Do you want butter with that?

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

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

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

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

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"

“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?

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.