My way out

Younger daughter flatly refused to go with us to a Sinatra-themed Victoria Symphony Pops concert.

Well, she's a Taurus, like myself, so we knew she wouldn't be budged. 

This was a pity, because I've never been much of a Sinatra fan myself.  Oh, I know he's a legend, and yes, yes, I recognize his talent and influence.  However, his appeal has always escaped me.

And I loathe "My Way".

We'd bought season tickets weeks ago, so the Resident Fan Boy and I set off in the pleasant semi-sunny autumn afternoon, squeezing in amongst throngs of white heads, as special buses dropped off seniors for the matinee.

The singer featured was a fella named Tony DeSare, one of those guys with terrifyingly impressive CVs -  he's worked with Postmodern Jukebox, and performed on A Prairie Home Companion, so he certainly had my attention.

And he was good. He's an accomplished crooner, of course, but also a mean jazz pianist, trading riffs with the three-piece band he's brought, all backed by the Victoria Symphony.  He composes his own music, playing a pleasant ballad that Paul McCartney himself complimented.  When he boogied through a Sinatra arrangement of a Ray Charles song, I could see a third chair violinist practically dancing as she bowed her instrument.  (It was one of those damned "numbers announced from the stage", so I don't know which song - not one I recognized, so likely not that famous.)

And then he ended the first half with "My Way".  No escape.  We were front row centre.

When we attended a Michael Feinstein concert with the National Arts Centre Orchestra a few years ago, he flatly refused to sing "My Way".  In Ottawa.  Paul Anka's birthplace.  I was so grateful.

Faced with the prospect of listening to "Strangers in the Night" and "It Was a Very Good Year", we fled.  The Resident Fan Boy had a book to pick up at Munro's, and we stopped at Murchie's, where he treated me to something called Frenzy Cake, something like Black Forest, only with raaaaspberries.  Yup, just what I need - a new confection.  Gawd, it was good.

Waiting for the bus, I told the Resident Fan Boy that "My Way" is the top song choice for funerals.  The Resident Fan Boy was aghast, being the son of an Anglican clergyman, and accustomed to hymns at such services.  I also told me that "Time to Say Goodbye", surely one of the most manipulative dirges written, is high up the list.

He asked me what I'd like played at my funeral.

"Well, given how much The Wizard of Oz has meant to our daughters," I replied, "'Ding Dong the Witch is Dead' would work."

We both bent over double in hilarity:  "She's gone where the goblins go, below, below, below!" we warbled, ignoring the stares of our fellow waiters, who were, no doubt, praying we wouldn't board their bus.

The wee small gremlins of the morning

If I should wake sometime between 2 am and 6 am, the gremlins usually come and find me. Sometimes it's a global warming gremlin, sometimes it's a killer comet gremlin. Or the world financial situation. Or Yellowstone National Park blowing us all sky high. (Oh, don't bother me about that last one; go ask Bill Bryson...) Or worse, there are the gremlins of things I'm failing to accomplish in my day-to-day existence such as helping younger daughter in her daily struggles or maintaining exercise resolutions. This morning, I woke from a fitful dream of taking photographs in a haunted library (which involved climbing a ladder and so slowed down my escape from the spectres), and a really nasty gremlin had me by the guts. The Resident Fan Boy returned from the bathroom to find me in a sweat: "If you die, I'm screwed! What will become of the girls? I don't know where the will is, or how to pay the mortgage, or where to send your body...."

Now, this is probably not something a husband wants to hear at the best of times, certainly not at five thirty in the morning of the day he's due to set off on a four-day business trip to Québec City. Add this to the fact that I'm addressing my concerns to the one of the chief Worrywarts of the Western World. This is a man who has spent days pacing and wondering why he hasn't received his free golf towel from the local pub. (He doesn't golf.)

Anyway, to give him his due, he held me close and whispered tenderly, "The first thing you do is notify the bank, and the second thing you do is notify my office." Of course, then I wondered about the wisdom of this because a) the bank would immediately freeze his accounts; and b) I only have his work number which leads to his voice mail ("Uh, hi darling, you're dead, so will your boss check this?"). However, I decided to leave such questions for the morning. Or slightly later in the morning, as RFB's alarm clock then went off and he had to get up. I went back to sleep and dreamt I was at some sort of Jerry Falwell camp and I needed to pack, take a shower and clean out some drawers that were full of grey muddy grunge.

In case I've worried any of you out there (I know there's at least five or six of you who check in here), we emailed our lawyer in Victoria for copies of our wills (because we can't find them); we phoned the insurance company (which has changed hands twice since we took our our policy); and we located the local branch of the Memorial Society (because our membership in the BC Memorial Society is unlikely to do us much good). The last has a fabulous web site which actually has a check list of "what to do when death occurs" --- in case you too were wondering. So if the Resident Fan Boy meets with tragedy in Québec City (say, if someone discovers his last name while he's touring the Plains of Abraham and takes umbrage)....well...I'm still screwed, but at least I have an idea of what to do.