Women Needing Men

Nope. Women do not need men. They choose a man or men. As in the animal world, the ones who do the best dance or have the most colorful feathers are oft  chosen. Let us not be fooled by the moves or the feathers, however. Says a woman, I need a man of wealth. Men of wealth are wary men. The way they accumulate their wealth is to wield their powers and thus become rich. Of course some inherited it, but they are hardly men. They are usually tainted: ambitionless, spoiled and useless, unless they can prove themselves in the harsh world outside the walls of their golden domains.  The rich man will usually look upon his new lover or wife as another asset. She looks good on my arm, therefore, I will adorn her with trinkets to impress those who will further my riches. But playing the game of being an asset, is not an easy task ladies, no matter how many diamonds are encrusted in your diadem. You are a thing as a diadem, not a person. You smile, you perform, you assist in the world of assets. But perhaps you yearn to be a whole woman. Then there are those women who, not girted with an independent spirit, need protection. They want someone in white armour upon a white steed. A white horse, darling, is not the best choice in the horsey world and white armour rusts or soils in time. What you get on the white wedding day, may be much the same as  last year's car,  already showing tiny dents and scratches and in need of a touch up. And who wants an old car?  And then there are the good-looking males that some wish to capture. A word of caution. First, you have to rip them away from their full-length mirrors and reps at the gym, and while they appear pretty indeed, they are temporary, mirrors being made of glass and not steel, and muscles being  needful of hours of weights and lifts. Not to speak of hair stylists and tanning and daily joggings in the park. A sense of humor is a must, say other women. He must have a sense of humour. Honey, you may be the joke, in time, the butt of his sense of humour. In the end, you are the one who has to have the jumbo sense of humour when the show's over. He who laughs last is not you. So what is a girl to do? Does she speed date? Does she go on line? Does she hang out at the bar? We all have to live from day to day.  Daily life means all of the boring, trite, routine and dull matters to do with existence. There is rent or mortgage to pay, food to buy, house to clean, others to attend to, maybe some entertainment and routines that need attention and the job. That is what life is mostly all  about. Not the cute and romantic stuff, but just the ho and the hum. Eventually, we dreamers who think there is an ideal male out there, sift through the duds who come along with their tales of wealth and power, their macho cavalierisms and their charming jokes and you work through the morass and finally give it up. It's funny but somewhere out there is a guy just like you, looking for someone just like you, and not wanting to do all the fancy dancing required to achieve that goal. Just like you. You will  meet him somewhere, sometime. It just happens. So take heart, and go on and try and find some joy along the way. Take care of yourself. Be happy with yourself and be yourself.

Words Will Never Hurt Me

The saying "sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me" is a bunch of hooey. Words can hurt and destroy much as they have done throughout history. Think of  Hitler who rose to power using words to convince his rightists that his hatreds were correct and his theory of violence and dictatorship were the route to conquering the world. Fortunately, he didn't make it, but let's face it, he got awfully close. If you are courageous enough to read about the man, you will find that it was his words alone that convinced his followers. Other than living in squalor while a young man and working hard to become famous through his words, he did little on the battlefield latterly. And everyone heeded the words of Churchill, words that encouraged millions of people to carry on in spite of the painful hardships of war.  Kids today with  their ever-present  electronic weaponry,  do a pretty good job with words, too. Most of their communications are inane babblings but sometimes  their nasty escapades have caused hurt, destruction and even death.  It's all about words.  Words are not always negative, in fact, they can be angels of mercy and love. A letter to the dying, stating an appreciation of the effect of their lives on yours, a note to your kids or elders about the value of their presence in your life, a quick word to your boss or employee about what you like happening in the work place,  all make a positive jolt to someone's existence.  Letters, e mail or otherwise, enough of them, to your elected politicians will eventually make an impression especially if your words are backed up with a few facts or examples. The elected who got there mainly through the power of words, are there because of your votes  and/or those of your peers. Fair game, but only if you play. Don't complain over the fence, write it down and send it. Sometimes all it takes is one little word to either hurt someone indelibly or help them enormously. I had a boss once who made it a point to stick a post-it note on the glass of my office window. It was just a word or two about something he appreciated, even if it were only a smile. Those notes made my day and hopefully those of my students. Then again, someone can let slip a small word and it can hurt and be remembered for all your life. I recall when a young woman struggling to get a post-secondary education and I mentioned to a close respected relative what my eventual professional plan was he made a hasty retort that was mocking. I said nothing in return but  it took a long time before I could re-establish the confidence I needed to continue with my hard-earned education. I made it, but could never forget the remark. It made me realize how important words are. And then we have the joy of words as art. Poets and other writers' art  have an influence in our lives. I know no one who can't quote a beloved line or two written by a favorite author. Some use biblical verses written by those no longer remembered as their oars on the ocean of life. Yet others, simply enjoy making their own poetry as curatives for times of emotional crashes. Yes, words are much more powerful than we realize and using them, we need to consider their impact because sometimes, alas, they can and do backfire.

Kicking The Habit

One of the benefits of living alone, is the absence of annoying habits. Other than your own, of course. The latter are not noticed naturally and fortunately. Over the years, I have encountered various habits others have mentioned that are worth commenting on just in case you are one of the offenders and can make the world a happier place by JUST STOPPING IT! Road habits often foster annoyances and to avoid same, one must either pull over and calm down, or take another route. But when you are on the freeway, there is no relief.  One road irker is the slow driver. These people seem to enjoy being in the left or passing lane and making it their home. When you finally have a chance to get around them, they speed up and ride on your bumper. Another highway toothache is the driver who is giving a discourse to everyone in the car and flailing hands about while going first fast, then slow, according to the rhythm of the conversation. The bumper beetle is yet another problem when you are doing the speed everyone else in front of you is, and passing is not going to award him or her, a clear road ahead. Then you have the restaurant nuisance. The loud talkers enjoy eating establishments as their stages. This kind of orator feels the need to expound widely as much as a parliamentarian on Question Period day. You have to remind yourself that this kind will eventually have to put something into its mouth other than its foot. Alas, some can eat and talk all at the same time. All one is left with is to be grateful that  you are not forced to share a table with them. Added to the megaphone talker problem is the one who knows few other adjectives and/or interjections than the over-worked  word beginning with the sixth letter of the alphabet. Speaking of eating, the worst habit I have encountered ever, is the lunch bagster whom you must sit beside in the examination hall. During an exam that takes sweating hours at break-neck speed to complete all the essay answers, you don't want to be driven insane by his rattling lunch bag and loud chewing not to mention the  other worse associated digestive sounds. Giving this sort, glaring eyes doesn't work. I tried it on a blond macho hunk writing his basketball test, who looked back, cheeks stuffed, and said with his ham and cheese showing, "What?" Snoring is likely king of the sounds that causes marriage mayhem. Both men and women are guilty.  Men, however, have the upper hand or I should say, nose, when it comes to volume. I have heard of marriages coming to the breaking point over these night clarions. I am talking threats with iron frying pans here, not divorce break-up. Now I know why people have multiple bedrooms. Tapping fingernails, tooth sucking, eyebrow plucking, hair strand yanking, jiggling knees, knuckle cracking and throat clearings fall under the label of things you might miss but not too much when your mate disappears. One of my widow pals said wistfully, "Oh what I wouldn't give to hear that snore; I'd never complain again.'" The response sighing loudly, I gave her, "My dear, I couldn't disagree with you more."

Blogger Rights

It is annoying to be told that you shouldn't blog certain topics because they are too personal. First of all, no one has the right to tell a writer what to write. A writer assumes, as a writer,  the rules of good taste and  attention to the usual legal aspects, but other than  naming names or locations, what goes into a blog is the penner's unilateral decision. On occasion, we bloggers or writers  as I like to name those who publish even in this modest way, are accused by irate acquaintances that you have "done them wrong" when, in fact, merely you may have used a related event to describe a situation concerning them in part, upon which you want to comment. These sorts read into blogs something sinister that lurks exclusively in their own minds. As a blogger, I have no intention of cutting topics or denying experiences in order to expand upon them in writing. That is, folks, what it's all about. It's just a blog among millions and nothing serious and world shattering. I suppose my advice to such individuals, is to avoid reading blogs that you choose to take personally. If your name isn't in there, it "ain't" about you. Bloggers are diarists or journalists who throw out their ideas and life stories without trepidation. And well they should. I always use Samuel Pepys and his diary as proof. He posted his observations and very human takes on what was going on around him and also those right under his nose. What arose from his opinions and comment on the day, made for all of us, a record of his times. I suppose bloggers do the same even though on a minute scale. For most of us, it is impossible not to run to the keyboard and hammer in whatever emotions or happenings dig deeply enough to cause the passion to get it all down in words. When that urge enters, nothing else matters but to record your senses of it in how you viewed the situation that occurred. It's a kind of purging of the soul, if there is such a thing. Also, as is part of everyone, often times an epiphany seems to occur within one and the only thing that matters is to hie off to the computer corner and get it all down before the moment disappears. It is not great literature, nor is it of any importance to a single other person perhaps, but to the inveterate blogger, it is all that matters and it must, under any circumstances of time or place, be set down verbally. I suppose after the initial release of the blogging song is over, comes the matter of editing. Editing is the worst part if you are, as I am, one of these who copies written pieces "just in case". Right after having checked the bit by reading it closely and publishing it to the site, you read the printed copy and there you see that you have missed a punctuation or left out a key word or have used a term badly and back to the "edit" page you go. The sneerers out there will surely laugh at you, you think, therefore, you read the piece again and, sure enough, you do find another spot where you might have expressed yourself more succinctly and less expansively, thus a further editing is needed . Editing never ends unless you do, and there comes a time to quit.  Each time you return to your "bloody blog" as mine was described probably accurately, once, you become another "hit". It adds up to making you look rather numerically popular but, in truth, it is only you, examining your blog yet another time. Alas. It's a mad, mad world out there and blogging makes it fun and in a way, creative. Whether anyone reads it, or likes it, or not.

Condo Crises

Condos are becoming a necessary home for many people who do not want to, or cannot own their own private homes. The cost of a private home in a large city takes a good chunk of an annual salary to maintain. It isn't simply a matter of taxes. Utilities, insurances, repairs and renovations or changes, amount to such high costs that many, even families with children, are considering going the condo route. While the original cost of a unit or townhouse seems relatively high, the maintenance of the entire complex is shared. The inside of the owner's unit is the responsibility of the individual but the infrastructure up-keep is borne by the group of owners who have bought the whole structure jointly and severally. New condos present a wise purchase since everything, including the appliances, roofing, grounds and inner wall matters, is new and thus reliable. Or should be. Old condos are cheaper but the "tried and true" adage cannot readily be applied. Like older people, condos have problems of aging that are undeniable. One must beware when purchasing what looks like a bargain older, "well kept" unit. In an area of aging strata developments all may appear settled and well in hand, but what you see is not what you get always. Water leaks are becoming one of the most expensive claims that many condos are facing. It is relatively easy to replace a roof or pave a driveway but water leaks cause not only intense personal stress and damage, they are a sign that old systems such as piping and electrical matters need to be replaced in the entire place. In one complex, copper piping is showing age leaks and, one after another suites, must be torn up to search out the water systems, the piping removed, and new conduits put in. The cost of such improvements and repairs is sky high and owners are faced with increased fees. Many people who thought they were safe from high home costs are often assessed by their condo councils, well beyond their capabilities and some have trouble finding loans to keep their homes. A few end up "on the street" or finding accommodation they did not plan for. The only possible comfortably affordable route is for the complex to take out a corporate loan and pass the payment burden down to the owners in smaller amounts but with longer periods of pay back. this, of course, sees re-sales bothered and insurance companies champing at the bit. At the same time, they must guard against unscrupulous repair service folk, some of whom may see it as a cash cow. What to do? The only words I can think of are buyers beware. 

Pesky Exes

What is it that causes some women to cling to their former relationships? They go under the guise of "just being friendly" but their true reasons seem much more suspect if you are the target. Their calls and e mails come when you are with your mate or sneaky  times when they hope you aren't there, which is worse. They cause a lot of discomfort and they jolly well know it. My hairdresser complained about her boyfriend being called by his ex in the middle of a private evening to plead with him to come take her home from a party at which she had over-indulged.  Being a kindly guy, he did, after informing his current girlfriend that he had to rescue this female from a bad situation. His present lover seethed.  "What could I do but help the poor girl?" wailed the guy when he returned. That is the part that mystifies me. There are taxis. I suppose Miss Incumbent should have gone along to pick up the ex, but that would be embarrassing and also witness that her boyfriend is not trusted. It all adds up to that fact that when a relationship is over, it's over. O-V-E-R  The "keeping in touch" or "just being friendly" is a tactic that is obviously  or subversively meant to put a rift into the new one. These women who persist in clinging "innocently" are not innocent. They know perfectly well that they shouldn't interfere. They know exactly what they are doing and the implications thereof. Mostly it is not fair to themselves. By continuously pestering their former boyfriends' or husbands' relationships, they are not moving on, no matter how inane their e mails and phone calls are meant. Like gnats, they buzz about making a nuisance of themselves . Asking them politely to stop, usually doesn't work. They love being pests and hope that their interference will cause problems in the new relationship. Unfortunately, men are not able to detect what is happening or perhaps don't want to, and wide-eyed, ask "What's the problem? It's all perfectly straight forward. It's just a ..." Well, it isn't, ladies, it's time the ex got a life and stopped the habit. Sometimes the ex whinnies that she is "just being friendly and what's wrong with that?" What's wrong with it, is about the same wrong as a mosquito constantly whining. It is annoying. Ignoring it, is likely the best tactic and also letting your mate know each time it occurs, that it bothers you. It will draw his attention to how you feel each and every time it happens. It is not nagging, it's expressing not only your rights but your needs.
 

Label Fable

Labels used to be hidden under collars and were not to be seen. If a label happened to peep out, some kind soul would tuck it back inside. But in these times of what-really-counts-is-money, labels have come out. They have come out on clothing and accessories, vehicles and just about anything that can be touted on TV or sashayed down the street. I heard that one young woman whose parent sent her to a classy school in Southern California to advance in her sport, came home in tears because everyone laughed at her handbag that didn't have the current fashion label on it. Out of curiosity, I looked the label up on-line and the handbag began at five or six hundred dollars and went from there to something in the thousands. When I explored further into handbag prices, I was overwhelmed to learn that this "school bag" was among the less costly fashion-conscious woman's casual accessories. Her special ones were valued at the price of a  newish car. I won't get into the prices of scarves and key-rings. Let us  move into the cost of a fashion maven's clothing. A complete outfit including jewelry could snap up a nice little bachelor suite somewhere. In this day of natural disasters requiring great amounts of cash to offer relief, in these times of street people desperate for suitable shelter, in our need for cancer research to help millions, does spending this kind of money to drape on a body make sense? Of course not. It's unconscionable. Labels also flaunt on appliances in homes, baby clothing and accessories, sports goods, even food. "Oh, I don't shop for groceries in that place. Everything is too cheap there." Anyone who speaks like this is part of the problem, not the solution. When asked "why don't you shop there?", the answer is about the store's policies. If you are poor, you have no choice. You go where the prices dictate. Every penny counts. Every single one. And it is isn't just labels made of cloth. Another label that is becoming ridiculous is the "white teeth" label. One's teeth cannot be natural, they must hang out there in stark snow white whether it looks natural or not. The cost of bleach high but having the same teeth replaced with caps is horrendous.  I think of a certain media star - they become stars now simply by reading scripts and having pretty faces and plenty of hair pieces - whose teeth are what you see and all you see. The dazzle of white enamel blinds the message this poor woman purports to give. Jaws move over. That smile must crimp her mortgage payments. Labels come on everything, even dogs. You have to research the most popular dog breed if you want to visit the dog park with your canine. If your kids go to school, it has to be the best one "or you won't get the job you want when you grow up". Parents are very aware of labels. Their kids come home from school and educate their parents on that subject. We are label sick. But hope is not lost. Market gardens, trends to smaller domiciles, back to nature movements and sanity in family shopping and management, are gradually quelling the label avalanche that has sucked so many into its vortex. Certainly, we must buy with fairness in mind but if there are extra dollars, they can be spent on good sense and sharing rather than labels that advertise only greed.

At The Controls?

There are lots of ways to control people or situations. Most of them are subtle. When you feel the weight of servitude resting on your shoulders, you are likely being controlled in some way by some force. There are time controls, facility controls and emotional controls among the many kinds. There are those who love to control and don't think they are doing so but when they are successful, it makes them feel so good that they want more. They feel empowered and victorious. How do you know when you are under the yoke of control? When someone puts a time frame on what you do or tells you their feelings are affected by what you do or if you find yourself in a situation that is resolved only when someone else is satisfied but you don't feel so, you are being controlled. When you feel under pressure to meet the needs of others while suppressing your own needs and wants, you are being controlled. Often control can be beneficial but only if you agree to that form. When you go to work and your boss lays out the plan and you understand it and opt to continue, you are actually in control of the situation yourself. There is agreement to the control system. But if you find that new demands have been added, you may lose control and feel frustrated and unhappy. Leaving the job might be the only way to get back your dignity. Better still, state the changes and re-negotiate your job position and terms of acceptance. It's fair. You are being controlled beyond your consent. Another example might be in a relationship where one partner begins to tip the balance using emotional means to gain power over the other. "Call me and I will give you an answer" is control. Why should you do the calling? The controller can call you. State that or you allow yourself to be controlled. Small things can be controllers. Watch for them. Families are famous for using control. Family is our one supposedly stable form of love. The blood-is-thicker-than-water kind of control. Threatening to withdraw familial love or acceptance is what sects do to keep their members. Families shouldn't use this tactic.  Bending against your will, to the "family way" is likely the hardest kind of control to, well, control! Family does not always "know best" and there are times when one must cut a swath through family traditions to escape and remain oneself. If it's a good family, there will be acceptance.  Everyone enjoys being in control but there are rules and most of them should be found only within oneself.

Due Process

There is a political situation brewing into our lives at present and giving us all cause to debate amongst ourselves. Ought one to believe that "due process" comes before action to stop a problem that has presented obvious and factual symptoms or does one wait until every letter of the law has been ascertained and processed. I think the former. Why? While "due process" is perhaps the correct way of handling such a situation, very often, it, rather than the crime, becomes the monster that encompasses so many aspects that years go by in the massive realm of legal wranglings and tangents that the law in the end, becomes more important than its cause for being there. You have to ask, is  justice served or is it merely servitude to the law.  It's not uncommon to sit in a courtroom and feel frustrated while lawyers give excuses week after week for delaying a sentence or hearing because the charged is "out of town", "ill" , has an "urgent family matter" or some other inane excuse of which the details are left mysterious and no one seems interested in taking up the court's time and expense to present proof. The judge usually raps his or her gavel without question, and the matter is put on to another date. This happens time and time again if you have ever sat in a courtroom long enough to witness the fiasco. One can't fairly complain because this is part of any citizen's rights even though suspicion of the delay tactic being used improperly must remain unspoken. To me, it jars the court's credibility. In the matter of which I speak, the longer a delay goes on, the more complications it takes on. The effect is like a great, sticky gob of snowball rolling along as bits and pieces, in this case, of political machinery and machinations that are continuously tossed into its path, are absorbed into the situation as it  grinds along. The media of course is at the back, pushing, having nothing more exciting to report than fashion shows and book festivals. What is at stake, is money, of course, and that always over-rides everything else especially when it is public money. We elect people to handle the sizeable amount of money that we pay every year into the public coffer and we expect, just as we do at home, it to be  wisely spent. A huge amount of it by the elected, is not. No one can dispute that certain luxuries are included in the mix. Entertainments and celebrations, even holidays seem to be part of the necessary life-style of those we see blethering on Parliament Fridays when the show is on and the press allows us to sit in on the fun. Those whom we elect for the most part do their work well and faithfully but the same as at home, budgets have to be adhered to, and the rules around it must be observed diligently. That money from you and I is a contribution from our daily lives. You can't blame the servant, you must see the master as responsible. And if what you see is wrong, "due process" or not, it is simply wrong and something should be and has to be done immediately to correct the matter. The haggling and nagging details can be worked out later by those in the business of nit picking. I am for seeing logical justice done now and ironing out the wrinkles later.

Is The Doctor In?

I called my doctor the other day and to my surprise, he wasn't in. I don't usually bother him with much else but prescription renewal. He is a busy man what with his golf and all. He doesn't do hospitals. What he does do is listed on his wall along with the price list. You are permitted to ask him no more than one question and you must tell the "nurse"  "the nature of your visit". How much "nature" can one do in fifteen minutes? When I am really ill, I go straight to the hospital, waiting lines notwithstanding. But getting back on topic, the doctor wasn't in because the doctor had moved his offices. No one told me. Gone was the doctor and my folder containing my bodily history. The "nurse" who is actually a graduate of a local high school, well trained in keyboarding and answering phones with " could you hold please?". I always want to ask: what do you want me to hold? but she disappears before I can get the answer out. I've learned to reply to questions with questions. Where was my doctor? The "nurse" told me that  he was not far from his present office. "Oh", she remarked flippantly, "we are just six kilometers away, you know, across the highway". The "highway" happens to be a major cross Canada speedway that people like me try and avoid if at all possible. I replied "Where across the highway is the office?"  She answered with a hurried tone, "Just look us up on The Net and you'll find a map.". I was glad that I had  a "Net" to refer to. Many people don't have a computer but I am not brave enough not to have one.  I looked the office "up" on the computer and found only the doctor's old address and a map of how to get there. The new address was not to be found. I took out my phone book and looked for the nearest Walk-In Clinic. I found doctors who were "in". I called, got an appointment immediately and went there. There were no lovely leather chairs to loll in while waiting and the place, while clean, was pleasantly efficient and utilitarian. Good enough for me. I am not there to appreciate décor. The doctor I got was efficient but she was not taking new patients. "Just call the office". That was also good enough for me. On leaving I plucked the doctors' schedules off the wall along with which medical folk would be in at what time during the month. Now that's what I call a good medical clinic! The doctor's were in - in my good books.

Eyes Wide Open

Eyes are open but they don't see sometimes for some reason. Recently, mine were opened and what I saw surprised me. Formerly, there had been a rosy fog that enveloped the realities and when it was swept away, I found that I had been slogging around in a dark place.  It was a rude awakening to be sure but not one with fatal results.  How I had fallen in with  a crew of misfits intrigued me. It did not defeat me. I had thought these individuals were merely lost temporarily and that somehow they would change if I just had faith in them and believed in their good side.  Unfortunately, seek as I might, after countless tries, there wasn't any "good" to be found. That may sound negative but when you try long and hard enough, you finally succumb to truth and realize that yes, there is evil and that it is too big a burden for most of us to carry for long. Sometimes,you simply have to dump the baggage and move on. It is a wrench because the negative atmosphere you lived in is not conducive to change and can become toxic. Trust me, you will survive if you find yourself slammed into reality and have to escape. It can be done. While it may not seem so, beyond the wall of negativity that you are presently in, there is a clean and good place and the barriers can be scaled so that you can get on with what is good and beautiful and true. When you get to the other side, the better side, it will be another learning experience. What you lost needs to be found again and there are others who understand and will help. But mainly what lies inside you, not others is what you can call on. Have faith in yourself, what you love about yourself and ways you can rebuild yourself to become strong and resourceful and meet all of the new experiences outside waiting for you to discover.

Not Normal

Normal, according to a definition of the word, is generally speaking, things or creatures that do not depart from the regular, usual, expected state. I suppose that means that because a whole load of matters or beings that do similar things with similar results are normal, everything else is not. It sets one to wondering how this applies. There is normal behaviour but the rules change.  What used to be  rude table manners such as picking up a chicken leg with the fingers is now normal. In medieval times it was normal, then it went out of style and became bad decorum but now it is back to normal. So normal fluctuates. Normal speech used to be The King's English in certain places and French, but now normal speech can be the two languages plus a host of others we hear all around us. Normal applies to all sorts of situations. What is mystifying, is that some normal people go out of their way to find things that are not normal. They look for curiosities and rarities: things that depart from the normal and become valuable because of it.  A stamp or coin that is formed in an abnormal way is sought after. Designed objects: buildings, art works, are admired when they are unusual and different. People want to depart from the normal by dressing uniquely or choosing to attempt to do something out of the normal range or try to create an invention that departs from the norm. If this is true, why does human nature cluck its tongue at some whose behaviour for a physical or mental reason, cannot be "normal". Why can't we say "hello" or "how are you today?" Street people live in a way that is often scorned or pitied. Those with mental aberrations are stared at or shunned. Persons with physical departures from what looks normal are politely avoided. Youngsters with difficult physical or social problems are outcast by their peers or ridiculed by them. So it appears that we pick and choose which abnormals are suitable and which are not. Our society appears to list them on a popularity scale of normal or not. It would be a fine place if we could accept, other than hurtful destructive behaviours, all the people who are ugly, fat, deranged, crippled, maimed, different and mentally afflicted who, in truth, own part of the same world that we do and have every right to be here in their own special way and to be normal.

Artful Dodgers

There is a personality type that could be called Artful Dodgers. This person has the gift of the gab or an ability to perform so well in speech that the birds just flit down from the trees right into their hands. You know the sort of whom I speak. Some are actually pros at it and do their charming from a dais, behind a business card or a microphone or even across a candle lit table. They are basically very good liars. Everything about these charmers is designed to engage your interest and your admiration. They dress impeccably, their manners are without fault, their appearance is flawless. With not a hair out of place, these sorts weave their spells and take in audiences and participants who can see nothing beyond the smooth exterior presented. They are excellent actors and are able to know exactly how to manoeuver and manipulate. In short, how to take you - and good. Products are also like that. You are attracted by the smart appearance of the item and what the advertising tells. And, say the testimonies, you are going to have the time of your life with this thing. Lots of people have bought one of these hard to believe bargains only to find that on arriving home with them, they're duds or lemons. But it's okay say the sellers, there is a money-back guarantee. All you have to do it pack it up again just like you found it and send it back. Lovely. First to get it out of the package was like extracting hens teeth. It was trapped inside its plastic so tightly you had to take a hammer and chisel to get the thing out. When you did, there was a floor full of little while bits that clung to the carpeting and defied even the vacuum cleaner. I was caught up by a charmer.  I went out to buy a sewing machine mainly because my old one had a broken needle threader and I knew that if I bought the part and had it installed, it would cost about as much as a new cheapie machine. I did diligence and went on line to see where I could purchase a new machine that had a few features that my old one had as well as a needle threader. Eureka! I did, and it was a very good brand name, one that had withstood the trials of time. I took it home, delighted with my bargain. I set it up and used the needle threader. It was wonderful. Threaded right off. When the thread broke some time later, with confidence, I used the needle threader again.  Alas, it did not work. I read the instruction book. Perhaps I was doing it incorrectly.  Not so. I tried it over and over again and the thread did not pop into the eye of the needle. I gave up and put my glasses on and hand-threaded it. Try as I might, squinting notwithstanding, I couldn't see the little hole to put the thread through without glasses. I should return the thing was my first thought. True, but I gave up. Why? First, the invoice said that I could not take it back to the store but must seek out the repair depot. That place was fifty miles away down a freeway that is like the Indy 500. Of course, even if I did so, I would have to go back down the freeway, to retrieve it after it was fixed. And who is to say that the threader wouldn't fail all over again? (History tells me such.) Furthermore, the cost of the repair plus gas plus stress made it less and less desirable. My great bargain rests now on my sewing desk, brand new and shiny with its useless needle threader, and right beside it, sits my pair of eye glasses. Even sewing machines can be charged with artful dodgery.

Double Dip

The other evening, I heard one of the group charge pensioners with "double dipping". When asked what he meant, he said that he knew a couple who each had a medical/dental plan and whose child received orthodontic work "free" as a result. That  statement set me to ponder. What the offender did not realize, is that these plans are insurance and are not "free". You pay into them just as you do your pension plan. The employer pays, or used to, part of the fees, too. Insurance means that even if you don't use the service, you still have to pay the fees just in case at some stage you do need it. That is the nature of insurance. When retired, you usually do need to use your insurance because aging causes all sorts of health situations naturally, that need attention. Pensioners are not hogs at the trough, they actually do need the insurance they paid into over decades of working life. Pensioners are also often charged by younger people who are just not thinking straight, as being "free-loaders". These kinds  simply forget that when they were in school, using public services and parks not to mention medical services and others, that the taxes of working people made them available to everyone. None of those benefits or services came free. Because in latter times, salaries and costs were lower, we should not forget about
inflation and how what sounds expensive now, was relative to salaries then.  A chocolate bar in those days cost 5 or 10 cents and now, is 2 or  3 dollars. That might bring the matter into perspective. It is all relative. I set out for a root canal the other day and it amounted to what would be a good down payment for a car.  I was shocked at first, but when I did a little research, I found that taking into consideration the training required for the professional dentist to do the job, not counting the expenses such as staff, office facilities, equipment and insurance, the price was likely worth it. Saving my tooth was another perk I had to consider. Next time you see the term "seniors' rate" think on it kindly. You are sure to be one of them one day and with rampant inflation, unless you have recently sold some old real estate to burgeon your coffers, know that you'll sorely need it.

Tough Love

Why is it so tough to say, I love you? We can say, I love that dress or I love that play or I love that restaurant, but to look another in the eye and say, I love you, is for some, like doing auto-root canals. Since we can love anything from filet mignon to chocolate drops, why is it we can't say the L word to someone without all of the angst occurring? I am no psychologist, but I think I have an answer. First, I-love-you has taken on a whole sweeping meaning likely brought about by poets and other people of symbol interest. To them, it means commitment to something permanent. It means a promise to cement one's very existence to another's. That's impossible. No wonder, it's hard to say. But, no. Love is a simple, small word with keen meaning but it is like very fine china: strong and breakable at the same time. Fine china is translucent and delicate but with care, you can make scalding hot tea in it and it will not break. You can wash it for hundreds of years and it retains its lustre and colour to serve, likely, until time ends. On the other hand, in a split second, it can shatter into a thousand pieces and be gone forever.  It can appear beautiful and seem lasting and for no apparent reason surprisingly, snuff out like a spent candle. It can last for a lifetime with no excuse, between the most unlikely folk. It can be brief and pretty like the violet, temporary and exquisite, then suddenly fade. It can joggle along unevenly and inexplicably continuing for decades, as though it were perfectly normal. It can be a solitary endeavor or shared by two - or more. There are no rules with love. Why, therefore, it is so feared to say? And then there are those who do love, but don't know it. They go on for years and years with another person and constantly say, but I don't know how to love, I can't say the word love.  They are already there. That is love. Love doesn't have to be anything but a small word that is re-recyclable.  Like rain, it can come and nourish and grow or, like fire,  burn intensely and go out like  a star whose light continues even after death.  It can happen in memory or imagination or in real life. There are no rules about love. But it is free and freely soars. All we have to do is reach out, grab it and let it  in. Love has nothing to fear.

New Improved

How many times have we searched for the "old" version of something and found only the "new and improved" one? Almost always, the manufacturer looks to  cheaping-up on the product by making it smaller while adding flash. You know the labels in bright primary colours that are designed to appeal to your slavish eye and the dashing shapes of the logo announcing a much better deal. It seldom is. A certain chocolate bar company divides its bar into two pieces, thus making the gullible one believe they are getting a two-for-one. The bar is smaller but looks wider because of the air space between sections. And who has not reached out for a favorite package  and found the label hyped up with  little words promising a better clean or taste or action - that doesn't happen unless in the consumer's imagination? The price is up, however, and we are told it is because of all the research that went into the improvements.  We also have to pay for new designs. Cars are a perfect example. To me they all look alike notwithstanding a cute and unique grill imitating a costly foreign model and with a hood ornament or symbol uncannily close to a luxury car's. But they are "smaller and easier to park" and therefore, take "less gas". Amusing. Inside you find every amenity, albeit mostly unnecessary, known to present-day man. Do we really need three computer outlets? How much computering does one do on the road? And the rear-view television? What happened to  using the cute little mirrors jutting out each side of the body? Or the mirror hanger for cutie's crystals or cool guy's dangling dice or mama's rosary?  Interestingly, car prices are up, sizes are down and the quality, questionable when you hear about frequent re-calls.  Something I worry about is new, improved food that lasts beyond its natural life. What is in there? Milk should not stay drinkable over two weeks, but there it is and we drink it down. Worse, we feed it to our kids. We love the quick and easy with two inches of additives that go down into little stomachs at lunch time. Apples last indefinitely and carrots are forever. Lettuce in a bag is immortal. New and improved? Too bad people don't come that way. When I enter a retail outlet, I want to find an experienced, trusted employee who cares about the stock. I want clerks who know what they are selling and can answer customer questions without having to run and find someone who might.  Mind you, most retail clerks are part-time and get paid starvation wages so what can we expect? No. New is not necessarily improved. Clothing for which you pay designer prices like the bargain model doesn't have buttons that stay where they should. If they did, why is there an extra in the little plastic envelope? I have a drawer full of single buttons pristine in their little packets, waiting to be used.  If a button dangles, I stitch it back on but why isn't the thread copious and knotted so that the button doesn't fall off? Planned obsolescence.  And while I am complaining, why are the sizes inhuman? The majority of us are not a size two or four. I don't like change. When I find the perfect purchase, I often buy two or three to hedge against improvement. I liked the old cereal without the sugar and cinnamon. I loved the dill pickles without the hot peppers. I want my laundry soap without the eternal care stuff in it. I want the old, tried and true. I want stability and permanence and quality that doesn't change.  The dollar itself makes change enough.

Yakkety Yak

You've heard the phrase "she/he talks too much". And yes, I have witnessed some of it myself over time. We had a dear lady on the job who, when we saw her coming, suddenly had something other to do. Most at work, greeted this woman with "Hi, just on my way to ...talk to you later." She was good-natured and carried on as though no insult had been dispensed. It had. I always wanted to take her aside and tell her that while she loved to visit, others had things to do and didn't have time to chat with her. They were on task, not being rude. I wasn't close enough to the lady to do this. A good friend would know how to broach the subject in a much gentler way, I thought. When she retired and died shortly after of the disease that caused her retirement,  we missed her friendly eagerness to talk to everyone and anyone. And perhaps it was fortunate that we had not hurt her feelings by quelling her habit. Not long ago, I was surprised when I was unusually cited for talking-too-much and it set me to thought. Try as I might, the designation of "talker" had not occurred to me previously and I found it interesting to be put on the other side. I am a story-teller type but hopefully I don't go on too long with my tales of this and that. Writers tend to be wordy out of habit. The more I thought about the matter of talking too much, the more I began to ask myself why other people think this a bad thing. Eureka! I had the answer. It is they who want to do the speaking and you take up their air space. Men are famous for saying such as "well, she is okay but she talks too much". Now, what does that mean? Does it mean that the guy wants to do the talking? Does it mean merely that he doesn't like or is not personally interested in what he hears? Does it mean that he has something to say but has no skills to get in there and do it? Women do talk more than men because testing has proven that women are better at language than males. But some of the world's most famous speeches are by men. If women are better at the spoken word, then why are they not the best speech-makers? Aha, you have the answer! Women are not permitted the "air time". Media announcers other than having to be young and beautiful for the most part, have lower pitched voices. It seems the human ear likes it that way. Women with female vocal chords are accused of being "shrill" while men of that nature are called "loud". Of course women are "shrill" - they are women and women have a higher range than males. Shrill likely means that it is the subject that riles and not the tone. Generally speaking, if I might speak, all is not lost ladies. The most famous sopranos capitalize on their female voice abilities. And who doesn't know Ella and her jazz. Talking too much is an accusation by those who don't listen enough. Next time, encourage your talk-too-much friend by asking questions on his/her subject. You might learn something. And your good manners will have improved on the spot.

Going, Going,Gone

The first time a friend dies, it's hard. There may be tears either copious or not, but what is worse, is the remembering. Pictures of what you and your friend did together or in company with others come into your mind for a very long time afterward. Those who have gone on ahead, take with them your memory, theirs, denied you. As, one by one, your friends leave the earth, you do also. You, then, are left with the job, the honour, of keeping sacred memories of "the way it was". Recently, a very fine lady out of my past, died. Her method of coping with difficulties was to laugh. Her unforgettable tinkling laughter  arose from of the middle of her being and came out in gleeful, melodious bars of delight. She used the same laughter for all occasions, even the bad ones that needed banishing. During our young days before our collection of children happened but university, jobs and weddings came in that order, we played cards or cooked our versions of gourmet dinners or just had evenings to sit, sip and chat, we exchanged all kinds of  intimate feelings. Later on, we women met with our babies in tow, to talk over ideas on Spock's book and to compare our childrens' developmental issues and successes. Then the complications of job related matters became tantamount as some of us were transferred to far away places and others rose or fell into various distant social spheres. When our kids went off to school, we kept up with letters and notes at Christmas time or called in while on holidays. Somehow most of our group of six or so, did stay in touch. We empathized when divorces, child illnesses and spousal difficulties ensued. Much later, there was retirement and travel and offspring successes to report. Grandchild excitement happened and pictures were sent. The photos caused "wow does she/he look old now" comment. Then came the sicknesses, deaths in the broader family and lastly, deaths of the people in our group itself. What we were really looking at was the highway of life. Sadly, a friend of long ago, just died. She struggled with the help of her family and medical team, for a number of weeks before she gave up her life to seek rest. Her path had been an ambitious course that resulted in giving joy not only to her family but to scores of strangers. Her  artistic talent rendered delightful, colourful vignettes of ordinary life but which were actually her own vision, her "take" on it. She took its humour and poignancy in her sights and let it flow through her paint brush. She made it a successful venture as well. Her life was an example of how everyone should make what is waiting just beyond our reach and all that is within it, precious, before we have to give it all up.  Farewell Vivian, dear old friend. Well done.

Frigidity

Fridge matters are part of the learning that singles (widows) must learn. My large fridge after three years of apprenticeship is finally down to only what I use and not what I think I might use. When you go from being half a couple with friends to entertain or relatives who drop by or "the kids and their kids", you need to keep some emergency supplies on hand. When you are a single, it's only you and your lover or girlfriend(s)who  need to be fed on occasion. And they usually call ahead. When the kids and their kids come over, you plan bigger but  prepare and stock up on their favorites but only for the one meal.  For the most part, the Widow 101 fridge lesson is to buy small quantities and only enough for a short time. What else do you have to do but go shopping every week? Not a bad way to get out and about and to meet people in this solitary existence called the single life. If it is possible, given spoilage, family packaging that can be taken apart and repacked is one solution. Buying a stock of Lean frozen dinners isn't cheap but if you don't want to eat sandwiches on the granite every night, it does force one to take out plates and cutlery and a napkin and sit at the table like other civilized folk at dinner. After throwing out dried up cheese, soggy cucumbers, wilted lettuce and turning milk, you learn. Cudoes to the suppliers who make small quantities without the "senior" label and call them single sustenance or something similar. It would be nice to see such as milk in pints, packaged meats for one and half dozen cartons of  eggs. In the meantime, we singles haunt the loose vegetable bins, grab the small packets and jars and somehow get by without tossing out too many remainders.  My dream is to see empty air around everything in my fridge but being a cooking freak, I find I  must have the olives, the anchovy paste,  the exotic cheeses and the chutneys, the mustards and sauces. Fortunately pricing calls for them to come in small sizes. One handy innovation is tomato paste in a tube. Now that makes sense when all you need in some dishes is a hint of tomato. One wise single I know goes one step further and cooks a full meal, then makes up her own frozen meals on wheels sans wheels. My fear of boredom in eating the same thing for days at a time behoves that plan. My friend, the potato, is the most versatile of the veggy fraternity. Fry it, bake it, mash it, salad it, pancake it or shepherd pie it, it's king. And the greatest king of all is the Russet. And then there are frozen small sweet peas and the ever present carrot. These are royalty.  A ninety year old neighbour of mine, continues to do  her own cooking using skill and a skillet. In goes  a little water,  meat, the veggies and all is simmered in slow time sprinkled with her windowsill herbs and at the end, thickened with some cornstarch. The appetizing olio is poured into a pretty bowl and dinner is served.

Blaming Mrs. Simpson

What braver or more honest love can a man have for a woman than to give up his throne to be with her, turning his back on the disapproval of his kin and country's duty to make a decision to be with the "woman he loves" over all else?  Edward and Mrs. Simpson's love is another example of the Romeo and Juliet tale. But, as always, the woman bears the brunt of the blame in this kind of setting. Mrs. Simpson was berated by the press and thus public, for being the temptress and instigator of the romance.  Edward got off with public pity and head-shakings while Mrs. Simpson was hated. And while this matter would not be a similar issue today, given  our times and events fairly recent, women are still held responsible in matters of the triangular heart. There is proof. Are not women in other countries, and even here, stoned or branded or arrested while the "offending" male skulks off  to hide, untouched and frequently, pitied. It appears that only females can be called guilty. If you have ever been in a similar situation, you realize this attitude remains at ground level, indelible. But why? Every family or societal group, has in its midst, a tainted female who is rejected or clucked at or shunned, very often while she is the innocent party but, traditionally, is  blamed. The male gets away with sympathy for being taken in by such a female.  Fortunately, woman are much stronger and more resilient when it comes to love. She can withstand the foolish disapprovals. It's historical if one cares to check out examples. Mrs. Simpson got her man - and her man got her. At ground-level, that's what was desired and that's what happened notwithstanding. Public disapproval only served to cement the two as great lovers forever in history. On analyzing the matter of public reaction, however, and how it works, it is likely that the woman is considered the weaker of the two sexes, thus easier to place public ire and chagrin upon her rather than on the man. The move smacks of cowardice and truly, only cowards would deign to have an understanding of this kind of love and "think outside the box" . Fortunately, today there is greater intelligence and cooler heads about matters of the heart and lovers, no matter how difficult their feelings are for others to fathom, are able to turn aside such old-fashioned re-actions branding them as ignorant and archaic.

Love Lately?

A widow has a chance to observe other singles since most of her melee are these. In the older range, women singles are mostly out there hoping for the ideal male to come along on his white charger and whisk her off to his castle in the sky. I have yet to see that happen. What I do see, consistently, are desperate ,"hungry eyed" females doing anything and everything to find their man. They get a make-over, a new hair-do, up-dated wardrobes and worse, join "meet markets". And then there are the pretend-married women who go with a man for years acting as "the wife" with no hope of a certificate. One sad, thin, chestnut auburn, member of a "meet market",  told me about her first dozen or so experiences in the man-hunt game. "We met for coffee but I knew he didn't like me right from the first."  To me, that is the most demeaning kind of thing anyone could tolerate. First, to be so desperate as to put oneself out there for "sale" is embarrassing. Second, to have to meet under  artificial circumstances is tragic and third, to sit and converse with a guy  with whom you obviously got an F for failure on your personal self, is disgusting. These individuals' reasons for sinking to such levels is apparently loneliness. Loneliness is that empty space and silence you meet when you come home. It's sitting in your parlour watching television or reading and there is no one with whom to discuss the material. There is just you for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Going out? Forget it. A table for one at a restaurant even though you read a book, is worse than your own dinner table set for one. So what to do? First of all, get out somewhere. Go shopping, have coffee on your own, join things such as classes, groups and sport events. Just get out there and most of all enjoy yourself. Nothing is more attractive than smiles and laughter. It is highly unlikely you are going to find a male companion at your age anyway, to be brutally frank, so give it up. Even if you do find one, he is likely to be in questionable physical shape. Some of the old men looking for a woman want a housekeeper/gardener and nurse. There are much worse things than loneliness. Cases of women involved in family squabbles, the new old woman being the intruder according to the off-springs' limited concepts, occasions when the man is abusive after  the marriage, aging health matters: all of these are realities that can make late love problematic. Perhaps it is best to simply enjoy friendships and companionship and leave the late love to the few lucky ones who do find it.

Good-bye Dolly

Came across my old doll the other day. Yes, doll singular. I had only one doll. Her name was Belinda and Belinda, although rather worn in spots and the rubber bands that hold her arms and legs and allow them to move, are much stretched. Resting on the bodice of her little dress of red and white gingham is a gold filled locket with a picture of Mother and Father inside. Belinda's eyes continue to open when she is up and close when she is lying down. The paint on her bisque body has faded and is marred here and there but she remains my "baby doll". She is formed as a  three-quarter-size new born. But her shape is that of a healthy six month old. She arrived one Christmas, and from that one on, each winter holiday, there were prams, cribs and small furnishings including a sofa and chair built by my mother. My sister and I had identical dolls we truly loved. Hours on end we played with our bisque babies. In that time, many girls had more dolls than one, but they were all of the baby kind.  With our dolls we imitated mothers we knew and gave our babies all the same maternal attentions. We changed their diapers, pretended to bathe them carefully, dressed them for bed and rising and allowed them naps and took them for rides in their buggies. We carried them like babies ought to be and at times, tried to teach our dolls to walk. We read them stories and had them visit other dolls for tea. We attempted to feed them. It didn't help their hollow insides when we gave them bottles filled with water.  Soon learning what a mess it made, we settled for imaginary food and drink for our charges. Today's dolls are most often adults and dress as such.  Barbies go places and do things.  My grand daughters had numerous wardrobes and their Barbies enjoyed racks of elegant party dresses. Their hair was curled and their shoes and jewelry selected. Little girls today have put aside baby care and entered the world of fashion. Questions are no longer, how do you put on a baby sweater but are now, what does a woman wear for her date with the male doll? What dress is appropriate for each occasion and what accessories match and are suitable?  Dolls skate and shop, ride horses and go water skiing. They attend rock concerts and debutante balls and get married any old day they wish. They have a bevy of bridal gowns. What they wear becomes the most important aspect of playing dolls. The child becomes a dresser and not a mother to her doll. I wonder when this happened and why? Is it a good thing or not?  The pattern has changed. Young women take courses in babysitting to learn baby care. In our day, it was modeled by mothers around us. Times have changed and the days of Belindas are over. Bye-bye dolly.

Forget Memoirs

There comes a time when your grandkids, if you have them, begin to drift off into their own lives and their visits are token. It's all quite natural. You remember when once your own life became so big, there was little time to do anything else but it. But the days of holding their little hands and telling them family tales and tucking them into bed with a kiss, are not wasted. Those times have already become part of their lives even if they are not aware of it now. It's all to the good. But before you get to the end of your life's trail, you want them to know who you were. Writing a memoir is not about dates and places, it's about how you felt about what you did and where and how you did it. Be honest. It's not about recounting the illustrious - or not - history of the family. Let's face it, no matter how many hours you spend gathering up a whole raft of names and dates called genealogy, hard as it is to do, it is not what is interesting to read about. Truly. That is something you pick up, browse and put down. It's only history and two dimensional and does not resonate. Write about the you that is you. That's what your family wants to hear. Reading what you felt and what you were, may be a surprise to your grand children. This is the stuff they will remember, not the string of dates and names in the genealogy. Tell your life - their reference from now on - how you felt about your parents and grandparents and why, tell them about your schooling and how that went, tell them about your marriage truths and about their parents and what really occurred with them, tell them about the love or not you had for your mate or mates. Tell them the raw story. It will enlighten, not destroy. You owe them truth.  Tell it like it is. You'll be dead when the memoir falls into their hands so let the chips fall where they may. Chips start a fire and family is about warmth and closeness. These days we cover up our lives with imaginative over-sweet frosting all decorated with falseness,  to hide the bare truth we are so afraid of.  It is our duty to be honest, to be frank and to be what we truly are - or were. Forget organizing and chronologicalising and just write those stories but make sure they are not fiction. Put them together in a box somewhere to be discovered and when you're gone, let your family know the real you that is part of the real them.

Relative Peace

Some people say there are cousins in every corner. That is almost true but my cousin supply is dwindling these days. Many have moved away or have died or are too old to drive. With eight aunts and uncles on either end of my parents, their off-spring supplied me with dozens of cousins. In those days, none of us lived and worked further than a hundred miles away from each other. While we made friends with the neighbourhood kids, our true friends were our cousins. We were closer to them than other children because we stayed, not at hotels, but at each others' homes. We took "holidays" at our cousin's places. People did not get into campers and go off unless a flotilla of relatives went also. Aunts and uncles came to visit and along with them cousins poured out of back seats of cars and trucks and flew into our yard and we played. Yes, we actually played. There were no plastic parks or "play dates", we just headed out to the bushes and ran around  or jumped rope or got out the board games. We made forts and climbed trees and unfortunately stole apples or plums from the yards of the rich who had orchards and knew it was us or we went to the park and worked out at what we called baseball. We had fun and at eventide and when it was suppertime, we sat at the kid table installed at the end of the big people table. We gabbled about our own matters and paid no attention to the serious talk of the adults. Children in those days were seldom seen and never heard. We had our own lives and freedoms without a lot of parental interference or organized sport schedules. We slept in close quarters, often in the same big double beds. Here we told secrets and giggled over family tales. As we grew up and became more formal in our relationships, we retained a closeness that made us realize "blood is thicker than water". We are still close and although, at times, there are minor falling-outs, we continue to support each other and care about each life. When someone is sick or dies, we are there. Divorce happens but the relative that once was, still is and is not left out. All legals are put aside. Even today with cousins marrying people who live in other provinces or countries and who have families, we feel the same about each other. At family reunions, the cousins bring their children and grandchildren, some with great grandchildren. You can see the family resemblances and hear some of the learned phrases. You recall the enhanced tales of childhood. You see how loved the young ones are and wish they could know each other as we did. If it is a country reunion and there are woods about, we see these newies crash about as we did and it makes us smile and remember. Sadly, at dinner, out come the social killers, those devices, the hand-held nasties and the children turn into zombies with faces that say nothing and mouths that don't speak to another warm human right next to one. At the end of the day, each family goes off to their own tent or RV or house and there is no  sleeping next to the kid who knows what you mean when you hurt or are glad or have something you want to ask.  "Relative peace" that once was is no more. And we wonder where gangs come from, the new-age "cousins"?

Hug Mug Slug

I am not a hugger. I hug people I sincerely wish to hug, not those I have to according to a passé tradition that is now a mere gesture and means nothing. I won't even touch the subject of the comedic air kiss. But there are times when the hugging routine becomes fodder for foolish women desperate for affection and who see the event as recompense for their lonely married lives.  I think of a particular woman I met for the first time at a dinner party the other day. As my date and I entered the house, she flew at my man, arms out-stretched and crawled up his front to plant kisses all over his face while groaning and grabbing. Shocked, I waited some time for her slobbering to stop. I think she was setting a world record for holding and if on a rugby field, would have received a penalty. Should I have been the ref, it would be a yellow card at least. I was embarrassed for her. And her husband must also have been, as he stood in the audience trying to appear amused. When the attack was over, I promised myself that next time, I would have to take action. Ordinarily, I am lady-like, but I could see that my role of being a polite individual that my mother would be proud of, would have to change. Various scenarios entered my mind as we crunched our way through dinner, this kisser woman being seated next to my date while I was located at the other end of the table via those horrid name-tag thingies. I fancied next time she went at my date, a long hat pin directed to a location low on her horizon or perhaps a sharp pinch to her inner arm, the one raised to my date's shoulder would be effective. Then again, perhaps my pointy-toe shoe might do damage in the shin area of her skinny shank. While that wouldn't be subtle enough, maybe a stray ice-cube down her backless dress to cool her ardour may work. No that is messy. So is a glass of red wine, but no that would spoil her boring pret-a-porter dress. I thought if I stood by the display and held up my watch and counted the seconds or took a photo on my i phone,  that might quell her desperations. Alas, at the end of the evening, as we all bid each other farewell,  there she was again doing her 20 second smooch and all I did was suffer blandly, the picture of decorum. If you have any better ideas, I would love to hear them. For next time.

New Women?

Just read an article about how women, and men, have changed. It said that the "new woman" does not like to commit, that she is a career oriented female who doesn't need a man even to bear children and that if she did have one, perhaps the "changed man" could take maternity, well, paternity leave and rear the children while she trotted off to work each day in her black suit and Mercedes. It recounted tales of women who date males only for temporary entertainment and when the guy becomes "broody", dump him and fast. Commitment not necessary.  The words of the article were followed by a questionnaire that asked if one thought  that the roles of men and women had changed or perhaps, inter-changed. It didn't take long to answer, "no". Of course not. Changes have taken place out of necessity. Women are amazons because men have changed, not the other way around. Of course, a career woman will play the field ( as always) but when she happens on the right man, the one who fits her psyche perfectly, she will revert to her true hormonal self and while not denying her professional role, become a wife/ career person. She will be a very good wife person who loves her husband and family but finds herself a hostess, a mother and a lover of her man. There are career women who simply do not find that man and these are the ones about whom the author of the article writes. Why have woman developed into the "career" person? Mostly, it is because of men. Bad men. Men don't seem to have the same ability to remain true to a single female. Most of them, not all, can't keep their yen for variety down. About middle age, they begin to fade out of the domestic picture and scan the horizon. Proximity is usually what occurs to break up the domestic scene. Woman have learned from others and their own experiences, therefore, to avoid commitment. They have learned to protect themselves by becoming a career woman and doing it alone. Men and their behaviours taught them. If you don't agree, find out how many of the career bent females you know began a serious career after their divorces, having gone back to work or school to make themselves over. How many traditional marriages failed after unfaithfulness? And how many stuck regardless? Touché.

Striking Oil: Gushers

A gusher isn't just the black stuff ejected from the bowels of the earth, it can also be a person. Gusher persons are those whose motives are to pour their oils of flattery over another individual while hoping the flattery and attention will pour back. A day with a gusher is like a day on a tread mill. Over and over, you have to endure the hugging and constant flattery you witness as the gusher envelopes its victims in an embrace. They approach with open arms and those within range, can find nowhere to hide. A fit of coughing or turning suddenly to sneeze sometimes works to fend off the cooing attacker. But if you are unprepared you have to endure the kind of contact that I find trite, silly and offensive. I do not want someone to invade my personal space and muss me up with hugging. A nice shake of the hand or a smile is perfectly adequate to indicate friendship. There is no need to press a body against mine unless I invite  that kind of contact. Worse however is to watch a gusher after the hug. The complimenting phase comes next. "Oh you are so nice, so smart, so thoughtful, so cute, so kind..." Every sentence is fraught with superlatives. There is none of the mediocre here. Then come the corny jokes that begin with "I'll bet you..." with attendant broad grins showing off the latest in shiny dental craft and a tilting of the head with a slight baby-talk tone. Well, you know what I mean if you have been involved with a gusher.  When the gusher runs out of oil, words in fact, the pats and rubs begin. they coo and ooh and ahh while rubbing the middle of your back or the side of your arm. Your skin crawls but it is hard to disengage from the tepid "soup" of the gusher's aura. You might try my favorite, and dig out your phone while indicating with a nod of the head toward the corner that you are taking a call that is necessary. It's as hard to turn off a people-gusher as it is to stop an oil well but once you have identified the offending gusher, bleeping him or her off your call list and e mail might help. But you know how oil is: hard to mop up.

No, It Isn't Funny

This morning I listened to a radio program interview of two young women who were asked their opinion about a current "hit" that was topping the charts. Segments of the song were played. Evidently there is also a video production of it, having two versions, one called "safe", the other that sounded like salacious scat as described.  Now, I am not a crazy who thinks that pop music on its own, can drive normal youth to perform acts that are criminal.  Lots of other influences may, but music alone cannot do that. Few young people listen carefully to the lyrics and are more interested in the beat and moving to it.  But what concerned me were the comments by the two young women.  One believes that when radio hosts choose persons to comment on issues, they are well chosen from some kind of norm. When the song was played, the lyrics were so jumbled and lost in the volume, that until the interviewer repeated them verbally, I had not heard them clearly. In fact, I wish I hadn't. The words were outrageously abusive to women in the crudest way. I can't see any female wanting to listen to this kind of thing let alone condone or defend it.  But these two women who sounded reasonably well-educated and verbal, said they didn't see the harm since it was all in fun. They saw rape as a joke and said  that even the performer didn't take it seriously. Fun? A joke? Is that the way young women see their roles? Do they see themselves as mere objects to be used and abused and it's funny? Rape is never funny. Nor is it a joke. I found their remarks worse than the lyrics. Surely, young women want to be regarded as worthy of respect and value. Surely, in an age of the equality of the sexes and the value of contributing to society as human beings together is where youth is heading. I felt saddened by what these individuals were thinking. When they are wives and mothers, is this what they want to remember as their radio interview experience? I realize they were only two people out of a host of other young women who daily face inequality in this world. They were ill chosen and I hope they were joking.

In Trust

Sometimes you don't trust and you believe you have reasons. There has been a suspicion lurking in your mind. You tell yourself, there is history here. That person betrayed a trust previously, therefore, it is likely to happen again. You find all sorts of evidence for your feelings. You spend nights thinking about how you can learn if you are right or wrong about your growing doubt. You begin to observe, to find evidence to support your thoughts that you are being betrayed. You know it's crazy but your emotions get in the way and you become trapped in a kind of hell that roils around in your mind and begins to take over your usual sense of balance and reason. Finally, you make a decision based on your paranoia and confront the issue harshly with the individual only to hear denials or possibly anger that shuts down any further chance of communication that would give you some relief. That's exactly what you wanted to avoid but here you are left with nothing but further frustration and worse, enveloped in a thoroughly negative environment that you alone have created. That is how distrust can take over your life and ruin it. So given that, how do you rebuild yourself. Hard as it will be, given your penchant for not trusting, you have to glean what belief you have in your good side. You have to learn to trust yourself first and to believe in yourself before you can do that with anyone else. List all the good things about yourself and your life. What do you do that is great? What do you do that has been successful? What are your talents and abilities? Forget the downside and the past and start right here. Now you are bigger than suspicion. You have value and worth. You can overlook others who have a negative influence on your life. What they do is their problem, not yours. You are fine. You don't need anything more than what you are and what you have. If others want to be with you, they enter your world. You promise yourself, you will never look to what someone can for you but what you can do for yourself and for others. Trust is you. It is all you want and all you need.

Selling Out

The day comes when you decide to sell your place. It all seems so easy. Just call up one of those companies with their flashy signs and it's done. Oh my dear, you have just enlisted into a scary club. It is not easy, it is not without care. It's a pain in the place you can't name. Your life and your property are no longer what you thought was yours. You are taken over and told what to do and how to do it and when to do it. Your life is no longer in your hands, but in those of  Mr or Ms Real Estate Agent and nothing is real any more. The first step is to learn what you thought your place was worth was a mental aberration. The "market" looms and what you need to get in terms of money to buy your dream home is but a fairy tale apparently. Once the shock of reality hits home, the next step is the viewing of your treasure. The idea is to remove all encumbrances to what you thought was pretty nice so that the buyers will be "able to see themselves in your place". Huh? After hiding everything you thought was appealing and enticing, you are asked to go away while other people are traipsing through your personal space. You hope these characters poking into every corner of your life are not casing the joint. Then come the offers - if you are lucky - and these are depressing in that they are not your idea of worth. If you happen to like one and do a deal, along come the "subjects". Now if you think these are your loyal subjects kneeling at the altar of your lovely abode, think again. These "subjects" are stumbling blocks to the stepping stones in the buying of your home. Complaining gets you nowhere: a pat on the head and a jab in the side for your inability to understand what you have to do to bend under the yoke of real estateism if you want to sell, Baby. Your idea of a quick sale is fading rapidly and you feel intimidated and unsure if you want to go through these gates at all. (Your old place is looking better each day.) Buying and selling don't seem to jibe - ever. When you want out and they want in are two different planets. Money matters enter the scene and there are additions of costs - inspections, taxes, assessments, hook-ups, moving and storage, interim loans, mortgages and on and on. Your hair is now very white to match your complexion but it's too late. You are in it up to your neck. The realtor is king or queen and you are the peon. Just when you are ready to let it all go, you are told you can't anyway. You have a contract. Eventually,  the dust clears and you have packed up and moved or live in a cheap motel while you await getting into your new place but you just let it all happen helplessly and allow the tide take you where it will.  One day it will all be over and you will have the joy of unpacking the mountain of boxes and finding out that you have survived. Poorer but wiser, you are now wondering where you are when you wake up each morning. You're home. You earned it.

Jams

The planet has become jammed with not only too many people, it is also inundated with silly ideas. Advertisers who once gave information on a product are now printing a page, all black with the opposite page showing a crack of light in a doorway. Under it is a tiny white dot com. That's it folks. Human curiosity does the rest. And then there are the suggestions that if you don't use this boxed little snack with a ton of mind enhancing additives in little Charlie's school lunch box, you are a failed working parent. The ads with pictures supposedly not insulting your consumer intelligence, suggesting that mom and dad forgot to turn off the sprinkler that morning leads to what they are doing this evening after partaking of the latest enhancer in blue or yellow. It's all about ideas. The world is running out of them and thus craziness ensues. On seeing that thousands of bees were employed to form a bottle for a whiskey company that is putting out a new brew with honey in it, seems to me a stretch. I can imagine a board room table with the usual trendy bottles of water,  free pens and swingy leather chairs surrounded by minimalist steel furnishings and stunning views of other alike glassed-in towers, all in their greys, trying to outdo each other to impress the rich blob at the end of the table. Hmm, let's see, honey? We need to sell the honey we are sticking into our alcohol. Why yes. Honey means bees but not just a paltry few on a cute designer label, let's grab thousands. Never mind that the we don't have enough of them in the first place. Buy them for jinx sake. After all, we make a pile of moola, we can afford a lot of bees. But what to do with them? Aha, they make hives. Hey, says a junior well down the side of the marble table top, how about talking the bees into making a bottle shaped like ours. The boss stops fiddling with his pen and points it, at the ingenue. Son, you're on. Get some bees and don't forget the Humane Society and the no-animals-were-harmed-in-the-making thing. That's the way the advertising field works. There are so many dumb ideas jammed into the ad world that anything as stupid as this works. It is poked into cyber spin and thousands of human Bs take a look. The bigger the viewer number, the bigger the coverage. Voila, an idea is born. Of course, someone a very long time ago came up with a real bee drink. They used to call it mead.

Island Mine

When you sail on the sea, you find an island that is small and its beach, welcoming. You anchor and from afar, peruse the shore. You know you must be there on that island.  It awaits you. You dive into the cool water and swim to the island that is strange but familiar. You stay. It is strange but somehow home. In this place, you stay and find delightful, it begins indelibly, to build into a compendium of experiences and moments, even  clashes ending  in greater understanding and knowledge of it, that adheres you to itself. Beyond the island beach, there is a thick mist, but here,  the waters are sparkling clear and bright. Here, on this nameless island shore, it is fresh and compelling and undeniable. You must not delve into the cloud that could lead to trouble and darkness, but you have only to ignore it and concentrate on what you love to, have to see. There, could lurk danger and strife but that's not a place you want to enter and thus, your curiosity diminishes as you turn toward only the sun, the shore, the waters. You love this far off island for what it is, just as it is. You swim through its long waters. Your happiness is not what lies inside the island but what you see in beauty and the love of being there. Nothing is logical or demanding of faculty. You stay.  The joy continues for long years and you  are very close and one with the island that you know.  But you remember the time when you swam out and however pleasant and welcoming, you know it is not entirely your island. Your own island is far behind you and you are on one whose shore is home in a sense, but its interior, a mystery. You feel something there could attack but you won't know, can't and don't know its dangers and so you  keep away from that darkness. It is not why you came and thus it can have no effect upon you.  Darkness belongs to others. What you savor is the  warmth of  silver beaches,  refreshing water, discoveries to be found merely on the fringes and nothing more. What roils inside, doesn't matter because one day, all will be swept away, even  the island itself and everything on it.  Nothing matters forever, and though the inside must believe it is the island with pride and self-obsession, it is ignorant of what surrounds it, what holds it together, what gives it substance and character and beauty and attractiveness. "No man is an island...every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main", therefore, no matter how self-important are the inner depths of this island, they remain only a part of what surrounds it. To swim to this island is all, to lie on its beach and revel in its beauty on the sand and rock and no more, is worth all the trials and effort.  To be there and allow no thought of going back is all that matters.

Cutting Edge

For men, a haircut is routine, but for a woman, going to the hairdresser is akin to an appointment with a shrink. There, you are what you truly are. Your hairdresser, is not the in and out for a bargain cutter, but the person with whom you have shared secrets and sessions for years. There's nothing wrong with a quickie cut but those who frequent that kind of salon are missing something that is worth the bucks.  The something of which I speak, is the sharing of personal confidences. Hairdressers are trained to be good listeners while doing their hair jobs and they are usually good at both. As they trim and shape and perhaps colour, they are giving you more than that. These wonderful folk, can touch your head and know your soul. Tightness and scalp problems, scars, improperly kept tresses all tell a story that lips need not express. When she or he, regard a head, they attempt to heal at the same time. My hairdresser must have a PHD equivalent in massaging while shampooing. As I rest my neck against a sink lip that innovatively comes up to my nape instead of I, trying to scrunch down onto its, Katherine massages my head in slow circles, her thumbs pressing areas she feels need attention and gently slides over those that are merely sleeping. After what seems a bit too much out-time, I am moaning in a relaxed state that a glass of sherry could never induce. Then it's time for the colour and cut. Colour these days is not a stinking, burning experience, but an application of the finest layers of foamy liquid served onto your awaiting locks from three or more bowls of foamy fragrant whipped  delight. No more, are there noisy dryers to sit under as you sip the coffee, tea or bottled water brought to you along with a pile of the latest pictorial fashion or Hollywood magazines no one would pick up other than in a salon. While perking in your foil headdress, you read the most outrageous, unbelievable gossip and gaze longingly at equally decadent piles of jewelry in photos that seem from another planet. You have stepped out of your reasoning, sensible world into another place. For a short time. The last step, that of the final set and the new you in the mirror, you are ready to pay up and re-enter the real world, while feeling entirely much more able to face its challenges.

Beating The Heat

Summer's here at last, but with a vengeance. It's a heat wave. Wave? Kind of a misnomer since a nice cool wave would, indeed, be pleasant. We no sooner get our fondest wish for the sun of summer and wham, along come the complaints. It's too hot. Can't stand the heat. Turn on the AC. Most of the discomforts of a heat wave are minor but some are horrendous. Forest fires, floods from the sun melting snows,  holiday accidents and sun effects on frail human frames. Seems you can't win. Strangely, knowing the bad effects of sun on the body, there they are, the sun worshippers, setting  future wrinkles, risking cancer and burns as they lie on the beach thinking that the thin layer of not-frequently-enough-applied sun screen will protect the largest organ of their bodies. While a rich tan seems to mean something to some in spite of the warnings, just wait until the fourth or fifth decade of your life and the effects lying in wait will enter the scene. Don't blame genetics for all the wrinkles, blame your hours in the sun. There is hope, however. On passing a crowded city beach recently, I noticed a number of shelter units that were easily erected. Their four "legs", stuck into the sand, and under the relieving shade were chairs and other picnic items. Seemed like a great idea to me. I am not sure if I want to see hoards of these things all lined up at  waterside but the idea is heading in the right direction. The privacy of designating your own space makes it a good idea, too. How these things are received by park and beach authorities is another question. On a foray to a hot climate lately, I was fortunate to find a hotel that handed out one of these sites at the beach, to each room. No more were folks going down to pool or sea side at five in the morning ensuring a lounge - or, greedily, toweling too many of the best ones.  This method meant that your shelter was pre-destined and it was yours only. It made life on the sand simpler. You went there when it suited you and at any time, it was there waiting. Instead of a rivalry for the best spots, laying competition aside, a feeling of relaxed friendship and camaraderie ensued. You were invited to join people under their shelters or you could invite others to use yours if they had a large group and you would not be there. The arrangement made sense to me. You had the choice of being in the sun outside your shelter, or not. You felt a degree of personal space in which to leave your towels and enjoy the privacy of your very own few square feet reserved for an uninterrupted snooze or read. Ahh, wish I were there now, a nice sea breeze wafting inside my shelter and a glass of something icy on the little table beside me. Sigh.

Parameter Perimeters

There are parameters and perimeters and the latter must surround the former. When dealing with the Confirmed Bachelor, the perimeters are clear while the parameters are rather profound. Usually the elder bachelor is the most challenging. And yet there are women who attempt to change the CB into something more malleable and manageable. This is an impossible endeavor from what I have witnessed from afar. I have seen a perfectly lovely lady with the best of intentions and the most gentle of persuasions, try to convert a Confirmed Bachelor into the semblance of a mate or at least a guy who will get down on bended knee. It is a long and difficult path. The CB or Confirmed Bachelor is as malleable as iron and once molten, becomes fixed firmly and when re-molded is only all the more resistant. The gentle lady of whom I speak, does not give up but doggedly spends her life attempting to cajole the CB, using all of her wiles, to bring the chap down. He takes it all in smilingly and pleasantly but does not budge an inch. The problem is not in the attempts, the problem lies in the attempter. She should give up.  If you can't bag the man in the first couple of years and get him down the aisle, it is highly unlikely he will ever trot up to the altar. Every wile known to man and woman will not get him there. So what to do? The answer is watch the perimeters of the relationship and stay within them and be content with what you have. He is. He loves being exactly where he is. He doesn't have to take on the responsibilities of the married man with home and family and all of their demands. He is free to do personally precisely what he wishes without criticism or direction or outside costs other than those he chooses. He can flit off without a moment's notice or care. He worries only about himself and his ego. What more could anyone want? Ladies if you don't want to be a female Confirmed Bachelor, look around for someone who adores the idea of cutting lawns, being paternal. painting walls and sitting across from the same face at breakfast every single solitary day for the rest of his life. Being a single man or woman, is at a certain age, a delightful matter. Rising alone in the morning to putter about in a bathrobe, coffee in hand deciding whether to read a book or write an e mail or go out in the afternoon is a heady life style. And best of all, to meet up with your counterpart, another CB, for lunch or tea or a walk in the park or something more interesting, is your decision and yours alone. If you can beat 'em, these CBs - forget the frustration of trying to "catch" them and "keep" them. Get inside the perimeter and join 'em!

Dads

It's Father's Day and people go to the media to tell stories about their dads and events that made them love their fathers. Most of us have to think about Father's Day carefully because we don't have any one miraculous tale about some great moment with our dads. Our dads were just dads. They were the man at the dinner table, the man who shaved in the morning and went to work and the man who came home from work at night and read the newspapers. Dad was the man who mowed the grass, fixed things and kept the car running. Mom did all the rest. My dad will be remembered for his reading. When he was home, he read. The only way I could get his attention when I was small, was to climb up on his lap and read, or pretend to with him. He read novels, mostly folks like Caldwell and Steinbeck and often Mark Twain. I recall him laughing aloud when he read and that made me think that reading must be fun. My dad taught me the value of reading when I asked him about the photos and he explained the world situation occurring at the moment. He pointed out the headlines and soon I found myself able to read them. He read articles to me and showed  pertinent words. He taught me how to read before I went to school. My father worked with people of all nations and not once did he speak about this race or that. As far as I knew when I went to school, all the children were just kids like me even if they didn't look exactly like me. It was a huge shock to hear from some pupils in Primary School, that some children were "different" than I was. I knew there were other languages because my grandparents spoke them and our neighbours did, too. That it was odd was not odd to me as a young child. It was simply what big people did. All it meant was that I didn't know what they were speaking about and that was okay because we all played games together and everyone knew what was going on. My father taught me to be humble. He was not an aggressive man even though he was strong physically and could do heavy tasks with ease, his humour was gentle and his laughter long and hearty and never against anyone. My mother was the manager of the household and discipline was her duty. She did not yell but she did threaten. The threats were enough to prevent any wrong doings. Behaving was not a chore, it was a natural duty in our house. We did dishes and cleaned before we got the allowance. It wasn't a wealthy home nor was it particularly one that was slave to tradition. It was easy and relaxed but good manners were key. My mother saw to that. My dad would fade out of the picture if there were sibling conflicts or parental mores put down. He disappeared to the furnace room in the basement where he read in a straight-backed chair beside the behemoth of a furnace down there, a bare light bulb hanging above and the warmth of the furnace sending out waves of heat. I'd find him there. "Hi Dad, what's going on in the news today?" and then the conversations would begin. In his drawling way, Dad would give a hum or a haw but never advice. He would say, "Well now, that's a good question. Hmm, a very good question. Now then, what do you think about that?"