To Wed or To Bed?

Okay, speaking of rich people, I’m reading a novel that takes place in Florence, Italy. There are a lot of rich people in it and they all have mistresses and whatever the male equivalent of that is. (Manstress? Kept Man? Bimboy?)

I’m making it sound like a hokey book, but it’s really not – the mistress part is very incidental – just local colour/background to the main story.

Nevertheless, as I’m reading, I’m wondering if it would be better to be the… let’s call it “consort” to cover both male and female sexual partners who are not one’s spouse but who are financially indulged…..

So, would it be better to be the consort of a rich person or the spouse of a rich person? Let’s say for the sake of argument that you have no money of your own in either case.

The following table will outline the pros and cons of each as I see it.

 

SPOUSE	Pros	Cons
	Has legitimacy (social & legal)	Looks/feels like a fool for constantly being betrayed
	Full access to the cash	Totally dependant on spouse
	A real home, family & extended family	Has no control over his/her own life
	Number one choice to attend all the important functions	Always in the public eye
	Gets the insurance if spouse dies	May end up with nothing if there’s a pre-nup and spouse decides to divorce
CONSORT	Pros	Cons
	Freedom -no commitment	Risk of falling in love with rich scumbag who will never leave their spouse
	Tidy little income	Out in the cold if something happens to the lover or if lover decides to move on
	Only needs to deal with sugar daddy/mamma on an occasional basis	Can’t conduct real relationship with anyone else
	Knows exactly what the score is	Lots of lonely holidays
	Free to conduct personal life, have a career, when not with lover	At someone’s beck and call all the time in exchange for a nice condo, cash, exotic trips & fabulous gifts

***** Some of you who might have experience on any one of the sides of this quadrangle, might have some other important insights to share. They would be much appreciated.

Which do you think would be best and why? (Note: Rich Person is not one of the options).

Have a great weekend!

Let’s Show the Rich Some Love

As noted on Nowhere IL., and lesser mediums like TV, newspapers, radio and magazines, the rich are having a hard time these days. They’re losing all their money because of this recession business that George W. Bush, (one time president of the United States of America), started because he wasn’t too good at this budgeting stuff unlike our own Prime Minister Harper , who’s quite suddenly become a total shopaholic.

Anyway, a lot of people are gleefully clapping their hands and jumping up and down because rich people are taking a metaphorical bath in something called the “Stock Market”, which apparently means their money is swirling down the drain faster than they use to earn it — which was pretty darn fast.

How fast? Lloyd Blankfein, CEO of bail-out bank number one, Goldman Sachs, took home nearly $54 million last year. Now, I’m no math genius, but seems to me he was earning more than a million a week. That’s some fast cash.

Some people might take exception to the term “earn” when it applies to rich people acquiring money, but I happen to think they do earn it. I don’t think being rich is a walk in the park.

Nobody becomes rich or stays rich by sitting on their heinies watching Oprah. Even Paris Hilton, who was born into money, still has to sell shoes and do  stupid TV programs with weird, smelly poor people to keep her head above water. Or look at Britney Spears, who’s a zillionaire and still  has to do a lot of really inane things to keep making money – like acting cuckoo all the time or flashing her cootchie in public.

There’s a lot of pressure involved in being rich. Me, if they tell me I’m going to lose all my money tomorrow, I’ll think “whoop-dee-doo, I’ll take that crate of bottles to The Beer Store and have all my money back lickity-split.  

Rich people losing all their money means a huge drop for them into a world for which they’re ill-equipped. Look at poor Prince Charles who needs a special valet to squeeze his toothpaste tube for him.

Becoming poor is the number one fear among rich people. Dying, cancer, war, pestilence – all that stuff that scares the crap out of us regular folk is money in the bank to rich people.

But the thought of becoming poor eats away at the guts and minds of the rich 24/7. They go to extreme lengths not to become poor. They work 20 hours a day; they suck up to the most disgusting people on earth; like purveyors of death, cancer, war and pestilence; they sell their souls to Satan himself.

Oh sure, we can mock them and vilify them, but we need the rich. They build our Rockefeller Centers and Eaton Centres and Trump Plazas and Conrad Black Holes. They employ most of us in their automotive factories, media empires, corporations and conglomerates (whatever those are). Their tax shelters keep most of our social and cultural programs afloat (What? You didn’t think it was government grants, did you?). And without the rich we’d all be Communists and so far that hasn’t worked out too well anywhere.

In conclusion, we need to do something to help the rich during these trying economic times. Perhaps we could get Bob Geldof to do one of those live concert thingies with a lot of his rich rock star friends. And they could sing sad songs to make all us poor folks cry. ‘Cuz as soon as they get our tears to start flowing, they know our money can’t be far behind.

Sibling Revilery

I was an only child for over 5 years. Then they sprung a baby sister on me. I’m not sure why there was such a delay. Either they were so horrified at their first outing as parents that it took them years to recover; or the whole immigrating thing affected their fertility and/or motility. I’m going with the immigration thing.

Anyway, some child psychologists say that introducing a new sibling to a child and thinking he/she is going to be thrilled about it is akin to a husband introducing a new wife to his spouse.

 ”Guess what, honey? We’re getting a new little wife for you to play with! Yes, we are! She’ll be small and helpless and much cuter than you and will take up almost all of my time for the foreseeable future, though I’ll love you both the same. And you’re going to love her and be great friends. Yes, you will!”

So, that’s pretty much how I felt when they told me I was getting a sister.

She turned out to be everything I was not. She was quiet and calm and incredibly adorable. She slept through the night from day one. I still haven’t.

As she grew up she proved herself to be obedient, polite, helpful and kind with the sweetest disposition ever. I know these things because my parents constantly marveled amongst themselves and to anyone who would listen over the day-and-night differences between their two daughters.[1]

My sister was a straight A student and never gave my parents a moment of trouble. Any time she did do anything naughty it was my fault because I had egged her on.

 And yet, with all this love and adoration my sister still felt that she had to compete with me. When she became a teenager she’d go out of her way to try and get in trouble. But she wasn’t very good at it.

Instead of trying to sneak into a bar with a fake ID, she’d tell the bouncers she was underage and made a big scene when they wouldn’t let her in. When she stayed overnight with a girlfriend she’d tell my parents she’d been out all night having sex with a guy instead of vice versa.

For a while, she made a point of looking up guys I’d dated, offer herself to them and then if they took her up on it, she’d come tell me about it. I guess she thought I’d be crazed with anger and jealousy or something. But really, by that time, I could barely remember some guy I’d been out with once or twice years ago.

My sister never married, never had kids. Instead she’s done a lot of travelling, got her PhD and has shacked up with one totally inappropriate man after another in rapid succession. Men who physically abused her; men with substance abuse problems; men much younger than her who didn’t care to work and lived off her and then snuck off one day, taking along most of her valuables. And yes, all of these have happened more than once and are still happening.

We do have things in common aside from our spinsterhood. We live similar lifestyles (except for the inappropriate men). She’s much more militant about her choices and can get rather aggressive about foisting them on others, but we believe in the same sorts of things.

I can’t say I ever liked my sister much, though. And the feeling is mutual. But you know, we’re related, so every once in a while we end up in the same place at the same time and we make polite conversation through gritted teeth.

Occasionally, one or the other of us will make a feeble attempt to get closer, but it always fizzles out before it goes anywhere.

I’m often sad about this because for so many women their sister is better than a best friend. It would have been nice to have a sister like that. I’m pretty sure that feeling is mutual, too.

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[1] After realizing they were capable of creating a perfect child, my parents quickly spawned 3 more – all boys, one of whom managed to usurp my place as the most difficult child ever. Thanks, dude.

Cars We Used to Date

On yesterday’s First Date post, Geewits recalled one of her first dates saying:

Dad wasn’t worried because he knew I was only interested in the date because of the car. It was a little yellow convertible sports car. I loved that car.

This reminded me that the dating criteria in my high school were also car-based. Things seem to be a little different when kids live in a city where there is some form of public transportation (not Ottawa, obviously) or where they can walk to movies or restaurants or other entertainment venues.

As I’ve mentioned a million times, however, I grew up rural and went to a high school where everyone’s family were farmers. You were either yellow-bussed to school or you drove a car. And if you were a guy and didn’t have a car, you didn’t date. End of story.

And, guys were rated on their dateability first and foremost according to the type of car they drove. Sad but true.

The guys who drove Corvettes, Cameros,  Trans Ams, Mustangs and MGBs, no matter how creepy they were, (and the Corvette guys were seriously creepy) could get a date with any girl they wanted. At least one date anyway.

Barracudas, Chargers, Challengers, Roadrunners, GTXs and such were second in the string of hot date cars.

Lots of guys, of course, had pick-up trucks and they appealed to a certain group of girls, especially if the trucks were “souped-up”. We didn’t really know what that meant aside from that it made the truck look a lot cooler than our Dads’ pick-ups.

But it was sexy climbing high into the cab and squirming and sliding out of those things in a skirt. And it was fun sitting close to your date, straddling the hump, with his arm around you while the pick-up bumped and jiggled along country roads with little or no shocks. And every so often your date would reach between your legs with his only free hand,  steering with his legs, so he could shift that big, long gear stick up and down, over and up, down and over, way over…

Um…where was I?

Oh ya, at the bottom of the date car barrel were El Caminos, Rancheros, Pacers, Dodge Darts, Comets, Novas and station wagons. You really had to be madly crushing on a guy to date him if he was driving one of these. It was better for a guy to have no car of his own and borrow his parents’ Buick than show up in an El Camino.

Some guys had motorcycles. They were considered to be ultra-cool, bad boy guys, but no girl really wanted to go out on a date on a motorcycle. And no guy in his right mind would even propose a motorcycle date, unless he had his own place,  because there’s really not a lot of make-out space on a motorcycle.

And speaking of make-out space, we mustn’t forget The Vans.

Vans were in a category all on their own. I’m not talking the 7-seater family mini-van we’re all familiar with today. I’m talking the Custom Chevy Van. All tricked out with wall-to-wall-to-wall shag carpet, sleeping bags, a sofa, big honkin’ speakers and many of the other comforts of home.

 

 

Man, you better have been ready to put out if you accepted a date with a guy who drove one of these babies.

And speaking of putting out, what sort of criteria do you reckon the guys used when deciding which girl to ask out?

The First Date

This coming weekend, my precious little baby girl is going on her first real date. Oh, there’ve been boys in the picture for ages and lots of group outings or couples’ outings, but someone’s parent always drove or they took the bus (back in the golden halcyon days of public transit).

This date is one-on-one though.

 And with the boy driving. (cue the ominous music).

The moment that my palpitating heart has pre-lived with dread on more that one 3:00 am session of insomnia. The moment when I’d send my child off in a car driven by a teenager.

I haven’t met this boy, but have quizzed her extensively:

• He’s 17 and in grade 12 (she’s 16 and in grade 10). (+1 point)
• He goes to a different school at the other end of the neighbourhood and lives close by. (+1 point)
• She met him at work. (+ 1 point)
• He has 2 part-time jobs. (+2 points)
• He plays hockey. (+ 1 point)
• He wants to be an architect. (I immediately pictured Art Vandeley). (+1 point for making me think of Seinfeld).

She showed me his picture on Facebook and he actually looks like a real human being — as opposed to the usual lineup of rat-faced, pencil-necked, dim-witted yobs I’d grown accustomed to her being dazzled by over the last couple of years. (+ 2 points)

He asked her out over a week ago (+1 point) and did it by text. (-3 points) She says he’s very shy. (-1 point).

I said, “Well, I hope he’s not painfully shy because he’s coming in to sit and chat for a while before you go out.”

“WWWHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTT?” she screeched (painfully). DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW EMBARASSING THAT IS?”[1]

“So is a prostrate exam, honey, but he’ll have to submit to that sooner or later, too.”

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”

And so began a (so far) 10-day battle over why I’m insisting on meeting this shy, handsome teenager who intends to drive my daughter off into the night in his own car versus why I’m always trying to ruin her life to make sure she’s miserable, alone and unhappy until the day she dies.

Why do I have to meet him?

• Because I want to make sure he’s not a total and complete idiot and if he is, yes, I will call the whole date off. (OH MY GOD MOTHER!!!)
• Because I want to quiz him on his driving qualifications.
• Because I want him to know there is someone attached to this girl he’s taking out who will feed him his own testicles if he harms one hair on her head and/or doesn’t drive like he’s taking his brittle-boned great-grandmother on her first ever outing in an automobile.

Is this totally unreasonable of me? Isn’t this what parents do who don’t want to spend the entire evening of the date peering out the window with their finger on the 911 speed-dial button?

Except my parents. On my very first real date my Dad just said, “Fine. Start going around with guys now. Just make sure I never see any of them. And we lock the doors at 11:00 in this house.”

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 [1] Good thing she never reads my blog, eh? heh, heh, heh.

Ideas to End the Transit Strike

Okay, it’s really nice that we’re all politely waiting for the city and the transit union to settle their little spat. And like good citizens we’re all helping each other out with our errands and appointments and with getting back and forth to work. And lots of people have written stern letters to their councilors, including me, and which, incidentally they don’t read because you just get an instant form letter in reply that doesn’t actually address any of your concerns.

And, instead of working day and night to resolve the issue, our city councilors and the mayor swan off to the Whistler Resort in BC for a little “conference”.

I’m amazed at how incredibly nice and accommodating the people of Ottawa are. Our lives are turned upside down and we just make a few adjustments and carry on. We sit in traffic for 2 hours instead of zipping to work in 15 minutes.

Nobody is doing anything to end this strike.  The province has no jurisdiction. The feds, who could do something, have washed their hands of the whole thing.

Are we going to wait patiently to break Quebec City’s 9-month transit strike record or are we going to take some action? (Who knew tiny little Quebec City even had a transit system?).

We need ideas, people.  We need to take some decisive action instead of sitting here submissively like a pack of whipped dogs.

Some of the better ideas I’ve heard so far are:

Deny everyone who is part of the negotiations the use of their car until they reach a settlement. Woodsy

People in Canada have obviously not seen the movie Speed. Ordinary citizens can commandeer a bus and drive it anywhere in the city really quickly. Just take a bus and say when the strike is over you will bring it back. Canadians are all trusting and stuff the bus yard is probably sitting loaded with buses with keys in them.  Cedarflame

An online petition circulated by Ecology Ottawa

Okay, so let’s put our thinking caps on and get this thing finished. I’m taking ideas from everyone and anyone – no matter how wacky.

Because I’m not very patient and I’m sick of this shit.

_________________________________________________________

Addendum: For those of you who haven’t heard this story of the 60-year-old woman who has been walking 12 hours every day to and from her job, read this from todays’ Ottawa Citizen:  The Survivor. It’s completely insane and mind-boggling.

Waxing for Fun and Profit

My lovely and talented (though somewhat hirsute) co-worker, Uma is off on a tropical vacation in a couple of weeks. So, naturally the first thing on her agenda (after making sure all her work is finished before she goes…bwah-ha-ha) is to get a full leg and bikini wax.

She has her appointment all set for next week. It’s going to cost $45.

So, being an avid reader of Dan Savage, I start thinking that instead of her spending that $45, there must be a way for a tall, leggy blond to earn some vacation  money by  getting waxed. There’s a kink for everything, right? Why not this?

So, off I went to the World Wide Web. If there’s something to be found on the internet, I can usually find it. I have a toolbox full of search tools; know how to build Boolean nests and have the perseverance of a bull dog.

But I couldn’t find a thing on men who are so hot to give someone a full leg and bikini wax that they’re willing to pay for it.

I did, however, find about a gazillion sites for men who like to have hot wax poured over their genitals and leather-clad women who are ready and willing to indulge them.

Apparently, men are more interested in getting wax than giving wax.

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True Fact: As I mentioned on Zoom’s leg shaving post yesterday, it was Gilette who first introduced the idea that women needed to be smooth and hairless in order to be considered attractive. In 1915, in what was called “a massive, sustained marketing assault” they promoted their new lady’s razor, the “Milady Décolletée”.  North American women have been ashamed of looking like grown-ups every since.

No Peaking

When did you peak? Are you peaking now? (not to be confused with “peeking” “piquing” or “Peking”) Or are you still enroute?

In elementary school there was a beautiful girl named Barbara in my class. She had long, shiny blond hair in which she often wore satin ribbons. She had big blue eyes with long fluttering lashes and wonderfully stylish outfits with a matching pair patent leather MaryJanes for each.

Barbara was an A student. She had a dazzling smile, a peaches and cream complexion and a pleasantly soft, rounded physique. She had tiny boob buds  before anyone else (except Donald, who had full blown bosoms at age 8).  

The teachers all loved Barbara. The boys were all besotted with her. The girls all wanted to be her, or failing that, be her friend. A select few succeeded.

Barbara and I ended up in different junior high schools and met up again in senior high. Barbara was in my home room. But I didn’t know that until attendance was called. I stared. This plain, chunky frump with the glasses, the old-lady perm and bad skin was Barbara? She wandered the halls alone, struggled with school work, faded into the background. Eventually I lost track of her.

Imagine peaking in elementary school?

Or even in  high school? There was another Barbara who was queen bee by then. (What is it with Barbaras?)  Her father was a doctor. Most of the other kids’ fathers were farmers. She was sassy and rich; an athlete extraordinaire. She had the body and face of a supermodel. She travelled with an entourage of male admirers. Except for her two henchwomen, she was the super-nasty alpha bitch around every other female. And cruelly mean to any guy who wasn’t up to her standards.

She was so busy being “all that” that she barely made it through high school, ended up flunking out of community college and getting married to a local farm boy who was once a football star, but turned into a big, disgusting pig.  People who still live in the same town often gleefully report sightings of her. She’s as far away from “all that” as possible these days.

I was never really part of any clique. I always had friends from a variety of the school’s social strata.  I had smart geek friends, weird friends, sporty friends, stoner/artsy friends and even some friends among the popular crowd. I was never a great student, but I had fun and got involved in stuff.

 In university, I suddenly came into my own. I got A’s all over the place. I was editor of our student newspaper. I was elected student rep to the university’s Board of Directors. I won awards and scholarships. I had a ton of friends. I had energy out the wazoo – going to school, working almost full time, writing for the paper, partying until the wee hours.

So I reckon that was my peak. Not a bad time to peak, I guess. Though it would have been nice to save all that energetic peaking for my career where it would have at least earned me fame and fortune. But, meh…it is what it is.

Life has dipped and levelled off since then. It’s not a bad thing. I couldn’t have kept up that intensity of activity for long anyway. I may have another, less frantic high somewhere down the road, though. Who knows?

It’s interesting the paths people’s lives take. The kids we were so envious of back in the day – who had it all; who made other kids’ lives a misery — are usually leading very ordinary and even unenviable lives now.

Many of the geeks that had an awful time growing up are now wealthy, successful, happy people. (Except for those who were so damaged by bullying that they became serial killers and are now re-living their high school torments in prison).

Something to remember when our kids come home in tears because they’ve suffered at the hands of some school-aged social star.

Best Job in the World

Has anyone you know applied for this “Best Job in the World” competition?

It’s a six-month contract position paying $100,000 US. The job is to live in a free oceanfront villa on Hamilton Island, Queensland Australia and post a weekly blog, with photos and videos to help promote the Great Barrier Reef area. Airfare to and from the island from the successful applicant’s home is included.

Response to the ad has been overwhelming. Application deadline is February 22^nd.

Here’s a complete job description.

Land of the Giants

MisssyM, a UK blogger,  did a post recently on obesity and who or what is to blame. At one point she says:

… I never really saw horrendously morbidly obese people until I worked in New Orleans in 1990. I was shocked and horrified at how human beings could morph into the size these people were. I genuinely had never seen people who looked like that before. And I live in Scotland home of the sliced sausage and the deep fried pizza!  

This twigged dozens of comments (she has a hefty UK readership base), about similar experiences while visiting North America:

…I have to agree with the US portions thing. When one of us ordered Lasagna in Las Vegas, it was immense. Huge. We thought we’d accidentally ordered for all 6 of us.

…Re Americans eating huge amounts. I think it is just a part of their psychology – everything has to be bigger and they always expect the biggest. Like many drive Mini Vans and SUVS. Also the idea of a ‘normal’ house is four or five times what we would have in the UK, it is ‘normal’ to have a triple garage and also to have a bathroom for every bedroom (why??) – The average American uses six times the world average amount of energy! And then they use environmentally friendly light bulbs to ‘save energy’…right!

…Americans these days wouldn’t recognize real food if they saw it! They are addicted to the substances added to fast foods and they literally live to eat

…When I visited the States last year, I was shocked at the poor quality of food in restaurants! And these people love it! They lap it up!

…Every occasion in the USA is an opportunity to pig out. Valentine’s Day is all about chocolate, Superbowl is spicy chicken wings and beer, St. Patrick’s Day is green beer, corned beef and potatoes, Easter is lamb and chocolate, Independence Day is barbeque, summer is for ice cream, Halloween is tons of candy, Thanksgiving is turkey and all the trimmings, Christmas is cookies, chocolate, cake, eggnog, turkey, pudding, etc. And the eating is not restricted to the day in question; it can start two weeks before the event and continue for two weeks after.

 …The portions are huge and so are the patrons. The two of us would have struggled to finish one plateful, never mind the side salads.

… The reason why the problem with obesity is so incredibly bad in the U.S. is that they have a completely different view on food (and a lot of other stuff). Quantity is valued more than quality.

 I found these comments so extremely interesting; I had to copy them here. We don’t even think about our penchant for quantity over quality anymore. (And Canada is not so different from the US on this). It all seems normal. We think it’s our god-given right to own a 4,000++++ sq. ft. home with a 3-car garage filled with 2 SUVs and a mountain of stuff we’ve bought, but don’t use.

In the 1950s the average North American home was less than 1000 square feet and our families were bigger. Less than 10% of the population was obese compared to 64.5% today. (Sixty-four point five!!! And not just overweight, but obese! That’s horrifying!) Our grocery stores used to be the size that our convenience stores are today. Now our grocery stores take up a few city blocks.

We get insanely angry when gas prices creep up a bit even though they’re still a fraction of what most of the rest of the world is paying. And we use 80% of the world’s natural resources, although we represent only 16% of the world’s population.

We’re all crying the blues now because the economy is taking a nose-dive — which has almost everything to do with the fact that we’re greedy, gluttonous hyper-consumer pigs who buy, buy, buy even if we have to borrow, borrow, borrow to pay for all our stuff.

We’re gnashing our teeth because our dollars don’t stretch as far as they used to and we have to work more to make ends meet. That’s because our ends are so damn wide and our dollars have to stretch to so much crap — a TV in every room, electronic gadgets in every hand, the latest, the greatest, the biggest and the most ostentatious of everything.

Meanwhile, two in three people worldwide lack access to clean water and survive on less than $2 a day.