overheard in the toilet seat aisle

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Searching out a new laundry basket, I was in close proximity to the toilet seat aisle. Like all those housey-type things are bunched together for convenience  in our shopping. It can’t be for the impulse  factor like end-of-aisle placement with these items that are less than dreamy.

I hear snickering and laughing and “toilet seat man? ya gotta be kidding” and I thought to myself we’re all just a little bit goofy about toilets and such no matter how  sophisticated we pretend to be.

Why, I feel like I’ve truly arrived in a new workplace when I discover the pooping bathroom.  You all know what I mean; the secluded bathroom away from the shared stalls where you can hunker down in a comfortable squat with the quiet of your own thoughts.

With chosen laundry basket in hand I walked around the end of the aisle and saw two young guys dressed in slouchy, baggy pants, faces sporting piercings and interesting tattoos pretty much everywhere.  Strikingly sculptured, shaved and coloured hair completed the look.  And I heard one guy say “yeah, I was at my Gramma’s last night and her fu**in’  toilet seat is cracked.  Pinched my ass! I’m gonna surprise her and buy this and put it on when I go over tomorrow”. The response from his buddy was “yeah, that’s a fu**in’ nice thing to do.”

And I smiled and thought it sure is.

 

 

 

the cedar chest

 

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I’ve always just called it the cedar chest but I think it was meant to be a hope chest. The place where a woman gathers her linens and household items in preparation for marriage. Later to become the repository of baby books, dried faded roses and a maribou feather stole worn to prom some fifty years ago. Continue reading

a little blue kitchen aide

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I believe the friendships we are gifted with kind of show up when we need them most for our souls.  This sounds all lofty, but think about it…… think about the friendships beyond Facebook friends; the friendship that is there for you alone that isn’t measured by likes. The friendship this little blue bird has with Tanya.  Continue reading

my Mom’s dreams

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As we hit our teenage years, our Mom is around sometimes like an unwanted appendage weighing us down and sometimes like a crutch holding us up.  We’ve all been there; “ohhhhh Mom, really??” and the phone calls “Mom……..it’s me…”.

It’s a hard transition from being a needy child to being a teenager and then to a young parent ourselves doing it our own way.  And all along the way our Mom is there trying to fit into our ever changing outlook on what she should be for us.  This isn’t a bad thing; it’s a natural progression. Maybe it’s also a natural progression to soften the edges and embrace her with respect and a  deep connection as we age along with her, and to long for missed opportunities after it’s too late to take them.

I look at this picture of my Mom from very long ago and wonder what dreams she had. I never asked her. I never knew since we didn’t have much of a relationship beyond my childhood, and then not anywhere close to knowing what she dreamed of. I feel sad for that.

Ask your Mom what she dreams of.   Then love her for her dreams.

 

 

 

Peggy’s house

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I played at Peggy’s house most of the time, or any other neighbour’s house for that matter.  I’m trying hard to think of my friends playing at my house and I can’t remember that.  It was only my brother, sister and I at our house but we had the run of the Woodlawn neighbourhood that we rode our bikes through as if it was our world.  And it was.  We would meet up “in the field by Peanut Butter Hill” the dip that bucked us off our bikes regularly and we would ride through the scotch broom listening to the snap and pop of the seed pods spitting at us.  Continue reading

mother’s day redemption – a story

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The three make an unlikely group. The couple, two men who have lived together as lovers for over 20 years, and the child.

The trendy reservation – only restaurant and eclectic menu suit the couple well as they playfully debate which wine will accent the meal so carefully negotiated and ordered.  The child doesn’t know if she can eat at all. She’s quiet, softly petting the tablecloth, the silky lines in the linen, as she listens to their conversation. Not contributing to the festive occasion. She is, as they say, expecting. Pregnant. A bad girl. A shame, and tonight she will have her baby. Continue reading