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elfsThe New York Post has a terrible article entitled Millennial Dads have Pathetic DIY Skills Compared to Baby Boomers. The article is getting appropriately scorched by millennials who, thanks to the incredibly stressful economy, have never owned their own homes, never been in a place where they're allowed to paint the walls or hang a painting, much less fix the plumbing or hang a door. They haven't been given the opportunity to master those skills. But the sad fact is, there are way too many Boomer men who are fit only for the Ark Fleet Ship B
For the past two weeks, I've been hanging out with my elderly mother as she recovers from abdominal surgery, and met her social circle. I've also met several of the other men my age who are also taking care of their aging parents. This is the heart of Fort Lauderdale, and I have to say that out of all of the men of my generation I've met down here, very few of them have any handy skills at all.
In the time I've been here, I've cleaned out her computer and her phone, cooked several meals she proclaimed "delicious!" despite her limited diet, cleaned her chandeliers, replaced a broken handle on her shower, liasoned with her doctors and nurses, negotiated with the management company of her condo to fix her access to her financial records, repaired several of her flashlights, and tried really hard to explain to her, in the easiest language she could understand, what the surgery was about, what's going on with her condo, and why television is so much more complicated than it was when she was forty.
At one point, I was the only man in the room with Mom and two of her cronies. They started gossiping while I was cleaning up in the kitchen, and what I heard was, "My son couldn't do all those things." Their sons are big shots in real estate, but that's pretty much all they know.
When I say I'm a programmer and mathematician they get an idea of what I am. When they ask what kind of code I write and I start to talk about set and semiring theory, their eyes glaze over, which is fine.
But When I say I'm also an avid mountain biker and enjoy weightlifting, that I've built my own retaining wall, replaced my water heater, installed my own floors, built and maintain a raised-bed garden, they look at me agog. I changed diapers, fed babies, raised children as an equal and not just the breadwinner. When I add that I've written textbooks and pop science fiction, worked for Baywatch, the National Center for Missing Kids, and genetic engineers, I wander into the "unbelievable" category.
My problem is that I can't believe their skill-sets are so damned limited. I am not special. The fundamentals of setting the world you have within reach to right is the most important skill you can master, and if you've never looked around and asked yourself, "How do the things in my home and my life even work?" you're failing at this. The NYPost article oversells bullshit: most urban men my age are fit only for the B Ark.
"How do you know so much about everything?" my mother asked.
"I'm just curious. I want to know how everything works."
"I don't," Mom said. "It's too much work."
The other women nodded their heads sagely.
For the past two weeks, I've been hanging out with my elderly mother as she recovers from abdominal surgery, and met her social circle. I've also met several of the other men my age who are also taking care of their aging parents. This is the heart of Fort Lauderdale, and I have to say that out of all of the men of my generation I've met down here, very few of them have any handy skills at all.
In the time I've been here, I've cleaned out her computer and her phone, cooked several meals she proclaimed "delicious!" despite her limited diet, cleaned her chandeliers, replaced a broken handle on her shower, liasoned with her doctors and nurses, negotiated with the management company of her condo to fix her access to her financial records, repaired several of her flashlights, and tried really hard to explain to her, in the easiest language she could understand, what the surgery was about, what's going on with her condo, and why television is so much more complicated than it was when she was forty.
At one point, I was the only man in the room with Mom and two of her cronies. They started gossiping while I was cleaning up in the kitchen, and what I heard was, "My son couldn't do all those things." Their sons are big shots in real estate, but that's pretty much all they know.
When I say I'm a programmer and mathematician they get an idea of what I am. When they ask what kind of code I write and I start to talk about set and semiring theory, their eyes glaze over, which is fine.
But When I say I'm also an avid mountain biker and enjoy weightlifting, that I've built my own retaining wall, replaced my water heater, installed my own floors, built and maintain a raised-bed garden, they look at me agog. I changed diapers, fed babies, raised children as an equal and not just the breadwinner. When I add that I've written textbooks and pop science fiction, worked for Baywatch, the National Center for Missing Kids, and genetic engineers, I wander into the "unbelievable" category.
My problem is that I can't believe their skill-sets are so damned limited. I am not special. The fundamentals of setting the world you have within reach to right is the most important skill you can master, and if you've never looked around and asked yourself, "How do the things in my home and my life even work?" you're failing at this. The NYPost article oversells bullshit: most urban men my age are fit only for the B Ark.
"How do you know so much about everything?" my mother asked.
"I'm just curious. I want to know how everything works."
"I don't," Mom said. "It's too much work."
The other women nodded their heads sagely.
