Waiting Room Table: a Still Life. For a society obsessed with privacy, zee Germans have such a weird way of handling medical appointments and prescriptions. One has to announce and describe to the admin behind the front desk, and to everyone else in range, in explicit and repetitive detail, exactly what is happening to your body and why you have arrived to spend time in their office. Such conversation is then repeated to the pharmacist downstairs.
I shall bring earplugs next time. I don’t want to know.
Hannah just had her dinner delivered to our door. I lived here two years and didn’t even know this was possible in our zip code. “Um, there’s an app,” she said. And showed me.
I was born the very first year of the Millennial generation.
She was born the very last.
Same generation, but tonight, I felt a shift.
This girl just got home from a birthday party, and this was her expression as I asked her no less than 35 very specific questions about the night’s events. She reports that they were all responsible, no crazy alcohol consumption, no ‘shrooms (“Mom, are you even serious right now?”) and mostly binged on Doritos.
Am I being ridiculous, being all up in her business? No, of course not. Are my questions ridiculous? Yes, yes they are.
Payback for her being all up in my closet because that sweater she’s wearing? That was one of MY sweaters back when I was 16 and going to parties where I, too, usually planted myself right next to the Dorito bowl.