The Double Door Ssss Phenomenon

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

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

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

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"?

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

"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?

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

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

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

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...