Words

I was watching the View this morning and the ladies were discussing Chastity Bono's decision to have a sex-change operation to become a man.

Most of the women kept their right-wing dislike of things and people "outside the norm" at bay and focused instead on being parents and their desire to "protect their children from harm", that they would hate to see their child go through something like that because of "the way that other people would treat them and try to hurt them". Their words were wonderfully ironic for so many reasons, the underlying message from most of the women seemed to be "I wouldn't want a gay child because gay people are looked upon as being wrong in society and I only want my child to be right so that they can be anything and anyone they want to be".

The part that really stuck in my craw was when Barbara Walters reiterated several times that "parents should not blame themselves". I take offence at the usage of the word blame. Ms. Walters seems to be implying that a child being gay or transgendered is wrong and that someone needs to take responsibility for the wrongdoing. Blame should not come into it. If these children had taken guns into their high school and shot up the place, if they were killing small animals for sport, if they were organizing hate rallies then some blame should be placed. These are not children that have committed murder, these are children who have decided to come out to their parents and just want to be accepted and loved.

I'm not gay or transgendered but I want to be accepted and loved and love and accept. Good thing my parents don't need to blame themselves.

Portrait Of a Broken Girl

The Hopeless Romantic saw the top of the mountain, saw the brass ring within reaching distance and just as she reached for it, just as she took that last step that would bring her to the summit she heard a popping noise and felt a dull pain in her chest.

Her heart had shattered into a thousand pieces, each smaller than the other so that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men would never be able to put them back together again.

She crumpled to the ground, her life’s essence bleeding out of her into the rocky ground below her. She tried to breathe, tried to lift her head up, tried to stand but to no avail. She had no idea what had happened, no clue as to why she was now becoming a husk of her former self.

Just yesterday the sky was blue, the sun shone like a golden ball of life, the grass sung under her feet and the wind carried her on her way. But now the sky was grey, the sun gone, the grass was now rock and the wind was bitterly cold.

With her last dying breath she begged forgiveness for whatever it was she had done to cause her such pain, begged for forgiveness and a quick death. She knew it was not to be.

As the last part of her life drained out of her she stood up and faced the wind. A broken down and empty shell of her former self she started to walk back home. She had things to do and places to be.

In her death she had learned nothing.

?

I think those questions that you ask when you think you’re awake but you’re not really quite awake yet are some of the best. I’m sure a writer like Stephen King has a really cool word or phrase for that in between, coming up from the depths of Slumbor’s lair moment, but I don’t.

The last one I asked, I remember because I had to make sure I said it out loud or else it would be lost forever was “Can dogs get polio?”

As it turns out, yes they can.

The Mouths of Babes

My daughter : “I made a mother’s day card for Courtney (her father's new wife) with Papa.”
Me : “Oh? Is Courtney somebody’s Mama?”
My daughter : “Yes, Papa has two Mamas. Gammy, and Courtney.”

Best. Mother's Day. Present. Ever.

An Open Letter To My Best Friend

Dear Best Friend,

This week I witnessed something beautiful and pure between you and your daughter, the unabashed giving and receiving of the words “I love you”. It was sweet and tender and untouched by any outside influence. I felt a little like an invader just listening, that just being in the room with you would taint it somehow. But I also felt blessed to be a witness to it and to be able to catch a little of the loving spill-over.

I ask one thing of you my dear friend, please don’t ever become too busy, too distracted, too frustrated or too caught up in the little things in life that seem so big to ever respond with a heartfelt and pure “I love you” when those words are said to you by your daughter.
I know that sometimes life can seem to get too big, too hurried, too much and we lose sight of the things that really matter.

I remember when I was a little girl, not much older than your girl is now; my mother and I had our own loving back and forth. I would say “Mom? Guess what? I love you” and she would respond with “I love you too. You’re my favouritest Jennie in the whole wide world”. One day I said my part and my mom responded with a distracted “Yeah, uh-huh” and it broke my heart in a way that only a little girl’s heart can be broken.

Please don’t ever let that happen to your and your daughter, for all the little girl and big girl hearts of the world. I know that’s a lot of pressure but I know you can handle it.

Love,

Me

Portrait of a Spring Day

And on that blustery day in April, the Hopeless Romantic walked outside, lay down in her self made rose garden, closed her eyes and died.

Well, she didn’t really die, she just decided to go to the in between place for a while. Not quite living, not quite dead, not quite like Sleeping Beauty but not too far off.

She had decided that it was just too hard to keep going. The years had taken their toll and she was too tired. She was too tired of people more concerned about appearances and sex and who-makes-more-money and not being concerned enough about feelings and holding hands and first kisses and good old fashioned simple love.

Her back was twisted and bent from the hundreds of men and women who had leaned so heavily upon it for so long, not caring about the consequences of their actions. They had consumed her from the inside out, eroding the rock of her love, compassion and caring.

In her semi-conscious state she wondered if anyone would miss her, if anyone would even notice she was gone. Not in a teenaged-tragic suicide attempt cry for help, “I wonder who would show up at my funeral” way, but with real wonder if she had actually touched as many lives as she thought. Normally thoughts like this wouldn’t even think of knocking on the door let alone coming right in and settling in on the couch of her mind.

She was just so very tired.

Something was scratching at her cheek. It irked her. She tried to ignore it but it insisted on skrit-skritting against her cheek. Swearing revenge and a slow painful death against whatever Prince Charming Wannabe that was trying weasel its way into the dark sanctuary of her mind, she fluttered one eyelid open.

A fat bumble bee had set down upon one of the leaves of a rose bush and had bent it down, touching her cheek.

Well, she could hardly maim and kill a harmless bee now could she? She shooed it hoping it would leave her in peace but the furry little bastard just sat there. She waved her hand over and around it hoping it would get the hint but it just kept sitting there. Not buzzing, not eating, not doing anything.

The funny thing was she didn’t even stop to question how or why a bee would be out and about this early in the season.
The bee stared at her and she stared at the bee. It was fat and fuzzy and looked like it was ready to settle down for a long winter’s nap, the Hopeless Romantic could certainly empathize.

She was trying to apply logic to an illogical situation. Trying to use rational thinking on love was like using a teacup to cross the Atlantic.

Her desperate cries for help had all gone unanswered, they hadn’t even connected with voice mail. How could they when she didn’t even realize that she had made them in the first place? The tragic flaw of the Hopeless Romanic lying in that rose garden staring at that bee was that she didn’t even realize that she needed to be rescued. She didn’t know that she was locked in the tower of her own making, drifting on a sea of her own tears. She had spent so much time concerned about others that she had forgotten to take a moment to take care of herself.

The bee stretched its wings.
The Hopeless Romantic stretched her arms.
The bee stretched its antenna.
The Hopeless Romantic stood up.

No sense wasting time lying around feeling sorry for oneself when there’s work to be done and a life to keep living.

The bee flew away.
She had learned nothing.

Word To The Wise

When sitting around with a good friend solving all the world's problems over a bottle of wine or two, make sure you take notes. No crummier feeling than waking up the next day feeling refreshed and accomplished and realizing that you can't remember a dratted thing. I don't think it's so much the wine as the massive endorphine rush you get when you realize that you've just cured the world of all its ails. That good feeling is what makes your brain turn mushy (anyone who has ever been in love can attest to that fact).
So, keep a notepad handy, just in case.