Generation Exhausted

"Dumbest" may be harsh, but maybe a little harshness is in order

Not long ago, a friend and I were discussing how some of the the things we used to enjoy - the tools we used to unwind and relax - didn't seem to be working as well anymore. In particular, reading; both voracious readers, we no longer seemed able to lose ourselves in a book anymore.

Not that we don't read - in the last several months we've both read several books for sheer enjoyment, a few others for intellectual stimulation, and a daily ingestion of news and views from all places and all kinds. In addition to news, we both read a little bit of some book daily, too. But that sense of immersion, we agreed, seems almost impossible to grasp. We pick up a book. We read a few pages. And we put it down. Or we pick up a book and soldier on, but the pages don't provide the insulation against the outside world that they once did. We hear kids playing, traffic outside, the birds in the yard - and the background of our own thoughts, seperate and distinct from the story we're enjoying.

Perhaps it was one of those unspoken signs of approaching middle age, we mused. After all, we've spent our 20s and 30s learning how to multi-task, keep several trains of thought moving and balls in the air all at once. Is it any wonder that our minds, so well trained to do so, can't as easily be coaxed into a mental "retreat"?

And then yesterday, I read the cover story in this month's The Atlantic. "Is Google Making Us Stoopid?" the headline screams. To which I mentally responded, "I can believe that." and picked up the magazine two weeks ago. The fact that it's taken me two weeks, in spite of 5 hours of plane travel, four days of vacation and two weekends to actually read the damn thing proves the point the article makes. Go read it. If it doesn't describe you, or bits of you, I will be surprised.

And then this morning, I read a news story (online of course) about Mark Bauerlein's new book, The Dumbest Generation: How the Digital Age Stupefies Young Americans and Jeopardizes Our Future, Or, Don't Trust Anyone Under 30. An mildly offensive title, to be sure, but one that rings true, and echoes another conversation I had recently about what I believe will - if it already hasn't - make my children's generation very different from the ones that came before. And with all the self-awareness I can muster, I must admit - I'll likely buy the book, quite soon, and then take unforgiveably long to read it.

Irony upon irony, 'til it's piled higher than my head - the decision to blog my thoughts came only after I looked for, and failed to find, a link that would allow me to Facebook the article.

These concerns are real, and it is once again, perhaps, Generation X caught squarely in the middle. We're not the "old fogies" - not quite - who don't understand all this "Internet Stuff." We're young enough to not be frightened and baffled by the concept and mechanics of uploading our photos to Facebook, but old enough to know that it's probably a good idea to read the Terms of Service before doing so. To use Bauerlein's analogy, we're young enough to appreciate the fun to be had in this virtual school cafeteria, but old enough to realize that the library can be just as stimulating.

So, what of the ones coming up behind us (Generation X), those teens and twenty-somethings who, when we're really old, are supposed to be our doctors and electricians and engineers? These are the kids who will, for good or for ill, be taking care of us some day. They're bright, no question. But it would be nice to know that they are just as capable of changing a tire as they are of changing a sound card.

And that's the problem I have with the Atlantic article and what I know of the book - there are few solutions offered.  But, idealist that I am, I'd like to think that there is something we could do. Short of wishing there could be a blackout every few months, I'm not sure what that could be.

I must be doing something right

Six years ago, upon the arrival of my 31st birthday, my dad gifted me with his idea of the perfect present. An executive-style office chair. High back, high arms, tilty thing, height adjustable, and, while not leather, certainly "leather-look." At the time, I was more annoyed than appreciative - my office is less than six feet wide, the desk is almost two feet deep, and the chair measures slightly more than a foot from the front of the seat to the back. In other words, the chair occupies a lot of real estate in an already crowded acreage.

However, he meant well - perhaps it was his way of acknowledging that while I might not be a high-powered CEO out there in the world, I was certainly beginning to succeed at being my own boss. And bosses need a boss's chair, right?

As time went on, I got used to the chair. It's big enough that I can tuck my feet up underneath me, or lean against one arm while draping my legs over the other, and get comfy here at the keyboard. And while it doesn't wheel around much (where would I go?) it's got a nice rock to it.

I noticed a while ago that the "leather-look" is starting to wear away - you can clearly see the chair padding where the backs of my knees rest. And it occurred to me, holy dog, I've actually spent enough time in this chair to wear it out. All by myself! That's a lot of sitting.

But, as my writer friends often remind me, butt in chair is the only way to get the job done. So instead of being mortified at the amount of time I must have spent on my butt these last six years, I think I'll be proud of being where I'm supposed to be, doing what I'm supposed to be doing - or at least trying to.

And then I'll ask for a new chair for my birthday. And if it takes up a lot of real estate, so be it. After all, this one turned out to work pretty well.

Oops, I did it again

Way back in June - remember June? - I made a mental list of the things I was going to accomplish this summer. Personal/career development-type stuff, not clean-the-garage kind of stuff. Although clean-the-office falls under the heading of personal/professional development around here.

Yeah. I didn't clean the garage either.

And here it is, August 1, and I'm looking over my shoulder at July fading into the sunset and thinking, wait! How could I run out of July before I ran out of things on my to-do list? And then I force myself to be honest with myself - and really, you should see the arguments I have with myself in this frame of mind - and admit that not only did I finish the to-do list, I barely even got started.

So. I have not cleaned the office, worked on my novel, tackled the three essay ideas I've had percolating, queried a single magazine, or learned how to use Windows Movie Maker effectively enough to actually, you know, make a movie. In fact, I stuill haven't gotten around to planting the flowerbeds.

I have turned passing time doing little into an art form. And I don't know why. Perhaps I'm an adrenaline junkie, and can't get anything done unless the pressure's on. Perhaps I've been falling down in the area of making the care of my own soul a priority. Or perhaps I just got...lazy. It's typical for me to start out the summer with a list a mile long, and end it the same way, but this is the most noticeable yet.

For heaven's sake, I hardly even blogged!

***

In eight days, my girl will be home. Although we IM almost every night, and have spoken on the phone once a week, I've missed her so much. I miss her smile, the way she gives her hair a pep talk in the front hall mirror before she leaves the house, the way she often surprises me with a Tim Hortons coffee when I least expect it. I even miss the additional shoes at the front door.

***

There's still a month of summer, so there's hope for that list yet. Although, to be realistic, August doesn't offer the uninterrupted stretches of time that July does. Maybe I need a more realistic list.

Look, she blogs!

Aw c'mon, you didn't really miss me, did you? You did? That's so sweet. Sorry for not sharing my month of navel-gazing with you. It's been renovation season around here, and I'm sure you wouldn't have wanted to read my lament about having the taste of drywall dust in my mouth and boxes of florring blocking access to the DVD cabinet.

The house, it seems, is much like one of those magical tents that's written about in Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire. You know, it looks like this teeny little thing you pull out of your backpack but once through the door there seems to be exactly as much space as is needed? That's where we live. The house is not big, but somehow, it's always big enough.

In addition to neglecting my blog, I've also been neglecting the yard. There was a story in the paper the other day about backyards with noxious weeds, and I examined it very carefully to see if the complainants lived anywhere near me. They don't, but still...I must take steps, and soon.

Summer vacation was 45 minutes old when the youngest began to express her boredom. That's a new record.

And in two weeks, my Disney Girl will be done her summer placement there. The pace at which time has passed is mind-boggling. But I'm so looking forward to having her home!

That's all for now - office cleaning and paint touching-up to be done. But it's good to be back!

There's no business..

Middle has gone into show business, in the form of employment at the local movie theatre. Obtaining this second job is all part of her plan to conquer the world/pay for a trip to Europe, and she looks very darling in her mostly black uniform. Talk about drumming the creativity right out of a person - make 'em dress in all black, head to toe, no jewellery allowed, top it all with a baseball cap to match. One wonders who designs these uniforms - there's really not much difference from place to place, is there? Oh sure, some of them come in bright colours, but really - McD's, BK, Tim's, the movies...I worry that someday, our teens will strike back at a society that made them wear polyester pants.

Pause to rant: HATE Typepad's new interface here. The typing is laggy - I type an entire line and then wait for it to appear. It's like writing with a pencil where the little lead thing on the end is falling out, but you can't find a sharpener to fix it, so you soldier on. VERY annoying.

Anywho. She's got herself a job at the "show" and since my early employment included a stint at the drive-in and a small-town theatre and my mother's early employment involved a stint at the drive-in, we can't resist telling her of our own experiences. This need comes from a desire to "relate", but also to remind her we know more than she does sometimes. Gotta keep these kids in their place, after all.

So. I spontaneously broke into a chorus of "Let's all go to the lobby..." which led to a discussion about intermission, and how we used to have that in the old days. Admittedly, intermission would not be practical now with 12 screens, but it used to be nice to be able to go pee after drinking half a movie's worth of pop without missing any of the movie. Then I pointed out how I can even remember way, WAY back when I was very little, that there used to be a cartoon before the movie. You know, instead of a recruitment ad for the Canadian Armed Forces or Dentyne.

And then, THEN, I remembered that they used to play O Canada before the movie started. And the daughter looked at me as if to say, "How old ARE you anyway woman?" But I remember that. And how people would stand for the anthem too. Sadly, something tells me that would never happen these days.

She seems to like show business so far. And it does bring her one step closer to conquering the world.

2000 miles and one left turn

Ok, Orlando isn't 2000 miles from here, it's more like 1100, but the general direction holds - head south from Detroit, and turn left at the Florida turnpike. Fairly simple, really. In some ways, the directions are the ONLY simple thing about packing five people with very different personalities and temperaments into a minivan and hitting the highway. Especially when one of them is taking all the things that she'll need to live comfortably for the next three months.

But it really ain't that bad, particularly when you maintain cautious expectations and accept certain things as a given. Oldest's blog entry from the day/night of departure holds some clues as to accepting we, as a family, have learned how to be over time. To paraphrase:

So far today, we've argued about what I'm taking, what they're all taking, when we're leaving, how long we think it will take to get there, and how to avoid the construction at the bridge. All that's left to do is argue about the right way to pack the car, then ACTUALLY packing the car, and we're good to go.

Children, even young adult children, embrace consistency.

We rolled out of Dodge (or at least away from the curb) at 2:30 a.m. having gotten some, but not enough, sleep. US Customs and Immigration is a very intimidating place, even when the faces are friendly and helpful. But her paperwork was all in order, and by 4 a.m.-ish, we were hitting the highway.

I love night driving, particularly on the highway. I am an "owl" by nature, and nearly empty roads are remarkably stress-free. I can set the cruise control and there's plenty of space for the occasional speed demons or slow pokes without me feeling any pressure to "keep up with traffic" or impatience at not being able to change lanes. The pavement, wet or dry, seems to glow, and the hiss/hush sound of the tires on pavement whisper each mile as it passes. The passengers, fast asleep in the back, need no reassurance that we're "almost to the state line" or "will be stopping soon."

Pulling into an Interstate rest stop, you meet the rest of the club who are also making this traditional trek. It's almost crowded; sleepy children, dressed in sweats or pjs, stumble toward the restrooms and scarf down snacks, while moms and dads splash cold water on their faces and pull a comb through their hair. Relief at taking a break is complicated by impatience to be back on the road, and parents share knowing glances as they resist sneaking a peek at their watches. How much further can we drive before the sun rises, and the backseat starts to clamour for breakfast, fresh air, a peek at the map, are we there yet, where are we?

Back on the road, the club loses its connection; slowly or quickly, the distance between travellers grows until once more you're alone on the road, nothing but you, the open road, and your own little tour group asleep in the backseat once more.

Once the sun rises, it's a whole new ball game. The heat beats down through the windows, the traffic builds, the scenery, while beautiful, is also a distraction. The mountains of Kentucky and Tennessee are breath-taking, and I feel a certain sense of guilt that these natural wonders are something, for us, to be gotten through instead of experienced for their own sake. When it's dark, we could be anywhere, and it doesn't matter where - when it's light out, we know that we're passing some pretty cool places at 70 miles an hour.

Oldest drove the state of Kentucky, while I closed my eyes in the backseat and tried to forget that the last time we made this drive she had a bucket of toys in the seat beside her to keep her busy. Letting her take the wheel, and the responsibility for getting us through the next 200 miles safely, was one of the hardest things I've ever done. And she did just fine, which is possibly even more unsettling. If she can drive across Kentucky, she can go anywhere, do anything. Which is the point, right? As long as she remembers that the road away also leads back home from time to time.

I'll be gone 500 miles...

I have driven 1100+ miles in the last three days. To say I am road-weary would be an understatement. And now, it appears that Typepad has done some "improving" so I'll have to figure out what that's all about too.

I've been away from "here" because I've been away from here, but I'm home now, the voice mail has all been checked and recorded, the laundry is well underway, and Oldest has been safely delivered into the arms of the Mouse That Built A Better People Trap. Much more posting lies ahead, here and at Remember The Magic as I bring you all up to speed on the journey to Central Florida and back. Look forward to such topics as:

• There's a reason these hotel rooms are only supposed to be for four people.
• Hot dogs at 8:30 a.m. are not such an unreasonable request
• What do you mean you ended up on the turnpike?
• Peanut Buttercup. Oh, I get it.
• Disney doesn't sell safety pins.
• Since when does France close at 10 p.m.?
• How the other half lives
• Meeting the Yeti
• Every fridge comes with a free can of Budweiser

And much, much more. I PROMISE.

Confession is good for the soul

A couple of weeks ago, I realized something rather unpleasant about myself, and determined to use my heightened awareness to change my behaviour.

I also thought "I'm going to blog about this!"

When I was mulling it over this morning, I thought again, "I'm going to blog about this!" and then I thought, "Did I already blog about this? What if I already blogged about this and I blog about it again? My blog readers would look at me like my kids look at me when I tell the same story for the second tenth time."

Oh come on, you know the look - a mixture of equal parts:

• Disgust at my inability to remember things
• Mild pity for the middle-aged woman who's losing her marbles (obviously she's nutty, what would you expect from someone who wears pants that ALMOST TOUCH HER BELLYBUTTON?)
• A bemused smile at having ended up with a mother who's going to be a major PITA when she's a senile senior, but that'll be that nice nursing home's problem, won't it?

Digresssion: One time, Middle came home and her sisters told her, "While you were out, we talked about it and took a vote. You get to take care of mom and dad when they're old."

ANYWAY.

I seriously don't recall sharing my shame here, and am too lazy to check my archives. So here is my dark and dirty secret, the thing I was dismayed to realize about my very own self:

I raise my voice when conversing with people for whom English is not their first language.

Isn't that horrible? I'm a child of a modern time, an urban dweller, raised and educated in a mosaic of cultures and languages. I have spent my whole life coming into contact with, and interacting with people who are not native English speakers. These are not people whose English skills are poor - these are educated, professional individuals who are doing a stellar job of communicating in a tongue that they've worked hard to master.

And I shout at them, just because they have an accent, or are a little slower to pick up on some idioms.

hangs head in shame

It's entirely unconscious, and with this new self-awareness, I'm working on it. I don't want to be a horrible person.

Overheard while selling Girl Guide cookies...

With the sellers being five-year-old girls.

It's my turn to ring the bell.

No, it's MY turn.

Sparkle, it's my turn, right?

****

Look, there's a snail. Ewww.

I see TWO snails.

I see FOUR snails!

Would someone knock on the door?

****

Sweetie, put the stick down.

Honey, it's not polite to knock on someone's door and then sit on their porch swing while you wait for an answer.

Garden gnomes are not toys.

****

Maybe they're sleeping. Maybe they're not home. Maybe they didn't hear the bell. Forget it, no one's home.

Maybe it takes them more than five seconds to get to the door.

****

We would like to sell you some cookies. The lady next door is allergic. And that house said they already had some. MY daddy bought five boxes. They cost five dollars a box, I mean four dollars.

****

Are we done yet? Can I carry the umbrella? Can I carry the cookies? Is it snack time now?

****

One wonders, in a mosaic culture such as ours, how those newer to the country view this phenomenon of dressing small children in matching t-shirts and sending them out to beg for cash. What a country!

And I won't even let them have a puppy

A couple of days ago, I caught sight of a headline about a stray lion. Before clicking over, I figured the animal had escaped from a zoo or something like that. You know, the kind of place you'd expect to find a lion in Canada.

But no. Boomer the lion, it seems, was someone's pet. Which just led me to wonder all sorts of things.

First of all, where would one FIND a lion to keep as a pet? I mean, kittens are a dime a dozen. Cheaper, even. Someone's always got kittens they need to find homes for.

Puppies are a little tougher. And when I was going through my "I want a garter snake" it took FOREVER to find one. Toads were plentiful in the ditch by the tracks, but those suckers were hard to catch. Harder still to convince mom that they needed a good home.

And what does one feed a pet lion? Annoying neighbourhood children?

What do you DO with a lion? Disney would have us believe that cubs would be content to hang out with warthogs and meerkats, singing Hakuna Matata all the live long day. I suspect the non-animated version would have other interests.

Even the garter snake was a little boring. Oh sure, I could wig people out by letting it crawl up my arm, and watching the shedding process was pretty cool, but beyond that...I mean, could you play fetch with a lion? Wouldn't you worry that instead of bringing back the frisbee it would bring back a puppy?

And maintenance...I can only imagine. Pooper scooping would take on a whole new dimension. You'd need, like, a snow shovel or bulldozer or something.

I really did have a garter snake when I was younger. It shed, and it grew, and eventually the aquarium I kept it in started to smell so bad my mom - who'd been a pretty good sport about the whole thing - made me let it go in the park. I think a lion would have been pushing my luck.