Today, the company which manages our office building decided to up its green initiatives by implementing a recycling program and, as a result, issued each office two bins with which to recycle their kitchen and other waste. The bins are a fair size, but not unreasonable by any stretch of the imagination.
Naturally, the Boomer contingent of our office is already complaining - the bins have been here for a mere two hours at the time of my diatribe - about the size and inconvenient placing of the bins. Being made of plastic and cardboard, the bins are also not that heavy.
I suggested, in an effort to ensure that the bins get used for their intended purpose, that perhaps the bins could be placed outside my own office, there being a wall against which to put them which would not hinder traffic nor aesthetic sensibilities.
I was informed by a Boomer who shall remain nameless (for now LOL) that the bins were, in fact, too large for the area which I suggested and were for kitchen use only anyway. So, naturally, I can see this becoming an issue and the powers that be which decide such matters will probably end up returning the bins to the property manager, claiming as I stated above, size and inconvenience as their motivating factors.
As a last ditch effort, when asked by the Boomer if there was anyone 'green' in our office - thanks for failing to notice these last three years, by the way - I responded that aside from myself there might be at least one or two other such militants regarding the green cause. This seemed to surprise the Boomer (it's not that hard to surprise a Boomer, granted) and she relented somewhat, muttering something about "having to see" what could be done about the bins.
Once again, my own worst fears about the majority of Boomers was made resoundingly clear: lack of consideration for others, let alone the planet, and above all, LAZINESS.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
The more things change...
Recently, I was fortunate enough to travel to Maui. The entire trip was as pleasurable as one could imagine. That is, except of course, for the plane ride there. It was overrun with, you guessed it, Baby Boomers.
You people never fail to surpass my expectations of just how annoying you can be. Soon as that seatbelt light goes off, up you go, and back down again, and up again, and you seem to pack things of utmost importance in your carry-on baggage which you inevitably stow in the compartment overhead my husband. Up, down, up, down, and on and on and on.
Let's not forget that the prescriptions you riddle your bodies with also ensure trips to the bathroom in 10-minute intervals. Thanks for that, by the way. I'm sure the FAA has no problem with your continual blocking of the aisles, either.
Lucky for you, I was able to resist the urge to pull down on that glaring red handle on the emergency exit door next to which I was seated. Rest assured in the unlikely event of an emergency, I will calmly peer out the window to check for any possible hazards, and then clear the exit for myself and my husband, before immediately replacing the door into its original position, thus solving at least some of the world's walking, talking problems in one fell swoop.
You people never fail to surpass my expectations of just how annoying you can be. Soon as that seatbelt light goes off, up you go, and back down again, and up again, and you seem to pack things of utmost importance in your carry-on baggage which you inevitably stow in the compartment overhead my husband. Up, down, up, down, and on and on and on.
Let's not forget that the prescriptions you riddle your bodies with also ensure trips to the bathroom in 10-minute intervals. Thanks for that, by the way. I'm sure the FAA has no problem with your continual blocking of the aisles, either.
Lucky for you, I was able to resist the urge to pull down on that glaring red handle on the emergency exit door next to which I was seated. Rest assured in the unlikely event of an emergency, I will calmly peer out the window to check for any possible hazards, and then clear the exit for myself and my husband, before immediately replacing the door into its original position, thus solving at least some of the world's walking, talking problems in one fell swoop.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Breathe in, breathe out...
I have had the unfortunate luck to have had to visit a hospital for surgery recently. Not for my own, but for someone very near and dear to me. While he was undergoing his procedure, I was able to observe (and now report) on various forms of life frequenting the same hospital.
Needless to say, there are some very tragic cases in hospitals. I sympathize both with the patients and their families. To. A. Point.
I sympathize with the family of a young girl who was obviously undergoing just one more in a series of cancer treatments and bided my time in the same waiting area as her family who were anxiously awaiting her to be wheeled into post-op. She was all of 19 years old, her whole life ahead of her, yadda yadda yadda.
There was, however, another patient who was being wheeled into surgery shortly after my own near and dear was on his way. She was also wheeled out before he was, so I was privy - in the "semi-private" pre- and post-op area - to all her details. Curtains, it should be noted, offer no privacy whatsoever.
This other patient. What can be said. She was whiny and begging for painkillers before they even left the pre-op waiting area. It appeared to my non-medical viewpoint that it was unjustifiably loud protesting on her part. In short, it was damned annoying.
Later, while waiting for my near and dear to recover enough where I could take him home, I got to sit just on the other side of the curtain while she shared some delightful conversation with the attending nurse. The nurse was explaining the "wadding" and how it was strategically located up her anus and reassured the patient that should it fall out, during bathing or otherwise, that all she had to do was stuff some more back up in there, and that they'd send home some extra wadding with her just for that purpose.
The question needs to be asked: WHAT THE HELL DID SHE DO TO HER BUTT?!
Only a Baby Boomer would have such an ailment. Because I am morbidly curious about such things, I needed to postulate some possibilities as to what might have happened:
1) Was it a matter of her not getting up off her fat ass frequently enough where something else might have simply backed up, or worse yet, did she sit on something and that something got lodged up there, possibly a TV remote control, causing some inherent damage on entry?
2) Was it eating too many trans-fat-laden foods and some kind of blockage occurred where on an attempt to evacuate said anus, something blew a valve?
3) I'm inclined to think - because I was tempted to do this myself while I sat there listening to her whine incessantly about how she was suffering so much more than the other patients and needed painkillers "Stat!" - that someone, possibly her husband or other significant other, rammed their boot up her ass to shut her up, and it simply got stuck there.
Yeah, let's go with that. In fact, let's encourage it.
Needless to say, there are some very tragic cases in hospitals. I sympathize both with the patients and their families. To. A. Point.
I sympathize with the family of a young girl who was obviously undergoing just one more in a series of cancer treatments and bided my time in the same waiting area as her family who were anxiously awaiting her to be wheeled into post-op. She was all of 19 years old, her whole life ahead of her, yadda yadda yadda.
There was, however, another patient who was being wheeled into surgery shortly after my own near and dear was on his way. She was also wheeled out before he was, so I was privy - in the "semi-private" pre- and post-op area - to all her details. Curtains, it should be noted, offer no privacy whatsoever.
This other patient. What can be said. She was whiny and begging for painkillers before they even left the pre-op waiting area. It appeared to my non-medical viewpoint that it was unjustifiably loud protesting on her part. In short, it was damned annoying.
Later, while waiting for my near and dear to recover enough where I could take him home, I got to sit just on the other side of the curtain while she shared some delightful conversation with the attending nurse. The nurse was explaining the "wadding" and how it was strategically located up her anus and reassured the patient that should it fall out, during bathing or otherwise, that all she had to do was stuff some more back up in there, and that they'd send home some extra wadding with her just for that purpose.
The question needs to be asked: WHAT THE HELL DID SHE DO TO HER BUTT?!
Only a Baby Boomer would have such an ailment. Because I am morbidly curious about such things, I needed to postulate some possibilities as to what might have happened:
1) Was it a matter of her not getting up off her fat ass frequently enough where something else might have simply backed up, or worse yet, did she sit on something and that something got lodged up there, possibly a TV remote control, causing some inherent damage on entry?
2) Was it eating too many trans-fat-laden foods and some kind of blockage occurred where on an attempt to evacuate said anus, something blew a valve?
3) I'm inclined to think - because I was tempted to do this myself while I sat there listening to her whine incessantly about how she was suffering so much more than the other patients and needed painkillers "Stat!" - that someone, possibly her husband or other significant other, rammed their boot up her ass to shut her up, and it simply got stuck there.
Yeah, let's go with that. In fact, let's encourage it.
Have I got a deal for you!
So, today, yet another shining example of how the stupidest among us obscenely succeed on pure unadulterated luck.
A client phones in advising me that 1) she knows she paid $40K more for a lot than its fair market value, 2) that she paid the money to the seller before the lot was even transferred into the names of her and her husband, and 3) that she knows the document will most likely bounce at the local registry office, rendering her $190K short and without so much as a lot to show for it.
She KNOWS all of this and is FINE with it.
I do not have the words, dear Readers, to express nor articulate the apoplectic shock I am in right now. Scarier still, she has reproduced. Likely her offspring are of voting age.
Awesome, huh?
A client phones in advising me that 1) she knows she paid $40K more for a lot than its fair market value, 2) that she paid the money to the seller before the lot was even transferred into the names of her and her husband, and 3) that she knows the document will most likely bounce at the local registry office, rendering her $190K short and without so much as a lot to show for it.
She KNOWS all of this and is FINE with it.
I do not have the words, dear Readers, to express nor articulate the apoplectic shock I am in right now. Scarier still, she has reproduced. Likely her offspring are of voting age.
Awesome, huh?
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
H1N1
Like many of us, the economy when we entered the work force relegated my friend to work for a Baby Boomer. They called themselves "Yuppies" back in the day, but trust me, it's all the same creature.
Lucky for them, their parents and many of them lived through H1N1, or what is colloquially known as Swine Flu. Fitting name, if you ask me, but I digress...
Most health and government agencies have strongly encouraged anyone diagnosed with this particular brand of influenza to stay home until their symptoms are played out. My friend attempted such a responsible act. However, the person for whom she works decided - from his comfy cottage at a nearby lake - that his work was so pressing, it was worth her putting herself at risk by going in to work, not to mention putting all her co-workers at risk because she is still contagious.
My friend, being the responsible and dutiful individual that she is, reluctantly complied. Once she arrived at the office, however, there was little work to speak of and, in fact, she had it completed by mid-morning and was left with no other work to do.
Only in a Baby Boomer's previously infected mind would this make sense.
Are you certain we shouldn't develop a special strain of this infection to just rid the world of a few of them?
Lucky for them, their parents and many of them lived through H1N1, or what is colloquially known as Swine Flu. Fitting name, if you ask me, but I digress...
Most health and government agencies have strongly encouraged anyone diagnosed with this particular brand of influenza to stay home until their symptoms are played out. My friend attempted such a responsible act. However, the person for whom she works decided - from his comfy cottage at a nearby lake - that his work was so pressing, it was worth her putting herself at risk by going in to work, not to mention putting all her co-workers at risk because she is still contagious.
My friend, being the responsible and dutiful individual that she is, reluctantly complied. Once she arrived at the office, however, there was little work to speak of and, in fact, she had it completed by mid-morning and was left with no other work to do.
Only in a Baby Boomer's previously infected mind would this make sense.
Are you certain we shouldn't develop a special strain of this infection to just rid the world of a few of them?
Your music sucks
Therefore, you do NOT need your own station on Sirius Satellite Radio. Calling it "Feva" isn't going to make it cool. You're old. Deal with it.
Another shrimp on the barbie
A recent trip to the grocery store provided me with an excellent opportunity to observe and later report on the incoherent behaviour of Baby Boomers. I was standing at the dairy cooler, already well within the the yogurt I was reaching for. Out of the right corner came an arm, which was attached to a Baby Boomer's typically pudgy and disproportionate body. Said Baby Boomer was wearing his oh-so-cool-and-everyone'll-think-I'm-really-from-the-Outback hat.
His arm collided with mine, yet naturally there was no cause for an apology on his behalf. I decided at the time, since I'm a Gen X'er and therefore a much bigger person, that it wasn't worth my time to get upset over this clear breach of etiquette. Though I did make a small mental note of it for later.
Meanwhile, his wife stood by with her big, dumb eyes staring blankly at both of us.
A few moments later, I visited the magazine rack. For reasons unknown to me, this same male (presumably...I didn't lift up his skirt or anything to double-check) again reached ACROSS me while I already was in the process of pulling the magazine of my interest toward me.
Again, as you might have guessed. No apology, no ackwowledgment. Big, dumb-eyed cow of a wife standing blankly by. And I'm certain that he was so interested in reading the latest in Crochet News that he simply forgot himself momentarily...at my expense.
Farther down the magazine rack my husband stood catching up on his favourite periodicals. I decided to join him. Chatted him up, even. So much was I into our marital conversation that I leaned against the magazine rack, thus expanding my figure another couple of feet thanks to the large winter coat I was wearing at the time. I pulled up a copy of Spin Magazine, and pretended to be oh-so-engrossed in the latest happenings of Pearl Jam.
Now, you must understand, I do not care in the least for Pearl Jam. Nothing personal, just not my particular taste. Nor did I like them the first time they released their "10" album. Regardless, I feigned interest. Why? Because, predictably, Mr. Outback just HAD to read up on Green Day.
Sorry, buddy, a few decades too late for you to even know who they are. But here's the rub. Once Outback figured out I was with my 6'5"-foot husband, and since I refused to move because I KNEW he was going to want in where I was (everyone does), it was only then that he begrudgingly and barely audibly uttered these words:
"Excuse me."
Needless to say, I wasn't inclined to acquiesce to his request. I kept feigning interest in Pearl Jam, refused to move and Outback was forced on his way.
Yep. Two can play at your stupid little game.
His arm collided with mine, yet naturally there was no cause for an apology on his behalf. I decided at the time, since I'm a Gen X'er and therefore a much bigger person, that it wasn't worth my time to get upset over this clear breach of etiquette. Though I did make a small mental note of it for later.
Meanwhile, his wife stood by with her big, dumb eyes staring blankly at both of us.
A few moments later, I visited the magazine rack. For reasons unknown to me, this same male (presumably...I didn't lift up his skirt or anything to double-check) again reached ACROSS me while I already was in the process of pulling the magazine of my interest toward me.
Again, as you might have guessed. No apology, no ackwowledgment. Big, dumb-eyed cow of a wife standing blankly by. And I'm certain that he was so interested in reading the latest in Crochet News that he simply forgot himself momentarily...at my expense.
Farther down the magazine rack my husband stood catching up on his favourite periodicals. I decided to join him. Chatted him up, even. So much was I into our marital conversation that I leaned against the magazine rack, thus expanding my figure another couple of feet thanks to the large winter coat I was wearing at the time. I pulled up a copy of Spin Magazine, and pretended to be oh-so-engrossed in the latest happenings of Pearl Jam.
Now, you must understand, I do not care in the least for Pearl Jam. Nothing personal, just not my particular taste. Nor did I like them the first time they released their "10" album. Regardless, I feigned interest. Why? Because, predictably, Mr. Outback just HAD to read up on Green Day.
Sorry, buddy, a few decades too late for you to even know who they are. But here's the rub. Once Outback figured out I was with my 6'5"-foot husband, and since I refused to move because I KNEW he was going to want in where I was (everyone does), it was only then that he begrudgingly and barely audibly uttered these words:
"Excuse me."
Needless to say, I wasn't inclined to acquiesce to his request. I kept feigning interest in Pearl Jam, refused to move and Outback was forced on his way.
Yep. Two can play at your stupid little game.
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