Each issue of Galaxy Brain will contain one chapter of Kathryn McLeod’s fantastic book, ” THAT LOOKS GOOD ON YOU–YOU SHOULD BUY IT! This is the fourth chapter. You can read the other chapters here:

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three

“THAT LOOKS GOOD ON YOU–YOU SHOULD BUY IT!”

By Kathryn McLeod

Chapter Four

*********************************************

One Day in the Life of Katie Denisovich

“The rich are the scum of the earth in every country.” G.K. Chesterton

“I hate broke bitches.” Rihanna

And then several days passed during which I wondered if maybe I’d confused being hired with not being hired.

It wouldn’t have been the first time, but government job interview panels can be deceptively polite. And nowadays, imagining you were the lone winner who managed to squeeze through that last hoop, leaving all the losers stuck in a massive jam on the other side, can go on for quite some time before you get an email informing you that, due to a lack of funding, the job no longer exists.

Anyway, while some people might call to find out which, hired or not hired, I’ve never been one to tip my hand while the gods of employment are rolling their dice. Because yes, that’s right, I don’t believe that person x is in position y on account of deservedness. I believe it’s because the gods of employment rolled their dice in favour of putting person x in position y.

My belief in the gods of employment goes back to the early ‘80s, when I found myself typing the day away in ministerial correspondence (Queen’s Park, Toronto, ON). One day, a person came by to water the giant ficus in front of my desk, a person who turned out to be a woman I’d gone to university with just a couple of years earlier, a woman with an MA in Economics, who could type like the wind while making no mistakes.

I know this because she speed typed an essay for me once and with 100% accuracy. The essay was due the next day, it had to be typed, and the professor, who spent his afternoons drinking at the Morrissey, docked marks for typos.

“Janet?”

“Katie?”

“Hey, I didn’t know there was a job watering plants. How’d you get it? Are you with an agency? I want a job watering plants. I hate this job. It’s so unbelievably boring, not that I won’t stick it out so we all get paid. That’s pretty much TOSI’s motto, the agency I’m with, ‘Stick it out so we all get paid’. We can’t use white-out, either, although there’s like ten carbon copies with every letter so even if we could it would take all day. ‘Ministerial letters must be perfect, as they go out to taxpayers.’ What a load. You could do it, though. You’re fast and accurate. Hey, what ministry are we at, again?”

“Consumer and Commercial Relations. You’re at the Ministry of Consumer and Commercial Relations. Or for, maybe? The Ministry for Consumer and Commercial Relations? Who cares? I can’t believe I’ve got an MA and I’m watering plants for a living. The agency I got this job with is Manpower. You probably would like this job. I seem to recall you didn’t like to do anything too challenging.”

“For sure, my personal life is challenging enough, thanks.”

“Yeah, I heard you were still with that guy – Eddy?”

“Andy. I’m going to break up with him, though. We don’t even like each other. It’s just hard because we’re living together now. And I’m supporting him while he finishes his degree in Economics. But I’m like Temp of the Year, too. I even won a prize, a clear plastic tote bag that’s actually pretty cool except for the pink TOSI lettering on the side. I’m super good with boredom, like, super good. You wouldn’t believe the temps who complain about being bored on an assignment because there’s nothing to do. They actually bug people for work!”

“The pay for this sucks, though, zero skills required, obviously. What are you making?”

“Eight bucks an hour. But back to your assignment, don’t you have to be able to tell the fake plants from the real ones? That’s a skill. I’ve seen people here dump the rest of their coffee in fake plant pots. None of the bosses here went to university. And they all have British accents.”

“Yeah, they came over after the war, got jobs in the civil service. Eight bucks an hour?! Are you kidding me?! Congratulations! You can make even more word processing. Lots of offices are getting word processors now and nobody knows how to use them yet. They come with manuals. You can flip through the manuals, figure it all out on the job. Remember Melody? Political Philosophy? Random drunken rages in the hall? She’s making twelve bucks an hour. She and Jeff are buying a house! They have weird names, like Micom 2000, Xerox 860. Just call around to different offices, get the names, tell TOSI you know the system. Melody’s with Kelly Girl? I’m leaving Toronto in a couple of months or I would. I’m going out west to do a PhD.”

“In… cowpokin’?”

“Very funny. I’ll be studying the Alberta Heritage Fund, the oil industry, the effect of one on the other. Although, maybe I’ll meet a nice cowgi- boy. Cowboy.”

“Hey, remember the time that professor thought I’d plagiarized an essay you typed for me because it was so good? The one I wrote completely off the top of my head? Ugh, that course was brutal. First thing I tell my kids – if I ever meet Bob Geldof – ‘Never take a night course in Shakespeare’. Seven retired Shakespeare aficionados with nothing better to do all day than ponder fate vs fortuna, and me. Although I guess the whole point of that essay was to use secondary sources. I hated that about university. Lucky for me it was a B- instead of, I don’t know, expelled? Then I’d be watering plants for a… oh, sorry… you know what I meant.”

“Yeah, I always knew what you meant even when you didn’t. That essay I typed? Whatever you got, I should have got double. But break up with Eddy, I mean, Andy. And for god’s sake don’t get married. And don’t have kids with him. Seriously, Katie – don’t.”

“No way will I marry Andy. Not as long as there’s still a chance I’ll meet Bob Geldof.”

Okay, I’m going to stop this memory here because I think I’ve proven my point about person x in position y. And while I’m stopped, I’d like to share this discouraging little factoid, which is that I made more money doing word processing assignments in the 80s, than agencies would be offering for even higher end office work in 2013.  It’s not rocket science, or even a night course in Shakespeare. It’s supply and demand. We the workers are a dime a dozen. And if we’re a dime a dozen today, who knows where those techno-fascists in Silicon Valley will have us priced tomorrow.

But I was in high demand in the ‘80s, let me tell you, partly thanks to grade nine typing, partly thanks to having the nerve of ten party crashers, but mostly because, no matter how bored I was, I never once went in search of work to do.

For instance, one of my earliest assignments was at the Ministry of Treasury and Economics, where the only human interaction I had the entire time I was there was with the person who showed me to my desk on day one, a desk that was down the hall and around a corner from where everyone else was, and a different person who brought me a piece of cake from a retirement party on my second last day. Then on my last day, I had to go in search of someone to sign my timesheet. And I was nervous because all I’d done for two weeks was figure out how to use the word processor – a Micom 2000 – which was placed conveniently on my desk with a manual for it in the drawer. But I needn’t have been nervous because when I finally tracked somebody down, he assured me that I’d been an absolute delight to work with, that everyone was very pleased with my performance, and could I please write out my name for him so he could ask for me specifically when they needed a temp again.

And they did, they did need a temp again. And TOSI sent me. Then one day a librarian from the Canadian Institute for Chartered Accountants head office, where I also got regular assignments (his father decided to become a clown and left his young family to travel with the circus, but that’s a story for his book, not mine) explained over a liquid lunch that turned into dinner (although he filled in my timesheet just like I’d worked them at the office, and no, that is not a euphemism) that I was in high demand because most temps were a pain in the ass. They complained about having nothing to do, which made it look like the person they were temporarily replacing didn’t do anything. And it made work for the missing person’s co-workers, who were stuck trying to keep the temp busy until their real co-worker returned.

Also, re person x in position y, I happen to know that, given a bit of training, or even the time to train ourselves, pretty much anybody can do somebody else’s job. And for less pay.

So welcome to the future.

But back to the gods of employment and their roll of the dice on Chestertons.

I’m so anti-hand-tipping that I didn’t even venture down to the thrift shop to check out its contemporary ladieswear selection, lest I tilt a dice roll one way or the other, hired or not hired. Besides, I found a black tee shirt I figured I could switch out with the black mock turtleneck to stretch my cranberry/black costume for… two shifts?

Three?

Four, four shifts stretched out over… two… three weeks? Four, four shifts stretched out over four weeks.

Four, such a good solid even number.

Of course, not making a visit to the thrift shop when I had the time, necessitated a visit after my fourth gruelling shift, whereupon I dropped about $50 on clothes I have only ever worn at Chestertons, ladieswear not being my style, but $50 that got me through winter and into spring.

As it got closer to summer I had to do it all over again but I’m probably the only woman ever to have worked at Chestertons who purchased her entire work wardrobe for under $100.

Maybe the only woman who ever worked anywhere.

Ugh, and shoe shopping was certainly something I’d have to do. Retail, too, because even I knew not to waste $5, even $10, on thrift shop shoes for an on-your-feet sales job. Ouch even thinking about it, which I should have done before I found myself wearing $10 thrift shop shoes for my first shift.

Okay, so I didn’t actually purchase an entire work wardrobe for under $100 because I did buy new shoes, two pair, and they cost me about $100 (on sale) – each. And once I discovered how cold Chestertons was in summer (because of air conditioning set to “refrigerator”) I forgot all about buying sandals for summer.

Air conditioning set to “refrigerator” is a problem for women everywhere, by the way. It’s such a given, I’m not sure why women even buy summer wear for the workplace. Their outfits end up covered by woolen shawls and winter sweaters all June, July, and August anyway.

For the record, I don’t buy my underwear from the thrift shop, but also for the record, I don’t buy my underwear from the thrift shop because it’s cheaper at Dollarama. I know, I know, made in China. But so is the primo gitch the Prime Minister buys from Harry Rosen, assuming, etc, etc.

For the record again, you should probably know that I picture China, where everything for sale at every mall, and certainly at every Chestertons, is made, as a giant factory prison divided into two sections, one where enslaved democracy activists make all our clothes, another where they sew in all the labels.

So instead of tipping my hand and calling Gwen to see if I’d been hired, or just had an elaborate dream about acing a job interview, I signed up for Twitter, read our book club selections through to June,  and met my high-flying friend, Trish, for coffee.

Trish makes bags of money travelling business class all over the world doing whatever it is she does, and who better to discuss whether or not I should take a part-time minimum wage at the mall with – assuming the gods of employment rolled the dice in favour of my being hired – than someone whose last part-time minimum wage job at the mall was probably in kindergarten.

By the way, I met Trish on the internet, in a now defunct forum occasionally related to the political satire industry. So if you’re a helicopter parent reading this and telling your socially awkward kid not to meet up with strangers from the internet, stop it. Trish always picks up the coffee tab and she gets richer by the second. In fact, if you juxtaposed my declining wealth with Trish’s increasing wealth on a graph, you’d have a giant X.

Oh, and by the way again, if you’re a socially awkward kid reading this (and you should probably ask permission from your helicopter parents first) take it from me that you can meet lots of strangers on the internet and then meet them in real life and become friends. Or just be friends on the internet and forget about becoming friends in real life. Either way, get a dog. Dogs don’t care how socially awkward you are. In fact, dogs prefer socially awkward kids because you’re at home with them more often than you’re not, and that’s really all dogs care about. And treats, dogs care about treats. So stay at home with treats and you’ll always have a friend in a dog. And forget all that crap about “it gets better” because it doesn’t. It can’t. When those giant holes opening up in Siberia’s melting permafrost release all their megatons of methane, it’ll be curtains for everybody. And that means it’ll be curtains for the popular kids with real life friends, too. So you, my socially awkward friend, will have the last laugh. No, don’t thank me, thank everybody who got rich burning our fossil fuels.

(P.S. Like all social media sites that have anything at all to do with politics, the forum eventually descended into a morass of internecine putrescence and exploded, scattering bits and pieces of avatars all over cyber space, so get good at making new friends on the internet, socially awkward kids.)

“Katie, I don’t understand why you’re even thinking about working at the mall.”

“I’m not. I’m leaving it up to the gods of employment and a roll of the dice. I’m honestly not sure now if I was even hired. I haven’t heard anything and the interview was days ago.”

“Well, good. Did you at least do up a list of pros and cons for all the jobs you’ve had like I’ve been suggesting you do every year for ten years running now? It’s a really good exercise. Seriously, it’ll help you figure out what you do and do not want to do to make money. That’s how I ended up doing what I do now.”

“Yeah, what do you do again?”

“I tell you every time I see you, business analytics.”

“See, that’s why you have to tell me every time you see me. When you say ‘business analytics’ I picture a woman in a white lab coat, hair in a bun, horn-rimmed glasses, high heels, pointing to a bunch of squiggles on a blackboard while a man in a grey trench coat turns a crank on a film projector and a roomful of Dilbert characters make sidelong glances at each other. Yes, I did a list… No, okay, I’m trying to tell fewer lies per day so let me start right here right now. No, I haven’t done it yet. But I will. Soon. Tonight. Ugh, Twitter is the worst. If Einstein was around he’d have to come up with a whole new equation: Time + Twitter = #$*@!. Hey government, I think I know why everybody’s given up looking for work besides there being no jobs! But hey, while I was not doing up a list of job pros and cons I read all my book club books until June, including one I had to skim because I started it the day of and the author was going to be in attendance-”

“Wow. That’s some serious book clubbing, the authors attend?”

“I know, eh? It was kind of awkward, though, because the book was by this guy who was in a band called The Cooper Brothers, and it’s all about life on the road, a bunch of guys in a van traveling from gig to gig, beer, groupies, all that fun stuff, while the old ball and chain is stuck at home with the kids. I don’t know what Amy was thinking. Our book club isn’t exactly big on men having fun on the road.”

“That’s another thing I don’t understand about women, Katie, why do they want to be wives? And have kids? And why do they want to stay at home raising them? Why do that when you can not do it and live like I do? Kids, ugh. Even when I was a kid I couldn’t stand kids. I was so envious of single women with careers, I could hardly wait to grow up and be one. And if I want sex, I pick up a guy at the hotel bar. And no, he’s not allowed to spend the night. Sorry not sorry. I can’t be walking around Paris or Milan with bags under my eyes because some guy I just picked up at the hotel bar for sex kept me up all night with his snoring. Not that I need to be any better looking than I am already with this brain of mine, too. Thank you, mom. Phuck you, dad. Hope you’re enjoying prison. I’ll be out here wiping my ass with clean money.”

“Bills, I hope. Seriously Trish, you have to admit it’s not fair. It’s like the gods of professional ambition gave you an extra helping for your already heaping pile of self-esteem and then grabbed back the tiny crumb they gave me and threw it on top. Also seriously, you should be giving sex ed talks in high schools, except instead of talking about whatever it is teachers talk about, just talk about travelling all over the world making grabillions of dollars and picking up men at the hotel bar and then sending them packing post-coital. Although, I guess you could end up with a lot of teenage boy stalkers. What do you do again? I want your job. Hey, do you need a fluffer?”

“Have you considered going back to school to get an MBA?”

“Hahahahaha. Stop it. MBA just spells ma without the b in the middle and she’s more likely to get an MBA than I am. I still don’t know how I got a BA. In English, I think, although I did take an economics course that I had to drop because, once again, I simply cannot accept that an entire university course can be based on a theory as simple as supply and demand. And now, oh man, I can’t believe how economists are asked for their opinion on EVERYTHING. ‘Oh tell us, Grand Wizard, should farmers grow more or fewer cabbages now that they’re the vegetable of choice for throwing at the king’s carriage as it passes?’ Anyway, my marks added up to the end of the academic road, a reliable C student, is I. Me? Is me? Actually, I think my resume might say my BA’s in History? Oh well, it’s so irrelevant it might as well be in Library Science. And now the government wants a copy of actual transcripts, not just a copy of your diploma. It was that decade out of the workforce being a homemaker-”

“Ugh. Don’t say homemaker, Katie. I picture June Cleaver except with her head inside an oven. Don’t say government, either. Same deal except instead of June Cleaver in a beautifully tailored dress, it’s a pasty bureaucrat in a mismatched suit.”

“Actually, I think that’s why they don’t allow gas ovens in government lunchrooms. Anyway, you can disagree but my lack of professional success is clearly the fault of the gods of professional ambition. What other explanation could there be?”

“Well, good luck, although I think you can do better than the mall. Jesus. The mall. I can’t even think the last time I was in one. Ah, hang on, my first job, one of Santa’s elves. Gosh, I was in kindergarten, already planning my escape from Winnipeg, where fashion goes to die. Anyway, I’ve got to run. Overnight to Vienna and I need my roots touched up, and a pedicure. One of my clients is a billionaire with a private jet and sometimes he likes to do side trips to a Greek island he owns and I’ve got Canadian winter feet already. Thanks for the premature grey, dad, you piece of shit. Do the jobs list. What was the name of that book?”

“Jukebox. But you’ll never find it. I think Dick, the Cooper brother who wrote it, probably has all the copies in existence. I gave him $20 for a signed one to boost morale and I’m pretty sure a fallen tear smeared the ink. I’ll get it to you next time you’re in town. You’d like it. I had an epiphany skimming Amy’s copy, when I realized I identified with the boys in the band, instead of the ol’ ball and chain at home with the kids, an epiphany I kept to myself at book club. But I totally got them, how they just wanted to be on the road, partying after the gig, hanging out with the groupies, each other. I’d get caught up in a passage and know exactly how they felt. They didn’t want to hurt anybody, least of all the ol’ ball and chain back home, they just didn’t want the same life, the end of fun life, the one you never wanted, either. But we get picked off or we pick somebody else off and then we take on roles we weren’t meant to be in. Anyway, society is totally on the side of the ol’ ball and chain, let me tell you.”

“Wait, weren’t you the ol’ ball and chain, though? Didn’t your ex even work in whole other city while you were home with the kids?”

“Yeah, but I was getting vicarious thrills, the bonus being that he wasn’t home. Also, our house had an old oil furnace and the repair guy looked like Paul Newman in Hud. And the plumber looked like Harrison Ford in the first Star Wars movie. But if I’d been in the band I probably would have been the drummer, so no regrets, either. It’s funny, most people end up living the wrong life because they start drinking, I ended up living the wrong life because I stopped. One minute I was hanging out at the bar having fun, the next I was roping my standby boyfriend off from the herd, panicked about having no way to have fun now that I wouldn’t be hanging out at the bar. Saved my liver, though.”

“Yeah but for what? Look, if you’re going to be anybody in that book, be the producer of the band’s best-selling album. And if the band can’t get it together to have a best-selling album, cut ‘em loose. So same as always, dibs on Steverino if you die.”

“Okay, but same as always, you’ll have to be rich for two.”

As Trish walked home to her condo in The Market, Ottawa’s commercial hub, and I headed home to my neither/nor ‘hood on the bus, I stared out the window and thought about my failure to thrive professionally. Once again I’d neglected to bring a book, my latest being help me, jacques cousteau by Gil Adamson, a real life friend of a friend. To be honest, I may have neglected to bring it on purpose, I was so jealous. To paraphrase my favourite quote, “Every time a (friend of a) friend succeeds, I die a little.” Gore Vidal. I think it’s one of those quotes decent people probably don’t get, so if you get it, you’re probably not a decent person, either.

And as I watched Ottawa’s one time main drag go by, up and coming since the turn of the last century (according to at least two real estate agents of my acquaintance), but still determinedly chock a block with payday loan and pawn shops and people with problems decidedly more serious than a lack of professional ambition, I indulged in a favourite memory from back in my married homemaker and mother of three days.

I have a lot of favourite memories from back in my married homemaker and mother of three days, because I liked being at home – especially once the kids were all in school. But this particular one involves a fellow I met while out walking Kasey, the sheltie/beagle reincarnation of John Knox I purchased from the Humane Society to make up for the fourth baby I would never have, who was with us for sixteen fraught years of tracking and herding and barking his objection to any activity outside of sitting quietly minding our own p’s and q’s.

Whoever thinks divorce is too easy and should be made harder hasn’t lived through one and for sure hasn’t had a sheltie/beagle reincarnation of John Knox live through one with her.

I know, I know – kids, too. And it’s true, they just want their parents to stay together. Even worse, they’re completely hooked on happily ever after movies that they’ve watched over and over and over, while their treacherous mom stares out a window, planning her escape from this cozy loving prison of her own making.

By the way, a few years after I did escape, I read a short story by Alice Munro that helped with the guilt. It was about a woman who falls in love with a theatre director she meets passing through town. As I recall, he’s quite awful, but when he moves on, she moves on with him, leaving her perfectly fine husband and two young daughters behind – without looking back. Near the end of the story, after twenty years or so have gone by, we find out that the affair only lasted a couple of weeks. And yet still, she never looked back. Later, after her grown daughters get in touch with her and the mother/daughter relationship resumes, the mother opines that if her daughters weren’t mad at her for leaving, they’d be mad at her for something else.

So yes, Alice Munro is a monster, for sure. What’s funny is, it’s my favourite short story but I can’t remember the name of it and I can’t find it in any of the Alice Munro books I’ve accumulated over the years. So you’re on your own if you want to track it down and read it.

I hope I didn’t just dream it, although, I guess if I did the effect is the same. Because it’s true, we’re all mad at our mothers for something. And if we’re not, we should be. Mothers are monsters.

Anyway, as it is with dog walking, a cure for loneliness slightly less adulterous than Steverino, one meets others out doing the same. And one day a middle-aged man and I got to talking about this and that, being of like mind politically, although he hadn’t actually worked for the NDP, and I had, so I was forced to ignore a lot of annoying idealism for the sake of conversation with another adult.

It was harder than you’d think, ignoring the annoying idealism. It always is, and I’ll just tell you this one tale as to why, and then you can extrapolate all the other reasons. 

On my second day of work at the NDP (Queen’s Park, Toronto, ON), as I wandered about lost in the north wing of the legislative building, I came across a man in a hallway, gesturing wildly and shouting obscenities at the walls. Alarmed, I retreated to the nearest office, which belonged to my boss, the director of research, who was renowned for giving out research assignments without having any idea why. Once you had one, that was it, you just kept at it until he figured out why he wanted you to work on it – or – until one or the other of you quit or died.

Nobody ever got fired from the NDP. Quit or die. It was entirely up to us.

“Well, that’s kind of, no, that’s not quite, I think maybe, hm, it’s not really-”

“Do you want me to go back and work on it some more?”

“Yes! Then we’ll go through it together again and see if that’s what I wanted you to do.”

I liked him but I’m pretty sure I was the only person at the NDP who did. But I didn’t really care what I did workwise. I was there for his kind of handsome (he was very, very handsome) and the awesome pay and benefits.

Anyway, I retreated into his office, yelling “Call security! There’s a lunatic in the hall!”

And he got out from under his desk. (Don’t ask because I have no idea).

“Does he have Hitler hair but no moustache?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so. He’s wearing a beige suit?”

“Right, that’s one of our members. Just ignore him. He can get kind of unstable but then he settles down. His legislative assistant knows how to handle him. She, er he, er, no… SHE she’s probably just getting a coffee. Don’t worry. SHE’ll deal with it. Hey, we don’t get to pick ‘em. That’s up to the voters. Well, first it’s up to provincial office. So yeah, whatever you do, don’t go to provincial office. You’re not thinking of quitting are you? Don’t. It gets better. You’ll see.”

“So we DO get to pick ‘em?”

“Maybe, but he wins his riding by a huge margin. Huge. So stay out of his way. No need to mention this to your union rep, either. Ooh, yeah, hang on, he can be kind of iffy around women who wear a lot of black, too. We had a thing a while back with an intern. But she was very high strung, very high strung – especially for a goth. High strung is the kiss of death in social work. And he didn’t touch her, just pounded the wall and started reciting the Lord’s Prayer.  Ooh, yeah, hang on, he got a little aggressive recently with another new employee. He’s okay with the old timers but he doesn’t like change. He might see you as change. Female change wearing black. Triple trouble. Hey, but no need to involve your union rep. We’ve got this handled, you and me. Would you like a coffee? I buy it from Bridgehead and make it for the staff because, uh, there’s no hierarchy here… Nnnnancy?”

“Katie. So how much do you make then? Hey do you want me to start a wage parity cam-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down, Red Emma, that’s the big boss on line… something. See? I answer my own phone just like you do.”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“See? You don’t need one. You can get yourself a coffee later. Gotta go. Nice talking to you, Nnnn…Kathy. Chat later about that… uh… project.”

Stories of the NDP caucus at Queen’s Park, I’ve got a few. But seriously, they’re safe to vote for, just… don’t get too close.

Ooh, yeah, hang on, one more story about the NDP caucus at Queen’s Park, or rather, post-NDP caucus at Queen’s Park, because I was on maternity leave for this one and I never went back. And I never went back because of it, this second story, I mean.

There I was, at home with my first born, planning to max out my maternity leave and then quit, when doesn’t stupid Bob Rae go and win an election and become the first NDP Premier of Ontario. This meant, of course, that friends, family, and especially Andy, were suddenly clamouring at me to go back to work, get in on the Job$! Job$! Job$!

My mother was like a robocaller on steroids.

None of these people were even New Democrats, especially me, after working for them on and off for a decade and witnessing the Liberals down the hall having way more fun – way more fun. But the thought of me missing out on the NDP gravy train, now that it was finally, against all odds, making a stop at my door, drove them absolutely crazy.

Seriously, the Liberals had the best receptions. So good we used to stake them out, waiting for the last Liberal to leave the room, before heading in with our empty bags and filling them with leftovers for our Friday afternoon buck-a-beer sponsored by opseu local 593.

Oh, how I cursed the stupid electorate of Ontario. Of all the times to vote NDP, why did it have to be while I was on maternity leave, planning to max it out, before giving two weeks’ notice and quitting?

WHY?

The NDP had been reliably going nowhere, election after election, ever since it was invented. It was what I liked most about working there.

Fortunately, shortly after that stupid and ill-timed win, I ran into a party mover and shaker I’d met back in the day when Bob Rae was still the unpopular leader of the third party (even within the third party). He was one of those strategist thingies from Ottawa, who’d come to Toronto to help us lesser lights out in a campaign.

Anyway, for whatever reason, but one probably having to do with my work uniform of fishnet stockings, micro mini and clingy tee-shirt sans bra – hey, it got me the job – he had scheduled us, me and him, to spend an afternoon delivering flyers and canvassing together for the candidate in High Park.

I was featured on the flyer, by the way, Women in the Workplace, a bra having been specially purchased on my lunch hour and a half (extended to two hours because the bra purchase was work-related) just for the photo shoot that took place later that evening, so double time and a half.

(Also, you don’t see them, but Bob Rae is standing on two telephone books in the photo so that he can be the tallest. Don’t tell anybody I told you that because I think I may have signed a non-disclosure agreement.)

“Hi there, what’s all that you’re holding, Pollyanna?”

“Katie. The flyers. Remember? We got the day off work to go door-to-door and hand them-”

“Oh no, didn’t you get the memo, Virginia?”

“Katie. What memo?”

“We got the day off work to throw the flyers in that garbage bin over there and then go for drinks at Grossman’s.”

“Larry Grossman’s?”

“Hah! You’re a riot, Alice! Larry Grossman’s. On Spadina, Grossman’s on Spadina. C’mon, my beer’s getting warm. Our guy or gal or whoever the sacrificial lamb in High Park is this go ‘round stands about as much chance of getting elected as Whosit does of being Premier of Ontario.”

Anyway, fast forward a few years and there go I along College Street with my new baby in her stroller, trying to decide what I should do re the sudden array of stupid Bob Rae related employment opportunities, when who should I see staggering towards me but Our Man from Ottawa, in the flesh, plus a few years more in the flesh.

“Hey, look who it is. Cinderella. What the hell, is that thing yours? Christ, I turn my back and holy Mother of Bastards, a kid. Now I feel old. I thought you liked me. I thought we had something special. Oh wait, are you still single? No, don’t tell me. I can’t handle another kid right now. So when are you coming back to work? I need a secretary or whatever the hell we’re calling you hot tamales these days. It’s crazy. Just crazy. Nobody knows what the hell is going on but we’re drivin’ the bus, baby. Look out, Ontario.”

Timely encounters? I’ve had a few. Also, if life was proceeding according to plan, and it was, a zygote was on its way to being baby #2.

Cripes, I wonder how old that would have made him feel.

My decision was made. I wanted to be at home working for, well, a baby, as it turned out. I didn’t want to work for another adult anymore, especially a man – even Bob Rae, who was almost as easy to work for as he was to not work for, although probably not anymore, not now that he was Premier.

But back to a favourite memory from my married homemaker and mother of three days.

Well one day it dawned on me that I ran into this middle-aged man a lot for a middle-aged man who should be inside working like all the other middle-aged men who weren’t out walking their dogs in the middle of the day, and unlike older retired men who were, in between tending their African violets (summer) and snow blowers (winter).

I guess they doze in favourite chairs with newspaper sports sections lying partially read in their laps during fall and spring, seasons which, in Ottawa, only last a couple of days anyway.

“So… I’ve been meaning to ask, do you work from home?”

“No, no way, ugh, I would never work from home. Are you kidding me? That would totally ruin being at home. No, I don’t work. I used to. I worked for the government. But I realized one day that I hated it, working. So I quit.”

Fluttery feeling in heart.

“Ah… so… are you looking for something else then?”

“Nah.”

Fluttery feeling in brain.

“So… you’re just… home?”

“Yup. After being home for a while I had to admit, it wasn’t the job, although I hated it, it was any job. I don’t like working, so now I’m at home.”

Fluttery feeling in left big toe.

“And… your wife… is… okay with that?”

“Oh yeah, she loves working. She’s what you’d call a real go-getter, whereas I’m a not-go-getter. She likes it that I’m at home, getting the mail, that sort of thing. She thought it was a waste, having a house but both of us gone from it all day. Houses get lonely, you know. You can feel the loneliness of a house when everybody’s gone from it all day. And it’s good for Daisy. We hated leaving her alone. And she hated it. Dogs hate being alone in a house all day, although I guess they’re company for the house. We’re not into kids. Not that we hate them or anything. We have nephews and nieces, but they live in other cities. We only see them when we visit. It’s been a while, though, gotta admit. They’re growing up, somewhere else. And kids are only good to visit until they’re, what… four? Five tops. Then they just want adults to leave them alone. ‘Gosh, look how much you’ve grown!’ ‘Yeah, I guess. Can I go play video games now, mom?’ Man, people are boring about their kids, eh? So weird how they think their kids are different from other breeders’ kids. And gifted. Jesus. If your kid’s so gifted why can’t he play outside without his parents spotting him on a molded plastic play structure? Ottawa’s great, eh? I’m glad we got transferred here. Thank you taxpayers of Canada for paying our transfer costs but I quit. Gone fishin’ minus the fishin’.”

This was all happening in a normal every day suburb of Ottawa, too. Daisy’s dad, living the life I would have been living if I’d known that a person could live such a life. I mean, I wouldn’t give anybody back or anything but at least two, and possibly three, of my kids are justifications I thought necessary to opt out of the paid workforce and stay at home.

Don’t tell the other feminists I asked this, but is there anything in life men can’t figure out how to do with less effort?

Is it possible the glass ceiling is actually protecting us from women?

Three kids – three! And even at three I felt guilty for not being a go-getter in the paid workforce!

But that was all back in another life, and it’s not like I’d give anybody back now.

Also, there was the sticky wicket of Andy wanting to be Daisy’s dad even more than I did, I’m pretty sure.

Seriously, there has got to be a better way of bringing mismatched couples together than leaving it up to young women.

And no, it can’t be up to young men because the rope didn’t even have a noose on the end of it, ferchrissake. Andy just didn’t want to have to find his own apartment. And I don’t blame him. Finding a decent apartment in Toronto when you don’t have any money is a nightmare.

Later that evening, after a pasta dinner that included half a jar of grilled artichokes in oil, I decided to make good on my promise to Trish and get to work on a jobs list, pros and cons, starting with playground attendant.

1. Playground attendant – Pros:

Met friend while drinking at The Vic who had summer job as playground supervisor, got offered job w/out interview, mother impressed by awesome initiative.

Relatively flat terrain for Raleigh Grand Prix ten-speed commute.

Hour lunch, diner w/free coffee refills short walk away.

Could wear jeans/t-shirts.

Friend boss shared smokes/books, despised Nick and Tony (other attendants).

Playground attendant – Cons:

Parents dropped off 3-year-olds even though program was for kids 5-14.

No experience working w/kids nor desire to acquire same.

If rain then inside gym, if sun then outside gym. Disliked rain, sun, and gym. Also kids.

Girls showed up every day to get attention from Nick and Tony, sexist jerks whose Italian mamas made them lunches like they were working construction all day and not sitting on their lazy arses growing five o’clock shadows by noon.

Then I got sidetracked remembering how One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, which I read in the diner on my lunch break, made being a playground attendant seem almost bearable, and I got to thinking about how it’s never really mattered what the job was, I always felt more or less like a prisoner in a Russian gulag doing it. So I added “IVAN DENISOVICH” in bold caps under CONS, and decided I’d fulfilled my promise to Trish.

Just as well because the next morning I got a call.

The gods of employment had rolled their dice.

I’d been hired after all.