Holiday in the Holiday Inn

I'm attending a conference this week. I think conferences are like little holidays: I get to dress up, make dubious first impressions on lots of new people, eat plenty of mini desserts, marinate extensively in the hotel hot tub, and sleep sprawled out all by myself in a fluffy fresh king-sized bed each night. These are things parents don't often (EVER) get to do, and I find them immensely refreshing. Aaahhh.

In theory the conference-holiday is also educational in nature, but in practice ... well, in practice I'm actually a terrible student. It's not for lack of enthusiasm - I always get so pumped when I'm deciding which conferences to attend each year. I think, I'm going to learn so much! I'm going to think big, smart thoughts! This is going to be amazeballs! But then I have to sit still and listen to people yammer on all day and I am reminded anew that I have the attention span of an underachieving goldfish. At one conference I attended, I spent an entire day making words out of the letters in the periodic table. (To be fair, why would they leave something as distracting as a giant periodic table in the room?) At another I developed a decorative font for each member of my family. So far at this conference, the only notes I've written down are a list of awkward conference encounters and 65 different versions of my signature. Where have I been for the past 2 days?!

In an attempt to squeeze some good out of my inadequate attentional abilities, I humbly offer my dear readers the following thoughts - they're not big, they're not smart, but dammit they'll have to do:

First of all, it is a certifiable miracle that I made it through university. Shout out to my goldfishy-self for overcoming my own grievous limitations.

Secondly, since I went to the trouble of writing them down, I figure I might as well post my list of awkward conference encounters:

- People I'm stalking to secure consultation results, permits, and the like.
- People I'm stalking because they are biology rock stars and I secretly love them a little. (A lot.)
- People I'm stalking purely out of interest's sake, morbid fascination, or the like.
- People I've fired.
- People who were so offensive during their job interviews that I didn't hire them.
- People I've lost all respect for and will never work with again.
- People with oral hygiene issues.
- Work nemeses.
- Friends' creepy exes.
- Idiotic-question-askers.
- This one second cousin or something I have who I don't actually know at all but always run into at conferences.

And finally, my favourite word to spell with the periodic table: RhUBaRb.

Don't Try This at Home, Kids

I conducted an bit of an inadvertent social experiment before the holidays last year. I didn't specify the dress code for a party in the invitation, then when people followed up with me to be sure they were going to be dressed appropriately, I told them it was "casual-fancy." This seemed like a perfectly reasonable statement to me at the time: I knew what dress I was planning to wear, and IMHO it was straight up casual-fancy. Zero confusing. But apparently it was not quite so clear to others. Some folks latched on to the "fancy" part; some to the "casual" part; some - inexplicably - to leather pants; and some to the ambiguity itself - one fellow had debated wearing a tuxedo jacket with pyjama bottoms, figuring they would average each other out somewhere around casual-fancy. (Statistics!) Lesson learned. I now know better for next time.

Turns out I was also subjected to a bit of an inadvertent social experiment at the holidays last year. Before I get started, let me ask you: if you saw the rating "Ages 17+" on a board game, what would it mean to you?

I'll tell you what it meant to me. It meant something like, wellll, it's maybe going to be a little racy, or maybe have some of the more exciting 4-letter-words in it, but if it was really bad it would be rated R or 18+ or something, right? I mean, 17+ practically screams, "NOT-18+". Which in turn meant to me that any older children of mine had probably been exposed to dirtier jokes and rottener words just by virtue of having been around me for so long. (Law of averages and stuff.) Which in turn-in turn meant to me that 17+ would probably be okay for someone who is, say, 15+ and not too sheltered.

Consequently, it meant to Medium Fry that I bought her Cards Against Humanity for Christmas.

And then it meant that when the kids were gathering up games to take to my parents' house for Christmas that I said, "Sure you can bring that."

Finally, it meant that Medium Fry - poor, poor Medium Fry - played Cards Against Humanity with both her parents and her grandparents on Christmas Eve. She didn't even have the option of deploying a booze buffer against the horror of the situation, because alcohol is clearly labeled 18+ so naturally I didn't buy her any of that.

If you weren't already familiar with the obscure 17+ board game age rating, it apparently stands for "do NOT play this with or buy this for any members of your family, ever". 

And in one final, bitter social experiment this recent holiday season: Cards Against Humanity is an excellent gauge for discerning who is the most horrible person in the room (apparently by more than one measure). I'm not sure whether I am relieved or saddened to report that that person is me.

Fakers Never Prosper

In my never-ending quest for sleep, I recently went to see an "alternative health practitioner". I won't even bother telling you what kind because it's all equally ridiculous horseshit, but at this point - that is, approaching the eight-year anniversary of the start of my torrid affair with insomnia - I decided I'm willing to accept a placebo effect.

Actually, I can sortof see why people go to quacks. Sortof. You get your placebo effects. You get the feeling that you're doing something about your problems (real or imagined). And what I think is probably the biggest draw, you get a fresh new audience to listen to your (real or imagined) problems - a sympathetic audience. A caring audience (never mind that they're robbing you blind while "caring"). This is in direct contrast to your actual medical doctor, who you might (rightly) suspect has long since decided you are a fruitloop, and to your friends and family, who are probably** sick to death of hearing you yammer on about your endless health-related "issues" and associated internet "research".

** DEFINITELY

While I was speaking with my quack about my insomnia, I did notice how over-the-top supportive and understanding she was but I was so focused on getting my placebo effects and getting out that I almost didn't think to soak up this important potential contributor to my effects - whoops! Once she felt I had been thoroughly validated as a human with insomnia, we moved on to "treatment". (I'm sorry - I actually can't stop with the quotation marks. Be grateful I'm not telling you this story in person; it's probably even more annoying with air quotes.)

And the treatment - oh, the treatment. It was like a solid hour of bad sex, with an excessively earnest partner. (I know you know what I'm talking about.) Oddly, given that I was paying for the experience, I just felt bad for the gal and thus deferred to that old bad sex standby: I faked it.

(What is it you think you're doing, exactly?)
*noncommittal sounds*

(Aw, did you just SAY that?)
I'm doing just great, thanks.

(What is going ON here?)
... Oh, yep, I'm definitely feeling it now.

(Is this over yet?)
*slightly more enthusiastic noncommittal sounds*

(Oh thank gawd this is over.)
Hey, that was great! Welp, gotta run!

(Nope, not a chance in hell.)
Sure thing, anytime! Call me!

Hm, I wonder if I can get some placebo action for my conflict avoidance problem, too?

Resolutions Schmesolutions

It's Resolution Season at my house! I just love New Year's Resolutions. They feel so fresh and exciting and possible at this time of year. A whole new calendar full of days unsullied by your failings just stretching out in front of you like an open highway! But, like, a nice smooth Alberta highway, not a lousy Saskatchewan highway - that's a few weeks away still. There are no potholes in your Resolution highway at the beginning of the New Year. You can still refuel your Resolution easily and frequently. The lackluster scenery of Lean Cuisines and 1% cottage cheese day in, day out hasn't ground down your will to live willpower...

... yet.

Oh, sorry. Where was I? Right - I love Resolutions! I make zillions of them all year long. I make them at the New Years, of course. And I didn't misplace that apostrophe, I literally mean ALL the New Years. You got a culture or a calendar with a different year in there somewhere? I am gonna find it and make some Resolutions on it. I even make Resolutions on the school calendar - every semester! Each Sunday night I make my Resolutions for the Monday ahead. Sometimes I even make them on Saturday night, just in case that works out better than when I make them on Sundays.

It's January 9th today. I've had some successes so far, namely working out lots and trying new recipes and implementing Tofu Tuesdays despite the strongly reluctant Tuesday night dinner crowd at my house. I had a massive caffeine withdrawal headache on January 1 and the sugar shakes up until about January 7, but that's no big deal - I Resolve that stuff about six times a (Gregorian calendar) year. I'm tough.

What IS slowly killing me, and getting harder rather than easier with each passing day, is not-Facebooking. Do you have any idea how many quotable quotes my kids have said in the past 9 days? How adorably selfie-genic I've been this week? How many humblebrags and witty comments and hilarious marital woes I've been forced to withhold?! How am I supposed to carefully curate others' perception of my life?? No one has Liked me all week! 

I tried scrolling through LinkedIn a bit to take the edge off but it's just not the same.

I washed the floors today and forced the whole family to openly admire my efforts. Still no good.

Finally, friends, it has come to this. I mean, how else is anyone going to know I wrote a new blog unless I post in on my Facebook feed? Right? RIGHT?!

You may have won this battle but you haven't won the war, Resolution - I will see you on the Lunar New Year my old foe. Or maybe next Saturday night! You just never know when I will strike...

Top 5 Secret EPP Levels

We asked top players for their favourite little-known EPP levels, and compiled this sweet Top 5 list from their comments. Which ones have you conquered, and which ones have conquered you?!

Section 31.0: Grandmother Protection Plan

The GPP describes the protective and mitigative measures to be employed during the pre-adolescent and adolescent years of the Frecklepelt Eldest Child Project.

Section 32.0: EPP Contradicts Itself

This Section describes the protective and mitigative measures to be employed when the EPP contains incompatible, inconsistent or downright contradictory mitigation. Includes challenges such as:

- Tables 11-1, 11-2 and 12-1 vs. Alignment Sheets
- Sketchy Consultation Results
- To Silt Fence or Not To Silt Fence

Section 33.0: EPP Contradicts Reality

This Section describes the protective and mitigative measures to be employed when the EPP basically fails to align with the world, like, at all. Includes challenges such as:

- Alignment Sheets vs. Construction Drawings
- They Called THAT a Wetland but Not This?
- Three Foot Deep Mulch Layer  

Section 34.0: Failure to Follow EPP

This Section describes the protective and mitigative measures to be employed when some aspect of the EPP has been contravened, whether inadvertently or intentionally. Includes challenges such as:

- None of These People Have a GPS
- What Does the Purple Lath Mean?
- Finger Pointing 101 

Section 39.999: Complete Shitting the Bed on Following the EPP

Challenges vary widely but suffice to say that when you encounter this Level, you'll know it. Successful completion can be achieved by various means, including:

- Not Going to Jail
- Shoot, Shovel and Shut Up: the Alberta Way
- Collecting Paycheque and Going on a Loooong Vacation

Nipple Height

Everyone's job is hard in its own way. Part of that is undoubtedly related to personal growth - when you're shiny new to the employment scene, probably most everything seems like a challenge. Take, for instance, this conversation I overheard at the grocery store a few days ago:

Gangly young produce employee (nervously): "Umm, how tall should I stack these mandarins, sir?"

Shorter, middle-aged produce manager (with booming confidence): "Nipple height!"

See how difficult things are when you're new at a job, and how easy they are when you're not? When you are new, you don't even have an expectation of what the expectations might be. Can I, should I make even the most basic of fruit display assembly decisions on my own? What if there is a Mandarin Stacking Standard I'm not aware of? Let me not be a mandarin Icarus, flying too close to the fluorescent glare above! Help, I'm paralyzed with indecision!

And the manager - oh, the authority with which he spoke! All those years of experience culminating in this glorious demonstration of prompt and confident decision making, really showing those young pups how it's done, whipping out those tried and true and not terribly sensible Stacking Standards like a pompous-ass gunslinger...

"... Umm, your nipples or mine, sir?"

Touche, young pup! I had the same concern with the manager's glaringly non-standard standard as soon as he said it. Unfortunately, I was laugh-choking to death on my coffee and didn't catch his response.

I worked at a neighbourhood grocery store in my late teens, and the produce department was one of my favourites to help out in. If only my mandarins were stacked as tall and proud now as they were back then... They were truly a sight to behold. sigh

It was surely the height difference between the two men and not the relativity of this measurement over time on his own person that caused the young fellow to question the nipple-height Stacking Standard, but I still felt a bit of solidarity with him for bravely noting the obvious flaw in his boss' statement. I decided to circle back around with my cart a little while later to see how our lanky hero was faring with his boxes.

The two were nowhere in sight, but I had to reach over my head to get a box of oranges down so I guess we know whose nipples prevailed over logic that day.

Butterscotch Soul

I was about 12 years old the first time I heard the word recalcitrant. I had to look it up.

I won't judge if you had to go Google it yourself just now, but I would like to point out that back when I was 12 one had to store up words requiring definition in one's head until a dictionary could be consulted. Or I guess maybe some people would just ask what something meant, but I was not that sort of kid. I stored puzzling things in my head until I could solve them, preferably in secret so no one would know that I didn't already know what "from the mailman" or "recalcitrant" might mean. Google would have really helped me out back then. 

One more thing I need to point out is how useless it is to tell someone who asks you how to spell a word, to go look it up in the dictionary. I remember my Grade 1 teacher saying that to kids (not me, of course, because I never would have asked) and feeling angry that it was so unfair to say that when obviously you needed to have at least an inkling of how to spell something before you could look it up in the dictionary. One of my earliest subversive acts was helping other kids spell words. Psst, it starts with a C, not an S.

So. Back to age 12. I saved up recalcitrant in my head until I got home, then got out the dictionary - secretly - and looked it up. On the page was one of those uniquely satisfying discoveries that neatly crystallizes something you knew but couldn't quite put your finger on - ah, that was the word I was looking for all along!

The image that sprang to mind was a tub of butterscotch ripple ice cream: a vein of recalcitrance is woven through my soul. 

Someone asked me once, if I could choose any trait of my own to pass on to my kids, what would it be? I said a good sense of humour, because being able to laugh about things has gotten me through so much. That is a solid answer for polite company, and it really is how I feel. But it's also true that I mine that vein of recalcitrance when I need to not just get through, but to get far. Many of my big leaps in life have been fueled by the power of Oh yeah? Just watch me. 

Recalcitrant not typically being a complimentary term, I've considered revising my initial mental image to something less universally appealing - say, a black licorice ripple - as if in preemptive apology to anyone who happens to look inside my head and find this trait distasteful. Ultimately I decided to stand by butterscotch: not only do I not need to apologize for it but I contend that, if existing in correct proportion and judiciously employed, recalcitrance can be a delicious addition to any personality.