Friday, July 18, 2014


I’m feeling a tad aggressive today and my angels are screaming (see what I mean?) “Don’t blog! Don’t blog!” but I’m a Jersey girl and my angels can go jump in a lake.  I’m blogging, okay? Going to try not to use the F word but I’m not making any promises.

What is all this Baby Boomer Life After 50 bullshit anyway?  If I see one more website with smiling wrinkly women with the wind in their hair talking about “second acts” and “reinvention” I swear to God I’m going take my own heart out with a spoon.  Mother of God, life is just life, alright? It goes on.  We’re young, then we’re old. Why do we slice and dice it like some stupid infomercial? Then we rename it and try to change it, make it better like Fifty is the new Thirty. No, it’s not.  50 is 50. It hurts, things sag, that’s life. Fifty is not thirty unless you’re on a lot of meds.

OK, I have engaged in the life retrospective thing where I “see” my progression by decades:
  • The Twenties:  all about nabbing a husband and having babies.  Sorry.  Wish I coulda been cooler and all feminist-hip but I wasn’t;
  • The Thirties:  Oops.  I spent my twenties getting married and having babies.  Shit. Gotta “achieve” now. Career, career, being a lawyer, wearing really uncomfortable clothes and making carpooling arrangements in court;
  • The Forties:  Sex. Making-up-for-Catholic-girl-lost-time sex.  A pretty good decade;
  • The Fifties: Wilderness, Spirituality, Inner Exploration etc.  Still in it but I got a plan for the Sixties:
  • The Sixties:  Money. Big money for big legacies. College funds. A foundation for girls. Setting the world on fire.
So I understand the tendency to try to order this chaos we call aging but there’s a placid haze that is apparently supposed to settle over us, a sighing passivity for the “Boomers” who - from what I see - have as much “boom” as an old man fart.  Where is the movement, the action, the change we all sought and demanded all of our self-centered boomer lives?  We grow old, we get soft, we give up. 

I’m freelance writing now and one of my client-editors is in her twenties, of course.  She referred to a phrase I used as “super juvenile” as if using the modifier “super” was not juvenile. Her critique of a paragraph I wrote about doing work you loved was - and I’m quoting here - “weird.”  Thanks hon.  Your smart-assy youthful thing is going to get you about as far as some hip bar after work where all you trendy kids hang out in your self-congratulatory smugness, texting your faux “friends” and dreaming up new apps as if you know….anything.

You don’t know a fucking thing.  There, I did it.  Nada.  Nothing. You know nothing. So it’s incumbent upon the crones, the hags, the old gals to get up on it. When was the last time you told some arrogant young snipe that her dress was so short you could actually see her thang? Or some guy who’s got his face in a phone when you’re talking to him - how bout you put that effing thing down, son, and get a clue about how to act in the world.

Do I sound like a crazy old person on a rant? Well, I am.

Listen, I love plenty of young people with all my heart.  I have three amazing sons with families - hard working good citizens all - and my family’s next generation is churning out good kids all over the place:  two clinical psychologists, a law enforcement guy, a nonprofit director, restaurant manager, two teachers, a nurse, engineer, med student, lawyer, and even a philosopher.  But there’s a lot of lousy behavior and useless communication out there, girls. And it’s our job to step up our game.

What is a problem in your community? Your local government? Your school?  Own it, honey.  Put down the MORE Magazine and own the fucking problem today. Stop worrying about why you don’t want to have sex anymore.  You don’t want to have sex because nature made it that way. It’s no big deal.  It’s just stupid wasted energy and your hormones won’t support it because the Universe wants you spending your time setting the world on fire, not laying flat on your back so some old guy can try to feel like he’s still got it. 

Pick a problem and own it. Don’t sit in a circle passing around a “talking stick” blabbing about your feelings.  In the sixties and seventies our gangs set things on fire in a good way. My sister protested in the streets, people burned bras and got arrested and stood and stood and stood for things. Doesn’t look like that’s gonna happen with the current generation. They’re very busy doing super important things like Facebook or Twitter or Instagram or whatever the social-media-du-jour entails.  Super important.

Suzuki Roshi said something simple and world-shattering:  Shine one corner. That’s all. Pick one.  Doesn’t have to be fancy or worldwide. Maybe it’s that corner of your house where a sullen teenager keeps a door locked. Find a way to open it, and her. Maybe it’s a corner at work where you know the housekeeping staff are being mistreated. What happened to your vocal chords? Did they get twittered? 

Here’s a corner: that dickhead local councilman is running for the tenth time, again on a smarmy platform of Absolutely Nothing.  How bout you step up, sisterhood?  If I was President of the United States my Cabinet would consist solely of menopausal women. Geezus, we’re cranky and we take no prisoners and when set to a task we will kill it and, if need be, anyone in our path. OK, I’d have a token guy on the cabinet but he’d be assigned to something irrelevant and would end up resigning anyway. Menopausal women rock.

Lift your voice, not your boobs. Stop complaining and start bitching. Why shop when you can kick ass? Be as relentless as you know you can be and were before “Boomer” websites and AARP insisted that you go to the back of the room. Wake one young person up to reality, toss the IPhone into the bushes, pick one fucking corner and make it shine. Or set it on fire, today. Now.

I told you I was feeling ornery.  Shoulda listened to my angels, eh?

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