Clean Angel

As a parent, partner and office visitation hotspot, I get very little time to myself. Very little. So little that I genuinely enjoy doing things like meticulously hanging up the delicates load to dry or scrubbing the bathrooms 'cause while I'm doing these things I'm almost, almost able to pretend I'm having a couple of minutes alone (others in the household generally avoid entering my line of sight while I'm doing housework because they think I then won't notice that I'm the only person doing housework and make them do something). I joke about having alone time in the bathroom but every parent knows this isn't actually true - the kids simply view any of my bio breaks as their having a captive audience.

Possible taglines: "Can I have some waaaaaterrrrrr?" "Which tights do you think I should wear with this?" "Where's my yellow dino with the orangeish tail?" "How do you say 'metamorphic' in French?" "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU LITTLE FREAKS WHY ARE YOU TALKING TO ME WHILE I'M PEEING FOR GAWD'S SAKE COULDN'T YOU WAIT FOR TWO FREAKING MINUTES??"

Really, the only true, solid alone time I'm guaranteed to get in life is when I'm in a bathroom stall at work at, say, 6:30am. Thank you, exceedingly small bladder, for bringing me this solace. Namaste.

But something has been interfering with my beloved alone time of late, a nasty, pervasive and cloyingly sweet something called Passive-Aggressive Bathroom Signage (PABS). In the unlikely event you've never been unwillingly subjected to the phenomenon, it goes something like this:

Laaaaadieeees! To avoid Plugging and Overflowing the toilets Please don't flush Any feminine hygiene products that are Not supposed to be flushed. Also Please don't forget to flush the Toilets. Also please remember to Check to make sure the toilet is Flushed and that the stall is clean and sparkly for the Next Person to use it! Thanks Ladies!

Laaaaadieeees! Please! Don't Forget to wash your Hands really well with Soap and Water when you're done using the Facilities! It's Flu season! Also good hygiene is Always in season! Thanks Ladies!

Laaaaadieeees! Please be a Clean Angel and wipe Up any water ! drips On the counter With Your paper towel when ! you're Done Drying your Hands! Thanks Ladies!

Gratuitous deployment of exclamation points and capitalization of random words in text are hallmarks of PABS, and if only I could get Blogger to reproduce the barely intelligible script font and flowery pink background that are also characteristic I would. These things alone are enough to wreck my mind on a given day, but when combined with the theft of my precious little alone time it really makes me snap.

I'll tell you a secret: I'm the person who routinely removes the signage. I don't even recycle it, I just flush that shit right down the toilet and then I laugh - ha ha ha! - at the Plugging and Overflowing that ensue. Y'know why? Because I've been made insane by PABS and can't be held responsible for my deep-seated feelings of aggression and rebellious rage. Plus there was no sign that told me I wasn't supposed to so clearly I couldn't have been expected to know better.

This week, there was a new development in the ladies rooms at work: laminated signs. Oh, yes. Passive-Aggressive Bathroom Signage at my office just got real.

The fourth floor counter-revolutionary cell has identified the need for similarly amped up tactics. Operative RedBot2 has proposed the following radical measures: produce our own laminated PABS. Post under cover of darkness in locations proximal to existing signage. Recommend deployment of correct grammar and punctuation, legible text and high-contrast background to further highlight ludicrous nature of existing signage. Suggested topics include:

- Have you phoned your mother lately?
- The RRSP deadline for the 2012 tax year is fast approaching.
- When was the last time you completed a breast self-exam?
- Do you contribute to charity as much as you would have people believe?
- Eat 5 to 10 servings of fruits and vegetables every day for optimal health.
- What would Grandma think of that fellow you're sleeping with?
- Please do not flush non-flushable signage.

Real True Information

Why does my microwave dinner feel compelled to warn me that it may become hot when cooked (well, duh) yet gets all coy about letting me know it likely contains at least one chunk of sick gristle?

I've got thermodynamics down, thanks. And yup (the futility of the enterprise notwithstanding) I shouldn't deploy my hair dryer in the bathtub. What, everything smaller than my head is a choking hazard? Whew, thanks for letting me know.  

I get that everyone is worried about spurious legal action but in my opinion we've swung too far in that direction along the continuum - on one hand, no amount of product labeling can prevent stupidity and on the other hand ... the next generation is descended from the survivors. Maybe we shouldn't be trying so hard to keep certain people around and muddying up the gene pool (this bag of peanuts may contain peanuts? deeeeeep). However you wish to view it, I don't think we've really explored the possibility of product labels providing the average non-stupid user some real true information about the product. Now let's get on with telling us things that don't necessarily and logically follow from the nature of the product, yet would be useful to know:

"This product can burn eyes." This is on my straightening iron, but for some reason it's not on my clothes iron or my toaster or my oven, all of which also become hot and could feasibly be viewed as equal eye-burning risks. Maybe even greater if you're the sort of person who likes to check on your toast to see how it's coming along. (I am.) So tell me, manufacturer: what is it about this straightening iron that might compel me to stick it - more so than any other hot household appliance - in my eyes? That's what I'd really like to know so I can be sure to stay on guard for it.

"This product is not a substitute for parental supervision." Well shit, I bought these plastic plug in covers precisely so I wouldn't have to supervise my children, in general, ever, but fine - now that I know that, tell me where the hell I can find something that's a good substitute. I could really use a nap.

"Suggested serving." You mean there's not an entire cherry cheesecake inside this tin of condensed milk? WTF? Just kidding, I actually was able to deduce that on my very own. But I bought the damn tin because I'm extremely susceptible to suggestions of cheesecake at certain times of the month and now is one of those times. Tell me how to make this cherry cheesecake you promised me happen from this tin of condensed milk before someone gets hurt.  

Here are a few more ideas I figure might be helpful for the average consumer to know in advance:

  

- Spicy as hell.

- Your kids will never eat this.

- Your collagen is never coming back no matter how much of this or any other potion you rub on your face.

- This product might be beneficial in the long term, but it will definitely give you fish burps something fierce in the meantime.

- Not very nutritious.

- This garment will self-destruct in two washings.

- This product is not clinically proven to do anything at all.

- You probably shouldn't be eating this.

- This product is a sheer waste of twelve dollars.

- Please don't wear this. It looks terrible on you.

And possibly the saddest Real True Information of all:

- This product is only as effective as the person cleaning the bathroom with it. 

Trees, Trees, the Musical Fruit

I don't really know anything about plants anymore these days but after years of immersion in what amounts to a well-paid dork subculture (and I mean that in the best possible way), planty thoughts are understandably pervasive in my life: I slip unnoticed into Latin. I catch myself building meals around plant genera. I select bouquets for their alpha diversity.

And it's totally cool for me to do these things... when I'm at work. When they happen at not-work, welp, it's plain weird. I started plant rambling at some point over Christmas and only noticed when my sister gave me a look that said "Did you just fart?" (which temporarily gave me pause - er, did I?) until I realized the look meant "What in hell are you talking about and for gawd's sake why?" In short, plant things are not things that are discussed in polite company.

Except, surprisingly, when you're buying a guitar.

When you're buying a guitar and the portly, bald, sortof gnome-like fellow who wishes to sell you said guitar tells you the topboard is made of spruce and you accidentally say "OooOh! What kind of spruce?" (then quickly bite your tongue because you've just speech-farted a stranger and, besides, the average person on the street thinks everything with needles is a generic sort of entity known only as 'spruce'), you will be pleased to learn that you have inadvertently stumbled on The Only Right Time Ever to Ask a Plant Question in Public. You will know this because the fellow's eyes will roll back in his head and he will enter what appears to be a state of gnome rapture.

"Er, are you alright sir?"

"Ooooooohhhh, yessss! Ooohh, I'm so glad you asked! It's Sitka spruce. Most guitars use Engelmann spruce but this! This is Sitka spruce. Oh, it has such a much better sound than Engelmann!"

I tried not to look at him as if he had just farted.

"Oh, just listen to the sound of it!"

I listened to the sound of it.

"Did you hear it?"

"Um... yes. What a lovely sound it has, thank you."

Which got me thinking, as I drove home with my new guitar in tow: if a tree falls in the forest, does anybody hear what species it was?

Jet Setting

My brother and I have red hair and green eyes; our parents do not. I distinctly remember the day in my early teens when I realized just what "from the mailman" meant.

(What the... aw, ewwww, moooom!)

But now that I'm older I see the fun in the game and busy myself with leaving little breadcrumbs to adulthood for my own kids. One day they, too, will come to be perturbed by those mysterious snippets I planted in their inquiring minds in their childhood:

'Mom, there's something wrong with the shower!'
(It was on a massage setting; I set it to spray.)
'Oh, no, dear. It's so right.'
... huh?

It's like time travel when you think about it - I'm saying the words in the present, but really I'm speaking to some future Medium Fry whose current carbon atoms have for the most part cycled along to new career opportunities. The concept works the same with all manner of my own quirks and aphorisms. It's called "oh my gawd I'm turning into my mother" - a game which I also think I'm going to get a great deal of perverse enjoyment out of watching unfold, but for now the breadcrumbs game remains my favourite.

'Mom, you're the best cook ever. Is that because the secret ingredient is love?'
'Thanks, sweetie. I prefer to think of it as 'resentment'.'
... huh?

I pulled out the fridge and stove last weekend to clean behind them. (I don't know where I find the courage, either. Just awesome I guess.) Under the stove I found a Gladware lid (small diameter, round - still no idea where the containers themselves get off to), enough dust bunnies that a craftier me could have spun them into yarn and knitted a hat, and an entire banana, blackened and shriveled and quite thoroughly become "one" with the linoleum. (Who the hell dropped an entire banana under the stove and didn't correct the issue?!) Under the fridge I found the dust bunny mothership, a lunch bag strap, a spoon (mismatched), another Gladware lid, several jumbo raisins, some corn puffs, a school permission slip from the spring of 2009, and a toy horse (brown).

I distinctly remember the day in Small Fry's toddlerhood when he was writhing around on the kitchen floor muttering 'hush, hush' like a little mental patient and I had to shove him out of the way with the fridge door if I needed to get anything out of there because he refused to move.

Ah. Not 'hush.' 'Horse.'

And not quite time travel, then. More like listening to whale song and coming to the gradual realization that ... oh my gosh ... these things are people, too, and it might just be that they're trying to communicate with us. Perhaps we're just not advanced enough to understand it yet.

We Can Pickle That!

Lured by the siren song of a paycheque and a misplaced sense of purpose, I venture daily into the massive rectangular structure. Most of my waking hours are spent plugged in to the system, shaping thoughts and products that I hope will please my superiors. By way of swift and systematic feedback I become trained in their ways. Slowly, irrevocably, my thoughts become one with those of the hive brain; little by little, I am made one of them.

They let me keep my own face and stuff so that's nice, but otherwise it's pretty much the Borg in there. Resistance is futile.

One of the interesting side effects of my indoctrination is the inappropriate application of work concepts in every aspect of my life, "mitigate" being among the worst offenders: look like total arse in the morning? Mitigation measures include makeup; hair styling; artful use of cleavage to draw the eye away from the haggard face. Feel like total arse in the morning? Mitigation measures include more makeup; caffeine; handful of ibuprofen. (Crunchy!) Lousy day at work? Wash down your ibuprofen with a light sprinkling of tears and something chocolate. Supper looks like/tastes like/totally is arse, and/or too tired to cook at all? 310-0001. Plus ibuprofen.

The list goes on. No matter the problem, We Can Mitigate That! And if it can't be technically or economically mitigated? Well, it probably wasn't significant anyway, so, y'know, whatevs. Here, I'll show you how that beautiful piece of magic works:

"Oh, gawd, I'm dying to eat a slice of cheesecake right now. But it's too late at night for me to mitigate this slice of cheesecake with a workout, so I'd better evaluate the significance of any potential effects before proceeding with this poor nutrition choice. Let's see... based on the the basal metabolic rate of the ingestee; the gym membership she could (theoretically) deploy to healthful effect at any time; and the 5% Lycra in her clothing, it is concluded that this slice of cheesecake will have no significant cumulative effect. Dig in." Simple!

Note the sliding baseline (i.e., my 34-year-old physique with its decades of accumulated kummerspeck was used as the point of comparison) and the examination of the cheesecake effects in complete isolation of the larger dietary/lifestyle context. Contrary to what your gut feel on this might be, it's actually a strength of the argument, not a drawback: you can explain away anything in the entire world with this. It's the single most powerful piece of illogic a person can hold in their arsenal of self-talk, even more so than whatever my mother uses when she buys all those shoes.

And I wouldn't have learned it if it weren't for work. Thanks, guys! I offer up my humble blog for co-opting into the collective workplace mind in return.  

Feels Like the First Time

Welp, the Powers That Be recently kicked off a formalized mentorship program at work. There's a little matchmaking questionnaire, some PowerPoint presentations, some billable time allotted, and poof! No employee left behind. Sweet, eh? Plus, they somehow decided I would make a suitable mentor. Me! This gives me a warm, fuzzy and mildly terrified feeling inside, similar to the one I got when I managed to trick the bank into giving me a mortgage - they think I’m a grown-up!

 

Suckahs.

 

What gives me a decidedly less-fuzzy feeling is the actual mentorship process itself. I mean, the people are great, that’s not an issue, but the atmosphere of the whole thing is so... ‘ow you say?... awkward as all get out. It’s like I’m first-dating these people. But a very pointed first date: first-dating with a purpose, which is wildly different from any first-dating I’ve previously done. Historically, I’d say that I’m actually really good at first-dating. I realize this seems contrary to my purported social awkwardness issues, but it always seemed to me there was a well-defined set of parameters to work with for dating: it goes poorly, you bail. It goes well, you get naked. Easy! This new first-dating has no such tidy exit or move-forward strategies. And like I said, it’s so - purposeful. We’re talking about our resumes. We’re sharing five-year plans. We’re planning our next phase together.

 

This must be what first-dating is like when you’re in your thirties: Listen, my clock is ticking here. D'you want a big wedding or what?

By way of a timely tactical shift in my early twenties from aggressive sport dating to serial monogamy I thought I had managed to dodge that particular bullet, yet here we are, and I have to confess I'm at a bit of a loss for how to deal with this thirty-something purposeful-dating business. I had simply never considered the prospect. Plus I know they're going to talk about their experiences with other mentees in the company so now it's a competition on top of everything else. I find myself trying for super-cool-and-fun purposeful-dates. The cognitive dissonance is killing me.

And if it doesn't go well? No matter, we simply continue purposeful-dating, quarterly, for all eternity or until one of us un-friends the other person via an HR intervention (and you thought the dates were awkward!), whichever comes first.

There's one small way in which these purposeful-dates have the edge over other dates: don't tell my mentees, but I'm so not shaving my legs for them.
 

Charlie Brown Christmas

You know the way waitresses will just ignore you altogether when your food is too long in coming? (I can still see you, this is not a problem that's going to get any better while you refuse to make eye contact or refill my soda.) Oh gawd, that drives me crazy! But I realized that I've been doing the self-same thing myself for a little while now and I've got to come clean: we put up the Christmas tree over two weeks ago.

(cue crickets)

If you've known me a while you'll know that we were forced to give up on real trees at Christmas a few years back because we couldn't stop Small Fry from eating stray needles and drinking out of the tree stand. Thinking that it was the 'real' part of the Christmas tree situation that was the problem, we bought a 'forever' tree the next year, only to find out that, nope, it's just Small Fry + any kind of tree that causes trouble.

But the thing with kids is that they get older every year, right? Surely he would be over his tree fetish by the year after that...?

Nope. No luck.

This year I thought, what the hell. I don't have to clean fir-filled diapers anymore, I'm getting a real tree again. Then I fired up my laptop and waited for Small Fry to lob me an easy seasonal blogging opportunity.

But the thing with kids is that they get older every year, I guess. As I was saying, we put the tree up over two weeks ago: DH brought it home, I strung the lights and the chillies decorated it together without incident. Small Fry even had a little chuckle at last year's gingerbread amputee ornaments - "I wemember biting those!" - before shaking his head sagely at the foolishness of his younger self and hanging them on the tree, thus marking a surprisingly bittersweet end to a somewhat dubious Christmas tradition.

Humour me for a moment here and pretend we're making eye contact: sorry, folks. It's a sad fact that your order is not forthcoming. D'you want a refill on your Diet Coke with that?