It has been another relatively uneventful week and I am extremely pleased to say this. Uneventful is good. Of course, there’s no such thing as all good, so this uneventfulness has made it a bit harder for me to pick what to write about in this round-up of weekly profundities but I’m not complaining. There’s always something profound happening if you look hard enough.
A fascinating and not a little amusing phenomenon I’ve been observing recently, the generation wars between youth and what youth considers old age have become really loud. Before, it was Millennials against the world. Now, Gen Z is taking on Millennials. It really is hilarious and the most hilarious part is that three generations are throwing insults at each other and accusing each other of things that were actually mostly done by the fourth generation.
That’s right, it’s us, Gen Xers, who are responsible for a lot of the things that Boomers are accusing Millennials and Gen Zers of and vice versa. We raised — and are still raising — Gen Zers, after all, and one of the unpleasant facts of life is that parents are the main culprits behind how a person turns out. We also raised the Millenials, so if Millennials are snowflakes, we raised those snowflakes.
Basically, everything that’s wrong with the world today is our fault. But here’s the fun part: we have somehow remained the invisible generation so nobody is blaming us. The younger generations are blaming the Boomers — the generation that carried the civil rights movement on their shoulders, incidentally, and the generation that fought to earn what every next generation has taken for granted. Talk about irony.
Also talk about stupidity and ignorance because all this is public knowledge if you want to know it. But no, they want to hurl insults at each other because that’s so much more meaningful, while we smirk in the corner watching all that, because we’re also the cynical generation. Okay, we’re a lot of things, and many of them are bad but at least we know how to take blame — gracefully, as you can see from this post.
Three-month slave training
Three months. That’s how long it’s taken Vlad to train all three humans in the family to tend to his every need and whim. Those jokes about dogs being friends and cats being masters are rooted in truth. Dogs give heaps of love. Cats acknowledge your existence, at best. Of course, that’s a stereotypical view and cats are perfectly capable and willing to declare their affection for their humans. They just do it differently. And they condition you unnoticeably.
Three months ago, after I got up, I let the cat out of Little C’s room where he sleeps, made myself tea, turned on the laptop and fed the cat. Now, after I get up, I let the cat out of Little C’s room, spend a couple of minutes petting him because he needs to be petted early in the morning, and then go and make myself tea, etc. It didn’t happen subtly, either. I only started petting him as an alternative to twisting his neck because of all the meowing at 5 am. Luckily for Vlad, the alternative worked, so he’s still alive to boss us around.
Besides petting, there is also playtime. I have not yet earned the title of playmate so whenever I try to play with him, he’s only half-enthusiastic. If he knew how little I care about this he’d probably get depressed. But he’s got two other playmates who dedicate a lot of their time to keeping him fit. And the best playmate of all two? The man who never wanted to have cats again. This always happens.
I have just realised the profound theme of this week’s Look is irony. As Stephen King said, you don’t need to worry about themes while you write. The theme/s will appear naturally. Indeed, this theme has, and this is its third manifestation this week: I made breadsticks and they were a hit.
I have written about my cooking endeavours often enough but in recognition and respect of new followers I’ll quickly note that I like baking, especially desserts, and I suffer deeply when they are not completely eaten within 24 hours. They are never completely eaten within 24 hours because there is only so much you can reduce the amount of ingredients without ruining the recipe. Anyway, I bake more than my eating partners are willing to eat, generally. But the other day I decided to make grissini.
I was looking for something to occupy my hands with, which often happens on early Saturday afternoons, after I’ve done my writing time and whatever chores I’ve planned. There was still fudge cake from a few days ago, so another dessert was out of the question, but grissini sounded just right. So I made them, thinking even if no one likes them, I’ll eat them all and I’ll make dips for myself to eat them with.
Of course, as the laws of irony state, the grissini were an instant success. Honestly, it was very frustrating to see the simplest baking be so popular when the cakes I actually put some effort in remain uneaten for days and not — I cannot stress this enough — because I’ve messed them up. Life is made up of little everyday ironies.
P.S. Little C. is eating grissini with caramel sauce. Says it’s great.
Profound meme for next week