The Pants Strike Back

Back in my Old Life, people had a habit of panicking whenever I wasn't around for any length of time. Like, any length of time. Ten minutes could be enough to set certain folk off. They'd phone a couple of times, then follow up with an email when I didn't pick up, then get my out of office response and rather than just wait the hour for my dentist appointment or whatever to wrap up, they'd start calling up other people and getting them involved in the problem. So I'd come back to three phone messages, an email saying I had three phone messages, and five people who didn't know how to solve the problem running around trying to help. It would invariably take ten times longer to delete the messages, talk everyone down from the ledge, and untangle the ensuing mess of having all those extra cooks in the kitchen - none of whom had been given the recipe - than it took to deal with the original issue.

I'm just gonna come right out and say it: my specialty is vegetation. Vegetation. Frankly, it's generally not all that pressing. I know this; you know this; why the hell didn't they know this? One of life's enduring mysteries. I've started thinking of the Vegetation Emergency as a recent entry into the long list of cryptids that humanity just can't seem to shake its belief in. I picture it being green and leafy and vaguely humanoid, shaking hands with Ogopogo and Sasquatch as they welcome it into the fold: "Hey, man, good to meet you. You really caused a stir out there today - nicely done."

I started setting my out of office response to read, "If you are suffering a Vegetation Emergency, please contact (so-and-so) for assistance. Otherwise, I will address your request when I return from the fricking dentist in thirty minutes so keep your panties on already."

(Okay, so those last thirteen words are pure fantasy, but I dearly wished from the bottom of my withered little heart that I could say them.) Not that deploying this clever message changed anything, mind you, but it did make me feel a little better to passive-aggressively point out that there is no such thing as a Vegetation Emergency. (Medium Fry asked me for an example of an oxymoron yesterday and that is precisely the example I gave her. True story.)

So fast forward to my New Life, and you can imagine my surprise when my good friend - let's call her The Boss - called me up one day as I was heading back to site after vacation and said, "Hey, I need you stop at (such-and-such) Creek on your way in. They're having a Vegetation Emergency out there."

...  "No. They're not."

"What?"

"You know better: there's no such thing."

"Well, they think they are anyway. Can you stop in?"

(I should mention at this point that I was on a pants strike at the time of this conversation - it was just too damn hot for pants for the duration of my vacation, and I wasn't quite back to work yet, sooo...)

"Um, I'm not exactly dressed for the occasion."

"Don't worry about it. Just go help them out."

"Seriously. I'm wearing a skirt."

"Haha, Wes won't mind. Tell him I said it was alright by me."

"Okay, Boss. Whatever you say. Tell him I'm on my way."

Dang.

Oh well, I thought, it'll just be Wes and maybe a couple of his helpers. I'll just pop in and pop out and no one will even know about this major safety violation and wildly inappropriate pipeline right-of-way fashion faux pas...

And this is how it came to be that I found myself on right-of-way, in a skirt and some token safety goggles, stopping dead the activities of no fewer than eleven pipeline construction workers. A trackhoe slowly creaked to a halt, mid-scoop. Three fellows who were hand-bombing some erosion berms put down their shovels and stared. The construction foreman and inspector looked up from their conversation and grinned and waved. I died a little inside.

(I should also mention that there aren't a lot of women around your typical construction spread. And none of them are wearing skirts.)

(weakly) "Uh, Boss told me you guys are having a, um, vegetation *gag* emergency?"

"Oh, yep, yep, right over here, we don't know what to do about this."

"Y'know, I was just driving back from vacation - I wouldn't normally wear - it's just that Boss said..."

"Oh, no, haha, it's great, just great. Man, this is the best thing we've seen all year! Thanks for coming out. Like, really, thanks. You're gonna be famous now."

Wouldn't you know, it turned out not to be a Vegetation Emergency after all, yet that fantastical creature still managed to follow me all the way from my Old Life to rise from the depths of someone's imagination in the middle of Saskatchewan and bite me in the ass again. Amazing.
    

Apron Strings

I had a meeting with a financial planner last Thursday. Hey, here's something no one tells you about meeting with a financial planner: it's a lot like buying a swimsuit. So save up your self-esteem before you head in, 'cause you're gonna feel like ass afterward.

At one point during our meeting, financial planner guy said, "It's really something they should teach in school." First of all: Riiiiight. Have you met kids, buddy? It takes them two weeks to learn how to work combination locks. GICs are probably a little out of their grasp.

Secondly: Alright everyone, fess up. How many times have you said those same words about things you only learned about as an adult? In reality, there's only so much time in a day in the classroom, and reading and multiplication are pretty handy skills sooo... you're prolly gonna have to figure some stuff out on your own at some point. Exactly what those things are depends a lot on what your parents know: I'll bet Financial Planner's kids don't know a thing about edible and useful plants, for instance, but mine sure do. (Heck, Small Fry has even cottoned on to some of the salient points of taxonomy - he asked me the other day whether my glasses were in the window family.) So my kids are probably going to need financial planning advice one day, and his kids are not going to know what to wipe their butts with if they need to poop in the woods. You win; you lose.

To be totally honest, I'm always criticizing stuff Medium Fry learns in school. I don't agree with this; I think they should have taken a more nuanced approach with that; wtf is an integer? - y'know, those kinds of things. But I gotta tell ya, it wasn't until she signed up for Foods class this year that I really came into my own. I feel like - I dunno - like a Kitchen Elder or something. All sage and savvy and rocking an apron. Here are just some of the many quality things that Medium Fry has learned in my kitchen that they didn't teach her in Foods class:

- Freezer Management.
- The importance of having a designated no-garlic-or-onions spatula.
- Real vanilla. Real butter. Show that recipe some respect.
- (New cuss words - various.)
- No point putting the battery back in until the smoke clears.
- Clean As You Go.
- Nutmeg: proceed with caution.
- Whisk faster! Faster!
- Don't count your chickens before they hatch, but do count your eggs before you start cooking.
- No! You do not need to mix the wet and dry ingredients in separate bowls!
- Okay, well, you do for this recipe, but not that last one.
- Sleep while the baby sleeps; cry while the baby cries; wash dishes while the muffins bake.
- Are you kidding? No one ever helps me wash dishes. I'm just going to sit and drink my tea awhile.
- Srsly. Put some veggies on the menu, kid.
- You don't decide what to bake; what to bake is preordained by the number of bananas turning to mush on the counter or the quantity of slightly-past-due yogurt in the fridge.
- This also applies to what to make for supper. (See 'Freezer Management.')
- When you are old enough to get PMS, you will need this recipe. Here, I'll write you out a copy myself.

Yup, my kids will grow up able to wipe their butts in the forest, swear like sailors and cook a decent meal. I think we're still ahead of the curve.

Beer Garden

I got the weirdest message from an old buddy recently. Like, really old - I don't think he's ever seen me without braces. He found me through LinkedIn. If he still worked at McDonald's after all these years I would not have accepted his invitation to connect, however, it seemed as if he had embarked on a suitably high-powered professional career, so I accepted. (People seem less suspect to me if they have at least $40K in student loan debts kicking around.)

Accept!

Within minutes, I had an email in my inbox. Old Buddy jumped right in with a brief synopsis of his life for the past seventeen years - university, career, marriage, kids, divorce - and followed up with a resounding, "All the while wishing I was with you instead."

Hmm. I really need to stop equating the burden of student loan debt with any qualities more redeeming than the capacity to fill out a lot of forms.

Delete!
 
That is messed up in, like, ten different directions. First off, are you dying to meet the Fantasy Me this poor fellow has been manufacturing in his head all this time? Because I sure am. I wonder if she at all resembles the Fantasy Me who lives in my head...

I had been genuinely happy to hear from my Old Buddy, but then he lobbed this awkward L-bomb at me and I was crushed. It would have been easier to deal with if he had said I ruined his life by more active means - at least then I could apologize. But how can I be culpable for the unauthorized misrepresentation of my likeness in his fantasy life, or the passive cruelty of a teenaged me? I didn't even know how he felt.

The worst thing for me is that this shakes my belief in the possibility of friendship between men and women. Is there always an ulterior motive on the part of at least one party involved in the (ostensible) friendship? Is the true, platonic, gender-neutral relationship like the Yeti or the small batch of chili - mythical creatures, existence never proven? Have millions of years of human evolution culminated in nothing better than bilaterally symmetrical sacks of hormones that surf professional networking sites hunting for the one that got away?

I've been mulling over this dilemma for a few weeks now - and it is a dilemma, because I have several male friends who are pretty special to me. I know I'm feeling evolved enough not to need to club them over the head and drag them back to my cave for some hot monkey love, and for all I joke about men I'm not actually convinced that they're a different species (if we prick them, do they not bleed?) so I have to assume we're all more or less on the same level. Not to mention that I would have to be a pretty insufferable bighead to go around thinking everyone who wants to occasionally catch up over a beer is secretly in love with me. (If we start catching up over Beef Wellington and red wine and a crackling fire, well, I might start to wonder, but beer - no big.) 

So I would like to propose a more nuanced solution to this conundrum: I know I try to avoid spending time with people I dislike, so let's just guess that, generally, we choose to be friends with people we like. And despite the astronomical divorce rate and how much everyone on Earth whines about their spouse, what does approximately every wedding invitation ever made say on it? 'Today I marry my best friend.' So let's also guess that, generally, we try to marry people we get along with. It seems to me that it naturally follows that some (highly variable) amount of future relationship potential exists between any pair of people who get along alright. What doesn't follow naturally is that potential being entertained or realized: the germination rate is as low as we choose to make it. And the occasional beer has not been proven - at least in my 'gardening' experience - to enhance that rate.

I remain a believer. Cheers to that.

The Great Pumpkin

In keeping with his nascent criminal tendencies, Small Fry lifted a mini pumpkin from the flu immunization clinic on Halloween.

In an act that I'm sure to come to regret later as having nurtured the Seeds of Badass sprouting within him, I gave the theft a decisive "meh" and carried on with our afternoon plans. However, this long-term-poor decision has turned out in the short term to be inexplicably awesome: pumpkin rolling has become the latest craze in our house. Seems there is nary an activity into which pumpkin rolling cannot be incorporated. Yoga, dominoes, lunch - you name it, my kids are rolling a mini pumpkin around in it. And that pumpkin is truly beloved: it debuted at number 1 among the most bickered-over items in the entire household arsenal of available toys.

(I don't pretend to understand this phenomenon, but it does occur to me that the job of designing new products for children must be a deceptively difficult one.)

Although it can sometimes be hard for the recipient to grasp the honour imparted by the act - sortof like when your cat brings you a dead mouse - the granting of permission to use toys of particular importance to a child can be viewed as a proximal measure of the esteem in which the child holds a given person. (At that particular point in time, anyway - again, very cat-like.) Judging by the withering look Small Fry gave me when I initially declined his sweet little invitation to "woll my pumpkin?" in favour of finishing up the dishes I was washing, it must be a bit of a cultural thing, with adults originating on some far away planet with inscrutable norms where no one rolls pumpkins or basically has any fun at all. ("Okay, okay, jeez, I'll come roll your pumpkin, just stop looking at me like that already!")

Parenting fail. I should really know better by now.

But kids know. They get it. When someone says to them what really amounts to, 'Hey, wanna do some weird shit with me that I think is pretty rad?' there's no hesitation - they're all in. They're smashing driveways and rolling pumpkins like nobody's business. If only we could carry that enthusiasm and enjoyment of the happiness of others with us over to Planet GrownUp the world would surely be a better place.

Yesterday, Small Fry invited Neighbour Baby to both roll his pumpkin and rub his sheepie. Neighbour Baby promptly and happily - yet solemnly, as befit such an occasion - obliged. And I know Small Fry would do the same for him.

Theirs is a true bromance.

Also Bread Tags

Welcome to Frecklicious' two hundredth post! Thank you for your dedicated patronage these past years. Our celebratory extravaganza has been brought to you by Stuff That I Don't Know Why It's In My House. Let's meet our Platinum Sponsors of the event:

Only slightly less effective than knitting yourself a new sweater.

I have been collecting this for precisely four hundred years; it amounts to just under $5. In "money." Worst return on investment E-V-E-R.

I repeat: I do not own a television. What could these possibly be for?

Ah, yes. The traditional Christmas... capybara.

Gold Sponsors include: jar of capers; juicer; antique silver tea set; antique* Silver jeans (*haven't fit since before I had children); Weird Al Yankovic CD; pair of ornamental swords.

Silver Sponsors include: university graduation neck tassels; bottle of butane; every diet book ever written (mint condition); adhesive novelty moustache; orphan Gladware lids; Christmas hand towels; Christmas dish towels; Christmas regular-towels.

A big shout-out to our sponsors: thanks for helping me get over my two-hundredth-post performance anxiety! I couldn't have done it without you. Mwah.

Embossed Carbuncle

I hate when hotels book me and my field partner(s) into adjacent rooms. There is a good reason we're getting separate rooms, thank you: we just spent all day together and we would like a wee bit of separation for a few hours so we can do it all over again tomorrow - and the next day, and the next - without coming to despise one another in very short order. As for the adjacent rooms thing, well, I'd like to spare this individual even the dulcet tones of my personal activities/functions (and vice versa) in the off-hours.

* * *
1:08am: Awakened by the echoing thunder of urination in the hotel echo chamber-slash-bathroom next door. 
1:23am: Wakeful state maintained by sounds of tossing and turning. Field partner appears to have insomnia.
1:25am: Also gas.
   ...
4:40am: Thank gawd, I think she's asleep again. Just in time for us to get up and go back to work.

* * *
I just don't get it. It's almost as if the average hotel employee has never done field work before or something.

Burn!

If you have the sort of livelihood that doesn't include field work you might not be aware that there is a certain amount of insult in suggesting that someone has never done field work - amongst folks who do or have done it, anyway. What kind of insult? Well, it's sortof like Shakespearean slander: tough to put a finger on exactly. It hints at a dearth of common sense; implies a modicum of insulation from reality; excludes the target from an esoteric clique of which you, naturally, are an elite member; and smacks of an inability to comprehend the untamed majesty that is a field person. So rude, eh?

I also make this snap judgement about people who don't seem to cope well with children. Here, in a nutshell, is what field work is about: you get together a shit-ton of gear and snacks, stuff it all in an enormous vehicle, and pray for the best. There's also a ton of paperwork, safety gear, and poop schedule management, plus you're tired, grumpy and drinking a lot of coffee. Sound familiar? That's because it's exactly the same as having children. Here's a free tip: Never mind paying down your mortgage or whatever the hell it is you think is going to make you "ready" to exert your reproductive potential. If you have done field work, you are as ready as you'll ever be.

Bonus Tip: Serve or consume the exact same meals at the exact same times every day. Never be surprised by an ill-timed BM again.  

XXXIV Olympiad

Mr. Neighbour stopped by the other evening, towing Neighbour Baby (now a toddler) along with one hand and wielding an enormous, rusty Allen wrench with the other. (I later learned that these sorts of things are used for performing mechanical-type actions on vehicles, but in my present state of ignorance immediately started crafting an excuse about why I couldn't help him assemble his oversize Ikea furniture; fortunately, he interrupted my thoughts before anything to that effect came out of my mouth.)

"Hi. We found this in the bushes between the yards. Is it yours?"
(Whew!) "Um, nope."
"Okay, just thought I'd check before I tossed it out. I wouldn't want the boys getting hold of it."
"Yeah, good thinking."

Small Fry ambled over and, in his sweet little Mickey Mouse voice, chirped, "Hey, that's mine, Mommy!"
Mr. Neighbour and I exchanged a glance. "Er, it is?"
"Yep. I use it for smashing the driveway."

Let's just say that one more time for effect: I use it for smashing the driveway. Wrong on so many levels in itself, but gets even worse on closer inspection: turns out Small Fry stole the wrench from the other-side-neighbour's driveway ("It was just sitting there for a weally long time. Dey weren't using it or anything."), smashed stealthily away at the driveway when he sensed the coast was clear, and hid the evidence in the shrubbery when it wasn't.

"Smash!" said Neighbour Baby.

And, apparently, employed Neighbour Baby as an accomplice.

I thought all along the (now approximately two-metre square) broken area at the toe of our driveway had been disintegrating naturally due to wear and tear. I thought "shoddy workmanship." After a recent Margaret Atwood binge, heck, I even thought about asphalt-eating microbes. I thought pretty much everything but Small Fry and a stolen Allen wrench. The child is five. Imagine the dedication this took. If Neighbour Baby hadn't turned him in, he probably would have gone all Shawshank Redemption on me and tunneled his way completely out.

I had been thinking of getting Small Fry into music lessons one day soon, but it is now clear to me that he doesn't need to get any smarter - what he needs is to get way more tired. And this needs to happen in some way that will not make me even more tired than I already am, because I'm obviously not on the ball here as it is. He needs... swimming lessons. Lots of them. Every bloody day, either forever or until he moves out, whichever comes first.
 
I used to look at elite athletes with a certain amount of awe; all I can think of now is what a pain in the ass they must have been when they were kids.