You can NOT just post this information without providing the correct amounts of each ingredient per pitcher/per drink/per blender with ice.
As for being an Adult, yes I was the one who planned, booked and paid for the Polar Express trip this December for my boys last month.
Yes, I was the one who dragged my wife and kids into Manhattan this weekend to both ‘Toys R Us’ and the ‘Nintendo Store’, making VISA very happy in the process.
Yes, I’m the one who insisted that we take those expensive cabs, so my boys could look out the windows at the store displays and the tall buildings instead of just smelling the subways.
I’m the one my boys call to get them past the hard parts of video games.
People actually make to-do lists. That involves spending more time on something I don’t want to do to begin with, and will spend as little time as humanly possible actually doing it.
I sometimes remark “It’s amazing what you can get done by not thinking about doing it.” People understand and agree with that statement.
I do online bill pay, so I don’t have to write checks. That eliminated the “find checkbook, find pen, find stamps” part of the process, and it is admittedly less of a pain now. But I still have to find the bills and check for surprises, and possibly question Mr. Neville if I see something on there I don’t recognize.
Works pretty well if you put some Kahlua in it, and maybe a little vodka…
Oh, and having to be the one who goes to the store and gets more milk if ours is too old to drink, that sucks too.
I remember feeling this same way probably a year after my first kid was born. There was no longer the option of putting certain things off, like meals or baths or sleeping in. But now that stuff just doesn’t seem so bad. Maybe it is just the routine of it now or maybe because it is just easier due to being more efficient.
But being an adult does have lots of benefits that, in my mind, far outweigh the additional responsibilities. Alcohol and getting to play with boobies are two of the first things that come to mind.
That sucks. My ‘big’ sister’s 48 and I spent the better part of a week on the phone with her building superintendant (great guy), EMTs, Paramedics, visiting nurses, ER doctors, getting her into and out of three emergency rooms in three different hospitals because of her addiction to pain medication. She lost her job, but is eligible for some disability if she gets her paperwork in order. If she can remember what year it is.
Up until maybe four years ago she was a vivacious (although wheelchair-bound), caring person who did marathons in her wheelchair and baked lasagnas for the local fire house. Now, “don’t tell mom” is about the only coherent sentence she can put together from whatever haze she’s put herself in. She’s pushing 50 fer cryin’ out loud and I have a family to support and I’m looking at being laid off mid-December and she keeps dragging me into this. I got my own problems, dear. I’d prefer not to rummage through your undies drawer looking for pill bottles. Don’t tell mom? What the fuck? You think she doesn’t know?
That’s my sucky adult situation, October installment.
Cleaning? I just hired a cleaning service. I do still have to do my own laundry though…occasionally. (I’ve got enough clothes to go for two weeks; they barely fit in the washer. I load and unload the machines between dangermouse episodes.)
Grocery shopping? I splice my evening shopping trips in with my transformer/lego/computer game/DVD purchasing runs. (You may be evil, o mighty Walmart, but you’re sure convenient!) Buying the yogurt and tater chips doesn’t seem too bad after browsing the fun stuff.
I haven’t figured out how to resolve the “working for a living” part, though. (Well, give or take spending a little time on the internet while I’m at it…) Thinking about those toys/games/DVDs helps aussuage the pain, a little.
I dont think it’s the tasks themselves that are so mind numbingly energy killing, it’s that no matter how many times they’re done they will need to be done again. Then when it gets to the point that I can remember more than 20 yeas of it all.
Sigh.
Even the family emotional crap; it just never is any different.
I was thinking something similar last night - my toaster is wearing out, and I need to go buy a new one. Young adult means you’ve bought A toaster and towel set - being a regular adult means not only buying things like toasters and bath towels, but using them long enough to wear them out, and buying new ones.
There’s also the point where you can’t be bothered going to shop for a new toaster because you’re too busy thinking “oh bother, got to buy another toaster”…probably followed by “they don’t make 'em like they used to”…
I just had to buy a new toaster–but being an adult also means that you can decide to pick the toaster that will also poach eggs even though you’ve never eaten a poached egg in your life just because it looks kinda like a rocketship.
On the same note, I bought a Honda CR-V four years ago because the parking brake looks like a hyperdrive activation lever.
The freedom aspect of being an adult is great, do what you want, when you want. Well, within financial, personal, and legal constraints of course. Plus there’s the sex and alcohol.
All in all I’d rather be a kid again, but kids are all about growing up. They might have fun but they really don’t realize how good they have it with no responsibility.
I suspected I was an adult when I bought a new vacuum cleaner and was overjoyed for a week.
I knew I was an adult when I boasted about it to my friends and they were all really impressed, and some asked for recommendations.
(It is a pretty great vacuum cleaner. But the best part about it is that when you carry it with the hose over your shoulders, you look just like a Ghostbuster.)
Don’t you hate it when your username becomes a literal description of your life? Anyway, you have my sympathies. It’s tough being the parent at both ends – particularly since parenthood is, if you ask me, the one thing that is most tiring about being an adult. And of course parenthood multiplies all those other chores that account for so much drudgery.
Eh, maybe just as far back as my senior year in HS. I’d like to revisit some decisions I made at that age. Everything before that was fraught with insecurity, warts, and zits and not worth repeating.
I know you didn’t ask for advice, but that situation is exactly what bankrupcy laws are for – the way out when there’s no other way out. Please don’t let the fact that sometimes people abuse bankcrupcy prevent you from considering it (or rather, getting your in-laws to consider it) when it really is needed.
I understand that there’s an imperative to help your parents and your children in troubled times; but I also understand that the limits of that help should be when it starts to destroy the helper’s life as well.
Being an adult is WAY better than being a kid. Granted, now I pay bills and do my own dishes and such, but I get to go on my lunch break and make a decision between chicken sandwich and halfprice books clearance rack (and more often than not I end up eating crackers at my desk with my new books all around me after lunch.) I cleaned out my closet yesterday and I felt accomplished even though the rest of my place is a trash heap, which never would have flown when I was living with my parents. I can sit up all night and read Calvin and Hobbes if I choose and no one comes in and yells at me to turn off the light and go to bed. There are responsibilities and it is tiring to be an adult, yes, but you couldn’t pay me enough to go back to being a teenager or elementary school kid.
Not for me, I grew up running around the woods and fields, playing at the creek, riding my bike, watching Gilligan’s Island and Looney Tunes, playing my Atari 2600. Good times, good times. Main thing I had to worry about was the damn school taking my free time away, and my mom expecting me to get decent grades.
Count Blucher, I don’t make them, but I think it’s about an ounce of everything except the grenadine, and maybe three ounces of orange juice. If it tastes too strong add more lime and orange juice.
He invented them at my place, with both of us taste-testing. By the fifth partially drunk beverage we were no longer sure of our preferences, our names, or whether the cats had in fact turned into small wildebeests.
