Shoes in The Lone Star State

Blogging today from Houston. We are here for the baptism tomorrow of our grandaughter, Caitlin Elizabeth Leslie. By happy coincidence, it is also my birthday. But nevermind all that, what I want to talk about is the fabulous shopping in the US. Seriously, for a shoe addict such as I there is nothing that compares with DSW: Discount Shoe Warehouse. It is a paradise of rows and rows of gorgeous shoes by top designers at ridiculously low prices. I never leave without a minimum of least three pairs (usually it's five) and today was no exception. People -- mostly women -- wander casually amidst such dazzling beauty seeming to take this feast completely for granted. I mean, how can they?

Before we left my step-daughter collected all her coupons -- some expired and some that hadn't started yet. I said, "We can't use these, some expired in 2008." Let's go, she said. Got to the cash and they took every coupon, so it cost even less. My step-son, Scott, actually got a pair for free. After we walked out, I felt like that Ikea ad, where the woman runs out yelling, "Start the car, start the car!" The manager even popped her head out and said, "You guys did great today!". Try that in Ottawa. Forget it.

In Ottawa, we are lucky if we happen upon one or two wearable heels and when we do, they are way too expensive. And please, who would ever wear anything from Armstrong and Richardson or any other sensible, comfy-shoe salon. And the clothes! Wander into TJ Max, Marshall's or the Burlington Coat Factory and you have miles of designer stuff for next to nothing. I bought a fabulous hat be-decked with flowers and a veil for $19. Yes friends, Ottawa remains the town that style forgot.

More hair tales

Put it off as long as I could, but went to have a hair intervention with Dan this morning. Walked in with old-lady hair -- you know, no style, no purpose, no statement, no point -- and emerged with style once more. Ya gotta beware of old-lady hair, it just sort of creeps up on you. Starts looking flat and lifeless. I start to morph into the old ladies I see at Mass, with their bed heads and pincurls. I sit behind them and cringe. God bless them but yuch!

So there we were, Dan and I, laughing and screaming about this and that. I find out he reads this blog, which flattered me. He even quotes a few choicer morsels at dinner parties now and then. Elk Lake and Maniwaki spring to mind. Why is it that every woman has a tale or two about nightmare visits to the "beauty parlour", as my mother used to refer to it? We sit there watching in mute horror as the stylist methodically destroys our hair before our very eyes. And with a smile pasted on in sheer terror, we say....absolutely nothing! Why is that? Then we actually hand over good money for the torture. Not that I ever get a bad haircut with Dan, but I get one every time I go to the cheap place I usually frequent between repair visits to Dan. It is only because I can fix the messes they create that I can get away with it. After a hundred years, you get to know your hair and how to manage it.

Anyway, we were chatting about how we tell our hairdressers absolutely everything. Why is that? He tells me that a psychiatrist told him it's because the hairdresser is standing behind you and focussing on your hair, not your face, so you don't get into a one-on-one conversation that involves facial communication. It's the same with the psychiatrist. They don't look into your face either. Makes total sense, that plus the fact that Dan and I will never bump into each other in our "real" lives so my secrets are safe with him. And hey, I'm paying him, so he damn well better agree with every ludicrous word I utter. And he does.

As I was paying him and bitching (a little) about how expensive a good hair cut was, he announced that he actually gave me a discount....."because I can". That started me thinking....."mmmm....maybe if I polish my act and make it more like stand up we could get to a point where we meet somewhere in the middle?" You know, I would be so entertaining the hair cut would be a wash. Or better still, maybe he would start to pay me to cut my hair! There's a plan! No, that will never happen. He definitely has the edge there.

As I was leaving, a young woman who was arriving told me how great my hair looked. I tried to tell her that hers did too, but I couldn't because it didn't. It was that long, blonde, crinkly, dark-root do that never looks good on anyone. Was she coming in to get it all lopped off? Hopefully she was waiting for Dan because he would fix her up. Why do some women fight to override their beauty with bad hair?! As I have said before, thank you Farah Fawcett.

Scary

Before I forget, had to blog about Carol Burnett. Just watching her on CNN and she has had so many facelifts she looks as if she's in the witness protection program! Almost as bad as Kenny Rogers!

Some people

Had an ungodly hour appoinment at a hip clinic this morning. Why is there always someone in every waiting room who thinks we are all dying to know that she drove seven hours from Elk Lake or somewhere in blinding snow to get there, that she had had an earlier appointment in November, but her uncle had died and so she had to cancel, that she worked in the oil patch, that she had really sore hips (don't we all), that she was really lucky her sister lived here (poor sister) and that she thinks her problem is hereditary. Man, I'd hate to meet her parents! And as if that weren't enough for 7 a.m., we were mercilessly treated to her machine buzzing every two seconds because she was texting someone -- probably telling them that she drove seven hours from Elk Lake in a blinding snow storm, that her uncle had died, that she worked in the oil patch........you get it. Instead of sitting there quietly like the rest of us, she had to parade around yakking and raving. I mean, come on!

You get an idea of what the problems are when you see some people really waddling in! They were lumbering and thundering and gasping for breath and I thought, "Do you think your weight has anything to do with the pressure on your hips and knees!!" I am sure they would totally deny it. I mean, come on!

Mercifully I was called for x-rays and then into another waiting room to wait. The wait was sufficiently long that I now know everything there is to know about the "Male Reproductive and Urinary Tract Anatomy" from a 45-minute look a graphic poster on the wall. Yep, I am now an expert on the vans deferens, the urethra and every other aspect of these cellular structures...view from the front and view from the side. I mean, there was nothing else to read. In bounced the adolescent doctor, who blithely ignored what I said about my symptons, pronounced on my condition and bounced out five minutes later. After eight years, I got a five-minute moment. So my hip saga continues......outcome unknown.

Little Miss Perfect

Yep, that's the baby beauty queen title of late. "Little Miss Perfect". Tuned into 'Pageant Moms' the other day and rued it. Why do I watch these wretched shows?! This one was out of Dallas (where else) and featured yet another baby beauty contest. These are babies and toddlers, folks. Babies and toddlers! I know I have blogged about this before, but I am slack-jawed every time I accidently click upon these sick shows. The children sport false eye lashes, false teeth, wigs, full-on makeup....and they are....three!!!! Why is anyone surprised when they get molested??

One mom controlled her kid with sugar........"Dallas just needs a little something," she confided to the camera, as she popped a sugar substance into the kid's mouth. Shortly thereafter, Dallas was saying...."Mom, hit me with that again." Future drug addict anyone? There was mom, plying the baby with sugar to keep her in line. Heroin will be next, trust me. Other moms swore by chocolate breakfasts to get the babies pumped. What is wrong with these people!?

When one two-year-old didn't win, she balled her eyes out. It was so pathetic. Ruined at two.

It's always open season on the Catholic Church

The front page of the local paper featured a blaring "expose" on a local catholic parish and its very popular and charismatic pastor. Apparently the finances of this church are now of public concern. Why, we have no idea? The article talks about the fact that this priest goes to the casino on his own time. So what? I kept reading to find out if he had done this by defrauding the parish. And if he had, it's no business of anyone but the parishioners and the temporal committee in charge of the money. I kept reading to find out if the local paper had donated thousands to this parish and that was why it was outraged. I kept reading to find out if the pastor had raided the building fund. I kept reading find out exactly why the finances of this particular parish were anyone's business except the parishioners. But down to the last line of the long article, there was no valid reason for "outing" this priest on his recreational interests.

So, I wrote a letter to the editor and copied the archbishop and our own pastor. It follows here, in case they don't publish it. Probably won't. A little too much truth in it:

"To the editor, The Ottawa Citizen,

Why the finances of one church are the subject of a public newspaper investigation is anyone's guess? It's not as if the citizens of Ottawa are forced to fund this particular parish through their taxes. No. Parishioners give whatever they wish when the basket is passed. Could be nothing, could be thousands. It's really a private matter. And who's to say a grateful benefactor has not given a few hundred thousand to one priest or another for a special and meaningful reason? Maybe that's how priests and other church leaders fund their personal lives? Maybe not? The point is the finances of churches, synagogues, mosques or any other places of worship are the business of the parishioners, scrutinized by the temporal council and the tax department. They are not a matter of civic concern to Ottawa taxpayers.

Is The Citizen conducting a financial review of all local religious institutions? Has The Citizen donated thousands to this particular parish? Is that why it feels authorized to accuse this particular priest of....whatever? Once again, it's open season on the Catholic Church. And all this as Holy Week gets underway."

I am so sick of catholic bashing. Lets pick on another religion for a change.

Oh, it's lard

That's why the Golden Palace egg rolls are so fabulous. They are deep-fried in lard. Just read a story about how people were lined up around the block to buy half-price anniversary special egg rolls yesterday at this legendary west Ottawa restaurant. In it they revealed a few mundane ingredients, but forget the celery, onion and pork. No, it was the deep frying in the lard that was the "ah ha" moment for me.

You can't really beat lard. Bacon fat comes close, but lard is the queen of the fats. We used to visit friends for a week at their cottage every year and the hostess was always on some diet or other. One year it was "sugar busters"; another it was "nothing white"; the next it was "the zone". In fact, it was the only holiday I ever went on during which I actually lost weight! But the deal was that her pies were to die for -- mainly the crust. Assuming she wouldn't dare use anything but vegetable oil, I could not figure it out? Until I spotted the Tenderflake hidden away in a corner of the fridge. Oh yeah, it was lard. I confronted her and she swore me to secrecy (sorry about that, my dear).

But back to the egg rolls. We have another pencil-thin friend who gives wonderful cocktail parties. But to maintain the pencil look, she serves celery and poached salmon and stuff. (Let's face it, poached salmon is pretty tasteless, unless you smother it in tartar sauce and slap it onto a fatty cracker; celery's allure goes without saying and if it didn't have the crunch you wouldn't talk to it.) Anyway, rushing out the door I said to B, "We can't go empty-handed, let's stop at the Golden Palace and I'll grab a few egg rolls." You would think I had arrived bearing pure gold. People smelt them before they had seen them -- it's that lard thing again -- and wolfed them in about three minutes. "Why didn't you bring more?" The salmon was summarily abandoned and left to dry out at its bland corners. As I said, lard is queen.

Can't watch

The French leaders' debate is on and I can't bear to watch. Here we have English-speaking people speaking French to each other. Too Monty-Python-esque for words! They do this because they are trying to win seats in a province that only elects people dedicated to the breakup of Canada. I mean, the Bloc only runs candidates in Quebec, but because they get elected to Parliament, we have to have a debate in French in Quebec. The whole thing escapes me! Too stupid. If I were a leader, I would flatly refuse to participate. You can never appease Quebec. Never. But think what kind of support a leader would get if he said, "Think I'll pass on that debate, thanks anyway." Man, the rest of Canada would cheer. The Green Party runs candidates in every riding across the country, but Elizabeth May is denied the right to debate because her party has never won a seat in Parliament. (More about the wretched Ms. May shortly.)

Always sad to see that Quebecers still vote parochially and not on issues. You could run a donkey stuffed in most ridings for the Bloc and the beast would get elected. Read a good editorial today by a Montreal columnist imploring Quebec Anglos to stop doing the same thing, voting Liberal.......just "because we always have".......and start voting on the issues.

I try to conjure an image of Bloc candidates debating each other in English in Quebec and I can't do it. Why is that? I remember travelling in La Belle Province for my job and being told that under no circumstances was I to utter one word in English. Fine. No problem. I was in a bilingual job and I got the bonus and I spoke French. But I also recall welcoming a Quebec colleague to a meeting in Ottawa one time and being warned by my boss that, "Remember Nancy, these meetings have to be in French." This logic escaped me. I said, "Does Jacques get the $800 bonus to speak English?" "Yes." "Then he will earn his $800 listening to me in English and I will earn my $800 listening to him in French." The logic was indefatigable. Needless to say, it was a bizarre meeting.

Back to Ms. May. I wanted to hide under the sofa cringing when I saw her on tv after the debate last evening (another I did not watch much of because of more cringing). She outlined her top four issues: the environment, aboriginals, women and...wait for it...Libya. Sorry Liz, no one cares about Libya during a Canadian election. And as to women, natives and green things, there are so many lobby groups dedicated to these hobbyhorses we don't have to pay them any attention during an election. But there she railed -- barely visible over the podium -- wailing with deep sincerity. Maybe it was the camera angle, but I felt very sorry her parents had not dealt with her unfortunate teeth in adolescence. And at the risk of sounding petty, don't get me started on that ratty hairdo. Nothing seems to go her way. As I said, I cringed in sympathy.

Our Parliamentary problem is that we have a Westminster system designed for two parties that now must accomodate five. Doesn't work. But no one in their right mind would dare open up the Constitution to change anything. So up with it we must put.

As to the wringing of hands about the sorry state of the youth vote, I say this: If you are a youth and you have all your systems in place -- your blackberry, your i-phone, your i-tunes, your friends, your boyfriend, your girlfriend, a mcjob...you name it -- you will not be inclined to vote because...why would you? But the minute any of your freedoms are tampered with, you will stop and look up, take notice and pay attention. Until then, as I said, up with it we must put.

You could not make this up

The local news today featured prominent coverage of the Ottawa SlutWalk. No, I am not making this up. You get up on a Monday morning, pour a cup of tea, reach for the morning paper, hoping for a couple of lazy, enjoyable moments, and.....bam! You are confronted with an hysterical debate on what defines a slut. Hey, I thought the dictionary had already defined that. No?

But here it was in black and white. Yes, folks, over the weekend here in the Nation's Capital, women held a SlutWalk (their term, officially). Their wish was to make the point that even if you dress like a slut, you are not a slut. Whaaaaaaaat??!! The organizers stated that they..."wanted to take control of the word slut and reclaim it". One 22-year-old went on to explain that she wanted..."to embrace the word slut as somebody who is sexually responsible and aware, whether I have one or a hundred partners." (Not that a word can be a somebody, but let's not get technical here.) And as a mother, if my 22-year-old daughter had had 100 partners, the word slut might spring to mind. But again, let's not get technical.

It gets better. "To me a slut is someone who can say yes or no -- and just because I identify as a slut that doesn't mean I say yes to everybody. To me a slut is just somebody who is in charge of their own body and in charge of their own sexuality." Another chimed in with...."the word has a long history as a derogatory term. Some people think it can be turned into something positive. It's a movement that I want to become a part of."

OK. Let's get this straight. The "Concise English Dictionary" defines the word slut as...."a dirty, slovenly woman, a slattern, a bitch...." But these women want to re-define it. How can you re-define a word, seriously? Now women want to dress like sluts, walk like sluts, talk like sluts, shout their sluttishness proudly to the stars, but not actually be seen as sluts. What other words should we re-define? House? Kitchen? Dog? Virgin? What about derogatory descriptions of men?

How about "abuser"? The dictionary defines abuse as...."to maltreat, to act cruelly, to violate, to deflower, to deceive..." So, if men decide to "take back the word abuser and re-define it, would this wash? As if. Feature a group of men marching to make "abuse" a positive thing. "We are abusers, but we don't choose to abuse everyone. We want to turn the word abuse into something positive." The quotes would read..."To me an abuser is someone who is in charge of their own relationships and their own women. I want to embrace the word abuser -- whether I beat one or a hundred women." Please. How pathetic.

These young women are so misguided. If you parade around dressed like, well, a slut, don't be surprised if men take a run at you. Sure you can always say no, but you can't stop the sexual aggression; it's hard-wired. Why do you think dress codes were invented? What do you think decorum means? And, by the way, decorum applies to men as well. There is still a bylaw on the books here that prohibits men from appearing in public bare-chested. Too bad it's not enforced.

Instead of getting on with their lives, making a contribution, volunteering in their communities or standing up for something worthwhile, these young women are parading around dressed as sluts and proud of it.

The Blue and Grey

Flipped to a local cable show and what did I see but my old Alma Mater, Lisgar Collegiate Institute, playing a basketball game. There they were, still sporting the timeworn blue and grey. Memories came flooding -- memories of when I was...ahem...a cheerleader. Yikes! Yes folks, one of the most sought-after gigs in high school was that of cheerleader. I shudder to admit it now, but I was in my glory. Of course, this was long before girls actually played real sports. Our versions of sports were tame, girly and nothing like the boys' authentic versions. There we were, decked out in our little gym outfits -- blue, of course -- dancing around lamely. You could even bail if you had a note from your mummy explaining it was...."that time of month". I mean, come on!

No, the real athletic girls longed to be cheerleaders and the tryouts were murder. I remember limping around for a week with a huge purple bruise along the inside of my leg, thanks to a fancy, extravagant cartwheel manoeuvre I was definitely not in good enough shape to perform. But nevermind, I made it. Year one I wore the "I" sweater, but year two I had snagged the coveted "L". I had made head cheerleader. It was a dream come true. And to top it all off, that year I dated the school's head boy. It was my personal nadir.

As I watched the Lisgar kids perform on tv the other night I found myself yelling the old cheers. They were all still firmly embedded in my memory, word-for-corny-word..."blue and grey, blue and grey, these are the colours we won't betray! Victory, victory is our cry, V-I-C-T-O-R-Y!". Yikes again! That's how robust and stubborn early adolescent emotional experiences are -- positive and negative. They remain hard-wired in your brain for the rest of your life. I guess that means I will be yelling the old Lisgar cheers when I am tied to a chair in an old age home and can't remember what happened five minutes ago. So depressing.

How did I stand it?!

At lunch today at the golf club, I spied a table of four women. I knew one of them. In fact, I used to work for her (albeit one level removed, but we had lots of direct contact). Nevertheless, to this day, she has no idea who I am. I have seen her countless times at the club and she just stares blankly through me. In fact, I would wager that if you weren't someone who could help her clamber up the ladder, she wouldn't know you five minutes after meeting you. And that includes the women she was lunching with!

It was only four years ago that I retired and about five since she became our assistant deputy minister, but she has no clue that I used to work for her. That's self-absorption writ large. That's unbridled hubris. That's someone who just cannot get out of her own chair. Know what I mean? And true to form, the only voice that rose above the others at her table was........hers. She held court and instructed her companions for two hours on everything from soup to nuts. Man, she knew it all. It was facinating to watch because when they first entered and sat down, each woman held her own, each contributing to the gathering. But I knew it wouldn't last, I knew what was coming and it did. As the lunch continued and the "refreshments" flowed, one voice started to take over: our gal the ADM. She could have been sitting with women who had cured cancer, split the atom, landed on the moon or been elected prime minister. Wouldn't have made any difference. The only opinions that mattered were hers. Period, the end. Brought back a lot of unpleasant memories of meetings during which I had to sit mute, agreeing with everything she dreamt up -- regardless of how ludicrous. It was the Emperor's New Clothes, or in the case, The Empress'.

I departed supremely grateful I am retired and do not have to take any more orders from this person. On the way home, B asked me why watching her performance had bugged me so much. "Just forget it," he said. I had to think about that and realized that if she were not retired, she was probably still putting women down and undermining their abilities, still stealing their work and taking credit for it, still being an overall bad manager.

Sadly, women are usually their own worst enemies. I can't tell you how many women I worked for over 40 years who did nothing to promote or mentor me. Not one, not ever. Men? Yes, lots and with much gratitude. But women? Not on your life. What did I say a few blogs ago about never underestimating envy in the workplace? Anyone with me here?

Hollywood Horrors

It's been a scant 45 years since we all happily accepted child pornography and as perfectly OK in the movies. A couple of TCM movies brought that depressingly home recently: 'Clambake' with Elvis and 'The Sand Pebbles' with Steve McQueen. In the Elvis movie, our hero is seen romping seductively with sexilly-clad little girls and engaging in a myriad of suggestive activities. So cute! Hey, wait a minute, isn't that just like today's 'Toddlers and Tiaras'? Dead on. Not much has changed.

In the McQueen movie it goes much further. Here we have a crew of American sailors stationed in somewhere like Hong Kong visiting brothels and hiring young teens for drinks and sex. Just like Thailand today, only in this movie it's all very OK. In fact it even allows tough guy Steve to morph into a tender and compassionate hero, as he tries to "protect" the young girl (presumably so he can steal her away have her himself) before offering her to his one riteous pal, played by a very young Richard Attenborough . We see the sailors grabbing the girls and laughing drunkenly as they drag them upstairs. As things escalate, we are next treated to an auction of one of the girls, standing on a table as her clothes are stripped off, upping the ante. Again, more drunken hooting and hollering. All this is accompanied by loud complaining about the $200 they will have to fork over for a first-time girl. But the madame -- her caring mother -- insists and prevails. Hey, isn't this exactly like the country peasants who continue to sell their virgin daughters to the highest bidders in Asia for the pleasure of the modern tourist? Dead on. Not much has changed.

In these movies ethnic stereotyping and appalling slurs are rampant, with the Chinese workers on the ship called "coolies". Yes, folks, in a big-budget "respectable" Hollywood box-offfice hit, directed by Robert Wise and starring other outspoken liberated luminaries like Candice Bergen, our Steve called one of his shipmates....that.

Tuning into an old Clint Eastwood movie the other day, it was clear our tough guy was not to be outdone. In one forgettable scene, Clint turns on a black female detective who had the gall to disagree with him and says, "Listen (insert the name of the woman on a famous pancake mix logo)......" Sorry dear readers, I missed the rest of the sentence because I was on the floor reeling in shock after hearing Clint deliver that heart stopper!!!!!! Mr. McQueen mercifully is dead, but you gotta wonder what Ms. Bergen and Mr. Eastwood think when they look back at some of their work. It is to cringe.

Ugly. Ugly. Ugly.