Life as video game

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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.