Tag: writing

  • Boiling Water and Other Premium Adult Skills

    Boiling Water and Other Premium Adult Skills

    My daughter recently declared that I am a “premium adult.” I’m not entirely sure what that means, but I like the sound of it. Apparently, I have skills and knowledge above the beginner level, though I don’t check all the boxes.

    For instance, I don’t have matching towel sets or feel smug about my multiple drawer and cabinet organizers. But I do use cloth napkins, have retirement accounts, keep folders for current and past taxes, and hold strong opinions on the proper way to fold a fitted sheet. Bonus points: I’ve figured out you can make a bed using only flat sheets—it’s easier, and they fit every time. Folding problem solved.

    Premium adults know things newbie adults don’t. My kids were shocked to discover their dishwashers have filters. They were even more shocked (and maybe a little grossed out) to learn those filters need cleaning. They weren’t surprised that I knew this and do it. They haven’t.

    Their questions cover the full spectrum of “How do I adult?”—from choosing a doctor from a vast HMO list to eliminating the lingering cat pee smell left by a roommate. My solutions aren’t always popular. One child had to replace carpet. The other still hasn’t made the doctor’s appointment.

    Some issues are laughable to fellow premium adults. Take boiling water. It sounds foolproof, but it requires surprising amounts of skill, knowledge, and courage. Step one: overcome fear of open flame. Step two: know what size pot to use, how much water to add, how high the flame should be, and what “boiling” actually looks like.

    Sure, you could Google it, but apparently, a lot of people still don’t know. One YouTube tutorial on boiling water has 1.9 million views. Pasta-cooking videos abound, each with its own rules. Mine: add a tablespoon of salt, never oil, and stir to prevent sticking. But why would you when your mother is a premium adult.

    My son calls for cooking help, too—mainly to decipher the sloppy cursive and minimal directions in my family recipe book. My chili recipe lists ingredients but offers only: Brown the meat. Add everything else. Simmer until flavors blend. I’ve also coached him through replacing a water heater, repairing siding, and banishing the infamous cat pee smell.

    I’m not bullet proof, though. Recently, my son had to bow out of a family fun night. We seldom have all four of us in the same location now that the kids have flown the nest. Happily, everyone’s schedule came together so we could celebrate our daughter’s birthday. She requested hot dogs grilled by her brother. He was all on board, then he wasn’t. The night before the celebration, he texted to say he felt sick. By morning, he had fever, aches, congestion—the works.

    While in Meijer with my daughter, I took his call. He listed his symptoms and mentioned his temperature. A few seconds later, my brain caught up, and I texted back my “premium” alarm:

    “That’s a high fever. Take Tylenol or ibuprofen. Call me in 30 minutes. If it’s not down, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

    Thirty minutes later, he replied:

    “Mom, I think you misheard me. It’s 100.4°, not 104°.”

    Side note: My children insist I need hearing aids. I insist they mumble. The ear doctor sided with me—they mumble.

    To my credit, 104° is an emergency. 100.4° barely registers. It’s a “why are you even calling me?” temperature. But I know why he was calling.

    When you’re sick, you miss your mom—premium or not.

  • Old People Know Things, Too

    Old People Know Things, Too

    I retired from full-time work in 2024. At that time, I was one of the oldest people employed by the organization. I didn’t want to retire, but things transpired as things do, and I stopped working full-time.

    Of course, I used numerous technologies throughout my career—Microsoft Word, Excel, PowerPoint, Teams, Outlook, and more. I’m familiar enough with them to appreciate Masood Boomgaard’s “F*** PowerPoint” video. In my current part-time job, I take attendance and enter my timesheets using apps on my phone.

    I’ve also used technology extensively in my personal life. I bought my first computer—a Mac Plus with a whopping 1 megabyte of RAM—in 1989. Now, there are more Apple devices in my home than there are people. Most of the legacy Macs are laptops, but there’s also an iPod or two, as well as a few iPads past their prime. Everything still works.

    Devices currently in use include two MacBook Airs, two iPhones, and a new iPad—a replacement for the last one, which was itself a replacement for the first. The newest iPad is huge compared to the rest—my only concession to needing a bigger, easier-to-read screen.

    I do everything on my devices. All my banking is online; I don’t even remember the last time I wrote a check. If I need one, I borrow one from my husband. I use Excel to comparison-shop everything from kitchen remodeling to deciding which Medicare supplement plan to buy.

    News? I get it online.

    Email? Available on my iPhone, Mac, and iPad.

    YouTube? iPhone, iPad, and Fire TV.

    Front door lock? Biometric.

    Doorbell? Has a camera.

    Furnace? I can change the temperature without getting out of bed.

    Driving? GPS, of course.

    But I don’t stop at the typical uses.

    Knitting? Knit Companion on the iPad.

    Home cleaning? Home Routines.

    Motivation? Finch.

    House training the dog? Puddle and Pile.

    If there’s an app for it, I’m on it.

    Many folks younger than me—especially Millennials and Zoomers—refuse to believe anyone born before them can use contemporary technology.

    It’s really starting to piss me off.

    Recently, I needed to enter a verification code that was texted to my iPhone. As I was about to automatically enter the code (a very nice feature, IMHO), a younger person leaned over my shoulder to show me how to do what I was just about to do. I, perhaps a little too snippily, said, “I know,” and let the phone do its thing.

    Because said person routinely shows her mother how to use technology, she assumed I would need a personal IT manager as well.

    It’s almost comically common for those younger than Boomers to believe we’re technological dinosaurs without the desire or mental capacity to learn anything—anything—new. There’s a witty Boomer response: I taught you how to use a spoon.

    The idea that Boomers are stupid, lazy, and proud of our lack of tech savvy simply isn’t true. We use smartphones, stream entertainment, shop and bank online, brag about our kids on Facebook, and catch up on the news. Some of us even know how to get our stupid routers to stop acting stupid. Most of us rely on technology to the point that we panic when the internet goes down.

    I was born before personal computers were a thing. I learned to write with a crayon. I graduated to pencils and pens by middle school and learned to type on a manual typewriter in high school. My secret crush is the IBM Selectric. IYKYK.

    In college, I wrote papers on a word-processing typewriter; the screen previewed about half a sentence at a time before the letters were typed onto the paper.

    I encountered business computing in a form my kids would recognize early in my career. Email, word processing, databases, and financial software were accessed through a terminal.

    The equipment and applications became more advanced as the years went on. Currently, I’m writing this post at my dining room table on a MacBook Air with a modest 8 GB of RAM. My iPhone and iPad are across the room. Everything is connected to 5G Wi-Fi. Clearly, this old person can use technology—despite being born when engineers used slide rules.

    Whippersnappers boast that they’re good at technology because they were born using it. Consider, though, that many haven’t upgraded their skills as each app iteration is released—they haven’t had to. At this point, nothing is new to them; it’s just improved.

    Boomers have been learning and adapting to technological change since childhood. Sure, by the time we reach our 50s, we may be a little tired of having to adapt—but we do it. We do it to stay current, to avoid becoming the dinosaurs we’re accused of being. Put that in your latte and drink it, Millennial.

    I taught my children much more than how to use a spoon. They cook (well, one of them does), clean, say please and thank you, know how to fold a fitted sheet (though they don’t do it), and only say “Can I go with?” to annoy me. They still call me when they don’t know how to do something, including deciphering the secret Boomer code (aka cursive) I use to write down recipes.

    If I know any actual Technological Boomer Dinosaurs, it’s my husband. He thinks technology hates him and only him. In his defense, he was born at the beginning of our cohort; I was born twelve years later—enough to make us seem like we’re from different generations. His rock stars were The Beatles; mine were Jimmy Page and Robert Plant.

    Recently, though, he started reviewing every movie ever made (or something like that—it’s a lot of movies) and publishing them on Substack. Without assistance. This morning, we had a conversation about open rates and views.

    Thanks to Mike Kalecki for this post’s title.

    Copyright Janice M. Lindegard

  • Writing Laryngitis

    Writing Laryngitis

    I lost my voice recently. It came on quickly. One day, I was able to speak normally; the next, I was rasping like I’d smoked a pack of cigarettes in my sleep—even though I haven’t had a cigarette in more than 30 years.

    It seemed there was no warning, but there was. Because my life is ridiculous, I am losing hair at a rapid pace (trust me… there is a connection). I mentioned it at my semi-annual skin examination. The dermatologist ordered bloodwork to determine the cause of my hair loss. She didn’t believe it was because my life is ridiculous, though stress can be caused by a ridiculous life, and stress can cause hair loss.

    Because test results are delivered to both me and my provider simultaneously, I frequently review them before my provider can. Everything looked good… except my basophils, which were way out of the normal range. So, I looked up what basophils are and what they do. Yes, I realize normal people don’t do this.

    Basophils, I learned, help the body fight off infections and allergic reactions. The next day, I lost my voice, which seemed to explain the elevated basophils. I concluded it was due to a virulent invader, not sleep-smoking. My boss lost his voice the next day, confirming my self-diagnosis. I resisted the urge to excitedly tell him about my basophil adventure.

    Losing my physical voice was bothersome, but I knew how to bring it back—humidity, hot toddies, and rest.

    However—and this is terrifying—I have lost my writing voice. It’s not that I don’t have anything to say; I have a lot to say. I’m not suffering from writer’s block. It’s just that when I sit down to try to write, nothing coherent (at least to me) comes out. I’m probably still recovering from my rapid retirement. Or maybe I’m depressed that Donald Trump is again our president. If you voted for him, well, bless your heart.

    There are other reasons for my lack of written coherence. In fact, there are so many that relating them would only add to my stuckness, at least for now.

    Many a professional writer gives the same advice: sit the hell down and write. I have been sitting the hell down. After weeks of procrastination—months, if I’m being honest—I’m finally sitting in front of my Mac on a mostly daily basis. Ass in chair and fingers on keyboard are the only ways I can hope to feel comfortable doing this again.

    In the meantime, I’ll sit here like a rock and hope that basophils can also cure writer’s laryngitis. And maybe a hot toddy or two.

  • 7000 words

    A little more than a month ago, I couldn’t think of anything big to write about, so I wrote about details. In 6000 words, I showed you pictures of little things in my garden that gave me joy that day. Today, I’m back in the garden to catch up on the cherry and apple trees, the red oak, the columbines, the imaginary campfire and the resurrected peony. I’ve also added a picture of a new little thing that gives me great joy.

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  • 6000 words

    I’ve been writing from a very dark place for the past three or four weeks. Today, I finished one of the pieces and needed to mark its completion. Sitting in the sun, playing fetch with my dog, I decided that there were tiny details in my garden that make it possible for me to overlook the lived-in, played-in overall mess that is our backyard. Here are some of them.

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  • What to do? What to do?

    My children went back to school today. My son woke me at 6:20 to say goodbye with “Mom! Get up! It’s time to go back to the angst.” “You have angst?” I asked. “All teenagers have angst, Mom,” was the reply.

    I am working on several things at the moment: today’s blog post, my professional website and a memoir. Today’s blog post could well wind up being tomorrow’s blog post. The professional website is an ongoing nightmare. I wish Le Clown would do it for me, but I have no money. The memoir? It makes me giggle to even think of it as I have the worst memory in the history of history. But, my husband has a Ph.D. in history and knows me pretty well, so he can help me remember the stupid things like dates.

    So, if y’all don’t mind, I’m going to enjoy the three more hours of freedom I have before the boy comes back to regale me with tales of angst. I’m going to run then get my butt in the kitchen to crank out my traditional first day of school cookies.