Things that deserve the stink-eye (but I don't care):

I've had my crocs sliders for way more than a decade. I know their age because my son and I have exactly the same feet and I loaned them to him in 2014 when he left for college. I am thrilled we forced him he chose post-secondary learning, but almost everything else he took with him to college disappeared (principally most of my savings) but his feet (minus foot mushrooms) returned thanks to my crocs, which also returned! Small wins!  

This is the reason I love these crocs. They're just so available; they slip on easily, quickly, no fuss, no matter the assignment. Thus, they've seen some shit. (Literally, but they are easy to hose down.) And speaking of shit, our current weather: two snowfalls thus far, no melting yet, grr. But my crocs can handle any weather. So yes, I continue to use these to take out the garbage. Nope, no socks. Just sending it, snow be damned. If you're Canadian you know this sort of delusional behaviour. To misquote Dylan Thomas, rage against the dying of the light your foolhardy resolve against the (inevitable) weather. When the going gets tough, the tough wear crocs sliders FOR AS LONG AS POSSIBLE. Winter is a test. These crocs are proof, verification of my Canadian citizenship, that I belong to the EH-team. Croc hard or go home (but I'm guessing only for about a week or two more or let's be honest, I'll lose a toe, sigh). 

Legs

You do you, M.
💗Pops

When we last saw our southerly grandturkeys, our youngest granddaughter M (13 months then) was soooo close to walking. We assumed she would master it within days and be running around the next time we saw her, but a month later, M takes only a few steps, her parents in front and behind her, coaxing and clapping. 

Of course no one is concerned about this whatsoever, but I know what's really going on. Like me, M is a thirdborn.

When my daughter asked me to explain that, I laughed and said, "she doesn't need to walk—you're her legs." As is her older sister, her Dad, both sets of her grandparents, her aunts, her uncles, the babysitter, the food delivery dude... let's be honest: if you knew her, you'd be her legs too. You wouldn't be able to resist. Her random-tooth smile? Contagious. Her demeanor? A tad wily. 

Science says birth order—although not a diagnosis—does indeed have an impact. It's reductive to presume traits for any child considering birth order or otherwise, but thirdborns (often the youngest) are rare these days. According to Statistics Canada, thirdborns comprise only about 12% of the babies born in Alberta annually. 

So, by virtue of when they join the family, thirdborns will always be competing for their parents' divided attention, parents who are more experienced, less anxious, and inevitably outnumbered. M's specialized skills may include attention-seeking, social savvy, creativity, risk-taking and so on. From personal experience, M may eventually aim to distinguish herself from her siblings, assert her independence and identity. How? By becoming the wildcard, the oddball, the black sheep. No matter who M becomes, I will enjoy helping her find her legs, cheering her on. 

Dear friends, did birth order and family size impact you? 

Let's be honest

If this photo activates your stink-eye, er gives you the chills, you are not alone. Overnight here the temperature was -5°C (23°F) but considering there are essentially two seasons in Canada—Winter and July—frost is actually (unlike most weather) predictable.  

Yes, for those in the (forever) true North strong and free, it's time to (re)embrace the cold (but please not like last year, sigh).  

If that sounds preposterous to you, well congratulations, you probably live somewhere consistently warm(er) BUT, remember cold exposure has some incredible benefits: mosquitoes basically explode like the tiny Karens they are. Sure not literally, but we Canadians like to imagine them cancelled quite dramatically. The truth is though that cold weather health benefits include few allergy triggers, boosted immunity, extra calories burned, and let's not forget hypothermia. 😱

Medalist?

I think we all know someone like this champ aka loose meet cannon. But there's so much more to unpack in this genius Steed cartoon—it's got me thunk. 

First reaction? I chuckled. Second reaction? I remembered teenaged-me that time I placed fourth in ALL four high school track and field events, including the hurdles (which had four participants that year, ha). This aptly defines my youth sports career trajectory. Think flatline, ha.

I don't know about you, but it may not be a surprise then that I do not identify with any of these hurdlers. Sure, it's a dopamine party to WIN, but I don't ever win...well, except for that drawing contest in Grade 2 and I'm still confused and conflicted about that. Anyway, although I (almost) never win, I feel like I've won everything. I just default to gratitude. (Thanks, Grandma.) Loser? Sure. Sore? Nope. I don't care about winning. I don't want to be first. In many cases, I don't even want to participate in the "race." ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I'm not saying I'm not bummed when things don't go the way I'd hope, nor am I nauseatingly positive when times are tough. I just don't dwell there (anymore) and I forget to be annoyed. And to be honest, it's probably unhealthy that I expect to be disappointed, but I can always outwit that feeling by cheering someone else on. Nor do I have low expectations for myself and others. I am not saying that achieving excellence isn't important. It is; I just don't care to compete. 

My third reaction? This brilliant cartoon is an entire story. What happened during the race?! Who is this smiling overgrown toddler? Did he cheat? If you're certain he cheated, consider that in hurdles there are apparently multiple ways to be disqualified: lane violations, obstructing others, deliberately knocking down the hurdles, going around or under the hurdles.... Hilariously, he wasn't disqualified, so couldn't one argue he's just both fast and clumsy? 

But for me this cartoon is special because of the obstacles. In addition to his medal, he's proudly wearing those obstacles. He's unflappable. He's antifragile. And those others on the podium? More than the win, isn't that what they really need to succeed? 

Dear friends, I do not wish obstacles in your path, but I know you will encounter them, so when they occur may I suggest you be neither an optimist nor a pessimist—not even a medalist—but instead continue Sisyphus-ing your way up that hill: be an obstacalist. If you ask me, language like that can be a lifeboat. 

Sweet (but temporary)

Thanks, T. 

I'd say this beaut of a cupcake represents how (about) 76% of us post-referendum Albertans feel today: celebratory. Perhaps it should feature the red maple leaf but no matter, today still tastes sweeeeet. 

Nevertheless, like cupcakes, we all know this is temporary. We sent a clear message to those who'd prefer to stoke more division, but like chalant folks everywhere (I hope), we know that continued democracy is no cakewalk, and so we will enjoy what's pleasing today, and eat with our elbows up. 

New Paragraph

Today feels like a bit of a "pilcrow" day for us Albertans. Voting regarding our separation referendumb ends today.

As you know, a paragraph is all about unity encompassing a topic, an idea, an important point. Fellow Canadians will see the irony here, sigh. But what I'm contemplating is how a pilcrow signifies a new paragraph, and in our case, an historical one. 

Writers and readers know there are several reasons to begin a new paragraph; today is about two of those reasons. 

In this unfinished political story, will the outcome signify a transition toward the next chapter in Canadian unity? Or will the results be a signpost pivot into a fool's paradise? Stay tuned. 

Got me thunk.

Are men still obsessed with remote controls? Sure, I am. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ (The TV's my best friend, ha.) But in this era when fewer people actually watch content on their TVs, isn't this now just a reductive stereotype?  

I'm curious because of my youngest grandson, M, pictured here reaching across the coffee table for the clicker. Some context for you: 

1. The moment he spots it, nothing will deter him from his quest for this holy grail, this diadem of an object. He's like Odysseus/Ulysses and this is his Odyssey, ha.
2. HE'S 9 MONTHS OLD. 
3. HE CAN'T YET WALK (so think of the extra energy expended). 
4. Once spotted, toys strewn about mean DIDDLY-SQUAT by comparison. 
5. He cares little about the actual TV. Mostly, he yearns to hold it and press buttons buttons BUTTONS....  

In contrast, his two-and-a-half year-old sister will find the clicker and hand it me. Hmm...is that more proof of this theory? You might think that our grandchildren watch a lot of TV. Nope. Sure, his older sister and I watch Miss Rachel or Bluey occasionally, but TV time is limited. No 9-month-old should be watching TV.

So, is he obsessed by the buttons or is this some inner drive for the (great and mighty) power afforded by this dopamine-regulation doodad? What's going on in his budding mind? Is he already astute enough to have gleaned its magic? Have you seen similar behaviour in near-toddlers?

Yes, dear friends, I apologize, but these are things I think about. 

What does the research say? Well, Facebook says men are indeed obsessed with remotes so yup, science. I josh. Truly, I hope Facebook's extinct by the time my grandchildren are adults. I have no idea what the research says, but I'm curious what you say? In this age of smartphone obsession, does anyone even care about the remote control? What have you observed? Who in your family has jurisdiction? Do you and your partner have (legally) separate TVs/ clickers? (My spouse and I are both Gen Xers and yes we do, ha.) 

Who raised you?

Well, this 1970s model TV, mostly. 

I was at a social function recently and when I returned to my seat, I accidentally kicked one of the table legs hidden by a cloth. A brief tumult of wobbling objects ensued. Before I could apologize, someone at the table joked, "who raised you?!" 

I chuckled, but I thought of our big old 100-pound TV.

My aim is not to disparage my parents, (nor my teachers, some of whom I loved) but if you're a Gen Xer, you know. My childhood Gen X friend fully credits wolves with raising her, so the TV? Not so bad. 

Anyway, in terms of rearing me, I credit TV with a solid 70%, plus 10% to reading fiction and my encyclopedias, and also a grateful 15% to my grandmother. If you're a math whiz, that leaves only 5% for my parents. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Since they were rarely home, my parents' influence on me might best be described as unintentional, trivial, fleeting. This isn't bellyaching; it is (was) what it is (was). 

NO the TV did not buy my jeans, my running-shoes, my winter coats; nor did it pay the electricity bill or bake fresh bread—a nod to my parents for all those essentials. But the TV did indeed provide. Provide what? My worldview. 

If you're thinking, I wouldn't admit that the TV is mostly responsible for the lens through which I interpret the world, what I know to be true, what I value, and how I consciously (and unconsciously) act on that viewpoint, well touché, but it's just facts. 

So regarding worldview, what did the TV actually impart? Lots. If you're still reading this, perhaps this somewhat chronological list of my childhood favourites provides some insight?

1. Mr. Dressup & Sesame Street
2. The Flip Wilson Show
3. Sonny & Cher
4. Star-Trek
5. Maude
6. MASH* 
7. The Muppet Show
8. SCTV
9. The Jeffersons
10. The 6 Million Dollar Man

Picture kid me: part artsy, part social activist, part student of comedy, part stuntman, all woke nerd. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ TV was my babysitter, my family, my most welcome escape, but (like my beloved Lego) it helped me assemble myself. When I think about what the miniseries Roots did to my psychology. Whoa. And I'm sure TV is why I remain foolishly optimistic that everything can be solved in about 30 minutes (minus commercials). If only, eh? Sigh. 

But one of the biggest influences? Mork & Mindy. Mork (Robin Williams) was my favourite (fellow) outsider. Remember Mork's observation on loneliness? It still chokes me up. He was all comedy and all pathos, and also everything. Mork was a bit of a psychic catalyst. I already felt like a social alien, but Mork (and the way all the kids at school endorsed him) helped affirm my curious nature and taught me it might actually be okay to be different (but probably not, so keep that nervous system cranked, sigh). 

Dear friends, were you also fortunate enough to "know" him? Or some other character you saw yourself in? Did TV inform your worldview? Or something else? (It seems to me that unexamined worldview is at the core of life's more pervasive problems.) 

Things one should never outgrow:

see last Friday's post (or if you're too "busy" pootling, don't bother). 

What a fine new word! It's the opposite of scoot. A nod to being irresolute. And if you're reading this while snuggled into your rocker recliner, moot. 

Happy pootling. 
 

12/hr.

I purchased this card (by Eat Haggis)
in Scotland this summer. :)

Home. 'Tis not so sweet for some. Sigh. But my home? The sweetest. My (long) weekend plans include 

a) nothing
b) nothing
c) nothing
d) all of the above. 

Despite the relief of no real plans, sadly, here in northwestern Alberta, it's raining, with snow forecast tonight. Sigh. So what better weekend to stay hame sweet hame?

If you noticed, I sighed twice in this post thus far. Fun (?) fact: science says that although excessive sighing is a worrisome well-being indicator, on average, we humans still sigh every 5 minutes, or 12 sighs per hour. 

That many?! I had no idea. 

And why do we sigh? It's a response to anxiety and stress. But apparently typical sighing is connected to optimum lung health and acts as a nervous system reset. Although we are encouraged to seize the day, it seems our bodies are designed to seize the peace. I like that. 

Dear friends, whether you're home or not this weekend and whatever the weather, I wish for you some contentment. In other words, slow down: no more than twelve sighs an hour.