I was a slightly ticked off the other night when a couple of people I consider friends started speaking in a homophobic manner. They're nice people, really, just that they've been raised to believe that being gay is somehow a choice and wrong and that it goes against God, or whatever. But to be honest, I don't think there's ever a good reason for discrimination.
There are very few things I can't tolerate, but one of them is prejudice. To me, being homophobic is right down in the bottom of the junk pile with being racist. You're judging someone based on elements of themselves that are beyond their control, are not in any way inferior, have no bearing on your own life and are, quite frankly, none of your business anyway.
I hate saying something because it can lead to conflict. And I hate conflict as much as I hate the idea of tearing off my toenails with a butter knife. So, like, a lot.
But I said something. I had to say something. Not because I want to be right, but because I firmly believe in everyone being treated equally. I don't normally get preachy, but if you're going to tell me your opinion I'm certainly going to give you mine in return. And you're going to like it, of course, because it's my opinion.
Okay. Maybe not. I don't think I changed any views at all. I have superpowers, but one of them is not the power of persuasion. I wish it was because I could score so much more free coffee and maybe even some cash. Convincing someone that they'd like to get paid nothing to feed me organic grapes all day would be nice, too.
Next time I pray to accept the things I cannot change, I'm also going to ask for a grape feeder.
But I don't just talk the talk. I'm not one of those I'll-save-the-earth-in-my-Hummer type people. Generally speaking, Geekster and I make a point of surrounding our family with very open-minded people. I think it's good for the gremlins to get a healthy dose of different in their lives, lest they be blinded by my greatness and think that being like me is the only way to truly be alive (it's a curse). Or, worse, they start to think that the Anglo-Saxon, heterosexual family with 1.8 children and a Volvo parked in front of a bungalow is all they can expect from adulthood*.
One such open-minded soul is Jobthingy. In some ways we have a lot of things in common: we're both women of about the same age (which is my way of not mentioning my three year headstart), we both have children with special needs (and have tried numerous times to make Speedy and Intrepid's betrothal legitimate, but Canada thinks we're being archaic. Whatever.), and we both blog. On the other hand, she drinks wine and I drink sobriety, she uses more swear words in an afternoon than I use in a month, and she's very proud of her boobies in a way that I will never be of my saggy eggsacks. Er, I mean, my beautiful, milk-making life-givers. (Must remember that I'm a postpartum doula and thus have a standard to uphold.)
But, we do love breakfast followed by lattes, and this is what we do best when we're together. When Jobthingy and I hang out on those too-rare occasions, we head to Rockin' Johnny's (a 50's style greasy spoon diner) followed by coffee for us and trains for Spawnling at the nearest mammoth bookstore. It may sound like a lame morning, but it's awesome. One of my favourite outings, actually.
Yes, I am really lame. I know. I have three kids. It's not like I get out much, ok?
Jobthingy's moms are a happily married couple and great people to boot. So it goes without saying that neither of us batted an eye when, surrounded by trains, puzzles, ride-on toys and hundreds of children's book titles, Spawnling picked this little beauty to leaf through:
You can't see it very clearly in the celly pic, but the title of the book is BOYS! BOYS! BOYS! and it's filled with all the prettiest young men you can imagine: the Jonas Brothers, Zac Efron and all the other hearthrobs of this millisecond.
Not being concerned over my children's sexual orientation can be quite liberating. For, instead of nervously grabbing the book, slamming it back down on the table and marching Spawnling over to the nearest Tonka section in hopes of smearing him with testosterone, I said "Aww, cute! Jobthingy, he really likes this book. Take a picture!"
And she did. While I still think Zac Efron is too pretty to be a boy, I'm open-minded enough to support Spawn's choices. I'm such a great mom.
Ergo, it will come as no surprise that I was rewarded for my shining example of parenting. For, when I was about to back out of the parking lot after our latte fest, I found a special someone sitting next to me:
Why, hello there Justin. Where did you come from?
Jobthingy looked a little guilty. I'm sure it wasn't because she stole him out of the sticker section of a particular book just so he could be immortalized in my van, gazing at me through his heart frame with gorgeous eyes and five o'clock shadow. That would be wrong, and I couldn't possibly accept him as a gift if he were stolen.
I'm thinking he probably fell into her shoe as she was placing Spawnling's favourite book back before we left. Yeah. That's it. And then when she came into the van she noticed he was there and had no idea where he had come from. She assumed maybe he was one of her daughter's stickers that had somehow gotten misplaced in her footwear and thought giving him to me made more sense than bringing him home, lest he get lost again.
That's far more plausible and much more honest. And, damnit, I'm open-minded enough to believe it.
So, Justin Timberlake, AKA my boyfriend (and quite possibly Spawnling's) has been living happily in my van ever since. It's nice in there, minus the bitter cold. But once I climb in he knows all that frostbite was worth it.
* A note to any Anglo-Saxon, heterosexual families who may be reading my blog: I'm sorry if I offended you in any way. I'm sure your 1.8 children are quite lovely (is the second one missing its arms or something? Is that why it's not considered an entire child?) and I happened to have lived in a bungalow myself for several years. Also, I hear Volvos are very safe and get good gas mileage. I might like to own one when I have that kind of money. Must get to work on that persuation superpower...
There are very few things I can't tolerate, but one of them is prejudice. To me, being homophobic is right down in the bottom of the junk pile with being racist. You're judging someone based on elements of themselves that are beyond their control, are not in any way inferior, have no bearing on your own life and are, quite frankly, none of your business anyway.
I hate saying something because it can lead to conflict. And I hate conflict as much as I hate the idea of tearing off my toenails with a butter knife. So, like, a lot.
But I said something. I had to say something. Not because I want to be right, but because I firmly believe in everyone being treated equally. I don't normally get preachy, but if you're going to tell me your opinion I'm certainly going to give you mine in return. And you're going to like it, of course, because it's my opinion.
Okay. Maybe not. I don't think I changed any views at all. I have superpowers, but one of them is not the power of persuasion. I wish it was because I could score so much more free coffee and maybe even some cash. Convincing someone that they'd like to get paid nothing to feed me organic grapes all day would be nice, too.
Next time I pray to accept the things I cannot change, I'm also going to ask for a grape feeder.
But I don't just talk the talk. I'm not one of those I'll-save-the-earth-in-my-Hummer type people. Generally speaking, Geekster and I make a point of surrounding our family with very open-minded people. I think it's good for the gremlins to get a healthy dose of different in their lives, lest they be blinded by my greatness and think that being like me is the only way to truly be alive (it's a curse). Or, worse, they start to think that the Anglo-Saxon, heterosexual family with 1.8 children and a Volvo parked in front of a bungalow is all they can expect from adulthood*.
One such open-minded soul is Jobthingy. In some ways we have a lot of things in common: we're both women of about the same age (which is my way of not mentioning my three year headstart), we both have children with special needs (and have tried numerous times to make Speedy and Intrepid's betrothal legitimate, but Canada thinks we're being archaic. Whatever.), and we both blog. On the other hand, she drinks wine and I drink sobriety, she uses more swear words in an afternoon than I use in a month, and she's very proud of her boobies in a way that I will never be of my saggy eggsacks. Er, I mean, my beautiful, milk-making life-givers. (Must remember that I'm a postpartum doula and thus have a standard to uphold.)
But, we do love breakfast followed by lattes, and this is what we do best when we're together. When Jobthingy and I hang out on those too-rare occasions, we head to Rockin' Johnny's (a 50's style greasy spoon diner) followed by coffee for us and trains for Spawnling at the nearest mammoth bookstore. It may sound like a lame morning, but it's awesome. One of my favourite outings, actually.
Yes, I am really lame. I know. I have three kids. It's not like I get out much, ok?
Jobthingy's moms are a happily married couple and great people to boot. So it goes without saying that neither of us batted an eye when, surrounded by trains, puzzles, ride-on toys and hundreds of children's book titles, Spawnling picked this little beauty to leaf through:
You can't see it very clearly in the celly pic, but the title of the book is BOYS! BOYS! BOYS! and it's filled with all the prettiest young men you can imagine: the Jonas Brothers, Zac Efron and all the other hearthrobs of this millisecond.
Not being concerned over my children's sexual orientation can be quite liberating. For, instead of nervously grabbing the book, slamming it back down on the table and marching Spawnling over to the nearest Tonka section in hopes of smearing him with testosterone, I said "Aww, cute! Jobthingy, he really likes this book. Take a picture!"
And she did. While I still think Zac Efron is too pretty to be a boy, I'm open-minded enough to support Spawn's choices. I'm such a great mom.
Ergo, it will come as no surprise that I was rewarded for my shining example of parenting. For, when I was about to back out of the parking lot after our latte fest, I found a special someone sitting next to me:
Why, hello there Justin. Where did you come from?
Jobthingy looked a little guilty. I'm sure it wasn't because she stole him out of the sticker section of a particular book just so he could be immortalized in my van, gazing at me through his heart frame with gorgeous eyes and five o'clock shadow. That would be wrong, and I couldn't possibly accept him as a gift if he were stolen.
I'm thinking he probably fell into her shoe as she was placing Spawnling's favourite book back before we left. Yeah. That's it. And then when she came into the van she noticed he was there and had no idea where he had come from. She assumed maybe he was one of her daughter's stickers that had somehow gotten misplaced in her footwear and thought giving him to me made more sense than bringing him home, lest he get lost again.
That's far more plausible and much more honest. And, damnit, I'm open-minded enough to believe it.
So, Justin Timberlake, AKA my boyfriend (and quite possibly Spawnling's) has been living happily in my van ever since. It's nice in there, minus the bitter cold. But once I climb in he knows all that frostbite was worth it.
* A note to any Anglo-Saxon, heterosexual families who may be reading my blog: I'm sorry if I offended you in any way. I'm sure your 1.8 children are quite lovely (is the second one missing its arms or something? Is that why it's not considered an entire child?) and I happened to have lived in a bungalow myself for several years. Also, I hear Volvos are very safe and get good gas mileage. I might like to own one when I have that kind of money. Must get to work on that persuation superpower...