Power--But No Glory

It was a nightmare.

A number of men, all in a row, some representing religious institutions, were testifying about the horror of birth control, and why women in the United States should not be using any form of it.    But wait.   It wasn't a dream.  I actually saw this scene, broadcast from the U.S. Congress, in February, 2012.   At the same time, the state of Virginia was actually considering the governmental rape of women seeking abortion in the first trimester, by penetrating their vaginas with a foreign object in order to perform an ultrasound, so they have "all the information they need" before making this decision.   The assumption that such a step has not been given any thought by the women about to undergo this procedure is so patronizing and insulting that it defies a coherent response.

Rape: penetration without consent.

But on February 28 I was rendered totally gob-smacked by the latest in spewed hatred from Rush Limbaugh.    A female student at Georgetown University testified that her college friend lost an ovary because her insurance company refused to cover her treatment for cysts--which happened to be oral contraceptives.   Limbaugh's rant, which I don't intend to repeat here, concluded with an astonishing demand that women who use contraceptives covered by their insurance policies, are sluts and prostitutes and should videotape their sexual liaisons and post them on-line for everyone to see.   "I'm paying for them and this is what I want in return"--was his thesis.    John Boehner said his remarks were inappropriate.   Inappropriate?   That's it?



In Cutting For Stone, Abraham Verghesi illustrates the plight of young women in Ethiopia whose lives are destroyed by fistulas, occurring in the area between the vagina and the rectum, as a result of being too young, we're talking 10-15 years of age, when giving birth to a child.   These dreadful chasms in the body make it impossible for these poor girls to properly urinate or defecate, and they are thus treated as outcasts and pariahs because they are of no further use to their families or "society."    And to add insult to injury, they reek of faeces, and must live outside their neighborhoods.

But what about female circumcision?  And how many women insist that this dreadful "surgery" be carried out on their own daughters as a result of their acceptance of hundreds of years of an unquestioned barbaric practice?   We can also include the partial sewing-up of the vagina, so that women experience pain, not pleasure, upon intercourse.   If the idea is to keep the women faithful to their husbands, then I guess it works.   I always thought that our Puritan outlook on sex--ostracism in Hester Prynne's case-- was bad enough, but this?

I saw a BBC documentary recently about forced marriages carried out under the radar in Indian and Pakistani neghborhoods in the United Kingdom.    Some of the women ran away, but were hunted down by private detectives or were living in isolation with the ever-present fear that they would be discovered.   I also read articles about the murder of young women who caused their families living in England to lose their "honor" because they were:  a) seen unaccompanied with a young man, b) were the victims of rape, or c) were caught after they ran away in an unsuccessful attempt to avoid their fathers' or brothers' wrath.

And now this--the wanna-be presidential candidates in the United States republican party decrying birth control.

What is it about the need for dominance and power among some religious males over their female counterparts, aided and abetted in many instances by many female "believers?"   Who are these people?   We're certainly not in Somalia or Ethiopia or Saudi Arabia or Russia, which latter has its own thriving sex-industry commodity:  young women who are either kidnapped or promised a better life elsewhere as an au pair, but who end up in brothels usually in the west.  I don't let Thailand off the hook, either, as it is a mecca for pedophiles to indulge their proclivities with children who are sold by or kidnapped from their families.


Will we ever improve?   Is it enough to shine candlelight in our own small corner of the world as some of us try to do?

As a point of interest, the manufacturers of Viagra haven't a care in the world.

Before I Was Here, Part III

Gerty did not immediately accept Ernest's ring.  She knew she was falling in love with him, and that it was all over between her and Fred, but she needed to speak with her former fiance, and to set things right at home.   Ernest agreed.    When Gerty went back in the house with Fred's ring in her pocket, Milly was waiting for her.   "I don't like the way you've been behaving, my girl," she said.    "You're not being fair to Fred, and you're not being fair to me, either.   I didn't bring you up to wear one man's ring while you're going out with another. I want you to give me the ring Fred gave you."  Gerty obeyed, handed it over, and she never saw it again.

History is silent on her conversation with Fred, although the long-suffering suitor must have been prepared for it.    A few days later, Ernest came by to speak to her father.    It was much easier than he had anticipated.  Milly wasn't home, and George Henry was an agreeable and affable man; even more so when Ernest took him out to the pub for a pint later on.   When he found out that his daughter was Trudy on Ernest's lips, George simply said his usual, "Oh, aye," and it was left at that.

Ernest formally proposed to Gerty that night, and although she thought initially that his ring looked a little "lost" on her finger compared to the one she had given up, she was now madly in love and eager to look at the ring happily ever after.    Milly contented herself with a minimal: "Is that the best he can do?" and the matter was settled.

The following weekend, the happy couple went to Bridlington for the day.   On the way home, however, the motorbike hit a greasy spot and it took all of Ernest's skill to keep it upright as it skidded over the road and into the hedgerow.    Gerty's face hit Ernest's back with quite a force.    "Are you all right?" he asked in a panic, as he turned off the engine and dismounted to check on her.    Her nose was bleeding, but she smiled up at him to assure him she was all right.    Ernest's eyes widened and he took a step backwards.  "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked again, but his mouth was twitching.   "I'm thure ath can be," she answered, and then stopped in horror.     She could feel her tongue poking through a space in the front of her mouth where her teeth should have been.     Oh no!   Her bridge was gone.  When she was in her early teens, she had suffered a fall which had knocked out her two front teeth.    Understandably in any such sensitive young woman, her edentulous state was a topic fraught with danger for anyone who dared to mention it.    Ernest took out his handkerchief to wipe her face as her nose was bleeding, but despite his best efforts, he started to laugh.   

Gerty was mortified, but her embarrassment quickly turned to anger as her face reddened, her nose dripped blood on her chin, and Ernest's concern for her seemed shallow in the extreme, in light of his amusement.   She snatched his handkerchief from his grasp as she stepped off the bike, began to look on it, under it and through her clothing for the errant dentures, crying, "Thtop laughing at me.   I hate you, and I'll never thpeak to you again."     As Ernest turned away to search along the roadside, Gerty looked up and shrieked, "There they are.   Thtop.   Thtop.   My teeth are thtuck to the back of your jacket."  And sure enough, they were firmly embedded in the leather, with the metal prongs gaily glinting in the afternoon sun.

Once her bridge was back in place, Gerty calmed down.    Ernest apologized profusely for his ungallant behavior, then winked at her, chucked her under the chin, and gave her a big kiss as he tenderly wiped the remaining blood from her face.   Then they looked at each other--and laughed until their sides ached.  Except for a slightly swollen nose and slightly damaged dignity, Gerty recovered completely from the entire event.

Ernest was now a regular visitor to the Balmforth household, and he was a paragon of virtue in front of Milly.    She began to soften towards him, and allowed that he was a good looking young man, he worked hard at his job at Taylor's Chemist Shop, and was responsibly saving as much money as he could for the future.   In addition, he was now a dispenser, which was a considerable step up from a shop assistant.    He was obviously smart, and certainly very good company even if he was a bit glib.

Gerty was working hard at her two jobs.    She was also sewing her trousseau, and had just finished a beautiful green suit, which she tried on in front of her friend, Edna.    "I don't know when I'll wear it," she said as she caressed the material.  "Maybe on my honeymoon."    Edna was filled with admiration.    A few days later, Gerty ran into Edna on her way home from work.   "So you couldn't wait to wear it, could you?" Edna laughed.    "What do you mean?" asked Gerty.   "Your green suit.  I saw you going lickety split under the Wellington Street bridge the other night."   "Wellington Street bridge?" repeated a puzzled Gerty.  Then declared, "It wasn't me."   "Yes, it was," insisted Edna.  "I'd know that suit anywhere."

Saying a quick goodbye, Gerty hurried home, her temper rising.    She hurtled through the front door and confronted her sister who took one look at her face and tried to walk away.   "How could you!"    Gerty shouted.    Beaty stopped.   "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said smoothly.   "Don't you lie to me," Gerty shouted again.   "My suit was seen walking under the Wellington Street bridge, and you're the only one who steals my clothes.   How could you?" she repeated.   "I haven't even worn it myself, yet."    "Oh, well," shrugged Beaty.   "It's very comfortable, so you'll enjoy it when you put it on."     History is once again silent about a conversation in which Gerty was  involved.   However, it may be worth noting that fifty years later, the green suit was still a bone of contention between the sisters.

The wedding plans were small.    After a simple ceremony in the church at which both families were present, a wedding breakfast was held at the Cemetery public house owned by friends on the bride's side, and appropriately named because it faced the local graveyard.   Both Ernest and Gerty wore smart, new suits, and Gerty even flung a fox fur over her shoulder, the epitome of haute couture in June, 1937.    In a summer season rife with national gossip, their marriage announcement in the local paper vied with news of the upcoming nuptials of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.   (to be continued)

Annie Lizzie--A Quiet Life, Part II

The aforementioned wardrobe was always locked, and Aunty Annie had the only key, hidden--well--no-one knew where.   One day, when listening in on adult conversations (a favorite pastime),  I heard my mother say to Grandma, "Well, whatever does she keep in there that's such a secret?"   Grandma sniffed, and said she supposed it was all her money, for she certainly didn't spend any on clothes or outings."    Then, I heard Grandma tell my mother that she was tired of hearing the folk at the Forget-Me-Not Club say how lucky she was that she had such a wonderful sister.  "They never tell Annie how lucky she is to have me," she complained.  "They have no idea what she can be like.   Trying to persuade her to part with even a shilling is an uphill battle, and getting her to do any vacuuming or sweeping is impossible.   I wish I could switch places, so I could stop doing the heavier work and take over her dusting and dish-washing instead."

The only interesting part of this information for Pat and me was the wardrobe, and we tried hard to find out what Annie Lizzie had in it by searching for the key in the room (forbidden!) and following her up the stairs and peeking through the crack in the door.   But she was too canny for us, and when she opened the wardrobe, her key appeared like magic in her fingers.   She opened the door only wide enough to insert her hand and arm inside and pull out whatever she needed, usually an apron or cardigan.  She was always neat and tidy, but her clothes were shabby, bearing out Grandma's observations.

When my brother was small, he dreaded going to Blackpool.  He had asthma and eczema and they always, along with his agitation, became worse in the car on the way there.   My poor, dear,  little Tyke.   He was obviously suffering, but didn't have the vocabulary yet to tell us why.  Later on, we found out that the problem was with Annie Lizzie and her room.  He slept in the bed "for spare" in my tap dancing space between the storage boxes and the wardrobe.  He heard her clothes fall to the floor in the dark when she undressed, but he couldn't identify the sound;  when he looked at Annie Lizzie laying tidily in bed, almost upright in her white gown with her hands folded neatly across her chest, he imagined he was sleeping in a room with a dead body;  the wardrobe loomed over his bed like an ancient sepulchre holding who-knew-what horrors, and the gleaming white sheet was the spirit of Dearjim that looked as if it were moving in the shadows.     I was probably sleeping with Grandma, but if I happened to be sleeping with Aunty Annie, he couldn't see me in the valley.

The only time Grandma was really furious with Pat and me was when we hid at the bottom of the stairs and cried, "Boo!" when Annie Lizzie came down.  What a palaver.  She clutched her bosom and staggered to the couch, falling backwards in a heap.   She cried, "Oh, oh, oh," then closed her eyes and lay very still.   Grandma bounded into the room, took in the scene, and in a deadly, quiet voice, ordered us to go outside by the front door and NOT TO MOVE.   When Grandma joined us, she was trembling with anger.  We were really scared as we thought we must have killed Aunty Annie.   But it turned out the fury directed at us was because Grandma had spent a long time persuading her that, yes, she could manage to do a little sweeping, and Aunty Annie was preparing to try that very morning.   In one fell swoop, we had ruined several weeks of sweet-talking.   Once again, she was faced with having to do all the heavier work herself, and it was ALL OUR FAULT.

Not long after, Annie Lizzie issued a call to arms.   It was a regular rallying cry, "Ants, Em'ly, Ants."   Ants--the bane of their existence in the Blackpool house.   The little critters usually congregated along the threshhold of the back door or along the window sill in the kitchen before beginning their foray into the house, and their numbers were legion.  Hearing the alarm, Grandma prepared for action, armed with a tin of ant powder in each hand.  At this point, Annie Lizzie, having completed her mission, was hors de combat, and stood back to encourage her sister's fight.  The two of them were close allies--a veritable Betsey Trotwood and Mr. Dick of the Ant Brigade.   Muttering under her breath, Grandma liberally sprinkled the powder on the intruders, and with brush and tray, swept the dead bodies into the dustbin.    It was then cup-of-tea time to celebrate a battle won--but no resting on laurels as we all knew another assault by the little black devils was always in the offing.

When my parents, brother and I left England for Australia in 1958, the two sisters were still living together in Blackpool in peace and harmony--mostly.    I recall that Annie Lizzie never spoke sharply to or grumbled about any of us, but loved us in a calm and quiet way.   Grandma, talkative and in-charge, was realistic and pragmatic, but loved us anyway.   I saw them once after that on a trip back to England nine years later.   They were living with Grandma's daughter, my Aunt Emily--Pat's mother, and the three widows were amicably residing together in a large house in Burley-in-Wharfedale.  Emily owned a business and worked away from home, but she did the sweeping.   Grandma had taken over the dusting and dish-washing, but Annie Lizzie still got up to clear away the plates.

Many years later, I found out that when she was a young woman, Annie Lizzie had undergone a double mastectomy for cancer.  I can't imagine what it must have been like to undergo such an ordeal with ether as the anesthetic, with women's breast surgery in its infancy, and with mutilation and its terrible scars as inevitable--a daily reminder of her ordeal.   I thought about the courage of other women like her, who, when widowed, had only a small pension to sustain them, and so lived mainly through the largesse of siblings or extended family.   Perhaps that's why she didn't spend very much.   It is obvious that the family did not think she had a bad heart, and her long life also gainsays this conclusion.  I am led to wonder how many years her fear, suffered in silence following her shocking diagnosis and treatment, really lasted, and how likely it was that such dread led to her palpitations and conviction that she was doomed to live the rest of her life in poor health.  We'll never know.

I'm pretty sure she did look forward to all our visits, but her privacy, gained only in her bedroom, must have been treasured.  Her scant property and personal papers most certainly deserved a home under lock and key in her old, oak wardrobe, don't you think?

Annie Elizabeth Slater Beaumont, c. 1883-1975.   Annie Lizzie.    Bless her.

Annie Lizzie--A Quiet Life, Part I

My father's childless aunt, Annie Elizabeth, was his mother's older sister by about 18 months.  She was a softly spoken, gentle woman, small in stature, with short, gray hair, parted on the right and fixed back on the left with a bobby pin.  It was somewhat of a joke in the family that she enjoyed poor health and heart palpitations until the day she died at age 92--of a stroke.

When her husband, James Beaumont, passed away from asthma after twelve glorious years of marriage, the only photograph extant was of a thin, bewhiskered, stern-faced, nattily-dressed chap in a dark suit.  He carried a derby in one hand and a cane in the other.    Jim's photo in a silver frame was enshrined on her dressing table.  She spoke to the photograph of Dearjim, bless him, almost every time she entered her bedroom, and it sometimes felt as if he had just left the tea table, and was expected to walk through the door at any moment.   However, my mother told me that great uncle Jim had died many, many years ago, long before she and Dad had started courting in 1936.

After Dearjim, bless him, passed away, my great aunt moved back in with her widowed mother, and stayed with her until great grandma Slater died somewhere in the mid-1940s.  After that, she lived with the Chattertons--her sister Emily and brother-in-law Thomas Ambrose, and it's around that time that my memories of her begin.

The Chatterton house was on Argie Avenue in Kirkstall, Leeds, and it was a pretty cottage with a garden full of riotously blooming roses of all hues and scents.  The house itself smelled a little like a tap room with the faint odor of beer, cigar and cigarette smoke briefly surfacing from under the beeswax furniture polish.  My grandfather liked a beer or two and a smoke when he read the evening paper.   I loved that smell.  When we went there, Aunty Annie was always ready to serve up a cup of tea, but I never knew her to imbibe anything more than the occasional small glass of sherry.

Of course, when Thomas Ambrose retired, and the Chattertons moved to Blackpool to be near the sea, Aunty Annie moved with them.   They downsized into a small, white, row house with two rooms downstairs--a small kitchen/dining room and sitting room--and two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs.  In less than a year, my grandmother had roses blooming in the postage-stamp-sized front garden, and wandering over and about a trellis over the front door.   At twilight, the perfume was a soft covering of pleasure on the way to the front door.  Sadly, less than a year after he retired, Grandad Chatterton died of a coronary thrombosis.  Grandma said that if she and Aunty Annie hadn't gone into the bathroom when they did, he would've died on the toilet.   Fortunately, he was alive long enough to walk to the bedroom with assistance, and he passed away politely in bed.   A few months later, I remember seeing Grandma opening up the wardrobe in her bedroom, dissolving into tears, and Aunty Annie holding her very close and murmuring, "Let it out, love.  Let it all out.  I'm here."

As a term of endearment, my father sometimes called Aunty Annie, Annie Lizzie.  She would swat him lightly on the shoulder for taking such liberties, but her face suffused with smiles.  I think it was the name Grandad Chatterton had often called her.  However, when my cousin Brian, five years older than me, did so, she was not pleased, and told him not to be cheeky.  But the die had been cast, so when she was not within earshot, she became Annie Lizzie, and that's how I think of her still.

My father also teased her at mealtimes.  She had the appetite of a bird, but watched with satisfaction while the rest of us tucked in.  However, as soon as a knife and fork was placed down on a plate, she was up on her feet to whisk it away, to stack it in the sink for washing.  Dad complained that he never had time to ask for a second helping, and that there was nothing worse than a hovering woman.  She would smile and make a great issue of ignoring him.

I spent one week each summer at Grandma's.  My cousin Pat, 18 months younger than me, was there, too.  We were good friends, and I looked forward to our stay.  I don't recall Aunty Annie ever saying very much to us by way of conversation.  Grandma was the presence in the house, but Aunty Annie went along with whatever was decided for the day, unless it involved walking farther than the tram stop at the end of the street.   Claiming palpitations and holding her hand over her heart, she would demur and stay home.

Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, we all went on the tram to the Forget-Me-Not Club for old-age pensioners.   All the members wore silk sprigs of blue forget-me-nots on their dresses or lapels.  I always wanted one, but understood that there were strict rules governing the club.   One had to be a pensioner and pay dues, and NO exceptions were allowed.   Grandma went there to play whist, and Aunty Annie sat with a few other old ladies on the periphery, and played dominoes or simply sat and watched the game in progress.  In her soft voice, Annie Lizzie spoke of us as "Our Pat" and "Our Barbara," a north country habit, and usually added that we were her well-behaved great nieces, and a pleasure to have in the house.  As a result, we were petted and made much of by everyone.

We sat with Annie Lizzie and joined in the dominoes or maybe played two-handed knock-out whist.  We knew to be quiet when the main whist game began.  The players took the game very, very seriously.  The president of the club, Mrs. Higginbotham, started out each meeting with the National Anthem, "God Save the King."  The year he died, the words were changed to "God Save the Queen" but until everyone got used to it, it sounded like, "God Save the Kingween."   She then offered a prayer for the ones "who had gone before," and if there were recent "gone befores" she read out their names and gave a short eulogy.

Sometimes, instead of whist, there were "turns," when members came up onto the dais and sang songs like "Knees Up Mother Brown," or "Roll Out the Barrel," or recited poetry such as "The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck," or "The Charge of the Light Brigade."   I was always asked to play the piano, and so at Grandma's instructions, I had a party piece ready.  I loved the applause and my curtsey was rehearsed to perfection.   After that, tea and biscuits were served, and then we all stood and sang, "God Be With You 'Til We Meet Again."   That was the second time I saw my Grandma weeping, and Aunty Annie holding her hand.

The sleeping arrangements were simple.  One night, Pat slept in the double bed with Grandma and I slept in the three-quarter bed with Annie Lizzie.  The next night, Pat and I switched places.  There was a bed-settee in the sitting room, but that was only used by our parents.  The foldaway cot in Annie Lizzie's room was "for spare."

Annie Lizzie's bed was very high and pushed against the far wall under the window.  I suppose there were two thick mattresses on it.  When I was alone, I would leap on it and roll around, but when Annie Lizzie was present, I climbed up carefully.   There were three large pillows for her and one small one for me at its head.   She claimed she couldn't breathe properly if she lay flat.  When we were both in bed, I was wedged up against the wall in a claustrophobic valley created by the wall and her mountain of pillows.   I always hoped that they would stay in place so that she could continue her respiration through the night.

I was always in bed before Aunty Annie.  When she entered the room, she first closed the heavy curtains so that no light came in, and then she proceeded to disrobe in the dark.  I could hear her garments fall to the floor one by one, and there seemed to be a good many of them.   Then, when she had put on her nightdress, a long, white gown with a high neck and long sleeves, she turned on the bedside lamp under which her late husband's framed photograph resided, whispered, "Goodnight, Dearjim," pulled back the curtains a little, climbed into bed and turned out the light.  It was at this point that I could engage her in conversation if she were so inclined.  After tut-tutting that I should've been asleep ages ago, she sometimes shared with me her story about the time Dearjim took her to Ireland.  It was the highlight of her married life, I believe.  She explained that she had always wanted to see the Emerald Isle, she said this with a little lilt in her voice, and although his asthma continued to bother him, Dearjim was determined that she would have her wish.   Despite the fact that he was very seasick both going and coming back across the Irish Sea, he was happy that he had been able to make her dream come true.   I loved to hear that story, I knew it by heart, and it was evident that Aunty Annie enjoyed revisiting this precious time in her life.

One corner opposite her bed was used for storage.  Boxes and suitcases were stacked against the wall and covered with a white sheet which used to gleam palely in the night.  In the opposite corner to the storage was a large, dark-oak wardrobe.  I liked to tap dance on the wooden floor in the space between them, and could often complete a couple of numbers before Grandma yelled up the stairs for me to stop as it was getting on her nerves and giving Aunty Annie a headache and palpitations.   After several repetitions of this injunction, I was not allowed to visit Annie Lizzie's room unless I had a specific reason for going in to it, which did not include tap dancing, jumping on her bed or inspecting the articles on her dressing table.  I could never think of anything else to do in there.  Her wardrobe was off limits for exploration, and all my clothes were kept in Grandma's room.   Only my pajamas were stored under Annie Lizzie's gargantuan pillows.  (to be continued)

Musings in the Middle of the Night

Tossing and turning.  Can't sleep.  Thoughts all over the place.   Where am I going?   Is that the title of a song or am I supposed to come up with an answer?  Or shall I simply ponder the question?  I always thought I knew where I was going until life stepped in and convinced me that I didn't have a clue.  It does remind me of my poor sense of direction, though.   I'll start with a fairly clear idea of my destination, then, inevitably, I'll miss the street or I'll drive right past the place, and have to make a complicated turn-around to get back.   That's why I had to pay a large fine.   And go to traffic school.   An illegal U-turn.   Phooey.   I guess life's like that.  A series of right or wrong turns, or perhaps I should say a series of good or poor decisions.   I was an expert on the latter before I was 25 years old.  Hah!  But you can't keep a good woman down.  It's true that you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, and, I've often wondered, who would want to try?  But you can make lemonade from a lemon.  I've learned that.  Many times.

Not very good at reading tarot cards.   Have two lovely packs of them, though.   A mythology set and a science set.    A science set of tarot cards?   Is that an oxymoron?   No.  It's a paradox.   Is it?    Romeo sighed, "Feathers of lead" and "bright smoke" when he was feeling depressed after being dumped by the fair Rosalind.    He was being paradoxical.   The Crown decrees.   That's another trope, but which one?   Can't think of it.   I hate when that happens.  

I'm proud to be a Capricorn.  Not sure why, except I suppose my goal has always been to keep going or climbing, but I've never really thought about what I would do if I ever reached the top.  Of what?  And how would I know?   Philosophy ties me in knots sometimes, but I do enjoy having a good think.   I'm envisioning a strong, muscular goat nimbly leaping from crag to crag, never peering downwards, but ever-energetically rising up out of the clouds, steadfastly aiming for a pinnacle.  No.  I'm going to change this mind-picture, as I really don't want to look like a goat, even though I know we dream/think in metaphors.  Erase it, erase it, erase it.  Anyway, I don't like heights--or climbing--or sweating.  I'd much rather sit in a comfortable chair, feet up, a cup of tea and a soft-centered chocolate at hand, as I read a good book.   Perhaps this is my ultimate destination as I age.   Gracefully, I hope.

Hmm.  Planning committees.   How many times have I had to listen to members of a planning committee pat themselves on the back after delivering pages and pages of ideas that fall apart immediately after implementation?  It was back to the drawing board, again and again.  Maybe this was their way of ensuring job security?   Security is something we yearn for at any age, but it's an illusion.  We think that we're in control of our lives, but the gods know better.  "They say at lover's perjuries, Jove laughs," Juliet warned.   Wow, why do Romeo and Juliet keep springing to mind?   Although their dialogue does kinda fit my thoughts, I suppose.  It's quite an interesting endeavor, trying to trace one's own train(s) of thought.  It's at these times, at this ungodly hour of 2:30 a.m., that I find myself attempting to unravel the meanderings of my brain.  Which I'll bet is fascinating only to me.

I'm aware of needing to go the bathroom.   But it's cold out there.   Now--wouldn't you know it, in pops a picture of me at age four or thereabouts, clutching my tilly, my mother's name for my vagina, and declaring in a stage whisper,  I have to go NOW!    And my mother dragging me off to the ladies on the second floor of Marks and Spencer's, whispering fiercely to me to remove my hand from THERE.   One of my friends told me her four-year-old daughter stood in line at the movie theater, rubbing herself THERE.   When told to stop, she answered that she didn't want to as it felt good.   I told my friend that it was a failure on her part to instill fear in her little girl that the child would go blind if she persisted.

My goodness, I've strayed far from planning committees.  I've nothing against them; in fact they're very important, but I don't want to join one ever again.  I still need to go to the bathroom, though, but don't worry, I don't intend to grab my private parts on the way.   Although I could.  It's dark.  I wonder if I will do that if I live long enough to develop dementia?  Another friend became a nurse on her sixtieth birthday, and worked in an Alzheimer unit for a while.  She quite enjoyed it as she only needed one or two talking points and she could greet her charges every day without varying a single word.  A few of her patients were often very funny.   One woman, in particular, an otherwise very proper and lady-like person, had an extended number of cuss words and oaths, and often stood by the nurses' station excoriating my friend for minutes at a time without taking a breath and, I might add, without repeating herself.   When she had exhausted her vocabulary, she would announce, "That's all I have," and walk off very sedately down the corridor.     Got it!   The Crown decrees.  Metonymy.