Wonder Women

Wonder why women in film are either under the age of twenty something or well over fifty? In between, there are hosts of female talents that go to waste or their plastic surgeons depending upon their budgets.  Men don't have this problem. They can keep on being Mr. Desirable and Foxy right up to their wattle years. Anyway, who in Hollywood sports wattles? Men hang on until they are in their eighties and their wrinklesseem to  become only girly bait. Apparently. In the movies, the older man is a retired spy or super cop or past hit man, thus the target for Miss Youthette who is all over him with her spiky hair, well placed tattoos and cleverly exposed body parts. And we are all convinced that Mr and Miss make the most romantic couple on earth as they cavort about the screen: tires screeching, guns blazing and  chase scenes up and down hallways and stairs at a run. Oh puleeze, Hollywood. What old guy over sixty-five can do what Mr Antique Hotness does on the silver screen? None that I know or have ever heard of. So why is it that a female over twenty-five and no fan of the knife, can find only character roles such as villainesses, British queens or crazy old bag ladies? Men well over that category including all of their wrinkles continue to draw the crowds simply because Hollywood says we should love them. Our brains need lifting, not our faces and rears! Enough! the older woman actor should shout, we are desirable just the way we are and you had better let the world see that we are. In fact our wrinkles are softer and prettier than those of elder males and like your ingenues we don't need training - been there, done that. Consider patina, consider fine wine, consider wisdom and taste born of experience not that applied by expensive professional coaches for the newbies. Here we are world! Bring it on Hollywood!

Finding You

Widowhood is like nothing else, not even male widowerhood with offers of casseroles, comfort and dinners. People expect widows to be able to go it alone. After all "they" were the ones who "took care of everyone else" when they had their mates around. Most of the latter is true simply because the widow did take care of everyone else then. She had to. Now is something different. Her partner was around to share the burden, if not physically, at least in spirit. That support has gone and gone forever. It's not like breaking up with someone who was a longtimer, it's like losing gravity. You can't just call up and say, hi or would you help me with this or gosh, I'm down, I need to talk with you, please. No. It's like stepping into emptiness and solitary confinement. There is no one to call or write or cling to even in imagination. All you have is you. But, you might protest, you have family and friends. While that is true, it is not the same and anyway who wants to foist burdens on those you love. And often you find that the "love" you had in those areas, is not the sort of thing you thought it was. Family and friends have their own lives and here you are, stuck with just yourself. Hello self, you say one day, who are you? In the past, you were part of someone else. All your important decisions were shared. All of your activities depended on, not only your needs, but those of someone else. All that taken into consideration, now it is time to find the you that is you. I call it My Second Life. The First Life is over and the next one is just forming. How do you begin? I have yet to find a manual. For me, it has been a solitary journey that evolves day by day, need by need and event by event. I don't get it right always, but by golly, it's my life. Not the family, nor the friends nor the kindly professionals can do this one for me. When I look back at the path I have trodden, one of my own making, I am happy. It isn't perfect, but it is mine, directed and produced by me, and I love it. All respects to Life One, Life Two doesn't make a bad sequel.

In Trust

Trust is something we all need but it is the one thing we can't hold for ourselves. All we can do is hope that those to whom we give it, will not fail. It's a delicate thing, trust, perhaps key to our very lives in some cases, and yet, we have no control over its care. Those to whom we give it, in whom we trust, hold what is often, our very destiny. It's like the most delicate glass: beautiful and clear, but so thin that all it takes to damage or destroy it, is one look, a stray word, a tiny touch, an omission and it can be instantly gone. Most of us, have had this happen and while it is painful to have a trust that's broken, it's cautionary. We become wary of giving our trust as easily as before. We think before handing it over and even then, with trepidation. We learn to become selective and testing regarding those we choose. We may allow very few to take on the gift of our trust. Some give up on trust altogether and give it to no one again. Or, if they do, apply stipulations before doing so. Rare others, trust everyone and anyone and are rewarded with  accolades of "openess" and generosity.  These fortunate beings, possess the skill of  bouncing back after betrayals to simply move on, while handing out more trust. They seem to be able to do it with great ease. Their opposites, resign from trust and give it away nevermore to become sad and lonely folk. It's a search for balance. Who can you trust? What are your needs? How much trust will you give? Trust is a joy but also, a burden. You have trust also to hold.  What about the trust you are given? How caring of it are you? Do your requirements apply to you, too? Makes you wonder if trust isn't the most difficult burden in life, we have to carry.

Little Cuties

The Little Cutie is usually a woman, middle aged or beyond, and single. She hangs out in bars. She is one of the "good buddies" of the older guys  and sits amongst the group joshing with them while imbibing in her girlie pink drink or what the boys are having while laughing at their ribald jokes.  You ask yourself why? Why isn't this woman trying to find someone her own age? Why is she with a bunch of old guys? She has reasons. First, she can't get a man her own age. Or her former relationships went bad. That's why she is where she is. Second, she enjoys the role of "child bride" to these men who are past the handsome and virile stages. She imagines herself more than the mirror tells. She knows she is less than plain, beautiful or desirable to her contemporaries. Thus, she sits fantasizing along with the older men, their wattles and bellies, balding heads and real loves at home. Third, the Cutie, if she is lucky, might rate from her table buddies, a burger out or little gifts on her birthday or special occasions besides a raft of attention.  But her main motive is to feel young again, however momentary and silly it looks, even if it means being old in a group that is older than she.  For awhile, she can feed on the attention and rewards of elder admiring glances with her peekaboo attire and batting mascara.  She offers rewards: little touches, hugs, cheek kisses, jabs to the arms, pats on the knees and toesies under the table. That's all the old guys want. And what is the harm? It is all a game and everyone goes home at the end of the day. The sad part is that The Little Cutie goes home alone.

Sad, Bad Sport

Lingerie football is not cute. Women with sport talent do not belong here. Well, maybe if they are masochists. Why would young women with evident interest in any sport want to be seen trotting about in their underwear to amuse males and/or others who aren't looking to score on the field but somewhere else? This kind of exhibitionism is something that sets back the cause of women who want to be taken seriously as athletes and have dedicated much of their young lives to this interest. Of late, a young woman who has great talent in her field, rugby, has chosen to don a lacy push up bra and skimpy underdrawers to perform in an arena to the cheers of people who obviously are not there to watch football but a travesty that ridicules both the game and women - all women. It saddens me that someone who has sacrificed countless hours of practice, enduring the rigors of a game she excels in, wastes her time, running around making a fool of herself. The question is, why? Is it a joke? Is it a dare? Is it temporary relief of bordom? What? Since I don't know the answer, I will try to remain non-judgemental for the moment, but beyond me, her reasons to spoil her self-respect in this way are a mystery. I hope, for her, this is a passing phase. So-called football of this nature is work for strippers and clowns, not  women with serious sport achievement in mind. Or perhaps they have simply gone mad.

Writer widow: Sad, Bad Sport

Writer widow: Sad, Bad Sport: Lingerie football is not cute. Women with sport talent do not belong here. Well, maybe if they are masochists. Why would young women with ev...

Just Friends?

Men and women cannot be "just friends" if they were once together. An ex often has a tenacious dependency on a former relationship, one that he or she can't leave alone. The excuse is  "but I am just being friendly with my former and there's nothing wrong with that". Sadly there is.  It is wanting to bookmark oneself, to keep the hope going subconsciously, that perhaps there will be a rekindling of the old relationship and everything will fall back into place once again. The tragedy is that it will not happen for all the reasons that caused it to end in the first place.  So why, you ask, why do the former partners allow it? They do so, if they do, out of guilt and pity. It is hard to be cruel to someone who was formerly in a relationship with you. Most people can't just say, leave me alone and get on with your life, even if they want to. All relationships old or new have something memorable and those memories are not always easily erased. But like so many other things we meet, good memories do not a lifetime make. Some people stay together agreeably all their lives and others can't stick to one relationship without faltering. As life changes, some people do not and the couple begins to drift apart slowly. When the relationship finally ends, the break-up pain doesn't go away easily. Most people move on eventually but some cling any way they can because they fear a new beginning. They have been yoked for so long, they have lost themselves. Instead of finding out who they are, they keep their old attachment open by saying, I miss you and I need to contact you - just to be friendly. It doesn't work that way. Until each one of us moves on and cuts the "cord" there is no re-birth, no new life.  Keeping in contact keeps the wounds open.  It takes great courage to dive off the ten foot board and plunge into the deep waters of the unknown but like the brave diver, one can come up after doing it and feel cleansed and ready to celebrate a victory of self- discovery. Worth a try because you matter, not what you were but what you are.

Altogether Now

Having occasion to go to the lab where they take blood samples, I noted today that here we had a perfect United Nations. It was a busy lab and being in a culturally eclectic neighbourhood, there were Muslims, Sikhs, Jews, Protestants, Catholics, Haldeman Dutch, Americans, Orientals, et al. We took our numbers and sat. No one read the tattered Health Care Pamphlets or the three year old Vogue. We sat together and waited and watched.  The longest wait would be thirty minutes and the shortest, the same. A Babel of languages were muttered into the air along with the periodical loud electronic female who announced, Number Sixty One May Now Come To Desk One. At the desks for customers, sat an attendant East Indian woman who was likely the office senior. She was courteous and thoughtful. She did the office routines but she also took blood just as all the other clerks who came and went. These women were fully rounded medical technicians who seemed happy on the job and interested in what they were doing. When children came in, it was comedy relief. They used the chairs are a gym, they hopped and crawled and went here and there into the hallway and back. They played and we smiled. Children's games are universal. Bonka bonka, bonka said one yellow tee-clad little Indian boy as he bounced up and down on a cushion in a chair. His mother stopped him but he went on to find another game venue. Various languages could be heard and costumes from shorts to saris, on the fat, the thin, the old, the young and on all the colours of skin you could imagine. We sat in the large room on black leather arm chairs waiting our turns to give blood. We had order, we had a place, we served our time period without complaint. It was a fair system. No one came before anyone else. It didn't matter if you were older or more ill, you waited and you knew it. There was little conversation other than the necessary kind: that's where you get your ticket, I'll move to the next seat so you can sit with your child, excuse me, thank you and so on. We sat in meditative silence comfortable being in the company of all. We watched with veiled interest as each person got up and went to his appointed station when his or her number was called. The desks were open so everything anyone said was heard. We knew where the individual lived, the phone number and the date of the birth and sometimes more. Our thoughts ran to: hmmm he doesn't look that old, she must have a very bad complaint to come in every week, that is brave child knowing what is coming. It felt good being among my fellow human beings - all with blood like mine for the most part, all with some reason for being there, all waiting, all orderly because we had a turn. Our ticket number said so. This was a rare place that had one goal for all and no one was better or worse than another. Here there was perfect peace.

Sneaky Petes

Some women complain that their lovers, I am not speaking of marriage here, are Sneaky Petes (no offense to those named Peter, please) and that they cheat. Okay, it happens. Some men can't seem to help themselves and yes, it hurts, but let's take a closer look. It's always good to ask the question, Why. Why do men do it? First, ladies, it isn't your fault and don't let anyone tell you that. The men in question have to take the full and entire blame. But why oh why do they do it? First, for excitement. Does this mean, ladies,  you have to run off to a lingerie shop and stock up on teddies? I don't think so, although it never hurts - but as a booster to your own ego not his libido. Second, they do it because they were - here comes the age-old story - inebriated and didn't know what they were doing. Oh please. Third, it's her fault, she came on to me. That reason has everyone rolling in the aisles. But seriously, why do they sneak around? My idea is that they don't want you to know that they are. That's a no brainer but actually it is true. If they didn't want you around any more, they would simply say bye bye and be gone. They must still want you, therefore, think about it. The ball is in your court so run with it. Honesty is the ref in this game. Go for it and get the truth out there so you can understand what you want and state to Sneaky, what your boundaries are. The fact that he hasn't left altogether means that the door is still open and you, according to the answers you hear, may slam it or leave it open until you know if what's inside is worth keeping. These days, disease is a big concern with having Sneaky Petes who don't seem to think about it. Even such a minor thing as Cold Sore Herpes is of concern, one that is often overshadowed by the scarier ones such as AIDS etc.  Mouth kissing on greeting, instead of hugging, could create a perfect field for that form of Herpes. Faithfulness has other rewards too and it is unfortunate that Sneaky Petes can't see it. They are masochists. They expose themselves to burdens of guilt, of lying as an occupation and the intense ire of those they offend. Talking and thinking about it may not work but it's worth a shot.

Laughter Cures

There is something curative about laughter. There are the hee haws that men do with other men. It avoids real conversation. This kind of laughing can be heard on the golf links and especially in the clubhouse after the eighteenth. Then we have the giggling female of the bar kind who tinkle away while batting false eyelashes and protruding plastics. This kind either drives away the prey or attracts it. The latter usually buy the gal a beer simply to stop the din. We have the heeh heeh of the sewing circle or knitting club who have needles in their teeth. Brave ladies and very few, to date, have swallowed their tools. Of course, the book club has its own special brand of heh heh rising to haah haah as the evening pages ebb and the wine bottles empty. I love the wedding har de hars when the mandatory speeches, chicken and fish have been consumed and the much anticipated bad dancing begins. It's a chance for a squeeze and chuckle with the babe or hunk you eyed in the church awhile ago. My favorite is the baby laugh, the only genuine one, when dad blows a burble on baby's tum tum or mommy makes silly faces. The baby laugh is the pure one, the one that makes everyone else laugh. One laugh that is born for no reason at all is when the audience, excited by the guy holding the sign that says "laughter and applause",  pops up during the performance. The bleachers and I don't mean the ones you sit on, but the costly mouthful of caps and crowns that defy stage lights with whiter than white choppers to widen to let out a kind of laughter that no one feels and the jokes aren't funny but they can't stop the moment from happening. There is bad laughter and that's the sort that emanates from the corners of the teenaged adult mouth on hearing naughty jokes that really aren't nice, but one has to do something to hide the embarrassment of the stupidity and continue to be one of the group. A laugh that feels good is the one that issues forth when you are alone watching television or reading a book and something genuinely hillarious happens. It kind of explodes in the most natural way like the letting out of carbon dioxide after broccoli for dinner. All natural, no additives. Yes, there is laughter and they say it is good for what ails you. At the hospice they have shelves of humorous movies to accommodate the theory that laughter is the best medicine. Unfortunately, there,  it doesn't cure anything but it makes everything feel better.  My dentist who used to have laughing gas, now has television in the ceiling. He let's me watch old Seinfelds while prowling around in my mouth. Ever tried laughing while having a root canal? A hated laughter even by the user is the guilt-inspiring kind while watching programs that show someone flying through the air after a close encounter with a banana peel. It isn't funny. But laugh we do. I am sure there are other laughs, but that last one is the best. Ha ha ha ha ha.

The Grave Robber

The grave robber, a name to replace "heel", is one I conjured up. The GR is usually a guy, who scans the obits daily to see what old pals to whose funerals or memorials he might go. Kindness is not his motive. To him, an obit is an open invitation.  How morbid, you charge. Not so. These men know what they are up to. And it isn't always men who are guilty as charged. Oh no. I know a woman desperate for cash, who did the same thing and managed to nab a lonely widower right after his wife's funeral. She was the old friend "just there to do tea and comfort". And comfort she found, living in a fine home with everything she always wanted. Security. But somehow the male grave robbers are the most despicable. Perhaps it's because their victims hardly ever end up with rings on their fingers and unfortunately not with bells on their toes. The sound of those bells would be their warning feet running away from these villains. The grave robber likes these funereal occasions not only for their offerings of cucumber sandwiches but also for his morbid motivations. To him, an obit reads: lonely widow of means ready to be taken in by kind words laced with his special brand of enticement. How does he do his job?  He holds the welcoming grieving widow's hand just a tice longer than propriety dictates and adds to the obligatory hug more than a mere friendly squeeze. The widow isn't that long from a warm bed and knows what's going on.  If the grave robber feels any kind of encouragement from her, however small, he'll be back next week. And when he does, look out.  His words are charming and this time, his kiss hello just happens to slip down to her neck. Oh sorry about that. Before you know it, the two are shopping together and he enjoys sleep overs regularly. She pleads to all those who warn her, but we are in love, and love conquers all. Wow. It surely does. Especially lonely widows and/or widowers. Well, not all. If you think this is fiction, ask around and you will find that this is so regular, obits should be moved to the want-ad page!