The Because I Said So Generation

There are differences between generations. I think it is important to pass down important information about those differences. I thought I would take some time to explain my generation to those who want to know what makes us tick. I know there are names for each generation. The Baby Boomers, Generation X, and the Millennial generation are just a few. While technically I am a member of the Baby Boom generation, I like to refer to my generation as the “Because I said So Generation”.

Until I was five years old I thought that my parents could say only three things. “No”, “Because I said so”, and “It’s fair because I said it’s fair”. When I was six “The teacher is always right” and “Did I ask if you if you started it? And “Who said life was fair?” made their appearance in my life.

We drank wine before we drank soda. In all fairness, the drinking of wine was an Italian thing more than a generational thing. We drank it only at Sunday dinner, only at my Grandmother's house and only one glass. We did not drink out of wine glasses. They were glasses that my Grandmother got at the Acme. She got the glasses with her S & H Green stamps. The green stamps were a generational thing. Green stamps were actual stamps that were green that you got for buying things at the store, which you would collect, put in a book and redeem for stuff at Acme.

We had the bug man. In my childhood, we had a guy who drove around a jeep and sprayed fog from the the back of his truck. This was done to kill the mosquitoes. Every kid in the neighborhood, including yours truly, chased the bug truck We literally ran in the fog. Our parents didn't stop us. The assumed that the government knew that whatever they were spraying out of the back of the truck was not going to kill us. Turns out the fog was DDT which was banned for public use in 1972. How's that working out for you?

We drank Tang. For those not familiar with Tang it was an orange powder that you mix with water and drank. It was “what the astronauts drank” and if it was good enough for the astronauts it is good enough for you. We had nothing but milk, tang, water and ice tea in our house right up until the day the plumber came to fix our dishwasher. When he opened it, he noticed the discoloration on the inside. He informed my Mom that she could remove that by running one cycle of the dishwasher but instead of detergent she should use Tang and it would shine it right up. That was the end of our Tang. We went from Tang to Tab. Tab was a diet soda. Another good choice. It was better for us than regular soda which were no longer allowed to drink. Apparently my Mother was told by the plumber that he used coke to remove rust as well, so soda was off the list. I'm not sure how she got to the conclusion that sugar was the culprit. I think she should have stopped talking to the plumber.

We had a party line. That was a shared phone line. When the phone rang, we answered it. Sometimes it was for us and sometimes it was for the other family who shared our number. Yes, you could listen to another persons phone call and they could listen to yours. You had to dial the phone. You had to actually put your finger in a hole and circle the dial. If you called someone and they were on the phone you got a busy signal. Phone books were books with phone numbers in them.

In every movie that you watch from the sixties and seventies there are brightly colored rooms. Pink and olive green were big. Every house in my neighborhood had a least one room with a pink and olive green color scheme. We had two. Our bathroom was one. The wallpaper was pink with flowers and we had the green love beads hanging down in front of the shower curtain. My bedroom was the other. It was hot pink everywhere you looked. It had pink shag carpeting which got raked. The plates on my bureau and desk that were behind the knobs were pink, I had a canopy bed for about twenty minutes. It had a pink canopy and bedspread. I was a gymnast as a young child. I saw the canopy and the wooden frame that held it up. It bore a striking resemblance to the uneven bars. Like I said, twenty minutes. I had a large double window in my room. When my parents added an addition on to our house my window became a bookshelf covered with pink contact paper. I have no pink in my house. Anywhere. Or green.

We had no seat belts in our car. As children we use to climb over the front seat to the back and back again. When we were confined to the back seat we spent our time in the car asking “Are we there yet?” My parents spent my childhood responding “If you don't stop, I am going to turn this car around right now.”
That was a big deal. We used to go for rides on Sunday afternoon. Our television only got three channels and there was no internet. In 1969 we got channel our fourth channel, public television.

The television went off the air at two am. Literally. The goodnight message came up then the screen went to snow.

I rode my bike without a helmet. So did every kid in my neighborhood. We also rode our bikes all over town and knew to come home at dinner or when the sun went down. My parents, and every other parent on our block, rang bells at dinner. When the bells started ringing it was time to go home.

Our televisions had no remote. You had to get up to change the channel. I was the original channel surfer. My Dad would tell whichever one of us was in the room to stand next to the television and change the channel. If he liked what was on we could sit down. If not we kept changing. This didn't take very long because there were only three channels.

I grew up with the “Cone of Silence”, This came from a television show called Get Smart. This was a show about a spy named Maxwell Smart. When Max was talking to his boss, whose name was “Chief” they talked under the cone of silence. It was a big plastic half bubble that came down over their heads. It wasn't a cone. The entire bottom was open. This was supposed to stop others from listening to their conversations. Brought to you by the folks who are now expected to understand the internet.

We watched such classic TV shows as Green Acres about folks from New York who buy a farm, Mister Ed about a talking horse, the Munsters about a family of folks who looked like Frankenstein and Dracula and had their outcast niece living with them who happened to be a beautiful blonde. They lived at 1313 Mockingbird Lane.

We had Batman first. He did not look like George Clooney or Ben Affleck. The Batman I grew up with was Adam West in a brightly colored stretch costume and his sidekick, Robin also in a brightly colored stretch costume. Both wore masks that only covered their eyes. They also used phrases like “Golly Gee Batman, and “Holy Houses Robin.” When they threw a punch the words “POW” or “BAM” would appear on the screen. I tried to explain this to my children when they were entering their teenage years. I thought it would help them if they understood the level of cinematic sophistication that their Father and I grew up with. I made them watch the episode where Batman is captured and the villain puts him in a snake charmer basket. To counteract this evil villain Batman does his multiplication tables backward. HA! That will teach them. They were laughing so hard they had tears running down their faces.

There were very few sports for girls. Title 9 passed the year I went to high school which was also the year DDT was banned. 1972 was a very busy year.

We had a typewriter. It used carbon paper to make copies.

We had a Polaroid Instamatic camera. You took a picture and it came out of the camera. In 60 seconds it developed while you waited.

We had Super eight home movies. We showed them with a projector. You would wind the film around the spool. The most fun part was listening to the folks while Dad was trying to wind the film on the spool and Mom was waiting to see the moving pictures and smoking. Everyone in my family smoked. They smoked in the house. As kids we got bubblegum cigarettes with pink ends. As a young adult, I got a pink and green ashtray from my parents in case I was going to smoke in the house. It was important that the ashtray match the room.

There were charm schools. They were not actual schools. They evolved into modeling schools. They were the place Mothers sent their daughters to learn how to walk in high heels with a book on your head. I did and I can. I forgot to list it on my college application. Miss America was a big deal then. I tried to explain that there had never been a Miss America who was 4'8'. Mom was having none of it. I can do an appropriate Miss America Wave. Another unbelievably useful skill. It is all in the wrist.

My first protest was in 1972. I organized the protest. We were protesting because girls were not allowed to wear pants to my grade school. I wore pink bell bottoms to the protest. My Mother told me there was no need to look bad just because you are going to a protest. She bought me the pink bell bottoms. This was the same woman who sent me to charm school. She also bought me my first set of cleats. I wore them with my pink bell bottoms to the protest.

There were computers when I went to college. The computer that I studied on in my college classes took up one wall of an entire room and used punch cards. I still have my cards. They are in my attic. I am keeping them for my children or grandchildren. One day they may be in a museum and the kids can sell them, along with my books on eBay.

I was the first woman in my family to graduate from college.

My first car was a 1967 Chevrolet. It had an AM radio. My boyfriend installed a cassette deck in it.

We had records. They were small (a single song) or large (an entire album). We played those records on our stereos. The stereos had an arm with a needle that would eventually scratch the album and force you to buy another copy. My generation invented economic obsolescence.

We bought our first house while Reagan was president. The interest rates were 15-16 %. We camped overnight, in a tent, in line at the local bank, which has since gone out of business, to get a low interest loan called first time homebuyers funding. The interest rate was 10.5%. We thought it was a bargain.

I can answer the question…. Where were you when Kennedy was shot? I was in kindergarten. The school was closed, we were sent home and all the adults were crying.

I was in grade school during the cold war. We had nuclear bomb drills. The bell went off and the announcement was made that we were having a drill. We all got under our desks. This was going to save us from nuclear fallout. Brought to you by the same folks driving the DDT jeep.

SCREAMING At the TV Day

Sunday is a day for many things. Some folks go to the beach, some go to church and some families, like my family, spend time screaming at the TV. Every Sunday from August until January the men in my life spend time used to spend time screaming at the TV. When my children were little, I didn't participate in the ritual. As they grew older I decided it was time to embrace it. I have gotten very good at the ritual. I have gotten so good in fact, that my children have asked me to sshhhh. After they sshhhed me, as it that wasn't bad enough, they asked me to just watch the game.

They are claiming now that they just enjoy watching the game. Really? I am convinced they are just jealous of my ability to scream. They are perplexed by my grace under pressure. I can go from zero to screaming in a heartbeat. They have gone as far as to ask me who I am and what have I done with their mother. HA.

Perhaps there is a potential screamer who just needs a little help getting their scream on. In light of that, I have put together a list of helpful hints for others who wish to surpass their partner as a better screamer. Don't hold back. Go all in! Here are my helpful hints:

The basic structure is that there are eleven very large men chasing a very small ball while eleven other very large men chase the first eleven very large men and the same small ball.

There are men on the field who will help keep the twenty two very large men from killing each other. They are known as REFS. They get to carry a whistle and a little yellow flag that can bring twenty two very large men to an immediate stop. Apparently they are all blind.

The men who are in charge of the large men on the field, and yes they are all men, all get to pace, frantically up and down the sidelines wearing headsets. I suspect that they don’t actually talk to anyone but the headsets make them feel important. They are the only men allowed to scream, and point without a penalty.

The only women allowed to witness the ritual are in the stands as spectators, on the sidelines as sportscasters trying to interview the large men about what they did that made their side win or loose even though we just spent three hours watching, or scantily clad women wearing bathing suits and calling themselves cheerleaders. It is crucial to cheer for the team while showing half of your breasts and all of your belly. It is also crucial to flip your head and fling your hair back. It somehow makes the cheering better. Sometimes the twenty two large men are watching the cheerleaders and loose their focus so the large man in charge gets to scream at the large men on the field. It’s a cycle.

Each team has a man called a kicker. None of the other large men are allowed to touch him or tackle him. This is very confusing to them since the rest of the time the large men are supposed to chase and tackle anyone on the opposing team. When they get confused they run around the field like little ants. It’s funny to watch but not if you’re screaming at the TV.

The screamers get hostile when you laugh.

When your team is loosing a screamer must scream louder.

The screamers get more hostile when you laugh if their team is loosing.

The greater the loss gets the louder the screamer must scream.

Each screamer must have one team and only one team that they like. Liking more than one team is punishable by having to watch another game on Monday night.

Screamers do not like to be told that is just a game.

I think that understanding the ritual is a learning process. Getting your scream on is also a process. I started small. I started listening to sports radio. It is supposed to be some sort of serious discussion about the local sports teams as if the results where socially impactful. It makes me laugh. It also helps me to focus my screaming by teaching me about the parts of the game that are discouraging and when is appropriate to scream. You can also tell by when the anchors voice goes up.

Screaming at the TV has another benefit. It is better than watching NASCAR racing. That is the sport dedicated to making left hand turns. All day.

I Never Knew Squirrel Removal Was A Thing

I live in the woods. I have woods on two sides of my house. Those woods are protected wetlands. We used to call it a swamp but now we are fancy. Either way, no one can build in those woods. There are foxes and deer in those woods. I have a family of rabbits that live under the deck, snakes that live under the other deck, and a whole assortment of birds that fly in an out regularly and love our bird feeders.

I grew up in a small town. There were less that 3,000 people in our town and our street was a dirt road. It was a huge deal when the street was paved. There was absolute jubilation when we got gas service and my parents were able to have the gas company run a line to our barbecue. I had an idyllic childhood. My summers were spent climbing trees, riding my bike, swimming and running around barefoot with my cousins. We had squirrels in our yard back then. We had a bunny that weighed 23 lbs. that turned out to be an exotic hare. My father kept adding additions to the rabbit house because the hare kept growing. My Italian grandmother, who lived with us, used to walk around our yard, wearing black, holding her rosary and placing curses on the rabbit/hare. We thought she was trying to kill the hare. The hare lived a long time. I'm pretty sure she was putting a curse on my Mom for marrying her baby. We also had squirrels. We had a garden with tomatoes and peppers as well as beautiful flower gardens. I do not recall any squirrel issues then but maybe I was just too young to remember although I'm quite sure I would have remembered my father hunting squirrels in our backyard.

When my father moved in with us he informed me that he had previously had a squirrel problem. My mother had never mentioned the squirrels or their problems. They lived in a condo. When Dad moved in with us one of the things he brought with him was a bird feeder that belonged to my Mom. We picked out a beautiful spot in the yard. It was a spot that he could look at from the kitchen through the kitchen door which is a large french door. It was beautiful. It lasted about twenty minutes. The first squirrel he saw led him to inform me that the squirrels had followed him from the condo. He was convinced. Apparently he and the squirrels had a long history that I hadn't known about.

My parents had put up the feeder and the squirrels started to enjoy it along with the birds. My father was having none of that and he put Vaseline on the pole holding up the feeder. The squirrels would slide down the pole. He thought he won. Then the squirrels took to running up the side of the deck and jumping on the top of the feeder. Once they got their food, they slid down the pole with the Vaseline using his own cleverness against him. Think furry firemen.

Apparently this made my Mother laugh like hell. I am sorry to have missed this. Then my Father decided what was good for the pole was even better for the top of the feeder. Again, he went to his go to fixer. He got out the Vaseline and covered the top of the feeder with it. The squirrels would run up the side of the deck and jump onto the top of the feeder but instead of landing on the feeder they would slide right off the top and go thump on the ground when they crash landed. My dad thought the squirrels would stop. I'm not sure how he reached that conclusion. I do know why my mother never mentioned this. My mother was a proud woman. How do you explain to your children that their father is trying to cause bodily injury to the squirrels? The squirrels came back as they do and started shaking , and sort of throwing themselves against the pole holding the feeder shaking the food onto the ground. There was nothing my Dad could do. He didn't have a BB gun at the condo. I'm pretty sure he spent years thinking about a BB gun just like the kid in the Christmas Story. He wanted a BB gun under his Christmas tree.

That was then and this was now. I was not going to be a part of the war of the squirrels and told him and my husband right after he casually asked my husband if he had a BB gun. I went out, took out some bird food and put it under the feeder so the squirrels wouldn't have to resort to finding food themselves. All seemed peaceful until this year. The squirrels have returned with a vengeance. They have decided to target our tomato plants. Several tomatoes have been eaten. The hubster had mentioned the squirrels and he had some thoughts as to how he would rid us of those pesky rodents. A BB gun was mentioned. Really. Your go to fixer for the squirrels is to shoot them? I felt the need at this point to explain the obvious. We live in the woods. We moved into their home, not the other way around. We were the invaders even though we have been here for over thirty years. He was having none of it. I have been down this road before. I have reasoned with a man who thinks he should put Vaseline on the pole of a bird feeder instead of putting bird seed on the ground for the squirrels to enjoy. I tried the distraction method. I told him that maybe the moles had eaten the plant. He dislikes the moles in our yard as much as he dislikes the squirrels. I think the aerate the lawn saving him from having to do it. He was having none of it. Apparently the squirrels in the city where he grew up were really nasty squirrels and he was traumatized by the squirrels. Oddly, my Dad grew up in the same neighborhood in the same city as my husband. I never got the details as to how their squirrels were different than the country squirrels that I grew up with.

I knew what had to be done. I had to come up with a solution to clearing out the squirrels without injury so I did what I do, I googled it. What came up was a hundred or so video demonstrations of how to rid your yard of squirrels using Vaseline. It's a thing. I never knew that squirrel elimination with Vaseline was a thing. It's important to learn something new each day. I learned. I also learned that there is a series of videos available on removing moles from your yard using cages. Why can't we all just live together. I want the sixties back. Peace and Love.

I said nothing. I am a woman on a mission. The next day I told him in my most serious voice “I swear I have no idea where the BB's are.” Then I went out and put bird seed on the ground.

The Plant Goddess

I am many things I am a loyal friend and co-worker. I’m a good Mom and a funny writer. I am not a gardener. In some circles, I am not even considered a plant person. Somewhere in the plant kingdom my picture is on a poster with the words “Shoot on Sight”. I have killed more plants than most people own in a lifetime. And sadly is it not always from neglect. I have even managed to kill them with too much care. For those of you who don’t know, you can over water a plant and kill it. It’s called drowning, and I have done that too.

I started my new job with the best of intentions. Work hard, be diligent, and put your best foot forward. These have always been my goals. I thought it was going splendidly. My new co-workers and I hit it off well. We were developing relationships, and moving toward friendships. It was a really pleasant working situation. Then it happened. My co-worker was going away for a few days and left me a note asking me to please remember to water her plant. I almost choked when I read the note. I angered the plant Goddess. I must have done something awful to anger her. I strained my brain thinking what I could have done that would have provoked such a response. I bought some flowers this year. I didn’t mean to upset the Goddess. I don’t usually buy any flowers. Usually hubby buys them and plants them. My job has been to go “oooh” after all the actual planting is done. It isn’t a complicated system but it has worked for us. I don’t touch the plants and in return the plants get to live. This year was different. I was out and saw some flowers on sale and bought a two flats. I only touched them long enough to put them in the car and take them out and hand them to hubby. I promise.

It was too late. The Goddess had made her presence known. I couldn’t in good conscience let my co-worker down either. She was depending on me. I thought about her request for the next few days and decided that maybe it was time for a change. Maybe it is time to show the Goddess who’s boss. This is going to be my shining moment in the plant kingdom. I will dispel all of the rumors about my inadequacies as a plant person. I may even buy a real plant instead of a silk one, but first I have to start by taking my baby steps. I will tend to the plant of a coworker. I am ready. I have visualized the plant growing healthy in my care. It will be a Zen like experience.

The day arrives. It is a rainy, murky day and I am running late. The street where I usually turn is blocked by construction work and detoured around the block. My windshield wipers stop working halfway to work. If I was the kind of person who believed in signs I would turn right around and go home, crawl back into bed, and pull the covers over my head. If I was that kind of person. But I am not. Besides I can’t come with an excuse this close to starting time. “ I won’t be in today because it’s raining, my wipers died, I have to water a plant and I’m superstitious.” It works for me but I don’t think it will work for my boss.

I arrive. My determination to succeed at my plant job is taking over. The adrenaline is starting to flow. I pull myself back and remember that I have an actual job to do. Plant tending is only a bonus. It’s time to get to work. I sense the bad karma of the beginning of the day changing. Things are working. The day passes by quickly. Too quickly. I look up and it’s 2:00. 3:00 arrives just as fast. Then the awful thought that something is wrong. But everything is going so peacefully. Then it hits me like a ton of bricks. I forgot the plant. Thankfully it is not too late. Plants, I’ve been told, are not like kids. They don’t have to be watered at a particular time. It’s time to pay the piper.

I saunter over to her desk. It’s part of my plan. If I look like I’m a plant person people will assume I am. Sauntering is part of my plant person persona. I ever so confidently pick up the watering can which is full and water the plant, making sure to move some of the leaves out of the way so the water gets to the roots. The soil is sucking up the water. I am almost alarmed by the amount of water it’s taking. Then I notice it. The water is coming out the bottom of the pot and up the sides of the container it’s sitting in. I immediately remove the water can and watch the water rising in the container. And pray. Please plant Goddess let the water stop. PLEASE. The water keeps going. It finally stops 1/4 of an inch from the top of the container. The plant Goddess has heard me and answered. Now I have to live up to her faith in me. I have to empty the water out of the container or the plant will get too much water and die. And I have to do this without looking like an idiot.

There was no graceful way out. There is no way to carry a plant in a large container filled with water past a large group of people and down a hallway while looking graceful. Been there, done that, got the tee-shirt. It wasn’t pretty this time either. At all costs the plant must be saved. I did what I had to do to save the plant. My boss must have wondered why I was carrying a co workers plant down the hallway as he glanced up when I walked past his office. He never asked. I can respect a man in denial. My coworker returned safely from her vacation. The plant survived. I have fulfilled my promise to the plant Goddess. In my moment of weakness when I was praying to her I promised her if she let the plant live I wouldn’t go near a plant again. She did and I won’t. The plant universe is back on track.

Toxic Bread

There are people in this world that like to bake bread. They are good and kind people. There are people in the world who get paid to bake bread. They are called bakers. Use these people wisely. I am not a baker. I like to go to a store, and buy my bread already made. They are so nice at the store, they even wrap the bread for me.

It is all Martha Stewart’s fault. I need to blame someone, so I might as well blame Martha. She started this whole movement. It has invaded my house. It has trampled on my domain. It started out with the best of intentions but then it went horribly wrong. Hubby thought he was doing something kind when he got me a bread making machine.

I put the bread maker, still in its’ box, underneath a chair in the kitchen. I dusted the box lovingly every day. A few days later I opened the box and took out the directions. They were written by people who know how to bake. I thought I should take my time and read them over and over again. I was trying to pace myself. I estimated that it would take me at least two weeks to really understand them. It took me three.

I knew the day would come when I would have to use the machine. I would have to make the attempt. There are only so many times a grown woman can dust a box off without feeling really guilty. Well, today the jig was up. Today was my day of reckoning.

I opened the box and removed the machine. Then I dusted off the machine. It was easier than the dusting off the box. I carefully followed the directions for cleaning it before using it. I measured out all of the ingredients and placed them in the machine, in the exact order specified in the recipe. The yeast is not allowed to touch the liquid ingredients or something horrible will happen. I don’t know what the horrible thing is, but I figure that the people that know how to bake know what the horrible thing is, and that is good enough for me.

Then comes the test. You are supposed to close the lid and plug it in. Then press the MENU and punch in all the right numbers telling the machine what size loaf to make, what kind of bread it is, and how long you want to bake it. Then you push start, it goes beep and starts.

My machine did not read the instructions. The second the plug hit the socket it started to beep. The little digital area was flashing. I couldn’t get it to stop. I pressed the stop button. I pushed the MENU button. I pushed every button. It wouldn’t stop beeping. It wouldn’t take my instructions and it was making a noise. It sounded like thumpwak, thumpwak, thumpwak. I don’t know much about mechanical things but I know it’s not supposed to sound like that. This machine has a mind of it’s own. In desperation, I finally grabbed a chair, and a flashlight. I stood over the machine with the mind of it’s own, pressing on the MENU button with the force of a weight lifter. It finally responded with the correct screen. Success at last! I punched in the selected items and the machine with a mind of it’s own started doing something that resembled what the instructions said it would do. I set it for an ultra fast cycle. In 58 minutes I would have fresh baked bread. Maybe I should not be mad at Martha.

About half way through the baking process a smell started wafting through the house. It was not the smell of bread baking. It was the smell of burning rubber. The children kept popping into the house. One whiff of the burning rubber brought “What’s that SMELL?” and grasping their noses as they ran back outside.

The buzzer went off exactly 58 minutes later. I lifted the lid and stared into my bread machine. The pan that holds the freshly baked bread was half empty. It was supposed to hold a pound and a half loaf of freshly baked bread. I lifted it gingerly out of the machine hoping against all odds that the rest of my one and a half pound loaf was hanging out the other end of the pan. It wasn’t. I am the proud baker of a 3 inch cube of bread. The bread is still sitting on the counter. I am not sure what I am supposed to do with a 3 inch cube of bread. I’m afraid to let the children eat it. There is obviously something genetically wrong with my bread cube. This 3 inch cube has enough yeast and ingredients for a pound and a half loaf. It is one large chemical imbalance. I have visions of trying to explain to the doctor in the emergency room why I let my children eat a super concentrated, chemically imbalanced, 3 inch cube of bread, as the child protection people come and haul me away.

The machine with a mind of it’s own is back in it’s box. Out of respect to Martha, I have given the box a new place. It is not under the chair. The box is now covered with cute shelf paper. It is my own personal step stool. This is the true calling of the machine with a mind of it’s own. It looks cute, helps me when I need it and no longer beckons me to bake toxic 3inch cubes of bread. I sent a letter of thanks to my bakery.