Generation Y (Photo credit: dalechumbley)
I have been guilty of slamming Generation Y on many occasions.
It’s not only me; the millennials are continually castigated in the press and accused of being lazy with an insane sense of entitlement.
And from reading my blog you might accurately assume that I believe this to be true. Although, in my children’s defence, NC did put her plate in the dishwasher yesterday evening and I even managed to coerce Kurt to move his wet towel from the floor of the bathroom to the floor of his bedroom after the fifth nag.
But today, I have a good news story to recount to you about Generation Y.
Which came about as the result of another of my ongoing misunderstandings with the online shopping process, wherein the new bed I ordered for NC ended up at the house we left a year ago – it was something to do with not updating my address and the supplier having never heard of the importance of an order confirmation – but the delivery was followed by a frantic message on Facebook from the distraught new owner of our previous home about needing to get aforementioned bed removed immediately from her deck because they were having a party on Saturday night.
Another aboriginal beauty (Photo credit: Michael Loke)
Once again, the irony of online shopping for me is that in spite of my best intentions to save money, I always end up spending more. Because as well as the fake Aboriginal print that is currently winging its way straight into my kitchen bin, there is now also an Aboriginal piece of cloth en route to me via Australia Post, that I mistakenly assumed was already stretched on a canvas!
UNTIL I READ THE FUCKING SMALL PRINT!
Similarly, when I thought I was saving dollars by buying a bed online, little did I know that I would end up forking out a week’s salary to get the fucking thing redelivered to where I actually live.
But for once, God smiled down on me and sent three lovely Generation Yers to my rescue.
One of them is the son of one of my closest friends and I have known him since he was less than one. Fortunately, he lives in my old suburb and owes me for all the times I haven’t dobbed him in to his mum. So I phoned him in a state of panic, fearful that the old man might find out about my latest, expensive, blonde escapade, and I asked if any of his mates had a ute that they could possibly use to calm Mrs New Owner the fuck down, to pick up THE MOST EXPENSIVE BED IN THE WHOLE WORLD and hide it in his house until I had drunk enough wine to figure out a plan.
He called me back a few minutes later to let me know that he and ‘the boys’ had decided to ‘have an adventure’ and road trip it down to the Lower North Shore to personally deliver the bed to me that night.
So if these boys are representative of Generation Y, we’re actually going to be okay. My faith in humanity has been restored.