%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| What can I do to make the world a better place? I suppose the first thing I can do is believe that my actions make a difference. I may be one citizen of the world, but I matter as much as the next person. Any carelessness, any thoughtlessness, any apathy, any indifference, any kindness, any recognition, any joy resonates. Both the good and the bad reflect who I am and the footprints I leave in my wake. No man or woman is an island. We co-exist and share this planet. Noticing other people is more than a courtesy. Engaging in conversations invites everyone to share. The give and take of speaking and listening validates our connections, our need to be recognized as a fellow human. No one is completely a stranger. Say hello. Exchange a greeting. This is an effortless way to say I see you, we are here at this place at this moment sharing the same view, the same oxygen, a similar experience. I have spoken with people crammed into the same elevator, the same subway car, the same mountain gondola, the same line waiting to pay for a purchase, the same emergency waiting room, the same corner about to cross a street. The locations and opportunities are limitless. I like these three sayings . Let a smile be your umbrella, everyone smiles in the same language, and if you see someone without a smile give them yours. A grin is universally accepted. It is contagious. Just watch an infant or a child light up when they espy your smile. I believe manners or politeness never go amiss. Thanking someone for whatever they do is the least we can bestow upon them. Every job/occupation serves a purpose and fulfills a vital service. Thank a waitress/waiter. Thank the fuel attendant. Thank the cashier or bank teller. Thank the mechanic, the nurse, the doctor. Holding a door open, pushing a door open, relinquishing a spot in a queue, all are recognized as thoughtful gestures. Acknowledge the civility and pass it on. The niceties are always welcome. 345 words |
| Do I guard a deep dark secret? Am I hiding something? Is there an air of mystery shrouding me? Sorry, and I apologize here because I'm Canadian and I cannot help myself, but I am somewhat transparent figuratively speaking. Nothing in my {normal/i} day to day life has ever warranted a secret. Of course, you have to trust me and take me at my word 'cause if I carried a secret, or who knows, several of them , I would not divulge them. Duh, if I blurt them out then they are no longer secret. As a segue to distract you dear reader I suggest to you that there are many colourful expressions associated with blabbing a confidence.Letting the cat out of the bag refers to revealing something that most would find surprising or unexpected. Spilling the beans is another euphemism for betraying a secret. Both of these sayings allude to messiness and unpleasantness. All of this makes sense. Keeping a secret, or entrusting it to someone is not undertaken on a whim. It is sacred. Whatever the confidence is it is not meant to be broadcast for everyone's edification. All of this serves to remind me of the paparazzi. They live to scrounge and dig up the secrets of celebrities. What they seem to hope for is dirt, the more salacious, the more scandalous, the better. Innuendo and gossip will often suffice. Is there some misguided creed that the public has a right to know? I am just as Jane Q Public as the next person and I do not care what the so-called rich and famous, the beautiful people, the glitterati, whatever, are doing. It is none of my bees' wax. I cannot imagine being hounded and targeted for malicious entertainment. How could who I am with, or what I am wearing, or what I consume, or where I am spotted be anyone's business but my own. So as I wrote before my mini tirade, nope, I have no secrets dark or otherwise and if I should be sitting upon someone else's secret(s) they are not mine to reveal. 350 words |
| Tell about the writer in me? There are so many people plodding along inside of me, tripping, ricocheting, blundering. Not one of them is an expert, but several insist they are qualified and experienced. They've been with me since the beginning and they demand respect. They also tend to pull the seniority card. As would be expected they are not the quiet wallflower types. At times their ruckus is quite distracting. Their communication style is direct and often times shared immediately. Why put off until tomorrow and all that. The take charge writer in me has been lurking since I first learned to write my name. She discovered that letters were not at all random and they served a purpose. With the proper wherewithal letters can be manipulated, manoeuvered, into magnificence. They form incredible words that dance and sing. Words that caress or sting. Words that toy with innuendo or whimsy, humour or mystery. With these words stories may be created. My memory has chosen to store so much personal history, and experiences. It's always available as fodder for the writer. Another persona enjoys unabashed people watching and the observations are offered up for inspiration. The mother in me revels in a treasure trove of child-rearing shenanigans to fuel much of my scribbling. Apparently, the writer in me never sleeps. She never hesitates to force me awake with her ideas, her perfect dialogues, her explicit details. She will nag. She will repeat herself if necessary. She will interrupt until I ris e from slumber to put pen to paper. Sometimes a bit of writing is spontaneous. It flows effortlessly. It is plotted and perceived without planning.At those moments I cannot scribe or type quickly enough. Are we cautious and conservative? What are those exactly? We understand and appreciate humour. Romance is not our forte. Horror is an unknown. Mystery as a genre is appealing. When we attempt to create poetry we tend to write with rhymes. That in itself is a mystery. Why? Myselves do not entertain allusions to grandeur. We just like to write whatever, whenever. 347 words |
Prompt;Favourite Muppet Show character. At this moment the theme song for The Muppet Show is reverberating in my mind. The horns are blaring and the drums are thumping. It is unforgettable like those irrepressible, zany Muppets. I loved, or should I say still love that amusing television program. I can see Gonzo and his ladies, the chickens, wandering on stage interrupting different acts. Kermit is flustered in his attempts to organize and produce t.v. magic. He somehow remains upbeat and serves as the cheerleader/motivator. Fozzie Bear never gave up in his attempts to be a stand-up comedian. Then there's the incomparable Miss Piggy. She did not lack for self-esteem and she barrelled through life certain she was tres belle. The romance that existed between herself and Kermie was far more important to her. How could he resist her magnificence? The band members were cool, hip, laidback. I'm laughing as the Swedish Chef mumbles something unintelligible and tosses ingredients in a frenzy. So, do I have a favourite? Hmmm, maybe. Actually, my favs are two pairs. When I fulfilled my lifelong wish to visit Disneyworld several years ago I toured a replica Muppet theatre. In the balcony the heckling team of Statler and Waldorf held court with their catcalls and insights. They are curmudgeonly seniors and I believe realistic.Opinionated does not begin to describe them. I appreciate their sarcasm and unabashed observations. I still wear a t-shirt emblazoned with the crotchety duo and this slogan OLD IT SURE BEATS DEAD. My other favourite team are Professor Honeydew and Beaker. Calm, relentless Professor/Dr. Bunsen Honeydew would explain an experiment and poor, hapless Beaker would be the guinea pig/lab rat. Beaker never spoke words, he squeaked with a meep. There was never any doubt he did not like the explosive outcomes. I also wear a t-shirt with the two of them on it. The Muppets may have seemed manic, but the members were a supportive, rag tag team. They co-existed despite their uniqueness. "Blogging Circle of Friends "  [E]  |
| "I don't like this duck," declared Cara as she tossed it to the bathroom floor. "Why, is there something wrong with it?" asked her Mommy. "It's not like this one, " said the girl waving a smiling, bright yellow rubber ducky. Mommy knelt to pick up the bath toy that had skidded across the room and now lay flopped on its side under the sink. "Aww, I think this poor bird is shivering from the cold. Look at how blue he is. Can't he swim in the warm water with you?" The sploshy sounds of splashing ceased. Cara stared at her mother with a frown. "He's not real,Mommy. He's only a toy." "Are you sure about that? I seem to remember that this bird came here on Santa's sleigh and that means he is special." The parent smiled. She could almost see the wheels turning in her daughter's head. Her eyes were focused on something far away and the only noise in the humid bathroom echoed in a steady drip from the tub faucet. " He doesn't look like a pengin." "Excuse me? Penguins do not live at the North Pole." "Ya, huh. I saw'd Santa wit' a pengin. It had those ear things." "Ear muffs?" Cara nodded and pushed the yellow ducky under the swirling bubbles. Darn mall Santas. The North Pole and the South Pole were miles apart. How to confuse a child. Sure they both had snow and ice, but they were polar opposites. "You hear Grandpa singing about the bluebird of happiness don't you?" Cara giggled. "Ya, and he flies up your nose." Mom chuckled. Of course that would be what Cara remembers. "Well, this blue duck is one of Santa's special blue birds of happiness. He gifted it to you so you would have a friend to make you smile." Cara scooped a handful of white bubbles to her chin and grinned. "See? I'm Santa Claus. Give me my blue happy bird." Mommy plopped the blue duck into the bath tub.She groaned when Cara had more to say. "Can I ask Santa for a pengin? He can take his duck back home." 355 words |
| My significant other first and foremost is my partner of forty-six years, my hubby and numero uno, Paul. Since he began a career as a professional driver aka trucker with the requisite periods of away time that in the past could be three weeks, but now tends to be five or six days, the family has referred to him as my roomie/room mate. There have been people who seem puzzled by these absences. Some cannot fathom it and wonder why we bothered to be married. How can this possibly be a relationship? A few, certain they are witty, remark that we are never together long enough to disagree and argue. Still others seem to worry for me and commiserate with my assumed loneliness. How do you do it? This asked with the pitying stares. Isn't it difficult? Paul had not been a long-haul trucker when we tied the knot and dove into the deep end of parenthood. This was a career he adopted long after we made our vows, our commitment to each other. No, I don't believe I forced him into it. Why would he wish for peace and quiet, or a break from me? Sure, I will admit I have my moments as an extrovert who speaks easily with so-called strangers. But so does he. Okay, I like to talk, perhaps ramble, about anything and everything. But his ears have not fallen from their secure perch. His eyes rarely if ever glaze over. I in turn listen to him rant about the idiot drivers that irritate and exasperate him on a daily basis. He tends to enjoy romance or chick flicks while I tolerate them only when he is home. For someone of British heritage Paul does not, gasp, believe Monty Python to be even the slightest bit funny. Recently, he has relented somewhat and reconsidered the antics of Mr. Bean. Grudgingly, he will sometimes laugh at the improbable antics. Now I'm not complaining that my years -long roomie is humour impaired. Perhaps he is more humour delayed or selective. And he has that right. Our three offspring have teased their father that he has no ha ha. Many times they have speculated and wondered about us. I quip that our old man more than proved his sense of humour 'cause he married me. Yes, he still often glowers and shakes his head when the rest of us are as he puts it carrying on. For some reason he does not like to hear that that phrase references classic British comedies. Supposedly everyone has a love language, a method of showing caring, affection, devotion. Paul's love language is a practical one. He has the ability to intuit what someone needs, what will benefit them. Granted, to most couples a tall(er) high profile toilet/commode would never ever in a million years be construed as a romantic token of undying love. After all a toilet is a piece of plumbing common in most abodes. I have difficult knees that have contributed to a lifetime of injuries and corrective surgeries. They balk at lowering me to the normal too-low height of most commodes. One day Paul surprised me with the most wonderful gift. I was alerted that something was up when I heard him dragging a heavy object up the nineteen steps to our apartment. Never mind that we were tenants. Paul had purchased a raised toilet for me and he installed it. Hey, do not pooh-pooh this. When the knees grumble and gripe about every movement and loathe to exert themselves, this porcelain throne is a lifesaver. It has been a gift that endures. As I mentioned I am a klutz, a person still struggling to master the subtle art of walking. Paul knew what he had signed up for when he proposed. We met as high school students in a most unique, funny as in strange manner. I teetered at the top of a staircase clumsy in a plaster encased leg and two wooden sticks some called crutches. Of course, I launched myself into a tumble and the very real possibility of further bodily harm. Paul happened to be passing at the foot of the stairs and he broke my fall. I thanked him profusely for preventing a broken neck and tottered off to my next class. I never dreamed that I'd made an indelible impression, but that chance encounter initiated Paul's curiousity. He created excuses to run into me and eventually worked up the nerve to ask me out. It was then that he revealed he was a competitive pairs figure skater. I had to laugh. Someone who lifted, threw and caught his female partner while they both skimmed over slippery ice had caught me. Huh, who would have believed that. I prefer to tell people that I fell for him despite knowing that I'd fallen on him. What is the harm in semantics? And Paul obviously could recognize serendipity, right? I suppose that after forty-six years we've grown on each other, not like moss, or mould, or a rash, but as two mutually supportive people. I have no plans to trade him in for a newer model.860 words |
As I understand it this prompt is asking if I've ever experienced an earth-shaking life or death situation. My immediate response to this is no. At no time have I ever believed my life to be in jeopardy. Now has my heart simultaneously skipped a beat and hammered in my chest? Has my pulse quickened and thundered in my ears? Have I had to remind myself to breathe? Yes. To say I've experienced more than my fair share of accidents is not an exaggeration. But did I consider that my life was in peril? No. Even as the boat-sized Oldsmobile 98 sedan I was speeding in along Highway 401 veered onto the gravel shoulder, skidded and executed a full two slow motion somersaults before slamming back onto all four of its tires I did not think to be mortally terrified. I was sixteen and impervious to the very real possibility that serious bodily harm or death could have struck me. At no time did I fear this stunt would not end well. What happened happened in the blink of an eye. My life did not flash before my eyes. One minute I was cruising along a major highway and the next my vehicle displayed gymnastic tendencies. At the time I was driving solo and I continued on to my destination without any more mishaps. At this age I also survived two bicycle versus vehicle crashes and again I did not believe I had evaded death. For some inexplicable reason I was certain I would walk away, although in reality I hobbled. In both instances I was the hapless cyclist knocked down by careless drivers. One fellow failed to obey a stop sign and the other admitted to not seeing me as he backed out of his driveway. Sure, I picked up some road rash, scrapes and bruises, but I had endured worst at the age of fourteen. Picture the final day of school and the start of summer recess. I celebrated with a pedal across town to the outdoor pool . Afterwards, I chose to careen down the steepest hill forgoing braking until I'd reached the connecting street. I wiped out on loose gravel and crashed onto asphalt, an unforgiving surface. Besides the inevitable road rash, blooming bruises, scrapes and whiplash I fractured my left thumb and gashed my left shin with a broken wheel spoke. Of course, the possibility of an jury or two crossed my mind as I pitched to the pavement. I could see that end result. Was it earth-shaking? Nah, it was just another experience that I lived to relegate to my string of unfortunate luck, or lack thereof. Many times, too many times, I have tumbled/hurtled down flights of stairs. As I bounce and bump from jarring step to jarring step I curse the new set of injuries I will accumulate. Imminent death doesn't factor into my thoughts. The rough fall is admittedly teeth-rattling, but never life-shaking. The numerous sprains, strains, and fractures are a long way from my heart as a brother-in-law points out. If it is at all feasible that my klutziness or propensity for accidents could be passed on via my questionable genes than my son, Chris, is carrying on my unenviable legacy. He too is no stranger to accidents. As I see it he has endured every scenario presented within a first aid manual. So far, he has avoided life or death situations. At no time has his mortality hung in the balance. He has provided fodder for a few of my stories.
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| WDC how do I love thee? Okay, professing love for a writing site might be a tad over the top and melodramatic. I can and will admit that I like WDC. There are attractions and incentives here. Other like-minded individuals make me feel accepted and validated. I am free and often encouraged to participate as much or as little as I want. There exists a plethora of writing opportunities to entice me, to intrigue me, to challenge me. There's no pressure. If I write, I write. Who doesn't smile and whoop when another writer not only takes the time to read their combination of words, but also crafts a thoughtful review. This is why we play with story lines, descriptions, character development and mold them into our creations. We want to share.We want a connection. We crave validation. I believe most word weavers are also avid readers. We marvel at what others think. It is amazing to discover other points of view. There is no end to imagination. We all are limited by the words that exist, yet we manage to reconfigure them in so many unique ways. I have never been dismissed or disrespected here at WDC. I do not expect my writing to appeal to everyone and as such not every member will endeavor to explore my portfolio. When I am so inclined I enter contests without the expectation of winning necessarily.Win or lose at least I pushed myself to take a chance. Not everything I compose represents my absolute best and not everything translates well, but it is never ignored or denigrated. Writing is an effort to communicate. What I attempt to convey , rightly or wrongly, is my voice. Here, I amWow safe to read and write. WDC nurtures community. Via the Newsfeed members banter and encourage. Post, reply,cheer, commiserate, comment. Support each other. Wow, WDC is 24. When I was twenty-four this site did not exist. It is still maturing. That word contains so many connotations, doesn't it? WDC has a personality, a purpose, a platform. As a young entity it glows with infinite possibilities. 349 words |
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Happy June! May was so fun!
