Cringe & Facepalm

Boomer grandparents are watching cancerous cable news and gleefully recounting how certain restaurants in CA are shutting down instead of paying the new $20 minimum wage.

“Those entitled brats want $20 an hour, now they have no job lol!” They say.

“Back in my day I was making $5 an hour and was happy with it.”

I ask them when that was. 1975. I go to the inflation calculator and $5 back then is equivalent to $27 today.

I tell them this and get the glazed lead-brain stare. “Well it was in a factory, I deserved it.”

Fuck their entire generation. Fuck them to hell in a hand basket.

Edit: FFS, I didn’t say $5 was the minimum wage then. That’s just the number I was given for comparison.

I have 2 grown children still living at home ages 23 & 20 and I’ve pretty much turned all responsibility for the kitchen over to them. I pay for groceries but they are responsible for keeping track of what we need as well as cooking and cleaning 75%of the time. Me and my fiancé cover the rest.

Anyway, my daughter cleaned her room and piled some really gnarly dishes in the sink- science experiments if you catch my drift. It was my son’s turn to wash the dishes so when he got to those…. he threw them away. Not Tupperware either- 2 bowls from my set of dishes and 2 spoons. When I asked him about it he said- Mom I don’t think there was any way to get them clean!

I fished them out and soaked them in hot soapy water for a bit. They’re fine.

I know men of any age can be weirdo’s but boomer men take the cake. Nearly every boomer man I’ve worked with (a lot) has the sexual development of a teenager. They simply cannot keep their mouths shut about any and all women who happen to walk by. This goes equally for single and married men. What’s really strange is how oddly specific they are. They will find physical “flaws” in even the most attractive women who are half, or less, than their age. As if any of these women would have anything to do with them, they just want to let you know that their “hair isn’t quite blond enough, could lose about twenty pounds, too much makeup, her voice sounds bad, those clothes aren’t helping her one bit, she’s too pale, she’s too black, her boobs could be bigger, her butt is too big, that dress is too long, not enough cleavage” etc etc. If that’s not bad enough, they will flip right over and simp hard on these women five seconds later, making themselves look like absolute fools. It’s embarrassing. As a man, honestly, everyone gives the side glance every once in awhile, but I don’t know how an entire generation of old men gets quite this bad? I mean these aren’t young men, most of them look like old worn out dump trucks who haven’t looked in the mirror in 40 years. I suppose a lifetime of sexual repression probably hasn’t helped, I don’t know 🤷‍♂️

One of my hobbies is making collage art, and I am frequently on the lookout for vintage gardening books. I especially love to visit small bookstores as they will typically have at least one or two books that I can use, and I love to support a small business.

As I was out and about one day, I saw a small, fairly disheveled little bookstore in a strip mall and thought, why not? I have time to kill, let's find some treasure.

As I walk in, I immediately see who I assume to be the owner, a Boomer (who appeared to be) in his mid-seventies, and stacks upon stacks of disorganized tomes. I give a wave, a good afternoon, and receive a glare back. Alrighty, I'm not much a talker too, I get it. Wanting to cut to the chase without having to sift through the frankly overwhelming amount of stock, I politely ask if he happens to have a section for gardening. The man, without saying anything, points his finger to the back of the shop. Truly a man of few words, and as I'm starting to realize, of courtesy as well.

So, I give him a quick thumbs up, and head to the back of the shop. It took a minute or two to plod through, but eventually I spot a tiny, yellowed, handwritten label with "garden" barely scrawled across it. Finally, I've found the overstuffed shelves of vintage gardening grails, next to the religious self-help and esoteria.

Having spent the next twenty or so minutes combing through, I eventually found three lovely books, and though they weren't in the best shape, they would certainly do.

Books in hand, I saunter back to the front cash, and crack a silly joke about the warehouse from Indiana Jones, and how I was disappointed I didn't find The Ark. He didn't laugh. Wordlessly, he takes the books and gives me the total.

"Wow, that's not too bad, it'll be debit please," I say, jazzed to cut some paper.

"Can't you read?" he says firmly, but with an air of condescension.

"Wh-I'm sorry?" I respond, confused.

"Cant. You. Read." he repeats, then raps a tar stained index finger on the decrepit cash register, onto which is a small label, much like the one affixed to the shelves. In the same scribbled writing as "garden" he has written "no debit," and is equally illegible. He continues staring at me, finger pressed against the ancient register. I squint and realize amongst the stacks of magazines, and strewn paper, is another small sign that says "no fifeties or hunderd" as well.

"OH," I awkward laugh, "Sorry, its just a little hard to see that, you know?"

He continues to stare, but it seems as if his eyebrows have started to furl.

I'm now annoyed, and I understand you don't have to lay on the politeness, but this is a bit too far. I start to wonder how his shop is still in business.

So, I awkwardly laugh again and say, "Well I AM in a bookstore, so I feel fairly confident that I can read." I start to reach for my wallet, which has a twenty dollar bill inside. Before I can pull it out, he retorts,

"WELL you'd be fuckin' surprised with your generation." He leans back, crossing his arms. The same unchanging glare still emanating from his cragged, cynical face. Who hurt this man? Am I interrupting his scheduled cataloging of James Patterson novels? Or is it simply the inexorable march of time bothering him?

I'm now more disappointed than upset, as I was truly excited about the books, but I can't give this jerk the satisfaction of my business. As a man raised largely by my grandmother, she always taught me that it's easier to catch flies with honey rather than vinegar. Sorry Grandma, but in this moment I yearn to be petty.

So, I pull out the twenty, and repeat the price of the books back to him.

"You know," I say, "that's about the same price as a burrito and a soda across the plaza. After this conversation I don't feel much like reading at all." I start to turn away, and can feel the palpable change in his demeanor as he uncrosses his arms and hurriedly sputters out, "Hey now, wait just a minute!"

Ah, that got his attention.

"Nah man, you're right, maybe I'm not much of a reader," I called out from over my shoulder, then added, "besides this situation." As I opened the door to leave, I waved, and left him to his self imposed pity. The burrito was halfway decent, but the satisfaction of not being treated like an idiot for a fairly minor misunderstanding was worth it.

I found four books at a small thrift store the next day. The lady employee, who also happened to be a Boomer, was sweet as pie.