This is exactly what it was like to be GenX.

This is the best reply of the week.

I made pita bread!!

It would seem there's a bit of a learning curve. Worth watching to the end.

I wasn't making a joke. It's true.

Dirty Dancing is the coming of age story about a young liberal woman becoming a conservative.

I'm having a Semiquincentennial party and I while looking for red, white and blue fairy lights for my backyard I found this game!! This party is going to be lit!!! amzn.to/4gcHLVO #AD

This is what I want to see from every candidate running against the DFL in Minnesota and the D in the rest of the country. And if you're a moderate democrat, please get behind anyone who is trying to fix these fallen cities instead of protecting the machine that created them.

I have two friends who are in deep distress because they are kind and they expect everyone in their lives to be just as kind as they are. Each has been betrayed by people who take advantage of other people's kindness and I just want to tell them it's ok to be angry. It's ok to be a bitch and say no. It's ok to trust their gut, that everyone does not tell the truth. In essence they are too gullible for their own good. I'm grateful I learned this lesson early in life, even though it has made me a little more salty than some would like. Is there a way to wake people up? Can they change and look out for their own best interests instead of being doormats? Of should I just be a good friend and listen to them complain every time they get taken advantage of?

I will never understand the hatred people have for those who are successful. We used to look up to people who achieved success. Their achievements were inspiring and spurred the rest of us to do better. Now we treat them with scorn and belittle them in the press and social media. And by 'we' I don't mean me.

Nothing says "My position is correct" quite like locking down the comments.

It's weird being a Minnesotan because all of our local news outlets have finally discovered the fraud. They're finally reporting on it - correction - they advertise that they are reporting on it. The commercials always feature their head anchor walking through the halls of the courthouse as he declares he is determined to get to the bottom of the fraud. Just watch! Meanwhile, no one gets to the bottom of the fraud.

Where are my GenXers at? Do you remember the song Shannon? I listened to it the other day to prep for this podcast with @XStrangeHistory and it still had the same pull on me as it did back then.

His table manners are atrocious, but his hygiene routine would make a mother proud. *oops, forgot to add the video.

While the power was out all over the place I took a 3 mile walk through my neighborhood. It was wonderful. Kids were outside playing, riding their bikes and shouting from one end of the block to the other because phones and texting were not an option.

I had to go to a coffee shop so I could work today due to the power being out. For those of you who might not know, I live in the Twin Cities of Minnesota. There's a couple at the table next to me, they look like everyone else in the place, except me. I don't even need to describe them, you know exactly what they look like based on this exchange. Woman responding to her boyfriend: "That's something only a privileged white male can say." Him: "I know, I'm sorry."

As promised - Before the Streetlights Came On - Chapter 3 X might want long form content, but it's very difficult to do a preview - so apologies for how clunky this is. Before the Streetlights Came On - Chapter 3 “Knock, knock,” Viola said as she opened my bedroom door. “Would you be sure to bring your sheets down before you go to Jerome’s with your mother? The cab will be here soon. My mom had a monthly appointment at Jerome's Beauty Parlor to get her hair done, and in the summer it was my job to take her there and wait. Mostly I was there to get her in and out of the cab. Mom's movements were stiff and jerky, as though her brain and body were arguing about what should happen next. The cab drivers were happy to help, but they were a little too gentle and Mom needed a fair amount of pulling and pushing to get her where she needed to go. Viola wasn't afraid. She wasn't afraid of anything, but since I wasn't in school I could go with Mom and she could stay back and get her work done without any distractions. Mostly that meant she’d take a little extra time to sit in the kitchen listening to the radio while drinking coffee and smoking her Pall Malls. “Sure, I’ll bring them right down.” I said. “Have you ordered yet?” I meant did my mom order the groceries yet – she was the one who made the call, but it was Viola who took the inventory in the fridge and made the menu each week for dinner. It was a team effort for sure. Once a week we ordered groceries from Pilney’s down on West 7th street. They were one of the last grocery stores to deliver anymore. We had grocery stores that were closer – Knowlan’s was just a couple of blocks away, but they didn’t deliver. “Not yet, but hurry, the cab is coming at 10 and they keep the meter running while they wait.” I ran downstairs, threw my sheets on the laundry room floor and ran back to the living room where my mother sat. I added TAB and strawberry Pop-Tarts to the list. Hopefully I’d be home when the delivery came otherwise Skip might eat all the Pop-Tarts. I handed the list to my mom, handed her the phone and dialed Pilney’s. “Here you go mom.” Mom had a book of all the important numbers. Most of them I had memorized like dad’s office, grandma and grandpa’s house, but I didn’t dial Pilney’s enough to have it memorized. While mom talked to the grocer I went into the kitchen to find something to eat before we left for Jerome’s. Everything was on a schedule. Each day we did the same things depending on the season. During the summer months Mondays for me meant dusting, cleaning the cat pan, and cleaning out the bird cage. On Mondays we had meatloaf—every Monday. The rest of the week I spent at the pool. I was signed up for the swim team each year so had to go to practice at 7 a.m. Tuesdays through Friday. Practice lasted for an hour and then Skip and I would walk home, eat breakfast, and go back to the pool to hang out until 4 p.m. Then it was time to go home, empty the dishwasher, set the table, make the salad, and get Mom up from her nap. Tuesday was torsk. It was a white gelatinous brick of fish that Dad placed in a pan of water and broiled until it was sufficiently dried out to be practically inedible. Wednesday was something on the grill. Thursday was TV dinners for Skip and me because Mom and Dad went out to dinner. Friday was spaghetti. Thursdays were sheet day. Once a month, they were also beauty parlor day. Mom had an appointment at Jerome's to get her hair done. Viola liked schedules. When Skip and I were younger she stayed later and made dinner for us before Mom and Dad ate. She thought children should eat before 7:30. Whenever she made mashed potatoes, she'd stick her head into the living room and ask if I wanted to help. "As soon as I Dream of Jeanie is over," I'd say. "Fine." She said as she put a Pall Mall to her lips and headed back to the kitchen. She always waited until the episode was over. The second the credits rolled I'd drag a chair over to the stove and climb up beside her. She'd let me pour in the milk, add the margarine and dried potato flakes to the boiling water. Then she’d hand me a wooden spoon so I could mix it all together. "Slow down," she'd say. "You want mashed potatoes, not paste." Then she'd turn off the burner. Viola taught me how to make mashed potatoes, chili and the best peanut butter cookies. She taught me how to cream the margarine - or oleo, as she called it - with the sugar until it was smooth and light. Then she taught me how to crisscross a fork over the tops of the cookies. Mostly she taught me by letting me help. She wasn't much for lectures. "If I have to show somebody how to do it three times," she liked to say, "I might as well do it myself." That was Viola's philosophy on almost everything. I know my parents thought they were doing what was best for Skip and me by hiring all the babysitters, nannies, housekeepers and other caregivers, but most of the time they just got in the way and made things more difficult. It took a lot of people to do all the things my mother would have done. Mom couldn’t drive anymore even though she tried once. Dad pushed her to try a lot of things. He got her on cross-country skis and we all skied in the woods at the cabin. He bought her one of those big tricycles and convinced her to give it a try, and she did, but she said she looked retarded and didn't want the neighbors staring at her, so she never rode it again. Skip and his friends ended up giving each other rides on it because it had a huge basket on the front they could sit in. A couple years later Dad brought Mom and me out to the fairgrounds and let her drive the convertible. It was terrifying. I still have nightmares about her driving into a wall. She didn't, because Dad grabbed the wheel in time, but she could have. After that Mom let her license expire. Mom couldn't do these things anymore, so they hired help. Lots of it. Nannies, babysitters, exchange students, Bible students, housekeepers - there was always somebody new in the house trying to step into a role that nobody quite knew how to fill. Some of them I liked, some of them I did not. This was the first summer we didn't have a nanny living with us. For the first time since Mom got sick there wasn't a stranger sleeping in the attic or occupying the spare bedroom. The year before we had Karen from the Bible school and she was crazy. She dressed entirely in brown - brown skirts, brown sweaters, brown socks, brown shoes. Even her hair was brown. It fit her mood. Viola didn't care much for Karen. "That girl talks too much about Jesus," she said one afternoon while folding towels. "I thought you liked Jesus." "I do." She lit a Pall Mall. "I just don't think He wants to hear about Himself all day." According to Karen I was going to hell because I said “God” all the time. She said I was taking his name in vain. I wasn’t yelling at God or even talking about him, it was just another way to say “gosh” without sounding so dorky. Of all the babysitters over the years I think I hated her the most. She complained about the way I dressed and how I did my hair. She never cut hers. She said God didn't want women to cut their hair, and then she'd tell me the story of Samson and Delilah. I was trying to grow mine out. Ever since the great bubble gum/peanut butter incident, I'd had short hair. I fell asleep with bubble gum – the green apple Bub’s Daddy kind that came in a long stick with a slight dusting of flour on it. It tasted so good and I forgot to spit it out. When I woke up, I had green gum all over my hair. I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, trying to pull the gum out of my hair. It hurt, and before long I was standing there crying with a wad of green gum tangled in my hair. Then I remembered an episode of The Brady Bunch where somebody used peanut butter to get bubble gum out of their hair. So I went to the kitchen, grabbed a jar of Skippy Chunky, and slathered it all over my head. That didn’t work either, so I went back to the kitchen, grabbed the scissors, and started cutting it out. I must have woken my dad up because he took the scissors from me and tried to help. I think he was laughing, but I couldn’t tell through my tears. I was seven at the time. Picture day was tomorrow. Now that I was twelve, I could grow my hair out as long as I took care of it. Who else was going to? To continue reading, click the link below. The remainder of the chapter is available to subscribers.