the pomegranate tiger

Along the lines of rambling and thinking out loud (my disclaimer regarding any coherent conclusion to this post) , I was reading Rhea's post on The Boomer Chronicles, Lets Ponder Adult Children Who Move Back Home , where she says: I remember as a young adult going back home temporarily after I’d already gone away to college. It was murder for me. It sort of forced me back into ‘child’ mode. Have any of your kids left home, then moved back in? Is it temporary situation, or is it permanent? Why did they move in — were they between jobs, just trying to save money, or to help you out around the house? Any tips on how to make this type of living situation work? . . . and I couldn't help but wonder if this is a uniquely modern-day (i.e. 20th – 21st century) problem, if indeed it is a problem. There was a time when the family home was the family home once and forevermore – until sold or lost through misfortune. Daughters would move out if they married to live with her husband and his...

“Look at those bear feet! They’re bare!” He's looking at me like I'm nuts. He doesn't get it. Not even a groan. He really doesn't get it. Maybe he'll never get it – my weird, off the wall, blurtings - what I think is funny. But he's so nice! Nice guys don’t come around all that often; or if they do, the rest of the package ain’t so hot - the package with wife and two kids. Let's see. He's kind. He's a gentleman. He's gainfully employed. He's single. But - and it's a big but - he has no sense of humour. At least not my kind of humour. I like to laugh. I need to laugh. What if we could never laugh together? What kind of relationship would that be? Don't get me wrong, I don't spend my life thinking everything is full of yuks. I also happen to be a pretty big cry-baby. I cry over practically anything that moves me. Now, that's another thing, he never knows what to do when I cry at a movie. He'll mumble an uncomforta...

Over the past week, I've been thinking a lot about happiness, prompted by two of my regular cyber-haunts: On Sunday Scribblings , the writing prompt, happy ending , provoked eighty-seven responses (at last count) -- some very touching and insightful, some questioning whether they even believed in happiness or happy endings. On a discussion forum, someone posted an open-ended, "The meaning of happiness _______" fill-in-the blank question, giving rise to responses ranging from a simplistic "choose to be happy and you will be happy" to the very specific, "Freedom makes me happy". This was my response: Quote: Noun: happiness 1. State of well-being characterized by emotions ranging from contentment to intense joy; 2. Emotions experienced when in a state of well-being The longer I hang around, the more often I see myself in the above definitions. It's not a constant state – more like fleeting moments that stretch, meld, dissipate, then reappear when I l...

Linda: Why don't you just get rid of it. Jack: What? Linda: That (pointing at his old rugby sweater). You said you'd get rid of it. You were going to take it to the thrift shop. Jack: I'm thinking about it. Linda: What do you mean 'thinking about it'? Either you are or you aren't. Jack: I like it. It's not like I wear it when we go out or anything. What's the big deal? Linda: No big deal. It just bugs me when you say you're going to do something and then don't. Jack: It's comfortable. It's good to have something around that's comfortable. Linda: And what about the new one I bought for you? Jack: That's different. Linda: What's different about it? Jack: It's not as comfortable. Linda: What do you mean not comfortable? Jack: I said "not as" comfortable. It's broken in – comfortable – I can relax in it. It's good for lounging around – when I can't find somethi...

Debra liked the demented, the dark and the surreal. It reflected her personality. From a young age, she’d realized there was no such thing as happy endings. The pursuit of happiness was for the delusional. To the world, she presented a hard, been knocked around, can take care of myself, so don’t fuck with me veneer. She didn’t believe in fairy tales -- unless they were told by Tim Burton. Yet, in the back of her mind, she harboured the faint hope that there might be a happy ever after for her. Of course, she never allowed anyone to see this hopefulness. So, now, here she was lying on a white sand beach. She couldn’t remember how she got there. She looked down at herself. She was dressed all in white; white slacks, white blouse, white pumps. She strained to remember something – anything. It was surreal; a scene from the Twilight Zone. Wasn’t there a scene like this in Contact where Jodie Foster’s character meets her dead father on a beach? Maybe she was dead. Maybe she wa...

All I remember is how I forgot What he was wearing that night In such a rush out the door. No chance for my usual 'Bye-take-care-I-love-you wave. So when they came to ask I couldn't remember. A Two for Tuesdays bonus prompt. For MADD and Dry Grads everywhere.

If left to my own devices – no job or early morning commitments – I'd be up most nights until dawn. I'm a night person. I like the solitude. I like the stillness. I like the wrap-around black coziness and the inky-black eeriness; the disconnectedness that sometimes leads to hidden and surprising insights to my soul. Perhaps, these insights were there all along, submerged below the surface of my daytime consciousness – unable to break through because of the noise and clutter of everyday life. I don't know. What I do know is that those niggling, back of the brain feelings ignored during the day because I'm too busy or too pre-occupied, break out full blown at night. The solution to problems, so unanswerable during the day, becomes obvious and self-evident at night. Thoughts and feelings, long ago forgotten become unforgotten. At night, all things seem possible. The line between reality and dream; conscious and sub-conscious thin and fade in those late-night hou...

Oriental, the opposite of occidental. That’s what I was called when I was growing up (along with some other more colourful epithets) until Asian became the modifier du jour. I’ve never really understood the vagaries and inconsistencies of modifying people by geography. Nowadays, the terms Asian or African, either in hyphenation or not, are used as all encompassing descriptors of people who may or may not have been born or even set foot on said continent. It supposedly indicates one's ancestral origins – no matter how many generations removed. Yet, we don’t call someone European unless they in fact are -- at the present, in this generation -- from Europe. e.g. Someone visiting from Europe or just landed from Italy – in which case we’re just as likely to call them Italian. Let’s look at this scenario: Here is a diverse neighbourhood with a multitude of ethnicities. Most of the families have lived here for several generations. Why do we say that Mrs. Sandhu is South-Asian; I’...

Life Here comes the ball Whizzing down the lane Straight as an arrow To that sweet spot Strike zone. I've got it Feeling good I'm gonna knock it out of the park. Oops, Curve ball. Strike one. Here comes the ball . . . More Sunday Scribblings