I was listening to the radio this morning as I was getting dressed and an interesting topic came up. A study came out that said that those who make more than $75k p/y are happier than those that make less than $75k. This led to a conversation about Twenty-somethings and the question of what they are willing to sacrifice for their job. The consensus seemed to be that, for the most part, this particular generation are not workaholics and are not driven to race down the “success track”. They are much more laid back about work and are willing to earn less to have more recreation time. Reasons given included their observation of their parents’ predicament; i.e. working their butts off for a company that fires them after ten or more years.

They acknowledged that, though there are any number of reasons why a person could be happier making less money, as for the Twenty-something generation, it was believed that they are happier making less money because they make a conscious decision to not “compete with the Jones’” and spend as much time as they can living and enjoying life. It is not just girls who wanta have fun – apparently the entire Twenty-something generation just wants to have fun. And, they are happier for it.

One of the radio personalities said, “Just say it. Their generation is lazy.” Another personality, said he wouldn’t go that far, because he thought they may have it right. Life isn’t supposed to be about “stuff” and isn’t that why people want to make more and more money – so they can have the coolest new electronics, bigger homes, the best cars, the best toys and clothes for our kids (what our generation – parent’s of the Twenty-somethings – buy to make up for the fact that we are gone so much at work, wheyn what our kids really want, is us)?

They also touched on the fact that many in the Twenty-something generation have this feeling of entitlement, which they thought was our generations fault for giving them so much, in order to make up for our workaholic attitude, not to mention wanting them to have all the things that we didn’t have as kids. This problem would definitely come under the saying, “the road to Hell is paved with good intentions”.

This is a very intriguing subject to me, for a few reasons. I was brought up to believe that people should work hard for their employer (which translates to, “little, if any, socializing at work and do nothing that takes away from your work performance while on the clock”) and they should be willing to work as long as it takes to get the job done. I was also brought up to believe that, though this philosophy applies to both men and women, it is a woman’s prerogative to work or not work, but a man who was not willing to make whatever sacrifices were necessary to financially support his family, wasn’t a real man. And, if that meant that daddy was never home, so be it, because it is more important for the man to work and make the best wage he could, than to be at home with his family.

This reasoning is why my parents felt no shame in whatever kind of work they did – whether it was flipping burgers next to a kid twenty years their junior or cleaning toilets at a public bathroom; if it was the best paying job they could find, then they could hold their head up with pride. It wasn’t about liking your job or your boss, it was making the absolute best wage and getting the best benefits the man could get, based on his education and experience.

I think for the most part, if asked, my parent’s generation of men, would say that they were happy. I think they found their happiness in doing right by their family. I think the new Twenty-something generation finds their happiness in living and spending time with those they love. They may not be trying to earn a high paycheck or even be doing anything to get them there, but they don’t have to earn a lot of money if they are not concerned with having lots of “stuff” – competing with the Jones’.

I think this Twenty-something generation has it right. If they are paying the mortgage/rent, the utilities, putting food on the table and clothes on their families back, and any debt they have chose to incur, who cares how much they make? Obviously, if they don’t earn enough to pay for their monthly expenses, they need to find a better paying job or make the necessary changes to live within their means (after all, this about how to be a happier person, not a financially irresponsible deadbeat) – but, the less they are concerned with having stuff, the more time they will have to live, and isn’t that what we should all be striving for?

I’ll add something else that they didn’t touch upon on the radio; stress. How much stress can this generation have if they don’t have a lot of debt, so don’t have to have the best paying job and spend more time with their family and having fun than they do working? I realize this is bad news for the pharmaceutical companies, but what wonderful news for my generation, as parents. Good mental health (which often translates to good physical health), happiness, fun, love of life and valuing their family enough to making time with them more important than a new Lexus – what more could we hope for our children?

No. I don’t think the Twenty-something generation is lazy. I think they are smart and have done exactly what we want our children to do – learn from our mistakes.

I watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, yesterday morning. There was a scene where Benjamin describes the day that Daisy got hit by a car, which led to her never dancing again. He described a serious of events involving different people that led to the taxi that hit her being at the exact right place at the exact right time that would cause an unavoidable accident.

I started thinking about that scene when I was in Starbucks, yesterday afternoon. When I had left home, I took the time to take my Kindle out of my purse and replace it with my Mensa Kakuro book and a pencil. My thought was that I would get a drink from Starbucks and set outside to work on a puzzle and enjoy my drink. I gave my order to the cashier. She wrote everything down exactly as I wanted, then chatted for a few moments while she rang me up.

I then moved over to wait for my drink to be prepared. A young man with glasses, brown hair and a friendly smile, stated in clear terms what he made, while checking his concoction with what the sticker on the side of the cup said. That was when he realized that, though I had asked for a peppermint mocha, he had prepared a peppermint white mocha. He apologized, smiled that wonderful smile, said he would make me another drink and asked me if I would like to have the peppermint white mocha, also. I, of course, agreed. But, this presented a problem for my original plan. When he asked me if I would like to have both drinks, I knew I didn’t, but I made an instant decision to give the extra drink to someone – sure that I could think of someone who would like to have it. Therein, was my problem, though; I now knew that I could not set outside and enjoy my drink if I intended to give my extra one away.

While waiting on my corrected drink, I gazed out the window, running through the possible people who may enjoy the extra drink. While thinking that I would be making someone’s day if they enjoyed this kind of beverage, I realized I was staring across the street at my old bank. That was when I remembered the day I pulled all of my money out of that bank. The woman who helped me was very nice and right then I decided that was who I would give the drink to.

I drove across the street and walked in with my gift. As I was walking in, though, I saw that the lights in the office where I talked to the bank lady, were off. In an instant, I decided to ask the receptionist if she liked Starbucks – NO. She said that one of the cashiers probably did though – NO. Who knew that giving away a free Starbucks mocha could be so difficult!

Right about the time I was beginning to feel really foolish and a tad embarrassed to be standing there with the Starbucks cup, the receptionist came back and said she had a taker – one of the ladies that signed people up for new checking accounts.

My twin’s school is in this program to get the local community to read. The school picks a book and hands out tons of copies to different companies to pass out to anyone who wants one. After you read it, you’re supposed to fill out one of the cards in the book with your comments, thoughts and opinions about the book, and mail it back to the school. I am a book worm from WAY back and my daughter insisted I read the book, so of course, I did. It is called “Drums Girls & Dangerous Pie” by Jordan Sonnenblick.

It is told from the perspective of a thirteen year old boy, named Steven. It is about Steven’s relationship with his five year old brother, Jeffrey, and how life and their family dynamic changed, after finding out that Jeffrey has leukemia. It is a wonderfully written book and a truly inspiring story that continued to give me perspective, as I read it. For instance:

1.       Though one of my twins is autistic – he does NOT have a life threatening disease or even a non-life threatening disease that requires large needles being stuck in his chest or his spine.

2.       Though I am currently a casualty of the economy and am without a job – I am not several thousand dollars behind in medical bills brought on by the treatment of a sick child and the bills I have are not only current, but they are well within my ability to pay (even on unemployment wages).

3.       Though I did not have the best childhood in the world – I did not have to worry about taking care of myself at thirteen, because I didn’t have a sibling with a life threatening disease, who required being driven to an out-of-town hospital by my mother, every week, while my father worked all the time – since my mother had to quit her job to care of said sibling – and even when he was at home with me, spent several months not speaking to me or anyone else. Nor did I have a life threatening disease, as a child.

I think keeping things in perspective when life doesn’t go how we want, is very important. To me, no matter how bad things may seem, there is always someone out there who has it worse than you and would be willing to exchange your problems for theirs in a New York minute.

So, when things are going bad, instead of focusing on those negative things, focus on the good. Focus on what is going right – i.e., if I was blind, I couldn’t see how pretty it is outside, today; I can feel the wind on my skin and it feels good, because I don’t have third degree burns on my body; I don’t have to be out in the rain, because even if my house is small, cramped and needs lots of work, it is still better than not having a home, at all; our family may not make enough money to buy a new car, but that fifteen year old rust bucket still gets us from point A to point B; I may have needed a shoulder to cry on everyday this past week, but at least I have good friends with good strong shoulders. See, it is easy to find something to be thankful for.

Perspective: it truly is a beautiful thing!

Oops! Almost forgot another very important lesson, in the book. One we all have heard said in different ways and know we should do, but sometimes forget.

Do not focus on those things that you cannot change. Focus on those things that you can change. In doing that, you can make wonderful things happen; things that can change your life in a very positive way.

I really like my house. In fact, though it’s not my dream house by any means, I pretty much fell in love with it the first time I took a walk-through. It has three bedrooms, two and a half baths, vaulted ceilings in the living room and master bedroom and a decent amount of closet space. And, all that, in a nice child friendly neighborhood – two parks even, within walking distance – a fenced in backyard and a brick patio. What’s not to like, right? I’m fairly blessed, right? And, that’s exactly how I felt for the first couple of months. That was when my twins pointed at the floor in the back entryway one morning and said, in unison, “Mommy, there are ants on the floor!”

ANTS!! In my wonderful house!! I flew into the kitchen, grabbed a few paper towels and ran back to the entryway. I began to stomp on the ants with my trusty paper towels, which brought an immediate, horror-filled bellow (in symphony) from my twins, “No! No! Don’t kill the ants, mommy!!” To which I replied, “Ants outside, equals live ants. Ants in mommy’s house, equals a very quick death to ants.”

That was when I realized all that the stupid paper towels were doing was kind of scooting the little beasts around on the floor. I charged back into the kitchen and wet the paper towels, ran back to the entryway and swooped down, with red in my eyes and ant death on my mind. My twins continued to wail at my unrepentant annihilation of the little beasties, while I was gleefully committing murder and mayhem with my deadly wet paper towel and giving myself a mental high-five over the fact that wetting the paper towels was a brilliant stroke of genius on my part, as the ants were indeed meeting with an abrupt end to their exploration of my home.

I later found out from a neighbor that all the houses in my neighborhood had a sweet ant problem, apparently due to something about the level of clay in the ground. This, by the way, was something that the realtor and/or previous owners, failed to mention to. Aaarrrrggghh! Surprise, surprise.

Anyway, after the initial kill-fest, I called Terminex. They sprayed for ants – twice! – but, alas, ants would, way too often for my taste, or anyone else’s, I’m sure, still invade my home. And, my twins would bemoan my unchristianly ways each time they witnessed my wicked kill-the-ants-and-leave-no-survivors episodes. That is, until the day that a few ants were found by my son on his computer. This affront was immediately followed by, “Kill them, mommy! Kill them all!!” Never again did I have to listen to them tell me that I was a murderer. Happy day!

I lived with the ant issue – they weren’t around all the time, mostly in the spring and after a good rain – for about two years. Then one day, about three or four months after I met my fiancé, he, growing disturbed over the increasing red color in my eyes and smoke coming out of my ears at the sight of the black devils, informed me that he had found a site on the internet that suggested baby powder be administered at any and all sites that the ants enter the house. I immediately groused that I didn’t have any baby powder, to which he valiantly volunteered to drive to the local Wal-Mart in his trusty steed; a silver Taurus that he tries very hard to keep clean, which is more than I can say for the floor space at the foot of the bed – what is it with men’s inability to get the dirty laundry into the laundry basket, anyway? They can swoosh a ball in a basket with one arm tied behind their back, their eyes closed and a small animal yanking on their pants, but they can’t get their clothes to make it to the laundry basket that is setting a mere four inches from their toes? What is up with that? Would someone please tell me!!

My super-hero arrived back with baby powder in hand, a record setting seven minutes later. I swooped in on him as he opened the door like a desperate drug addict needing a fix. I snatched the bag from his hand, with a mumbled, “This better freaking work” – yes, I’m a very gracious person when plotting the demise of one of God’s creatures. I took up my new, deadly (hopefully) ant killing machine and proceeded to squeeze out powder at the door, around the wall, on my counter and everywhere else that I had ever seen an ant dare to walk upon. I had a mission and a weapon of destruction to deal out death and nothing was going to stand in my way (insert my oldest son’s evil laugh, here)!!

Oddly enough, the powder actually worked!! Apparently, once the powder is put on an ant’s path, it can’t smell their trail, so it doesn’t go there anymore.

Important Note: Ant food that is supposedly taken to the Queen, killing the entire colony and doesn’t do a damn bit of good, that I saw, $2.89 ; Bottle of baby powder that works like a champ, $3.29; Visit from Terminex to spray ant killer that does absolutely no good, but put more money in the company’s pocket, $60.00: Look on my neighbor’s face when he saw me outside spraying baby powder around the garage door, the front door and my bushes (that last one was just out of spite for the darn things having the nerve to enter my home), PRICELESS!

Unfortunately, I still see ants periodically, but nothing like I used to. And, don’t know if it was coincidence or what, but my fiancé bought me a Schnoodle – his name is Winston – last June, and since then, I get ants even less! But, when they do show up, you better believe my weapon of destruction is quickly pulled out of its place of honor (bottom shelf of the downstairs bathroom – well, my youngest son thinks the bathroom is holy...at least, he’s in there so much, he must think it’s a room filled with wonder). And, this brings me to my frustration of the day.

So, here I am, trying to clean my countertops, all the kitchen items on the counters and kill the freaking sweet ants that have dared entered my domain – they found the open package of assiago cheese with stuffed pepperoni bread on the counter!! That’s right, dear; your new, tasty delight is now filling the bottom of the trash bag. Don’t blame me. Blame the f***ing ants!

Ok. So, anyway, here I am minding my own business while I, again, am on a mission of death, when Winston starts whining at the backdoor. I give the counter one more quick glance to see if I have missed any sneaky ant thieves, before I rush to the door to let Winston come in. Except, Winston won’t come in. He just sets there, looking at me.

I decided a long time ago that Winston is a dog with a cat’s soul. He plays fetch, though tug is his favorite game, he bares his belly for a good belly scratch at the slightest hint that one is forthcoming and he barks…loudly. But, like a cat, if you call him to you, maybe he’ll come and maybe he’ll decide that his fuzzy butt is too darn good to come. He just sets there, looking at you like you are the court jester who dared beckon the king!

Well, I shut the door in his hairy face and went back to my death dealing. It wasn’t thirty seconds later, when the whining starts, again. A quick once-over of the counter – oops, there’s one on the wall, squish – then back to the backdoor to let in his highness. Except, again, I get the puhlease, you don’t really think I’m going to come in just because you opened the door, do you? Where’s my treat? Where’s my bow and gushing that you have the honor of gazing upon my beautiful puppy self? I know the little diva thinks he is all that and a bag of puppy treats, because every time he walks by my full length mirror he watches himself. Sometimes, he even sets down in front of the mirror and does one of those moves where he looks to the right to see his left profile and looks to the left to see his right profile. Personally, I think he likes his right profile, better – his eyebrows hang over his eye just so…

Well, this whine, glance at counter, kill sneaky ant, open door, look at me with disdain, shut/slam door in fuzzy face, glance at counter, and squeeze bottle filled with priceless killing powder routine went on for about twenty minutes. That’s when I think Winston either realized that mommy was considering the effects of an “accidental” squeeze of baby powder in said brat’s face or he simply got cold, because when I opened the door he leaped in the house and made a dash for his kennel.

Finally, I can go back to my ant killing without interruption! Good times.