My Generation is Useless

Aside

There’s something to be said about professionalism in this day and age. Especially about professionalism within the younger generations.  I don’t count myself because, let’s face it, I’m an anomaly.  I am among the most disrespectful, unprofessional, and incompetent generation, well, ever.  Of course, I don’t know if it’s actually “ever” because I haven’t been alive for very long, but that’s, at least, what my parents say, what my grandparents say, and what all the books I’ve ever read say. 

I don’t know where this comes from. Let’s explore.  

We are a part of the generation of kids who run the show.  We are the Kings of the Palace. Only about half of my generation was spanked. The rest of us got away with murder. We would terrorize everyone around us, screaming and crying in restaurants, super markets, on planes – there was no discipline and no limits.

We were born into families who didn’t want us, weren’t ready for us, too poor to care for us, and, yet, we were still spoiled rotten. 

So it’s no wonder we get into the work force and don’t know how to dress ourselves, talk to adults, or have ANY respect for anyone around us. 

We can barely read, we’re trained to revere the poison that is reality television and spit on any genius or quirkiness in our vicinity.

We were taught how to cheat – how to lose weight without diet or exercise, how to care for your garden without getting on your knees, paint a house without climbing a ladder and it’s high time the people in my Lost Generation pick up a fucking hammer and nail something down, for once. Maybe an interview. Or at least show up on time.

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Flor de Sol

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Spending my time at The High Line Park in NY. Beautiful. Easily my favorite Manhattan park.

Yes, because it’s a park and the beauty of the park and some of the views… But mainly, I think i love it the best because of which neighborhoods at which it lets you out. The west village and Chelsea are the most beautiful neighborhoods in Manhattan. From the cobbled streets of the meat packing district to the modern architecture in Chelsea, finishing off with the ancient stones and wrought iron fences of the oldest practically untouched West Village. Brownstone town houses, trees upon trees upon trees, and the most ritzy-niche brunch spots south of east 60th st. This is where the money is. The culture and the money. The beauty and the serenity and the high-octane energy in the cocktail only New York has perfected.

Stroll down 13th st toward to water and you’ll find yourself transported to the south of France at Standard Grill, High Line. Turn right on 10th ave and promenade along the high line to 17th street, where you’ll slide into Spain at Flor de Sol — be sure to remark the interior design because: WOW.

This has been a mini New York love story.

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S h o p p i n g

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i had a successful shopping trip last week. I was by myself. And i went to three stores. All of whom said “I’m sorry ma’am, but we don’t carry that in your size.” I don’t know if you know what it is like being fat, but those are difficult words to hear.

Anyway, i made a decision before starting. I decided i am who i an right now and there is NOBODY who will take that away from me. So i decided to smile and move forward because: life.

So i went to the fourth store. They said the same thing. So i said “do you have a men’s section?” Indeed they did, so instead of ranting on facebook about the inequalities between the media’s expectations for men vs women, i just tried on a bunch of man means and found some that fit my body well. Why? Because fat and curvy men exist, too. And i bought man clothes that made my butt look nice and made my shoulders look road absolutely my waist look smaller (because: gay men) and i reapplied my lipstick and went to the coffee shop and bought a caramel macchiato (because: fuck everyone i wanted something sweet.)

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“Why don’t you go to the gym?”

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Somebody asked me the other why i don’t go to the gym.

Somebody close to me. A friend, if you like that term.

Why am i not going to the gym!?!?! Because i wake my LAZY ass up at 5am — an hour i would only see when it was greeted by the night before — and i get my shit smelling fruity for your fart ass in time to start work at 6:45a. where i STAY until 7pm, making less money per diem than your monkey filth makes in half the time, only to close up shop in time to eat one meal, take care it my beloved felines, and get a good night’s sleep so I’m not a crabby WENCH because GOD FORBID I’m a cunt.

That’s why I don’t go to the gym.

Father’s Day

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A story my mom told me about my dad a while ago. I know I’m paraphrasing, and I’m sure one of them will correct me:
“Your father would go out for drinks after work with his fellow troopers. [it may have been his law school buddies or his fellow lawyers, who knows…] and he always drank red wine. His buddies would drink beers. And your father always drank red wine. I asked him once,
‘Patrick, don’t they make fun of you for drinking red wine?’
He stared at me for a long moment, then said, ‘Lizzie, i don’t give a shit what those guys think,’ and he took another sip of his red wine.”

I call him my own personal Encyclopedia, calling on him for answers like Google. I liken him to Sherlock and The Doctor – inherently wise, eager to learn, and curious. One of my proudest moments was the first time I beat him in scrabble, another when I answered my first jeopardy question correctly. I long to be like him – to laugh as easily, read as much, and know infinitely more. He appreciates puns the way only a highly-educated dad could, and I run to him with the YouTube videos of cats falling off sofas and men roller skating SMACK into glass doors, the more irreverent, the better. The things that make most people revisit their lunches fascinates us. He reads fiction, fantasy, nonfiction, horror, detective thrillers, and galaxies in between – you just won’t ever catch him watching friends. That is, unless mom asks him to. He’s the reason I prefer to curl up at night in a chair with a glass of wine in one hand, a cat in my lap, and Jon Stewart on the tv than to go out partying with friends. He’s the reason I choose books over reality tv shows. He’s the reason. I love him so, and miss him more. (He’s just across the country, don’t get all morbid on me.)

Here’s to you, Da! I love you I love you I love you.

 

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Overheard New York (1st Edition)

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This is a collection I’ve started, and I’d like to call it “Overheard New York.” 

They’re bits and pieces of conversational gems I’ve collected over the last eight months living in New York. Enjoy.

 

Basket of apples in front of the register. Guy Walks up.
Guy: I’ll just take an apple.
Cashier: We don’t sell apples.
He picks one up and shows her
Guy: They’re right here.
Cashier: We don’t sell those.
Guy: Then why the fuck are they sitting here?
Another employee whispers to cashier. (“we do sell those”)
Silence.
Cashier: That’ll be 75 cents, sir.       –  May 16, 2014, Chelsea

 

“I don’t know if I’m staying. I don’t have cash. I only have card.”
“We are a cash-only establishment, sir.”
“You know the presence of good cannot exist without the present of evil.” And he leaves.– Caffe Reggio, Greenwich Village

 

Patron: “What’s on tap?”
Bartender: “Me”
Patron: “Great. I’ll have 2 Merlots & a pitcher of you.” – Dec 6, 2013, Upper East Side

 

New Yorker: What am I saying? I grew up in NY. Idk what a lawn mower is. – Oct 14, 2013, Greenwich Village

 

“I mean, you’re so right. Everything’s, like, connected. The brain to the stomach, ya know, the heart, the brain … the stomach.” – May 9, 2014, West Village

 

“There’s someone for you. Like what you used to tell me when I was young: when I wanted the white pony with the blonde mane? ‘There’s someone out there for everyone.’” – bald middle-aged Russian man on a phone in Central Park (overheard NY)

“You don’t have to be congress to pass a bill.” – homeless man, panhandling, 6 train.

 

“Those girls? Nah, all the only recommendation I’d take from them is ice cream shops in Brooklyn.” – June 3, 2014, West Village

 

“The Path Train”
“The what?”
“The PATH train. It’s like the subway, but less glamorous.” May 21, 2014 (Brendan Comfort’s facebook)

minou et jade

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I’m so pathetic. Every time I leave my house to do whatever it is I have to do, I have this strange tugging at my heart. Most people would recognize it as homesickness or a deep longing, bordering on despair. But to me? I know exactly what it is: I miss my cats. I leave my cats behind to go about my day. They realize what I’m doing halfway through doing it. I’ll yank my jacket on, tug on my shoelaces, and there they’ll be – sitting on the WiFi router box, and I swear they’re pouting. I run my fingers over their heads, scratch a little between their ears and prop their chin with my knuckle and say, “I love you.” Then I lock my door, walk out the building and I can still feel them. “Mommy? Where did you go? Why aren’t you cuddling with me? Rubbing my belly? Picking me up and twirling me around? Can’t we hang out all day watching TV and napping? Why are you leaving me? I promise we can watch Doctor Who!”   Oh, just fucking kill me.

 

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