I'll just be my "elf"

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

Legacy of Laziness

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

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

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?

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.

The hairline between right and wrong

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

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.

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.