Thinking Outside The Blog

Confession time. When I started this blog, I was angry. Angry about uneven pavements that may or may not have dog-shit on them. Angry about inaccessible buildings and accessible toilets being used as storage cupboards.  Because, if you keep a damn fridge in there, it becomes  inaccessible. Angry about being called a ‘wheelchair’ on the bus, and always having to say: There’s a person in it, too.

I wanted to write about all of that, and my boyfriend and my cat.

I wanted to write about the frustrations and the fun times and connect with people who could relate on any level. I also apparently wanted to post photos of coffee.

I wanted to write stuff and always know where it was. I also have pages in filing cabinets, and purple notebooks and green notebooks and teal notebooks. I have five different novels on three different computers. I have lines on receipts and envelopes. The blog is less dusty. But maybe no less coffee-stained.

I blogged when I got engaged, and when I gave my cat to my friend. I blogged when my Dad got cancer.

I still wanted to connect with people, and now we have more levels to choose from (!)

I’m not the pissed off person who started this blog. Sure, I’d like uneven pavements evened out, I don’t want to have to drag out a mop and bucket to pee. Although, that might be useful if there’s no accessible toilet at all.

I’m still referred to as a ‘wheelchair’ on the bus, but the person using  it has places to go. Sometimes, to work. Lately, to wedding dress fittings. Could be worse.

Which brings me to something new I’ve been thinking about for the blog. Guest posts. There will be a blogging hiatus happening while I get married and honeymooned. This I promised myself. And Sarge.

When I get back, and possibly while I’m away, I’ll be looking for guest posts from:

Disabled people who see the funny side of living with a disability.

Parents raising their disabled children to be adults who see the funny side of living with a disability.

Disabled parents (allow me to project a little.)

PS. Blogging hiatus will be from June 8^th to July 1. I’ll come back married with more stories, including travel journals of Bruges and Barcelona. And a wedding post. Or two. Of course.

PPS. While I love real stories, I’m not into sharing inspiration porn.

3. Email creativeconnection(at)gmail.com if you’re interested in writing a post for Gin & Lemonade.

Thanks,

Lorna

Post idea from: my brain and The Daily Post.

Appearing Elsewhere: The Outlier Collective

And so, I’ve posted on The Outlier Collective about banned books.  Apparently.

It’s not my best work.  I may have said as much to Madame Weebles.  I used other words to convey this message.  Of course.

It’s basically me going:  Banning books is bad,  mnkay?  Don’t dooo it.  (Unless it’s The DaVinci Code.)

However.  There are a few choice lines.  Go see if you can figure out what they are.  I’ll wait.

I thought I’d share a list of reasons I could not get beyond: The DaVinci Code is teh sux.  I  didn’t actually say that.  But it is a completely valid argument.

Anyway, for last week at least, this is why I’ve lost the power of blog:

Reason, GIANT:  It’s been Wedding-Planning Central around here recently.  More on that soon.  Or is that moron?

Reason, Medium: I’ve actually been concentrating on non-blog lines and new ventures.

Reason, OK, well.  That, too:  I wrote the post in two sittings, which I’ve found is never a good idea. Stay in the seat.  Even when you don’t want to.  Write through the bullshit, people.

My Dad Needs A Blog

I’ve been trying to get my Dad to start a blog for awhile now.  Or at least guest-post on here.

Dad needs to blog for lots of reasons.  The main one being, dude is too verbose for Facebook.  Today, he posted this:

32 years ago today – 31.03.81 @ 12:50 local time in Dallas, Texas – life changed forever. It was the happiest day of my life. After two weeks of very early and difficult labour, my wife and I finally made into the delivery room for a C-Section. It’s a girl, the doctors said. For a fleeting moment I was slightly disappointed; I thought I had wanted a boy. A few moments later, a nurse said, “Well, Dad, you’re going to be doing a lot of this so you better get used to it,” as she handed me a tiny 3lb 12oz wrinkled bundle of pure love, joy, beauty and peace named Lorna Karen Duff. She looked like a wee organ grinder’s monkey because she had a tiny Dixie Cup taped askew on her head to keep her from pulling out her IV and she fit quite snugly into my left hand. We were bonded together instantly and I really, truly believed that even then, in those very first moments, we understood one another completely. 32 years later I still do.

That little Read More… line that showed up on his post made me cry.  Because that’s me.  And that’s my Dad.

He needs a blog, right?  How many of you would read it?

My Dad, sometime before I showed up. We have the same happy face.

Gone Fishin’

Later today, I’m heading to Skye in a flatbed truck.  Yes, really.  I’ll come back with several blog posts that started out in my journal.  And I’ve also packed my travel notebooks, so stay tuned for lots more words.

For now, my previous island escapades can be found here and here.

And with that, I promised Sarge I’d shut down the computer.  In exchange for a fully-booked honeymoon by the end of the week.  Sweet deal.

Back on Monday the 25th.

Have a most excellent week, people!

Meet Truman

In an update on Coffeegate 2012, say hello to Truman Bubbles:

Sarge set him up with a celebratory marshmallow.

As you can see from the photo, Truman comes with a very safe, very wireless keyboard.

(The marshmallow was consumed very soon after this photo was taken.  I was worried about sugar-damage.  ’Have you learned nothing?’ I said to Sarge.

Regular blogging will resume tomorrow.  Right now, I must type up the pages of my handwritten Nano novel .

The name is in honour of Truman Capote.  The middle name suggested by Madame Weebles.

Please make Truman feel welcome, he’s a little shy.  I’m sure he’ll get over it.

I Blame Texas. But Not Really.

I like music.  I love music.  I greatly esteem music.  The first site I crank up on any given morning is last.fm.  (Spotify has too many ads.)  Even before facebook.  Or real-life coffee.  That’s big.

While my musical taste is kind of eclectic, my first music-love is country.  I love it down to the ground.  Or the red dirt road.

I know it isn’t cool to admit to liking country.  At least for me, growing halfway up on Long Island, New York.  I’ve heard all the country music jokes.  And I actually think this one is funny:

What happens if you play country music backwards?

Your wife returns to you, your dog comes back to life, and you get out of prison.

But that’s the difference between laughing with and laughing at.

I blame Texas.  But not really.  Because I’m not ashamed to say I like country.  And anyway, it’s not my fault.    I was born in Dallas, and according to my father, country music was all that was played at the hospital during my stay.  Funny, that.

After they sprung me, the first song I actively remember was You Are My Sunshine, as sung by my Grandparents.  To this day the Johnny Cash version makes me cry.

As I got older, I remember the local country station blasting out of the windows of my father’s Blazer.  I am a Garth fan from way back.  And I got a standing ovation after lip-syncing Kathy Mattea’s Eighteen Wheels and A Dozen Roses for my third-grade talent show.  Complete with suede-tasseled cowboy boots.

The best love songs are country love songs.  As a teenager, I would listen to a bunch on repeat, wondering what it would feel like when the lyrics to the happy ones actually meant something to me.  I’ve since figured that one out.

When I left for Uni, it was The Dixie Chicks blasting out of my Dad’s car windows.  When I got there, I’m kind of ashamed to say I began to use my CDs as coasters.  A bunch of them don’t play anymore.  I blame myself.  And Peach Schnapps.

These days, Sarge keeps his CDs well away from me, and that’s OK.  He doesn’t like country and I don’t like most of his music.  It’s healthy for couples to have different interests.

If my music is on when he gets home from work, he might greet me by saying:

‘Is it raining?’

‘No honey, that’s the song.’

Take last week for example, I had shut down the computer for the day and the house was too quiet.  The silence drove me to download a song on my phone.  It’s the first song to live in my phone.  (I don’t have an ipod/earbuds for the same reason I don’t wear contacts.  Because why would you voluntarily poke yourself in the face?)

Anyway, I might have been playing my downloaded song when Sarge got home from work.

‘The hell is that?’

‘I downloaded a song.  I’m working on my wedding music choices.  The .69 is a wedding expense.’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘Hey, country has Celtic roots.  Be nice or I’ll play it again.’

This was the song.  Kinda my new favourite:

Do you like country music?  It’s OK if you don’t.  Bless your heart.

PS.  This is my 200^th post.  If you’ve ever wondered why I ramble on here, I blame Texas.  But not really.

PPS.  This post does not imply that if you are from Texas, you must love country music.  But if you are, and you do, hi.

The Oma Does Edinburgh

You may remember that we have a house guest. We’ve taken him out with us almost everywhere since his arrival.

Here is photographic evidence of The Oma’s adventures so far:

In my bag, ready for the pub.

Hugging some cider at Sofi’s:

Offering me a rose. Possibly drunk here:

Zombie coffee is good for hangovers:

More coffee at Artisan Roast.  He appreciated the signage:

Perusing Festival posters:

And enroute to a bookshop. His hosts didn’t buy any books. He wanted some postcards. No such luck.

In the middle of a celtic-knotted compass in The Meadows:

Posing in front of The Usher Hall.  Probably wondering if they need any robot guitarists.

Trying to blend in with the furniture at Frisky, after enjoying some of their frozen yogurt:

Maybe it was a sugar-high, but he was very happy to get to Edinburgh Castle:

And even happier to to see the Scottish flag: 

Here he is having a moment outside The Scottish Parliament:

And then Sarge took The Oma and George up Arthur’s Seat.

The boys go hillwalking:

And to prove they made it down from there…

We took The Oma to the movies.  To see Ted.  We thought it was appropriate somehow.

Some notes on the photos:

They are a joint effort.

Sarge climbed hills to get some of them.  He loves me that much.

The Oma reminds you to drink responsibly.

For more on The Oma’s adventures, please visit:  The Oma Today Project.

Stay tuned for:  The Oma Does Glasgow and The Oma Does Newcastle.

Two Years Of Shots

Today is Gin & Lemonade’s second birthday.  My move from Glasgow to Edinburgh is not so recent any more and I no longer have a cat who thinks she’s a dog.  I don’t even have a boyfriend, because he’s now my fiance.

A few days after I posted my first blog birthday post, I dumped some coffee on Hemingway and he left me.  And then he came back.  Since then things have gotten weird and more weird.

While I’m still trying to make the world a more accessible place, it isn’t my day job any more.  I’m looking for another one of those. But I still think Shakespeare is overrated.

This has been an interesting year, so far.  I proposed to Sarge, and then my Dad got cancer.  Dad celebrated our engagement by wearing a beard hat and burning stuff.  Including cancer cells.  And I missed my grandparents.  Some things never change.

Sarge and I went venue shopping, and tried to make our own invitations.  The only thing we made was a mess.  We sent away for them, and Dad might be writing them out as I type.

So, that happened.  And I blogged about it.  I’d like to thank you for being there to celebrate with me, worry with me, and celebrate again.

I can’t wait to see what happens next.

Most posts start out in notebooks. These are full. Time for new ones.

George’s New Friend

George Bailey-Penguin has a visitor.  The Oma has arrived!

This is the first card with his name on it, too. He’s growing up.

 

They seem to like each other.

Dude, whose idea was this?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For more info on the Oma, visit The Oma Today Project and Hippie Cahier.  Yes, that does rhyme.

Stay tuned for:

The Oma Does Glasgow

and

The Oma Does Edinburgh

Will Do Kegels For Cheesecake

Some more maybe not-so-little known facts about me:

I have a serious problem with spending money in places that don’t have accessible toilets, or  anywhere I have to move furniture to get around.  I engage Go Go (or not) Gadget Camel if the place sells books or cheesecake.  I’m weak.

Current obsessions include: Yankee Candles, escapist books, my father’s incredible shrinking tumour, episodes of Roseanne (before they won the lottery) and wedding blogs.

The highlight of my day yesterday was finding a bright orange mop you can throw in the wash.  I was immediately reminded of this.

I need a holiday.  Obviously.

I have one regret.  It is purely academic.  Really.

I want to open a bookshop and hire myself to work in it.

Popcorn is sacred.  And a food group.

I miss the days when people went down the street without texting or taking a photo.  Just live.

As I was saying, I recently took this:

On the way home from the train station.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Most of my actual writing these days happens in the green notebook Dad gave me.  While listening to Fleetwood Mac.  The notebook isn’t finished yet.  I should work on that.

Post inspired by the people behind 12 Books in 12 Months, Coffee and Chaos and The Terrain of Symmetry.  Because they kinda asked for it.

So, what would you do for cheesecake?