Feminine Wins and Losses

A rather busy little week. I had just returned from Davos, Switzerland, where I had been invited to give an address to the great and the good of the financial world, when I got a call from a reporter friend in Los Angeles. Apparently my youngest daughter, Victoria, was involved in some very odd extra-curricular activities that had nothing to do with her studies in history at Stanford University. It had been some time since I had been in my beach house overlooking the sea, and given the insane weather that is Canada in winter, decided to fly down unannounced and find out what all the fuss was all about.

On the flight down, I reflected on my talk in Davos (grungy little town) and how it had been received. I had entitled my address "The Feminine and Finance". The major thrust zeroed in on the fact -- and it is a fact -- that few women are to be found among the great "Masters of the Financial Universe", the very clowns that had, through greed and the creation of financial instruments that no one understood had caused the global fiscal mess we are currently in. Women, I stressed, are inherently more cautious, and would never have succumbed to the toxic stew of collateralized debt options, dodgy derivatives and stupid swaps that have almost destroyed the world's banks. Women may have been more susceptible to the sub-prime mortgage debacle, for their focus is fixed on the home, but even there, I don't think it would have reached the extremes of obtaining land with no down payment and no credit check whatsoever. Would things have been different if it wasn't Lehman Brothers, but Lehman Brothers and Sisters? I rather think so.

My little speech actually received a smattering of applause when I finished. A minuscule ray of hope piercing the clouds of testosterone gathered at the event? Perhaps.

I had called Victoria earlier, and she said she would meet me at her small apartment near the university. I arrived early, and let myself by employing a very useful tool that doubles as a nail file. The apartment was a mess, with books and papers scattered throughout, most of which dealt with the area of history she was studying -- the Thirty Years War. I was aware of this interest through earlier conversations. Victoria had been quite taken with the originating cause of the war, the defenestration at Prague in 1618. I think she thought the term "defenestration" had sexual overtones, and may have been disappointed to learn that it meant throwing someone out of a window, in this case, two Catholic governors and their scribe. All three landed in a dung heap, great insult was taken, and the war began. What made her continue her study of a highly complex and byzantine event I am at a loss to say -- it's a mystery.

But not the only mystery.

Out of curiosity, I opened one of her closets, and beheld a vast array of skirts, blouses, and dresses that paid homage to the likes of Donna Karan, Dior, Ralph Lauren and God knows who else. I too have such a closet, but I know where the money comes from -- good little sugar beets. Where does Victoria's come from? True, she receives a stipend from me, but no way could it account for this type of expenditure. What was going on? Surely my youngest daughter, who hides her beauty by parading around campus in baggy pants, sweatshirt, and her Sarah Palin-like glasses, couldn't take ownership of such an exotic wardrobe? Was she covering for someone?
As it turned out, she was covering no one but herself. Once she had gotten over the fact that I had broken into her apartment, a situation eased by an excellent dinner at a small establishment near Rodeo Drive, the truth came out. Apparently she was supplementing her income by being dead. Now it is true that Victoria was a great swimmer, and could hold her breath for a goodly three minutes. Well this facility, along with her good looks, made her a very attractive proposition for such shows as CSI, Medium, Bones and others of that ilk, where bodies pop up with regularity, and it doesn't hurt if that body is good-looking. And remembering the items in her closet, I determined that the pay was very good. Very good indeed.

Later, back at her apartment, she proudly showed me pictures of some of her best roles. I was shocked. There was my daughter, mangled, beaten, tortured, suspended -- I had had enough.

"Vicky, what on earth are you doing? What message are you sending to viewers.? That women are objects to be savaged, then cast aside? Good God, there is enough violence against women already, without this sort of encouragement."

"Well," she replied, "the money is so generous that aside from buying the clothes that you saw, clothes that I need when dying or whatever, the rest goes to four rape crisis shelters in Los Angeles. I think of the whole thing as relaying money from one dubious source to others that do very good work, and desperately need the funds."

I have to think about that, although I still have strong doubts about the way she is supplementing her income. Perhaps The Talmud is right (it usually is): "Do not attempt to understand your children. They were born in a different time."