The Musical Chairs of Life

Talking with my husband about someone who used to be someone, he said, "Well, she just got caught up in the musical chairs of life and ended that round without a chair." How perfect. Another example of his knack for coming up with the perfect phrase now and then. We've all ended up without a chair now and then. The trick is to get back into the music and grab another seat. I've done that many times during my working career, when someone decided they didn't like the cut of my jib -- usually a woman -- or when a regime changed and the office dominos collapsed. The main reason I didn't get along with female managers was that they always thought they had to be smarter and know more than everyone who reported to them. Otherwise, why have the job?! I had one or two male superiors who were under that delusion, but it was mostly women. When I retired, I wanted to thank everyone who had mentored me in my 40 years of working life. I wanted to name them in a group e-mail, but try as I might, I could not name one woman who had helped me. Not one. How sad. But as I have said before, enough about envy in the workplace.



Speaking of delusional, Mike Fisher said he would love Carrie Underwood, "even if she weighed 800 pounds." Please. That is so pathetic. Have you ever noticed that all hockey wives look exactly alike? I guess that goes for all wives of sports pros. They all have that Barbie-doll look. Every single one of them. It must relate to the arrested development of all professional athletes. They are stuck in adolescence and their teenage years and never get past the cheerleader phase. Well, at least they have money.



Watched a movie the other day called, That Hagen Girl. Shirley Temple played a teenager who was picked on by everyone because she was adopted. One scene had her being called before the school disciplinary committee after a boy at a school dance cornered and kissed her. Naturally, she was at fault for "leading him on". Next she was actually expelled because she was found guilty of dating the wrong boy and entrapping him. When a friend tried to console her at the local soda fountain, she said to Shirley..."Cheer up. You've got great teeth and two years of french. You'll find a new man right away." Other than the french part, she could have been talking about horse flesh.

Remember, this was the era when girls who were raped "asked for it". Not long ago, the mantra for the charmers in the engineering faculty at Queen's was..."No means more beer!" Ah well, that's engineers for you. Everything and everyone is a machine with parts and date rape is the norm.

More about adoption later. As an adoptee myself, I have lots to say. I will also blog about my Dad, one of the greatest people I have ever known.

Into the wild blue yonder.......

Started my new "job" yesterday at the War Museum. The first thing I was instructed about was making the coffee. As a non-coffee drinker for the past 42 years, I definitely needed a lesson. Apparently, if I don't get the coffee right, everything else is downhill. So, your "gal friday" got down to business. And you better be sure the cookie jar is filled, said the 'toddler' I will be replacing. Yes mam! But I did give back one skill to the little lady who is moving to Kingston with her hubby -- a Canadian 'JAG' lawyer who has been transferred there. She has been on the job for three years, but has not been able to figure out how to change the voice mail message of her predecessor. I proudly did it in two minutes. Maybe she will not be such a hard act to follow? We also visited the mail room and met the mail boy -- another of my chores. So is ensuring the coins tossed into the fountain are dried and counted. I will not actually be doing this, but I will have to schedule the chore. I was amazed at the amount of money this brings into the museum.

But my real job will be as Secretary to the Board of Directors. I will also be editing the newsletter and writing countless other stuff. My predecessor did not do any of this, but she made a damn good pot of coffee! I can't wait to strike out in the mail room on my own!

Went to the fashion show I mentioned last time. With three girlfriends to laugh with, I loved every minute -- except the clothes. The models were older than we were, so that helped our self esteem. But the prices! "Ladies, this next outfit features a darling bolero jacket at only $358." Whaaaat!!!??!!! There must have been 75 women in the restaurant and I guessed that only about 20% were still with an actual dreaded man. The rest were devoted members of The Sisterhood, believe me. Don't get me started!

I am writing another short story and if I can figure out how to attach it to my blog, I will. It's about a middle-aged woman who has just buried her husband and is contemplating her life, her children and her future. (If you want a read, send me an e-mail and I will share it with you.) Not finished yet because I can't decide what happens to our heroine. Will she die too? Will she meet another man? Will she travel? Will she....? I have no clue yet. Lots of fun. What amazes me is that when I start a story, it just writes itself and I follow along.

Varia

I struggled with latin in high school -- mandatory in my day -- but I remember "varia". My husband actually speaks latin now and then. I kid you not! In Mass, Brian will start speaking in tongues, i.e., latin, and just keep on blabbering. (Sorry, a "p.s" here: Janis Joplin is on the radio as I type and belting out "A piece of my heart". G-d what a fabulous song. She just nails it. Had to turn it up. Remember that last album, 'Pearl', with her sitting draped in feathers and velvet pants lounging on a slinky couch? Wasn't she just perfect. There is another movie out that I want to see about 'The Doors'. I was 21 when I saw them live at Varsity Stadium in T.O. in 1969. All day and all night we sat on the grass and watched Sly and the Family Stone, John Lennon, Alice Cooper and many other bands. But I remember Jim Morrison. He was beautiful. Period the end. A year or two earlier I had seen Led Zeplin live at the Masonic Temple on Yonge Street, right across from Canadian Tire. Robert Plant was also beautiful -- long, flowing blonde hair and of course, tight velvet pants. Also marvelled at Jimi Hendrix live in Ottawa at the old Capitol Theatre -- resplendent in a headband soaked (I learned later) in LSD. Now I get him.

All this came back to me yesterday when we watched 'Pirate Radio' -- a movie about rock music before it was legal. The music was fabulous and brought back so many memories. But enough about my mispent youth.


Read an obituary today about a woman who had had two husbands: one she married and with whom she had had three children, the other she married after meeting him 50 years earlier at McGill. He had been her first love. Timing being everything, they had both gone their separate ways, married others, had children, but had not forgotten their love. Who would we marry now if we could? The emotions we feel in our teens apparently are the strongest -- this has been clinically proven by endless studies. I have to agree. We visited Brian's first love and her husband in Chicago a few years ago and when he and Jan saw each other after 40 years it was obvious they were still in love. It was absolutely beautiful, I mean it. And when I run into early loves, Brian immediately notices the spark that is still there. Can't extinguish it. Burned into the heart.


Speaking of an early "spark", one of my dearest and best friends is now at the local mission, a hopeless drunk. Michael was The-Most-Sought-After-Man-in-Ottawa. Gorgeous, debonnair, charming, urbane, funny, sexy...he had it all. But as we all went our married ways, Mike kept "playing the field", as my mother would have said. He had one gorgeous broad after the other. Naturally, they kept getting younger and younger, but when they all married, his companions got lower and lower. Skip to the end and he is down and out. Sadly, we all have him on 'call screen'. But we still love him. I call the mission regularly to see if he is still alive. So far he lives.


Have been following the veil debate in Quebec. That province has banned the full burqua for official dealings. I have to agree. I may have blogged about this before, but if we are all created in God's image, why do muslim woman have to cover themselves from head-to-toe-birth-to-death? I mean, why be born at all? If women are so reprehensible that we have to be completely covered, why are we born? It's like being encased in a death shroud all one's life. In the male muslim mind, either we women are sinners or those who look upon us are sinners. Either way, we have to be covered completely. I don't buy it. With fabulous daughters, I cannot imagine allowing them to be covered, only to be partially exposed when conceiving or giving birth. Pretty sick.


Saw a great movie the other day with Sir Michael Redgrave starring as a teacher in an all-boys school in England. Called 'The Browning Version', it follows the fading of a professor who realizes he has been a failure in everything he has attempted. A parting gift from one of his students, Browning's translation of Agamemnon, lifts him briefly from his despair. It all ends sadly, but many of the lines are brilliant. Written by Terence Rattigan, the movie calls at one point for Redgrave to say, "The glimpse you've just given me of yourself is most distressing." This is in response to a remark another character has made. How elegant. About Redgrave's unfaithful wife a colleague says, "She is out to kill you." He replies, "She succeeded in her purpose long ago." It's a great movie, filled with words such as "hallo", instead of "hello"....and on and on. Loved it.

I have been keeping notes about blogs I want to write, but none seemed to have been enough to go on about. Every so often a thought strikes me and I jot it down. The first note I wrote for this blog says, "Faith and harm avoidance." That's an instructive one because if you have faith and a clue about the ten commandments, harm avoidance follows. This obvious maxim occured to me when Brian said, "Been there, done that, got the hair shirt." Yeah. Not the T-shirt, the hair shirt. Don't we all sport those when we mess up.

Off to a fashion show tomorrow. More fodder for the blog!

When is enough enough??!!

I had to delete my blog about Helena Guergis because my husband objected to the fact that I compared her to Stephen Harper's wife. Since the Harper's are members of the tennis club where Brian serves as vice-president, he didn't want me comparing the two (dyed blondes) and didn't want me to air my observations that Prime Minister Harper's choice of a Minister for the Status of Women reflected his opinion of Canadian women. So I deleted my blog in deference to my husband.

Last night at a charity dinner I really stepped right in it. I was greeted warmly by a TV anchor I have known for several years and to whom I have always felt motherly. I am always trying to fix him up with an acceptable woman and he has never discouraged me from doing so. I asked him if he were finally engaged? No. Did he at least have a girlfriend? G-d no. Well, what are you, queer? I said laughingly? Yes, that's why, he said. Talk about mortification! I had no idea. And all that was before we sat down to dinner.

There is nothing more to say. Is he "out"? I have no idea. I certainly won't out him.

Letting some of my mother go

Going through a drawer in a hall table inherited from my mother's home, I again came across her wallet. Filled with her numerous identities, it is a concrete touchstone and until today I have not been able to get rid of her. Cutting up her cards is akin to watching her die again, but I plan to do it today. There is her health card, her SIN, her car insurance, her hospital cards -- all evidence that this woman existed and lived a full life. Her hospital cards are next to her Rogers Video card. I did not know she rented videos? One thing that must have annoyed her (to put it mildly) was that the "Hopital General d'Ottawa" called her "Lilliane" Griffith. The french spelling. That must have been galling to such an ardent anglophile. That card will be the first to be cut up. She also had a plasticized card from the funeral home, stating that her funeral arrangements were on file with.....Always the most responsible person I have ever had the privilege of knowing. Even if she had drowned, that card in her wallet would have ensured she would have ended up at Hulse and Playfair, fully paid up.

But there was nothing frivilous in her wallet. No family photos, no locks of hair, no poems -- nothing sentimental because she was not a sentimental soul. I, on the other hand, still have some of her ashes in my lingerie (I usually say "underwear", but for purposes of this blog am endeavouring to be more demure) drawer because I cannot bear to part with all of her. I still take the vessel out and shake it every now and then. Morbid I am told; I don't care. Her wallet brings back memories of her death, when I stood looking at her in repose. Her hands now gracefully folded that had made thousands of meals, her nails that had seen so many coats of polish, her lips that had spoken such words of life wisdom to me, her lovely dress that had represented her ladylike comportment. All came back to me as I sifted through her wallet this morning. Tears well.

In the same drawer was a lovely note and photo sent in 1989 by the late mother of an old high school friend (later married and divorced from my cousin, but with whom I still remain friends). Go figure. I met Marjorie when I was a teenager and our friendship weathered the storms of various marriage breakups by her sons and me and my relatives. "It is wonderful that our friendship has lasted through the years, with all the happy memories and excitement over what is to come in the future," she wrote. A generation removed from me, we had much in common -- mainly a wicked, irreverant and lopsided sense of the ridiculous. Married to a descendent of J.R. Booth, the local lumber baron, Marjorie promptly installed herself as chairman of the board when Rowley died. Reminded me of Joan Crawford who took her late husband's seat at the head of Pepsi when he died. Marjorie was a force to be reckoned with. The epitome of politesse, she was as tough as nails. There she stands in the photograph, the matriarch of her brood, resplendent in an expensive blue suit, matching shoes and clutch that perfectly match her clear blue eyes. I miss her too.

The funeral of Christ -- Good Friday confessions

Just back from the Good Friday service, where I always feel I am attending the funeral of Christ. But really, it is but the termination of His mortality. So depressing do I find the service that I lose sight of the immortality part -- the divine dimension that occurs after 3 p.m., when He dies as a mortal and becomes our Saviour. Always, I confess, I dread Good Friday. I admit to sitting in the pew dreading the long service, the readings, the Gospel, the interminable intentions...in fact I confess that I squirm -- mired in negativity -- while I plan dinner and congratulate myself on the fact that we will not be eating meat tonight, no sirree! Will I broil or fry the fish? Will it be potatoes or pasta? Will my kids and grandson go to Mass? Should I say anything if they don't? What time is it? Why can't that woman behind me quit coughing! The Veneration of the Cross will be the usual exercise in germ-sharing warfare! I can't face that! Isn't it terrible that all these people show up for one day of the year and I have to get here for two o'clock to fight for a seat among such heathens! Where are they every Sunday! I kid you not, that is what I sit there sanctimoniously thinking! A sinner am I!

But what I forget is that about 800 souls were there today for Good Friday. The place was jammed and extra seating had to be found hither-thither-and-yon. I guess "Once-a-Catholic-always-a-Catholic" sticks with the majority of parishioners. Jeff King, our pastor, tells me that we have about 2,500 communicants in the parish. Not bad for a religion supposedly in decline.

But back to today. Lo-and-behold, we were seated behind a family I did not know, but which nevertheless captivated me. Here was hope for the future. They were mother and father, infant and toddler and grandma and grandpa -- the past, present and future of the Faith. I was mezmerized and transported into their world, a world of family, belief, love, sharing and giving. I could not believe how good these babies were, but then I realized that the parents and grandparents were very calm and quiet. Almost two hours and the baby and toddler just looked around, hung onto their parents, stared at us behind them (I played peek-a-boo) and afforded me the gift of hope and joy. As we stood to receive Communion, Brian chatted with the father and told him he had never seen such well-behaved children. The father beamed. We have to spread love when we can. Made me long for our grandson, Jack, way down in Houston.

Our good friend, Father Harry McNeil, was the homilist and as usual, his words whacked me on the back of my head and brought me up short. I adore Harry. A Cape Bretoner, he has been a part of our family for more than 30 years and knows where all the "bodies are buried", so to speak. Harry's regular job finds him working with drug addicts, alcoholics, families in crisis and prison inmates; on the weekends he serves at our Parish. Today he reminded us that we all have redemption and that Christ is the only way because He experienced humanity. As Harry said today, Jesus helped the weak and downtrodden, but at His death became the weak and downtrodden.

So now I look to Easter Sunday. Hard to believe it, but I am a eucharistic minister. Doesn't that prove that sinners are all accepted in the Catholic Church? In fact, I was tapped for this ministry by the late Sister Eleanor Hennessy about 20 years ago. Literally "tapped" because one Sunday she tiptoed up behind me in my safe pew at St. Brigid's, tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Dear, would you mind going up because so-and-so hasn't shown up." Me!!??!!??!! Are you kidding??!!??!!?? I had only recently converted and was barely hanging in there, trying to figure out when to sit, stand or kneel! Cross myself -- which side first??!! But that was Eleanor. As many have said to me, "Oh, you could never say no to Eleanor!" And you just did not say no to Sister Eleanor. Period, the end. She was soft-spoken, diminutive, charming and driven. A woman of shining steel. Always a smile on her sweet face, she never encountered any opposition. As a Lay Sister, she served for many years as Principal of St. Brigid's School and was instrumental in its conversion to a hostel and soup kitchen for the most lost of the lost.

The local newspaper is filled with testimonials today from the faithful -- people who share my conviction that our faith community is strong and what..."happens in the Vatican stays in the Vatican", so to speak. I don't really care. It's like saying that if you are not a Monarchist you have to reject Canada, because afterall, the Queen is head of Canada. Or saying if you can't stand Stephen Harper you have to hate Canada, because afterall, he is the Prime Minister. Dumb and dumber. The Faith has many facets -- a fact driven home hard after Mass today, as I went into the Sacristy and loaded a week's worth of soiled altar linens into a plastic bag. Guess what I will be doing this weekend? Good thing I love ironing!

As to the "high heels" part of this blog, I intend to be at Easter Sunday Service in my best -- hat and all. Ain't life grand!

On this Holiest day of the liturgical year

As we comtemplate the crucifixion of our Lord on this holiest day, I thought I would share my thoughts about the latest media frenzy on sex abuse. When people want to talk about it, I always say that this crime is committed by people, but the eucharist and Christ remain pure. Sadly, pedophiles are found in every institution and I am glad they are being outed and prosecuted to the full extent of the law. The Catholic Church as a corporate institution has been guilty of coverups in this area for years, but no longer is this possible. Thank God for this. Happily, when I attend Mass I am still comforted by the ritual, the constancy and the peace I experience through the eucharist.

But I wonder, is the Catholic Church the only religious institution in which abuse has occured? Obviously not, but it is the only one that makes the evening news and is routinely publically castigated. I agree with the castigation, but not about the hiding or covering up of abuse in other religions. At the risk of sounding protective about Catholics, I will say no more. But I strongly support abuse being outed and prosecuted in all sects. Let's air this whenever we get the chance. But let's not forget Christ in all this. Let's not reject Christ because of the crimes of deeply flawed humans. By the way, Pope Benedict, although discouraged from doing so when he was a cardinal, went over the heads of his superiors and did pursue charges against the priest currently in the media. He was successful in having this pedophile removed.

Happy Easter.

Back into the War Paint -- literally

I have decided to get back into the war paint and high heels. I will be working at the Canadian War Museum two mornings a week, doing whatever they need. I think it was my writing skill that did the trick. Funny how the world has tossed writing aside in favour of tweeting and texting, but the minute someone appears who can string a few words together coherently they are pounced upon. The interview was great because I really didn't care if they took me on or not. That was the first time I had ever been up for a job where I just said whatever popped into my mind and a few zingers emerged. I even told them about meeting the Queen, which had them howling. So, I will be entering a whole new world filled with our honourable past and meeting older heroes and heroines -- many of them dedicated volunteers -- who have battled their way out of the rat race into calmer waters. I was warned that many have "fully-formed" personalities and are used to giving orders -- especially to women. Well, at my age and stage, most of us have "fully-formed" personalities, so I will rely on my sense of humour to translate an agenda people might not be thrilled with. Funny how you can say the cruelest things to people with self-deprecating humour and they are able to buy it with a hearty laugh. Looks like I will be dusting off the high heels, giving the dried up makeup a shake and jumping into the workforce again. I kinda like the idea of working with older folks because I may appear younger as a result.

One anecdote about the interview. When I arrived I went up to a HUGE information desk, with "INFORMATION / RENSEIGNMENTS" plastered all over it and had the nerve to disturb a young man to ask where the "Friends" office I sought was located. "Uh, I'm not sure." Turning to another young woman seated beside him he asked, "Michelle, sait-tu ou se trouve le bureau des amis?" "Aucune idee." Speechless for only a split second I said, "How can you not know where their office is?" "It's none of my business," he actually-in-all-truth-honest-to-G-d-I-am-not-making-this-up replied. Unbelievable! He told me that the location of the office I wanted was "really none of his business". Turns out it was just down the hall about 100 yards. But since it was past the coffee shop, I guess the guy never ventured down there after buying his coffee, preferring to grab the caffeine and head straight out for a nicotine fix. Your tax dollars at work there people! I mentioned this in the interview and told them they had a little work to do on the "Information / renseignments" side of the operation. When I think of the folks who would kill for a chance to sit in a beautiful building and play video games all day I am amazed and pissed off. So, for my first assignment...