Birthing A Forgiveness Baby

M'kay, the universe has a sense of humour. Today I found out that Ex-Husband is making a baby with his new wife. My response was telling, I think. I looked at the sky and said, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I'm free." And then I laughed. Because my ex-father-in-law used to refer to me as "the vessel." I dodged a serious bullet there.

This is also perfect timing because I am just about to start some concentrated work on forgiveness. And rather than do some kind of sobby exorcising of personal hurts, I want to laugh my way through this. Which is a nice little challenge, I think.

Why forgiveness? Well, why not, in the first place. And in the second place, if cancer is old resentments literally eating away at the body (see Louise Hay) then forgiveness is the cure for cancer! Along with other things, probably including organic carrot juice. But for now, forgiveness.

I suppose I could start with dear old Ex. But I think, miraculously, I'm kind of done with him. He was the star of Melanie Moves On for some time and I do believe he's been written off the show. And given my reaction to Spawn of Ex, I think we're good.

Hilarious Forgiveness might take a little practice, so I'm starting off easy. I'm going to start with one of my old creative nemeses. The Man Who Stopped The Singing. I want to call him Hugh McCool. That is not his name. It is cheesier than his name, which makes it all the better.

Hugh McCool was the Musical Theatre teacher at my high school. He also ran the Vocal Jazz ensemble. Hugh McCool looks exactly like Ned Flanders. Exactly. He even has Ned's too-much-Kool-Aid perkiness, except instead of religious fervor, it's Broadway fervor. Hugh seriously thought that directing a bunch of pimply teenagers in 'A Chorus Line' made him the sexiest mofo in the district.

I spent a lot of years resenting him. Because he didn't cast me in Vocal Jazz. And I never sang in public again.

Now, let's examine this. Vocal Jazz?! To be honest, it reminds me of my street name. My very embarrassing over-the-top street name that didn't know when to quit: Tuscany Vista Crescent. We all would have been okay with just Tuscany Vista. But you had to ruin it with the Crescent, didn't you? It's the same with Vocal Jazz. Just jazz? That's okay. But add in that Vocal and you've got yourself some kind of weird inflammation involving bad perms and acrylic sweaters.

But to Hugh McCool Vocal Jazz was his ticket to the top. For serious. Vocal Jazz (I'm just going to keep writing it until it makes you want to scream) was where he scouted and groomed young talent for blow jobs, I mean, record deals. Where he would become the manager/promoter and these young darlings would be all grateful and probably pay him a ridiculous commission.

I totally made that up...about the blow jobs and commission anyway. But you bought it. Because with a name like Hugh McCool, you wouldn't put it past him.

But this, dear friends, is about forgiveness. Releasing McResentment.

Because there is a Hugh McCool within each of us. I don't know what I mean by that, but I think it's probably true. Maybe Hugh is like a professional ballet mom. The kind of person who is living their failed dreams through through their children. I dunno.

I don't even know if Hugh thinks that deeply. He's too busy smiling that huge Ned Flanders smile.

I saw him a while back on Breakfast Television. And he was just a-schmoozin' it up. Horning in on my segment to say something about how the 23-year-old crooner he was hawking would be a great CD for making out. Meanwhile, when the mini crooner found out I give dating advice, he looked at me with a sweet desperation that told me that even though his voice was like buttah, his heart was lonely and sad. I loved McCrooner.

And I loved McCool. He had really tried to update his look since I was in high school. He traded in the V-neck sweaters and grey pleated pants for expensive jeans and some kind of Euro-mullet haircut that unfortunately came off more 'Lethbridge sports bar' than 'Milan speedway.'

I really don't know what Hugh McCool's inner struggle is, but I can be pretty sure he's got one. We all do. Maybe his high school teaching career and marriage blew to smithereens because he got a little too interested in some blond soprano's "career." Maybe his kids think what he does is stupid. Maybe, inside, he does. I don't know.

But the fact is, McCool is McTrying To Figure It Out just like the rest of us. And I am going to let him go. Have a good journey McCool. See you on the other side. Doo wop.