TiVo Lady

Big Boomer Birthday

(I'm blogging about real Boomer life more and more, only because there is no TiVo at all.  It's not a dry spell, it's a complete and utter vacuum.  True, there's Indiana Jones on the schedule for this weekend, starring a cast of thousands of Boomers--hundreds, tens?--and at the end of the month, there's Sex and the City.  But journalists and bloggers and hacks have already reached the billion-word hype limit about this movie, so I swear not to add to the din.  It will be good, or it won't, and that's that.)

Over the weekend, we went to a 50th birthday party, one of the high points of Boomer celebrations.  Think of this way:  about seventy million Americans will reach the big Five-Oh between 1996 and 2014.  That's a lot of candles.  (I pitched a story to the New York Times a few years ago, on over-the-top, elaborate 50th parties.  My editor approved the idea;  I dawdled;  the editor was transferred;  the new editor hated the idea.  So I never wrote about the woman who took twenty of her best friends to the South Pacific for her 50th, or the couple who rented a villa in Tuscany for ten couples for their joint 50th, or any of the other stuff I had (too) slowly begun to dig up.  Anyway, here's a much smaller story about a local guy's local bash.

Once upon a time, there was a Catholic boy who grew up to be a street-smart business guy.  He made it big, but he never had a bar mitzvah.  So, when he turned 50, here's what his wife did for him.  She rented a tent.  She hired a caterer.  She hired a DJ.  She got a friend to make a video about her husband's life.  She invited all of his friends and his relatives and his business colleagues, at least a hundred people.  And, here's the kicker, she hired a chocolate fountain for dessert.  This was a bar mitzvah, only without a rabbi or a Torah portion or dozens of gawky thirteen-year-old boys and girls.  And it was fun, because it was all about the fifty:  fifty years of good health, good luck, good cheer, good times.

What could be better?

The next wave of Big Boomer Birthdays--the 60's--started in 2006 and will not end until 2024.  Only there won't be as many of these parties, since there won't be as many survivors. 

This picture depicts a sheet of liquid chocolate, into which the bar mitzvah guys, I mean the 50th birthday party-goers, dip pieces of fruit and little cookies and marshmallows.  The first time I saw one, a few years ago, was in Los Angeles.  My nephew, who was then twenty-three years old, grabbed a clean wine glass and shoved it under the flowing chocolate geyser, filling up a glass of the warm stuff and bringing it back to the table with a huge, s--t-eating grin on his face.  I didn't see anybody do that at this 50th, but I wasn't looking all that carefully, either....

Turkey Hunting

Today, I embarked on my annual Great Turkey Hunt.  I dressed properly--comfortable shoes, waterproof outerwear, camouflage hat.  I took my weapon and my ammunition:  credit card and shopping list.  And off I went.  Not to the woods--although there are actually several flocks of wild turkeys very nearby--but to the super mega-store that is three times as far away as the real live wild turkeys.

See, you can't watch TiVo when you are thinking about Good Turkey Hunting.  So I won't bother to discuss how wonderful this season of Brotherhood is, or even how much I am enjoying Dexter, back-to-back Sunday night Showtime shows. 

When I arrived, just past 9:00 a.m., there was a frenzied feel to the parking lot, where various drivers  seemed to be engaged in a hunt for Closest Parking Spot Ever (Aside From Handicapped).  It was not a pretty picture.  Inside, I played Crazy Carts, weaving and dodging around slower drivers, occasionally crashing into someone else's rear while a third party crashed into mine.  Also, not a pretty picture.  There was big buzz around the pre-made pies, but I prefer to make my own desserts, so I had to detour around the Piled-High Pie Area. 

It was at the turkey case, though, that I had to use all of my navigational skills.  See, there are small turkeys and medium turkeys and super-large turkeys and they're all in a giant case and everybody is milling around trying to Figure Out What Size Turkey Do I Need?  While standing right in front of the Turkey Case.  As I grabbed a kosher 19-pounder, a woman came over and asked me to explain the concept of kosher and turkeys.  I did, gladly.  See, they brine the turkey to make it kosher, so it's much more moist and tender and it's not shot full of disgusting, fake-buttery chemicals, and they kill it in a more humane way, though I couldn't really tell you exactly how.  But I bet Michael Pollan could!  (He wrote The Omnivore's Dilemma, a book that may just turn you into a vegetarian...)  Anyway, I persuaded her to buy the kosher bird, and then I kept seeing her, and she happily told me she couldn't wait to try it.  As we were checking out, she mentioned that she hoped it would be good:  I kind of feel responsible if her turkey is no good!

Also, I saw a guying with a cart that contained nothing but turkeys.  He had 12 free-range turkeys that cost him $304.27.  I asked him if he owned a restaurant.  He glared at me and said, "No."  Later, I asked him what he was planning to do with all those turkeys, cause I'm just naturally curious, and he stared at me, not answering.  So I asked the woman at the check-out if he'd mentioned what they were for, and she said that he gives them out to the supervisors in his company. 

If you're doing something that thoughtful and generous, why would you be so nasty about it??  Maybe he's a really bad, grumpy boss, and this is his way of apologizing to his employees...? 

The Real Meaning of "Sandwich Generation"

We all know what the term "sandwich generation" usually means:  it's being a Boomer, and having to take care of almost-grown children while also taking on some responsibility for aging-parent care.  We're the baloney caught in the middle.  This is only if we're fortunate enough to have still-living parents, of course.  Please note that this photograph is a piece of art, titled "Baloney Sandwich."

But I just thought of another meaning of that somewhat-annoying expression.  We're the ones making the sandwiches:  Thanksgiving is approaching, and we're the generation doing the cooking.  It's our turn.  Our almost-grown children are rarely in a position to: 1. be able to cook for a crowd, or 2. to have a large enough kitchen or 3. to know how to cook at all or 4. to want to cook or 5. to live close enough to be able to host.  Or all of the above.  And our parents, mostly, are beyond the Should-Cook Age;  they've done their part, it's now way beyond the call of duty for a 70- or 75-year-old grandma and/or grandpa to host and cook a large meal for a large, or even medium-sized, family.  (With some notable exceptions, including a friend of my mine, who is going to her 80-something-year-old parent's home for is Thanksgiving.  Her rationale, perfectly logical, too:  "My mom is a really good cook!")

All this is to say that I realize it's only Monday, but I have already baked (and frozen) most of the desserts I'm serving for Thanksgiving, and I'm only slightly embarrassed to confess this:  My table is already set.  See, I'm having 14 people for dinner--a personal record--and my dining room table only holds 10.  So I had to borrow a home-made table adapter, three giant pieces of wood that fit together over the table top to make the surface longer and wider.  And wobblier, I might add.  (Note to Guests:  Do NOT Lean on the ends of this makeshift table, or the whole thing will flip over!)  I schlepped the wooden pieces, went out to buy a gigantic tablecloth (since my table is a completely different size), and put the whole thing together to make sure it would work.  Then, I had to get the Royal Doulton china out of the attic--my mother-in-law left it to my daughter, but she's living in Rio for a year, has never cooked a turkey in her life, and probably won't need Way-Expensive, Slightly Outdated Tableware for at least another 10 years. Because the china has been in storage for, I don't know, maybe 10 years? or maybe 30, I had to put all of it in the dishwasher, just to get the germs and various cooties off.  And I had to finish all of this before I have to begin the actual cooking.  Which is an entirely separate discussion.

Anyway, I am a Sandwich Generation-er.  Or something.

Real Life Interlude

When, in the course of parental events, it becomes necessary for a people without children at home to advance from that automobile subordination in which they have hitherto remained, they must trade in the mini-van.  This is probably why Cars.com was invented:  for Boomers to get rid of zillions of no-longer-necessary mini-vans.

I know that I should want to replace my MomVan with a hybrid:  it's The Right Thing to Do.  I know.  And the Prius is sort of cool-looking, and very very Hollywood.  But, um, that's my head talking.  My heart says something quite different.  It says:  It's your turn for a FunCar!!  Now, I don't really like driving; my idea of hell is a four-hour car trip.  And I don't need a red convertible to make driving fun.  But, still . . .

I tried a Camry Hybrid.  It was zippy.  And had a neat GPS system with a fancy display of how the  engine was working, on gas or battery, that was so incomprehensible yet mesmerizing that I was afraid I'd crash the test car while staring at the screen.  And I felt, well, righteous, driving this car.  A kind of I'm-Greener-Than-Thou superiority, though not quite as grandiose as if I were driving a Prius, since this Camry doesn't shout HYBRID ALERT.  It's much more modest about its hybrid status--you have to get really close to tell that it's a battery-powered car.

But, um, still.  It's not really fun to drive.  I feel guilty thinking this way.  Which is probably why I dreamed that it cost $140 to fill new car with gas.  I guess I didn't buy a hybrid in this dream.  Also, I declared that I was no longer driving anywhere, that I'd be taking cabs from now on.

So, don't tell the Nissan dealer, but this is the car of my dreams.  (Though it wasn't actually in that dream.)  I want a Murano.  Maybe red.  With the Bose stereo and the GPS system and the camera view of the rear when it goes in reverse.  I want the leather, heated seats and the 6-CD changer.  I'm a bad person:  this is a "crossover SUV."  I hate SUV's and everything they stand for and especially the people who drive them.  So why do I want this one?

Maybe I got confused by the salesguys at the four dealerships we visited.  They clouded my mind, so it was barely functioning.  Then, one of them, I think it was Tony, said this, to try to get me to trust in him and to believe what he was telling me:  "I know I'm a car salesman, and it's something I have to overcome."

There's an existential message in that sentence, somewhere.  But I don't know what it is.

Voice of the Boomers

I watch some TiVo only when I'm doing something else, making the bed, say, or folding laundry.  This is for shows that I'm ashamed to have TiVoed, but need to glance at anyway--albeit not devoting all my attention to them at any point.  Shows in this category include (gulp):  Dirt, The Unit, and, now, Gilmore Girls.  Dirt is just nasty; the idea of the show itself is as filthy as the title, and there's nothing at all redeeming about it, not the character development, not the acting, not the anything. There aren't even any Boomers, or any obvious ones actually, since Jeffrey Nordling, who plays the slimy publisher, Brent Barrow, was actually born in 1962.  The Unit is a man's show, all action, no logic.  In this week's show of let's say 46 minutes, about 22 of them consisted of nothing but shooting guns, exploding grenades, acking machine guns, spiralling sniper's rifles.  It was deafening--even to the quasi-deaf like me--and didn't make any real sense.  The super-secret special forces unit was transporting three Muslim prisoners out of one country into another, but we never learn who they are or where they are going or why.  It doesn't really matter, because the shooting's the thing.  (Okay, socks are matched--pause the TiVo.)

The story in today's New York TImes about Sara Davidson is fascinating.  Although she is not technically a boomer--she's 64--she is viewed as "a voice of the boomers."  (Her Web site is uber-earth motherish; get close enough to the screen and you can almost smell the incense!)  She has a new book with a great title (insert jealous pause here):  "Leap!  What Will We Do With the Rest of Our Lives?"   Since I am mailing in the final, copy edited version of my own manuscript, "Beyond the Mommy Years:  Empty Nest, Full Life," tomorrow (yes, literally, it's due in Boston on March 6), it's better that I don't read any of this, so as not to be confused.  (Or depressed, or envious, or angry.)  But I love the title:  "Leap" says it all.

Boomers Rule (Oscars)

Normally, I don't watch the Oscars.  I find it boring and silly, and not particularly entertaining.  There's no point, even, in TiVoing it, since I can just find out the next day who won.  But I watched last night, for a variety of reasons, including the fact that my college-age daughter kept calling from Washington, D.C. to chat about who was onscreen at the moment, so I had to know what she was talking about.  Also, I didn't TiVo it, so I actually watched the show in real time.  I think this is the first time I've cheated on my TiVo in at least a year!

They were, as I knew, deadly dull.  Even more so this year.  Boring, boring.  Occasionally, there was a bright bit of unscripted reality that sneaked through the rigidly choreographed evening, such as when Clint Eastwood muttered that he should have remembered his glasses.  It was obvious that he couldn't read the teleprompter, because he kept fumbling his presentation.  But who cares?  It's Clint.  And I loved seeing Pilobolus, since I went to Dartmouth with the founding members of the group.  But, still, it was rather gimmicky, those 20-second bursts of clever dance to form those cliched shapes.  Then, there's the annual Battle of the Clavicles, in which young starlets out-diet each other to see who can look the most gaunt and skeletal.  Check out Cameron Diaz or Cate Blanchett in their strapless gowns.  Even the usually human looking Reese Witherspoon had gaunted herself down to skin and bone--that unfleshed out chin does not compliment her face.

As for Boomers, well, Boomers are Really Those Who Rule the Oscars.  There are, of course, plenty of the young and pretty, mostly actors, who swan around in couture gowns and borrowed jewels.  But I love seeing all the women and men of a graying certain age, who clearly run Hollywood.  They edit film, and mix sound, and design costumes, and direct and produce.  And they, too, get to dress up and celebrate themselves, along with all the pretty young things.  Bravo for Hollywood Boomers.

Doggy Distractions

What with finishing the copy editing for my new book, BEYOND THE MOMMY YEARS, and figuring out how to improve my proposal for the new one (INSERT SECRET TITLE HERE), I haven't had a lot of TiVo time.  Even worse, I've got a large, smelly house guest who insists on getting in my face at all hours, but especially (for some reason) if I'm trying to TiVo.  Here she is.  Too bad you can't sniff her, because she really does stink:  like a large, moldy sofa.  Also, my own pup is not so thrilled with the New Addition, and is reacting much the way a three-year-old does to a new sibling.  She growls and sighs, a lot.  As a Boomer Mom, with no children at home, my friends too are left childfree but dogful.  And they travel a lot.  And when they go, and I don't, I end up with extra dogs.  This is the Boomer Life, eh?  What with the frigid cold and snow and ice, I'm really distracted.  But here's more proof that I left the house.  This is the view from my commuter train, as I zipped into Manhattan recently.  (An event that occured pre-canine house guest, however.)

I sneaked in a showing of Rome, when the dogs weren't looking.  (Actually, they were sleeping at my  feet.)  This episode, titled "Philippi," was based on a famous battle in which both Brutus and Cassius are killed, and Marc Anthony and Octavian triumph.  Not overly caught up on my ancient Roman history, to me it seemed in line with the show's descent into ever more horrible decay and ruin.  More murder, more treachery, more betrayal, it's all of a too muchness to bear watching.  But so brilliantly done, all is forgiven.

I also watched this week's Studio 60, which is meeting its early, merciful death quite soon, I hear.  For NBC, this is surely Must Miss TV.  I did like the beheading of the $600 baby doll, but I'm not sure it was worth 44 minutes of my time.  The show is too clever for its own good.  Part of the problem is that a live television comedy show is just not important or vital enough to sustain this kind of serious approach.  Especially when 30 Rock is around for comparison:  there's no contest, but 30 Rock rocks.  Studio 60, not.

Times Boomer Blast

We can't get no respect.  Us Boomers, that is.  I have been quietly peeving about an anti-boomer New York Times story, titled "Reality Check for a Generation that Knows Best," that appeared last week, written by Times television critic, Alessandra Stanley.  She called referred to boomers as the "refuse-to-get-old" set.  First of all, as a 1977 Harvard graduate, Stanley was born in 1955 or 1956, which makes her a prime boomer, albeit a self-hating one.  The point of this screed was rather fuzzy, but it seems to be that cranky boomers like Donald Trump and Simon Cowell boss around the kids they are judging and always get the last laugh.  Um, so?  She seems to be hyping an age war, a kind of us-against-them attitude that doesn't really exist in primetime television, or anywhere else for that matter.  Just because she's been called "the wrongest critic," doesn't mean she's always wrong.  But she certainly is here.

Apocalyptic Entertainment, II

We saw Children of Men yesterday, a bleak and thrilling experience, and also the most terrifyingly believable of all the apocalyptic shows and books I've been seeing and reading lately.  This one is not about an atomic war (Jericho) or an Earth covered by water seven miles high (The Children's Hospital) or a horrible burning and destruction of all life on the planet except a few people (The Road).  It's about an infertility plague that renders all women unable to bear children, and the global chaos that results from widespread despair and futurelessness.  Far-fetched, but yet...   Also, the Boomer Factor is rather high here.  The dark and handsome Clive Owen was born in 1964, which makes him a tail-end Baby Boomer (definition:  anyone born between 1946 and 1964). And Michael Caine, of course, who has turned into cute geezer who plays an aging hippie, is actually a pre-boomer, born in 1933!

Then, today, just because I'm TiVo-less, I watched a movie that my TiVo thought I'd like.  And it was right, if only because Clive was in it.  It was I'll Sleep When I'm Dead--perhaps the Worst Movie Title Ever--and, for most of the movie, Clive looks as if he's a refugee in and from Children of Man:   full beard, shaggy hair, homeless-guy plaid shirts.  If you don't believe that he can look terrible, take a look.  Now do you believe me?  But then, a miracle happens barely 15 minutes before this truly terrible film ends:  he gets a shave and a haircut.  Voila!!  Now he's the Clive the Cool.

Meanwhile, his ex-girlfriend is played by Charlotte Rampling, who is actually older than he is:  a shocking phenomenon in American filmdom.  (They do not, however, ever touch.)  She's a great beauty, and was born at the leading edge of the Baby Boom, in 1946.  Which makes her almost 20 years Clive's elder!  Too bad the movie is so truly terrible.

I'm on a roll with the Apocalypse, apparently, mostly because there's no TiVo to watch.  So I'm reading The Last Town on Earth, mostly because I thought I'd learn about more of the possible earthly disasters to befall the world.  But no, this book, by Thomas Mullen, is about the early 20th century, when the flu killed thousands of Americans and people around the world.  And it happened during World War I, and the writing makes you really feel how it must have felt to the survivors, that nearly everybody would succumb, either to the terrible plague or to war.

Children of Men is one of the most disturbing movies I've seen in a long time, although I remember saying that recently about something else...  It's not fun to watch, but it's thought-provoking to remember, and it stays with you a long, long time.  For a Boomer who has trouble remembering where she put her coffee cup, that's saying a lot.

Boomer Bonus Show

My TiVo list is sadly lacking these days, with all my shows on hiatus, so I've got to make do with what's still on.  This is where I arrive at watching "Brothers and Sisters," a show that I don't really love, but also can't seem to stop watching.  It often drags, and there are so many siblings that I sometimes get confused.  As for the financial mess the Dead Dad got the family into--something about the pension fund and an over-valued real estate sale--it makes my head want to explode.  But, still, there's something here...

Part of what draws me into this show is the large Boomer representation among the lead characters.  The main ones, of course, are young and lovely.  But, then, there's Sally Field, born in 1946, the first year of the Boom, and Calista Flockhart, born in 1964, at the very end.  (Though, yes, she is still quite youthy looking.)  Then, there's Patricia Wettig and Treat Williams, both born in 1951, a very good year.  Fields, who plays the matriarch mom-grandma, even has a love life after being widowed on the first show.  (Tom Skerritt dropped dead of a heart attack, as he fell into the family pool.  He was born in 1933, so maybe he was just way, way too old to star in a network show.)

The only one of these living creatures who looks his middle-aged age is Treat.  This picture is certainly not what he looks like now.  But this is how I like to think of him...

I use the same logic on myself, picturing me as my ten-years ago self rather than my today self.  This makes aging a whole lot easier--albeit somewhat unrealistic.