My Life as a Cocktail Waitress Part Two

Actually this should have been part one, but anyway...

The last demographic figure I heard regarding baby boomers was that there are 77 million of us. That's about 1/4 of the total population of the United States. This WAS in large part a demographic of people who grew up in a time of stunning changes, not only in terms of what was happening in our tiny worlds but also in the larger world around us. We did not have the communications luxuries of the Internet, mobile phones, or even the fax machine(!). Somehow, though, our beliefs and concerns were heard, not only throughout our communities but also in political arenas, music, and activism on so many fronts. Now the problem we face on a daily basis is not how to communicate but through which method-there are even companies now whose sole purpose is to sort out for us which device is the best in terms of value, operational quality and on and on.

How is it then that with all of this communication there is such a dearth of passion for living and contributing to making the world a better place for all of us? Is it our SSRI's doing too good of a job at leveling us out? Are we so overloaded with the management of all of the "stuff" we've acquired through the past few decades that there is no time for anything else? Too much sex, drugs, and rock and roll at any earlier time? Did we long to please our parents too much and buy into an ideal that never really existed, the one that says 'me, my, mine'?

The post-World War II babies were fed a pablum of myths undercut by misery never expressed-at least in my home. It was all so very perfect on the surface, and if anything seemed unpleasant, well, when 5 o'clock on the dot rolled around we could watch our parents ease into the comfort of bourbon and water. For three hours each night. No exceptions. This was custom and routine. I thought every family did that and certainly no one ever told me any differently-I can even describe the highball glasses in detail if I like, as one of my Southern Belle training skills was to deftly whisk the empties away and back to the never-empty bar for replenishing (age 5).

This was the perfect beginning of cocktaillery (sounds rather sporting, like archery, doesn't it?); I learned so young and so well how to make things go smoothly so as to NOT make waves and cause the dreaded Dark Look of Death my mother could give-a look known to curdle milk, defrost ice cubes, and cause a general paralysis to anyone who got it from her. There were no words when the look came-just not necessary to have them, and, in fact, words may have lessened THE DARK LOOK'S impact.