill gave at my commencement - which helped put some perspective on how much and how little has changed in the years since
• (we) Picked through my clothes to find some work outfits to donate to a local charity

You might be asking yourself: at what point did a post about dentistry morph into a little soap box speech about changing the world? The answer: It always was. Because, like taking care of one's teeth, taking care of yourself and your community is essential. Else, years later, you'll regret having not worked harder to keep things good in the first place, and will realize things have gotten rotten due to your neglect. And if you think a regular root canal is bad, imagine needing one on a much larger scale. That out-of-pocket expense is way too high to pay...

List writing to make a difference.

Sunday Somethings

Today was a strange Sunday for me. As the day closes, I can clearly see several encapsulated moments - little vials to be dumped into a Pensieve, as it were. So, thought I'd share them, all nice and neat and wrapped in a bow for y'all.

• I woke up tired, at 8:00 am, after around five hours of sleep. Quietly, I began cleaning up the remains of a stellar apartment-warming party the night before. Bidding adieu to a departing houseguest as I emptied the dishwasher. Everything was quiet, and peaceful, and I had the world all to myself. It was very serene after the prior evening of excessive noise. 
• Noon. After cancelled plans, the beau and I went in search of brunch. Or, perhaps more aptly, lunch. In a city known for brunch, I was super disappointed when we sat down at a place that told us they did not have brunch at all, but only breakfast, until 2:00 pm. It was a rare moment where I actually walked out of a restaurant. Brunch means both. You can't have only eggs available at noon, friend. Not in this town. 
• 2:15 pm. The beau headed off for work, and since it was such a rare, beautiful October day, I hit the trail along the lake. For an hour and a half I just listened to music and walked along, admiring the world. Half the leaves are turned and departing from their branches, the other half desperately clinging to the green glow of summer. The travelling Oktoberfest beer garden bumped out polka music which echoed along the shoreline, bouncing off the buildings of the city. (The same music which has played from noon to night every day for the past week, and has graced our home with hourly renditions of "Roll Out the Barrel.") It was perfection. 
• At the empty beach, on my walk, there was a young family. They were introducing their small baby to sand for what seemed to be the first time. The dad, clutching the child by both hands, slowly lowered her down until her bare feet touched down. The kid's face lit up so bright, as if she were the first human setting foot on Mars or something. After seconds of confused joy, she began sprinting forward, longing for more new experiences. She was bliss. Her mother recorded the whole thing. I was in the background of that moment, and will be forevermore because of that recording.
• There is a nearby pier that was strangely unoccupied, so I walked all the way out into the lake, as far as it would take me, marveling back at the skyline. Sitting on the graffitied wall, I watched the waves lap up against the pier and the rocks. I took a million photos of the "artwork" on the pier. Most just silly tagging, but some just there for the beauty. It took me a time to realize why no one else was around, and that it had been growing darker. That the fog had begun to roll in, and that rain was eminent. So I headed home.

"Trying not to look so young and miserable..."

• 5:00 pm. At the mall, meeting with my sister for lunch, realizing how nice it is to live somewhere where friends and family are so easily accessible. Where, when wanting to have a few people over for a housewarming, a troupe of around 30 shows up. Where, when you call up your sister and say you want to go see a movie, she doesn't want to see the same one but meets up with you for a meal beforehand anyways. What a lucky lot in life.
• 6:45 pm. A date with myself to see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (part 2) in IMAX. Perfect seat, popcorn in hand. Ready for all the feels. That's when it began. The woman right behind me (of course) who would NOT stop her running commentary of the film. Every character who came on screen, she had to announce who it was. Every moment of silence, she interjected some quip. A loud cackle. A misplaced reference. It wouldn't end. This woman was reprimanded by her family with her at the theater, and by several other people in the audience who implored her to just watch the film in silence. (There were even swear words exchanged at one point, and threats of violence.) To no avail. 
• Now, don't get me wrong, I still felt all the feels (and cried like eight different times) and enjoyed the movie immensely. But, I probably enjoyed it at about 80% of what I could have, had this woman not been there. Throughout the film, the brainstorming began, as I plotted out exactly what I was going to say to this woman at the end of the film. (There was nothing to be done during the run-time, clearly, as she had ignored everyone else.) I had several versions ready, as the movie drew to a close. Then it occurred to me: this lonely, odd woman, probably just didn't have anyone else to express her excitement to normally, and maybe genuinely thought this would be a good outlet. Or maybe she just liked HP so much and couldn't help herself. (I mean, I had done a few little fist pumps throughout, but they were a quiet affair.) The real question: What good would it do for me to be mean to this lady? So, I kept my venomous words to myself, and instead, at the end of the movie when I stood up, I turned around and faced her and threw her five full seconds worth of straight on shade, in silence. In that shade, I tried to convey that what she had done was in fact, awful, as she had disrupted a fellow Potterhead from fully immersing back into a world that we can normally now only enjoy at home. I don't hope she feels awful, I just hope she understands.
• 9:00 pm - the drive home. The fog had fully taken over, and the closer I got towards the lake, the denser it got. With Broken Bells pulsing out of my car speakers, it felt like I was literally in a dream state. The world was actually a blur. The drive was movement wrapped in mist. It was soothing and yet perfectly eerie.

"Girl take a seat, rest your weary bones..."

Whether today was a wonderful day, or just a strange one, is probably a moot point. For ups and downs, it just...was. It was a Sunday. Not sure what kind of mood it has put, or kept me in, but I'll take it for what it was: another day gone by. 

Talking 'bout my Generation

Warning: I may or may not be cranky AF in this post. There is more than one way to skin a cat (thanks, Boomers, for that one), and my views on this topic can swing depending on context, but  for today it's all the rage.

Today at work came up yet another conversation about those damn "millennials." I'm in marketing, so this is a frequent topic, as millennials are a hot commodity for advertisers. If you can "hook em young," you get the coveted "brand loyalty" that will pay out for years to come.

BUT no one can agree on who exactly this group is, or what age range it includes. Some say those born between 1980 and 2000. Others break that into Gen Y and Gen Z. If the range is that wide, then anyone age 36 to 16 is getting clumped together. And we're allllll getting pigeon-holed into the same frickin' stereotypes (so quit being so snooty, Gen Y, we're all in this together).

So, when I commented that what we were really targeting for marketing purposes (young moms) was the "older millennials" - it was like I'd shot each Gen X and Boomer in the room straight in the face. OLD?! How dare I! Typical youth, being ridiculous! They got so hung up on the word "old" that they didn't get my point -- that the "millennial" generation isn't just one small group, and more importantly, it's not as simply defined as their countless conferences would have them believe.*

Here's where I get a bit ranty...

The one thing I think all millennials agree on - we hate fucking being called millennials. The word comes with a negative connotation (created by the media) of being lazy, entitled sheep, herding toward the latest social media craze. If the label is bad, the images are worse. As a friend of mine put it: they can call us whatever they want, as long as they stop pinning up Lena Dunham** as a stock photo for our generation.

Sure, every generation feels "misunderstood" at some point. And while stereotypes are often rooted in some form of truth, that truth is sometimes found via only a small sample size. Putting that aside, let me bitch about a few 'leading definitions' of my generation for a minute here:

1. Delayed rights of passage. They call us the Peter Pan generation. Not just because we all love the movie Hook, but because we "won't" grow up. As if we purposely refuse. Well guess what, it's hard to grow up when you graduate in a recession and can't get a job. We didn't break the market, we were just kids. Those who came before us shot the economy in the face and then blamed us for moving back home. We wanted so desperately not to that we all eventually accepted jobs with horrid pay so we could spend that pittance on overpriced apartments to prove we could make it. Which lead to...
2. Debt issues. Yep, the price of higher education and interest rates on student loans decided to skyrocket. So when we came out into that recession, we came carrying the weight of thousands of dollars in debt on our backs. Oh yeah, and those shitty jobs have set us up to make less money over our lifetimes. Because when you get a pay raise on dirt, you just get slightly more dirt. And unless you live in Waterworld, that really doesn't help you out. But of course, the real reason we're poor is because we're just....
3. Lazy bastards with side gigs who spend all their money on smart phones. AKA we have to work two or three jobs just to pay rent and minimum payments on our loans. And the only light of hope while we work 60 hour work weeks (salaried at $30k a year) is to have some escapism via the tiny technology we carry in our pockets that connects us to the world and which we rely on for our...
4. Social media obsession. Since our lives are frequently rubbish, we live vicariously through the "me-myself-and-my-fabulous-friends-and-adventures" stars of the Youtubes and blogosphere that we mindlessly scroll through (while sitting on the toilet, which is really our only downtime since we're busy with all those side gigs). We "consume video" because videos allow us to multitask so we can have both escapism and enough time to do the dishes. We also spend countless hours curating our own online presence to display the version of ourselves that will get us the most likes, because we constantly need...
5. Instant Gratification. Unlike generations before, almost everything now is more measurable. We can tell if people approve of our ideas based on the statistics on social media. We don't have to guess, we know. Technology feeds us all the data we need to be happy about our place in the world, or to feel like a total loser on a clear scale that's not just in our heads. And technology will always tell us because...
6. Technology and us grew up together. We were in the cradle with computers and cell phones. We started school when computers started showing up in homes. We went to high school with floppy disks in our pockets. I got my first cell phone when I went away to college, and my first laptop only when I went to study abroad. I still don't have a smartphone, but I spend half my workday discussing device rendering issues for our website - because I can.
   

   

   Whose bright idea was this??

   Because technology and us have been BFFs for years. We grew up awkwardly together: braces, bruises, buzzy dial-up and all.  We feel like access to information is a right, even if that sounds a bit....
7. Entitled. We grew up in a world with freedom of information, and we're not going backwards and accepting anything less.
   
   Do we feel entitled about getting a promotion at work? NO, but we feel like we should get one when we've earned it. Why? Because a bunch of Boomer parents put the doe-eyed notion in our heads that if we WORKED HARD and stayed positive, and showed off our talents, and all the things that made us bright little stars, that we WOULD be able to excel. Hard work, dedication. Be kind, rewind. Go to college and get a job. You filled us with a false idea that at graduation, we'd receive diplomas and jobs, just like that.
   
   And then we walked out into the world, with stars in our eyes and ambition in our souls, with a drive to make the world a better place... and most of us got knocked flat on our asses. So we picked ourselves up and worked hard, just like we were told. We switched jobs because our work wasn't appreciated (unlike our parents, we don't want to just put up with being shit on by "the man" - we want some g'damn positive affirmation). We got shut down for ideas because things have "always been done" a different way. We kept working hard. And you know where it got us? Mostly, it just got us bitter.
   
   As we watched older people with less talent run the companies we worked for into the ground, powerless to move up and help. We reached out for mentors to guide us, we networked, we scrambled. Some took any job they could to try and stop living paycheck to paycheck. To the point where the only thing most of us feel entitled to now is our free time outside of work. If putting in the extra time isn't rewarded, we're not going to keep being indentured servants - we're going to squeeze every ounce out of our free time and make it as shiny as possible, because we DO feel entitled to the same happiness we see from those internet personalities. It's why we cover our tiny cube walls with bright motivational quotes - to remind us that there's life out there.
   
   We give up on changing the world.
   Just let us grow up to be unicorns and let's be done with it.

As it is, was, and always will be, the young don't have the benefits of wisdom and the old don't have the weightless optimism of youth. Older generations always point out something to bitch about when it comes to "those damn kids," just like the generation before bitched about them. Basically, we all just bitch at the youths because we want them to know better. But they never will. So, let us make our mistakes and lay off the judgement, because we're over it (AF).***

The internet gave this to me, because we're friends.

* Here is one of many decent articles about millennials. Go read this, not the other rubbish.
**Sidebar on Lena Dunham re: Girls. Not a single millennial I know can relate to the characters on that show. We all hate them because they give a bad name to our generation. I went into that show hoping I'd get some fellow youths to commiserate and empathize with, but I only grew to dislike each character more and more as time went by. They're awful; we are not like that... Except for the gay dads, we might have some gay dads. 
*** General disclaimer: I'm not living paycheck. I've finally almost paid off my $27,000 of student loan debt. I'm not just surviving, but am thriving - but that was after a lot of years of shit and struggle. A lot of my friends have finally come through the other side (now that we're all pushing 30), but many have not yet. We're not all the same, this whole article was just another set of stereotypes *shakes fist at the irony of it all - and the possible misuse of the word irony*

Clean Up, Aisle Six

Returned to the hardware store.

"Excuse me, what type of saw would I need to cut this board? A jig saw? Or would this reciprocating saw work?"
"Oh that reciprocating saw should work just fine."
"Lovely. And what is your return policy on saws?"
Winning smile, awkward pause.
"... As long as you have the receipt, you should be good."
"Wonderful. Thanks so much for your help."

I think you get the point...

Vindication

Rage, Aisle Six

Tonight was “go fuck yourself” night at the hardware store.

Had the weekly quest to the laundromat, with a precious 35 minutes in which to run errands. After those 35 minutes, the washer unlocks and the battle royale for the machine commences. This time around, I had a very specific mission for those minutes. A shelf. I needed a shelf to finally finish off the bar I made for my living room (out of what was formerly a mantle from a church, featuring a dedication to a woman name Gretchen, who I of course presume was a nun… but that’s a story for another day).

As soon as the laundry was in, I hit it to the nearest big-chain hardware store. As a twenty-something woman going into these stores, I take the same approach every time: find an elderly male employee. He’ll want to help you like a father would his daughter, then you dazzle him with your handy-lady knowledge. He’ll be oh so helpful and you’ll get out quicker. Instead, I ran into a middle-aged female employee. This is hit or miss. In this case, a win! She knew just the aisle and pointed to send me on my way without feeling like she needed to hold my hand and walk me there because I might get lost. Beautiful. On the way, get accosted by three more employees:

1. The young guy, who I barely let get a word out without saying, “I’m fine, thanks!”
2. The young lady, who thought about asking if I needed help but saw I was walking swiftly so hesitated and awkwardly slinked away
3. The middle-aged man, who blocked my path and said, “Can I help you find anything, little lady?” 

The third one was the trigger to what became a building rage. We’re not in the deep south, you’re not a cowboy and I’m not ten years old, so there’s no circumstance where “little lady” is appropriate. I got around him after a terse rejection of his offer and got to the shelves. All too long or too short. Grabbed one that was about four inches too long and went to the cutting station. Found several young male employees scrapping about, BSing around the forklift, as they tend to do.

Put on the winning smile and pulled out a charming, “Would one of you gentlemen be able to help me trim this shelf, please?” Half wink.
The leader of the BS conversation says, “I’m sorry, but the saw is broken.”
Winning smile glitches slightly. I retort, “You’re joking, right? That’s terribly inconvenient for a store that sells lumber…”
The group chuckles, the lead BSer just smiles and says, “Oh yes, terrible, just can’t cut, just now, just saw a pretty girl walk over and forgot what its job was.”
The creepy pick-up line was lost on me as I asked, “No seriously though, is it broken or not?”
Laughter ensued, “Oh yeah, totally broken…”

Not in the mood for a jovial harassment, I turned heel and walked away. Echoes of “only joking” followed as I pushed the board into the arms of a manager on the way out and left the store, annoyed.

15 minutes till time was up.

Into the car and quickly to the other big-box hardware store two blocks down. Quickly in, looking for an employee to inquire where to find shelving. No one. Not a soul. So I hot-footed it in the direction of some “close enough” hanging sign and finally found the shelves. Again, too long or too short. Grabbed one that was three inches too long and went to find the cutting station. Not a single employee within six aisles on either side of it to help me out.

So of course, eff that noise. Grabbed a pair of goggles and marked the board off with a pencil and a ruler. Lined it up to cut off those two inches. Read the little sign that said how to operate/turn on the saw and clicked it. An outcry from several aisles down. An employee had finally shown up and was very distraught about me using the saw. Shut it off, stepped back and waited for them to arrive (since they were clearly coming from WHO KNOWS WHERE – since there were NO employees to help in that store).  They arrive and garble on about safety. I point out that no where on the signs does it indicate that the saw is for employee use only and I tried to find an employee but couldn't. Just a little girl, didn't know any better. Hand them the goggles, ask politely if they’d kindly cut the board for me, so sorry, didn't really mean to cause a fuss, thanks so much for your help, etc.

This guy then proceeds to tell me that they "aren't allowed" to cut off less than a foot, so he can’t cut off the three inches on my shelf. Says what I can do is go get a way too long shelf (which costs several dollars more) and then it would be more than a foot getting cut off so it’d be fine. So I could just go waste my money and time and a tree and go do that. In a huff, I tell him to wait there and sprint back to the shelves. Grab the obnoxious long shelf and rapidly return to the saw station.

Five minutes til laundry was done.

And the guy is gone. And there is no employee within six aisles on either side. And the bastard took the goggles with him (and I know better than to disobey a rule without safety goggles on). After a near-barbaric outburst of exasperation, I put the board on the saw and wrote a post-it saying, “Thanks for nothing” and left the store. Yes, I carry post-its just for such occasions of passive-aggressive rage. Is an appropriately sized board so much to ask for?? I'm not about to go buy a proper electric saw, and we all know that if I get a handsaw this will turn into some weird Saw moment as I accidentally chop off my leg (those things are hard to control with my supreme lack of upper body strength).

Raced back to my laundry, and that SAME elderly Asian woman who had it out for me previously was about to dump my clothes out again. At that point though, with me in my lack-of-shelf Hulk-mode, bitch didn't stand a chance…

La trahison des hardware stores