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On Easter weekend I went with my attractive blond companion to visit his parents et al in Pembroke, Ontario. Good Friday was a great day. A quick two hour bus ride from Ottawa to Pembroke, barbequed hotdogs, then off for a 3 hour hike along the river, through the woods, around the town - until we found a place that was open for business and sat down for a pitcher of beer and a plate of poutine.
That was Good Friday. And what a good Friday it was.
Saturday? Not so good.
Saturday, I went to the Pembroke Mall. And got lost.
Yup. Lost. At the Pembroke Mall.
The day dawned like any other. Eggs, bacon, toast - lots of coffee for brekkies. Then I said, "I'd like to do some shopping. I have a couple of things I really need to get and I never get around to it in Ottawa." "I'll drive you to the mall", said my companion's mom.
So off we headed in the car - a car I wouldn't recognize even now if it ran me over - and I got dropped off. My companion's mom's last words to me being, "How will we know when to come and pick you up?" "I'll call", I replied (thinking, "D'uh...").
After about 30 minutes of shopping, I had what I'd gone to the mall to get - a shopping record for me - and headed for a phone booth. Which was when a vague unease began to take over, followed in rapid succession by a sweaty panicky dread. I didn't know their phone number. I wasn't even sure of their last names. And I had no idea of their address. All I knew was that they lived a confusing and goodly distance from the mall.
I started swallowing. Still heading for the phone booth. "Calm down", I told myself. "Think. You know his mom's last name." Out of the blue it came to me. My companion had referred to a family reunion down the road that he would be attending. "Aha!" I look in the phone book. Nothing. I call 411. "I'm sorry Ma'am. She must be unlisted. There's no one in Pembroke with that last name." I start pleading, "Her husband's name starts with B. No wait... D. They live in a white frame -" "I'm sorry, Ma'am. That's not enough information. I can't help you."
At this point my hands are so clammy with sweat the phone slips. I hang it up. "Think. Think. His cousin was visiting and her boyfriend is from Pembroke. Aha! I know his last name." I count my quarters. FIve quarters, ten Schmidts (the names have been changed to avoid embarrassing third parties). I dial the first Schmidt. "Hi. I'm looking for Tyler Schmidt. Do you know him or where I might find him? I'm visiting Pembroke and I need to get in touch with him regarding a dinner party." "Tyler? I don't know any Tyler. And I know all the Schmidts. There's no Tyler Schmidt in Pembroke." "Are you sure? I mean, I just saw him last night at dinner and he told me to give him a -" "I'm sure. There's no Tyler Schmidt in Pembroke that I'm aware of." "But is there another Schmidt I could call who might have heard of him?" "Well, let's go through the list: Orvil is a bachelor. Richard died this winter. Eva's my sister and I know she doesn't know any Tyler Schmidt." And on and on she went through all ten Schmidts. Slowly but efficiently draining me of my life force.
The Schmidt hope gone, I headed over to the food court. A slice of pizza and cranbery cocktail later, I spot a cancer fundraiser in progress. I approach the two women. "This is gonna sound crazy to you, but my friend's mom just dropped me off at the mall and I was supposed to call her when I was done shopping, but I don't know her phone number, it's unlisted, and I don't know her address. All I know is that it's pretty far from the mall and it's somewhere near a high school." "Haha! Lost? In Pembroke?" "Uh... Yeah. That's right." "Well, I get off here at 4:00. I can drive you around then. What's your friend look like in case he comes looking for you." "Well, he's got wavy blond hair, about 5'11". Good looking." "Haha! What's his number? Just kidding - hahahahahahahaha!" "Yeah. Well. Okay. I'll just wander around until you're off, then. If you see a good-looking blond guy - flag him down." "Oh. Don't worry, honey. We will!"
Anyway, in case you're wondering, there are apparently no good looking blond men in Pembroke. Not one false call. And mine never showed up either, which I really had to take issue with later since he was from Pembroke and should have known that only a desperately pathetic woman would seriously ever in her worst nightmare want to spend more'n one hour at the Pembroke Mall. (I'd left his house at noon...)
So, at 4:00, as promised, the cancer ladies and I drove around Pembroke looking for the house. I won't bore you with the details except to say that I was just about to ask them to open the door and push me out of the car and maybe I'd be lucky and roll over into a ditch where I could spend the night wallowing in the mud - when the house suddenly appeared - seemingly out of nowhere - right there. "Stop the car!" (It was just like Natalie Wood in Miracle on 34th Street when she spots the house of her dreams at the end) "This is it!"
Very long story brought to a mericful end, the cancer ladies came in to meet the family. My friend's Mom laughed that next time they'd put a sticker on me "If lost return to 123 Main Street".
And just like in the movies, the cancer ladies waved goodbye and said, "Happy Easter, everybody!" And went merrily on their way.
Oh - and the cousin's boyfriend? He wasn't from Pembroke, afterall. He was from Petawawa. You'd think that wouldn't matter so much except that, as he explained over dinner that night, when all the Schmidts got off the boat from Germany, half the Schmidts went to Pembroke, the other half went to Petawawa. Never, ever to have anything to do with each other ever again. So... I filled him in on the other half of the Schmidts. "Forget about them", I said. "They're dying out. Only Katerina had kids. One girl and one boy. The girl is a gym teacher and the boy joined the navy. Looks like the Petawawa Schmidts have won this round."
I'm a pretty sociable person. In the old days, the only reason I went to work was to socialize. Luckily, I worked at the NDP caucus at Queen's Park. But then I was out of the workforce for quite a few years looking after babies and toddlers and the only interaction I had with co-workers was when I'd go with my now ex to one of his workplace parties. It was pretty demoralizing, "What do you do?" "I'm a homemaker." Then his/her eyes would roll back into his/her head and his/her mouth would drop open and after a while flies would start buzzing in and out and eventually a spider would move in and build a web... You know what I'm talking about. Yeah. That's me.
A decade or so later, I find myself running an office pretty much by myself. No co-workers. A boss who only occasionally drops in. Just me, the phone, and my computer. Once in a while a fed/ex delivery person. That's pretty much it.
Anyway, I was sitting here the other day, looking at the artwork on the walls, such as it is, and thinking, "We need a pick me up. A special event. A reason to keep going." That's when it hit me - I needed my own Employee of the Month contest.
Now, normally I wouldn't be one to support such an event but since I'm the only employee, I figure I won't have to strive overly much to win every month. Because no matter how great the job, I simply do not believe a person should ever go more than mediocre in terms of meeting workplace goals. Well, goals may be too strong a term. How about... requirements. Yeah. Requirements. My motto is: No Worker Shall Go More Than Mediocre In Meeting Workplace Requirements.
I know in this day and age such an attitude is frowned upon - I can't tell you the number of times people have said to me of their employment, "I guess I should be grateful to have a job." To which I always respond, "Why, dammit? Why be grateful? Why not be 'In Your Face - SUCKER!'?" Because I honestly can't imagine how such a concept (and for some reason I always picture shrikers like Conrad Black equating jobs (for others) with gratitude (to guys like him) whenever anyone uses "job" and "grateful" in the same sentence. Or I picture those long-suffering women employees who think they have to over-achieve in the workplace because they spent years running a home for ungrateful... uh... nevermind...
So yeah - I'm not grateful to have a job. Sure, I'm glad I have one. Because it sure beats not having one and needing to look for one. But grateful? To whom? I work, I get paid - it's a fair transaction. I don't see any need for gratitude from either side. In fact, I think gratitude has an overall negative impact on the balance of nature - resulting in resentment and a tendency to snipe about others because one feels unappreciated and taken for granted.
But back to Employee of the Month. I'm very excited about this upcoming contest because I can define the perimeters of the competition without being shown up by over-achievers and martyrs - since I'm the only contestant - and I'm really looking forward to rewarding myself with appreciation every time I answer a phone, or send an e-mail - while giving a little extra to the person on the other end. I figure I've got the sort of easy going workplace where I can afford to go the extra mile - not for the boss - but for all the other workers out there. I'm thinking, "Employee of the Month" isn't so much for me, as it is for others - others less or more fortunate with whom I have job-related contact during my otherwise lonely and isolated day. And since I'm from Northern Ontario I could never go the extra mile for a boss - I really wouldn't have any idea what the extra mile would be - er... that would fall within the Employment Standards Act.... But the extra mile for other employees just like me - that I can do.
Oops. Almost happy hour. Gotta finish up this blog entry. Until next time.
Signed,
Employee of the Month
Sooey
I had an argument last night with someone about Islamic fundamentalism and by extension - and here is where he begged to differ - Arab culture and I said, "It's gay." Or rather, "It's homosexual." Because certainly gay is the wrong word in this context, "gay" being, in my opinion, a North American term chosen to represented "out" homosexuals by those same "out" homosexuals.
And I was talking about something completely different.
Now, I'll take a swipe at the other two religions (hehehe - I love doing that - limiting the insanity to three) later because I think they're homosexual, too - but I want to start with Islam because it so overtly seeks to deny women. And I'm not just talking about their rights, I'm talking about their existence. To my mind, Islam attempts to cover up women in a way that suggests the men who call the shots in Islam really don't like the female form to be visible in any way at all in public. This suggests to me that they feel threatened by it. And why would men in a culture where men hold all the power be threatened by women?
I'm just asking - why?
Because they're homosexual. That's why. Not gay - homosexual. I mean, all you have to do is take a look at any demonstrating crowd scene in any Islamic country and you'll note quite quickly that there isn't a woman in sight. And any time there is a woman in sight - she's covered head to toe in a shapeless robe. Sure, Muslim men say that this is because they don't want to be tempted to rape or behave otherwise inappropriately - but they WOULD say that, now - wouldn't they? Homosexuality is a bigger sin than honour killings. Of course, being raped is a bigger sin than honour killings, so... I'm sorry, but how homosexual is that...
To be fair, Christian Catholics also deny women - not necessarily by covering them up, although the official women in the Church - nuns - only recently gained the right to raise their hemlines a tad from ankle to knee - and they still wear a similar headcovering to that worn by Muslim girls in this country - but by segregating nuns in convents, out of sight of the men who actually run the Church, and by not allowing women to otherwise have any kind of visible role in the elaborate ceremonies favoured by Catholicism. I mean, why so afraid of being around women? I'll tell you why - because the men of Catholicism are homosexual. They don't want women around because they don't want women around. They rather be with other men.
Orthodox Judaism require women to shave their heads and wear wigs - the shaved head, I suggest, making them less woman-like, and that "two weeks unclean" thing is pretty clearly a sigh of relief for everybody that sex is out of the question for half a lifetime. Phew! Spend enough time worshipping and you could conceivably go for quite a stretch without being around a woman. I mean, who has the curly locks in Orthodox Judaism? Eh?
And since all of these religions view procreation as the only valid reason for having sex, well, that can really cut down on how often the male followers of these faiths have to do the dirty with a dame - riiiiiiight? Yeah. I'm right. That's why normal heterosexual men aren't big on Church goin'. Church goin' is homosexual.
I know, I know - I'm going straight to Hell. But what do I care? Heaven is gonna be full of closet cases.
Oops. In my haste to blame selfishness on mothers, I forgot the dads. Ah... the dads. The proud dads. Especially proud when baby is THEIR baby. Just when you think we've turned a corner - it has to be THEIR baby. And I know this to be true - that wannabe dads, wannabe dads of the seeds of THEIR loins. Not some other guy's.
Back when I was wanting a baby - including wondering about adoption, my then better half said point blank, "Why would we adopt a baby when we could have a baby of our own?" I argued the line that having our own simply added to a baby glut, but he was adamant, "We can have our own, so we don't need to adopt." What he didn't need to add was, "And if we can't have our own, why the hell would be adopt? The whole point is to pass on YOUR genes - isn't it?"
No wait... he didn't NEED to add it. Because he actually DID add it.
I thought it was kind of politically incorrect of him but now that I've grown out of my politically correct phase in exchange for a realistic phase I can see that he was only being honest. He really saw no point in adopting children. If you couldn't have your own - why would you burden yourself with someone else's loin fruit? He may well feel quite differently now that our children are teenagers - I don't know. I know that I could see the interchangeability of babies right from the first drop-in center we attended together - me and baby. But dads don't have the same degree of interaction with other dads and their babies.
Oops. Correction. In fact, I learned the interchangeability of babies in the nursery of the maternity ward of Women's College Hospital when I ventured down the hall to find my baby and feed her - without my glasses. Now that was a lesson in humility. I mean - humanity. I was squinting down at babies whose bracelets said "Mohammed" and "JingJing" before I finally lucked upon little Sooeyette. And I could have sworn she was better than all the other babies on the ward, too. Well, not so much better - as the same, as it turned out...
Not that newborns look any more alike than do new parents. Look at a picture of new parents holding their newborn in the maternity ward of any hospital. Proud, successful seeder from his loins papa, tired, overwhelmed, bewildered-looking mama, sleeping baby.
Anyway, not that there's anything wrong with any of it, but I really think if credit is due anywhere it's due to the people - women, and maybe even more so, men - who don't feel the need to pass on their DNA and instead use their time on this earth helping out with the seeds of everybody else's loins. Or not.
But doing whatever they do quietly. So that their bragging doesn't drown out the bragging of the breeders.
I've been reading a few mommy blogs lately and aside from the fact that they all pretty much say the same thing - that being a mommy changes everything - (oh - and while professional mommy bloggers flog the latest consumer goods, amateur mommy bloggers flog sally anns and cheap easy recipes) they all also share a startling tendency to claim bragging rights for self sacrificing heroism.
Well I'm a mother and I can honestly say that, while being a mother changes a few things - I lie more than I ever thought possible, to give just one example - having children was quite a selfish decision. I wanted them, so I had them. And let's be clear - I wanted to have them. No adoption for me - I wanted to spawn my own set of genes and raise 'em right. Ridiculous in retrospect since as soon as each child was born it was quite clear even to me that s/he was his own person, unique, separate, given up to the everexpanding sea of humanity, an ego entirely beyond my control. And when it came to raising them, they turned out to be the self-raising kind - as I figure most kids are these days.
That's why I know having children isn't selfless. And because I'm honest (in the adult world, at least), I'm saying it out loud. How this ridiculous crock of selfless motherhood was born is a testimony to the power of mother lying, I suppose. Having children is selfish. Whether you're doing it to bring forth extra helping hands for the farm or to dress up a mommy/daddy clone in designer baby outfits. I mean, we all know there are plenty of kids - even babies - to adopt or foster in this world. Plenty of kids going begging. Literally. Although in this country, at least, we've worked parenthood up into such a fine art that I'd have had to lie my ass off just to get a preliminary interview - or fill out the application to get a preliminary interview - to adopt a child. And unless you're a professional couple making really good money, adopting babies from other countries is way too expensive a proposition. So, since I wanted babies, I had to have them myself.
A hero? Hardly. Self-sacrificing? Give me a break. So, why is it childless women are the ones considered selfish? The women who keep the economy humming, who look after sick friends, who don't bore the rest of us with their stories of selfless motherhood and that tired bullshit line that becoming a mother changed everything. Good grief. Even 9/11 didn't change everything. In fact, with each passing day it would appear it changed nothing at all. Sure, once you're a mother, there's no going back. But I know for a fact that the women who choose not be become mothers put a lot more thought into that decision than the women who do choose to become mothers. And I think I'm on pretty safe ground when I argue that the women who choose the latter do it for purely selfish reasons. They want babies - so they have them.
Whenever I spot a hitchhiker by the side of the road, it takes me back to a time when it wasn't safe to hitchhike, or for that matter, pick up hitchhikers. And yet that time was several many lots of years ago. I wonder - is the hitchhiker for real or is he (and he's always a he nowadays, as he was always a he when my mom would go sailing by him on the way to our farm down the line, in a roomy station wagon, causing me no end of embarrassment and guilt which if voiced would elicit a "do you want to join him?" response) simply an apparition... I mean, a) who, in his right mind, would hitchhike in this day and age, and; b) who, in his right mind, would pick him up?
Now, when I say all hitchhikers were/are guys, I know that can't be true because my friend, Ev, and I used to hitchhike quite regularly when we were in our teens. But we were drunk so it wasn't that dangerous. And, to be fair, we WERE just hitchhiking across the international bridge to go drinking in Soo, Michigan - on account of the bars were open on Sunday nights over there, but closed in Sault, Ontario.
What could happen?
Well, usually nothing much, but one night we got picked up by a guy Ev recognized. In fact, I remember her shouting over her shoulder at me "S'okay - I know him." She did, too. What she neglected to elaborate on was the fact that she knew him for his dodgy character and shady goings on. His buddy on the passenger side she didn't know at all. But he was good looking and muscular, so we figured - safe enough.
Luckily, and you can all breathe out now, they didn't turn out to be sexually depraved or anything like that - just really really stupid - times two. Less luckily was that neither Ev nor I were carrying our own I.D. See, although Ev was a year younger than me, she passed for older. But one night she fell in with the boyfriend of one of the waitresses at our favourite bar. To get even, BitchFace the Waitress decided to ask her for I.D. Of course Ev didn't have it BUT the waitress didn't know her name, either, so later that night we took a ride with some drunk guys from the bar (the waitress's boyfriend had moved on to another bar when he figured out that drinking in the same bar where his girlfriend worked was really cutting in on his action) to one of her friend's apartments and she was able to alter her I.D. Voila - valid of age I.D. I, on the other hand, looked the same as I had in grade 8 (and would for the next 20 years), so I always had to carry I.D., but since I was actually 18, I could use my own. The trouble was, Soo Michigan's legal age was 21, so whenever we hitchhiked across the bridge, I had in my back pocket borrowed I.D. from another one of Ev's friends (she had a lot of friends, mostly older not very bright girls who rarely went out drinking because they were saddled with boyfriends and babies - uh, from going out drinking...) and she had a separate altered I.D. from another friend to make her 21 (Bitchface the Waitress never would have bought Ev being 21 on account of she was always with me). So we were 18 in Sault, Ontario and 21 in Soo, Mich.
So far, so good.
There we are in the car with Doofus and Sidekick and we're doin' great, all checkpoints cleared, when Doofus decides to yell out the window at a customs officer, "Hey! Ya fergot ta check my left boot!" And then, I kid you not, his car engine makes a sound like this, "Whirrrrrr Phhhh Pah". And the car dies.
"Aw shit. Cunt. Bastard. Fuck." Doofus is resting his head on the steering wheel. Sidekick is swallowing the doobie he'd just sparked up in celebration of having cleared all the checkpoints. Within seconds the customs guy is at the door. I had watched him walk over. Or rather, stroll over, "Okay, everybody out of the car. I'm going to have to take you inside."
At that point, and it may have been the fumes from the engine that had been backdrafting into the car all the way over the bridge, Ev pukes up half a six pack. "Have you girls been drinking?" "Well, I'd say no, officer, except I'd obviously be lying." "Don't get smart with me. Do you have any I.D.?" Ah ha - do we have I.D. In spades, my friend, in spades.
I pull out my I.D. "Where did you get this I.D." "Uh... that's my I.D. officer." "Do you want to admit to me you're lying right now or do I have to take you inside."
"I'm lying."
And here's the tip for you youngsters reading this. After your friend has puked up half a six pack - get her to start crying. Then you start crying. And apologizing. And promising you'll never ever do anything like this again. Maybe even throw in that you're from a fatherless home (never ever let your Mother hear about that one). Tell him Ev's father escaped from Estonia when the Russians took it over and that he saved a whole boat load of people who now work hard in Canada to make a better life for their children and that's why you'll never ever shame him again by doing this terrible terrible thing.
Because if you're really unbelievable lucky and have a horseshoe up your ass, you'll get a ride home right to your door by a cute young customs officer (not the bad ass old custom's officer - a cute young customs officer) who will tell you about a different bar in Soo, Mich than the one you were always going to that was kind of skuzzy really. A bar where you can bowl while you're drinking beer. And yup. He's usually there on Sunday nights, tonight was an exception and he had to come in to work...
Ah, forget it. It would never happen like that nowadays, would it...
A co-worker pointed out today that I'm kind of out of it. Nothing could be further from the truth, of course, but to prove I'm not out of it:
What up with dissing pet rocks? I have a pet rock and I don't see how it's any different than worry beads. And those stupid cyber pets kids took to while they ignored their pet rocks - now that's idiotic. Turn off the computer and your pet ceases to exist. But your pet rock - it's right there needing dusting every day.
Kiss - those boots, all that make-up. C'mon. Get bent.
Did Skinny Minnie Miller ever get married to Killer Kowalski? Because that would be neato swell if she did.
Why can't I find powder blue eye-shadow to go with my hot pants? I mean, in a black light setting - amazing. The dudes go crazy for that look. And you can't have enough groovy dudes hangin' in your pad.
Okay... this entry was a suck-ass idea. But I'm doing one a day if it's suck-ass or not. Because that's what professionals do. No wait... that's what writers do - they write. And if you read the thank you at the beginning of Miriam Toews book "An Uncomplicated Kindness" her friend tells her - "Writers write". But add your own "out of it" comments. Because to expand on Miriam's friend "Writers Comment".
Have you ever noticed how some couples have absolutely no problem bickering in front of other people? Myself, I'd rather swallow my bile and burn a hole of resentment down through my stomach and out my large intestine than engage in such tacky behaviour. What's wrong with people that they think so little of others that they air their couple grievances in front of us?
When I was a kid, my mother used to make me - MAKE ME - visit our neighbours across the back lane. I'd get a pop out of it, but as soon as I was old enough to weigh the fizzy sweetness against the bitter aftertaste, I started trying to get out of it. Finally, one day, well into my 20s I said in exasperation to my mother, "YOU go visit them." And she said, "Oh, I'd never go visit them. I can't stand how they bicker endlessly in front of me. It's not worth the scotch. Besides, last time I went they only had stout."
Well, it turns out she had assumed they'd never carry on in front of a kid the way they carried on in front of other adults. But they did. All the way to the Dairy Queen, through the peanut buster parfait, right on down until the last gulp of Orange Crush back in the rec-room of their 1950s bungalow.
I thought they were a bit of an anomaly, that normal couples (normal couples being everybody else) didn't have conversations like this, "So, Sooey. I guess your Mother thinks that Goddamned Bastard Trudeau is good for this country." "I notice you didn't close the garage door last night." "I sure as hell did close that Goddamned garage door." "No. You didn't. And now that raccoon has got into the garbage." "Well I don't know why the hell you put the Goddamned garbage out 5 days before garbage day." "And that's another thing - why am I putting out the garbage? Do you think Gordie lets his wife put out the garbage?" "Goddammit! And here I thought I'd get through the next ten minutes without hearing about what that Goddamned Gordie does with his garbage." "You could learn a thing or too - SOOEY! Use a coaster!" "Yeah. Irma makes those herself, Sooey." "I do. But I bet you kids don't know how to crochet. Your mother never taught you, did she." "She doesn't have time to teach kids how to crochet. She's working." "Oh, so I don't work, eh?"
Eventually there'd be an uncomfortable silence which I would attempt to fill with aimless ramblings about banal subjects unlikely to cause offence and after a while they'd remember that the visitor was the common enemy and that they always left condensation rings on expensive antique end tables and only came over to drink pop and never said thank you and for some reason thought that because they lived in a bigger house were better than people who had lovely rec-rooms and free pop for whatever ungrateful kid decided to just pop in and take one. It was a thoroughly unpleasant remembrance of childhood that one would think would be left behind with paper garbage bags and crochetted coasters.
But no. I've met couples, not just my age, but younger who bicker quite openly and unrelentingly - not just in my presence, but in the presence of whole groups of people. The difference is, I used to feel embarrassed for me. Now I feel embarrassed for them. Imagine. What kind of need for attention would it take to bicker with your bitter half in public? How insenstive to your surroundings would you have to be to not realize your guests are actively praying (that's them on their knees) that the ground would open up and swallow you both - while leaving your booze and appetizers behind for them to enjoy in your absence? Seriously - why would you think we care even remotely about your petty jealousies and seething resentments with each other?
Because we don't. In fact, we care even less about your lives than you do about ours. And yes - that IS possible.
Today I was out having lunch at Dunn's - a pretty bad restaurant on Elgin Street in Ottawa that is neither cheap nor good but which has a reputation as such. Anyway - it's downtown Ottawa and downtown Ottawa really is quite small. My smoked meat sandwich was thick with fatty awful smoked meat between too small two small slices of rye that for some reason reminded me of Tonya Harding. "Remember Tonya Harding?" I asked around the table. One of my dining companions - also of the smoked rye "too two" selection - said, "Oh yeah. Didn't she whack a guy?"
Lard in haven. How soon we forget.
"No", I exasperated - "She had her boyfriend hire a goon to whack a competitor!"
This led us into a conversation of my second favourite figure skater - Nancy Kerrigan. See, it's always been my contention that Nancy Kerrigan is the Betty Davis of figure skating. (Tonya Harding being more like the Baby Jane...) She was supposed to be America's Sweetheart - especially after the whacking - but no sooner had she won our hearts, then she dashed them for her coach - with her coach's wife shrieking into the wind, "That little bitch stole my husband!" Ah, Nancy.
And that voice. Olive Oil with a hint of Popeye. "Look, I'm not Snow White in real life." Yikes! No kidding. You're like a cross between Jezebel and... and... I don't know... somebody who gets whacked in the knees by some goon and goes on to win a silver medal at the Olympics and be in the parade in her hometown standing tall while her coach's wife runs along the parade route screaming, "That little whore stole my husband!"
And the Horatio Alger part of her story. O. Mi. Gawd. Her blind mother who sacrificed everything so that Nancy could skate? Sitting blindly in the stands? "Watching" Nancy win the silver?
Anyway, it was a funny lunch because nobody could really remember the facts of the Tonya Harding/Nancy Kerrigan saga - Nancy being, to my mind, the completely innocent benefactrice of Tonya Harding's pyschosis. Except that the men at the table felt a certain "frisson" at the mention of Tonya. A certain "shrivellon" at the mention of Nancy. And yet it's the total opposite for me.
Men. Even in the retelling of half memories of trashy women, they will always, it seems, go with the right memory of the wrong woman...
Have the rib steak, medium rare, with mash potatoes. Apparently - it was very good. (But that's a man's opinion.)
Is it just me? Or does divorce get a bad rap in this country. I wouldn't be asking except I've noticed recently that the men I've met in their 30s whose parents are divorced - and whose parents divorced when they were kids - are much... better... and more pleasant to be around than men of my own age ever were (that age being somewhere between 40 and death) - all the men in their 40s and up that I know having parents who are still together - however much they may seem to hate each other.
Is it because men under 40 often have moms who left their dads? I wonder. Their moms would mostly have been born post-WWII and come of age in the 60s and 70s when feminism was at its most radical stage - as in, active. I've heard the stories of a couple of these women. They weren't happy, didn't feel appreciated and wanted out of their marriages. They had kids. Jobs. But they wanted more. They wanted relationships within which they were respected. As people. Not just wives or mothers. And they wanted that respect in their marriages. Even if it meant leaving one to start up all over again in another one.
Contrast that to a few mothers I know of men in their 40s and 50s. Without exaggerating I can honestly say that they really really dislike their husbands. And most other men it seems. Yet they feel duty bound to NOT divorce. Divorce is the big bad. The equivalent of being run over by a bus on that one day you went out in dirty torn underwear. They are martyrs to marriage. And damn proud of it. Oblivious to the ridiculousness of going through life in this day and age - miserable. While their married status is so taken for granted by their grown male children that... well... I guess they don't realize - women today often go out without any underwear on at all because we'd rather be caught dead and underwearless than alive with visible panty lines.
Now I know divorce is hard on kids. They want their parents to stay together - even if they aren't happy being together. Kids care about their own happiness more than they do about the happiness of their parents. That much I know is true. But is it really "bad" for kids when parents divorce? Or is it possible it makes them better people? More empathetic to emotional distress? More accepting of drastic change? Less... judgmental of others? Because it's been my experience that the grown up men, at least, of divorced parents ARE better men. For women, anyway. They're more woman friendly, more inclined to help make a relationship... fun, more... respectful.
Okay, the above obviously isn't based on any evidence other than what I believe I've experienced and am experiencing but it is interesting to me that no one ever suggests divorce might have a positive affect on children - when they become adults. That having suffered through their parents' divorce has taught them what they need to know to have the kinds of relationships they really want to have with other people, relationships that work out, maybe not "forever", but for a time. And that when these relationships don't work out - even if you've gone the full nine yards and married - that you can leave. That living a martyred life is only for... martyrs. I don't really know. All I can say is that martyrs don't seem to like other people very much and I can't imagine that staying married for the sake of the children is a good thing at all. In fact, maybe it's the big bad.
I recently read a column by a young woman about childcare that I must admit got my dander up. She was saying essentially that if you're going to have children, you should stay home to look after them - yourself. "You" being "mom" of course. And that the only reason moms supposedly aren't doing this and don't want to do this is because they're selfish. They're not "putting the kids first".
Well, I did that - put the kids first. And initially it was much to the dismay of my then husband, if I recall correctly, which I probably don't since I had two more kids in rapid succession after the first, feeling as I did after a few months of being home alone all day with a baby that since I was now hopelessly unemployed and completely invisible to the rest of society anyway, I may as well go for broke and do what I was good at while the going was good. Yup. He was more than a little distraught by my unilateral decision to stay home and look after the baby when I was still pregnant and working and making more money than he did, "No! No! No! Let's get on a list for daycare. We won't have enough money! Babies are boring! You'll be bored! Then you'll be mad at me!" But like most new husbands/fathers, he adjusted to what the little woman wanted.
Do I have any regrets about my decision? A few. Namely that, not only was he right on all counts, but within weeks he'd so fully adjusted to coming home to what the little woman wanted - great meals made from scratch and a spotless house - that he was pretty much able to devote all his time to playing video games and yelling, "The baby's crying! I think she's hungry!" At which point I'd stomp into the room to say I'd just fed her and to prove it I'd put her to the breast. Which really should have seemed quite hilarious after about the 20th time she immediately started sucking and I'd end up feeding her all over again while my then husband went back to playing video games, - "Not much I can do here. Good for you, honey. That breastfeeding thing isn't just cheap, it's really practical. And easy." - except for the whole, "Then you'll be mad at me!" prediction I revisited each time as I stared resentfully at the back of his big stupid video game playing head and fed the baby.
So, clearly I'm not a selfish person, a bit of a dupe and a control freak, maybe - but not selfish. Oh - and an all or nothing person, so part-time work (that mythical beast - "Why not get a cute little part-time job to get you out of the house and earn a little pin money?" my former mother-in-law once suggested - quite seriously - I was holding a frying pan, too...) was out of the question. I'd decided to stay at home, to be a mother at home. And dammit - I was good at it. However isolated and unhappy I may have seemed, boy, was I a good mother. Nobody remembers it now, but I was really good. Really good. The best. The mother of all mothers. Not so good at staying married, as it turned out, but hey - kids come first. And, of course, the pro-family types out there could say the marriage probably lasted way longer than it would have if I'd been out in the workforce meeting new people and having fun instead of being trapped in the house 24/7 making rice and bean casseroles and cream cheese from homemade yogurt and trying to get through another day of being a stay at home mother in a society that values gainful employment even over youth and beauty.
Anyway, fast forward to now and I'm back in the workforce making less than I did when I left the workforce in 1990 to put the kids first and stay at home and raise them all by myself my way. And they're great kids. But, and here's the rub, I suspect they'd be great kids if I'd had a job all that time, too. Maybe even not been there at all with some other mother raising them in my stead from a roadside chip truck. Because their lives have been completely turned around a couple of times since I was that great stay at home mom and they're still - great kids. And this is where I'm going with this - being at home with your kids, if that's where you want to be, is a lucky choice to be able to make - I guess. And the right choice if it's the right choice for you - I suppose. But, having been there, done that, I'd add - just know that it's the right choice (and it's not like there's a wrong one, anyway, truth be told). So, nevermind the kids. The kids are alright. Mind mom first. (Ignore Dad. If mom's happy - Dad's probably happy. And if he's not - it's just because he hasn't snagged a new girlfriend yet.) Because no matter what the columnists say, it is my considered opinion that never before in the history of parenting (which is a pretty short history, to be sure) have parents spent more time with their kids and been more involved with their kids - and for more years - than now. Whether you're a a couple of dual income go-getters after the big suburban home with a tv/computer in each bedroom and two weeks family vacation in Mexico - or Joe Sixpack and Sally Housecoat scraping by and holidaying in front of the tv in the family room. But being at home with your kids, if you'd rather be out working - fuhgeddabouddit. Do what you want. Listen to someone who's been there, done that.
Not that I did... Right mom?
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