Widow's Wisdom

 I know a wealth of widows who have endured bad post memorial dating experiences but who have failed to take a close look in the mirror to see why. Widowhood is an unusual endeavor. It requires wisdom. Besides all of the associated dealings with legal matters, new widows have personal issues in their aloneness. Most are still women under all that black crepe.  While there are some who enjoy their grief and want to wallow in it, Queen Victoria-like, for the rest of their lives, they can sink into their new life-styles and never come out.  Others grab the first man who sallies forth and latch on like Remoras. That can spell emotional disaster when she discovers that the guy is merely a grave-robber and not a keeper.  These sorts read the obits avidly. They consider their work to be a catch and release program. Find. Use. Escape. Then you have the soldiers of fortune who are the professionals preying on widows, especially ladies with a bit of cash. They research their victims. They want marriage sans contracts, the keys to the house, car and safety deposit box as well as the heart. And they know how to accomplish their goals. One of this despicable kind found unwell widows whose happiness with him was short-lived. All five or six, eventually died of natural causes. When scorned by funeral attendees, he satisfied himself by thinking that he had offered his wives generous recompense for his attentions. In short, he earned it.  The last time I saw him in action was while he was tickling up a new victim during a visit to the Alzheimer Home where the current wife was incarcerated.  Despicable, yes, but not illegal. So how does a widow fare? A very good question.

Writing Secrets

Ho and hum. Yet another new book on "how to write". The eight helpful hints are old hat and like a good writer, you merely write the same old same old but with a new twist. Writing is all about twists. I ran with some writing wolves for a short time and during their two day sleep-over session as successful authors, they spent most of it drinking cheap wine and putting out plots more plentiful than the finger foods while dreaming up ways of twisting plots. Let's see "you come down to the hotel bar after a session with your lover and..." Fill that one in. Easy? It's easy to fill in the blank but it's the complications arising from it that befoul the entire plot. Did the spouse enter? Did the lover fall over suddenly with a heart attack? Was the grown offspring sitting in the dark corner table? Did the spouse of your lover enter with a loaded gun pointed straight at your gin and tonic? The number of twists and their implications are innumerable. How to write? My answer would be to sit down and do it. Just let it flow and keep on flowing. Never mind the tense, the spell check, the punctuation for the moment. Let the ideas run rampant. When you're in the mood, you can't go wrong. You'll know when you're done. The last sentence is a lesson in itself. (I know pedants who will go on for hours about the use of "you're done" but it doesn't change a thing.) After reaching the end of the pile of blank paper or page 75, whichever comes first, rip it out, put the pile of pages somewhere and come back the next day. Next session, don't think about what you wrote yesterday, just begin writing and keep on going. Do this until you finally have something meaningful to write about. After all, Erato has been busy in the back of your head ever since you started "writing" and her nagging has set you to wondering about THAT idea. While pouring out random verbiage, your IDEA has been gelling and you are almost ready to begin the tale. You are exercised. The Tale is writing itself. All writing is The Tale, even non-fiction. You are writing for others as well as yourself, therefore, just like you, you want a Tale. You want something that begins and ends so that you can feel satisfied. You start with an idea, let it develop as you go, and then come to a lovely conclusion. The agony of editing comes when it's all done - okay, finished. That is all. That is the secret of writing. As they say in the gym, just do it.

Beware Bars

Bars? Not the wet bars but the ones that people use to fence themselves in and keep others out. Akin to metal bars, they perform the same task. Families are famous for this. I know families who keep their doors open and welcome in non-members to become part of their circle. They are joyous and free with their love. But there are others of a darker kind who imprison themselves behind  close and hard bars so impenetrable  that a butterfly, no matter how elegant, could enter. This tragic fortunately, infrequent breed are proud of their fortresses and work hard to keep their  "traditions" or bars, impervious. Try to enter, try to be invited and you must first be scrutinized closely. If you are a renegade who dares befriend one of their number without their specific approval or you have taken one of the group away as yours, you will be ostracized. The insiders will do all that they can to exclude you. It's tribal law. Nothing stands in their way, not cruelty or gossip or tricks or taunts. They revel in their  exclusivity and make it so difficult for a non-conforming member to engage one of theirs that it may force the opposer to make a choice, them or us.  It is the subject of many a poem, a tale or drama. This kind of thing sounds like a medieval fairy story but when you look around, you see that it is not fictional. The one I am viewing at the moment is fraught with self-designed tradition and not of the good kind.  It  forces the daring  member to suffer a great deal in making a choice. He must either break with them and go to the one he loves or forever lose them. Fairness and justice mean nothing behind the bars of tradition. Protection of their own is what matters.  Yes, it is wrong, possibly immoral, but there seems no law to deny it. Invisible bars are the hardest to pass through.

Stupid Hide 'N Seek

Hide and seek is a classic game that all kids know and have hours of fun with. As children. When adults play it, the game becomes something else. Sheer silliness. Hiding ones eyes to imagine a reality does not exist is ridiculous of course. But it's quite common among adults who have not yet achieved the matter of facing truth and dealing with it up front, the matter of  adulthood and its challenges.  When you are the subject of such "treatment" it is not punitive as your "hiders" might hope and believe, it is  amusing and indeed, rather fascinating if not sad. The longer it goes on, the more difficult it is for the hider to keep up the ruse. It begs the question, how long is this going to take until the "elephant" under the carpet crashes through the floor dragging the whole mess down with it. In my experience, the hiders find it more and more difficult to avoid looking ridiculous as time goes on. And the "victim" must smile  because, when finally the Hide and Seek silliness is broken, who is going to look the more embarrassed and  foolish. Of course it is those who hide their eyes. Perhaps the hiders think their resolve can go on forever but that means only building a wall so high and so long that it cannot be scaled or its end reached. And think of the labour and stress involved in the building and maintaining of such a wall. Grown up hiders need to become seekers. They need to seek a way to take an honest look at what they try to keep hidden and to get it resolved and thus, their fears allayed. Most of what we all fear is ourselves and that one may have to make changes that are not comfortable. We are all hiders but we can be seekers and free our elephants.

Golden Egg Mother Geese

In this era of the elderly living longer and stronger, there is a phenomenon. It's the Mother Goose who has a nest of golden eggs kind. Better called Golden Opportunity by some, it is the matter of mothers, mainly the widowed old lady kind, who are infirm and thus at the mercy of their "chicks". I suppose in this day of unemployment desperation, it is a natural outcome.  Mom and Dad in their lifetimes during the "nice" era, managed through works, mostly steady and loyal, to add up a nice nest egg. In their time, marriage was a lifetime affair, thus there was little wasted effort or funds on the fripperies of divorce, child support for two or more families and the matter of big mortgages and credit debt. There was no "oh well everyone is doing it, so it's okay". Nope. Mom and Dad  had their noses to the grindstone and their hearts joined in togetherness. They gave up "stuff" so they could educate their kids and turn them into what they hoped were successful people. The kids did their best, too, but  times change and jobs are no longer matters of loyalties and promises kept and steady money for savings. Sometimes jobs just end and what your young think and have been told is security, has disappeared. While a few of the young took the so-called "easy way out" and fell into drugs and other escapes, some tried their best but were still left with the burdens of debt and its attendant depression. That is what's called Life, and it isn't easy. Never was. I guess parents thought that, like their lives, everything would fall into place for their young and everyone would live happily ever after. There was a turning point around the late fifties and early sixties that changed everything.  Life became psychedelic whorls that befuddled many who never quite got over it. Only Time can be blamed. But today, some of that generation remain confused about what they were told Life is and what it actually is.  I think, under it all, they blame the fairytale tellers.  "Hey Mom, there are no real teddy bears out here to hug." The other day, I overheard a man of middle age telling his octagenarian  mother that he would love to come and see her more often at the home but his tires are bald and getting balder. What? His mother looked concerned and I could guess she was trying to figure out how much she had in savings to convert his bald tires into shiny new ones so the poor wee chappie could get around. The guys last words were " I hope I can get to see you next week. You have my phone number. Call me if you need help." It wasn't she who needed help. His aged mother, in her rocking chair, was quite comfortable having at last a chance to rest and find peace of mind after a lifetime of work. The poor old Golden Goose was seeing another golden egg having to be plucked from the nest. There are folk who would say, well, why not, she doesn't need it. She's old. She's gonna die soon. The same folks don't understand that what one accumulates in life, is hers, not something to shell out to others who have not learned to fend for themselves. The least they could do, is wait until the poor woman passes on before robbing her or else have the courage to come right out and ask her for a loan of her money to buy new tires and to pay it back in money not weekly visits with a peck on the cheek and a wave bye bye. Golden Geese mothers sharpen your beaks!

Bless the Bimbo

"Her", "That Woman", "The Bimbo"? You know of whom I speak. She's the one that, shall we say, "distracts" using those charms?  She is well adorned to say the least, dresses provocatively and feigns idiocy. Think of The Marilyn. The Bimbo is, like the former actress, far from stupid. No one is speaking of The U Degree here. We are talking about success and although degrees may be included in the package, it takes a good deal more of learning than the academic kind. The poor Bimbo is accused of many evils among which, beauty cannot be included. Her  gifts are perhaps not those of the brain but more of managing her natural talents to effect goals. Take Madam Bovary. No one else did for long. Some Bimbos marry kings. Ann Bolyen had her day as queen, and although she lost her head, she did live in her genes to become the famous and powerful Elizabeth One. The Bimbo while considered to be an escape for wandering males with  dislocated brains,  ought to foster more respect as the perfect people to blame when the candle futters and love grows old and cold. She makes the perfect whipping post. But it offends her not. In fact the Bimbo thrives on her shady reputation. It permits her the freedom to do as she pleases rather than bending to the triteness of conformity. She may flaunt the polka dots and stilletos, give good cause for a Victoria's shop and eat her choclates while admiring her diamonds. The rest of us labour over the ironing board and stove, grinding our teeth about what we don't have that we want. She has it. Furthermore while her reign is short, she is very good at finding other venues for her talents. How many ordinary folk out there are not Madam Bovarys? Besides their experience and training they may have to practice a lot of Bimboism in the job market. Just look around. They are the charmers of the office, the ones who get ahead mysteriously while not actually doing much other than looking good and talking up an irresistible storm. Let's take a few lessons from The Bimbo. She "ain't so dumb"?

Univited Guest

There was to be a wedding. It would be  given by a middle-aged couple, Sally and Dick, who courting and co-habiting,  had in their two years together, saved up enough to "make it legal". The dream day wedding would have the usual costly long white dress, a collection of elder bridesmaids and a stack of rental tuxedos. The guest list was extensive. As well as every relative that could be dredged up (ergo the bridal registration at the department store) it included the mechanic, the local doctor and his wife, hoards of friends and most of the neighbours. It blew the mind thinking of how many sheet and towel sets were on their way, not to speak of blenders and colourful plastic knives.  The bride-to-be, a woman of considerable years, had hitherto lived with another man, Tom, for a very long time. Tom had dumped Sally a few years back and taken up with Floozie whom everyone hated, secretly or otherwise. It was a not-speaking situation. Tom and his Floozie would, naturally, not be wedding guests. It was felt that Tom would be taught a lesson and Floozie, put in her place. It was to be a win win matter and vengeance done. Sally and Dick thought Tom would be devastated since everyone else in the world was going to their wedding of the year.  They told themselves that if they did invite Tom and Floozie, it could create a scene and if not that, certainly an embarrassement. Tom got wind of it when he heard the family of Sally, liked him well enough but they liked Dick more, thus his exclusion.  Tom didn't care a whiff one way or the other. He had Floozie and had never been more content in his life. And Floozie who was a rather fine person if anyone cared to notice, didn't give it a thought either. What no one figured on  was that Tom's absence from the guest roster, made him the most visible invisible person at the wedding. Omission becomes blatantly the obvious. When the wedding occurred, everyone asked, where's Tom? And then they recalled that Tom had someone else, Floozie. The wedding over, soon became old-hat and yesterday's news, but no one forgot a delightfully wicked, ever romantic, Tom and his lover, Floozie.

PHDs

Perhaps you have come across those who have developed a Personal Myth, an autobiography that befuddles even the most scrutinizing individual. I know a woman who, like students that speak well but say nothing of  substance,  this lady, let's call her Imagene, having limited funds, was not able to attain a university education and therefore, decided on it as her DIY project.  Ima, the dear, accessed an instant on-line Masters Degree for a good price. She had met those with real degrees who made little sense most of the time and she considered her common sense would suffice as an educational background as good as any other. Her employers seldom checked the  document that appeared to originate from a country honoured as being honest and reliable. They simply trusted and wrote in the name of the school and the degree and left it at that. With her oak framed certificate, Imagene was able to move freely about the job market,  although mainly in short bursts. When it was discovered that her performance did not match her credentials, she was usually asked politely to leave. Every employer regretted that this was necessary since Ima made wonderful Ooey Gooey bars on Friday staff treat days. Imagene would be missed for some time after she left a position.  Ima didn't appear to worry about these moves, she simply made new copies of the blank certificate using the latest equipment at the library and filling in the blanks at the bottom with whatever sort of specialty was required for the work she chose to do. Most of the time, she found her qualifications were received without question. In one office, because she was nearest the bathroom that offered a first aid kit, Ima was forced to dole out band aids for  wounds such as broken fingernails and heel blisters.  She felt that she had found her niche in the medical field and thus for her next position, filled in the bottom blank on her certificate, Medical Treatment Advisor or MTA. When she took on the new job, a humble one to be sure, at the local hospital, she hung the framed certificate on the wall and waited for comment. Her fellow work-mates were very impressed by the elaborate frame and document, but said nothing so not to appear ignorant of an MTA degree. Even the doctors who happened by, gave the document quizzical looks. Since the job was temporary, Imagene was, not long after, installed in a newspaper office. Out came the frame with a new certificate and this time it read, Journalistic Production Clerk. The designation hung on the wall beside her keyboard. Unfortunately for Ima, crusty journalists do not rely on decorum as in the medical field, and they came right out and asked, "What in the hell is a JPC? Never heard of it." Ima, insulted,  moved on. Actually, as far as I know, Ima didn't stay long at any job but she met interesting people along the way. Her imagination seemed to carry her from one field of expertise into another. When she was old, she had accomplished in a dress box, dozens of her degrees.  One of them finally worked out for her.  At the age of seventy, she found a facility that  needed someone to deliver snacks and do small errands for the staff and residents, keep the dining chairs in order and read and write letters for the blind in the home. The busy staff did not bother to read the certificate on the wall in her room that was also her new office. Ima smiled as she dusted her PHD certificate:  Patient - Home for the Demented.

Bad Men

There are bad men. It's not their fault, they just happen to be a slip of nature, like four toed Three Toed Sloths. These men assume they are normal and that the rest of the male world is warped. They're right they think, and all the other monagamous men, to them, are patsies. Their world is not something they can share with someone else. They are too much in love with themselves. They are smart, great looking and generally rich because they can sell. They sell themselves - constantly. They're the guys who rise to the top in the big company, get the best parking spot and the prettiest girls on the dance floor. They even marry - for awhile and possibly father children along the way but they are about as good fathers as they are husbands. Their poor families look around and they are nowhere to be seen.  Nowhere men. These men wouldn't know faithfulness if it whacked them in the porridge. Therefore, how, at the start, does a lady learn to separate the real men from the playguys. Advice? Introduce them to your mother. If she is as charmed as you were with him, take that as a bad sign. Get your father involved. Father's are brutally frank about these matters. After all they're the nerds who had to try hard to win fine women like your mother. Mind you, fathers are unreliable when Mr. Wonderful slips a season ticket into Dad's  hands. Failing that, try your brothers if you have any. When they start playing one on one at the hoop on the garage out back, flee. Then again, life is full of hazards and you are no different than all of us. The worst that can happen is a broken heart.

Kiss Off

Kissing between a man and a woman, to me, is something personal and an act that should remain meaningful. In these times of sneezing into elbows,  washing hands with germicidal in trying to avoid the passing of bacteria and avoiding those with colds,  it would seem to me that kissing amongst strangers is unsanitary. I had occasion recently to be in a social situation in a club where certain women who regularly frequent bars and pool tables, in the guise of being friendly, go about the room kissing and hugging gentlemen they have seen there previously. Now, if a man went about doing the same thing with women in the bar, there would be cause for security action.  These women are allowed to go about doing the same thing with ease and evident permission of the management. It is thought to be "cute".  The men they clutch and smear don't seem to mind it so why shouldn't they, they think. They also grab at men who are obviously with other women! The women with men who are so-attacked are not happy about the matter either but being ladies unlike the kissers, say and do nothing.  I assume direction is needed. Gentlemen Kissees, the first thing you must do, if your woman hasn't told you already, is to fend off the kisser. She is being rude and forward and what she does is not friendly, it is offensive no matter how much you love the attention. You insult your date and worse, yourself. How you go about telling the kisser that her attentions are not welcome, is something you can discuss with your dear lady or else merely back off from the kisser. If the offender persists, report her to security or the management. Her behaviour is not acceptable. Being friendly is one thing, as is a nice hug by someone you know very well, but this wet kissing stuff is not being friendly. It is making people uncomfortable and could pass on infections that are very unwelcome. Those in charge of bars ought to put a stop to it just as they do when someone loses control of their manners in any other way. Kiss off kissers.

Ancient Studies

There is nothing like learning and one never knows enough. I took a couple of university courses lately and the class was filled with elders who not only didn't look that way, they didn't think that way. Some had  degrees, Masters Degrees and others were PHDs but no one pulled ranks. We were all at the age where we knew that letters behind a name didn't satisy. Why? The knowledge pit is endlessly deep and one yearns to fall into it and keep on falling. Only the most stupid and shallow, think they know it all. A lifetime isn't long enough. After an "education" which allows for only a taste and not a whole meal of learning, there are more and more questions to answer: the why, not the who nor the what nor the where or even the how, but continuously, the why. The everpresent why that will likely never be answered remains until the ends of time and that is precisely what drives man into discovery and invention and creativity.  Those who sat around me in the classroom were humble folk who after the age of "retirement" knew well that a lifetime isn't long enough for complete knowledge. But they also knew that questions have to be answered and the thirst for their answers doesn't die in one lifetime. We have to continue striving to hope to quench the need to find out more about our existence and our place in it. Each new discovery leads only to more questions and thus to more exploration and invention. Man is never satisfied. That old grasp always exceeds the reach!