A Fight to the Finish

Just came in from wrestling the GD Christmas lights onto the GD tree in the front yard. 

Why do I store them in a tangle every year?  First I had to weave them all over the living/dining room floor to untangle them, then gingerly drag them outside and re-weave them all over the frozen lawn so they wouldn't re-tangle before I set up the little step ladder to string them.  Being a tad short, I did not string them into the higher branches before winding them around the trunk and plugging them into the extension cord.  Presto, they lit!  It was a fight to the finish, but I prevailed.  Another Christmas Miracle!

A few years ago I bought a pre-lit tree to avoid the nightmare of stringing four sets of GD lights.  I remember when I was a child, my father would spend an entire day frigging with the lights because in those far-off bygone days, if one bulb blew, the entire string died.  I remember my Aunt Betty -- she of the nicest house in the family -- following every trend every Christmas.  One year it was that gauzy angel hair stuff, actually made of glass shards which dug into our skin and itched until February.  What was she thinking? !

Tomorrow, being the First Sunday in Advent, is the Sunday I hang our Advent Wreath.  Feels good to be starting Christmas. 

  

Wow

"Look at these results," my doctor said this morning, turning the computer screen so I could see it.  "Your age is one number, but your bone density is another.  It's better than I ever see on anyone of any age.  We never see results like that."  Really?

So, osteoporosis will not be my downfall -- literally.  I googled "bone density" and see that a healthy average is 1.5.  Mine is 2.0.  Thanks to my swimming, my heart and lungs are in excellent condition and no breast cancer in the offing.  This was the first comprehensive exam I'd had in ages and I am encouraged.

We just have to get through the blood tests.     

Unconscionable

So, mysteriously there was a fire on the Attawapiskat Reserve, forcing the government -- you and me and our $$$$ -- to move residents to motels.  Gee, how did that happen? 

Good, old Chief Teresa Spence raises her greedy head once again.  This is the same chief who camped out in Ottawa a while ago and went on a (non)hunger strike, while pocketing almost $400,000 in salary to look after a measly 2,000 people.  It's unconscionable. 

Spence has been funnelled $90 million in the past few years alone, plus another $500,000 to renovate existing housing, yet hasn't done one thing to improve life for her people.  Ottawa put the community under third-party management, after an audit uncovered a cesspool of financial mismanagement, i.e., outright theft, in my view.  Then Ottawa changed its mind and Spence was again handed the keys to the vault.  What did Spence think of the audit?  "A distraction." 

The trailers that went up in flames weren't even purchased by the band, they were a gift from De Beers Canada.  Five years after being donated, the "temporary" housing solution was still the only housing solution. 

After squandering the money given by Ottawa, Spence had the nerve to appeal to the Red Cross for help.  She should be charged.     

Fake

I wear it much more often than I used to, the diamond tennis bracelet my cousin left me when she passed in 2002 from ovarian cancer.  Way too young.  Her brother gave it me and I was overwhelmed.  "She wanted you to have it," he sweetly said. 

The clasp was iffy, so I took it to a jeweller.  "This is worth about $120," he said of the 43 fake stones which make it up.  "It's cubic zirconia."  I was shocked.  Many thoughts rushed into my head at that moment, the foremost of which was that she innocently always believed it genuine -- a precious gift from her husband.  She never took it off.  The other thought was, "What a cheapskate!  With his bags and bags of money, he gives her a fake bracelet."  What a jerk.   

I always knew there was something about him I didn't like.  A trophy wife, she deserved much more.  He quickly moved on and married another "trophy" -- one too many facelifts and WAY too skinny. 

I should have known that had it been real, he would never have given it me.  Never mind, I wear it all the time now because it brings me closer to her.     

Keep it to yourself

I have few "official" followers of my blog, but thousands of readers all over the world, from Russia, France, the US, Indonesia, South Korea, Germany, Malaysia, the Ukraine.............you name it, people everywhere read it.  Which is wonderful because I enjoy (read, 'am compelled to') writing and entertaining people.  What galls me are people who criticize my blog, but do not identify as "followers".  They hide behind anonymity and tear family members apart, while I am in the public thoroughfare putting my opinions in anyone's face. 

If you can't declare yourself a follower, don't comment negatively.  If you want to engage and say something, step up and be a follower.  This is the case with the spouse of a beloved cousin.  After 65 years of closeness and love between my cousin and I, the spouse -- who came on the scene five minutes ago and reads this blog -- didn't like something I posted.  Sadly, my cousin wrote me a poison pen letter and we are now estranged.  I know my cousin has to live with his latest, current spouse, but have some backbone and don't dump me because of her fits. 

That hurts deeply.  I don't care what anyone thinks of this blog.  I write it for myself, period the end.  But I take offense at people who never put pen to paper themselves, are not "followers", yet crap on what I write. 

One of my followers, "D", told me he was ashamed of hiding in the bushes reading my blog, so he became a follower.  Good for him.

Hey, if you don't like this blog, don't read it.  Write your own. 

Well, that's my rant for today. 

p.s. to "the spouse": you won't like this one either. 

Football versus Football

The driving snow of the Vanier Cup final yesterday brought back so many memories of my childhood.  I could literally feel the numbing cold of the bleachers in which we sat at Lansdowne Park watching the Ottawa Rough Riders play.  My dear uncle, Elgin, used to take all four of us young cousins to games when we were pretty small.

I hadn't a clue about what we were watching, but the atmosphere is forever seared into memory.  The wind, the cold, the hard seats, the freezing feet, the frigid hands, the snow, the dripping nose..........did my mother not dress me properly?  Back in those days, we didn't have $500 fleece jackets, $100 padded gloves and $300 fancy boots.  We had woolen mitts, duffle coats with hoods and flimsy scarves.  Our boots were pretty primitive too, but there we gamely sat through four gruelling quarters of Frank Claire football.

It all comes freezingly back as today's Grey Cup game approaches.  Being played in Regina -- Canada's capital of 'freezing' -- the game and sitting in those stands is the last place I'd want to be, but I will certainly watch it on TV.  Compared to the hype of the Superbowl, Canada's east-west final is pretty tame and decidedly low-key.  Heck, anything is tame compared to the American version of our final.  That's what I mean about "football versus football".  Still, Grey Cup Sunday in Canada is huge; so is the Stanley Cup.  Regardless of the fact that the NHL has been taken over by the Americans and is run by a guy who probably can't even skate, hockey also remains  fiercely "Canadian".  Watching pre-game coverage yesterday from Regina, Grey Cup is even huge-er there.  No fans are more diehard or dedicated than the Regina variety.  Ditto for gritty Steeltown's.     

I remember as a child the neighbours gathering at our place for a big party.  Relatively temperate, my parents and their friends would toss this virtue for Grey Cup Sunday.  Beer, rye, gin, snacks and cigarettes are what I remember best.  My parents didn't smoke, but everyone else did and my father always put out a hospitable cigarette dish.  In between parties, he used to keep it in a drawer with a damp paper towel taped to the underside of the cover to maintain freshness.  How weird it seems now?  As for wine, no one drank it, too wimpy for Grey Cup.  Some folks were from the West, others from the East, so cheering was wild regardless of who won what play.

I cannot think of Grey Cup without remembering my parents, my friends in Lindenlea, their parents and the wonderful childhood I had.  Absolutely superb.                 

Americans

"I'm a New Yorker and I think it's terrible," said our hostess last evening.  She was referring to the fact that Americans have no clue about Canada in any way, shape or form, but have now perked up thanks to Rob Ford.  Heck, even CNN is doing specials on the lout. 

But it's very true, Americans are completely ignorant about Canada.  Except when a scandal erupts.  Our gracious hostess has lived in Canada for many, many years and raised four children -- or is it five?  Her husband served one of our prime ministers and his work took her to Ottawa and Washington.  They are lovely people and proud Canadians.  She is also the aunt of Brett -- the Hitman -- Hart, one of my favourite celebrities of all time.  I was secretly hoping he would be there last evening, but alas wasn't.  Ah well, I live in hope.............. 

Our hostess is a patriotic Canadian who is not proud of her native country at the moment.  Just watched a re-play of 'Jeopardy', a stupid show hosted by a Canadian, and when Alex Trebek asked who the current prime minister of Canada was, no one got it!  Amazing.  Reminds me of Texas friends we spent time with over many years at their island in the Gatineau Hills.  "You live in Canada five months of the year and you have no clue who the prime minister is!?" I said one evening to our hostess.  "Do you know who the premier of Quebec is?" I asked.  Of course not.  It's pretty outrageous how inward-looking and navel Americans are. 

It's amazing that CNN has covered the Rob Ford fiasco, but did not touch the greyhound-bus beheading of a few years ago outside of Winnipeg. 

Amazing.   

Mrs. Todd's Algebra Class

That's where I was at about 1:30 p.m., on Friday, November 22, 1963, when Kennedy's assassination was confirmed.  It was confirmed because two secret-service agents burst into our class and whisked the US ambassador's daughter away in a split second.  She had been a friend of mine.  We were both 16. 

Mrs. Todd, my grade 12 algebra teacher at Lisgar Collegiate Institute in Ottawa, broke into tears, but after composing herself, continued with the lesson.  We were all dumbfounded and very confused.  I don`t think it hit me until I came home and saw that my parents had moved the TV into the dining room so we could watch it around the clock.  I had to babysit that evening and went, as usual.  But I remember it was cold and raining and the entire weekend was sad, sad, sad.

Life changed after that split second.  Innocence disappeared.  The bright light dimmed.  We all know now that Kennedy had feet of clay, but for some reason he held us.  Pierre Trudeau held us in the same way.  What was it?  The Royal Jelly, period, the end.

I hope we all take a minute this Friday, November 22nd, to remember.  It's another "Friday", how ironic. 

  

Sorry, but it's BS

Philippino Canadians send millions back to their native land every year -- money they have earned here, but give to another country, rendering it of no use to the Canadian economy.  And yet they now want Canadians to send mega-money and relief to aid in the latest disaster in that country?! 

Another Haiti.  I don't get it.  But, or course I do.  The Philippene government has not re-distributed the money.  You can bet the "powers that be" have pocketed most of it.  That is why I am not giving one cent.

Disturbing?  Read Gary Mason in The Globe and Mail today and weep.  His column will really disturb -- but not surprise -- you.  He writes about the wasteful and disastrous public-policy decision made in BC ten years ago to hand over child welfare, health and education to native communities.  In a courageous report, written by  Mary Ellen Turpel-Lafond -- herself a member of the Muskeg Lake Cree Nation -- she outlines that tens of millions of dollars have gone to "consultants" and "meeting planners", but little else.  "Aboriginal child welfare agencies were given millions without...(wait for it)...a single child protection case for which to account." 

Well, of course.  What's new?  "There is rampant neglect, there is abuse and there are really serious mental-health issues on the part of the parents," says the report.  "The public millions being spent to fund aboriginal child welfare authorities appear to have mostly ended up in people's pockets.  Few children have been helped, but any attempt by government to revert to its old ways will now be met with fierce resistance from those who have come to benefit financially from the new order."

"After my report came out, I received some really nasty, vicious e-mails from the people who stand to lose the most from any change in the status quo," Ms. Turpel-Lafond says.  Education(al) results on reserves are as bad today as they've been for a long time.  But the public hasn't seen those numbers because they'd be an embarrassment to the government -- a rebuke to its decision to devolve more and more responsibility to 'first nations'", she adds.

It's all so outrageous, predictable and sad for the children. 

More on shoes............

As I consistently maintain, shoes make the outfit.  Not handbags, although they and other accessories add to the overall picture.  "Nobody cares what handbag you're wearing.  Now people are focussed on whether you know what shoe to wear," says an article confirming my own fashion sense in this week's 'Maclean's', by Anne Kingston.

Which is why more and more stores are dramatically expanding their shoe departments -- such as The Bay's flagship in Toronto, which now boasts a 50,000-sq.ft. shoe sanctuary on the ground floor.  I would be in paradise.  I did not know that footwear in Canada is a $5.2 billion industry.  "Footwear offers a longer life cycle in terms of preserving margin," the article goes on. 

You also get a much bigger bang for your fashion buck with a pair of shoes than, say a very pricey dress.  The power of a shoe goes back to Cinderella, whose glass slipper won her a prince.  Tamara Mellon, co-founder of Jimmy Choo, says that shoes are no long what you buy to complement the dress; they are the centrepiece of the look.  Absolutely.  Put on any 'little black dress', which I usually make myself, don a spectacular pair of shoes, throw on a few other upper-body accessories, the right pair of earrings and you're done. 

"It doesn't summon body-image anxieties like dresses do.  You reject the shoe as not comfortable or the right colour; it doesn't reject you.  And high heels offer the benefit of what anthropologists call 'lordosis' -- a lift of the behind and an arch of the back commonly seen in primate display," the article adds.  I never feel "dressed" until I have put on my shoes. 

I always say that a pair of jeans with sneakers conveys a completely different image and message than does a pair with high-heeled sandals or gorgeous boots.  I have never abandoned my high heels and keep all 75 pairs in good repair at all times.  As I said to my chiropractor in Ottawa, "Your job is to keep me in high heels."  "So far, it's working," he replied. 

Really?

People don't know how to prepare a squash?  Every day The Globe and Mail publishes a three- or four-step recipe on how to cook something -- complete with drawings.  Today it was squash. 

How simple can it be?  Just wash it, cut it, core it and bake it.  Don't even need a dish.  Gee, kids are sure missing out on home ec classes -- such as we used to have in grades seven and eight.  Those classes -- and my mother's and grandmother's knees -- were where I learned to cook.  Back then, the boys took home ec, although unfortunately we didn't get to take shops.  At least they learned something.  Funnily enough, I am much handier than B, whose strengths lie elsewhere.  When it comes to even hanging a painting, I do it.  Easier for him than to have me yell at him for "doing it all wrong".

Back to squash.  "Excuse me, but what is that and what do you do with it?" a young mother asked me in the checkout line a few years ago.  Her cart was filled with processed foods, her toddlers fat.
So I told her.  "Really?!  Even I could do that," she added.  I watched her cart and kids as she ran back to get one.  "And they're really cheap!" she said in victory. 

Good for her.  Maybe she has since graduated to baked potatoes?   

The Battle of Crysler's Farm

It is now submerged, a casualty of the St. Lawrence Seaway.  But Prime Minister Harper invoked Crysler's Farm today in his Remembrance Day remarks.  He has been talking about The War of 1812 for a while and this was the definitive battle -- the reason we are not part of the US. 

It was the war that saved Canada from becoming part of America.  The Battle of Crysler's Farm, also known as the Battle of Crysler's Field, was fought on 11 November 1813 during the Anglo-American War of 1812.  A British and Canadian force was victorious over the American force which greatly outnumbered them.  The American defeat prompted them to abandon the St. Lawrence Campaign, their major strategic effort in the autumn of 1813.

No matter how little today's students know about Canadian history, the Battle of Crysler's Farm was critical to Canada becoming Canada. 

We must have done a couple of things right

"Regret" was the theme of 'Definitely Not the Opera' on CBC Radio this afternoon.  The host ventured into the streets of Toronto and randomly asked people what theirs were.  Without exception, each said it was a broken relationship with a parent. 

How lucky B and I are.  Every day, one, two, three or all four of our children are in touch -- either by phone or email.  I consider it a miracle that any of them even talk to us, after the imperfect parenting job we did.  When your children are young and you are raising them you try and imprint your values.  When they are adults you must back off completely.

What a joy it is to be a grandparent.  What a joy it is to hear the phone ring and see that it is one of your children or grandchildren calling.

Huge gifts.   

The Ugly Side of Miss Goody Two-Shoes

After a nasty incident at the pool a few weeks ago, when Miss Goody Two-Shoes lifeguard went postal because she could not handle her job, and after reporting the fiasco to management, I awaited an apology I was assured was forthcoming. 

"I am apologizing for that incident," Miss T-Shoes said to me today.  "I was told I had to apologize and so I am," she insincerely added.  "If you have any more to say, tell management."  With that bullsh-t comment she walked off. 

Talk about unprofessional.  The problem arose because the aquafitters insist on entering the pool a half hour before their class starts and jam up the lanes.  Miss T-Shoes can't handle them, so she freaked out on me a while back when I elected to stay in the lane in which I was swimming, instead of moving to another as I usually did.

I have done a couple of blogs about it, but pulled them because Miss T-Shoes is the type who would accuse me of cyber-bullying.  But the crap she handed me today convinced me to out her again.  Unprofessional hysterics have no place in dealing with the public.  Unfortunately, the YMCA does nothing about employees such as she.  "She's very emotional," was all I got from the manager this morning.  Like I care.  So unacceptable.   

It won't stop me from swimming, but it will happily ensure Miss T-Shoes does not talk to me.     

Get over yourself

Michelle Rempel's rant against Justin Trudeau's women-only event in Toronto is laughable.  A dyed-blonde huckster herself, Rempel called the gathering sexist, demeaning and unserious.  Who is she kidding?  Any woman who dyes her hair blonde is projecting an image of sex and does so at her own risk, the risk of not being taken seriously.  At least, that is my opinion. 

I am sure Rempel is a rabid feminist, who attends all kinds of women-only functions herself, so why she objects to Trudeau holding one is beyond me.  Oh yeah, it's because he is a man.  I think it was a great idea and so did all the women who shelled out $250 a ticket for the sold-out event.  I wouldn't bother because I know the kid well, Justin having played soccer with my kids in elementary school.  That is also how I got to know Margaret, chatting on the sidelines.  That, my friends, is another blog entirely!

The women who wanted to meet Trudeau one-on-one are obviously not dummies.  Happily, they do not share Rempel's hysteria. 

Nothing's changed

"The number of men in Calgary who would like more time with their children following divorce runs into the many hundreds," from an article in 'Avenue', a Calgary periodical.  "I hate the term 'visitation'.  They're my children, after all," said a victim of "The System".

The problem is many men in a divorce are so pissed off they just walk away.  When they try to come back and recover their rights as fathers, they have a real uphill battle.  "The legislation governing family law, as written, is gender-neutral and most judges are fair-minded, trying to apply the law impartially.  Still, many believe that men are discriminated against," the article continues. 

Oh boy, are they ever.

Here's the deal:  Fathers have to pay big-time upfront to ensure joint custody and establish their rights and interest in their children.  They can't just walk away in anger and then reclaim their rights.  They have to hang in there from the beginning. 

When I met "B" 33 years ago, he was in the midst of a divorce.  His then-wife had declared she did not want to be married to him any longer.  Apparently she had read 'The Women's Room' and had decided she was some kind of a  "liberated woman".  From what, we did not know?  Liberated from being financially supported?  Liberated from not having to work?  Liberated from not doing the cleaning and laundry?  Who knew?  What ensued was a protracted custody battle.  Eventually, B was awarded joint custody.  Why?  Because he showed six judges he wanted to be a parent.  That was 33 years ago and after a few years of a complete mess, B was actually awarded full custody of his two children.  Can you imagine that!!??  Why?  Because the court knew that he would not deny access, while the mother would. 

What did it take?  A lot of money.  Most fathers walk away.  They can't do it.  Fathers need to know they have to pay lawyers and be serious and persistent in their objective.  Fathers who want to parent have to push The System and the "judicial attitude" to the en'th degree.

Happily, we did, against the biggest, most negative obstacle one could ever encounter:  the mother.  We succeeded. 

Footnote:  Interestingly, the lawyer who won B's case and the child psychologist who advocated co-parenting teamed up to write a legal textbook on family law, which led to the current trend towards mediation, rather than litigation.      

My Assignment

In 1968, one of my tasks was to keep an eye on my cousin's fiancé.  She was working in Toronto and he in Ottawa, so I was asked to accompany him to parties and other potentially hazardous gatherings.  Being very wealthy, exceedingly polite and disarmingly charming, this young man was a target to every predatory female we knew.  And just as today, the public thoroughfare was replete with them.  So, yours truly was squired around in high style until they married. 

Thus it was I found myself in the front row in the old Capital Theatre on Bank Street gazing upon the peerless Jimi Hendrix.  Nothing but the best seats for "J", so I benefitted.  This adventure came vividly back to me as I watched an excellent documentary on the late brilliant troubadour on PBS (where else) last evening.  I hadn't really understood how great Jimi was at the time because I didn't know the first thing about playing a guitar, but to hear the likes of Paul McCartney rave about his raw talent was to finally understand that what he did with a bit of wood and some wire was nothing short of magnificent. 

By the time I sat in rapt amazement in that beautiful, old theatre, Mr. Hendrix was in full flight, indulging himself on everything from the music he played to the drugs he took.  Remember the headbands he used to wear?  Soaked in LSD.  "Jimi didn't think about anything except his guitar and the women he slept with.  He didn't care about politics, he never talked about world affairs....nothing but women and music," said one of his contemporaries. 

Man, that's concentration for you.  The night I saw him he did it all -- played with his teeth, gyrated and finally set his guitar on fire.  Guess it's no surprise Johnny Allen Hendrix, voted the sixth greatest guitarist of all time, died at 27.  What more could he have packed into so few years?

As for my cousin?  Sadly she succumbed to ovarian cancer in her fifties.  My old friend "J"?  Still one of my best, oldest and truest friends

45 Years Later

In my 'Mad Men' days at Maclean-Hunter publishing, I worked with some pretty awesome writers.  One of them was renowned sports journalist Roy Macgregor, now with the Globe and Mail.  Google him and you will see that he is a pretty famous Canadian journalist and the author of several books. 

When Roy and I were occupying side-by-side desks on Toronto's University Avenue in Maclean-Hunter's bull pen, we were both young journalists learning our craft.  I was 21; so was he.  Although you had to demonstrate talent to get into M-H in those days, Roy quickly established himself as a really good writer.  I remained a commercial writer, pretty good, but toiling in the trenches of the business publications division.  Roy?  He moved up quickly.  What a great time we had back then.  Born and raised in Huntsville, Roy was a complete gentleman and a down-to-earth original.  We got on famously, joking and rollicking around Toronto in the early '70s.

Over the years I have watched his career with great happiness.  No one deserves success more than he.  Now and then I think of him, but having recently subscribed to The Globe, I now read him most days.  He does not disappoint.  Today I impetuously sent him an email, after 45 years, complimenting him on the superb piece he did on the legendary Howie Meeker. 

Fifteen minutes later I got a wonderful response.  Back and forth we reminisced about our editor, the crotchety Jean Portugal, from whom we learned so much.  She used to rip our stuff to pieces -- and that was a very good thing.  Jean once took us to lunch in Chinatown, where she proceeded to educate us on the digestive properties of green tea while eating Chinese food.  It was worse than witnessing an autopsy!  I gagged.  She went into bodily functions and secretions and intestinal machinations that no sane person should ever have to contemplate.  "I need a drink," I remember screaming silently.

Didn't get one. 

So there you have it.  My brush with fame.  Roy Macgregor. 

        

The Coffee World

Remember when coffee was just coffee?  I mean, you went somewhere -- anywhere -- and ordered "a coffee".  Didn't matter what kind it was, what was in it, where it had been picked, who picked it, or even if it were good or bad.  A coffee was just a bloody coffee.  Horror of horrors, we even drank instant!  No longer.  There has sprung up an entire coffee universe and I don't get it.  I probably don't get it because I haven't had a coffee in 45 years. 

The last time I had one was in my office at IBM Canada in Toronto.  Half way through it, my heart started racing and racing and would not settle down.  It was the most terrifying episode I had ever experienced.  My colleagues rushed to my aid as I sat there gasping.  In those days, every office had a nurse and she was summoned.  After about a half hour, my heart resumed normal beating. 

Apparently, caffeine and I don't get on.  I experience "extrasistoles".  So that was it, no more coffee. 

Drive by any Timmy's and you will always see a huge lineup.  Is there heroin in the stuff?  And then there are Starbuck's, Second Cup, Java-Java...........and on and on.  They're even opening a Timmy's in Afghanistan!  People are very stuck on their coffee and it has to be "just so". 

Me, I'm a tea granny.  That and water, water, water -- to which I sometimes add scotch.        

Thoughts on the Senate

The only solution to the Senate is to let it die through attrition.  I wrote a letter to The Herald last week and wondered why it had not been published 'cause I thought it was a pretty good letter and offered a new take on what to do with the mess.  "Oh well, didn't get published," I said.  Except that it did.  Today my letter was printed (as usual, can't find it online, so here it is as submitted):

"Dear Editor,

I know everyone wants the Senate to “poof”, but here’s a bulletin:  can’t be done without opening up the Canadian constitution to...who knows what?  Not gonna happen.  You can’t just have a vote or wave a magic wand.  The only way the Senate will disappear is if prime ministers stop appointing senators.  Eventually, after 30 years or so, attrition will take care of it.  They will either die off or retire, leaving the chamber empty – just another quaint stop on a tour of Parliament Hill."

 

        - Calgary Herald, November 1, 2013

 

The Conservative convention has begun today here in Calgary.  Maybe the letters' editor was holding mine back so more Conservatives might read it?  Don't know, but attrition is one solution no one has proposed.  Have to give credit to my husband, the constitutional expert, for this painless idea. 

 

Thanks "B".