I went to restock my supply of candles last weekend. Yes, I’m a candle guy. Let’s not dwell on that part of the story. Anyway, one of the scents I picked out was Asian Pear. Honestly, it smells so good, but that’s not the point.
When I got up to the register, the lady at this shop told me that she had recently been told that they need to come up with a new name for the “Asian Pear” scent, because that is insensitive. I laughed out loud. What in the world has gone wrong? Are Asian people no longer Asians? Are American people no longer American?
The world has turned upside down with indignation for the stupidest of things and I’m not having it. The scent will forever be Asian Pear at my house, come over and have a smell if you have time.
By the way, Asian Pears are considered superior to your everyday American Pear, according to pear connoisseurs. Maybe that will make the word police feel better.
Happy Mother’s Day weekend to all who celebrate. I’m even pulling for the crappy moms to get it together eventually.
My mother has been gone for 10 years this year; she was a good one. The years have allowed me to appreciate the nuances of her life. She was born Eleanor Kennedy. We were not from the rich, aristocratic Irish Kennedy’s. More like the Scottish version of the working poor.
Anyway, she was smart and sarcastic and had lots of accolades that belong in an obituary, but I like thinking about the day-to-day nuances of her life.
She was allergic to alcohol. I’m not kidding. Literally would start sneezing and get red eyed at the first sip of alcohol. She spent her mid-life crisis years trying to survive as a single mom, leaving her to raise a slightly deranged teenage daughter and a precocious pre-teen son. That lady deserved to be able to drink, life’s not fair sometimes folks.
I made up the “precocious” part about myself. On the autistic spectrum is the term they’d use in present day parlance, but who’s keeping track? Probably would have qualified for some decent meds if they had investigated that avenue of treatment at the time. Instead, I think they just opted for the “let’s hope he grows out of the weird” method.
Later in my life, my mother and my stepfather would joke that they wondered what was wrong with me until I was about 15 and I left the house one day and hardly ever returned beyond sleeping there most nights. I’m not sure laughing about that is appropriate parenting, but it’s funny now.
I’m thankful for everything she gave me like sarcasm, keeping it real view of life and a love for Big Macs but I’m most grateful that she did not give me her alcohol allergy, which would have not worked out well for me. #Blessed
Honestly, if you don’t like candles, we can’t be friends. I fire up a candle each morning like Willie Nelson fires up a fatty. My day is not complete without burning some paraffin. Don’t judge me, it’s my coping mechanism and safe place.
My pronouns remain he, him and “hey you.”
(Guy Speckman can be reached drinking a beer in celebration of Mother’s Day)
