Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Sunday, May 17, 2015

Baby Boomers! Arise and proclaim your tween-hood

The term "tween" was coined in recent years to describe that period "tween" childhood and adolescence when energy drink companies and parents hold roughly the same sway.

I feel like there should be a similar word for the period I am in, between middle and old age, when your body is clearly on the decline but you do not yet qualify for discounted scrambled egg-bacon combos.

The term "Pre-coot" is a bit harsh. "Post-middle" could be shortened nicely to "piddle," but might hit too close to home for some.

With our life experience, I am sure we could wrest "tween" away from those pre-teen punks, distracted as they are with "lol"-ing into their shiny toys. We deserve "tween." We have earned "tween."

We have endured Khrushchev, "The Love Boat," New Coke, the '89 crash, the 2000 bubble burst, the 2008 crash, "Star Wars Episode I," and the lamentable advent of restaurant dinner plate photography.

We are a couple of years away from true coot-dom. We qualify for AARP, but that is not yet the sound we make every time we rise from the couch. If our generation had a flag, it would be made of elastic waistband. We are 'tweens if there ever were tweens. Pre-adolescents don't need a word. They still have chins!

"Tween" came about, no doubt, as a marketing term, to better focus sales pitches to a demographic. Sometimes after I buy something online, a survey pops up, asking about my buying experience, my age, etc. I always click "18-21," to completely screw up their research and make them wonder why someone probably wearing flip-flops is buying joint-pain linament.

Hey, we tweens know how to entertain ourselves.

I propose we call the pre-teens "preets." It's cute, it's catchy, and it eliminates the falsehood that kids that age are "between" anything. The only thing an eleven year old is between is games, while he goes to get a snack. In my day, games were played outside, with nothing but an old tin can and our dreams. Wait, that was my father's day. In my day, we played Operation. We had to dissect a naked clown!

So give us "tween," kids. We came up the hard way, so don't try us. We'll take out your Adam's Apple with electric tongs.

Can you tell I had a birthday recently?

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Wednesday, May 13, 2015

Sunday, May 10, 2015

Water cop job opening means drip's gettin' real

I notice that a local city has a job opening for a "water conservation officer." It is billed as being part of a "high paced" field. I think they meant fast paced. Or high turnover. Hard to tell. 

The city is seeking an applicant who possesses a "high level of tact," in dealing with the public about hogging water. They really mean it, too, because they reuse "high level of tact" twice in the same paragraph. Maybe this is what they mean by redundancy in the workplace.

I am not sure what a "collaborative but policy-driven environment" is, but it sounds like a blast. An even better job would be writing this stuff. If I were writing it, maybe I would actually understand why enforcing water conservation is an "ever changing field," and, even more inscrutably, "fast-paced." Hey! I was promised, just moments ago, it would be "high paced." I smell a rat.

I don't mean to nit-pick, but I'm thirsty. I'm so thirsty. We are all thirsty and they are hiring someone to make sure we stay that way, so forgive the crankiness. I have commissioned a decorative cross-stitched pillow which says "You can have my lawn when you pry it from my cold dead hands."

See? I am not even making sense, due to the stress I am under from how thirsty my dog is. Poor Skipper looks at me sometimes like I'm a tall, skinny water dish. I sleep with one eye open.

I drove past a house in my neighborhood the other day, and saw an impromptu fountain blasting out of a lawn from a broken sprinkler head. I almost drove up a tree. Not because of outrage; from sheer aqua-lust. I have not seen that much liquid in one place since "The Poseidon Adventure."

I saw a great headline this week: "San Jose, Santa Clara mayors drink recycled sewage to push expanding reclaimed water." They survived. As of this writing, the mayors still draw breath, although I would not want to be downwind of it.

I am thankful the governor has not resurrected Mayor Bradley's old "If it's yellow, let it mellow" slogan. While effective, the visual produced was quease-worthy. A measure of decorum is appropriate, I think, even as we guiltily water our petunias. "You'll never take me alive, Copper," I whisper as I scour the sky for drones. 

. . .

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Wednesday Wa Pic - That poor train operator

 But as soon as this train comes to a's ON.