Talkin’ Bout My Generation

While writing my last post I realized half of it was about how nutty my parents are. And I don’t really think it’s just my parent’s individual personalities that make them crazier than bat shit. I think it’s also the generation they came from and how quickly our generation has labeled them “lame-os.” I mean, these are people we love very much (moms, dads, aunts, uncles, grandparents) but they are like, so totally not informed. If you think about any time in your life that you have wanted to appear awesomely badass, I can guarantee your parents are not a part of that scenario. So these people raised us and essentially molded what we have become; how can they have such a different understanding of things…especially language? It’s as if we speak a different dialect of English. Allow me to explain…

Gay/Queer: Seriously these poor words have been so tangled in a weird web that maybe it isn’t even totally the fault of generations. But still “gay” and “queer” used to mean “happy” and “strange” to a majority of the baby boomers. But now the greater portion of society uses these words as derogatory terms. After being a substitute teacher for a year, I cannot tell you on how many instances I’ve heard “That’s so gay,” or “Stop being such a fucking queer dude.” I really, really would like to say “Oh child. It’s ok. I know using these sophomoric generalized terms for homosexuals makes you feel very confident in your heterosexuality. But I know my fair share of actual gay men. All you need is a trip to Banana Republic and a couple gin and tonics and you’d fit right in. Stop being such a dick. Oh, and you’re tardy. Thanks.”

Thong: Once upon a time my family was going to the Ohio State Fair. Enchanting. My mother looked at me and said “Uh…you’re not going to wear thongs to the fair are you?” I was aghast. First of all, who wears two thongs and second, what business was it of hers what kind of undergarments I wore? (Not that I wear thongs that often. You may tell me that I won’t have panty-lines with them. So friggin’ what. There are a lot worse things than people knowing I’m actually wearing underwear.) After we translated through our language barrier, I realized my mom was talking about my flip-flops. This is an essential word to work out with parents, especially if you hear your dad yell, “Hey! Watch out. You have dog shit on your thong!”


Dutch oven: This is a real good one. One of the small joys in my life is discovering that something juvenile and disgusting (and funny) has an actual name. Dutch oven is one of those things. If you are sleeping with or sitting cozily on the couch with someone and you are flatulent, most people would hope the smell dissipates away quickly before the bomb is smelled. However, if you are a big jerkwad, you pull the covers over your blanket-mate so they most assuredly know you farted…and have to smell it up close and personal. You have just created a Dutch oven. When I heard my aunts talking about a Dutch oven one day I busted up laughing. Why were they talking about farting under the covers and gassing one of my uncles? But of course they weren’t talking about my childish definition of the term…they were talking of the cooking apparatus. I really hope I never cook something that calls for preparation in a Dutch oven. If I open the lid to get a whiff I’ll probably die of laughter before I finish my recipe.

Douche bag: One of my favorite movies is “Wet Hot American Summer.” If you’ve never seen it you really should if only because these actors are in it: Bradley Cooper, Amy Poehler, Chris Meloni (chyeah, the tough-ass from Law and Order:SVU), Michael Ian Black, and Molly Shannon. Good shit right there. One of the best lines is in a scene where a hoity-toity, hot girl calls a nerdy kid a “Douche bag.” His response “Douche bags are a hygienic product; I take that as a compliment.” Imagine what our parents thought when we started tossing that term around. I find myself using it daily and in many different parts of speech: “What a douche bag,” “That’s so douchey,” “He majors in douche baggery,” you get the picture.

Grill: In boomer generation speak, this is my dad’s favorite thing. Grilling me about what jobs I’ve followed up on, marinating a chicken he will eventually grill, looking lovingly (and covetously) at all the grills when we go to the Home Depot. But I think a lot of people my age think of something else when we hear the word. For a long time when someone was invading my space or personal business, I was fond of saying “Get up out my grill, jeez.” Then all our favorite rappers decided that they would make retainers cool buy dipping them in gold and chrome and bedazzling them. What up…we got Grillz!

Junk in the Trunk: This is a favorite of my sister and me because my mom so eloquently shouted it out one day. I think it was the morning my sister was moving back to college and she was cramming all of her stuff in her car. All of the sudden my mom opens the trunk and says with a sigh “Jeez…you’ve got a lot of junk in your trunk.” I believe we were in tears with laughter. And I’m sorry we weren’t laughing with my mom, we were laughing at her. If we had been quick with witty comebacks I’d have treasured if my sister would have said “Thanks for noticing my bootylicious ass Mom. Much apprec!”

Shot your wad: I’m leaving this one for last because it is an epic tale that I still laugh about daily. I’m not kidding. When I’m feeling sad, I simply remember this favorite thing and then I don’t feel so bad. So my parents, sister, and I went shopping at a furniture store because my mom was picking out a loveseat or chair or something. After agonizing over the decision, my mom chose her furniture and we went out for dinner. As we were leaving my sister and I did the requisite chug your drink, refill, and take it with you move. We’re American, come on, when it says free refills you best get several! On the way home, sipping our pop in the back seat we hear my dad say to my mother “Well, you really shot your wad tonight!” Choking and sputtering and general pandemonium from my sister and I. “What did you say Dad??” we shouted. He explained that my mom had really spent a lot of money…so apparently he used the time-honored saying “Shot your wad” to express himself. I don’t know about you…but that phrase most definitely, definitely doesn’t mean the same to the younger generation as it does the older. So I’m not going to go into detail. Parents: just don’t say that. Ever. Please. Thank you.

These are just a few of the many, many examples of the generation gap. Especially when it comes to language. If you have any interesting stories of miscommunication please post a comment with your story. I think the only way we can move past our differences and to once again understand each other is to share our experiences. Haha…or we can just continue to be douche bags and make fun of our loved ones when they make silly blunders. That’s way more fun.

Full House

As of today, I have been living with my parents for 14 months and 15 days. Of all the things I thought I’d do after finishing graduate school, needing to move back home was not on my list. But, if you care to remember, the economy bailed on its American children like a deadbeat Dad. What a douche. So here I am, bunking with Ma and Pa. Before I “analyze” this stage of my life I just want to issue this caveat: I love my parents very much and I am thankful everyday that they welcomed me home with open arms, free living accommodations, and food. That being said…I sure as shit miss my independence. Here are just a few of the pros and cons of my situation…so if you are faced with moving back home (as it appears many people my age are) you will have some points on which to base your decision.

Accommodations

Cons: As often happens when children leave the nest, their space gets turned into an office or guest bedroom. My dad dreamed of a place for his long-hoped for Bowflex, but my mom vetoed that and my room became a huge closet. For instance, right now all the Christmas presents are piled atop my old furniture. So I inhabit my sister’s old bedroom, which has two twin beds in it. Bitch time: I miss my double bed. There I said it. Even my dorm bunk was better because it was extra-long at least. My feet hang over the edge of my current bed and I almost rolled over the side several times before I got used to the size of it. This Thanksgiving it was sort of bizarre to sleep in the same room with my sister. We kinda felt like Bert and Ernie. I also don’t have a lot of room for my clothes so for about six months I lived out of four suitcases (partly because I’m lazy, partly because I thought it felt too permanent and defeatist to unpack).

Pros: I have my own bathroom!! I’ve never had my own bathroom before…and might not ever again when I (finally, hopefully, one day, soon) move out. But right now, in my parent’s house I do! Suffice it to say, no one really wants to use my bathroom because my products and dirty clothes make it nearly impossible. But I have to claim one private space right? Also my parents have Dish network!! Over 200 channels! They got this after I went to college…so I feel like this is my time to make good use of it….which I do…all day.

Food and Beverage

Cons: I’m gaining weight.

Pros: When I was in graduate school I went through a phase of seeing how little I could spend on food. And while one night I found myself eating a bowl of corn and a piece of bread and butter, I lost weight and had plenty of money for weekend festivities. But now that I’m home there’s a veritable smorgasbord in our kitchen. Name brands! Full course meals! And my parents pick up the check when we go out to eat. (It doesn’t help that my dad always orders the onion ring appetizer at Applebee’s). So it seems that prosperity does make people fat. Also I’m convinced that when you move back home you go through a period of light alcoholism. For awhile my mom would oblige when I asked her to buy me a twelve pack, and I took the liberty of casing the liquor cabinet. Look, I know it sounds bad…but I don’t have an Xbox and a whole stash of weed to pass my daytime boredom. I snapped out of it when I saw that half the recycling was Keystone Light cans. Yeah. Embarrassing.

Roommates (aka “My Parents”)

Cons: I’d lived pretty much independently for the six years preceding my return as the prodigal daughter. So since high school I’d only had smallish doses of my parents. But now they are my roommates, landlords, what have you. I think one of the truly horrible and, at the same time, amazing things about parents is that even if you love them they can irritate the living shit out of you. And it’s pretty much universal. Let’s take my mom for instance. She tends to belabor points. (In laymen’s terms she nags…but that’s a tidge harsh no?) I know she does this because she cares and she’s scatterbrained and busy and goofy. But still…I’ve been known to come to my breaking point with a harsh “I GET it Mom, ok?? I GET it!” (You can judge me right now if you want. Go ahead).

And my dad…well he’s a whole different can of nuts. He’s a practical joker and the disregard of societal norms doesn’t embarrass him in the least. He’s like a man-child when it comes to clothing. Some days he decides that he wants to wear cowboy boots with dress pants or…whoa nelly wait for this…white socks with black loafers and a brown belt. He also fancies himself an “artist.” Honestly he borders on genius when it comes to concocting crazy projects he morphs from ideas on the DIY channel. He’s into making lamps out of nontraditional objects (think bowling balls, jars of marbles, liquor bottles, skulls…kidding!!) and recently he began chopping up old records for his designs. I thought he had dropped some acid one day when he said he wanted to buy canvases, spin them around really fast, while dripping paint on top. (Parental drug-based humor. What? I don’t like literary boundaries.) I’m convinced that if he didn’t marry my mom he’d live in a huge house full of his manic designs. And he’d have a long braided pony-tail. And wear white socks with black loafers and a brown belt.

And remember I said he doesn’t have a lot of shame? Well one day he sent me to the local carryout to get a bag of ice for our cookout. When I got to the checkout the cashier girl looked at me rather strangely. I figured it was because I looked like I hadn’t showered in days, when she said “Uh. I think you’re supposed to take home some hot dog buns.” My father had called the carry out because apparently he forgot about cell phone communication. I shudder to think of how he described me: “Uh…yeah she’s got brown hair, is carrying a bag of ice, and looks like a hill jack. Tell her to get some hotdog buns.”

Pros: My parents are so entertaining and actually spoil me way more than they should. Most weekend mornings my dad gets up and makes a big fancy breakfast, and often times he breaks out my grandma’s recipe for carmel toast. Yes…it’s a good as it sounds…and no you can’t have the recipe. And he always makes me laugh…whether it’s intentional or because I catch him watching something on Lifetime Movie Network. And my mom takes care of me even though I’m admittedly too old for such things. She always asks me if there’s anything special I’d like for dinner or if I want to rent a pay-per-view movie with her (even though she always falls asleep before they’re over). I’ve also had a good time turning her into a fan of The Office (“Oh my God, that Dwight is so crazy!”), and I’ll miss watching it with her every night when I move away.

So do the cons of living at home outweigh the pros? Not really in the way I expected. I really shouldn’t be living at home because I do need to be responsible, get a job, and recreate my own adult life. And I know that time will come soon when I am able to do that. But while I’m struggling to make that happen I suppose having my parents as roommates isn’t as bad as it might appear. So if you have to move home, don’t be embarrassed. It happens. But try for a shorter tenure than me. Don’t drink too much. And if your parents are as cool as mine, thank them every once in awhile for welcoming you back into the nest.