Thursday, March 18, 2010

Masochism: A pastry maker's tool of the trade

Buenas noches, mis amigos del Blog!

Or, in the beautiful language of English, what up homedogs?

Sadly, my blogging track-record of late remains astoundingly paltry. The demands of being the perfect wife cum (oh, there it is again!) genius graduate student and semi-motivated employee have begun to wear themselves upon me. Thus of course draining my motivation to pen lively blog entries.

After eating, sleeping and wedding planning, there remains precious little time for my beloved blogging friends. Out of sight, yet definitely not out of mind. You are loved, e-friends!

I do beg yet a thousand pardons, and kiss thy virtual feet in repentance.

Sadder still is the fact that I have been thinking about things to write about in my blog - a blog that thus far I have only one reader for. (ps. thank you, thank you, thank you! to the incredible and wonderful person who left me a comment! Special wet, sloppy kisses for your feet). I have resisted the urge to write these inklings down, not quite reaching that special level of nerdiness! Praise for me and my stupendous self restraint!

Yesterday while on the train to class, I was reading the newspaper and came across a very interesting article. And then I thought, "Hmm. Wouldn't that make good fodder for my newest blog?" Apparently not, because though I did save the article, when I returned home, there was marinara sauce all over it. As though the cosmos were reminding are one step away from Dungeons and Dragons."

And that was that.

Now that another "oh-god-what-am-I-doing-here" academic term is over and packed away for future braggery, I seem to have copious amounts of time to do things that I used to do, and like, that give me a glimmer of hope in the quest for restoring my pre-academic self. Like, for example, cooking.

I am nowhere near gourmet, and do not spend time boasting about my latest gastronomical feat. I will not, however, mince words (pardon the pun). Though unspoken, this boasting and outright shameless flattery is something required of Dear, Sainted Husband, and generally also required of others who wish to continue breathing.

Second portions are always required, whether he desires them or not. And I do anticipate at least one over-emphasized compliment at the end of each meal.  Something reflecting the grandiosity of my existence and my general sunshiny presence. You know, standard stuff.

I do like to preen, after all.

I do find it surprising though, that something I find so satisfying and calming is rife with stress. Each and every culinary venture ultimately resolves itself in a screaming match wherein, I either become despondent or the kind of diva that puts Madonna to shame.

Yes, I find the trick to a satisfying meal is to choose something astoundingly complex. Fighting inherent. The preparation directions in every recipe book on the planet should be edited to reflect something like the following:

"Prep time: 20 minutes to do the actual work, and 10 minutes to find the right knife.
"Cooking time: 1 hour and 10 minutes to administer First Aid after you burn yourself trying to pass each other in your impossibly small kitchen with bubbling pot in hand.
"Fighting time: 5-10 minutes, depending on the number of times you've prepared the recipe. Allow extra time for making up and kisses, depending on length of marriage/relationship.
"Total time: 2 hours"

It is our experience that fighting is the secret ingredient. It makes everything better. Just like butter, without the cellulite and the tell-tale shiny lips.

Consider last Saturday's Cinnamon Plum Tarte. It just sounds so good, doesn't it?

I found a gourmet cookbook at my local library while pointedly ignoring the prominently featured Can-lit section.

All was going smoothly. The dough was mixed, rolled into a ball and wrapped for chilling. Calm, zen, kissy faced, the picture of a perfect marriage. Just another sickening couple who finish each other's sentences and can stand each other enough to build a meal together.

Fast forward two hours and you have the following scene:

Dough looks more like raw cookies than pastry. Unruffled, I press on. According to the "simple visual instructions" (read: pictures), the dough "rolls out easily and with litte effort, making this a good beginner's pastry dough".

Is that so?

Well. Pardon me, Chef Interrupted, but that, madam, is a bald-faced lie.

Little effort, you say? Sure, if you're like, Ina Garten or Wolfgang (fucking) Puck! (Sorry, Mom).

The short version is this: if my floured counter top was a jailcell and I was a mean (yet lonely, misguided) cellmate, this "beginner's pastry dough" would have been my bitch. A delicious, cinnamon and ginger butter-infused bitch.

After deciding that I was not going to let this go, this thing would be perfect, and would look exactly like the picture, I got MAD. Actually like, flew into a psychotic rage.

Yes, even if it killed me. Every time I bring home a new recipe book, we both secretly wonder or not I wil be buried with it.

I can see the funeral now..."almonds to almonds and yeast to yeast...we commit this body to the oven for 45 minutes at 375 degrees, or until golden bubbly."

Ba - dum - ching!

Poor dear Saint Husband sat quietly by watching his beloved turn into the Hulk. Generally beating the shit (sorry, Mom) out of this poor pastry, making gutteral noises - "ugh, UGH"-ing followed by generally heinous, abusive personal favorite: "take that! How do you like that?"

Recollecting on the general scene of things, I suppose that had I been less sweaty, red-faced, generally pissed off, and swearing like a constipated ex-lax product tester, it could possibly been even a little sexy.

Post-pastry, I called fifty-six of my closest friends to brag about the absolute perfection of this pastry dough. Like I was the first person in the world to ever make a pastry.

Even now, I sit here, puffed up and boastful.

Obvious parallels to the male sexual experience need not be underscored here. They are evident in themselves.

Morley Safer once said that " you can never have enough garlic. With enough garlic, you can eat the New York Times".

Apparently, with enough swear words, you can also eat home made spiced pastry dough.

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Words that aren't as dirty in peanut butter

Hello, my blogging friends...

I trust that the evening, and my last post found you well. And if not, feel free to let me know. I am sure I can fashion you into my next post somehow. That oughtta brighten your day.

My dear sainted husband is out ensuring the adequate renal function of our geriatric dog. Therefore, I have time to post, and to offer up my musings to the world.

Poor sod. The wind is blowing a la "Wizard of Oz", out there (guess that "in like a lion out like a lamb" stuff is true, because the wind is roaring out there. I thought I learned everything I needed to know in Kindergarten. Silly me, it extends way past Kindergarten and well into Grade One).

Apparently gusts of wind have a special effect on Irishmen. In response to the literal shaking of our patio, he says, "I think I'll take the dog for a stroll."

Uh huh. Well, that's on you, baby. I'll stay here, drink this cappucino you brought me and soak up all of this lovely electric heat. Perhaps this is why the septagenarian canine we've inherited has little use for me. I'm ornamental. I serve no purpose.

Man's best friend, indeed.

Anyway, my disdain for the relative incontinence of our newest family member notwithstanding, I do have something for you.

Oh, I know. I was excited, too. But since you don't have a husband cum manservant to bring you hot, steamy, cappucino - I will wait for you to make your own. And since I now know that my mother reads this blog, I will say that cum is an actual word, with intellectual applications aside from the one you use in that diary that we've talked about.

Oh, yes. We know you've said it. But it's okay. My mother probably has, too. And for those of you naysayers out there, here's a link....come on, click it. You know you want to:

Did you click it? I bet you did. Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. Thank you,!

A professor once told me that I often go off on tangents and say things that aren't really useful. (This of course is to say nothing of the fact that I believe that most things coming out of her mouth aren't all that useful, but...I'll have to save that for another day.) Useful or not, they are pretty funny, aren't they?  Sometimes I surprise myself with the relative humor in the things I write.

And, if you haven't noticed, I remain exceedingly modest.

I've caught my saintly manservant cum husband (oops, I did it again! Eat your heart out, Britney Spears...) reading my blog, sometimes stifling a titter, other times rolling in a full out belly laugh. At first I'd chalked this up to husbandly duties, right up there along side telling me that my Hefty bag/pashmina/costume-jewellry du moment combo causes heart shattering palpitations that are cause for medical concern.

Aw, thanks, honey. You look nice, too.

But then, he goes and does something that makes me question my manhood. My knight in shining armour....

We have visitors. Visitors who stereotypically eat cheese (but we've since found they prefer peanut butter from the Bulk Barn) with long whiskers and furry tails. It seems the regular epicurian orgasms appearing from my kitchen are of appeal to more than one class mammalia. Who knew? 

Yes, friends. We have a mouse. Though this is fairly common in highrise buildings housing thousands of people, it grosses the hell out of me. Makes me wish we had a barn cat to eat the dirty little things and not an indifferent geriatric pooch.  

You can pick your friends, you can pick your nose, but I guess you can't pick your rodents. Ah, city life.

Apparently this little bugger has staked out his homestead and told his other furry friends to up sticks, because it's just him. Obviously this little man has more cojones than brains, because he likes to wait until we're in bed, then eat straight out of the dog dish while squealing his delight at having pulled one over on his housemates.

Ever the Alpha male, our little Templeton's presence has aggravated my gentle "go-with-the-flow" partner in crime, Saint Husband. Last night, he decided that he'd had enough. Epicurian orgasms are not to be shared! He was taking action, not to be stopped or interfered with until our guest had been ousted.

Manly demonstrations of caveman-ly behaviour. God, it's hot in here....isn't it? Betty Friedan must be spinning in her grave.

Anyway....back to the Great Hunt.

"Ride of the Valkyries" comes to mind as the obvious soundtrack selection for this movie moment in our lives. Thank you, Wagner! I always knew that if ever I needed to tie classical music to a mouse-catching moment, this would be it. (Think, "Apocalypse Now". For those of you unfamiliar, here is a clip, featuring said composition: You're welcome.)

Sparing all the detail, in spite of its abundant humor, I will say this: the refrigerator was moved. Saint Husband's engagement ring is bent.

The mouse lives. Safe, to live another day, to pilfer yet another morsel of kibble from our ornery dog.

The Great Hunt saved for yet another day, I remain indebted to said sainted husband for the display of white-knighthood; and therefore required to soothe and stroke his wounded and beleaguered ego.

Off we go to purchase some more peanut butter.

Even the mice have to eat, right?

Thursday, March 11, 2010

The bitch is back...and she's getting married!

Buongiorno, bloggers!

My dear lovely, lovely virtual friends. May today's post find you in excellent health, happiness and marital status.

At right is a snippet from my favorite comic. Not related to what I've posted, but hilarious nonetheless. Do enjoy.

Today is a blustery cold, rainy day. Spring is coming, though. It really is. Soon, there will be picnics and ball-tossing and sun-dappled Scrabble. I cannot wait!

Today is also roughly ninety days before I commit single suicide...aka. tie the knot. Get hitched. Clasp on that ball and chain. Permanently attach my other half.

List of sarcastic euphemisms? Check. Now to the next order of business...

Usually, by this time of night, I've percolated over something long enough that I have....well, a blog to write...

Tonight, ever the blissed out picture of domesticity, we cooked together. Right after we grocery shopped....while debating the merits of granola over muesli. Aren't we interesting?

Not particularly. But, there it is, girls. The reason to rush out to get married: quibbles over which subset of cereal to purchase.

You meet the man of your dreams, steal him away from his country, his family, his girlfriend. You basically stalk him relentlessly until he relents and decides that giving you what you want is easier than filing for a restraining order.

Oh, the fairy tale that is our love. Isn't love grand? Eat your heart out, Danielle Steele.

Then of course, there's the sweaty, shaking, slightly feverish "Are you sure you're not sick?" proposal.

The ring, hastily purchased "because you like it, and it fits" from a tourist shop in the most beautiful European country you've ever laid eyes on (though that list is pretty short). Despite his protestations, you think it's the most beautiful thing ever...because you liked it, and it just...fits.

Surely the happiest sleep-deprived, cat-napping in the airport night of your life.

Everyone gushes over...well, everything.

Then, the wedding (cue theme music from 'Jaws').

As a woman in the throes of wedding planning, I remain stupefied in shock and awe at the sheer amount of energy that is literally thrown at the wedding/bridal industry. Yes, that's right. I said industry.

Think about it: somewhere out there is some poor schmuck whose livelihood literally freaking depends on your marital status! Can you imagine what those bedtime prayers sound like? I bet they sound something like this:

"Dear God/Great Bride in the Sky: please, please, please puh-leeze make sure at least one crazy Bridezilla who wants an iridescent seafoam color scheme gets engaged today. My kid needs braces, and the wire is popping out of my bra. Thank you. Amen."

This is to say nothing for the fact that the moment you get engaged, you suddenly have 10,000 relatives you've never met before, and every last one of them has an opinion on just exactly what your wedding should look like and what you should do.

God have mercy on your soul should you decide they don't make the cut when it comes to your guest list.

And why is it that all of the energy-post proposal is aimed at the woman? The message we're sending is: "Okay, so you asked. Good man! Your job is over now. Leave the rest of it up to the woman". All you have to do is ask, and suddenly...poof ! There's a wedding! Sounds like a lot of foreshadowing of what's to come: you're hungry? Ta-da: dinner! You can't find your lucky socks? Poof: one pair of Spiderman anklets!

If you're a woman who does the asking, I guess that makes you doubly screwed. Both on and off the hook. This, sadly is not as pleasant as it sounds.

Then, the blessed day arrives...pardon me while I stifle a giggle.

Forget trying to be an individual.

Oh, no. That's just not allowed. Why? Well, I am so glad you asked, Grasshopper!

Because that's just the way it's done. You must have someone else's children in your wedding party. These children, whom you may or not know, or serve to destroy perfectly good flowers, then litter with them as an announcement of your approach....for example.

It matters not if this is what you want. Because, even though this wedding is about you, your partner and your commitment to each other, no one cares what you want.

Brush off your tiara and buck up. You're about to be a married woman. This is just the beginning.

Sorry, love. I hate to break it to you. This was never about you. This is about what everyone else wants. Specifically, it's about the wedding they wanted and never got. I'm convinced this is the only reason that women wish for daughters. They'll finally get the wedding they always wanted.

Bring on the tangerine chiffon, and home-made bathtub gin. I'm ready. My dress is Scotch-guarded.

Bring. It. On. Here comes the bride, indeed.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Grocery shopping for your brain....little-miss-sunshine flexes her mighty Library card!

Hello, Bloglanders!

I've missed you. I'd like to think that you've missed me. Due to the unavoidable nuisance of time-wasting and not so valuable classes, I wasn't able to blog last night. Ok, truthfully, I could have, but due to the exponentially shitty nature of my day and relative exhaustion, I just didn't feel like it.

Forgive me Bloggers, for I have sinned.

That being said, I think that it's safe to move along. Ok, so I've begun to realize something.

There are some people out there who think that they are smarter than they really are. There are also some people out there, who could be smarter than they are, and are not really living up to their potential.

I think that everyone falls into both of those categories at one time or another, to be sure.

Today, I think that I fall into the latter, and it makes me a little sad.

Here's why: roaming around my favorite, yet not so local library branch, I've realized that I do not read as much as I should. Yes, I know. Let us all weep in the sadness of my revelation: there are some people that can't get enough to eat, but I'm sad over the fact that I can't get enough to read.

I know that it sounds silly. Sitting here writing it, I know how silly I truly sound. I really do.

But think about it: knowlege really is power. But what do you do when that power sucks? What is a self-confessed vociferous reader like me to do when I know that a book really isn't worth turning the pages?

Would you continue to purchase a brand of power tool if you knew that it didn't perform as well as it should and generally left you feeling dissatisfied, and maybe, well...empty? Probably not. Your local Canadian Tire's hoping the opposite is true, I'm sure.

And what if that waste of page turning applies to a whole freaking genre?

For self-confessed (or maybe not confessed) lovers of Canadian Literature, beware...

I generally make concerted, strenuous effort to avoid all literature that could generally be construed as Canadian. If the Slovenian author has a Canadian great-grand cousin, I feel as though it should be avoided.

Yes, I hear you over there, weeping in shock and awe. Why, you ask? Well, Comparatively, Canadian literature generally meets the same standard as that of an afternoon soap opera. Virtually all Canadian fiction literature follows the same formula.

I know that eventually every soap hero killed off will be reincarnated....I also know that there are certain things that make Can-lit...welll...never mind.

Just ask Margaret Atwood. She wrote a whole freaking book about it (called 'Survival'. It's apt, too, because you really do have to survive this book. Check it out. about $19. Heads up to you, Ms. Atwood: people find your books boring. Reading an Atwood is like getting a filling - just hurry up and get it over with, already.)

Each 'chapter' (ha - chapter. More like 'mini manual') talks about a feature that any good Canadian novel 'must' have (like, for example, in each and every Canadian novel, someone drowns. They do. Really. They have to. It's not Canadian otherwise. What is this? A shout out to the Great Lakes Water Systems?)

Now, before you go getting your panties all in a knot, I submit that there are some writers who rise above the mediocrity. There are some who rise above the wet newspaper soppiness that is Canadian literati.

Consider, The Incident Reports by Martha Baillie. Torontonian writer who based her protagonist/heroine/librarian extraordinaire in a fictitious branch of the Toronto Public Library. So good. Weird, yet fantastic literature. No one drowns. And there's even a little sex. Nice. It's not polite, politically correct or overly verbose.

Throw in a little Rigoletto and some cabbie-boyfriend-murder mystery, and you've got yourself quite the subway read. Good on you, Ms. Baillie!

Maybe she's not Canadian-born...but we are nothing if not creatures of habit, routine and the ubiquitous comfort of monotony. Perhaps the predictability and routine of Can-lit exists to cater to our innermost desires - so deeply embedded that we have no clue they're there.

If that's not targeted marketing, I'm not sure what is.

Until next time, blogging friends. Latest library booty in hand, I'm off for a good snuggle, and a good read...

Monday, March 8, 2010

The Eager Beaver Archaeology Co.

Hello, nameless friends out there...

I have arrived, once again, to submit my thoughts to the cyber void...may they offer you something of value.

First of all, let me take a moment to wish every last one of my fellow chromosomal XX buddies out there, Happy International Women's Day! Thank you, to all of you women out there, taking care of business, sisters doin' it for themselves!

The next time you use your liquid paper, basic computer programming codes, or flat-bottomed paper bag (to name only a few...), remember that all of these things are made possible, for you, me and man-kind alike by women. So, not only has a woman made it possible for you to exist in the first place, we've also facilitated things that make your existence about a trillion times easier.

Necessity is the Mother of invention, indeed!

Man, I feel like a woman - hear me roar!

That's my little contribution to the Feminist movement for now.

Moving on...

Today is a beautiful, lovely sunny day.

The sun is setting over our living room, and the fragrant aroma of my husband's latest cooking venture wafts forth to me.

It is nearly Rockwellian in its domestic perfection. And yet - what am I doing? Blogging; to no one in particular, because no one really reads these things. Do they?

The excitement of yet another academic quarter looms. And yet - is it really excitement, or am I deceiving myself? You know what they say, "if you can convince yourself, you can convince others". Who are they anyway? And where do they get off saying such prolific things?

Perhaps I will do some poking around to see who they are. If I find out, I will surely post it here.

I wrote last night. As I am sure that you can see. And I got to thinking about the signifigance of the diary. Highly prized within our culture - a person's first hand account of every dirty little secret you can't find out during conversation around the watercooler. But are they really?

Consider 1,000 years from now. Some bright-eyed, Eager Beaver archaeologist digs up the ruins of what used to be your ultra moderne loft/studio/domecile en vogue. And among it, she finds your journal ('diary' just sounds so....childlike, doesn't it?). What would she discover about you? That you secretly (or maybe not so) coveted thy neighbor? Or that quasi-homosexual experience in college?

By the way, whatever it is that you're thinking of with that flushed smile on your face, it probably counts.

And what value would it have for the people that follow us? Would they learn from us - not to do the things that we learned to be so ashamed of that we kept it secret? I doubt it. In reality, there are just some things that are part of human nature, that cannot be unlearned, irrespective of how many times we learn the lesson.

Blogging exists for the same reason that 'social networking' does. We post our woes and wait for people to validate our experience or our thoughts. We wish to be remembered. To have a witness to our lives. We would like someone to say, "your life will not go unoticed because I will notice it. It will not go unwitnessed, because I will witness it."

But, as Ann Beattie said: "The problem with diaries, and the reason that most of them are so boring is that every day we vascillate between examining our hangnails and speculating on cosmic order" (Picturing Will, 1989).

It is my hope that if ever the Eager Beaver archaeologist may stumble upon my oh-so-mature journal and not diary, that I've left something worth reading.

I guess now that I've contemplated the cosmic order of things, I can successfully move on to my next task: a thorough examination of my hangnails. Stay tuned for a thorough report!

Until next time, virtual friends...

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Holy multimedia, Batman!

Hello, to all of you out there!

Thanks for tuning in for today's program, "Musings from the "educated" mind..."

First, thanks and preamble...

Ten pages of mind-numbing drivel later, here I sit. Ready to proclaim that, against all odds, I finally finished that God forsaken paper! Praise be to professors who accept electronic submissions!

I really should have finished that paper days ago - there was really nothing substantiative to it... not like it's research, or anything. I did, however take frequent breaks to play around with my favorite social networking page, send a few pontificating, yet generally useless e-mails and to follow some new and interesting blogs.

And now it's time for..."Greetings, Props and Validation of Others!"

Hello, to all my new and exciting blogspot friends out there! Thanks again, to seeallywrite for yet another thought-provoking blog entry...

Which got me to thinking...

There are literally hundreds of thousands of blogs out there. And some people have two. Two? Really? What could you possibly have to say that would warrant submission and upkeep for two blogs? I understand that this is really a lot of the pot calling the kettle black. Because, here I sit, submitting and upkeeping my very own blog. But seriously?

So, I guess the $64,000 question is, "what do I do to distinguish my blog from the other hundreds of thousands of other blogs out there?"

This is of course to say nothing of the fact that the contents of some are intensely personal. Think size, color and frequency of your last twenty bowel movements. Then add some male pattern baldness, a few Bible verses to help you cope. It makes me wonder where exactly all those journals, diaries and sparkly pens have gone.

You remember your diary, don't you? The princess and/or superhero adorned notebook with the cheap lock that your brother routinely broke into? And of course you remember feeling the outrage and humiliation of knowing that now everyone, absolutely everyone knows (insert teenage trauma of choice, here), and you'll never, ever get over it!

Where exactly has the written word gone? Why is letter writing, journalling suddenly considered avante garde?

When my husband and I were courting (such an old word, isn't it? An old word for such a young lady...), I wrote him nearly every day. And to the people around me, it just seemed so...odd. Why write, when you could e-mail or call? The information is there instantly. Immediate gratification and information sharing. But then, every once in a while, I will catch him in a private those old love letters. The ones that smell of my perfume, and have travelled thousands of miles - to assure him that in spite of our separation, I carried him everywhere with me in my heart.

So, what to make of these new cyber-journals, e-love notes and 'social networking' pages? Do these mediums, while faster and likely more efficient, contribute to the kind of connections and intimate relationships that we want to make with one another as a global community? Or do they contribute to the isolation and loneliness that we feel as individual members of a faster, more efficient culture?

I shall wait here, with baited breath, for your comments. This, in turn should serve to electronically validate my thoughts and my personality (via my writing), which would save me from investing my own time and energy in ensuring that I am secure enough in myself not to need them in the first place.

Thanks to all of you in advance...

See you then. Same Bat time, same Bat channel.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Let your freak flag fly!

Hello... to no one in particular...

I've been thinking about my previous post from this morning. A little grayer and more mortal than I was hoping for.

Procrastinating with my useless, mind-numbing homework, I have been watching youtube videos.

I came across (via a complete stranger - don't we all love the internet!) a version of "Curious George", that I had never seen before. Watch it here: http// You can also watch the 'Madeline' video here: http//

I have no idea who Werner Herzog is, and perhaps I should. Maybe that is part of the joke. But whoever this clever young fellow is (the person in the video is not really him, just what appears to be an approximation), he has given me pause for thought and reflection.

Who doesn't like that?

Perhaps it is the particular frame of mind that I am in at the moment, but there seemed to me, particular portions of each of these readings (there was yet another, this time covering "Madeline"), that seemed to resonate with me. Perhaps I am missing the humor and seeing what I want to see. This is always a possibility. Who knows? Sometimes, I am far too smart for my own good.

Showing them to my dear, lovely husband, I could see a look of sheer confusion on his face, why I would think that this was funny. So it is entirely possible that I could be taking something that is simply meant in jest, completely out of context.

But there was something that struck with me. There was a piece read about approximations of manhood, and trying to be what we never can, no matter how hard it is that we try. Yet we are all bombarded with these kinds of messages on a daily basis, that we need to be something other than ourselves - that what we are in our natural, organic form is inherently lacking. To cover up what we are in order to maintain airs.

Olkin talks about this in her theories relating to disability and ability: that disabled people are sent messages that they need to occupy one of two spheres of thought: the 'supercripple' who does anything and everything...who's disability is a non issue, or the 'helpless handicap' who needs help from everyone just to function as a living, breathing being.

Yet, it makes me think of other marginalized groups, and the discussion around trying to be something else, because that's what they're told - via society, and its values and morays - yes, I am talking about all of you WASPs out there, and I am pointing my finger at you! Society says that we should be just like all of you. Don't deny it. Society's a bitch, but she never lies. But if we are not like you, ie. disabled, then there is something wrong with us, and we need to find a way to make ourselves more palatable to the rest of you.

Like 'seeallywrite' said for example, in her blog: 'we place able bodied people in roles depicting disability to remind you that it's not real', merely pretending - to make the thought of your own inevitable deterioration and death more palatable to you.

I applaud those of you who are so willing to buck the norm, and to let your freak flag fly. Be loud, be proud. We are out here, and we are listening.

This is not a dissertation nor a position statement regarding the need for increasing diversity and celebrating the cultural mosaic of our tossed salad landscape.

I'll leave that to persons better appointed to comment on such matters.

What is it then? I'll let you know when I have the answer...if you think you might have it, then by all means please share...

Still missing the point...

Sitting here sipping home made cappucino, made by my beautiful husband, I've been wondering...

When did fake disability = art?

I read Just Another Crooked Step Forward's blog "Well, there goes that" yesterday. The message resonated with me so much that I posted a link and a comment to my social networking page yesterday, with the following comment:

"...used to think that I was the only one (or one of the few) who thought that the whole 'fake disability = art' concept was complete and total audacity, artistic mediocrity. Thank you to those of you who speak out against the artistic objectification of disabled people."

In response, I get half a dozen comments about how "inspiring" I am, and it infuriates me! Why am I amazing to you, simply by virtue of existence? The very act of breathing in and out is cause for shock and awe.

Off ramp for "The Point"? You missed it! Quelle surprise, ici!

Oh, for God's sake, give me a break!

Could it just be that my merely being alive reminds you that you may die, or become terribly maimed and/or disabled at any moment? And of course, being the naturally self-preserving creatures that we are, we spend copious amounts of time denying our mortality and putting the reality of increased likelihood of illness with age at the back of our minds. And here I am, rolling around like the Grim Reaper in pretty clothes. How DARE I?

At first pass, I am sure you would say, "no, that's not it, really it isn't. I'm just impressed by what you do!" Well, thank you for the backhanded compliment. What I hear you say is that you're relieved I'm doing it, because you don't have to. I think about access ramps and wheelchair repair so you don't have to.

What a magnanimous deed I am doing on the part of Humanity. God, that IS inspiring! Hand me a tissue.

But ask any person what their biggest fear is around death and dying, and they will all say, "no pain, no long drawn out illness. I just want to die in my sleep."

Yes, you want to be fully healthy and whole. When you're dead. Well, in case you weren't aware, all funeral homes and crematoriums are fully wheelchair accessible.

Friday, March 5, 2010

The blogging virgin pops her cherry...

Hello out there to all you cyber-spacers...

I've officially just become one of those sad people, who are at home blogging instead of living up to the stereotypes of my generation on a Friday night.

My mother would be so proud!

What do you write in one of these things, anyway? I have no over-arching theme or driving force in life that will dictate what is written here.

Or maybe I do and I just don't know it yet.

Time will tell, I guess.

Until then....