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...

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.