The Look

My niece is getting married in a couple of weeks.

I saw the happy couple last weekend and to say that they're a little nervous, well... 

It's an unfair thing we do to young couples, really, expecting them to know for sure that they're doing the right thing, that they've chosen the right person, forcing them to look into the future and contemplate THE ENTIRE REST OF THEIR LIVES.

It's downright mean.

I can remember the time leading up to my own wedding and the grown-up advice to BE SURE, to THINK ABOUT IT, blah blah blah.  Never in the years since, have I spent anywhere near as much time contemplating my life as a whole as I had to back then. 

And what's the point?  You just can't predict the kinds of things that have happened.

No, I prefer to look at my life the way I live it - in moments.  And one of my favourite (and recurring) moments is when Alan gives me The Look, the one I call the "I Married a Madwoman" look.  I'm sure you know the one I mean - equal parts confusion and sheer, blind terror, mixed in with a hefty dollop of disapproval.

The first time I encountered it, we weren't even married yet.

We were in church, and someone was reading the prayers.  Our community was made up of mostly university students and it was the time of year when there were a lot of visitors to the campus.  So the prayer was: "We welcome any newcomers and hope that they will feel themselves at home..."

I snorted self-righteously, whispered to Alan, "Well, I should think so!" and burst out laughing.  Quietly, of course.  And since stifling laughter only makes it stronger, the entire pew shook.

Alan didn't hear what I'd said and found nothing remarkable (or dirty) in the prayer.  He just gave me The Look.  Which I also found hysterically funny.  I'm cracking myself up, just remembering.

I have given and received that look so many times through the years and, while sometimes it just pisses me off, most of the time, I still find it funny.

Maybe because it's the look that can only come about by thinking that your beloved has just lost their mind and this is the way it's going to be FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.

Live for today, kids.  That's all we ever have.

 

T-H-E

I learned to read when I was five.  The book was Fun Parade, a collection of nursery rhymes and stories which various members of my family took turns reading to me.

I actually remember when the magic happened.  I pointed to a word and asked my sister, "What does that spell?"

And Chris said, "The."

I saw it again, further down the page.  "The?" I hazarded.

"Yep."

And that's when it all fell into place for me.  T-H-E spelled "the" no matter where it fell on the page.  Even on another page, on every single page, T-H-E spelled "the".  What kind of miraculous system was that?!!!?!?!?

There was no stopping me after that and by the end of the day, I was reading entire sentences.  My parents had to practically rip the book out of my hands to get me to go to bed that night.

The next day was a Sunday.  And in our house there was a strict protocol for Sunday mornings.  We were Catholics.  We went to Mass.  And we had to fast for an hour beforehand.  You'd think that rolling out of bed and heading to church would work, but if we didn't eat something, there'd be fainting and tears.

So Mum would wake us up really early, with cups of tea and a cookie.  Then we'd get through the bathroom, get dressed and assemble downstairs before walking as a group to church.

There was no variation.

Except that morning, I had to find out if it still worked, if "T-H-E" still spelled "the".  So very carefully, I tiptoed downstairs, picked up my book, and, almost sick with the fear that the  magic had disappeared, I opened it.

There it was.  T-H-E was still "the", C-A-T was still "cat".  The magic still held!

And, do you know, to this day, I can still get thoroughly distracted by the wonder of it all.  Even now, forty-two years later, that T-H-E still spells "the" can still leave me almost giddy with delight.

Porn

No, actually, I don't really like it, so if you were hoping to see some, you might as well click something else.

I have alluded before to my grade-school health class. What happened was this. At the age of ten, when it had not yet even occurred to me to wonder where babies come from (as the youngest in the family, I had little to no experience of babies, so why would I wonder about them?), I was informed that I, along with the rest of my fifth-grade class were about to FIND OUT. So twice a week, every week, for the next two years, we were informed about all of the, er, ins and outs of sex. By comparison, art class happened once a week. And music once every two weeks.

The man who taught this class was, well, a bit of a perv, actually. He had slides. Lots and lots and lots of slides of naked women. Which he showed us, repeatedly. And there were movies. And quizzes.

To this day, I find porn of any sort stupid and pointless and booooooring.

Kind of like..... Algebra.

If You're Happy and You Know It, Get Out of the Classroom and Stop Torturing the Children

My grade three class was taught by a nun.  She was not a happy woman.  Not by a long shot.

One of her duties was to get a choir organized for the school concert.  She lined us up according to size and taught us the songs.  And we sang our little hearts out.  It was a lot better than writing out our phonics exercises, which is the only other thing I remember doing in grade three.

Every day, we'd get two or three classes together and practice the songs.  It was so much fun.

One morning, during phonics class, she turned to me and asked, "How's you're singing going?"

"Fine," I said.  And I believe the smile on my face spoke of the pure joy I had found in music.

"Are you sure?"

"Um.  Yes?"

The whole class was looking at me now.  I can feel the embarrassment burning in my cheeks as I write this.

"It's not fine," she told me.  "You can't be in the choir.  You're not good enough."

And then she went back to the lesson while I sat there, stunned.

After phonics came music class. And the song she decided we should sing was "If You're Happy and You Know It."

I wasn't, so I didn't clap or nod or spit.

Except that she stood there, right next to me, smiling and nodding in time to the music, murmuring that Jesus was very disappointed in my behaviour.

Sister Mary Hateful

I was out for a walk this morning and spring is definitely in the air, stirring a few memories...

Spring is the time of year that young Catholic children start to prepare for their First Holy Communion. 

Rumour has it that things have changed a bit since I was traumatized by my instructions in the faith, nearly forty years ago.

We did have sticker books, which was cool.  I remember my sister, older by only five years, getting a bit sniffy about that.  One was for the Five Sorrowful Mysteries of the Rosary.  And the other covered the Seven Deadly Sins.

The year I made my First Communion, I was taught by a lovely woman named Mrs. Post. 

She was nice.  She smiled.  She got pregnant halfway through the year and was taken off religious instruction.  She was replaced by Sister Mary Hateful.

We had a full-day class to prepare us to receive Jesus into our hearts. 

The morning was taken up with Sister Mary Hateful's views on the Vietnam war, which was then in full swing.  It was a good, good thing our boys were doing over there.  Because those commies?  Slit your throat as soon as look at you.

As the sister to a draft-dodger, I kept my damned mouth shut.

After lunch, we moved on to spirituality.  And here is what she told us, as we sat on the floor in a circle at her feet (just like the Apostles!):

Every sin you commit, or want to commit, or even think about committing, puts another nail into Jesus on the cross.

We blinked.  We shifted uncomfortably.  We considered going to public school. 

Eventually, Paul Greff, possibly at risk of his immortal soul, raised his hand.  "Sister?  If we do something, like, really, really, REALLY good?  Will it take one of the nails out?"

She looked at us all fondly, drew herself up and said.....

"NO!"

The Top Ten Deadly Sins

My husband informs me that the pope has added on to the list of deadly sins.  There are now fourteen.

Because we've so totally mastered the first seven that we need a new challenge?