Do Over Over Do

I once knew a woman I worked with who had marriage problems, or so she said, and that she needed to run them off. I ran with her for a time but her abnormal diligence while running, made me doubt the benefits of pounding my runners on the pavement while beside me automobiles pumped out their fumes that I had to breathe in. After all, I had a good marriage. What was I doing here? It was all about friendship, I worried. My final excuse for quitting was a broken toe as a result of running down the beach to a beer and hot dog roast and falling over a log.  Not only did this unfortunate woman run before work every day, she went to the gym every day of the week except weekends. How this addiction would clear away her stress seemed to me, a false notion. Her generous shape did not change and the marriage struggled on and on regardless. Gyms, exercise classes and yogaism, remain mysteries to me. First of all, I am one of these tiresome people who refuse to be scheduled for long periods. Second of all, I am naturally lazy and third of all, I find more interesting things to do than reps, kilometers and plastic bottles of water. Driving past a gym window replete with lithesome bodies all running nowhere on treadmills and then having to go to work on yet another kind of  treadmill, is one of the saddest modern sights there is. My theory is what we do is what we are. Running is running away from something. I did try the gym once after a physio therapist remarked to me, why you don't even have shoulders, my dear! We must get you into my gym - at a discount, of course. I actually tried it and got my little plan for the machines and other metal bits.  I strapped myself into various contraptions and duly counted. The innocent looking big ball I attempted to sit on and flap my arms and legs about was the most challenging bit there. About it, I thought, wow I could do this at home but who would call the ambulance if I fell off. At least in the gym they had mats on the floor. It was fun for the first three visits but when I spotted, on the grimy floor, a cast aside piece of pizza, I resigned and headed for the nearest pizza parlour. I had worked up an appetite! I suppose addicts of the exercise crowd would argue that a "healthy body is a healthy mind". My answer is that if the adage is true, how come so many runners have knee problems? Or that weird yoga talk is boring? Or that body over-musculature is really not cute? Or that being skinny is actually starvation? Or that brains don't lift weights? Okay, so you take a look at my pudgy bits and nod wisely, eyebrows lifting. aha! Sorry, that won't get me to the gym either. I eat what I like when I like it. I might think of exercise but hate the schedules. My time is not taken up with beating my knees to death or sweating on a steel conglomeration or worrying about single figure dress sizes. I walk around and avoid doing it too fast; I want not to miss smelling the pines or hearing the bird song along the way. So far, no headaches, no stress, no calorie or step reps, no joint replacements as I approach serious old age. Both my dear grandmothers, one who lived to eighty-eight, the other to a couple of years after her one hundred mark,  didn't exercise a day in their lives. They didn't diet, drank sherry, never admitted to sweating, giggled constantly, loved life and had over eight children each. I intend to follow their example of a no stress: laugh it off, breathe deeply, walk in the park and read a lot lifestyle. As to the eight children? That's out dears; I'd never find a nanny.

Golden? Age

One of my dearest friends, now gone, once said "when does the 'gold' kick in?" She is right, the "gold" is an elusive matter when you are over-the-hill. The truth is, there is seldom gold to be found. The other day while shopping, I saw a man, stooped over, who could barely walk but he was giving it a great try. People were avoiding him with either looks of pity, or  sadly, of disgust. I thought to myself, that man may have been a fine athletic football player in his day or perhaps a speedy track sprinter. Now, he was patronized and shunned. Old age is no joke and as Elizabeth Taylor or Bette Davis said, "old age is not for sissies". It takes courage and patience to see your body, tired from all the years of tick and tock, gradually deteriorating and leaving you, through no fault of your own,  at the mercy of daily aches and other afflictions worse that you don't "deserve". Sure, you are retired but retirement isn't all cruises and kudos. Most of it, is where is the next cheque coming from and how am I going to pay for the prescriptions I need, my old car and my dentist bill. Many live with their kids or in a mediocre home for the aged, losing their dignity and independence. But most old-agers put on a good show. The gold is usually that flowing out, not in. What appeared to be a solid income once, is that no longer. Groceries have taken a sudden leap in price and rent is sky high. The rest of society is not to blame. It has its problems too. Some younger folk say that it is the old folks who are draining the tax system with their medical needs. Believe me, if we could trade those needs in for new bodies, we'd be first in line. We would rather not have to use the medical system. Elders are not always the ones who take up the doctor's time. Young children are frequently the most prevalent in the doctor's offices. Their mothers who have taken the day off work to bring them in about that sniffling nose or red rash, want a quick fix. Usually antibiotics are the answer. Tax dollars are spread thinly in education and policing besides medical care, the biggest drain. But getting back to the old days, there was little or no credit. If you wanted something big, you saved for it or you didn't have it. It was not a regulated or protected society as it is today. Few had medical or dental insurance. Your teeth rotted and were pulled out. Mortgages were not easily signed. You lived in a place within your means and forgot about the Jones's. Divorce was considered a last ditch effort and it was deemed unsavory to obtain. If the marriage was bad, it stuck together no matter what. Education beyond high school was for the rich. It's where a lot of women were sent for a couple of years to find a good husband and then "have" to get married to one.  Holidays off to Europe or honeymoon some southern island were rare. Huge houses with mortgages to match were unheard of. Sure you might have had a secure job but it didn't come with time off to birth a child or regular raises arranged by a union. Everything achieved up to this day was accomplished by a whole band of people who fought for rights and freedoms and a better standard of living. Now we appear to have it and often it is taken for granted. The next time you see an old man or lady stooped over and struggling to take a step, say hello sir or ma'am, and thank you.

The DIY Party

I am all for DIY but only if  done by volunteers.  The easiest DIY of all, is the party by the same name. You supply the venue, much wit and a ton of gall and that's all. Here's how. First there are the invitations. The benefit of cyberville is the invitation  on your computer program so all you need to do is a click or two and voila, all done. Sending them out? Piece of cake. Your contacts list will work for you. Simply delete your enemies and send later, those you want to annoy with, "gee sorry, guess I mis-placed your address ".  Next on the list is a note saying that "simply everyone who is someone" is coming and casually drop in the names of a few well known party mavens who will feel obligated to come in order to preserve their party reputations. They likely won't last longer than the hot hors oeuvres  but putting them on the list kicks up your status and ensures more name-dropper guests will attend. Why lots of guests? The more people, the more food and drink. DIY translates into YDI (you-do-it).  Of course you welcome that favorite beverage they always bring and their platter of the recipe to-die-for that everyone raved about last party. "It wouldn't be a party without your fabulous ...." . Works every time, especially if you remembered to copy and paste the goodie beside their name in your contacts list for later use. You do have to put a bit of effort in! Next, you hire a DJ or little band of cool musicians with a foot note to your guests, "let's fill the band's hat with "folded" - we are not cheap skates like you-know-who". You don't know who the you-know-who is and neither do they, but they, like you, dare not admit it. At the party's end, if the band doesn't quite make the doubloons they hoped for, it isn't your fault; you can moan about the cheapness of guests these days, not-like-the-good-old-days and then hum one of their tunes. The band may not return ever but they will understand. They're musicians. The RSVP should include a blank line or six to tell you what your guests will bring to the party, and I don't mean their unwelcome brothers-in-law who just turned up unexpectedly and had to be brought. What I am talking about is food and drink. You need to know the item, you say, "just for party balance". What does that mean? Who cares. You will end up at your party, with a table full of  host's gift wines and perhaps some chocolate and flowers but in the end, no one will notice you in the pantry pouring liberally from your boxed vino reds and whites into the elegant wine bottle collection you own. It's just  all part of the fun. How your guests get to your place and where they stay, if out of town, is easy, too. Send a list of local establishments. Of course invite the purveyors of the accommodations as well. It's good for business both ways. For certain, invite your next door neighbours in the building and the people downstairs and especially the landlord who will get tomorrow's noise and parking complaints. You need to store your furniture in neighbouring places temporarily and the noise level downstairs will thus go unnoticed. The night of the party, make sure early on, that the band is loud and the neighbours are already well "oiled" and in mid-room location to make it look like the party is underway. Noise and movement is the key. Float about with host-like jollity and compliments replete. Greetings with screaming hugs and kisses are crucial to the opening ambience. All of your interesting art pieces strewn about and posters you have put on the walls for conversation purposes will get things going and ensure socializing topics. From then on, it's a matter of keeping things moving. You are the impeller and they, the laundry. Churn, Baby churn!

Surrogate Matriarchs

While mothering can be a very satisfying job, it comes with a huge responsibility. That of letting go. When you have carried a pre-born around for nine months, you have bonded in the most intimate way. The tiny creature knows Mother's every bodily event. Its little brain is imprinted and at the same time, so is the mother's that is constantly adding baby content to its cache. When the child is born in the usual dramatic fashion, those memories, I suspect, do not entirely disappear. While I am no scientist, I am the mother of a child and that bond is strong. Surrogate mothers are fine folk but they have to glean their sense of what the child is by means other than that of carrying a developing embryo day and night for a very long time. They are left to observe and test and feel. Just as birth mothers, they manage motherhood in their own specific ways. Some do a great job and others who have not actually reared the child years on end, may have to accomplish the task differently. Teachers of young children carry on an effective job. They are an important part of the child's day. The child sees them as surrogate mothers and responds similarly but after school the little ones  fly to their true mothers. Some  real mothers do a good job and others don't, but the child knows that mother good or bad as mother. Mothers who take on the children of their formerly married husbands have the toughest mothering of all. Somehow, they have to inch their way into little hearts that they don't see every day. They "get" the kids on weekends, if that is the custody arrangement. Sometimes it is successful and other times, they have to be content with becoming a friend instead. Some become matriarchs of manipulation and effect birthday parties and other events so that as the children grow, they will see the "other woman" in a mothering way. It is a daunting task. Children of a mother who has died have a very difficult time. The "new" mother is handed the gargantuan role that must appear as a mother while respecting the often over-blown memory the children have of their real mother.
 Also, there are "lost" mothers who have born children and for various reasons were compelled to "give them up". (A child is never "given up"; it is always the child of the birth mother. ) When the child becomes an adult, it craves to know its birth mother. If its mother has died, it creates one in its imagination. It can be a powerful concept for the surrogate to deal with. An adoptive mother can find her child's search for the birth mother, very trying. She takes her role very seriously and feels that she is the true mother. But having the child's best interests at heart, she cooperates. Sadly, some birth-mother women feel threatened by their "lost' child's re-appearance and reject them, but most find it very satisfying to realize that their "baby" has become  a productive person,  unharmed by their choice and that now they are able to reinstate a relationship. Most birth mothers and their children continue meeting and both mothers are content that satisfaction in the matter has occurred. Matriarchal mothers are another thing. They see their role as queen and head of their family's lives and fight to keep that role whether their off-spring or surrogate kids want independence or not. It's a dangerous game and adult families who need to maintain the power of their own family, will fight to keep it - and should. One essential thing good mothers learn to do, is to let go. Matriarchal kinds, try to keep exclusive control in any way they can. They hold on by organizing too many family events or yank a financial chain or demand constant close care and attention or set themselves up as rivals of their children's mates. Mothers who don't allow their children their independence, lose not only their children but also their self worth. It's a fine balance to know when it's the right time to let the nestlings fly.  Mothers don't have an easy job, whether they are birth mothers or surrogates.

Facing Forward

One computer annoyance is forwarded junk mail. Most of it comes from well-meaning contacts. These items can be such a nuisance that you feel like casting off the friends who do it. A couple of examples, are those who are into religion in a big way and who send you a prayer list for someone or something. If you break it, the subject of the prayer will not receive the healing or saving or whatever it is, and you are the perpetrator of its demise. It makes this type of onus hard to ignore. I do it very quickly before a certain celestial being might get me with a lightning bolt from on high. This sort of message should be sent to a loftier plane. To add my name to that kind of list, I assure you, is not going to be of great impact anyway.  Another annoying forwarder is the lazy individual who wants to "keep in touch" but doesn't want to go to the effort of actually penning something personal. This kind, had merely to push a key to send you an article, a website,  a cartoon, a picture or a joke and you are supposed to consider it a piece of correspondence from them. Excuse me, but that is not keeping in touch. Send me a note, a word or two that comes directly from you, please. Likely the worst kind of forwarder is the person who is sent quasi intellectual  bits of this and that academic detritus and sends it on  as though he read and pondered the piece himself. Or perhaps she has read something intriguing in a book by the one who had the brains to create it, but who copies, pastes and sends me the title. Advising another to read a book that you have not, is unfair. And it is worse if that perp says he or she intends to discuss it with me in future. This puts the pressure on me to read the dratted thing or be the dummy in the future debate.  Is one supposed to be impressed with regurgitated knowledge? I, for one, am not. Send me an original thought, a feeling, a few lines about an article or a book but please do not manipulate me to join a discussion on it later. I don't need that kind of pressure. I guess what is so annoying is that while the book, joke or picture appeals to the sender, it isn't something everyone may enjoy. But how do you stop this kind of junk mail forwarding in your life and not lose the friend in the mix.  Usually, I delete the bit immediately and pretend that I have done so accidentally but do not want to ask for it to be re-sent. Or I DIY. Delete, ignore and yawn. If asked if I received the item and what did I think about it, I have a long list of neutral remarks, hums and haws that usually suffice. They are much akin to the lost homework ones I used in high school. Exception: can't use the dog-ate-it formula though. First of all, I don't have a dog and second of all, even if I did, he wouldn't care to chomp computer. I think that if a person wants to communicate with me, he or she can jolly well, send a personal note. It doesn't have to be long, although contrary to computer etiquette, the-briefer-the-better, I happen to like longer e mails and welcome them as an appreciation of the person who takes time to express ideas at appropriate length and in standard English. Not all of us cybernuts are enamoured of three word blurps and the use of letters as words in amputated language. But that's another topic for another day.

Sorry, Busy - At Play

When our grand daughters were little, primary schoolers, they came sometimes to stay for a number of days and those days remain as the best memories of my life.  In the morning, we had to get out in the yard to check out the fairy houses. Fairy houses were little structures that we and the girls constructed at their direction, from small twigs, leaves, blossoms and pebbles. They were rather elaborate but delicate. The little ones, as they built, explained to me, what each room was for and who would use it. Some of the upper stories had magical purposes such as look-outs for elves and other unsavory beings that loved to destroy fairy houses. The houses had to be completed before night time because that's when the fairies came out to play. Apparently. I asked for stories about the little people, their names and their tales. It was very special to hear little girls explaining to me the rules of fairy history, behaviour and habit. Most of the talk was created on the spot and all during the construction, busy little fingers were making sure that the fairy houses would withstand the lively dancing and flitting about of the Little People. Tiny berries were added as food tidbits to enhance the celebrations.  In the morning, it was necessary, very early, to go out in our pyjamas to check and see how the little houses withstood the fairy parties. There was great joy to see that the "food" may have disappeared or that elves had attacked and knocked down the walls or that the parties had been so riotous that the whole house had fallen in and needed to be re-done. The grand daughters had stories for the entire overnight scenario. I use this example of play because all of it was child generated and carried out. I, the grandparent, had no input other than interested oohs and ahhs. It was play, true child play.
One of the saddest sights I've seen lately is, while at a lecture in a recreation centre, outside the window, there came a stream of little kids dragging along large golf cart things loaded with hockey equipment, a lot of it. None of them looked happy or as though they were going to have fun. It was after-school time and I am sure they were tired of others directing their lives all day long, but here they were, likely at the command of an adult, in for more adult directed "play". Not fun. What happened to climbing trees, building forts and general free play generated, not by well-meaning adults, but by kids themselves? What I see in most families, is a frantic schedule of organized sports, lessons of all kinds professionally taught or coached and family outings along with a pile of devices hand held or ground into ears. No one talks, everyone is plugged in. Plugged into what? Does any of it matter? Do teens really need to know every miniscule movement of their friends every minute of the day? Do Dads and Moms have to carry on their jobs day and night?  Do families need schedules for planned activities stuck to their fridge doors, plans that fill every day of the week? When, oh when is the family time to play together? Just play, not time for rules and regulations, right and wrong ,winners and losers. It is no longer a flippant question. When children turn to alcohol, drugs and unsavory gangs, who is at fault? The crux of the situation starts at home. If there is one. Both parents work and the children come to an empty house, notwithstanding they're-old-enough to be alone or even with a nanny somewhere usually watching TV? I realize that to keep up with the Joneses both parents have to work: the mortgage, the holidays, the cabin, the car, the memberships, the trips and so on. But if that is so, when is there time for the whole family to simply be together without  encumbrances such electronic devices or pre-planned things to do. I know you are going to say, but the cabin, but the trips. If it's the cabin, that's great for the week or so you are there. What about the rest of the year? What about dinner tables when everyone is there for a meal that isn't rushed to meet some schedule? What about evening times to all sit together to watch TV if you must or play a board game or just read together? I can hear echoes of "that's old-fashioned" "it's a different world" "you are out of touch". Those are too easy answers to vital questions. Think about it. If you have time.

At The Controls

Who steers the ship? It's not always the captain. At times, the first mate or others of lesser rank are enlisted. It's the same with the controlling of individuals. Sometimes the controller is so subtle that the controlled do not know it. Control is not always done by bullies, but often by someone least suspected: a sweet friend, a companion, a parent. How do you find out who is controlling you? Take a look at your life and think about it to answer the question, "why". Why are you feeling frustrated? Who is asking you to do what is not your own choice? What would you rather do? Why have you accepted the control? You may discover that you are doing things that look innocent on the outside but that are motivated not by you, but by another "well meaning" sort, making you their puppet. Dinners and other designed events are a famous way of controlling family. Someone, likely the controller, decides that regular "family" dinners or events, are a must to hold everyone together. ( It begs the question isn't being a family enough?) And of course, you go along with it and set aside all other personal choices because of the old saying: "family comes first" or " blood is thicker than water". And that is true, but not always: truth being a malleable matter. It is true if it fits your needs as well as those of the person, the controller, directing the event. I know a young, newly married couple who had to make a hard decision that their own little family came before meeting the invitations of his and her parents to Sunday dinners every weekend. They found that there were no weekends that were left for them and their new infant. When they realized the control that was happening that affected their own need to become a  family themselves, they announced that from now on they would be having dinner at their table and hoped to invite the parents to share their happiness. They took over the control.  I know another situation where a friend continuously insisted on books for his friend to read and made sure that their discussions over libations would include references to the books. The friend who felt forced to keep up the reading if he were to remain in the relationship, had other obligations but in order to maintain their friendship, he spent most of his leisure, desperately trying to keep up with the readings. Not too difficult to see who the controller was in this case. Husbands are pretty good at controlling sometimes as can be, wives. When times must be adhered to such as meals, someone is in control and the controlled, goes along with the demands simply to keep the peace. The broader family can also control their households. A certain very fine family I knew long ago, insisted that every evening at seven o'clock, the entire group would circle in the living room while a book reading was effected. Each member of the circle read a chapter. By the time the session was over, there was time left only for homework and on weekdays later, bed. And while it seems like a perfectly lovely way to spend an evening, some of the teens wanted to meet their friends or have them over. They also wanted to please their controlling father. It was Father's zealous method of family coherence, one that he considered important enough to  mete out punishments if there were objections to his plan, in the name of Family. Even discussion of the chosen reading material would have helped, but the youngsters were so upset at having no choice in any part of the activity,they could have cared less about talk after and hour and a half of forced readings. Mothers in law are often accused of control that they argue as only concern for their children and seeing that instruction would be helpful to the couple. This kind of control can cause much grief and while we make fun of it, it is not fun. Usually it ends up with someone hurt and usually it is the over conscientious mother who is wounded who thinks she has "meant only good". Fortunately, mothers are flexible people and soon  all is fixed usually, and hugs, rampant. If one day you wake up to who is really in control of your life and it isn't you, and you want to do something about it, the next step is to find out what you want in your life that would work. Sounds simple but it's not something we do often and mapping out our own chart, can be time-consuming as well as complex. All you want to do is steer your own ship and when it suits you, at times, allow for another mate to take over but only at your discretion. Bon voyage!

Rolladex

Today, it is more common to store names and addresses on device files rather than the "hard" versions. My mother had little leather covered books with friends' names and over the years, scratched out and put in additions. Some had brief notes such as "died Nov 2", "BD Sept 13" and so on. A few had longer entries: tiny maps of how to get to the address listed and others, a roster of relatives or food allergies in case the person came to dinner. You didn't leave my mother's house without a meal! When I found a need to collect this kind of information for my list of contacts, I bought a shiny black plastic Rolladex with its little white cards and alphabetical dividers. Gradually it grew. Once all the cards were used, it was time to go through and weed the thing to remove scribbles for people who disappeared from my life in some way and use the backs of the same cards. I continue to keep up my good old Rolladex but I must admit, now it is rather disgusting and when taken down from the door covered shelf above my phone, I must do so with caution. It could shed and then I would lose some precious content. It looks a little like a paper porcupine. The cards are dog eared and full of scribbles - had to add e mail addresses to most - and there is more in the file than little white cards. I have a bad habit of asking folks for their Card. I capitalise because nowadays cards are works of art. Some have them done elaborately and professionally and others make up their own. The logos seem to be of special importance. A number of my friends have romantic "professions" of their own invention. World Traveller. Sports Car Racer. Best Mom In The World. Beauty Contest Winner. Crabbiest Uncle. Some are not publishable but reflect their creators' greatest personal aspirations. I also collect wine bottle labels and now that I think of it, the two would make good companions framed and  mounted on a board in my den. My Rolly, his shortened name form, goes with me on longer trips. Beside the tubes and bottles not allowed through the scanner, lies Rolly looking somewhat forlorn with his cards inside a plastic bag for safety amongst the tee shirts and sox. While cell phones and their companions store all the operating info you need, I enjoy fingering my way mechanically through the small pile of cards and bits of real paper stuffed into the file. It's a trip down memory lane. There's the card of a dear friend who died, duly noted on the card, one that I simply can't toss out. And here is my favorite place to market for eggs with their cute motto and a funny logo that makes me smile. Again, I come across the address of someone on another continent, a distant relative who might be dead now, but just in case, I keep it. This set of cards concerns a financial institution that has a general number somewhere in the world that promises to connect me with MsSmith in the accounting department but when I finally get to MsSmith, she is "not at her desk" and "please leave a message" and her box is full. Therefore, I have a secret list of their personal numbers kindly given, where I may "reach me any time" they say. And then there is the family section so designated because we appear to have all the same name. I cheated a bit here because I have listed them that way while their married names do indeed, lurk beside their birth names. That way I can keep the family together, divorce notwithstanding. Most of them are relatives I will never call since I got their numbers at a family reunion five years ago, the last time I saw them but the number might come in handy if we organize another reunion, God willing, as we are all getting no younger. I have only Aunt Belvia left. The hotel section is another boon. On each card, I have the rates posted. Some of them are obviously out-dated. Who ever heard of a good hotel today charging only 72 dollars a night? Also, being a librarian, I have See and See Also cards. You never know, I might look up "Hair Hair Here" under that or Beauty Salons or Hair Stylists. In any event I will catch up with them one way or another. Rolly sometimes loses his cards or gets a bit disorganised or untidy looking but he's more popular at my desk than the stapler. And who doesn't guard their staplers almost with their lives. Never did find the one I left at the mail box two years ago? Oh well, I still have good old Rolly.

Beauty Or Brains

Given a choice, what would most people choose: beauty or brains? I suspect the winner may be "beauty". Why? Beauty seems to go farther than brains. You can have a pile of knowledge that works well but if there isn't some beauty mixed in to make it more palatable, even it has limits. Those who are deeply into the matter of being learned and ready to regurgitate their collected wisdom at the lecture stand, are often those who have some sort of visual appeal. If they are not beautiful, they are interesting looking. If they aren't attractive they do everything they can, to be so. I can think of one particular university lecturer woman from whom you might run at dusk if you met her on the street, but who wore the most elaborate fashions that her students were fascinated. Every talk had a different costume.  A deadly dull looking and speaking professor, ought to be a bit fetching in some way to keep the students awake. In the  broader world, presidents and royalty know that appearance is important and have whole crews hired to make them beautiful or as close to it as possible. There are a very few examples of famous folk who are downright homely and not much can be done for them to help the situation.  I can think of one in particular, but wouldn't dare say the name. I think you know what I mean.  Television personalities and movie actors - they are much similar - seem all to be quite lovely even the quirky ones. The truly uglies do the character roles. We all love to look upon beauty. Babies are  beautiful apart from one I once met during my babysitting days, whose name was Barney. But that's another tale. Babies have perfect small faces and flawless skin and their eyes are naturally very large in their little skulls which is one sign of ideal beauty. What happens when they grow up and change is quite another thing. Noses grow and chins form and the whole pretty baby aura often turns out a rather plain result. Billions have been spent on trimming proboscises and reducing flabby cheeks and sagging skin. All in the name of beauty. Or vanity? And what department in the store is most active? It is the make-up, perfume, soap and shampoo section. Beauty or the seeking of it beats out brains every time. The ironic bit is that most of the products and procedures that go into the beauty business come from the brainy people who don't care a fig about their appearances. They slave over microscopes in labs or surgically trim bits of skin or stir up gooey mixtures to apply to wrinkles or spend hours meticulously stitching lovely garments or stand all day working on the hair of others or clipping their toe and fingernails. I take my hat off to them. They are the truly beautiful people in my book.

Table For One, Please

One of the mysteries of being a single woman is the matter of dining alone at a restaurant. In our society, it is not customary or perhaps, accepted, for a lady to partake of food or drink alone without suspicion. Men can sit at a table to eat on their own, usually with a newspaper wielded ahigh for privacy, but a woman, has nothing of that ilk ever since fans went out of vogue. The single female seems to attract certain boorish males to think that she asks for the attentions of a man. Those of you who have experienced an uninvited encounter such as this, know of whence I speak. The other day while enjoying a pretty tray of sushi and a glass of Chardonnay because I dislike Saki, a rotund chap ambled over and made a remark that defies comment. I tried to be as polite as I could under the circumstances and his retort when so rejected, was not only insulting but also, crude. As I went through to the last nibble and sip, I began to ponder on the situation and why it occurred. I know it does to most single women I have had occasion to discuss it with. We people, seem like fish, to have the need to "join up". We consider that life takes place in groups of two or more and that anyone who actually revels in solitary activities, is not normal. Some of us quite like our own company and engage in self-dating frequently. There are women who are born spinsters and stay one-alone all their lives and they have perfectly good sense. There are others of us who did not volunteer to being solo ladies, but who were, in  one way or another, tossed into the single life. Divorce, widowhood or abandonment by a mate happens. And while it is not always our choice, we eventually, go out and about on our own. We must. We have business to do, entertainment to carry on and travel hither and yon quite happily and independently thank-you-very-much. You do become accustomed to flying solo and it can be a rather pleasant occupation even after long perfect years of marriage. And no, we are not always hot to trot to find a man to fill that space on the couch beside us. What do you do all day, I have been asked. The tender of that question is usually a married woman. I should answer, "pretty much everything that you do". Believe it or not, we have business matters, laundry, cooking, cleaning, reading, car care, plant tending and family attention, perhaps a job. We live just as any other person. The difference between not living with someone else or living with someone, is that we design our day exactly as we chose. I consider it a luxury. I know widows and single women who pine for a man with whom to share their lives and that's just fine. Most of us have no intention of going shopping for one on line. You can't mail them back. Although finding one  can be the problem. If you aren't the joining type or a bar fly, you have to pin your hopes on Fate. And he's a busy fellow. The older you are, the harder it gets. Young women can bounce out of one relationship and into another  with relative ease, but we mature women are pickier. Our horizons are set a bit further out and our tastes are rather more finely honed. Experience has its benefits and often on calculation, the single life is the wiser route to happiness. But if there are any old princes riding around on their white chargers, they should stop with the ingénues and find a nice silver lady to take back to their castles.

Aftermath

When you are rid of something in your life that you thought meant a great deal, you find that it meant nothing at all. It is rather like washing the dirty laundry and seeing it come out fresh and clean, all spots and soil gone, a garment ready to be donned as though it were always new and perfect. As you travel along life's pathway it's similar. You fall into situations that for some reason you can't see as imperfect at the time even though everyone around you could. You ignore the warnings and leap in. You enter innocently and gladly to become thoroughly immersed blindly in a sea of happiness that makes you feel that it's what you have always wanted.  As time goes by, you realize the truth bit by bit as the joy erodes, but you carry on eking out all of the good that was once present.  It takes a long time to understand that you are actually drowning in the waters of something you thought was ideal.  At a point, all the small negative events come together and you finally know that where you are is not for you. It takes time to emerge from what pulled you down and made you feel that you might drown at any minute.  It is not easy climbing out of the morass of it all,  but gradually you do and are able to shake of the detritus and arrive into safety and walk away. Hindsight is what they say as being one hundred percent. When you look back, the fog of infatuation you hovered under once has disappeared and what you see  is bare truth. It is a shock. Take heart. That you were trapped into what was bad for you, wasn't entirely your fault. There are masters of deception and you have apparently been caught by one of them. The wise old evil went on long before you were drawn in and now your eyes are wide open. At first, you want to react with anger and bitterness but hold on. There is no point in trying to find revenge. It can only harm you further and you are damaged enough as it is. Forgiveness? No, that doesn't work either. It's not something you feel in your heart at this time. Forgiveness is only a word and nothing else. That will come later, perhaps much later, but in its own time. Revenge? Certainly not. That would put you in the same category of loathsome behaviour that the enemy inflicted on you in their betrayals. You are better than that. You are better than they are. Wait and see. All bad is somehow re-paid in kind. Evil meets itself in the end. It's best to step away from those who betrayed you, find your own niche, and forget so that you can start anew. You don't want to lug along the  burdens of guilt that they will one day have to carry on their backs. Even bad times  have their lessons and while your loss seems fathomless, there is gain. The reward for your patience is experience and the building of an armor that will prevent what happened from hurting you ever again. You are stronger and wiser and knowledgeably ready to tackle whatever comes your way in the future.

The Perfect Couple

Often people ask, why are these two together? Or, how on earth do they stay together? Or, what makes these two a couple? Based on their behaviour, their dismal histories and their own complaints, in spite of all their series of bad events, these subjects remain a couple, either married or not, and live in abject disharmony for most of their lives. We all know folks like that and we all wonder why they exist. While it is common for some to say that those in a couple should be alike in their life-styles and former histories, there are others who think that opposites attract. I have encountered amongst perfectly lovely men and women that it is their psychology rather than their habit that determines their destinies. It's how we think that makes us. We can over ride our past lives or change ourselves if we wish to. There's no value in blaming our up-bringings if we aren't about to deal with them. Most don't need a counsellor or psychiatrist to do it, because all they do is help you take an honest look at the whole mess and fix it yourself. It's buried in your own mind. If not repaired, you wallow and that seems to fit for many, unfortunately. Getting back to the perfect couple, the masochist and the misogynist, they are unlikely ones but they appear to fit well together.  This aberration can be in various couple genders but I use the male/female set here. The misogynist male that I speak of is not the  beater of women who is a criminal, but the one who finds ways to make his female's life hell in more subtle ways.  He uses words and behaviours that keep her in a constant state of angst. The abuse pattern is peppered with rosy times of make-up but it invariably happens again, over and over.  She, strangely, on the other hand, accepts and appears to enjoy this sort of treatment.  She uses it to give excitement to her life and to elicit the sympathy of others. How many times do we have to hear,  "I just can't leave the poor man" or "but I love him". If she loves him and what he does  makes her life impossible, it seems to prove she is a masochist. The abuse pattern goes on and on until one or the other individual breaks it by getting out of the relationship. It isn't all that easy. Being with someone for a long time becomes like breathing, a life habit, and that makes it hard to end. It is only difficult until you have had an opportunity to look at the relationship objectively. Take a time out. A clever misogynist works his craft well whether deliberately or subconsciously. Same thing. He comes on as being a fine chap who is romantic and attentive. When he is sure he has caught someone in his web, on come the small cruelties, the loud silences, the moods, the philanderings. He is forgiven numerous times by his understanding mate who takes him back over and over again. He is expert at knowing just how to charm to make that happen. But the pattern continues on like a well oiled wheel. Beware, it's  a wheel turned, not by one, but by two.

Sneak Preview

Sneaks are not only those in dark derbies lurking in long capes drawn up to their noses, but also ordinary, regular people. They are neighbours, relatives, businesses, "friends", fellow workers. I have known some who drive long distances just to take furtive looks at a new home or car, their curiosity unable to wait for the inevitable invitation. Others take long walks past their target victims as they hide behind dark glasses thinking their disguises will be undetected. There are sneaks who read license plates and note locations. Some use social media to satisfy their curiosities. We all know what happens to curious cats and that, despite the saying, their satisfactions are seldom entirely sated. We are filled with a need to know about our peers. What makes them tick, where do they reside, who are they with, when do they go about, how do they maintain themselves as we know them? Why do we care about the who, what, how, where, when, why of anyone? It isn't about them; it's all about us. We sneaks, and we are all guilty, other than the ego-centrists out there who focus only on themselves and no one else, are simply trying to find out how we fit in this world. Sneaks are sneaking around because their true need is to learn if they are a working part of the system we call living-a-life and how that compares with our fellow man. Sneaks want to know in their estimation, if their dwelling is a good as The Jones's and their friends are as interesting and their job is as status appropriate and their appearance is competitive. On and on. There are as many reasons as there are reasons at all. What do you do when you are under this kind of scrutiny? Do you change all your passwords, re-route your movements about town, pull down your blinds  and hide in your "gated community" digs? No. You just ignore it  as a normal human aberration just as you would try to tolerate the neighbour's barking dog, noisy kids, or the beeps to see if the car is really locked habit. What else effectively can you do? We are all fraught with curiosity and that is precisely the formula for our overall progress as human creatures. We want to know; we have to know. And we are jolly-well going to find out. But the sneaks that are the worst kind, are the ones up-close and personal. They are the eerie sort who draw you in with their "friendship" hugging, cloying, cooing words and familiar pats designed to convince you that they are truly your alter ego. These sorts are the bad sneaks who, when you find out their true colours, know that they have used the proverbial honey and not the sticky paper. They conned you and you revealed all of your most personal thoughts and aspirations. They've heard your strengths and know your weaknesses. How? You told them! Once you have been charmed by these sorts and felt their poisons, you are left wiser and from that moment on, infinitely more cautious. The good, the bad and the ugly ones all teach us their lessons but whatever its tactics, the sneak will ever be among us.

Sunrise

Lots of people go for sunsets. I prefer sunrises. The sun rims the mountain tops with a blue and gold edging and as the earth turns toward it, the intense light becomes one line, a brilliant bed of fire and then slowly, the great sun lifts to its glory. As the glittering ball of fire appears to come up, it gradually changes into just the sun.The blue of the sky lightens as the last morning star fades. Your day begins. It is a time of hope and perhaps the attainment of promises made. It is when we trust that nothing bad will happen and that what lies ahead will be all satisfying and delicious. Hope. Not everyone sees the sun rise over mountains but even in the heart of the city, there is sky somewhere if you let it, and perhaps faintly but actually, when the darkness leaves and the light begins, there is the same hope for a fine day as what all others see. Life happens whatever it is for you and you take it and deal with it and go about your day. Sunsets on the other hand, can be lovely but they are rather sad because they are about endings, be they ones to say good-bye to or others  that contain a hope that tomorrow will be better. Sunsets are all about comfort and soothing colour and poignancy on a day past. Early risers know that sunrises are best. They are quiet times that seem to belong only to you. Unlike the sharings of  sunsets, you have your own moments when there is no one to trouble your private thoughts, your plans to take on the day and do with it what will become  part of you, no matter how humbly. It's a time when birds sing and the sounds of where you live slowly begin. It's a starting time and holds a promise that something wonderful could happen. Or perhaps something bad, but morning doesn't want to deal with negatives. It is all about elevatings and risings to whatever life brings that may challenge you or delight you or amaze you. The air in early morning seems clearer and more invigorating. Your life is all about positive happenings and what you aim to allow to happen for yourself this day. It's about what you want for your people, those who are with you: your friends, your fellow workers, your family, your helpers and savers. You turn from the window or balcony or grassy place and push your way into the actual working day, soon forgetting the sunrise and its promised beauty. It's time to start and the sunrise has nudged you forward, even though it is past and soon forgotten. Sunrise is the unsung theme, the seldom appreciated remedy, the cure, the impetus, the opening, the time, the first step into what is your future.