Musings by Margaret

The accidental hug

2012-01-31T14:17:00.001-08:00

Today I accidentally hugged a stranger. It could have happened to anyone. I was entering the front doors of the Victoria General Hospital where I work, and an older gentleman held open the first of two doors for me. "Thank you," I smiled, and held the second door open for him, saying, "I'll return the favour." He then stretched out his arm wide and smiled. "Awww, that's so sweet!" I thought, "He wants a hug." So I stretched out my arms in return and moved in. He turned sideways at the last minute and patted me on the back, saying, "Thank you, dear." It was then that I realized he was not stretching out his arm to hug me; rather to gesture that I should go ahead. It could have happened to anyone.

I was once afraid of hugs. Well, not afraid, exactly. I just felt awkward in situations that involved hugging or the potential for hugging. I don't come from a huggy family, so it always felt a bit strained and a little stiff to me. Sure, I'd lean in for the obligatory hug, but I'd make it quick - get in and get out and no one gets hurt. Knowing my own hugging issues, I used to enjoy watching other people hugging at airports. There were the true huggers - the ones who embraced others with every ounce of their being - and the reluctant huggers, who only ever hugged at airports and even then it was a quick, distant hug with a half-hearted back pat thrown in for good measure.

I always envied the true huggers and aspired to one day be among their ranks. At some point in my adult life, and I don't recall when, I decided to be a hugger. A real one. A hug-for-all-you're-worth person. An "If I love you and maybe even if I just like you, there's a chance I'm going to hug you" kind of person. As it turns out, I like hugs. No, I love hugs.

So today, I expanded my hugging repertoire to include a perfect stranger. I'm not sure what he thought of the whole thing - he seemed a bit flustered. But me? It made my day. I might hug strangers more often.

Look at me!

2012-01-12T14:36:00.000-08:00

When kids learn a new skill, like hopping on one foot or skipping for the first time, they shout, “Look at me! Look at me!” (and they’ll keep shouting at you until you do). I love that.

I remember as a kid learning to count to 100, and coming to the realization that if I could count to 100, I could count to 200, 300, 400 – as far as the hundreds could go – and who knows where from there (a million seemed an aspirational goal). I counted aloud to my parents so they could witness my brilliance (I’m confident this was not at all irritating for them).

Somewhere on the road to adulthood, most of us lose the “look at me” factor (sometimes it’s replaced with “please God, don’t look at me, whatever you do”). Maybe it’s because we’re taught bragging is unattractive (and anyone who’s ever been in the same space with someone who drones on about their accomplishments knows there’s more than a grain of truth in that). Maybe it’s because we realize that in many cases, other people can do the same things we can, like hop on one foot, skip, or count to 100 and beyond – sometimes even better or faster or more gracefully than we can. Somehow, we get the message, “you’re not so special” and we act as if it’s true.

As children, it’s irrelevant whether everyone else in the world or no one can hop on one foot – we couldn’t do it before and now we can. It’s cause for celebration. It’s “look at me” worthy. There’s something about sharing our success that makes it that much more exciting and rewarding.

Every one of us accomplishes things every day – big and little (Today I had three productive meetings, I learned how to position the little man on google maps to get the street view AND although I was tempted to stop on the way home and get takeout, I opted to go home and make dinner, making a healthier choice for me and my wallet). Look at me!

Ironically, I think what many of us fear about so-called failure is that people will look at us and judge. They might just do that (although that’s probably more about their own fear of failure than any innate failing in you or me). Or maybe, they’ll see someone who is willing to jump into uncertainty and try something new, knowing that before you can master the proverbial hopping on one foot, there’s a period of flailing and arm waving (maybe even falling) as you find your balance. Then one day, you just do it, and it seems odd to imagine a day you didn’t know how. When this happens, remember: There's a whole lot of joy in: "Look at me!"

Reclaiming the title

2012-01-11T16:27:00.000-08:00

It’s been six months since I last blogged. Surely I sit on the precipice of being a non-blogger. Perhaps I’ve already tipped over the edge. But if the latter is true, I am still hanging on by my fingertips, madly trying to swing my legs back up to retain the title.

And ultimately, it’s my title to reclaim – by blogging. I struggle with the discipline of a blog (perhaps it’s more accurate to say I struggle with the discipline of life). I see others’ blogs and note that they’re pretty religious about it – or at least committed to breathing life into it regularly (I am in the midst of doing CPR compressions to my blog as I type). Their followers check back frequently to read the latest happenings and insights, confident that there will be some.

My challenge (I’m throwing down the proverbial gauntlet at my feet) is to just do it. Some people are exceptionally skilled at setting a goal and acting on it – no procrastination, no excuses – they just move forward. Those people annoy me. And yet, I admire their drive, their stick-to-it-iveness.

For many of us, goals are a matter of five steps forward, four steps back (on a good day). In January, the smell of resolutions wafts in the winter air (and depending on which way the wind is blowing, the scent can be sweet or rank). We’ve got high hopes – of eating nothing but organic vegetables and brown rice, of never losing control of our emotions, of shedding three sizes or writing an award-winning book. Maybe we’ll do those things, maybe we won’t, but the question is: Are we setting ourselves up for success? My friend Janet Murphy (www.ordinarymom.ca) has inspired me by setting mini-resolutions for herself – small, achievable changes that will serve her and her family.

When I think about my own mini-resolutions, I know that one of them is to write – not a prescribed amount or according to a rigid schedule and not because I “should,” but because in my heart, I am a writer. Blogging is one outlet for my writing – and one I enjoy. Taking the time to write - whether through my blog or another vehicle - is a gift to myself, and you can never have too many of those.

To you, my readers, I can’t make any promises on the frequency of my posts, but I can say this: I’ve climbed my way back from the edge, and I like the view from here.

The Double Door Ssss Phenomenon

2011-07-13T16:37:00.000-07:00

Over the years, I've observed a phenomenon I just today dubbed the "Double Door Ssss Phenomenon." Allow me to explain.

Going through a set of double doors, a person holds open the first door for the person coming behind. If the recipient of the open door is polite, they're almost sure to respond with "thank you" or "thanks."

Next, quite predictably, the helpful person in front holds the second door open. The follower isn't quite sure what to say. He just said "thank you" five seconds ago, and saying it again just seems like politeness overkill. However, to abstain from saying thank you could be interpreted as rudeness. What to do? More often than not (pay attention - you'll see it's true), the recipient of door opening #2 will say, in a voice just above a whisper, "Thanks." In fact, the "thank" is almost inaudible, and all that remains is a "ssss" sound.

In fact, "ssss" is the universal sound of thanks for the opening of the second of double doors. At malls, hospitals, office buildings - indeed wherever there are double doors and people holding them open - you'll hear the "ssss" of gratitude. Watch and sssseee.

You're welcome.

O Canada

2011-07-01T07:42:00.001-07:00

I have noticed that when groups of Canadians (including me) join in the singing of our national anthem, we often do it tentatively, softly, as if singing too loudly would somehow put us in the company of our patriotic (dare I say brash?) neighbours to the south. When in a crowd of people singing our anthem, I find myself judging the volume of those around me, then choosing a decibel level right below that. If the people around me choose not to sing, I feel downright uncomfortable, singing barely above a whisper. I don't think I'm alone. Save for events where a professional singer gives the anthem its due, I've rarely heard someone belt out the Canadian national anthem. Do we feel it too brazen, too bold, too...un-Canadian?

As a nation, we take great pride in our modesty (although that seems an oxymoron), our politeness (although, let's not kids ourselves, Canada breeds rude people too) and our quiet strength. We are the country most others like (although our standing in environmental matters may detract from our popularity somewhat). We are, for the most part, admired.

And what's not to like? We are a free country. As much as we gripe about our politicians (and sometimes for good reason), we have the great privilege of being able to choose them. We are free to express our opinions, read what we want, learn new things, pursue our passions. We are wealthy in our natural surroundings, blessed by oceans, lakes, mountains, trees of myriad shapes and sizes, and prairies. And while we may sometimes curse our weather (a Canadian pastime), we enjoy the diversity of four seasons (be they unequal in length) and our exposure to unpleasant weather makes us truly appreciate the joy of a sunny, clear day. Our provinces and territories each have their own unique culture, climate and points of pride; I hope one day to have visited them all, and am grateful that dream is achievable.

I wonder, then, why I hesitate to sing O Canada from the very depths of my belly and soul - the same place that genuine laughter and sorrow come from. This morning, CBC Radio played a recording of children in grades primary to three singing O Canada. Their pitch was off, their timing wasn't perfect and the lyrics were sometimes garbled, but this much was clear - they were proud to be Canadian. They were singing from their hearts. As a proud Canadian, the next time I find myself singing the national anthem, I'll take my cue from them.

Bring back the lambies on jammies

2011-04-11T15:29:00.000-07:00

I have noticed a disturbing trend of late in infants' and children's clothing: the skull-and-crossbone pattern. The first time I saw children's flannel pyjamas with a skull-and-crossbone design, I thought it distinctly odd, but chocked it up to a one-time occurrence - perhaps some adult had leftover skull-and-crossbone flannel (it happens, I'm sure) and decided to make a matching child's pair (not to be judgmental, but this is a parent-and-child duo I would not want to meet in a dark alley).

However, when I went shopping for a sleeper for my cousin's new baby, I realized that the skull-and-crossbone theme had infiltrated children's attire. There on the rack was a skull-and-crossbone sleeper - available in sizes newborn to 24 months. Shortly thereafter I saw a toddler wearing a toque with a skull and crossbone on the front.

Do we feel our babies have been coddled too long with duckies and lambies? Let's not wait until they're school age to show them the dark side of life - let's break it to them just after they've taken their first breath - or at the very latest before their first tooth has broken through. And really, why stop at the skull and crossbones? Those skeletal hands that appear on corrosive cleaning supplies are sure to be a hit on little mitts and booties. And how about putting a little flammable sign onto their sweaters?

In addition to questioning the dark rationale behind the choice of pattern, I have to wonder about the confusion it will cause. We teach our children not to touch anything with a skull and crossbones on it - it means DANGER. Then we put their skull-and-crossbone pjs on them and send them to bed with wishes of sweet dreams.

I know that times change, as do clothing styles. But there are just some things you shouldn't mess with, and babies are one of them. Bring back the duckies and lambies, I say. There's plenty of time to mess up our kids in adolescence.

For the love of a dog

2011-03-29T14:57:00.000-07:00

On October 22, 2004, I drove out to Musquodoboit Harbour (Greyhound Pets of Atlantic Canada) with a friend to meet and pick up my new dog, Ruby. I had wanted a dog since childhood - it was a big day. After picking up the necessary supplies for greyhound ownership, Ruby and I got into the back seat while my friend Louise drove us home. Within a minute, Ruby lay down, putting her head in my lap. It was love.

We spent the first few days establishing the rules. You sleep in the crate. OK, sleep on the floor by my bed if you want. Well, if it means that much to you to sleep on the bed, go ahead. And you might as well get up on the sofa while you’re at it.

I introduced her to my parents, long-established non-dog lovers. “Grandma and Papa’s” hearts were quickly won over, their home becoming her favourite spot to visit (and one of the few prompts that would entice her off the comfort of her sofa and into the car.) And what wasn’t to like? They gave her treats and bones (safe ones), leftover veggie scraps, walks and loads of attention. Her only expression of discontent was when my dad would watch TV in the den. She’d butt at his arm with her head, saying, “Come out and pay attention to me.” I remember stopping at my parents to pick her up one evening after being out and seeing them sitting in the living room with an old black-and-white TV set propped on the end table. “She didn’t like us watching TV in the den,” they said. And that was that.

Saturday morning walks with our friend Judith (and more recently her dog Ellie, who had more energy than Ruby appreciated) were the routine. While Judith and I had coffee at Steve-o-Reno’s, Ruby would wait in the car with her head out the window, watching for the first sign of my return. Evening and weekend walks at Shubie Park and around the neighbourhood with my sister Nancy and her dog Rin Tin (who learned quickly that Ruby required a gentle touch and wasn’t much for play) were a highlight for all of us. As Nancy and I chatted after our walks, Rin Tin would tentatively approach Ruby and lick her ear, backing away just as quickly. They established a friendship of sorts, even stretching out on the same blanket on Christmas morning as the rest of us opened our gifts.

Every day when I came home from work, Ruby would greet me at the door. She’d then grab one of her two favourite stuffed animals, which were always nearby, and pounce on them once or twice (this was the extent of her daily play) before we headed out for a walk.

Mostly, Ruby slept. As my friend Catherine jokes about dogs, “They sleep all day to rest up for the really big sleep at night.” Ruby enjoyed few things more than stretching out – on the sofa, on the deck, on my parents’ carpeted floor or on her favourite blankets. Sometimes, I followed her lead. There’s something very therapeutic about a good nap.

On one of the occasions that we had overnight company, her sofa was occupied for much of the weekend, much to her dismay. Seeing no other option, she climbed into a small armchair. As dogs do, she circled before sitting down - her rear perched awkwardly on one arm of the chair and her front end on the other arm. We humans laughed until our stomachs hurt at the sight of her gangly figure positioned so uncomfortably, while she tried to look perfectly at ease. She protested our mocking by getting up and leaving the room. And when our company left, and she reclaimed her space on the sofa, I could swear she smiled.

Not everyone appreciated her beauty (see Skinny Dog). A few of the neighbourhood kids insisted she was a deer (and to be fair, she did bear a striking resemblance). To me, she was a stunning beauty. Her gentle, steady and loving presence was a gift.

On March 10, 2011, Ruby died. I underestimated how much grief I’d feel at losing her. While it’s getting easier, I still miss her, and know she’ll always hold a very special place in my heart. Yet, in spite of the sadness, I wouldn't trade the experience of having had her in my life.

I’m not sure where dog spirits go when they die, but I imagine her stretched out somewhere on a blanket in the sun, comfortable and relaxed, needing nothing, feeling loved.

Who said, "Let it snow"?

2011-02-14T16:17:00.000-08:00

With each snowstorm, my spirit gets weaker and my driveway smaller. I envision the day in the not-so-distant future where my driveway will be precisely the length of my car and the width of my car plus me. Within a storm or two after that, I anticipate being trapped in my house, my entire driveway being consumed by my car and hardened snowdrifts. I will rely on the kindness of strangers to buy me groceries, hurling food to me from the street – two feet from what was the curb pre-snow. This exercise will not serve the bananas well. As my arms fill up with food (all going well), I will wave sadly (with my head, I guess, since my arms are full) and shout, “Thank you! See you in the spring,” not having any assurances of when that will be.

From inside my house, I will hear the hum of nearby snowblowers and sense the smugness of their owners, with their pristine, clean-to-the pavement driveways. I will hear the roar of the plow, whose driver has chosen this year to exercise exceptional diligence in plowing my street (kudos to him/her on his/her work ethic, but I preferred the quick sweep of yesteryear; that is, last year).

As is so often the case in February, I remember spring and summer fondly, and trust they will come again in time. Until then, I walk carefully and carry a big shovel.

The ignorance of youth

2011-02-07T15:27:00.000-08:00

"Do you have an SPC card?" asks the boy (circa 1994) behind the counter at Blockbuster as I hand him my rental.

"I don't know. What's an SPC card?" I ask.

"A Student Price Card," he explains. Ahhhh...student price cards. I'd forgotten they existed, not having used one for at least 17 years.

"Oh. No, I don't," I say with a smile, and consider kissing him for asking (but decide against it, for legal and moral reasons).

Somehow, in that moment, I feel both younger and older at the same time.

What's that smell?

2011-01-31T15:51:00.001-08:00

I was listening to the radio last week and a reporter used the phrase: "the unmistakable smell of seal." I don't remember the last time I smelled seal and I don't feel at all confident I'd recognize its odour over other sea creatures. Many scents are unmistakeable to me - spring rain, apple pie, even garbage. But seal? Not so much stored in my olfactory memory.

Miscellaneous

2011-01-31T15:17:00.000-08:00

I have been purging my house of clutter, which unfortunately means you'll be subjected to my discoveries as I purge. Last week I dared to pull the big box filled with miscellany from my coat closet, where I'd put it in exhaustion or desperation more than six years ago after moving into my house. I found therein a truly random collection of items that could have no other home than a box labelled "miscellaneous." Here are just a few examples:

- A paper with the combination to my bike lock. That would be the lock for the bike I had in junior high. The combination is 94263. If you can find it, you can have it.

- A small stick that some vague sense tells me was once of great sentimental value. It is now simply a stick, mildly irritating to me since I clearly once judged it worthy of saving but cannot recall its former significance. I shall relegate it to the outdoors, where sticks belong.

- A rock with the words "Moon Teeth" printed on one side (in my writing) and a picture of a moon with a tooth on the other side. It is dated 1994. Puzzling. I suppose I shall throw it outside with the aforementioned stick, although if anthropologists find it 100 years from now, I'm betting it'll stump them even more than it stumps me. Perhaps all the more reason to do it.

- Two 35 mm films, unused - If only I'd found you a decade or two ago. Alas too much time has passed, and we must say farewell.

- A single velcro hair roller, separated from the rest, sad and alone, consoled only by the fact that it sits along two other rejected cylinders (see "two 35 mm films, unused").

Along with the above random items, I also discovered a bracelet and several pairs of earrings I'd long since given up on, as well as my junior high and high school yearbooks. And so it is that I take the following lesson: A miscellaneous box is where objects - junk and treasures alike - go to die. Don't let this happen to you.

Smitten with mittens

2011-01-24T15:25:00.000-08:00

I lost two mittens last week - not a pair of mittens - two single mittens that had each been part of another pair. This left me with one black mitten and one red, thereby making it difficult to pass them off as a pair (to complicate matters the red one is actually a glove). Instead I spent the week with my hands tucked in my sleeves while two perfectly functional but ill-matched mittens sat handless at home.

The loss of a single mitten, as many of you know, is deeply distressing, almost moreso than losing the pair. At least when you lose a pair, you have a faint hope of being reunited with them again, or you can imagine that some other pair of hands has found their comfort in sub-zero temperatures. With one mitten awol, you're simply left wondering whether to give up hope and toss the other one or hold out for a miracle.

And if you've ever tried to buy mittens post-Christmas, you know that it's an almost impossible task. You're more likely to find shorts and a t-shirt than mittens, although there's a solid three months of winter ahead (she says optimistically).

I wasn't prepared to admit defeat yet and set out on the challenging quest to find new mittens, so I held out, hoping I'd glance across a crowded room and see one of my mislaid mittens again. Then it happened. I woke up one morning late last week with the realization that the last time I'd had the mittens as a set, I'd put them in my workout bag after arriving at work. I leapt out of bed and peered into the bag, almost afraid to hope. Much to my delight, there was the poofy black mitten, all warm and inviting and, I'm sure, if mittens could talk, just as happy to see me as I was to see it.

My red mitten remains alone, envious of the black mitten's good fortune in being reunited with its mate. I remain hopeful that it too will find its happy ending as a match on my cold hands. Having experienced this ordeal, I feel quite sure I will never hear the story of the three little kittens who've lost their mittens quite the same way again (although it does beg the question: Why are little kittens wearing mittens when they have their own built in?) And as I count my blessings on this - one of the coldest days of the year - you can be assured that matching mittens are at the top of the list.

Hiatus

2011-01-17T16:31:00.000-08:00

I'm back to blogging after a six-week hiatus. The Oxford English dictionary defines "hiatus" as "a pause or break in continuity in a sequence or activity." It's very matter-of-fact, non-judgmental. Not like "lazy period" or "unexplained absence," which take on a decidedly accusatory tone.

"Hiatus" allows you to imagine I was doing something vastly important with my time, like putting an end to world hunger, sharpening my intellect or at the very least visiting exotic locales. Alas, I was doing none of the aforementioned, and like you (I imagine), I spent much of December in a sugar-induced stupor vacantly watching holiday specials. It's only now, two-and-a-half weeks into January, that I feel brave enough to venture out, metaphorically speaking, into a world where continuous eating and merriment have given way to a renewed commitment to discipline. I went to pilates class twice last week; the crowded room betrayed the scent of freshly made New Year's resolutions. I vow that I'll still be there in February, March and April. I'm sure others vow the same. We'll see if they (or I) stick it out or take a "hiatus" for the spring, summer and fall.

While I often make a vow to be more organized come the New Year, I've taken a hiatus from that resolution (See? Just the word makes my heart feel lighter). A courier dropped off a package to my office last week and when he asked me to sign for receipt of the item, he said, "Don't even bother looking for a pen on that desk. You'll never find one." I could have told him I was on hiatus from organizing (can you be on hiatus from something you don't generally do anyway?) and allowed him to imagine the many other important things I was doing instead, but I just laughed jovially, figuring my cheerfulness would compensate for my slovenliness.

For the most part, though, the season of hiatuses is over (except for some TV series, which seem to be on hiatus more than not). It's back to business, back to goal-setting and productivity, back to blogging. Sweet adieu, hiatus. 'Til we meet again...

I'll just be my "elf"

2010-12-01T15:41:00.000-08:00

I have been asked to be an elf at the Capital Health Directors' Holiday Party tomorrow night. Correction. I've been asked to be THE elf at the holiday party. My role? Provide some comic relief, lead the carol sing (which could be comic relief in itself) and, as all elves are wont to do, be Santa'a faithful sidekick.

I'm not sure how I feel about being voted good elf material. I can almost imagine the conversation that led to my nomination: "You know who I think of when I think of an elf? Margaret Angus, that's who!" I'm waiting for the call that says, "We were all talking about how we need a hot, svelte model and your name came up." While I await the call, I shall dutifully fulfill my elfish role (many a star began her journey as an elf, I'm sure).

To prepare, I should put myself in an elf's pointy shoes. What is it REALLY like to be an elf? What untold pressure lies beneath that funny hat?

It could get quite tedious doing the same thing day in and day out for centuries on end. And if you're an elf with ambition (which I imagine myself to be), where do you go from there? It's not like you can aspire to the top job. The big guy's got that one in the bag, so to speak. He's not ever going to retire or die, which frankly limits an elf's upward mobility. And although I'm sure it's rewarding to help make children's dreams come true, it's Santa that gets the milk, the cookies and the glory. Like Mrs. Claus, the best we elves can hope for is a supporting role and an occasional acknowledgement.

But I don't want to be a bitter elf. That would be too easy. I shall rise above the challenges of a dead-end career and an outfit that's the same as every other elf in the workshop. I shall spread joy and cheer and laughter. I shall start by sharing my top 10 list of phrases you'll never hear during the Christmas season:

10. "Let's put up the tree together - it'll be a bonding experience."
9. "I know exactly which bulb is to blame for that string of lights not working."
8. "I've given up sweets for the month of December."
7. "No, I really meant it when I said you didn't need to get me a present."
6. "That tree is perfectly straight - and on the first try!"
5. "I only want one helping."
4. "I'm going to start my New Year's resolutions early."
3. "Can I be the one who vacuums up the tree needles after Christmas?"
2. "I could listen to the Chipmunks Christmas album all year round!"
1. "I've lost weight!"

And if those don't result in the desired cheer, I shall have to resort to the stand-by elf jokes, courtesy of the Internet:

Why did Santa's helper see the doctor? Because he had a low elf esteem.

What's the first thing elves learn in school? The elf-abet.

Who sings Blue Christmas and makes toy guitars? Elfis.

If the above don't draw laughs, they should at least result in groans, which I think counts as audience participation.

And so, my friends, wish your favourite elf good luck (I am your favourite, right?) And the next time you're feeling overwhelmed by the season, just remember. It could be worse. You could be an elf.

Default hair

2010-11-24T18:19:00.000-08:00

You know when you reach that stage where your hair is in need of a cut and style and just sort of hangs there all at a loss as to where to go or what to do? I call that my default hair, and I'm experiencing it now. In the absence of a good style, my hair just defaults to a state somewhere between apathy and desperation. Many a photograph has captured my default hair over the years. In fact, you could look at photos of me at various points in junior high, high school, university and adulthood and think I'd never changed my hairstyle. Sure, the length varied somewhat, but in that space between cuts and styles, my hair assumed the same comfortable (though unattractive) default state that said, "I just can't be bothered." I was just thinking today that my hair is in dire need of a cut and style, having defaulted to blah. I went to see a friend I hadn't seen in a while and she said, "I love your hair." Seriously? It's in default mode. It's not good. Please, don't encourage it.

I remember several years ago when one of my nephews was about four I had just freshly gotten my hair cut and styled when he saw me. "Your hair looks nice," he said. "Awww..." I thought. How sweet of him to notice. "It usually doesn't," he continued matter-of-factly. Someday, if he hasn't already, he'll learn about default hair, and he'll understand. In the meantime, my wish for him - and for all of us - is that our hair be plentiful and our default days few.

LOL

2010-11-17T11:05:00.000-08:00

You won't ever get an e-mail from me that contains an "LOL," nor will I include that or any variation thereof (LMAO, ROFL) in my Facebook status updates.

Are people REALLY laughing out loud when they write "LOL" or is it simply the modern-day version of the age-old "ha ha," which often appeared in handwritten letters? If something you write causes me to laugh out loud, I will deem this worthy of writing a full sentence in response, such as: "That made me laugh out loud." To say "LOL" somehow cheapens the experience - makes it identical to so many thousand other LOLs in the run of a day - here an LOL, there an LOL, everywhere an LOL. To me, the LOL says, "I'm much too busy to respond in more than three letters. I may even be too busy to laugh. You'll never know for sure."

I ask you: The next time you use "LOL" check to see if you have in fact made a sound that could be registered in decibels. If so, use the LOL and/or its relative e-abbreviations liberally. If not, perhaps a colon/end bracket smile would be more appropriate :)

A recipe for grammar and spelling

2010-11-08T17:45:00.000-08:00

I recently found a great recipe online for easy peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. More rewarding than the recipe find, however, was the online conversation that appeared below it. The originator of the recipe had included the instructions, "Make fork indentations in cookies in criss cross fashon." Her spelling faux-pas launched readers into the following exchange. I take no credit for what you are about to read, and only hope that you appreciate the humour as much as I did.

you spelt fashion wrong!
dont matter | August 13, 2008 at 9:31 am - §
why does it matter how she spelt anything shes being kind enough to share a recipe with us.
I use proper grammar. | October 16, 2008 at 2:54 pm - §
You SPELLED spelled wrong.
ahah ! | October 28, 2008 at 10:01 am - §
why does it matter if you use proper grammer or spell things wrong?as long as you have the recipe and make the cookies. And they work there shouldn;t be a problem
lol | November 8, 2008 at 5:03 pm - §
this could develop into a funny conversation. In fact it already is.

Psssst....Wanna buy a box of Girl Guide cookies?

2010-11-01T16:49:00.001-07:00

I recently volunteered to sell chocolate mint Girl Guide cookies for my 10-year-old niece. Actually, the word "sell" gives me more credit than I'm due. I offered to put the word out that if people wanted cookies, I could be their source. No pressure. Completely hands off. I expected I might sell half a dozen boxes. Little did I realize that chocolate mint Girl Guide cookies are the crack of the cookie world.

No sooner had I put a supply on the table outside my office than they disappeared, $4 (or multiples thereof) slipped quietly onto my desk. Before long, the table was empty, and I was surrounded by desperate wanna-be cookie buyers, waving bills or toonies in my face.

"Where are the Girl Guide cookies?" they cried, while I called my source for a fresh supply.

"Don't pressure me into buying any more," said one friend after she had bought one box.

"OK," I said.

"Alright I'll take another box," she said, defeated. "Just stop pressuring me."

As quickly as I could replenish them, the boxes disappeared, my original buyers bringing friends to their newfound source. "I hear you're selling Girl Guide cookies," the newbies would say, their eyes scanning the room for the tell-tale green box, seeing none.

"I've got more," I'd assure them. "Just wait 'til tomorrow." They'd pay in advance, not wanting to take their chances.

Buoyed by my success at the office, I put a note on Facebook. Within minutes, I had seven orders. I would require yet another replenishment.

I called my sister, "I need more cookies," I said, to her delight.

"I'll drop them off at mom's and you can pick them up," she promised.

I made my way to the pick-up point to pick up the agreed-upon two cases. When I entered, I sensed something was wrong. I saw two lonely boxes of Girl Guide cookies atop my mother's dining room table.

"Where are the rest of the cookies?" I asked, my chest tightening.

"That's it," replied my mother. "Two boxes."

I gulped. "No, not two boxes. I need two cases! You don't understand. People have already ordered. They're counting on me to come through!"

I took a few deep breaths while my mother called my sister and explained my dilemma. My sister would call the Girl Guide leader and see if she could negotiate at least another case to satisfy my existing customers. It was a tense few hours as I waited for the call. Relief. They could come through.

I took the bus to work the next day, and carried the case of pre-ordered cookies with me. A stranger lit up when she saw me.

"Are those Girl Guide cookies?" she said much like a child might ask, "Is that Santa Claus?"

"Well they are...." I said, hesitating, but unfortunately they're all spoken for. "I'd sell you a box if I could..."

"I understand," she said, the light draining out of her eyes.

I have since received a few more boxes, and have seriously considered taking the bus again on the chance that I can find her (and perhaps other prospective buyers).

With only a few days and six boxes of cookies left, I'm not satisfied to return any unsold. I'm not saying you should buy them. That would be entirely up to you. I'm just saying: Mmmmm....chocolate mint. $4 a box. You know where to find me.

Life as video game

2010-10-25T17:27:00.001-07:00

I don't like video games. Never have, really. It could have something to do with the fact that I have no aptitude for them, so any exposure, however brief, leaves me feeling slightly incompetent or worse. Jumping on moving mushrooms (is that what they are?) or dropkicking someone by simultaneously pressing A and B simply isn't my forte. I don't even strive for mediocre. I simply breathe a sigh of relief when the screen pronounces, "Game over."

On rare occasions (and it's been years since I've played a video game), friends have taken over the controls to "get me to the next level." It's silly really, since it's not really me playing the game anymore, but there's something strangely comforting about having someone else deal with the stuff that's too tough to resolve yourself.

What if life were like a video game and we traded off the tough stuff to a friend who could clearly see where our strategy was lacking? "I'll get you through this relationship bump. I know exactly what to do. Then I'll give you back the controls. And you're better than I am at dealing with children. Can you navigate my kids' teen years and let me know how it goes? I'll take over again when they've graduated from University."

Alas, life is not so easily passed off as Super Mario (this is the extent of my video game knowledge, perhaps once again revealing my lack of savvy in the video arena). It's play your own game, make your own mistakes and see where it takes you. And sometimes, just when you least expect it, you take a leap...and land on a mushroom.

You can't make this stuff up...

2010-10-11T07:43:00.000-07:00

I am thankful for many things this Thanksgiving Day, not the least of which is commercialism, which provides endless entertainment and comedic material. I offer you three examples from my recent experience:

I was at a friend's house the other day and she offered me the choice of a cup of tea or another hot drink: "Inca" (just add hot water to brown powder, advises the jar). I read the label: "Instant coffee substitute." I try to imagine the conversation that led to this invention. "It's brilliant! A substitute substitute coffee! Our slogan could be: 'It's just two degrees away from the real thing!'"Perhaps the makers of Inca should consider making a substitute for coffee whitener too.

I was passing by Wendy's (ok, I was in the drive-thru) when I saw a sign boasting of their "hand-torn lettuce." Well, that's a relief. There's nothing less personal than lettuce that's been cut with a knife, or, God forbid, a machine! Why, hand-torn lettuce takes me back to my childhood, when mom tore lettuce with her bare hands for our sandwiches. If Wendy's is tearing my lettuce by hand, they must really care about me - just like my mom. Wait a minute... mom always washed her hands before making anything to eat. This lettuce-tearer is a stranger, and I have no idea of his or her hygiene practices. Suddenly I'm not so hungry, and wish more than anything for lettuce neatly chopped with the clean, albeit impersonal, blade of a knife.

I was browsing in the Dollar Store and saw a battery-operated rotating nail file for dogs. I was intrigued and a little afraid at the same time. I picked it up to look more closely, when I saw a little red square with white text inside in the upper right hand corner of the box. I'd seen this symbol before - the one that says, "As seen on TV." Only this one was slightly different. It read, "Similar to TV." It might as well have added in fine print, "You're paying a dollar. What do you expect?"

Buckle up

2010-10-04T16:29:00.000-07:00

I consistently pile items on the passenger seat of my car. On those occasions when I have a passenger, I try to beat him or her to the car and transfer the pile to the backseat or the trunk. While mildly inconvenient, it is not enough for me to change my ways.

What is problematic is that my car has a safety feature that causes it to beep incessantly when it believes someone in the car does not have a seatbelt on. I've come to understand that when I pile my work and other items on the passenger seat, it believes I have placed a small child on the seat with no restraint. It panics (as I would too if I thought someone were travelling with a small child with no seatbelt): "BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!" it chirps frantically.

At first I ignore it, but it continues. "BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!." As much as I try to tune it out, it's simply not possible. "BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!" In a predictable fit of frustration, I throw whatever is on the passenger seat to the floor. The beeping stops.

Every time, this causes me to ponder the inner workings of the car brain: "BEEP! BEEP! She's got a child on the seat! BEEP! It's not safe! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Someone's going to get hurt! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!" "Everybody relax. It's ok. She's thrown the child on the floor."

Trespassers

2010-09-27T16:03:00.000-07:00

Think back to your childhood. Do you remember the neighbour whose property you wouldn't dare set foot on for fear you'd be yelled at or threatened within an inch of your life? I am not that neighbour.

Kids traipse across my lawn daily on their way to school. I know this not because I see them (I've usually gone to work by the time they walk through) but because they are the bane of my neighbours' existence.

"Those kids were walking through your yard again," they'd say, more exasperated than I.

"I told them you have a video camera," said one.

"We should set up a blockade," said another (he may not have said "blockade" but that was the spirit of his suggestion).

Yet another blamed the fact that a nearby church had been vandalized on the fact that I hadn't cracked down on the children cutting through my yard.

Recognizing the turmoil my lack of action was causing for my neighbours, I decided to talk to the offenders. I decided to appeal to their logic (a sound approach when dealing with children). I would point out to them that walking through my yard was not in fact a short-cut; it was no more efficient, shorter or faster than walking on the street (this is a fact). Yes, I was certain that once I pointed this out, they would change their ways, having learned an important lesson - in life and in math.

As I was heading out the door to work one day, a bit later than usual, two unsuspecting seven-year-olds walked the familiar path through my backyard and to my driveway. They were struck with fear upon seeing me (well, at least surprise).

"Hi," I said, feeling no need to be confrontational. "I want you to walk around from now on. I don't want you to walk through my yard."

The little boy nodded. The little girl was not swayed so easily. "But it takes too long to walk around," she argued.

This was my chance. "Actually," I said, "It's the same distance. Cutting through my yard isn't any shorter." She looked doubtful.

"Yes it is."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"Really, it's not."

The little boy chimed in, looking at his friend, "Actually she's right. It's not any shorter."

"HA!" (OK, I didn't say this out loud but I was thinking it.)

"Oh," the little girl said, deflated. She looked at me. "Well, can you drive us to school then?"

"No she can't drive us to school!" her friend exclaimed. (I am relieved at his clearheadedness). "She has to go to work!" (Oh dear. Have they not heard of "stranger danger"?)

With that they were on their way. I haven't seen them since, at least not their faces. I thought I saw the backs of them running out of my driveway the other day, and I suspect they still cut through regularly. I can't be bothered to get too worked up about it. As for my neighbours, they've moved. Coincidence, I'm sure.

1900 hours

2010-09-21T17:43:00.000-07:00

I helped coordinate a film screening at work tonight, and my first stop was at the security desk to request that the room be unlocked and to sign out the audio visual equipment. The security guard handed me the sign-out sheet, on which I neatly printed my name, phone number and the time of sign-out (7:05 p.m.)

"Oh, you're one of those people," he said with disdain, crossing out "7:05" and printing "1905."

"Oh. I see. You use military time," I responded politely (although truth be told the use of the 24-hour clock irritates me greatly).

"It is NOT military time," he said, clearly annoyed. "People always call it military time. The 24-hour clock was around long before the military ever started using it! I don't know why people call it military time!"

"Well, the military use it," I responded, perhaps defensively.

"Well it's NOT military time," he said again.

"I don't use the 24-hour clock," I said, unwilling to let it go. "I don't like subtracting 12 to figure out what time it is."

He handed me the AV equipment without further comment, neither of us willing to give up our respective time alliances.

I'm not sure why I feel so strongly opposed to the 24-hour clock, but I do. It seems too formal for everyday life. I've yet to hear a friend ask me to meet them at 1600 hours, and if one did, I'd wonder if I should wear a disguise.

To me, the 24-hour clock is reserved for a world of formalities - a world where order is the ultimate goal and hierarchy reigns. It's just not me. I'm more of an "order and chaos in equal measure kind of gal" (give or take - sometimes chaos wins out). And while the 24-hour clock is suited to some settings (like the military, for example), it just doesn't cut it for the day-to-day me.

The next time I need to sign out AV equipment, I'll tow the line and write down the 24-hour time (although I can't guarantee I won't twitch while doing it). I won't even mention the military. But secretly, I'll be peeking at my watch to see what time it is in the real world.

Purge-a-tory

2010-09-06T17:03:00.000-07:00

I am purging my house of unnecessary clutter. Thus I spent part of today digging through piles of papers I had shoved in plastic stacking shelves at the back of a closet. It was a historical journey of sorts as I was reminded of what seems like a previous life. Here's what I found:

From 1998 - A stack of written evaluations from grade five students who were assessing me as a student teacher. I had asked them to tell me what they liked best about my teaching and what they felt I could improve. Here's my favourite (spelling mistakes intact):

"You aer a good techer. You spek loud so we can her you...You need to be a little striker (stricter). If we are doing math and i said I want an ice crem yoll get it. Your to suff (soft)."

(This is not true. I would not get a child ice cream if he/she asked for it in math class. First of all, it's impractical. There's no ice cream place nearby, and it could drip on the math, which would just be messy. But he did have a point. That softness was the beginning of the end of my teaching career...)

Also from 1998 - Apparently, at some point near graduation from the Bachelor of Education program at Mount Saint Vincent University, I and a few other students committed to create a newsletter on some semi-regular schedule and send out to our fellow graduates. I know this because today I found a stack of self-addressed stamped envelopes from my classmates so that I could send them their first issue. Oops - 12 years late and 20 cents postage short.

From 1999 - A binder from a career counsellor I visited as I attempted to figure out my career path. I didn't find the sessions very helpful, and I don't think I've looked at that binder since. As I went to toss it in the garbage, I looked at the cover. It listed the "job phone lines" for eight Halifax employers. While never having called any of those numbers, I've worked for two of the companies on the list - Maritime Life and Capital Health (listed as the QEII - pre-Capital Health). It's funny where life takes you.

From 2001 - A paper I wrote for a masters level education course. The title: "Online Education: Can the Internet Offer a Viable Educational Option?" Check out the opening line: "As the Internet becomes more a part of daily life, it is not surprising that it is also impacting the realm of adult education." Gee, d'ya think?

As I throw most of these things in the garbage or recycling (except the student comments - I'm keeping those), I'm left wondering what I own now that will 10 years from now bring me the same sense of nostalgia. I know what you're thinking - I could just get rid of things as I go, and save myself the purging later. It's true. And not nearly so interesting.

Reflections on Ice

2010-08-30T16:20:00.001-07:00

On my way out of the grocery store the other day, I passed the ice freezer (you know the one with the big letters I-C-E and the picture of icicles hanging off it). The decal on the freezer door said, "Are you sure one bag is enough?" It didn't occur to me to buy any ice (I wasn't doing any entertaining), but if I had been (as I've been known to do from time to time), this sign would have stopped me cold, so to speak. I never know how much ice to buy for an occasion. Buy too much (without a deep freeze to store it in) and you'll be left with a puddle reminding you you've wasted money. Buy too little and your guests will have to endure lukewarm drinks. It is wise to err on the side of too much. The ice sellers know this, and they have no shame about flaunting it.

In the 30+ degree heat today (without humidex) I met a colleague for coffee. On the hot walk over to the coffee shop, I imagined how my iced latte would taste - mmmm.....cool and refreshing. I put in my order, making sure I remembered to specify "decaf" and "skim" (I sometimes forget such important details). It was only as I was handed a steaming mug that I realized I'd forgotten one important word - "iced." And so, in the sweltering heat of almost midday, I sipped my piping hot beverage as I watched my co-worker enjoy an iced coffee.

As I sit at home this evening in the heat, I imagine how nice a cool, refreshing beverage would taste. If only I had some ice. I own ice cube trays, but rarely fill them. Instead they sit empty in my cupboard, taking up space, denied their worldly purpose. On nights like tonight, I am tempted to fill them, but rarely do, knowing the rewards will not come quickly enough to meet my immediate need for cold. I think not of tomorrow (although am seriously considering filling at least one tray).

Who knew that frozen water could hold such wonder, such appeal? In winter, I despise it as it sticks to my windshield and coats the roads and sidewalks. Yet in summer, I treasure it - the way it clinks in the glass, the cool, refreshing feel of it. You are a paradox, ice. Or I am. I shall reflect on that - perhaps over a glass of lukewarm water.

Legacy of Laziness

2010-08-23T17:44:00.000-07:00

Having forgotten to blog last Monday, I'm morally bound to resume today. The way I figure it, people can forgive one slip, but two puts you into "unreliable slacker" territory. And that's not a land I want to inhabit. So here goes, with some thoughts on our progressive laziness as humans (perhaps inspired by my overwhelming desire to go to bed instead of folding laundry, washing the floor or doing any one of the other myriad items on my to-do list):

It occurs to me that with each passing generation, we humans become increasingly lazy. Imagine waaaaaaaaaaaaay back in time before the broom was invented. There’s dirt on your floor (did they even have floors before brooms were invented? Not sure, but work with me). What do you do? You kneel down and you pick up the dirt, speck by tiny speck. It's tedious, bad for the back and generally inefficient. Then someone creates this brilliant technology called the "broom" where you just have to sweep the dirt across the floor and – like magic, you have a clean floor. Life is good.

Pretty soon, though, people start complaining about having to sweep the floor. “Ugh. I have to sweep the floor. I ate sweeping the floor. I can’t believe I have to sweep the floor!”

Eventually, someone invents the vacuum – ta da! Clean floor, very little effort. Life is good. But give it a generation and it’s “Ugh. I have to vacuum. I hate vacuuming. I can’t believe I have to vacuum.”

So now someone’s invented the robot vacuum, which essentially cleans the floor for you, maneuvering around your furniture and even returning itself to its docking station. All you have to do is push a button. Just you wait - I give it a generation as a novelty before we hear: “Ugh. I have to press the button. I hate pressing the button. I can’t believe I have to press the button!”

Height is a state of mind

2010-08-09T16:18:00.000-07:00

For all of my adult life, I have believed I was 5 feet, 6 and 1/2 inches tall. This week, I found out I've been living a lie.

I signed up for the Atlantic Path cancer research study, donating my body measurements and toenails to science. I'd forgotten to measure my height at home - besides, what was the need? Surely it hadn't changed in the past 15-ish years. I was asked to take off my shoes and socks and stand against the wall. "Breathe in and then let it out," I was instructed. I did as I was told, and remarkably, felt taller. I was convinced she was going to pronounce me 5 foot 7. "5 feet, 5-and-1/2 inches," she said without hesitation, and wrote the numbers down, immortalizing my reduced height forever.

I said nothing, but remained convinced it was a mistake. After all, my identity was that of a 5 foot, 6.5 inch person. With that one inch, I had gone from tall-ish to average. My BMI, having teetered on the edge of overweight at 5 feet, 6.5 inches (OK, so I may even have entered 5'7" in those online calculators) tipped decidedly in that unfavourable direction (and while I might claim it's all muscle, the printout Atlantic Path provided me with my body composition tells me otherwise). "Their measurements must be off," I said, and several Facebook friends confirmed they'd had the same experience. There was only one way to settle this. I asked my mom to measure me. Three times. On the third try, I hit 5 feet, 5-and-3/4 inches. I may have been stretching. Still, even 5 foot 6 remained beyond my grasp. How could I have been so wrong?

One can only lie to oneself about one's weight for so long before the snugness of our clothing calls our bluff. But our height - there's a delusion we can hold onto for a while (at least if we're only deluded by an inch or two). Alas, it would appear all delusions must come to an end. Thanks for setting me straight, Atlantic Path.

I have spent the past several days adjusting to my new height. The top shelf of the cupboard seems harder to reach. The ceiling seems higher. High-heeled shoes hold more appeal. On the bright side, I'm standing up straighter. I can't afford to get any shorter.

The night the light came on

2010-08-02T19:03:00.002-07:00

For the past few years, I've had a recurring dream that I go into a room in my house and flip a light switch but the light doesn't come on. I go to another room, and the same thing happens. I try to turn on a lamp, and again, nothing. And there I am in complete darkness, totally freaked out, wondering how ALL of the lights have stopped working at once and sure some evil force is behind it. Tonight, with the help of a friend, I uncovered the dream's meaning. We were standing in my dimly lit kitchen and looked up to see three of the four bulbs on my ceiling fixture burnt out (they've been giving out one by one over the past few years, as lightbulbs are wont to do). "That's it!" I shouted, the proverbial light coming on. "The dream is telling me to get new lightbulbs!"

Do you want butter with that?

2010-07-26T16:51:00.001-07:00

How many among us have been seduced by it, unable to resist its bold advances? We walk through the doors of the movie theatre as perfectly rational people and within seconds of catching a whiff of popcorn, we are overcome with desire. We would pay anything to have it - and do. The theatre pays only a few cents to make it, and yet we willingly fork over $6 for a SMALL bag of popcorn. It's not reasonable. It's not right. But it's reality.

To add insult to injury, the theatre has recently started charging $0.69 extra for butter. Who are we kidding? Is it even an option to have popcorn without butter? It's like a night sky without stars or a TV without colour. I shudder to think. Butter is no doubt the most expensive ingredient of the popcorn, and the theatre is trying to make up the cost (apparently the 6,000 per cent mark-up on the popcorn itself is not sufficient). Let me tell you this: I see through their sneaky, penny-pinching ways. I find it appalling and offensive. And I order the $0.69 butter.

I went to the theatre with friends the other night only to find out the movie we wanted to see was sold out. We were disappointed - partly because we were looking forward to the show, and partly because we'd been anticipating the popcorn. We spent a good 10 minutes debating the virtues of ordering the popcorn to go. Cooler heads prevailed and we managed to get out of there sans popcorn, but just barely. It was only when we were outside again, breathing in fresh air, that the need dissipated and our powers of independent decision-making returned.

So for now I am safe, happy to snack on other things, unmoved by the boxes of microwave popcorn in the grocery aisle. But I know the day will come again - all too soon - when I must once again face the temptation of popcorn (with butter) at the movie theatre. And maybe, just maybe, it's worth $6.69 to give in.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs

2010-07-19T17:13:00.000-07:00

Signs of mankind's absurdity are everywhere. Here are just a few:

While on a road trip to Boston this spring, we stopped en route at a gas station. I went into the washroom and a sign above the sink read: "Caution. Water is VERY hot." This would have been useful information, except that the sink had only one faucet, leaving the user no control over the temperature of the water. It might as well have said, "If you choose to wash your hands, you WILL burn yourself." Then you'd simply have to weigh out the risks of bad hygiene versus bodily injury. I took my chances and opted for good hygiene.

On the same road trip, we saw a road sign advising drivers: "Deer: Next Two Miles." Just two miles? Has anyone told the deer?

Same trip: I bought a treat at Starbucks. It came in a paper bag, which read: "flavors my senses, sweetens my disposition, stirs my imagination, nourishes my dreams." For real? Who wrote this? Did they really think I'd buy it? (the line, that is, not the treat. I'd already bought the treat). That's a whole lot to ask of one sweet treat. Unless my dream is to eat a Starbucks scone or muffin, it seems bound to end in disappointment. I suppose it's more poetic than: "Raises my blood sugar, expands my waist, fills out my thighs, depletes my self-esteem." And yet, I wonder how many people have left that Starbucks with their banana chocolate chip coffee cake, sure that after their last bite, their imaginations would be stirred, their dreams nourished (it really would make the $4 per slice easier to swallow). When their imaginations remained stagnant and their dreams out of reach, they'd fume angrily: "THE BAG LIED. DAMN YOU, STARBUCKS!!!" (demonstrating that the treat had also failed to sweeten their disposition). Be careful what you promise, Starbucks.

Excessive Hair

2010-07-12T16:33:00.000-07:00

I drove past a spa/hair salon today and the sign outside read, "Excessive hair will be sent to the Gulf Coast."

First of all, I think they mean "excess" hair, as in the stuff that lands on the floor after it is cut (although even that is not entirely clear).

"Excessive" hair, by comparison, lies in the eye of the beholder: "Her hair is just TOO much. It's so frizzy I can barely see around it. In fact, I'd like to cut it off and send it to the Gulf Coast." (I do hope the hair donations are voluntary). Let's face it, in a humid July in Nova Scotia, any hair feels excessive (this does not mean I'll be shaving it off and sending it to the Gulf Coast. Fall comes quickly around here).

Secondly, whatever is the Gulf Coast going to do with all of this hair? (I just googled Gulf Coast oil spill + hair donations, so now I know. Sometimes google just takes the fun out of imagining). It is being used for its ability to trap oil (which, by the way, was my #1 theory before googling). Let's think carefully about this one before we jump in, shall we? I'm not sure it's a good idea to throw "excess" OR "excessive" hair into an already gruesome mess. Think bathroom sink, but on a massive scale. Who wants to clean THAT one up?

Maybe it's an ingenious idea. Maybe it's "hair-brained." But until I see results, I'm holding on to my hair, excessive or not.

Generation Gap

2010-07-05T15:38:00.000-07:00

For a few horrifying minutes this week, I found myself at a party with people half my age. A friend had won VIP passes to a Canada Day event for six of us, so we decided to check it out. In our capri pants or jeans, flat shoes and shirts that covered our torso, we were decidedly overdressed. The girls, at least 15 years my junior, donned ultra-short shorts and halter tops, or minute dresses with fabric noticeably absent in strategic places. Most wore high heels that challenged their ability to walk upright. The boys were unremarkable, simply taking in the sights.

The partyers danced to music devoid of rhythm or comprehensible lyrics, save the occasional profanity (a friend tells me it’s “house music” – new to me, but that may simply reveal my lack of musical savvy). As I stood there feeling mild contempt for the clothing and music of this group, it struck me. I am the older generation. I am smug in my superiority, confident that my experience of youth was more righteous, less desperate, more fashion-savvy and, if nothing else, accompanied by music with decipherable lyrics.

I imagine that this is how the generation before me felt about my generation’s taste in clothes, music and lifestyle. No doubt the generation before that felt the same about those who came after them. So it is, I suppose, with aging. Maybe that’s the one comfort we derive from getting older. We have accumulated knowledge and wisdom that allows us to see (or at least to imagine) that we have a better handle on life than those who come after us. And just as strongly, each generation feels the older one simply doesn’t “get it.” Maybe they are equally right.

I feel confident that the partyers in that room are but one segment of the 18- to 24-year-old population (at least that’s my hope and my interactions with other 18- to 24-year-olds bear that out). I do hope that the ultra short-shorts and high heels are a phase this group will stumble through (perhaps literally), although that is no doubt presumptuous and judgmental of me.

Lucky for me, I am with a group that shares my presumptions and judgments. We make a hasty exit from the party, heading back to the comfort of our hotel suite, where we’re asleep by midnight, lulled by the comfort that we’re part of the generation we are.

Signs of Summer

2010-06-28T18:31:00.000-07:00

During my childhood, certain happenings signaled the start of summer. My father – a teacher – would start to sing, “The 25^th of June. It cannot come too soon.” Our charcoal barbecue would make its way out of the shed to its summer home near the picnic table. And my mother would take us to Hiltz’s Shoe Store to buy summer sandals.

The store may have carried a full range of sandals, but my mother consistently steered us to the practical, comfortable and sturdy double-buckle sandal made by Savage. We were given a choice: navy or tan (after all, white would only show the dirt and any other colour would be impractical). Summer after summer, we returned to Hiltz’s to buy the exact same sandals – next size up.

While I envied my friends whose parents bought them less practical and more fashionable sandals, the routine was oddly satisfying. I’d slide my foot into the metal shoe measure and wait for the “shoe lady” or “shoe man” to announce my size (there was something gratifying about knowing I’d graduated a shoe size).

Once I’d been fitted and the sandals paid for, the clerk would inevitably ask, “Do you want to wear your new sandals home?” The answer was always yes, old shoes thrown into a bag in favour of fresh, albeit practical, sandals.

Those sandals, in all their practicality, withstood the tests of summer - water fights, soccer baseball games, endless rounds of hide-and-seek and trips to the beach. At summer's end, when the trendy sandals of my friends had likely been relegated to the trash, mine stood strong, never even betraying the dirt of their many adventures.

The signs of summer have changed since then. My dad, 20 years retired, has also long since retired his end-of-the-school-year song (although could likely be convinced to bring it back for the grandkids). Charcoal barbecues are a rarity, having moved over for propane. And sandal shopping at Hiltz's Shoe Store is a distant and fond memory.

Still, something about the newness and promise of summer always remains the same. Come to think of it, I could use a new pair of sandals. Maybe something sturdy and practical - in navy or tan.

"With Discipline Comes Freedom"

2010-06-21T12:22:00.001-07:00

“With discipline comes freedom.” I believe Jane Fonda is the originator of these words (I’m not sure if she was referring to aerobics, acting or life). Recognizing the truth of the quote, I shared it with my colleagues a few years ago (giving due credit to Jane). Since that time, I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard someone say, “As Margaret says, ‘With discipline comes freedom.’” In spite of my frequent insistence that the words are not mine, people persist in giving me credit. Sorry, Jane.

The fact that anyone would attribute this particular quote to me is ironic at best. Discipline has never been my forté. I am challenged to complete tasks with any breathing room before a deadline (although I consistently meet deadlines, provided they are imposed by others). I am chronically late for appointments by five to ten minutes, always misjudging time in spite of its scientific predictability. And few have ever described me as "orderly", although I support the credo “a place for everything and everything in its place," at least in theory.

When I first started to blog, I asked friends, “How often should a blogger blog?” The answer came back definitively: “It doesn’t matter, as long as you’re consistent.” Hmmmmm…consistent, eh? This could be tricky.

I ignored their words of wisdom, opting instead to blog when I had the time and inclination. Lottery winners are less random. In the past year, I have written 14 blog posts. That’s about one a month, although my schedule is far closer to: Blog today. Skip a month. Blog two days in a row. Skip six weeks.

On the first anniversary of my blog, Jane’s words came back to me like an unrelenting mosquito. “With discipline comes freedom.”

Writers write and bloggers blog – or so I hear. Stephen King is known to spend hours each day writing, not allowing himself the freedom to do other things until he has completed the requisite number of pages (It would seem it’s working for him). In that spirit, I’ve decided to adopt greater discipline as a blogger. Today is the start of my weekly blog – Monday Musings by Margaret. Hold me to it (but please, be gentle about it).

Oh, and just so you know up front, I do reserve the right to take holidays off. After all, “With flexibility comes balance.” That one's mine. You can quote me.

Your cart or mine?

2010-06-06T17:43:00.000-07:00

It happens all the time. I'm sure of it. After all, grocery carts all look the same. Well, except for the stuff inside them, but do people really pay attention to that level of detail at ALL points in their shopping excursion? It's easy to wander off with someone else's cart - almost inevitable, really.

After rolling away from the produce section, I make my way to the natural foods section. I throw in some frozen veggie burgers (they're good, really) and tamari almonds. I look down. Who put the ham in my cart? And the broccoli? And where are my berries? The cherry tomatoes are mine, but the rest of the stuff is unfamiliar. Yikes. Somewhere (probably in produce - the scene of the crime), is a lost soul seeking his or her missing meals-to-be. I return to produce and spot him right away - the man looking frantically around by the tomatoes. "Are you looking for your cart?" I ask. "Yes!" he replies, as relieved as if I'd just recovered his wandering child. I apologize sheepishly and grab my things from his cart - veggie burgers, almonds, cherry tomatoes - and transplant them to my cart, not far away.

I finish my shopping and exit the store quickly before anyone else gets hurt. I return home and unpack my groceries - blueberries, raspberries, cherry tomatoes, cherry tomatoes...Oh dear. Somewhere (probably in his kitchen) a man is making a salad, sans cherry tomatoes. Sorry about that, guy. But really, it could happen to anyone.

The hairline between right and wrong

2010-03-28T13:22:00.000-07:00

I cheated on my hairdresser.

I can explain. I needed to get my hair cut and coloured and she was unavailable during the times that fit with my schedule. If I was to wait for her, it would be weeks, maybe even months. It’s not like I wanted to turn to someone else. I had no choice. So I did it. I made an appointment with another stylist - at a different salon. I intended for it to stop there. This was absolutely without question a one-time thing. After all, I have a long-standing relationship with my regular hairdresser, Tina, and I had no desire to jeopardize that. I knew I’d have to confess when I next saw her; after all, my hair would be a different colour. However, I felt confident she’d understand when I explained my desperation.

What I didn’t bank on was loving the way the new stylist, Stephanie, did my hair. Sure, I hoped it would be good, but I fell in love - with the cut, the colour, the way I felt leaving the salon. And let’s face it, the salon’s “cut and colour for $46.99” deal didn’t hurt. Still, I wanted to stay true to Tina and our sometimes colour-ful history, and I do love the way she does my hair too. So when the receptionist at the new salon asked if I wanted to pre-book my next appointment with Stephanie, I said "No, thank you." We would part ways here. “You can always make an appointment, then call and change it if something comes up,” she said sweetly, making it difficult to refuse. So I didn’t refuse. I made a follow-up appointment.

Now, here I am. Two hairdressers waiting in the wings, one with whom I have a solid and happy history, another who is a worthy adversary, with lower prices and a salon much closer to my house. What’s a girl to do? Either decision leaves me cutting one person out of my life like split ends, to be swept callously into the dustpan.

It's a decision I don't take lightly. And with the hair affair three weeks behind me, I have just four weeks of growth in which to make the choice.

My lunch is your lunch

2010-03-24T17:06:00.000-07:00

After buying my lunch from the cafeteria today (Hawaiian pizza on a whole grain crust), I got on a crowded elevator to head back to my office. Someone I knew boarded the elevator behind me, looked at my pizza slice and commented, "That's not a healthy lunch," to which I responded, "Well, it's whole grain and it's got pineapples on it, which I'm counting as fruit." It was at this point that the guy beside me (a stranger) said (perhaps even defensively), "There's nothing unhealthy about that lunch." That opened the floodgates. The entire population of the elevator considered it an invitation to get involved, discussing in detail the relative health value of my lunch and the various food groups covered off in the pizza slice. As I got off the elevator, I thanked them all for assessing my lunch. We did not, ironically, get into the relative health value of taking the elevator. Oh well. Same time, same place tomorrow.

Study hard.

2010-01-24T16:42:00.000-08:00

I drive by a local high school and read the sign on their lawn: "Exams: Jan. 25 to 28 - Study hard."

I imagine the conversation that led to the choice of wording, perhaps in the staff room: "Kids today don't know what it means to study. When we were young, we studied. We studied hard. These kids need some motivation. We need to put something on the sign - something that clearly states what's expected of them. We've always gone with 'Good luck,' which was entirely the wrong message. Let's go with 'Study hard' and wait for the exam results to skyrocket. I don't know why we didn't think of this before!"

And I imagine a student walking or driving past the sign and reading its advice, soaking it in. "My God. Study hard. Why have I not thought of this before? All this time I've been slacking off and skipping class and not studying and wondering why I'm flunking out. It's so clear to me now. I just need to study hard. That's it. I'm cancelling all of my plans, telling my friends I am out for that party on the weekend. I am going to study, study, study. And not just a little. I'm going to study hard, just like the sign says. Someday I'll look back and say, 'That sign changed my life.'"

And I imagine the parent seeing the sign and confronting their teenager after school. "Why aren't you studying for exams?" Their child replies, "These aren't the types of exams you're supposed to study for. They call them 'exams' but they're not 'exam exams.' No one expects you to study for them." To which the parent replies, "Don't you try to pull one over on me, young man. I saw the sign. It says right there in black and white: Study hard."

So to those who chose the wording for the sign, thank you. And to all those students writing exams this week, study hard. And while you're at it, good luck.

Halloween Life Lessons

2009-10-31T17:53:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-10-30T16:44:00.001-07:00

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?

2009-09-22T16:19:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-09-03T16:13:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-31T13:56:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-08-01T04:23:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-05T13:21:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-06-16T18:22:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-05T17:13:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-03T16:42:00.000-07:00

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.