I always admired the tolerance of my family - you know, that they tolerated my dissension for the family consensus.
The typewriting machine, when played with expression, is no more annoying than the piano when played by a sister or near relation.
The one thing ... maybe no family could tolerate was things coming out into the open.
It wouldn't have mattered to my mother if I married a black, was gay, lived in a commune or wore a dress.
I have differences of opinion within my own family, an Irish Catholic family. So, I do respect those that disagree.
My fans are very forgiving. So are my wives and my kids.
If you don't have some sort of belief system by which to center your life, it's hard sometimes to understand why you would put up with your family.
Liberals subscribe to the new flexible, pluralistic definition of the family; their defense of families carries no conviction.
I'm Muslim but not really. My family did not care. And I always managed to skip religion classes when I was living in the Gulf, even when they were obligatory.
When our relatives are at home, we have to think of all their good points or it would be impossible to endure them.
I could stand on my head and flick the bean right there at the dinner table and my mom would be all, "Honey, Christmas is family time, we should be together" and make me finish in front of everyone.
My parents were pretty cool about letting me listen to whatever I wanted. The only objection might have been playing music too loud.
My parents are kind and accepting. Because so many of my friends were gay, it was just an accepted thing in my house. I was very lucky.
You cannot correct an old person every time they say something offensive. You would never make it through Thanksgiving dinner!
I grew up in the large house and the larger garden of my parents in Altenberg. They were supremely tolerant of my inordinate love for animals.
When its family, you tolerate what you'd kill others for.
I could tell by his expression that once he got over his anger at me for keeping this secret from him, there was nothing left to talk about. He wasn't confused. He didn't need questions answered. He didn't ask why or how or with whom or whether I thought maybe it might just be a phase. He didn't ask who knew and who didn't know or whether I thought it might ruin my career. I was his sister and he didn't care whether I was straight or gay; it simply didn't matter to him.
