Monthly Archives: March 2012

Just another Saturday morning, yes

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Thus far today:

The 7-year-old has her BFF over for a sleepover, so they have been cloistered in her room doing whatever mysterious things they have longed to do since the last time they were able to play together.  Without a doubt this involves Pokemon in some way.

The 6-year-old is still asleep.  Words alone cannot express how grateful we should all be about this, for this is a child who requires sleep and plenty of it.  I fully expect a flash mob to show up at any time to perform a silent dance of jubilation.  If I have any say there will be an homage to Thriller somewhere in it, but nobody ever consults me about these things.

The 4-year-old, nose thoroughly out of joint regarding the cloistering of the older girls, sits on the sofa watching something called Meet The Fairies.  I have tried not to pay any attention to it  because my brain is fully developed and will turn to wobbly mush if exposed to such things, but it sounds Australian.  In fact it sounds like the Wiggles were given an extravagant unicorns-farting-glitter fairyland ensemble and told to run with it.  Run, and run far.

Oh and Grandpa?  Grandpa just came skulking in emitting that strangled meow that signifies death and destruction.  Thus has a black-headed grosbeak met its maker.  RIP, little feathered friend.

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Silly Symphony

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So last night I had the opportunity to take the resident 7-year-old to see the symphony.

Have either of you taken a 7-year-old to the symphony?

We parked a block or two from the venue and walked over to get our tickets.  The symphony was having a special deal for those of us who had attended the show the night before.  Bring back a ticket stub and five bucks and see it again the next day!  The Lovely Rhonda and I had seen it the night before, and since she was at work and couldn’t go again last night, I thought I’d take my kid.  My kid enjoys classical music.  What the heck.

Once we had our tickets we moved on to dinner at a restaurant.  Followed by dessert.  They had this “build your own sundae” for kids.  They bring out a plate with 2 scoops of ice cream, a little dish of sprinkles, a dish of whipped cream, a dish of chocolate sauce, etc.  Oh, and look.  A cone.  A cone which your spastic kid will put the ice cream onto.  With her hands.  After she’d already put chocolate sauce and sprinkles on the ice cream, and now it’s a little melty.

What fun!  I’m just not sure why we don’t do this every day.

The waiter dropped by and had a look.  He then sped away and returned with a fistful of moist towelettes.  I used them up in a blaze of futile glory.  They were moderately useful in that they removed enough dessert from the outside of the child (to include shirt and coat sleeves, which reminds me it’s time to fire up the washing machine, again) such that we were able to leave the table and journey to the bathroom without sticking to nearby diners, much.

Once she could move freely again and there were no obvious clumps of sprinkles adhered to any of her extremities, we returned to the concert hall.  We did this via the light rail train, which is always educational in the extreme.  Last night we learned about the many interesting odors that it is possible to enjoy in an enclosed space, thanks to Homeless Guy and his sidekick Drunken Transient.  My final surviving nose-hair made a break for it as we passed Axe Teen and his dad, Overcompensating Middle Aged Cologne Guy,  in the doorway.

I’m worried now that they (my future nose-hairs) will grow back in all bushy.  Is this how it happens to old guys?  Overexposure to bad smells?  Must I now order a battery-driven “personal groomer/trimmer” and accept my eventual fate?

How was the symphony, you ask?  Well, it turns out that if you take a 7-year-old out at night after a full day at school, her excitement will be able to overcome fatigue for forty-four minutes of Mozart and Saint-Saens, and not one minute more.  She will bury her face in your bosom and slump over the armrest like a sack of cornmeal, once she has abandoned the energetic nose-picking that you will, in abject horror, put a stop to the instant you realize is taking place.  Sadly, this will mean you must head for home during intermission and miss Dvorak’s Slavonic Dances, arguably the best part of the show, but so it goes.  The kid has seen her first symphony.

This is about as political as I get.

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So a while back, Rep. Maureen Walsh (Rep., Walla Walla, WA) spoke very eloquently about why she supports gay marriage.  I watched the video and was moved to drop her a quick note, as I am sure that she would be getting plenty of unpleasant correspondence from certain members of her constituency.  And others.

I neither required nor expected a reply.  I just wanted to let her know how much I appreciated what she said, and the courage it took to say it.

Here’s what I said:

SUBJECT:  Thank you so much
MESSAGE:

Dear Rep. Walsh,

I just wanted to drop you a line about your statements at the gay marriage vote yesterday.  Don’t worry, this isn’t hate mail.

I’m a lesbian, I’ve been out for twenty years (so I guess it’s not a phase).  I live in (the city I live in).  I have a partner who I want very much to make my wife.  We’ve been together for going on four years, and I cannot imagine my life without her.  She is my best friend and the Alpha to my Omega.  We understand each other in ways that I never imagined possible.  We’re ridiculously happy.

We signed up for the “Merry Maids franchise” a couple of years ago, and it was less than satisfying.  We found that we could register by mail or in person.  So much for separate but equal.  Can straight folk get married by filing out a form and mailing it with a check?  Sure it’s convenient, but it doesn’t exactly feel like a momentous, life-changing event to drop an envelope into a mailbox.

We drove to the office in Olympia where it could be done in person.  While we were there, I found, we could also renew a business license.  This isn’t exactly the soul of romance, is it?

Moving on to the other benefits of marriage…  the domestic partnership affords a few of these, but to gain others we have to engage a lawyer and shell out thousands of dollars, and frankly some just cannot be had, for instance on the federal level, survivor benefits and so forth.  We are both nurses, and I would love to get a federal job, but too many benefits cannot be extended to my family (we have three young children between us) for me to consider this.

But to me it’s not about those issues.  It’s about the fact that because one of us lacks a certain anatomical feature, we are told that our relationship is less than normal and not on par with that of a heterosexual couple.  Any two straight folk can get married for any reason they like, financial, sexual, just for kicks.  But we can’t get married for the noblest of reasons.

I know that you know all this, I’m just venting.  All this railing against the system can be a bit wearying.

I wanted to let you know that I found your comments to be touching, very much addressing the heart of the issue, and despite your disclaimer, so eloquent.  I thank you for your support and I want you to know that for every hater who makes hurtful comments to you about your vote and your statement, there are a thousand grateful gays and lesbians who thank God for you today.

Sincerely,
(Me)

Today, I got a reply.  It was brief, but I still appreciated it.  Here it is:

Thank you Debra – You vent beautifully!  Maureen

I don’t want to post a link that might break, but I’m sure that the video will be around for a long while.  You can reach it by googling Rep. Maureen Walsh.

Oh, and the “Merry Maids franchise” refers to a comment she made in her statement, about how much she dislikes the term “domestic partner.”  She said it sounded like a Merry Maids franchise.  For this I love her.