Adulting for Amateurs: Misadventures of a Geriatric Millennial - Couverture rigide

Gutierrez, Jess H

Couverture rigide

ISBN 10 : 0593854896 ISBN 13 : 9780593854891

Editeur : Tiny Reparations Books, 2026

Synopsis

From the author of A Product of Genetics (and Day Drinking) comes a rowdy and hilarious new collection of essays on life as an elder millennial, filled with life lessons on everything from marriage to parenting to rolling with the punches when Gen Z mocks your TikTok dances

In Adulting for Amateurs, Jess H. Gutierrez marvels at how—we can’t avoid the fact anymore—her cohort, the millennials, are approaching middle age. While 1998 seems like just yesterday, we are now grown-ups who feel like we’re still growing up. And at forty-two, Jess has quite a trove of stories to tell.

Jess is leaning into her geriatric millennial years and reflects on how growing up does not necessarily bestow one with maturity. When the dinner covers were lifted to reveal vertically posed sausages, hundreds of the fanciest wedding guests, including the mayor, were treated to a demure and refined Jess’s explosive guffaws. While Jess’s brothers now have wholesome families and responsible jobs, she can’t stop one-upping them, even if it gets her brother nearly fired by a potty-brained prank right before he scrubs into surgery. When Jess and her wife booked their first grown-up vacation, they discovered too late that their Hawaiian trip was to a Mormon resort and therefore completely alcohol free. So Jess and her wife bravely put on their big-girl panties—and slunk off in a makeshift escape from this cheerful teetotaler paradise.

Turns out, even as a responsible homeowner with a mortgage, three kids, and a yard of chickens, Jess might not have matured much beyond her twenties. She’s still the woman who in an earlier era survived queer-dating fails and aughts-era pop culture moments—ultimately discovering that an illegal rave cannot heal a broken heart and that vampire-romance franchises are terrible dating manuals for a budding trailer park lesbian.

Altogether these are the makings of delightful material for this bawdy—sometimes poignant and, dare we say, occasionally wise—new read.

A propos du livre

À propos de l'auteur

Jess H. Gutierrez is the author A Product of Genetics (and Day Drinking) and a humor columnist for Paxton Media Group newspapers. She was an award-winning reporter for the Northwest Arkansas Times and the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, and has written for Out magazine and Electric Literature. She lives with her wife, a fire captain, and three small kids who have already surpassed Jess in both intellect and cunning. They live in Arkansas.

Extrait. © Reproduit sur autorisation. Tous droits réservés.

Chapter One

Same, Girl. Same.

We're the same if: You have been reading toxic shock syndrome warnings on boxes of tampons while pooping since you turned twelve. Here's the thing I've been convinced of for the last thirty years: I am certainly going to die someday from the illness begotten of leaving a tampon up there for five minutes too long-it's just a matter of when. Every single time I get chills I think, Welp then, here it is. TSS finally caught up with me. Kotex was right.

We're the same if: Under the influence of stars like Reese Witherspoon and Destiny's Child, you truly believed that baby tees and Doc Martens combat boots looked good when paired together. The hottest of our peers, including Cameron Diaz and her impossibly gorgeous posse of Charlie's Angels, were effortlessly cool in one-shoulder tops too. Add a damned plastic choker and you were ready to take on the planet, one awesome fashion choice at a time. Whether or not you went a step too far and wore a bucket hat is a secret that's yours to keep.

Also on the topic of Charlie's Angels, we're the same if: Every single time you made popcorn you thought about Drew Barrymore and her fateful movie-watching night. Drew, playing Casey Becker, the first of the Scream murderer's onscreen slasher victims, should've answered the question "Do you like scary movies?" with "Fuck no I don't," and hung up promptly. With a bit more stranger-danger awareness, our girl could have recharged her cordless phone, fluffed her white-blond bangs, and enjoyed a night with her chosen VHS instead of ending up dead on the front lawn.

And, still thinking about movies, if: After seeing Con Air for the first time in 1997, you were always on the lookout for cannibals. Fair or not, thin, pale white guys got extra suspicion points.

If: Watching Indiana Jones meant you were in the death grip of fear, each time you stepped outside your house, that there was a very good chance you would be pursued by a giant rolling boulder meant to turn you into a pancake.

If: A sip of Clearly Canadian out of one of those gorgeous glass bottles made you feel like a fancy motherfucker. Snapple was delicious. Squeezit spoke to your sugary inner child. See-through Crystal Pepsi was unnerving. But nothing, and I mean nothing, was more sophisticated than a slug of fizzing Mountain Blackberry Clearly Canadian washing over a young palate.

If: Even as a grown adult, you are still giggling hysterically at David Bowie's aggressively featured penis package during nearly every single scene of Labyrinth. Forties or not, penis humor remains a riot. That thing should not have been allowed so near all those puppets' eyes.

If: You ever got into a fight with your best friend over who should be president-elect of your two-person Baby-Sitters Club.

If: As an adolescent you fantasized about making out with a Mighty Duck.

If: As an adult you imagined, even for a second, making out with their coach (Gordon Bombay / Emilio Estevez).

If: You remember the intense relief you felt the moment you released your hair from those terrible round claw comb headbands at the end of the day.

If: You ever sat on a blow-up chair that stuck to your legs and made a screeching sound whenever you stood up while talking to your BFF on an ultra-cool see-through landline phone.

If: When you went to the grocery store with your mom and were told to pick a cereal, you gave zero shits about what the flavor was and didn't hesitate for a second to slog through the contents each morning until it was gone. The only thing that mattered in the eighties and nineties was whatever toy was in that damned box. Some parents made you eat your way to the prize. The cooler parents let you rip that bitch of a bag open and bury your arm until you grasped the coveted precious inside. Then you would inevitably get into a knock-down-drag-out with your siblings over your treasure.

If: During a baking session you smelled your own smoking knuckle hair being singed on the interior grill of an Easy-Bake Oven. Those kid-friendly convection ovens took four days to bake a cookie, which was odd because they reached approximately seventeen million degrees on your tender fingers when you tried to extract your undercooked treats.

If: You ever shouted the lyrics to Shania Twain's "Man! I Feel Like a Woman!" while overcome with the power of girlhood. When the country queen wailed that song, I was so confused by the tingling coursing through my little body (which I know now wasn't exactly heterosexual). Shania is a bit lipstick for my taste, but shit, she's Shania freaking Twain. I'd be willing to modify and widen my net if she had any interest (which is likely, as I'm sure she's searching for a forty-something-year-old married woman with three kids).

If: The sight and sound of Kermit the Frog singing "Rainbow Connection" while strumming a banjo tears your heart into a gazillion pieces and makes you want to crawl into your mom's lap. Likewise for hearing the gentle voice of the late Mr. Rogers, or listening to anything being read by LeVar Burton, king supreme of Reading Rainbow.

If: You repeatedly suffered a raw, near bloody tongue from sucking on Zotz, Atomic FireBalls, or WarHeads, or from draining one too many Giant Pixy Stix, or from taking pucker-inducing pickle juice shots between loops around the skating rink concession stand.

If: Your at-home-from-school sick days were resplendent with waiting for paternity tests and familial ass-beatings on Jerry Springer. Is he the father? Is bald-headed Steve Wilkos the father? Goddammit. Am I the father? We were always one commercial break away from knowing.

If: You let a mood ring tell you everything you needed to know about how your day would go. If I woke up feeling fantastic but slipped that ring over my finger only to see it turn amber (unhappy), I knew my Tuesday was going to be trash. I don't care if the world was full of sun shining and birds twittering, the next twenty-four hours were freaking toast if my ring deemed it so. Sorry, Santa, the black hue of my ring has foretold that this Christmas will be shit. Better luck next year. It's amazing how much control a piece of six-dollar jewelry bought from a mall kiosk had over my existence as a preteen.

If: You had a crush, no matter how brief or confusing, on Steve from Blue's Clues.

If: You knew that when a teacher rolled a TV cart into the classroom, no matter what you'd be watching, it was going to be way cooler than learning. All the better if Bill Nye was being featured in an episode where he blew stuff up for the sake of science.

If: You sometimes lay awake as a kid worried those scientists in white hazmat suits from E.T. were going to tromp into your room and cart you away for testing. If you were born in the 1980s the question wasn't whether they were coming for you. It was when. I would cower in my bed, clutching my Popple under the soft glow of a Care Bear night-light, thinking about the pasty hue of both Elliott and E.T. in the minutes before they were seized. Those images haunted my pre-sleep thoughts for years (fuck it, okay . . . DECADES).

If: You were ever drunk on the fragrantly intoxicating power of smelling like gummy bears or cotton candy thanks to a bottle of Juice Bar body spray from Walmart. The scent options were endless and so was the level of maturity you reached as soon as people caught an alluring whiff of your Lemonade Squeeze musk.

If: You prayed every single morning that maybe today was the day that some old guy would show up on your front porch with a giant Publishers Clearing House check.

If: You ever served as the veterinarian while your Puppy Surprise gave birth and then were pissed if she delivered any less than four puppies.

If: You tried to sell things on the roadside. Like other kids, my brothers and I started with a simple lemonade stand. Once we heard the satisfying jangle of fifty cents hit our tip cup though, we were children possessed. The refreshment stand turned into a place where someone could buy a friendship bracelet, have their fortune told, and purchase pet rocks in varying states of dress. Did somebody say they need an egg sandwich? Because I saved half my breakfast and am willing to sell it for the low, low price of $1.80. What's that? You're fresh out of deodorant? It just so happens there's a quarter-used tube just begging to be taken in my mom's bathroom drawer. Acid reflux getting you down? It's your damned day, because my dad stupidly left a partial roll of Rolaids hanging out in his van. Have a wild hankering for dark chocolate? I recently commandeered a mostly eaten box of Russell Stover my grandma had in her pantry. It could have your name all over it for the right price.

If: The sound of a Furby that you thought was asleep calling from beneath a bed or inside a closet ever almost made you shit your pants. Then a parent, awakened by your psychotic screeching, was forced to thunder down the hallway in panic to be asked to find the offending toy and move it to another room. All Furbys were devil possessed. This goes double for Teddy Ruxpin dolls.

If: You more than once hit star sixty-nine on your phone to find out if the person who'd just called and hung up on you before saying anything was, in fact, your lifelong crush.

If: You are deathly afraid of the lethal combination of Mentos and Diet Coke. These two ingredients can and will kill you dead as a doornail. Everyone over the age of thirty-five knows a guy who chanced it to show off who now has zero legs from the injuries that he sustained when the chemical reaction erupted. Was grandstanding worth total amputation? I think not. Don't even fuck around with Pepsi and Pop Rocks unless you're ready to murder an entire nation of people. I will not even get into what can happen when mixing these chemical compounds because I don't need the FBI tapping my damned phone. Just trust me. Okay?

If: You watched a marathon of Saturday morning cartoons over a heaping bowl of Berry Berry Kix, Sprinkle Spangles, or Rice Krispies Treats cereal. With no DVR or pause button, the commercial break was the only time that you could pee or get a refill. The sound of a sibling screeching, "IT'S ON!" was cause to break into a full sprint back to the living room.

If: You were obsessed with finding the obscene additions to the VHS copies of certain Disney movies. The word sex in the clouds in The Lion King and a giant dick on the 1989 original hard case of The Little Mermaid thrilled our tiny hearts. From the erection on the priest when he's marrying Eric and Ursula, to the penis on the River Guardian's head after he's hit with a midflight horseshoe in Hercules, we couldn't get enough of the animated naughtiness.

If: You ignored all signs and warnings from your body saying that you were overheating and might die from wearing Uggs in hundred-degree weather. We very well may have been sloshing around in sweat puddles in Texas in July, but it didn't matter. Fashion first. In shorts, or an itty-bitty skirt, or Victoria's Secret Pink joggers, the rest of the outfit or season was inconsequential. Be it rain or shine, our poor fucking feet were always ready for a snowstorm.

If: Uncle Jesse singing "Forever" to Aunt Becky did silly things to your nether regions. I was a confused gay as a kid but something about that shock of dark hair and those soul-crushing eyes made things happen to all my parts.

Same with Patrick Swayze circa Dirty Dancing crawling across the floor while singing "Love Is Strange." Easy on the ovaries, you fucker. I don't swing that way and have no intention of letting you into my panties. Also, I really don't appreciate the feelings of confusion.

If: The thought of Littlefoot from The Land Before Time losing his entire goddamned family and then having to travel a gajillion miles to find others of his kind in the Great Valley makes you sob hysterically. Failing that, you need to do a thorough assessment of whether you even have a freaking soul. When that baby dinosaur's mother died, scarring her offspring for life because she was killed defending him, my six-year-old heart shattered. Up until the moment of her demise I had no idea parents could die and I had some very real concerns about my own mother, not a natural athlete, and her ability to defend me from a Tyrannosaurus rex. I was worried forever thereafter about my mom being murdered in a similar manner. If her dying instructions were to hoof it across the country to find my kind (other kids with freckles and permed mullets?), I was in very real trouble. My ability to follow directions was subpar at best and the late 1980s still hadn't made a working GPS unit available to the public. I don't claim to be resourceful and I certainly couldn't have navigated by the stars or even used one of those gas station maps that all of our parents had stashed everywhere back in the twentieth century.

If: A fragrant whiff of baby powder takes you right back to the greatest crown of your very first Cabbage Patch Kids doll. No matter where the smell comes from, be it baby's butt or old lady's armpit, the scent triggers the sweetest memories of my bestie Mistletoe Rainbow Jennifer Bunny. Even after I had shaved her head so she could join me in solidarity after one of my aunts gave me an ugly haircut (Jennifer would've wanted that), I could still smell the factory powder.

If: You are offended by the 1990s being considered "historical" when it comes to book timelines. I'm certain some would argue with me on this, but 1998 was like five minutes ago. I absolutely under no circumstance will agree with the fact that we are actually a quarter century removed from my most formative years. If one more person mentions that the cast of Charmed is appropriately aged to be scheduling routine colonoscopies, I will freak out.

If: Your ultimate sleep mix, burned onto a holographic CD on your home computer, contained the haunting sounds of the Titanic score, Enya, or the ethereal Gregorian chants of a group of oddly popular and briefly trendy singing monks.

Détails de l'édition

• Éditeur: Tiny Reparations Books
• Date d'édition: 2026
• Langue: anglais
• ISBN 10: 0593854896
• ISBN 13: 9780593854891
• Reliure: Relié
• Nombre de pages: 304
• Coordonnées du fabricant: non disponible
• Personne responsable: non disponible