Halloween Life Lessons

Every Hallowe'en when I was a kid (I’m sure it’s the same now) I’d go home and separate my candy into two piles – edible and garbage. It’s not that any of my candy had been tampered with or riddled with razor blades; some of it was simply inedible. Thrills gum, bearing a devious similarity to grape chiclets, falls into this category.

I don’t want to be judgemental, but if you give away Thrills gum at Halloween, you are a mean, mean person. The stuff tastes like soap. The funny thing is, it’s not intended to be gag gum. It’s just really horrible tasting gum.

This stuff has been on the market for years, so I have to believe that the company has received plenty of feedback on its flavour. They know it tastes like soap. I saw it in a store recently and I was curious as to whether the company had changed the gum's flavour in the years since I’d had it as a kid. And as I got closer, I saw big bold text, boasting: “It still tastes like soap!”

Interesting marketing strategy, that. “Let’s not fix the problem, let’s capitalize on it.” I’m imagining other companies adopting this approach. Car dealerships bragging: “It’s still a lemon!”, fast food joints exclaiming: "It's still bad for you!" or cigarette companies proudly stating: "They'll still kill you!" (Come to think of it, the surgeon general beat them to the punch on that one).

So the next time you're faced with a problem and you feel compelled to find a solution, you might want to think again, and simply tell people the problem is just not going away. Hey - it's worked for Thrills.

Winter - you can't make me like it.

Winter is coming. Soon. I can’t tell you how much I am opposed to that.

I wouldn’t have a problem if winter stuck to its three-month seasonal allotment. It CLEARLY says on the calendar that winter starts on December 21 and ends on March 21. This is a LIE.

I’ve started to think of winter as an unwelcome houseguest. You get the call in October:

“You’re coming when? Next week? NO. That is NOT going to work for me. You’re not scheduled to come for another 8 weeks… I’m looking at the calendar right now. Do you even OWN a calendar?

“Right. So basically you’re saying there’s NOTHING I can do to dissuade you from coming early. You’ve got your own key and you’re coming in whether I like it or not. Charming."

So you sort of accept that winter has arrived, and it sticks around for a few months, at which point it has clearly worn out its welcome.

So you broach the subject: “So, not to be rude, but when are you leaving?

“Uh huh. You’re not sure. Maybe March, maybe April, maybe May. Super.”

And every year, I fall for the same old trick. There’s a nice day in February or March and I think: This is it. This is the year that Winter leaves early. This is the year that Spring arrives promptly on March 21. Never mind that it has NEVER happened before.

And sure enough, just as quickly as my optimism arrives, it is squashed, trampled, WHITED OUT by a blizzard….followed by rain and freezing rain.

“You’re back. I thought I’d seen the last of you for this year. Are you not tired of all the blustering and the biting and the snowing? Could you NOT give it a rest for another year? Don’t you have friends in Australia you could visit?”

I could stomach winter far more easily if it were equally balanced by my good friend, summer. But oh no, summer breezes in just long enough to make you fall in love and then it’s gone, leaving you heartbroken and cold, wondering how the hell you can possibly be shovelling again.

Winter’s coming. I get it. I can do nothing to influence its arrival or departure. I'll play along, wearing my coat and mitts. But I’ll be damned if I have to like it.

Hello. Is it me you're looking for?

The phone rings. My call display is wonky, so I can't quite make out the number, but I'm pretty sure it's a friend. "Hello," I say in my friend voice, not in the generic "hello" voice reserved for unknown callers. "Hello. This is so-and-so from Buyer Direct calling." Damn. I just wasted my "friend hello" on a stranger - a telemarketer at that. Now I feel committed to be friendly.

"Is this Mrs. Angus?" the voice asks. "Yes," I reply, not quibbling over the "Mrs." She gives me the spiel about the virtues of Buyer Direct, where I can pay half of what non-discerning consumers pay. I have no intention of going to Buyer Direct, but I did answer with the "friend hello" so I figure I'll make the poor girl's night by hearing her out. She then offers to send me out an information package, and a "special" invitation to attend a Buyer Direct Open House. Again, I have no intention of going, but I've come this far. I'll humour her ("I got a 'yes' to the information package mail-out," she can boast to her Buyer Direct friends). She confirms my address and then adds, "Buyer Direct is great for people who have bought a new home, are doing renovations or are making large purchases of furniture or appliances. Does this describe you?"

"Well, no, probably not." I admit.

"Well then it sounds like the timing's not right for Buyer Direct," she says abruptly. "Have a good night."

"Are you kidding me? YOU are dumping ME? I'm not even interested in your stupid Open House! I wouldn't go if I were building a new house, doing renovations on an old one AND buying furniture and appliances for both! And I only gave you the 'friend hello' because my call display is screwed up!" But the line is dead.

I've been rejected by a telemarketer. Ouch.

Yes, my dog is skinny.

I am walking my greyhound, Ruby. We come upon another dog (a pup) and owner. We do the obligatory hello and sniff (Me the hello, Ruby the sniff).

“Your dog is skinny,” says the owner, a keenly observant boy in his late teens.

“Yes, she is skinny,” I agree.

“Why? Why is she so skinny?” He seems affronted.

“She’s a picky eater.”

“I guess!” he responds. “She looks emaciated. Like you just rescued her from a bad owner.”

“Nope. She’s just skinny,” I say, wondering if I should feel defensive.

“What kind of dog is yours?” I ask, keen to change the subject.

“Great Dane,” he says.

“Cute,” I say sincerely, admiring the pup.

“What kind of dog is THAT?” he asks about Ruby. I can tell he doubts she has enough body fat to even qualify as a dog.

“A greyhound.”

“A greyhound?!” he replies. “Are they ALL that skinny?” He shakes his head in disbelief.

“They’re all pretty skinny,” I share. “But she’s exceptionally skinny.”

“I guess!” he says.

It’s time to move on. As we walk our separate ways, he shouts out: “Good luck getting some food on her!” By his tone, I can tell he’s not holding out much hope.

“Thanks,” I shout back, unsure if it’s an appropriate response.

I imagine he is home right now on his computer - plump great dane pup at his feet - googling “greyhound” and feeling just a touch superior. And that's ok, because I'm home at my computer, skinny greyhound by my side, feeling a touch superior too.

Three completely unrelated observations

1. A security guard walks down the hall outside my office. I hear the buzz of his two-way radio, signalling an incoming message. I stop typing away at my computer, look up from my desk and tilt my head to hear the communiqué. Surely it’s something juicy, mysterious – a breach of security, perhaps, or a suspicious character lurking in the bushes outside. “There’s cake in the kitchen,” comes the muffled voice. “Cake in the kitchen,” he repeats amidst the static. And by the time I reach the door of my office to look out into the hall, the security guard has disappeared. No doubt hot on the trail of cake.

2. I am driving home when a glow sign catches my eye: SELF-SERVE DOG WASH. Really? I cannot wait to see the dogs line up, clutching their shampoo and waiting for a free shower.

3. When my doctor’s office puts callers on hold, they play the elevator music version of Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond over and over. They’ve been doing this for years (quite possibly since the elevator version of Sweet Caroline was first released). Can this be good for anyone’s health?

If it starts with bumper stickers, where does it end?

I’m driving behind a car with bumper stickers. Although I try to resist judgment in most situations, I find myself slipping as I read one of the pearls of wisdom adhered forevermore to the rear of this vehicle: “Unless you’re a hemroid, get off my ass.” While I could easily be offended by the philosophy behind the bumper sticker (or puzzled by the fact the driver wants a hemorrhoid on his ass), it is the lack of regard for proper spelling that leaves me most shaken. Do bumper sticker producers have no quality assurance standards? No editorial review process? How could such an egregious* spelling error get through to print, and then – perhaps more shockingly – be considered worthy of purchase?

Surely there’s an explanation. I begin to question my own spelling prowess. Maybe there are two ways of spelling “hemorrhoid.” Maybe I’ve had it wrong all along. As soon as I get home, I look up “hemroid” in an online dictionary. “The word you have entered doesn’t exist.” You’ve got that right, Merriam Webster. I breathe a sigh of relief. But my feeling of smugness is quickly replaced by a pit in my stomach. Somewhere out there, maybe even closer than I dare think, someone is producing bumper stickers without a conscience, preying (or praying) on the bad spellers of the world. And who’s to say they’ll stop at bumper stickers? T-shirts, playing cards, key chains – the sky is the limit for these renegades…if we let them win.

I for one am not prepared to let that happen. If we accept “hemroid” on a bumper sticker, what next? “Honk if you love Jesis”? or “I climbed Mount Woshington”? If we stand by while this anarchy of the English language unfolds before us, what is the societal cost? Too high, I say – too high. I will not stop until these spell-snubbing scofflaws are brought to justice – or English class. Honk if you’re with me.

*I have to come clean – I had to look up the spelling on this one.

Life in the Express Lane

I’ve never been one to try to sneak more than 10 items in the “1 to 10 items” line at the grocery story. Sure, a person can probably get away with 11 or 12 (and no doubt has), but it’s a slippery slope that disrespects the other people in line and dishonours the sacred concept of “express.”

The other day, I was grocery shopping and overheard a conversation in the express line. “Mom – you have more than 10 items,” said a young boy. “They don’t mind,” said the mother. “They don’t actually count.” The clerk seized the opportunity to reinforce express line etiquette. “It’s not busy today, so it’s ok,” she said, clearly implying that had the woman committed the same act on a busy Saturday, she and her 20 items would have been turned away, and she may even have been outed to the other staff and customers. “We’ve got a live one here! Thinks we can’t count. Who’s got the longest line? She’s all yours!”

I – on solid moral express line ground – wondered about her character. If she could so easily dismiss the laws of the express line, of what other heinous acts was she capable? Like I said, slippery slope.

This afternoon I made a quick trip to the grocery store to pick up a few necessities. Having found all of the items on my list, I made my way to the shortest line and placed my purchases on the counter. The clerk smiled and said hello as she rang through my items. “Ma’am, I don’t know if you’re aware of this…” (Oooh, is there a sale on those avocados?) “But this is the express line. You’re not supposed to have more than 10 items in this line.”

What? I have more than 10 items? “Oh, sorry…I…uh…I didn’t realize…Well, I guess I knew it was the express line, but I just didn’t realize I had more than 10 items…I didn’t count…I wasn’t paying attention… sorry…” She’s heard it all before, and my apology falls with a thud into the space between us. I pay sheepishly (for what I now realize were 13 items - 14 if you count the two cans of tuna separately, which I don’t) and listen as the clerk greets the man behind me, who is well under the 10-item limit. “How are you?” she gushes, clearly showing favouritism for he-who-is-abiding-by-the-rules.

I don’t stick around for the end of their transaction, but I imagine the dialogue that may have ensued. “How often do you hear that excuse?” he says, and she rolls her eyes and shakes her head in response. “You wouldn’t want to know.” He nods in understanding and the two share a moment of judgment before they go their separate ways. They are comfortable in their place of superiority, knowing that they are not capable of such a thing. But as one who has been to the other side, let me tell you – it's a slippery slope.

What's in a fridge?

Stuck in a state of bloggers’ block, my friend Peter suggested I write about the contents of my fridge and how they reflect my relationship status. I laughed, and realized that my fridge generally has two states: 1. a warehouse for outdated, mouldy, unrecognizable and possibly toxic food, and 2. empty (in both cases, cold). Nope. No parallels there.

And then it hit me. I approach my fridge much like I approach dating. I love the idea of a full fridge, stocked only with foods that are delicious and mostly good for me. I don’t, however, love the idea (or the reality) of grocery shopping or fridge maintenance. In my apathy, my fridge (and my diet) deteriorate.

Similarly, I want to find true and lasting love – the human equivalent of the fully stocked fridge. But I am less enthusiastic about the work required to get there. This likely explains why I have spent far more of my life single than in coupledom. I have little time or patience for those I feel aren’t “the one.” It feels like stocking my fridge with groceries I don’t even like and know are destined for the garbage (liver falls into this category).

There have been a few fleeting times (in spite of my lack of effort) I thought I’d found “the one” (often before even the first date and sometimes before the first ‘hello’ – I have a good imagination). In my mind, I created the perfect match (like spotting a glorious cut of steak in the grocery flyer and imagining how it’s going to taste before even going to the store). So far, reality has fallen short.

First of all, there’s resistance to following my grocery list of qualities and characteristics (and of course the requisite devotion to me). I am often left wondering:

“Did you even READ the script I wrote for you? Your line is: ‘My God. How have I lived up until now without you? You are the sun and the moon and the stars all rolled up into one passionate, fiery, shining light of my life.’”

In spite of my disappointment at the rampant liberties taken with this script on several occasions, I’ve realized that – like beer and yogurt – some people just weren’t meant to go together, and that’s ok.

The bottom line is, I’m not giving up on love (I am however, letting the script go). Hell, I may even give the fridge another chance. Because if love’s like the fridge (and everything else in life), it would seem you get out of it what you put into it.

The Haphazard Homemaker

No one has ever accused me of being a natural homemaker. If there are people who are biologically predisposed to enjoy domestic chores (I hear they exist), I share nothing of their DNA. I’m not a slob, exactly. But I’m not not a slob, either.

It’s all relative, really. I’ve been to friends’ houses (you know the type; maybe you are the type) who immediately say, “Don’t mind the mess,” as I strain to see even a paper out of place. Witnessing my struggle, they explain. “I had to rush out the door this morning and just left my cereal bowl in the sink.” And you let visitors in here? I’ve got five cereal bowls in my sink and I haven’t eaten cereal in a week (and it’s not like the cereal bowls are alone in there).

At my house, chaos and mess are the norm. I have two vacuums, and until recently, neither of them worked (the only reason I now have one working vacuum is that a kind-hearted and handy friend discovered I’d put it together wrong and fixed it). The broom is often in plain sight and yet I rarely feel inclined to sweep. I’ve come to think of dust bunnies as good company for the dog.

My fridge is another adventure altogether, an experiment for only the boldest scientist or psychoanalyst. I am grateful for best before dates that give me permission to turf without hesitation. More often than not, I leave the “I wonder if these are still good” items in there until they are clearly toxic and deserving of garbage status. I’m trying to do better, but am clearly a work in progress.

It’s not that I don’t value tidiness. I have great admiration for those who are relentlessly neat and organized. In fact, on the rare occasions that my house is in good order (most often when I’m expecting company), I feel a wonderful sense of accomplishment and ease. But in the busy-ness of life, I seem unable to sustain this state for long, quickly returning to the land of “where did I put the…?” Perhaps, if I’m honest, I’ll admit there’s a bit of comfort in the familiarity of a path well worn.

In my more pitiful states, I’ve actually considered charging admission to my home. Not because I’m proud of the mess, but because I know it would make others feel better about themselves, and therefore could be a lucrative venture. (“Look – her dishes are piled right up to the faucet. I’ve never been that bad.” Or “Good luck trying to open the door of her freezer without being hit by a bag of frozen fruit or a pork chop. She’s crossed the line from messy to hazardous.”) Really, what’s five bucks for a feeling of superiority?

I recently had a friend stay with me from out of town. As I mentioned, I normally have a certain standard of tidiness for guests, but it had been an especially hectic week and I decided a real friend wouldn’t judge. And she didn’t. She did, however, offer to come back another weekend and help me de-clutter. While some might decline the offer, too proud to drag a friend into the filth of their dirty little secrets, not me. I now have an organized home office and a plan to tackle my kitchen and bedroom.

For now, though, the dishes sit stacked in my kitchen sink and the floor begs to be washed. The clean laundry sits piled on top of the dryer (folded, at least. Well, most of it). The dirty laundry has overflowed the hamper and is beginning to overtake my bedroom floor, providing a comfortable napping place for the dog. If I were to go into the living room right now, I’m pretty sure I’d find a stray pine needle or three left over from Christmas, making a home behind the TV stand (Just checked. Confirmed. And yes, it’s June.)

I do aspire to be more organized, tidier, more diligent about cleaning, and I will continue to work at it. But if my tendency to leave the cleaning for another day in favour of spending time with friends, watching a good movie, going outside to enjoy the sun - or hell - just lazing on the sofa, is seen by some as a weakness, I view it as a strength. Because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that the mess will still be there tomorrow.

The Hair Reality

I have spent much of my life attempting to bend my hair to my will. As someone with what I call “naturally squiggly hair,” my locks don’t fit neatly within the category of straight and sleek, nor do they possess the bounce and form of ringlets. They are caught in the messy middle ground, defying description or a neat and tidy category.

When I was a teenager, my grandfather (who was never known for his subtlety), asked, “Is that a deliberate hairdo?” I don’t remember my response, and frankly, my grandfather had little room to judge (he was bald). But for whatever reason, whether vanity or humour (or maybe both), that experience has stuck with me.

In the years since, I’ve had brief moments of hair triumph with a flat iron or a particularly curl-inducing cut and style. And in those moments, I lived out my hair fantasy, living clearly on one side of the curly or straight line. Life is in some ways easier there in a place where I fit a clear definition. Yet reality, like my hair, falls somewhere in the middle – in the messy place that defies description or neat and tidy categories. So now I’m trying out a radical approach – I’m going with what I’ve got. I’m going with what’s real, and that’s squiggly. I’m drawing a squiggly line in the sand. This is me.