The Committee Meeting

All names, characteristics and locations have been changed to protect the innocent.


This is how I spent my Tuesday night.

The Main Players

Mrs Dulcie Ogmore-Pritchard - Dowager Pensioner from Dingly - dressed in a floral Dolina dress, (ill-fitting) and constantly adjusting her squealing hearing aid and sipping marsala from a coke bottle. Always to be addressed as Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard.

Bebe Polkinghorne - Jobbing radio actress, dressed in understated Melbourne black, pony-slim legs crossed at the upper thigh.

Anthony "Soaked-up Tony " Bartholemew - lugubrious Treasurer, known for eye rolling, long monotone speeches and his stash of Captain Morgan in the library stacks.

Frau Helene Gudmundsdottir - Well coiffed doyenne of the Williamstown business community.

Dorothy "Dotty" Fields - Grandmother, Collingwood cheer squad founding member - Secretary. Keeps a collection of other teams supporter's hubcaps in her garage.

Geoffrey Carruthers - Long suffering Chairman. Voice of Reason. Stoic in the face of adversity. Was born to be an ombudsman.

Jonquil Curruthers - Geoffrey's mother. Archetypal Good Grandmother persona. Also stoic in the face of adversity. Libran.

Hyacinth Montrose - Jonquil's sister - a slightly more wizened, slightly harder version of Jonquil with a rapier wit similar to her sisters

Myfanwy Jones - silent widow under a grey bob. Likes to knit - a lot. Doesn't say boo to a goose.

And there is me, Pandora Behr, 43-year-old, long distance running, word nerd. The youngest in the room by fifteen years easily. Wet behind the ears. Literally. The humidity of the last few days has been killing me. Not helping matters the night before, due to the heat and humidity, I'd had about three hours sleep. After a long day at work, getting home to down a protein shake and then take off to this meeting, I was exhausted.

The Location: A drafty church hall type arrangement complete with lino floor and formica tables in Richmond.

The Event: The Annual General Meeting of the Mixed Elks Property Committee

This rag tag bunch have decided attend the Annual General Meeting of the Mixed Elks Property Committee. Some have to be there - like me.

Some are there because they want to be there. Maybe their medication has run out.

I've spoken in this blog about my participation in freemasonry. I love my allegiance to the Masonic cause. I love the masonic values and everything that freemasonry provides me with. I love that most of what I gleaned about freemasonry from Happy Days and The Flintstones has turned out to be on the mark - truly it has - right down to the funny handshakes.

A part of being a freemason is accepting that part of life is service. Service to your lodge. Service to your family. Service to the community. Service to humanity.

And part of duty of service to the lodge is getting roped into the Mixed Elks Property Association Committee.

And part of me wonders if this service element of the Masons is a crock of shit. And a lot of me wonders how being roped into the Property Assocation aligns with the service to humanity aspect of freemasonry.

I freely admit to not liking committees. Like meetings and any other gathering where alleged democracy is required, all codes of ethics, morals and values tend to go out the window as soon as you step into the room where a meeting or committee is convened.

And the nutters come out. I think there is something about a committee that ensures that there is at least one barking mad eejit to rock the boat. Just as you need a junkie on the tram after ten p.m. or a male school teacher who wears long socks, sandals and a short sleeved shirt to teach Physics - there has to be at last one complete fuckwit. It wouldn't be a committee if it wasn't.

Bring back oligarchy I say! Plato was right some three thousand years ago when he said that this was the only way to go. Rule by the sane. Rule by the trusted - none of these Polder decisions and constant arguing and half measures that democracy provides where compromises are made and nobody is happy. Rule by the intelligent, informed and not-that-barking-mad elite, I say!

Heaven help me - last night. Oh my. It's four hours of my life I'm never going to get back. And a decision which I know I'm going to regret got made. As of 10.32 p.m. last night, I'm now the Mixed Elks Property Association Treasurer. Voted in uncontested.

I must have been pond scum in a former life.

For most of the meeting I was listening and putting myself in my happy place, which mostly consisted of fantasising about a lanky but wonderfully muscled Swedish actor in some compromising positions. I also started my weekly shopping list, thought about how I can take out the tannoy and the annoying easy listening music at work, pondered how I'm going to train for and get to the New York Marathon next year

I'm not sure what bugged me more. Whether it be Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard talking loudly into her mobile phone after the meeting had started - continuing to do this at the meeting table throughout the meeting. It might have been Frau Gudmansdottir and Bebe Polkinghorne questioning every line on the Treasurers report - not just once, but five times over. Maybe it was that when I was expecting to be home at 9.30 and in bed by ten they were still arguing about the semantics of the word "Subs" that was found in a footnote in the addendum to the President's Report, again, for the fifth time of the evening.

Please remember that this was the first Mixed Elks Property Association meeting I'd been to - my Mixed Elks Lodge voted (read guilted) me into a three year stint on the committee at the last meeting - see, I get a lot of flack for not staying for supper. Thankfully, these meetings are only held once every three months.

By ten to ten, the time had come to find a new Property Committee President. The current Executive Committee - Geoffrey, Dotty and Tony the Soak stepped away from the top formica table. I went and sat next to Jonquil - my allie, voice of reason and grandmother substitute - though at 80, she's only just ten years older than my own mum.

"Enjoying yourself, Pand?" she asked.
"Do you want me to be tactful or truthful?"
"Truthful."
"I think I'd rather have root canal surgery without anaesthetic than be here."
"I feel your pain."
"Is it always like this?" I asked her.
"Half the time. The other half of the time the agitators stay away. These people are passionate."
"Don't they have anything better to do?"
Jonquil sighed. "Probably not."

The election of the new president was run - I ran it. They gave me a gavel - ah, the power. Fifteen minutes later - after discussing semantics with Frau Gudmansdottir and Bebe Polkinghorne about how their Elks lodge couldn't put up members as they hadn't voted them in, I was installed as treasurer and Geoffrey and Dotty were back as President and Secretary.

Another hour of pointless discussion about the auditor's report, the meeting was closed.

So traumatised from this meeting I went home and downed a very large single malt.

How do I feel about being the treasurer of the Mixed Elks Property Committee Incorporated? A little ambivalent. Somebody has to do it. See to me, it's running a spreadsheet, banking a few cheques and sending the odd stroppy letter - how hard can it be? I'm also wondering which one of my CPA friends I might be able to bribe into auditing our books for a barter - I knew enough CPAs to coerce them into a few hours work - well I think I do. Throw in a massage - amazing what a good massage can be bartered for. I have a few other barterable skills, but I'm not sure that they're quite right for bartering the Mixed Elks Property Committee Books for - I have my standards,.

Still you have to wonder...

Just what is it about committees that make you want to club half of the members like baby seals!

Pand
_________________________________________________
 
Days without ice cream - 17
 
Accountants
 
Personality
Bred out way back in the years
When God was a boy

The Abyss

I'm going to a funeral in a few hours, so I'm sitting here at home, in my gym clothes, trying to find the energy to get my bum onto a cross traiiner for half an hour. My body, and mind, and spirit feel decidedly battered. Not helping matters, the next door neighbours are renovating, so I'm listening to the grating drone of a sander.

The funeral is for one of my lodge members, the lady who bumped me in to co-freemasonry. A beautiful, loving, etherial presence, who even when going through the ravages of chemotherapy kept her spirit and courage. She was in her late fifties - too young really. But knowing that this spirited, joyous mother and grandmother had a wonderful life fills me with some peace. I have no qualms taking a day off as a mark of respect. I need to do it. These guys have become part of my extended family. You do this for family.

The last few days have been hard. Really hard.There's been a lot of emotion flying around. I've had numerous people crying, actually, make that sobbing, in my arms over the last few days. Card readings will normally bring out a few tears, but these were hard core. Seriously huge things are happening to people out there. And all I can do is witness this.

The Grounded Dutchman is going through his own readjustments. He's finding his limitations, which I know is frustrating him no end. Our daily reading and diction sessions continue and he's doing well - but it's other little things that are getting to him. Before the accident, nothing seemed to bother him. Now, he's a lot more sensitive and emotional.  We went to see Inception last night and he had to leave part way through - the whole experience was too noisy and intense for him. He went to a bar to celebrate a leaving do - similar experience - he had to walk out, unable to cope with the noisy atmosphere.

Maybe not so strangely, I get where he's coming from with the noisy environments. Maybe it's me getting old, or just being rather sensitive, but I hate crowded, noisy spaces. I can do concerts at a push, but I would rather be out of the mosh pit (unless the Pixies are playing). It was sad to see him go early - it was a fabulous film. 

And as for me - I'm just trying to find some direction. The pain in the side contintues. I had my regular appointment with the myotherapist yesterday, telling her of the joys of St Vincents Emergency Room. She started pummelling my back. "We need to get some of this trauma out of you. You're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. No wonder you feel like you're giving way."

And she's right. It's just how I feel.

A lot of this has to do with the situation at Tin Can, String and Whistle. It really is in a state of flux at the moment. People are leaving left right and cente, nobody is sure what we'll be doing in the next three months - and I've been editing a large document and what ever dribs and drabs I can get - this makes me feel really undervalued. Going from a dream job where I loved the work and the people to where I am now is so deflating.

So, what are my options?

Leave and find someting new. Start over. Get out now?
Take up the six month sabbatical that is on offer at the moment - 14 weeks pay to take 26 weeks off - and to come back to a job, not sure what - maybe get moved to India or Vietnam? Find some contracting work in between?
Or keep on going the way things are, waiting to be made redundant.

I'm also looking at why I'm so resistant to move. A lot of this comes down to the fact that I love the people at Tin Can, String and Whistle. I'm at a place where I know I'm respected and my real work, when I do it, is valued.

Even putting my name down for roles in India and Vietnam is daunting. This wasn't done on a whim. I look at what I have here - no property, no animals, no family. It's just my friends, who are my support network and joy, that keep me here.

Honestly, I feel like wrapping myeself in cotton wool. All a bit pointless when you're staring down into an abyss. If you jump, you don't know how hard the bump at the bottom is going to be.

Then again, you don't know if you going to jump and fly off to somewhere miraculous.

Cards of the Blog:  The Hermit, The High Priestess and The Ace of Swords.

Look within, trust your instincts and get your head around it. You'll do just fine.

Great. Keep drinking the Rescue Remedy, get your cards read.
And most importantly, view my wonderful future.

The Lay of the Land

My calendar gets a bit stupid at times - friends would say most of the time, but rarely do I mix things up. Well, it happened tonight. Here I was thinking I had a mason's rehearsal when I wanted to go to the gym. At 7.30, ready for a night of boredom and watching little old ladies argue, I walked into another group's rehearsal, where a different group of little old ladies were arguing... oops. So I've spent the evening at home, penning Greek website pages, cleaning for the coming flat inspection and pondering my ironing pile. And here I was planning to do all this tomorrow.

Having an unexpected night free is bliss. I would have gone to the gym, but dinner was weighing heavily in my stomach and there were things to do around here. Floors for mopping, spare room to tidy, writing to complete... all fairly mundane stuff.

I'm not fond of inspection day. One of the great bummers of renting is that the agent comes through every couple of months to check things over. Not that the agent ever makes comment. Though, I'm not tidy, I'm clean. I'm not keeping twenty cats, running a meth lab, hosting a brothel or letting rubbish pile up. The place gets cleaned regularly, the neighbours, all of whom have been here as long as I have, never complain and the rent gets paid on time. And for the stupid amount I pay out each month, have undercover parking, locked gates to get into the place and being in Richmond, I walk to work. All is cool.

But nothing takes away the feeling that I'm being judged. Inspection Day is like when my mother comes over for one of her four yearly visits. I feel like I'm cleaning for weeks but nothing will ever be good enough. I'll get over it one day.

I suppose it gives a bit of excitement to life - work isn't providing that at the moment. Tin Can, String and Whistle Ltd isn't a fun place to be at the moment. The project I'm on is winding down, there are heaps of stressed people about, the work isn't as interesting and half the time I feel like thumping somebody or something. It's unsettling.

Looking around the office, you can see the stress people are under. Jurgen, the walking toilet brush sits on his phone and sighs in his wonderfully impenetrable German accent "This is nonsense..."(Classic Colonel Klink). Work Husband looks like he's going to cry. And then there's Eddie.

Eddie and I share a pod, along with absent Noisy Raymond and the soon to be leaving Dee. Noisy Raymond is lovely, just very loud. Most of his phone conversations can be heard at the other end of the office. Dee is leaving for another job in a few weeks. I'd miss her if she didn't work from home so much - she's cool.

That just leaves Eddie.

In a former life I must have been pond scum. There is no other reason why I would get stuck in a pod with Eddie. He's nearly as bad as the worst podmate in the world - that honour going to the inimitable Karen Tissington, dog breeder, constant sniffer, tea bag re-user, soup slurper and class A bigot from Tunbridge Wells. She liked Australians (bastards take all our jobs) as much as I liked John Howard. That was a really fun six months. I took up smoking when I was sitting next to her just to get away.

It's not that Eddie breeds dobermans or goes around like he's having root canal every Tuesday for three months - he's just Eddie. Eddie, who butts into every conversation I have whether it be work or personal. Eddie, who after nine months of using the new document system still asks me how to log in three times a day. Eddie, whose OCD has made him a legend in the fourth floor bathrooms, and Eddie, who at 2.05 pm every day crunches loudly on carrot sticks the size of baseball bats. Oh, did I mention Eddie only speaks to me in French, offers me dodgy herbal tea every day and when I tuck into diet coke lectures me on the harm of phosphoric acid. He asks every half an hour what the weather is doing. (LOOK OUT THE WINDOW, EDDIE!)

Most amazingly, I met Eddie's wife at Xmas. And she's lovely, normal, sweet, intelligent and kind. I asked how long they had been married. Thirty years she replied.

I sort of feel bad that my response slipped out unedited. "You get less for murder..."

And that is the lay of the land.

Back the the joys of Patmos. At least I get to run at lunchtime tomorrow, it makes up for a lot of the frustration I'm feeling at the moment.

Card of the Blog: The Star.  Wishes and dreams, one of the best cards in the pack, self esteem, self love, optimism.

Who are the cards kidding?

Pand

Kilometres walked since 29 January: 85 km
Kilometres run since 29 January: 49 km
Currently reading: What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami, Ultramarathon Man by Dean Karnazes
Weight lost since 29 Jan: 0.7 kg

Going Gently into that Goodnight

I know I do a heap of weird and wonderful things. Once a month on a Monday I am found at my co-freemasonry meeting. Yes, I am a Co-Freemason. Rather than going into it, look it up on Wikipedia or Google, you will find out more about it there than I'm prepared to tell you. I like it. It's my way of celebrating God without Jesus. Nobody else's business but my own, but I love the lack of dogma, the sense of belonging and the joys of mixing with people I'd never normally meet.

But there are a number of things that I really love about my mason's meetings.

1. I now have an abundance of mother's and grandmother's that get me.

Most of the women there are in their sixties, seventies and eighties with names like Beryl, Olive and Eunice. For a mob of old dears they're a sprightly mob. Interested and interesting. And they seem to get me. I love this. I wish my own mother would understand me like these people. I reckon I'd have far fewer hang ups if she did. The fellowship is outstanding.

2. Once a month I'm not seen as a complete freak

Again, I've grown into my eccentricities quite nicely with age. It has taken a bit, but I knowing I'm a bit mad helps get me through when I meet "normal" people. I don't meet many normal people - most people I meet are a bit mad anyway. At co-freemasons, the fact that I run distances is seen as freaky. All the other stuff I do, dream group, tarot, kabbalah, all of this is well within the bands of normal. Gotta love that.

3. They make the BEST curried egg sandwiches for supper.

I don't get these often - love them. You also get the occasional dolmades, vanilla slice, cake and home made scones. These ladies put the CWA to shame.

Last night we were told of the passing of one of our members. A lovely lady who really helped me find my feet at co-masons. She was a sprightly old thing until early last year, when she started to slow. Admittedly she was in her late eighties, but it is still sad. Her wicked sense of humour kept me entertained, her knowledge astounded me. I can see her now, meeting St Peter, with a twinkle in her eye and a finger pointing out something that could be set right. Joycey, you will be missed. It was an honour to know you. I know you're in a wonderful place - but keep on being you - heaven needs a ratbag.

Have given my commitment to freaky, running ex-boss for the marathon in Maine.
We will remain in denial for a bit longer.

Card for the blog: Eight of Wands - moving forward, the arrows of love, air travel, energy.

Apt.

Pand

Kilometres walked since 29 Jan: 36
Kilometres run since 29 Jan: 13
Currently reading : The Elegance of the Hedgehog bu Muriel Barbery, Ultramarathon Man by Dean Karnazes
Weight lost since 29 Jan: 0.7 kg