Hello, friends...
I hope that this blog entry finds you well - in good health, spirit and state of mind. At present, I can certainly claim to have a good grasp on all three - until my alarm goes off at 6.30 tomorrow morning.
I was stunned to see upon logging in this evening that I have not blogged since the end of July - oh, what shame! Therefore assuming my zealous personality, I had at once resolved to write a blog of mind-blowing depth and insight. But, it is nearly midnight, and I'm getting old. Book reviews and generalized complaints about the scandalous 'state of things' will have to wait until my next paid vacation.
Dear Sainted Husband and I have just returned from a lovely evening at the Symphony. Rather high-brow for a woman who eats Kraft Dinner, I'll admit. But, there's just something so alluring that I can't help myself....the swelling rush of a finishing crescendo...plucky, light as a feather legato strings....and, the $12 tickets certainly don't hurt anything, either....
The trick is just convincing myself that I really do in fact want to go to the Symphony after a full day at work. Sure, all is well and shiny when you're choosing random, far off dates in a season catalog, thinking, "ooh, that sounds nice. Let's go see that one". Sure. Until it actually is that far-off, random day and you've just spent all day at work, have to think about dinner, subway fare, a shower/change and what to do with that mouldy bread in the cupboard. Just for fun, throw in a sudden and intense need for sleep around, say, 4.30 pm for as long as your alarm clock can hold out.
Yes. Culture. Fantastic, isn't it? I tried very, very hard to offload my tickets to a willing friend. Shocking. No one in my under-40 subset wanted to go and listen to piano concertos for a very reasonable price ($5 intermission coffees notwithstanding).
Not wanting to disappoint my very-eager-for-a-night-out Saint Husband, I bucked up. Showered, put on clean clothes (and even makeup!) to go along with my bravest "I'm not tired at all" face. Wife of the Year, here, folks! Well, let's not forget that I wasn't about to waste perfectly good symphony tickets...
After arriving on time (I know. I was shocked, too!), we witnessed a spectacular show - Louis Lotie and the Toronto Symphony Orchestra. It's just too bad I was so distracted by that inconsiderate person rattling, unwrapping and jiggling their Werther's. Imagine the most beautiful sound on Earth, overpowered by the overwhelmingly irritating unwrapping of said confection...
Thanks, lady. You've got $12 tickets, too, but the difference is - I'm listening. So, please, knock it off! (Saint Husband told me later that he wanted to walk down to her, take the candy from her and stomp on it. I couldn't have been prouder!)
The only thing I love more than going to the Symphony is....people watching at the Symphony. I love watching the hard-core music buffs (you know, the ones who come with copies of the scores and their own baton) and how into it they are. Then of course, there's the elderly ladies who go to the Symphony who do so because that's what elderly ladies of a particular class just do. But, my favorite of all favorites - the young couples on a date. Girls who go the the Symphony and the men who go with them because they don't really like the Symphony but they do like the women who like it.
Like children, waiting to spend their allowances in a candy store. How cute. I just couldn't help but smile. I hope dear, Sainted Husband hasn't gotten any ideas.
Cue the maestro and roll on the timpani.
Until next time, lovelies. xo
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
An eyeful from Lady Chatterley
Hello, friends - near and far, known and unknown.
Today is yet another sunshiny and gorgeous day. After sleeping in 'til noon, I'd thought it a good idea to go outside and soak up some of that lovely, fresh air. And, you know, the free Vitamin D that the sun gives away....just another penny-pinching tip from Little Miss Sunshine. Always looking out for you - and your wallet!
Packing up my wallet and my newest library find, "Lady Chatterley's Lover" by D.H. Lawrence, we headed off to the mall for some portable insecticide (read: bug spray). While there, we ran into a neighbor of ours, from Tipperary, Ireland. He's a squat old fella, with sharp wit and a keen nose for the ladies - though I imagine there's more to it than his nose.
We talked to him for quite some time. He regaled us with tales of home, the women he's loved and the innumerable children said women have borne to him. No stranger to the dirty joke, I learned quite a few new euphamisms for everyone's favorite bedtime activity.
I'm saving them all for the next big family dinner.
Then, he told us about his wife. Disabled and diabetic, she died recently. He shared with us how they'd met, fell in love and married. He said something that struck me; stayed with me all day. He said, "all women are beautiful. I always thought my wife was gorgeous, even when everyone else thought I was crazy."
I said nothing (I know; I was shocked, too!). We chatted some more, and parted ways.
On the way to the park, I ruminated on his thoughts; talking to no-one in particular, really. It appears to me that the only chance for life-long acceptance, love and happiness for a disabled (heterosexual) woman is to marry an Irishman. Sainted Husband laughed aloud at this (as well he should have, it's funny to me now, just writing it here).
I asked him: "what is it about you Irish men? You really couldn't give a ----. It's never been about my wheelchair, neither was it for our Tipperarian and his lady love." I further listed several men I'd met on my travels in the Emerald Isle, all who loved and accepted me in quite the same manner. We talked (really, I talked, he agreed - beautiful conversation that!), and I asked yet again. Was it a fluke, or was there something in the Guinness?
His answer: "I think I smell a blog coming on, my love".
If current statistics are true; 96% of women with disabilities remain single and unmarried their whole lives. 50% of those that do marry subsequently divorce, which leaves 3% of the entire female disabled population who get married and stay married.
I bet every single one of them went to Ireland.
I wasn't originally going to blog. I was going to count myself lucky, roast Dear Sainted Husband a chicken and shut up about it.
Enter, 'Lady Chatterley's Lover'. Well, really just Lord Chatterley. I got as far as page two (not counting Foreword, Preface and Introduction), and stopped dead in my tracks. According to D.H. Lawrence, literary officionado of his time, 'crippled people' have a 'slight vacancy in their eyes'. And I quote.
Say whaaaaaaat?
Excuse me, Mr. Lawrence, but the vacancy of which you speak is most certainly not in my eyes. It is in my mouth. Where those words used to be. You stole them, and now I'm speechless.
Apparently the whole point of this story is that poor, sad Lady Chatterley has married a man who is 'sterile' as a result of war injury and can no longer satisfy her in chambers. So, Lady Chatterley takes up with the handsome and robust groundskeeper to quench her corporeal thirst.
He is of course, the subject of many 'ilicit' bedroom scenes of 'pornographic nature' (oooh, did you do it with the lights on? Go on with your BAD self!). So says Lawrence Durrel, author of the Preface. If 'caressing the secret wonderland of her waist' is porn, then I am Pamela freaking-Anderson, okay?
For real? This is the 'literary pornography' that is banned from libraries and public reading for hundreds of years, on account of its 'moral questionability'?
Rich lady taking up with the gardner. How unoriginal. How very "Desperate Housewives". I am appalled. Actually...I'm laughing.
But still appalled.
But I must admit for one guilty, self-indulgent moment, That it made me think. I'm the poor, sad, 'sterile' Lord. Do people look at my Dear Sainted Husband and wonder? They must.
But I think, for now I need to put the book down, step away and remember that 'all women are beautiful'. Even the ones who take up with the gardener.
It's just a book, and my eyes are quite full, thank you very much.
Later, I will read...and see if I can work some of Lady Chatterley's 'moral questionability' into our friend's zingy one-liners.
So much for low-brow comedy.
All my love, friends.......xo
Today is yet another sunshiny and gorgeous day. After sleeping in 'til noon, I'd thought it a good idea to go outside and soak up some of that lovely, fresh air. And, you know, the free Vitamin D that the sun gives away....just another penny-pinching tip from Little Miss Sunshine. Always looking out for you - and your wallet!
Packing up my wallet and my newest library find, "Lady Chatterley's Lover" by D.H. Lawrence, we headed off to the mall for some portable insecticide (read: bug spray). While there, we ran into a neighbor of ours, from Tipperary, Ireland. He's a squat old fella, with sharp wit and a keen nose for the ladies - though I imagine there's more to it than his nose.
We talked to him for quite some time. He regaled us with tales of home, the women he's loved and the innumerable children said women have borne to him. No stranger to the dirty joke, I learned quite a few new euphamisms for everyone's favorite bedtime activity.
I'm saving them all for the next big family dinner.
Then, he told us about his wife. Disabled and diabetic, she died recently. He shared with us how they'd met, fell in love and married. He said something that struck me; stayed with me all day. He said, "all women are beautiful. I always thought my wife was gorgeous, even when everyone else thought I was crazy."
I said nothing (I know; I was shocked, too!). We chatted some more, and parted ways.
On the way to the park, I ruminated on his thoughts; talking to no-one in particular, really. It appears to me that the only chance for life-long acceptance, love and happiness for a disabled (heterosexual) woman is to marry an Irishman. Sainted Husband laughed aloud at this (as well he should have, it's funny to me now, just writing it here).
I asked him: "what is it about you Irish men? You really couldn't give a ----. It's never been about my wheelchair, neither was it for our Tipperarian and his lady love." I further listed several men I'd met on my travels in the Emerald Isle, all who loved and accepted me in quite the same manner. We talked (really, I talked, he agreed - beautiful conversation that!), and I asked yet again. Was it a fluke, or was there something in the Guinness?
His answer: "I think I smell a blog coming on, my love".
If current statistics are true; 96% of women with disabilities remain single and unmarried their whole lives. 50% of those that do marry subsequently divorce, which leaves 3% of the entire female disabled population who get married and stay married.
I bet every single one of them went to Ireland.
I wasn't originally going to blog. I was going to count myself lucky, roast Dear Sainted Husband a chicken and shut up about it.
Enter, 'Lady Chatterley's Lover'. Well, really just Lord Chatterley. I got as far as page two (not counting Foreword, Preface and Introduction), and stopped dead in my tracks. According to D.H. Lawrence, literary officionado of his time, 'crippled people' have a 'slight vacancy in their eyes'. And I quote.
Say whaaaaaaat?
Excuse me, Mr. Lawrence, but the vacancy of which you speak is most certainly not in my eyes. It is in my mouth. Where those words used to be. You stole them, and now I'm speechless.
Apparently the whole point of this story is that poor, sad Lady Chatterley has married a man who is 'sterile' as a result of war injury and can no longer satisfy her in chambers. So, Lady Chatterley takes up with the handsome and robust groundskeeper to quench her corporeal thirst.
He is of course, the subject of many 'ilicit' bedroom scenes of 'pornographic nature' (oooh, did you do it with the lights on? Go on with your BAD self!). So says Lawrence Durrel, author of the Preface. If 'caressing the secret wonderland of her waist' is porn, then I am Pamela freaking-Anderson, okay?
For real? This is the 'literary pornography' that is banned from libraries and public reading for hundreds of years, on account of its 'moral questionability'?
Rich lady taking up with the gardner. How unoriginal. How very "Desperate Housewives". I am appalled. Actually...I'm laughing.
But still appalled.
But I must admit for one guilty, self-indulgent moment, That it made me think. I'm the poor, sad, 'sterile' Lord. Do people look at my Dear Sainted Husband and wonder? They must.
But I think, for now I need to put the book down, step away and remember that 'all women are beautiful'. Even the ones who take up with the gardener.
It's just a book, and my eyes are quite full, thank you very much.
Later, I will read...and see if I can work some of Lady Chatterley's 'moral questionability' into our friend's zingy one-liners.
So much for low-brow comedy.
All my love, friends.......xo
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Cows udders and Child-beasts
Hi-dee ho, good Bloglanders!
Today, for a change, the sun is not beating down upon us in all it's lovely, sunshiny glory. It is overcast and grey. The clouds are heavy - they remind me of the udders of a milking cow - heavy, sagging and waiting to be relieved of the burdensome weight held within. So much for the picnic lunch and plans for reading in the park...
I guess there's a silver lining - even in clouds that remind me of a cow's udder. We made our daily stop at our local library branch to return the pile of DVD's we'd borrowed the previous day to get us through the cloudy - yet somehow sweltering - day, and found some gorgeous, buttery leather chairs to sit in and read the latest literary jewel.
Quite the idyllic picture, isn't it? Even those of you who aren't voracious readers want to curl up in this picture with...well, anything. Just so long as there are words. Perhaps some pictures. If you're into that. Don't you? You do. I know you do. It's okay. You don't have to tell me that your inner nerd is whooping for joy.
Well, let me ruin that for you. Imagine this gorgeous picture....close your eyes and see it, in beautiful detail. See yourself sitting there, reading - or not reading - enjoying. Now, insert about 60 of the loudest, most obnoxious, nerve-gratingly disturbing child-beasts you have ever come across with foul mouths (that would clearly put me to shame, which is quite the feat!) and the poorest (read: non-existent) manners or sense of general courtesy for the people around them that you have ever encountered in your entire life.
I am not a stereotypical singleton/child hater. I neither love them in that I-want-to-run-my-own-daycare way, nor do I belong to the children-should-be-seen-and-not-heard camp. I do expect 'please' and 'thank you' and perhaps that someone should tell you that you are in a library, so please keep your obnoxious, foul-mouthed SCREAMING to a necessary MINIMUM!
Childhood should be filled with lots of giggles, laughter and play. Please, go ahead. Play. Sometimes, even loud, obnoxious play is good too...It is my belief (however incorrect) that play should never have to include profanity as verb modifiers or adverbs. Nor does that need to occurr at the top of your lungs, kiddies!
But there are other public spaces for that - they are called parks. Why should a park be desolate and silent, and a library full of children screaming at one another and running about? Go there! It's right outside. In fact, the City spent 18 months and hundreds of thousands of dollars to renovate this space...so that you wouldn't be here, screaming while I am trying to READ!
Of course, complaining to the over-wrought librarian is of no use whatsoever. Her response to my statement that there was no place quiet to read in a space designed for quiet reading? "Tell me about it."
Tell you about what, Madam? The noise? Clearly you can hear that. The hoardes of children - clearly under five - who are not supervised? You can see them, and you instituted that rule, babe. How the designated wheelchair spaces are filled with people who are clearly not disabled? Well, Madam librarian, before you go on at me about hidden disabilities...let me point out that this person has their feet on the table, wearing an iPod so loud that you and I can both hear it, and are apparently 'reading' 50 comic books all at once.
I get the point: this is a library, and not a daycare. You are not here to babysit the neighborhood children. But you are the adult in charge here. Act like it. Please.
Thanks for nothing, lady.
Whatever happened to the neighborhood library of my childhood? I remember it like yesterday. It was so quiet you could hear your feet touch the floor, and make the old wood floors creak. The library staff were always sure to help you with whatever you needed (and a little extra, if you were a regular), but they always made sure that the library space was treated with respect. You spoke with respect, and you spoke quietly, if at all.
I miss those days. When you could find a place to read, and lose your place in the day. I miss the libraries of my childhood.
I guess the secret joy is that you get to take a little piece home with you. Borrowing a library book to me, is like borrowing a piece of tradition. You borrow, you read, you return. I relish the satisfying 'thwack' of a book hitting the bottom of the 'returns' bin. One book down, a million more to read. Millions of pages of delicious words and gloriously satisfying knowledge. Such power to weild with a tiny little square of plastic. My library card; my sword.
Unless of course, you're reading Canadian Literature. But, I digress.
Today, while pointedly ignoring throngs of screaming child-beasts, I found the most gorgeously poignant piece of literature I've read in a long time. "Life on the Refrigerator Door" by Alice Kuipers (which, by the way, though it's classified as Can-Lit doesn't count because she was born in London, England. Phew. You're lucky, Ms. Kuipers) is a fantastic book.
I will tell you that it was so good, I read it in a couple of hours (not bad, considering its 230 pages). What I will not tell you is what it's about. You must go and read it. You will not regret it.
Write yourself a note. Post it on the refrigerator door, to remember. Put it on a little scrap of paper. Whatever. Just go and get it. Read it, and then give it to your friends so that they can read it.
Beauty.
Beauty, surrounded by screaming child-beasts. All is possible with the Almighty Library Card.
Thank goodness for cloudy days.
All my love to each of you.....xo
Today, for a change, the sun is not beating down upon us in all it's lovely, sunshiny glory. It is overcast and grey. The clouds are heavy - they remind me of the udders of a milking cow - heavy, sagging and waiting to be relieved of the burdensome weight held within. So much for the picnic lunch and plans for reading in the park...
I guess there's a silver lining - even in clouds that remind me of a cow's udder. We made our daily stop at our local library branch to return the pile of DVD's we'd borrowed the previous day to get us through the cloudy - yet somehow sweltering - day, and found some gorgeous, buttery leather chairs to sit in and read the latest literary jewel.
Quite the idyllic picture, isn't it? Even those of you who aren't voracious readers want to curl up in this picture with...well, anything. Just so long as there are words. Perhaps some pictures. If you're into that. Don't you? You do. I know you do. It's okay. You don't have to tell me that your inner nerd is whooping for joy.
Well, let me ruin that for you. Imagine this gorgeous picture....close your eyes and see it, in beautiful detail. See yourself sitting there, reading - or not reading - enjoying. Now, insert about 60 of the loudest, most obnoxious, nerve-gratingly disturbing child-beasts you have ever come across with foul mouths (that would clearly put me to shame, which is quite the feat!) and the poorest (read: non-existent) manners or sense of general courtesy for the people around them that you have ever encountered in your entire life.
I am not a stereotypical singleton/child hater. I neither love them in that I-want-to-run-my-own-daycare way, nor do I belong to the children-should-be-seen-and-not-heard camp. I do expect 'please' and 'thank you' and perhaps that someone should tell you that you are in a library, so please keep your obnoxious, foul-mouthed SCREAMING to a necessary MINIMUM!
Childhood should be filled with lots of giggles, laughter and play. Please, go ahead. Play. Sometimes, even loud, obnoxious play is good too...It is my belief (however incorrect) that play should never have to include profanity as verb modifiers or adverbs. Nor does that need to occurr at the top of your lungs, kiddies!
But there are other public spaces for that - they are called parks. Why should a park be desolate and silent, and a library full of children screaming at one another and running about? Go there! It's right outside. In fact, the City spent 18 months and hundreds of thousands of dollars to renovate this space...so that you wouldn't be here, screaming while I am trying to READ!
Of course, complaining to the over-wrought librarian is of no use whatsoever. Her response to my statement that there was no place quiet to read in a space designed for quiet reading? "Tell me about it."
Tell you about what, Madam? The noise? Clearly you can hear that. The hoardes of children - clearly under five - who are not supervised? You can see them, and you instituted that rule, babe. How the designated wheelchair spaces are filled with people who are clearly not disabled? Well, Madam librarian, before you go on at me about hidden disabilities...let me point out that this person has their feet on the table, wearing an iPod so loud that you and I can both hear it, and are apparently 'reading' 50 comic books all at once.
I get the point: this is a library, and not a daycare. You are not here to babysit the neighborhood children. But you are the adult in charge here. Act like it. Please.
Thanks for nothing, lady.
Whatever happened to the neighborhood library of my childhood? I remember it like yesterday. It was so quiet you could hear your feet touch the floor, and make the old wood floors creak. The library staff were always sure to help you with whatever you needed (and a little extra, if you were a regular), but they always made sure that the library space was treated with respect. You spoke with respect, and you spoke quietly, if at all.
I miss those days. When you could find a place to read, and lose your place in the day. I miss the libraries of my childhood.
I guess the secret joy is that you get to take a little piece home with you. Borrowing a library book to me, is like borrowing a piece of tradition. You borrow, you read, you return. I relish the satisfying 'thwack' of a book hitting the bottom of the 'returns' bin. One book down, a million more to read. Millions of pages of delicious words and gloriously satisfying knowledge. Such power to weild with a tiny little square of plastic. My library card; my sword.
Unless of course, you're reading Canadian Literature. But, I digress.
Today, while pointedly ignoring throngs of screaming child-beasts, I found the most gorgeously poignant piece of literature I've read in a long time. "Life on the Refrigerator Door" by Alice Kuipers (which, by the way, though it's classified as Can-Lit doesn't count because she was born in London, England. Phew. You're lucky, Ms. Kuipers) is a fantastic book.
I will tell you that it was so good, I read it in a couple of hours (not bad, considering its 230 pages). What I will not tell you is what it's about. You must go and read it. You will not regret it.
Write yourself a note. Post it on the refrigerator door, to remember. Put it on a little scrap of paper. Whatever. Just go and get it. Read it, and then give it to your friends so that they can read it.
Beauty.
Beauty, surrounded by screaming child-beasts. All is possible with the Almighty Library Card.
Thank goodness for cloudy days.
All my love to each of you.....xo
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Little Scraps of Paper
Hi, there, Blogland Friends!
I have missed you. It has been some time since I've last blogged...but I've thought of you. Where you are...what you're doing...why there are no comments...you know. The usual things an intermittent cyberspace blogger thinks about.
The last time I blogged, I posted a letter that I had written to a Regional Transit Company, which shall remain nameless. Due in large part to the fact that I have little desire to be sued for libelous slander. Hmm. I wonder if First Amendment rights apply to those of us in the True North, strong and free...
However, here I sit, slightly sunburned and freshly showered reflecting not upon the Human Rights Commission's decision to reject my application for consideration of violation of Human Rights, but upon a scrap of paper that I found yesterday while cleaning up mass accumulated sheaths of paper. It is an innocent little thing, a piece torn from a free local newspaper. On the back, there are ads for cruise lines, nanny-seeking families and male enhancement drugs (funny how life sort of goes in that order...) but on the front, scribbled in my own reckless cursive, appears the following: 'who are we to comment on the propriety of another person's choice of sexual expression?'
Source unknown. Maybe it was me. Maybe I read it somewhere. It does sound awfully prolific...esoteric. I will take credit for that, I think.
I often find myself writing down things that I don't want to forget (often to forget where I wrote them, and sometimes forgetting why I wrote them down exactly...but knowing there is a reason. Like, Santa Claus.)
I thought of this little innocuous scrap of paper this afternoon...while standing at the corner of Church and Yonge Streets in the blistering sun watching my very first Gay Pride Parade.
I thought of all these people - literally thousands of them - both in the Parade and watching it, who have been subject to the judgement and moral sanctimony of those around them for longer than we can even remember. People who have been subjected to the judgements of others...judgements that we have no place making, and go far beyond our right to excercise freedom of thought and opinion.
Consider: It is against the law for any man in a relationship with another man - committed or otherwise - to donate blood. If you were dying....and a pint of blood could save you, would you care at all about the person who gave it? I doubt it.
I watched a Parade float full of couples marry along the route. I could see that same shine of love and hope in their eyes that I felt on my wedding day, even from my lowly post on the street, behind a steel barricade. How can I not stand behind two people who love each other so much that they are willing to spend their lives, perfecting that love?
I felt a strange kinship with these people...no, I am not gay. But I do know what it feels like to spend your life feeling like there is something completely beyond your control that holds you back from living the life that you want to live. And that something has everything to do with what other people think of you, and what they believe you to be.
Returning home, I was so surprised to hear people ask, 'why would you go to something like that? Are you gay or something?' Well, no. Recently married to a wonderful man, dear Sainted Husband, pretty much rules that out. But I remain taken aback. If you were struggling with something that defined you as a person and permeated your whole life, wouldn't you want people - gay, straight, bi, transsexual, black, white....whatever - to stand behind you? To say that your struggle is important because we are important to one another as members of the Human Community?
While part of Pride is the 'we're here, we're queer, get used to it' mantra, a bigger part is supporting each other and the people we love in the choices that fulfill their lives in a way that is meaningful to them.
Thank goodness for those little scraps of paper. Without them, today might have been lost in a rain of Trojans and Mardi Gras beads.
My love to you all; whomever you love and however you do it.
I have missed you. It has been some time since I've last blogged...but I've thought of you. Where you are...what you're doing...why there are no comments...you know. The usual things an intermittent cyberspace blogger thinks about.
The last time I blogged, I posted a letter that I had written to a Regional Transit Company, which shall remain nameless. Due in large part to the fact that I have little desire to be sued for libelous slander. Hmm. I wonder if First Amendment rights apply to those of us in the True North, strong and free...
However, here I sit, slightly sunburned and freshly showered reflecting not upon the Human Rights Commission's decision to reject my application for consideration of violation of Human Rights, but upon a scrap of paper that I found yesterday while cleaning up mass accumulated sheaths of paper. It is an innocent little thing, a piece torn from a free local newspaper. On the back, there are ads for cruise lines, nanny-seeking families and male enhancement drugs (funny how life sort of goes in that order...) but on the front, scribbled in my own reckless cursive, appears the following: 'who are we to comment on the propriety of another person's choice of sexual expression?'
Source unknown. Maybe it was me. Maybe I read it somewhere. It does sound awfully prolific...esoteric. I will take credit for that, I think.
I often find myself writing down things that I don't want to forget (often to forget where I wrote them, and sometimes forgetting why I wrote them down exactly...but knowing there is a reason. Like, Santa Claus.)
I thought of this little innocuous scrap of paper this afternoon...while standing at the corner of Church and Yonge Streets in the blistering sun watching my very first Gay Pride Parade.
I thought of all these people - literally thousands of them - both in the Parade and watching it, who have been subject to the judgement and moral sanctimony of those around them for longer than we can even remember. People who have been subjected to the judgements of others...judgements that we have no place making, and go far beyond our right to excercise freedom of thought and opinion.
Consider: It is against the law for any man in a relationship with another man - committed or otherwise - to donate blood. If you were dying....and a pint of blood could save you, would you care at all about the person who gave it? I doubt it.
I watched a Parade float full of couples marry along the route. I could see that same shine of love and hope in their eyes that I felt on my wedding day, even from my lowly post on the street, behind a steel barricade. How can I not stand behind two people who love each other so much that they are willing to spend their lives, perfecting that love?
I felt a strange kinship with these people...no, I am not gay. But I do know what it feels like to spend your life feeling like there is something completely beyond your control that holds you back from living the life that you want to live. And that something has everything to do with what other people think of you, and what they believe you to be.
Returning home, I was so surprised to hear people ask, 'why would you go to something like that? Are you gay or something?' Well, no. Recently married to a wonderful man, dear Sainted Husband, pretty much rules that out. But I remain taken aback. If you were struggling with something that defined you as a person and permeated your whole life, wouldn't you want people - gay, straight, bi, transsexual, black, white....whatever - to stand behind you? To say that your struggle is important because we are important to one another as members of the Human Community?
While part of Pride is the 'we're here, we're queer, get used to it' mantra, a bigger part is supporting each other and the people we love in the choices that fulfill their lives in a way that is meaningful to them.
Thank goodness for those little scraps of paper. Without them, today might have been lost in a rain of Trojans and Mardi Gras beads.
My love to you all; whomever you love and however you do it.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Clambering upon the cyber-soap box...
Hello, Bloglanders!
I thought that if I were going to have a blog, I might as well use it for something good, something that has the potential to affect change.
A few weeks ago, I had an experience with regional transportation wherein I was discriminated against and abused. I thought that I would post that letter, in hopes of creating awareness...
Stand for something, or you'll fall for anything....at least that's what I was told.
Emund Burke once said, the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."
Evil will not triumph, because I will not stand by and do nothing. I sincerely hope that after reading this, that you will stand up and do something.... for the benefit of all - not just people with disabilities...
____________________________________________________
My name is Little Miss Sunshine. I am writing to draw your attention to an issue I believe to be of grave concern. I want to register a formal complaint regarding the conduct of persons under your employ.
I am a regular user of the GO Transit system, and have been for some time. As a rider with a physical disability, I routinely utilize accessible service features. I have been subjected to public discrimination and humiliation and verbal abuse as a direct result of conduct of GO Transit employees.
I am a student at Clown College in the Developmental Services Worker program. I am currently enrolled in a class there, which is offered in Brampton on Saturdays.
Prior to enrolling in this class, I spoke with a GO Transit Customer Service agent; explained my needs and confirmed accessibility. I was assured, in the presence of others, that accessible features are available and that I could take advantage of them.
On three prior occasions, I have travelled to Brampton via the GO bus for this class, arriving and departing at the downtown terminal with no issues.
On April 17, 2010, however, this was not the case.
I arrived at the Brampton terminal at 1455h. I informed the Transit worker that I required assistance advising the driver on the 1530h (Express Service to Union Station) bus that I was a passenger with special needs.
This is in accordance with GO Transit’s Accessibility Policy requiring fifteen minutes advance notice for passengers with disabilities.
The Brampton Transit worker was unable to do this as he, nor Brampton Transit has any connection with GO Transit. He advised me to wait at the platform and inform the driver upon arrival.
The driver arrived late, at 1540h. He loaded all other passengers, then asked me if “they dropped me off here by mistake”.
I stated that I wanted to board the bus. He attempted to leave.
I asked why I was not permitted boarding. He stated that he would have to call his Supervisor.
I informed him that I had taken the bus that morning. I stated that I paid for a ticket, and therefore demanded boarding.
He again refused, saying that his Supervisor was en route. I asked him how he expected that I should return to Toronto if I was being denied boarding. I asked for his employee number.
He refused to provide it. I was told that I did not have a “good enough reason” for requesting it.
The driver began honking his horn repeatedly in the direction of a police officer across the street. He honked his horn a total of eight times, calling out to the officer.
He stated that his Supervisor had informed him that the Brampton Terminal was not wheelchair accessible, and therefore he was not required to permit boarding.
This assertion is in direct contradiction to statements I have received from GO representatives at Union Station, the GO Transit website, and the public schedule that is posted at Brampton Transit Terminal.
I asked for his employee number. I asked for his employee number a total of 13 times, all of which he refused. Several times he asked me what I wanted it for, why I needed it.
Upon being refused the thirteenth time, a female passenger stepped off of the bus and began screaming at me. Her statements are as follows:
“I paid for an Express Bus. Now I am going to be late. I am going to be late because of you. I hope that you are happy.”
“Everyone on this bus is going to be late because of you. Now I am fifteen minutes late because of your foolishness. I hope that you are happy, you selfish bitch. Are you happy now?”
“All of you crippled people are exactly the same. You don’t deserve to be sucking air.”
The passenger in question was pointing at me, shaking her finger at me aggressively and standing far too close to me for me to feel safe. The driver made no attempts or movements to stop or interrupt her.
I told the driver that what was happening was inappropriate and that he should not condone her behviour. He responded with the following statement:
“Speaking to you like what? She is just responding to the way that you are carrying on”.
The entire incident was witnessed by a busload of people.
Several passengers were disturbed to the point that they exited the bus and advised the Brampton Transit employee of the situation. On arrival at the loading bay, he took down route and bus information.
He was also refused upon request for the driver’s employee number.
The bus departed, the driver stating that his Supervisor was on the way, and would “deal with me”. I waited at least twenty five minutes for supervisory attention. Two additional accessible buses departed at that time, both refusing boarding, stating that “the supervisor is on the way.”
I spoke with Mr. Bus Driver, Supervisor, Bus Operations (West Region), at 1617h. I relayed the entire incident to him.
Mr. Bus Driver’s comments were limited, aside from the fact that he “would love to see the public schedule”, to confirm what I was told at Union Station almost a month prior to my first trip. He asked if I had one in my possession that he might look at. I did not.
I felt as though Mr. Bus Driver's was accusing dishonesty, though he did make every effort to improve the situation and its end result for me.
He informed the that the bus drivers are not required to provide their employee numbers, and that in future I should take note of the bus number as an alternative.
Mr. Bus Driver’s solution to this issue was to run a separate bus to Union Station. I was loaded and boarded at the Brampton Terminal. This brings the assertion that the terminal is not accessible entirely into question.
This should also raise important fiduciary concern for you, sir. Where is the economic sense in denying transportation to a paying ticket holder and then incurring the cost of running a separate, empty bus for the same ticket holder?
The sensible option, of course, is the obvious one. Had I been permitted boarding, the issue in question would be non existent. It is my firm belief that the issue here lies not in the accessibility of the terminal, but the work required to ensure that vehicles that using those terminals, are made accessible.
As C.E.O. of a company, Mr. CEO, I am sure you can understand the importance of happy customers. Happy customers are repeat customers.
I cannot say that I will refrain from using GO Transit. This is not an existent possibility. If I cannot be a happy customer, I expect to be a customer free from abuse and discrimination. Denial of service on the basis of accessibility - when the facilities are clearly present and obvious to anyone is unacceptable.
I will continue to advocate with respect to this issue. As a passenger, and human being, I should not be subjected abuse and discrimination as a consequence of purchasing services from your company.
I respectfully request a written response to this complaint.
___________________________________
I welcome your thoughts.
I should also mention that italicized text has been changed to protect the innocent...namely me, from well, unpleasant things.
I will step down from my cyber-soap box now. But I feel a certain vindication in using such a widely accessible forum for something good.
Take care, my friends. Please, stand up with one another; fight together. If it happens to one, it happens to all...
All my love to each of you.
Little Miss Sunshine...
I thought that if I were going to have a blog, I might as well use it for something good, something that has the potential to affect change.
A few weeks ago, I had an experience with regional transportation wherein I was discriminated against and abused. I thought that I would post that letter, in hopes of creating awareness...
Stand for something, or you'll fall for anything....at least that's what I was told.
Emund Burke once said, the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."
Evil will not triumph, because I will not stand by and do nothing. I sincerely hope that after reading this, that you will stand up and do something.... for the benefit of all - not just people with disabilities...
____________________________________________________
My name is Little Miss Sunshine. I am writing to draw your attention to an issue I believe to be of grave concern. I want to register a formal complaint regarding the conduct of persons under your employ.
I am a regular user of the GO Transit system, and have been for some time. As a rider with a physical disability, I routinely utilize accessible service features. I have been subjected to public discrimination and humiliation and verbal abuse as a direct result of conduct of GO Transit employees.
I am a student at Clown College in the Developmental Services Worker program. I am currently enrolled in a class there, which is offered in Brampton on Saturdays.
Prior to enrolling in this class, I spoke with a GO Transit Customer Service agent; explained my needs and confirmed accessibility. I was assured, in the presence of others, that accessible features are available and that I could take advantage of them.
On three prior occasions, I have travelled to Brampton via the GO bus for this class, arriving and departing at the downtown terminal with no issues.
On April 17, 2010, however, this was not the case.
I arrived at the Brampton terminal at 1455h. I informed the Transit worker that I required assistance advising the driver on the 1530h (Express Service to Union Station) bus that I was a passenger with special needs.
This is in accordance with GO Transit’s Accessibility Policy requiring fifteen minutes advance notice for passengers with disabilities.
The Brampton Transit worker was unable to do this as he, nor Brampton Transit has any connection with GO Transit. He advised me to wait at the platform and inform the driver upon arrival.
The driver arrived late, at 1540h. He loaded all other passengers, then asked me if “they dropped me off here by mistake”.
I stated that I wanted to board the bus. He attempted to leave.
I asked why I was not permitted boarding. He stated that he would have to call his Supervisor.
I informed him that I had taken the bus that morning. I stated that I paid for a ticket, and therefore demanded boarding.
He again refused, saying that his Supervisor was en route. I asked him how he expected that I should return to Toronto if I was being denied boarding. I asked for his employee number.
He refused to provide it. I was told that I did not have a “good enough reason” for requesting it.
The driver began honking his horn repeatedly in the direction of a police officer across the street. He honked his horn a total of eight times, calling out to the officer.
He stated that his Supervisor had informed him that the Brampton Terminal was not wheelchair accessible, and therefore he was not required to permit boarding.
This assertion is in direct contradiction to statements I have received from GO representatives at Union Station, the GO Transit website, and the public schedule that is posted at Brampton Transit Terminal.
I asked for his employee number. I asked for his employee number a total of 13 times, all of which he refused. Several times he asked me what I wanted it for, why I needed it.
Upon being refused the thirteenth time, a female passenger stepped off of the bus and began screaming at me. Her statements are as follows:
“I paid for an Express Bus. Now I am going to be late. I am going to be late because of you. I hope that you are happy.”
“Everyone on this bus is going to be late because of you. Now I am fifteen minutes late because of your foolishness. I hope that you are happy, you selfish bitch. Are you happy now?”
“All of you crippled people are exactly the same. You don’t deserve to be sucking air.”
The passenger in question was pointing at me, shaking her finger at me aggressively and standing far too close to me for me to feel safe. The driver made no attempts or movements to stop or interrupt her.
I told the driver that what was happening was inappropriate and that he should not condone her behviour. He responded with the following statement:
“Speaking to you like what? She is just responding to the way that you are carrying on”.
The entire incident was witnessed by a busload of people.
Several passengers were disturbed to the point that they exited the bus and advised the Brampton Transit employee of the situation. On arrival at the loading bay, he took down route and bus information.
He was also refused upon request for the driver’s employee number.
The bus departed, the driver stating that his Supervisor was on the way, and would “deal with me”. I waited at least twenty five minutes for supervisory attention. Two additional accessible buses departed at that time, both refusing boarding, stating that “the supervisor is on the way.”
I spoke with Mr. Bus Driver, Supervisor, Bus Operations (West Region), at 1617h. I relayed the entire incident to him.
Mr. Bus Driver’s comments were limited, aside from the fact that he “would love to see the public schedule”, to confirm what I was told at Union Station almost a month prior to my first trip. He asked if I had one in my possession that he might look at. I did not.
I felt as though Mr. Bus Driver's was accusing dishonesty, though he did make every effort to improve the situation and its end result for me.
He informed the that the bus drivers are not required to provide their employee numbers, and that in future I should take note of the bus number as an alternative.
Mr. Bus Driver’s solution to this issue was to run a separate bus to Union Station. I was loaded and boarded at the Brampton Terminal. This brings the assertion that the terminal is not accessible entirely into question.
This should also raise important fiduciary concern for you, sir. Where is the economic sense in denying transportation to a paying ticket holder and then incurring the cost of running a separate, empty bus for the same ticket holder?
The sensible option, of course, is the obvious one. Had I been permitted boarding, the issue in question would be non existent. It is my firm belief that the issue here lies not in the accessibility of the terminal, but the work required to ensure that vehicles that using those terminals, are made accessible.
As C.E.O. of a company, Mr. CEO, I am sure you can understand the importance of happy customers. Happy customers are repeat customers.
I cannot say that I will refrain from using GO Transit. This is not an existent possibility. If I cannot be a happy customer, I expect to be a customer free from abuse and discrimination. Denial of service on the basis of accessibility - when the facilities are clearly present and obvious to anyone is unacceptable.
I will continue to advocate with respect to this issue. As a passenger, and human being, I should not be subjected abuse and discrimination as a consequence of purchasing services from your company.
I respectfully request a written response to this complaint.
___________________________________
I welcome your thoughts.
I should also mention that italicized text has been changed to protect the innocent...namely me, from well, unpleasant things.
I will step down from my cyber-soap box now. But I feel a certain vindication in using such a widely accessible forum for something good.
Take care, my friends. Please, stand up with one another; fight together. If it happens to one, it happens to all...
All my love to each of you.
Little Miss Sunshine...
Sunday, April 25, 2010
To tarte or not to tarte? That is the question.
Greetings, fellow bloggers...the small community of followers who read and love me.
It has been a long while since I've blogged. And I am sad for that. I get such a charge out of reading myself. There is no particularly good reason for not having done this...
So, here I go...trying to make up for the whole...not blogging...thing.
The smell of cinnamon, brown sugar and toasting pecans wafts enticingly from our kitchen. Somewhere in my brain, the neurons responsible for control of my culinary neurons have exploded and taken over the rational parts of the rest of my brain.
Thus, the coffee cake, loaves and loaves of garlic and herb bread and two tartes aux chocolats practically flying from my oven
It started with the Easter tarte au chocolat. The first.
Tarte tracker count: 1
I was playing on the Internet...instead of doing, you know, useful things when I came across the late, great Julia Child's recipe for tarte au chocolat.
Whenever I am looking at recipes, I always, always, always think, "oh, that looks so easy. I can do that." Ha-ha. How easily we underestimate our culinary abilities when staring dreamily at those glossy cookbook photos, dreaming of silken, creamy chocolate.
And so begins my ongoing internal war.
What they don't tell you in these beautiful, drool-inciting books is that there was someone who actually did all of the prep work before this chef just nonchalantly tossed his creme brulee aux amandes caramelisees together. Which is why Rachael Ray is never ever covered in flour in her recipe book photos. Bitch.
Anyway. Back to the tarte au chocolat - for which I tempered my very first egg (eggs have a disposition? Really, they should just get on with it...realize that they are part of something more beautiful than themselves. Like angry make-up sex that leads to beautiful, perfect babies). Yay! I've found that the trick to tempering eggs is to sweet talk one's husband into doing it for you.
Thank goodness for Saint Husband.
I am confident enough to say that my tarte was the star of the show. Without a doubt. Best finish to an Easter dinner in the history of the universe. This of course is a shiny "after" picture of the real thing, which went something like this:
Me: Did you like it, honey?
Saint Husband: Yes, it was wonderful. So good.
Me: Are you sure, or are you just saying that?
Saint Husband: Yes, darling. I am sure. It was wonderful. Fantastic! I promise you.
Me: You promise it was good...you're really not just saying that.
Saint Husband: I promise. It was very good. *Followed by forehead kiss. Which, by the way is a lot sexier than you'd think*. My love, it was wonderful.
Me: You're just saying that.
Fast forward one week. Birthday party for family friend. Family friend is a known chocolate fiend. Presto! Home made gift. And who doesn't like home made gifts with inherent potential for rapid onset diabetic coma?
Tarte count: 2.
At said birthday party, hosts of Easter dinner who claim that the tarte was so good they want another one
Tarte count: 3.
Saint Husband, keen on desserts, especially those made by his wife, wants a tarte of his own.
Tarte count: 4.
Star date: 2010 - the night before the party. Here's the scene:
The countertop is covered in flour and beaten eggs. I am panicked; downright frenzied at the thought of being unable to finish all of these tartes before I have to slag off to work and leave Saint Husband to clean up collateral damage.
Just for fun, insert a screaming, fire-like pain in my neck and shoulder with every pass of the rolling pin. I am determined to finish these tartes, and present them with just a flush of pride, and a graceful whisper of, "oh. It was nothing really. I love to cook. I really hope you like it."
But it was something. God Almighty in Heaven. It was bloody well something!
What it was? A separated shoulder, and swollen neck muscles. Doctor, staring at me increduously, says: "why would you make three pastry dough in one night?"
And I say, "would you like some tarte, doctor?"
If the proof is in the pudding, the answer is in the tarte.
It has been a long while since I've blogged. And I am sad for that. I get such a charge out of reading myself. There is no particularly good reason for not having done this...
So, here I go...trying to make up for the whole...not blogging...thing.
The smell of cinnamon, brown sugar and toasting pecans wafts enticingly from our kitchen. Somewhere in my brain, the neurons responsible for control of my culinary neurons have exploded and taken over the rational parts of the rest of my brain.
Thus, the coffee cake, loaves and loaves of garlic and herb bread and two tartes aux chocolats practically flying from my oven
It started with the Easter tarte au chocolat. The first.
Tarte tracker count: 1
I was playing on the Internet...instead of doing, you know, useful things when I came across the late, great Julia Child's recipe for tarte au chocolat.
Whenever I am looking at recipes, I always, always, always think, "oh, that looks so easy. I can do that." Ha-ha. How easily we underestimate our culinary abilities when staring dreamily at those glossy cookbook photos, dreaming of silken, creamy chocolate.
And so begins my ongoing internal war.
What they don't tell you in these beautiful, drool-inciting books is that there was someone who actually did all of the prep work before this chef just nonchalantly tossed his creme brulee aux amandes caramelisees together. Which is why Rachael Ray is never ever covered in flour in her recipe book photos. Bitch.
Anyway. Back to the tarte au chocolat - for which I tempered my very first egg (eggs have a disposition? Really, they should just get on with it...realize that they are part of something more beautiful than themselves. Like angry make-up sex that leads to beautiful, perfect babies). Yay! I've found that the trick to tempering eggs is to sweet talk one's husband into doing it for you.
Thank goodness for Saint Husband.
I am confident enough to say that my tarte was the star of the show. Without a doubt. Best finish to an Easter dinner in the history of the universe. This of course is a shiny "after" picture of the real thing, which went something like this:
Me: Did you like it, honey?
Saint Husband: Yes, it was wonderful. So good.
Me: Are you sure, or are you just saying that?
Saint Husband: Yes, darling. I am sure. It was wonderful. Fantastic! I promise you.
Me: You promise it was good...you're really not just saying that.
Saint Husband: I promise. It was very good. *Followed by forehead kiss. Which, by the way is a lot sexier than you'd think*. My love, it was wonderful.
Me: You're just saying that.
Fast forward one week. Birthday party for family friend. Family friend is a known chocolate fiend. Presto! Home made gift. And who doesn't like home made gifts with inherent potential for rapid onset diabetic coma?
Tarte count: 2.
At said birthday party, hosts of Easter dinner who claim that the tarte was so good they want another one
Tarte count: 3.
Saint Husband, keen on desserts, especially those made by his wife, wants a tarte of his own.
Tarte count: 4.
Star date: 2010 - the night before the party. Here's the scene:
The countertop is covered in flour and beaten eggs. I am panicked; downright frenzied at the thought of being unable to finish all of these tartes before I have to slag off to work and leave Saint Husband to clean up collateral damage.
Just for fun, insert a screaming, fire-like pain in my neck and shoulder with every pass of the rolling pin. I am determined to finish these tartes, and present them with just a flush of pride, and a graceful whisper of, "oh. It was nothing really. I love to cook. I really hope you like it."
But it was something. God Almighty in Heaven. It was bloody well something!
What it was? A separated shoulder, and swollen neck muscles. Doctor, staring at me increduously, says: "why would you make three pastry dough in one night?"
And I say, "would you like some tarte, doctor?"
If the proof is in the pudding, the answer is in the tarte.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
All you need is love...
Hey, there, bloggers!
I now know that just because people aren't commenting on the outright hilarity of my blogs, doesn't mean that you aren't reading them. Yay! People are reading me.
So, thank you to those who are reading me, and thank you for finding me funny. If your partner finds you funny, its likely they're just hoping you'll do that thing they like. If other people laugh, then it must be funny. It's kind of like the old addage says, "if a man washes a dish, and no one sees it...did he really wash it?"
It is yet another gorgeous sunny day, of which I have chosen to waste inside, blogging. Biting the solar system that feeds me, I guess. Ah, well. Plenty of time to be outside when I am dead and buried.
Dear, Sainted Husband is out with his other mistress, the Geriatric Crap Machine (aka our dog), cementing their bond. Yesterday, I thought that she'd warmed up to me a little when we were playing catch, but then I inadvertently tossed her tennis ball over the balcony, thus quickly snatching that little glimmer of hope from my grasp.
I guess this means I am firmly ensconsed upon the I-hate-you-but-will-take-food-from-you-in-an-emergency" list.
So close, yet so far. I shall weep and moan in shame.
Saint Husband insists that she doen't actually hate me, she just loves me differently. Right. I'll keep that in mind the next time she pees on my feet.
But, his insistence upon protecting me from her urinary hatred makes me think. How often do we overlook the little things that the people in our lives do to remind us that we are loved, and special?
Consider yesterday: I was able to get several cases of carbonated beverage for the upcoming Redneck Rodeo (aka our wedding). Dear, Sainted Husband and I are crossing the street en route to our humble abode.
Of course, our "indestructible", eco-friendly, reusable grocery bags split clearly down the center, dumping four cases of carbonated beverage on the street. So much for going green.
For whatever reason, I found this whole scenario to be contagiously, outrageously funny. I coud not stop laughing, hard as I tried.
I am sure that there is something morally reprehensible - laughing uncontrollably at someone carrying 40 liters of liquid.
But, it is what it is.
Fast forward to our livingroom. Present day, present moment....
I watched poor, Sainted Husband heft four cases of My Preferred Carbonated Beverage from the ground and haul it all home....grunting and sweating all the way.
And I have left this blog for nearly a month, so now I have forgotten what it was that I wanted to say, and the witticism with which I planned to craft them.
I do believe that the synthesized thesis of this message was that there are some people on this Earth who would do just about anyting to see you smile.
If you can....reach out. Touch that person, and their heart. Tell them how you feel. There might not be another chance.
Even if it means a belly laugh in a parking lot...surrounded by cans of liquid cancer.
I now know that just because people aren't commenting on the outright hilarity of my blogs, doesn't mean that you aren't reading them. Yay! People are reading me.
So, thank you to those who are reading me, and thank you for finding me funny. If your partner finds you funny, its likely they're just hoping you'll do that thing they like. If other people laugh, then it must be funny. It's kind of like the old addage says, "if a man washes a dish, and no one sees it...did he really wash it?"
It is yet another gorgeous sunny day, of which I have chosen to waste inside, blogging. Biting the solar system that feeds me, I guess. Ah, well. Plenty of time to be outside when I am dead and buried.
Dear, Sainted Husband is out with his other mistress, the Geriatric Crap Machine (aka our dog), cementing their bond. Yesterday, I thought that she'd warmed up to me a little when we were playing catch, but then I inadvertently tossed her tennis ball over the balcony, thus quickly snatching that little glimmer of hope from my grasp.
I guess this means I am firmly ensconsed upon the I-hate-you-but-will-take-food-from-you-in-an-emergency" list.
So close, yet so far. I shall weep and moan in shame.
Saint Husband insists that she doen't actually hate me, she just loves me differently. Right. I'll keep that in mind the next time she pees on my feet.
But, his insistence upon protecting me from her urinary hatred makes me think. How often do we overlook the little things that the people in our lives do to remind us that we are loved, and special?
Consider yesterday: I was able to get several cases of carbonated beverage for the upcoming Redneck Rodeo (aka our wedding). Dear, Sainted Husband and I are crossing the street en route to our humble abode.
Of course, our "indestructible", eco-friendly, reusable grocery bags split clearly down the center, dumping four cases of carbonated beverage on the street. So much for going green.
For whatever reason, I found this whole scenario to be contagiously, outrageously funny. I coud not stop laughing, hard as I tried.
I am sure that there is something morally reprehensible - laughing uncontrollably at someone carrying 40 liters of liquid.
But, it is what it is.
Fast forward to our livingroom. Present day, present moment....
I watched poor, Sainted Husband heft four cases of My Preferred Carbonated Beverage from the ground and haul it all home....grunting and sweating all the way.
And I have left this blog for nearly a month, so now I have forgotten what it was that I wanted to say, and the witticism with which I planned to craft them.
I do believe that the synthesized thesis of this message was that there are some people on this Earth who would do just about anyting to see you smile.
If you can....reach out. Touch that person, and their heart. Tell them how you feel. There might not be another chance.
Even if it means a belly laugh in a parking lot...surrounded by cans of liquid cancer.
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