Jan 17 2016
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Informative, Instructive

Things you need to know

two-dollar-billLet me get right to it. Yes we are now enjoying the sun and surf in SoCal (that’s “local” for Southern California) and no, we did not win the lottery. Not for lack of trying. I put down my two bucks on the draw. I mean, who wouldn’t? Who wouldn’t take a chance at depositing 1.5 billion smackers in the bank? Or a little over 2 when imported into my home and native land. So what if some of that gets taxed away. The way I figure it, there’ll be plenty left after Uncle Sam takes his take. Unfortunately I don’t have to worry about that right now because, as previously mentioned, I didn’t win. Not that I wasn’t ready for it. I was. You see, I thought it would be prudent, just in case, to read all of the information that was being offered on the Internet to those who might be in line for the big win. So I did. And let me tell you, there was lots out there to ponder. Mostly, I suppose, because so many of us were so sure that this was going to be “our day”.

One thing you might know, but if you don’t probably should, about a shallow person like me is that at times I can be a little skeptical. You see, as much as I would like to be able to take everything I read on the Internet at face value, making my life oh so much easier and less complicated, I simply can’t. If you are anything like me, and I’m not implying that any of you are, there are just times when that little bit of doubt creeps its insidious way into your otherwise open and accepting mind and you begin to wonder. And when I wonder, sometimes, and only sometimes, I begin to think that perhaps there might be another, if not better, way to go about things. And so it was that after studying all of the “things you should do if you win the lottery” articles available on the Internet, I came to the conclusion that this was one of those times. That the advice, while substantial and I’m sure created in all good faith with everyone’s best interests in mind, was not always completely, how should I put this, sound. So at the risk of sounding presumptuous, I thought I would take some time to share with you both theirs and my suggestions ‘cause even though we didn’t win this time, there’s always, as they say, another day. Here we go.

  1. Don’t tell anyone. I get that. The last thing you want is everybody and their dog knocking on your door asking you to share your shekels with them. So best to keep the big win to yourself for a bit. Although, from what I understand, you probably should tell your spouse lest you end up in divorce court harbouring your little secret. Apparently judges frown upon that and have, in the past, rewarded your soon to be single partner with what used to be your jackpot. Oh, and you may want to tell your realtor. And the Porsche dealer.  
  2. Get yourself a team. You’re gonna need a lawyer, an accountant, and a financial planner. At least that’s what they tell you. Now if it were me, and as we all know it was not, I’d put in the call to the lawyer, because there’s sure to be some wills and estate stuff to do, and the accountant as I figure I won’t be able to get away with the short tax form anymore. But the financial planner? Here’s the thing. I’ve just put 1.5 billion dollars in the bank. Let’s just say I get myself a long term commitment for around 3%. Without doing the math I’m going out on a limb to say life will be just fine. Especially since I’m saving all of those fees I would have had to pay that financial planner.
  3. Find a good therapist. Now on this I have to concur with the experts, although we differ some on the details. You see they think that the winner, not realizing what emotions their new found circumstance will unleash will need someone to talk to. They think there’s no way of knowing down what path the mix of joy, excitement, terror and guilt will take you. I on the other hand, think that those of us who lost might want to make that call given the disappointment, anger, tinge of jealousy, not to mention, dashed dreams we are now burdened with. Come on. It’s not just me. Even the usually upbeat and cheery Kelly Ripa (yes, I watch on occasion), who I am pretty sure is doing ok all on her own, expressed her disappointment and was even a little green with envy on the day after the big day.
  4. Don’t quit your job. And this my friends, is what makes me a tad skeptical about all of the aforementioned advice.

By now all of the hoopla has died down and we can resign ourselves to living today as we did yesterday. A dear friend of mine continues to remind me that given our lot in life, we have already won the lottery and I know she’s right. I mean I have nothing to complain about and I am continually grateful for each and every day. I’m happy and content with the way things are and have no reason not to be. Even so, let’s face it. 1.5 billion is nothing to sneeze at and what the heck, I’m ready for it.

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Jan 03 2016
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Informative, Instructive

It’s not just another day


calendarlargeLots of people say they learn something new everyday. If I have to be honest with myself (which btw, is my preference) I would have to admit that I don’t always, but I did today. Apparently yesterday was not just another day. Yesterday was World Introvert Day. Honestly, up until a few hours ago I had no idea there was one. Or, for that matter, an organization that helps all of us to better understand this apparently most oft, misunderstood minority. According to this group, who I am assuming is made up primarily of the aforesaid personality type, they are often mistakenly viewed by others as “arrogant and strange” which could not be further from the truth although, as they go on to say, the majority of introverts are in fact, gifted. I suppose, this is as good a reason as any to allocate them one out of 365 days to call their own. And January 2 seems to be quite an appropriate day to dedicate to this group. After all, I imagine that most of the introverts have struggled a little over the past few weeks, what with all of the hoopla surrounding the holiday season. Not to mention the hugging that has become so  commonplace during these types of celebrations. So why not give these people a day to revel in their own self worth? Who’s the worse for that?

But, that’s not all that I’ve learned lately. Little did I know that December 21 was National Short Girl Appreciation Day, a day I can get my head around unlike National Hug a Short Person Day which, as you can well imagine, is a day that I plan to stay out of the reach of, well just about everybody. The thing is, if people want to appreciate me simply because I am short, I can get on board with that. And, according to the rules of the day, I qualify even though, and I say this at the risk of losing my status, I’ve never really thought of myself as being short. You see, the way I figure it size is what you make of it. I can still recall the time that I met someone I had previously only encountered on the phone. Having had several conversations, we eventually got together and, as she walked in the door, with nary a glance around the room, she quite surprisingly exclaimed “I thought you would be taller”. Which puzzled me because who ever knew that a voice could be “tall”. And what if she had thought my voice sounded “short”? Would she have come in and said “I thought you would be shorter?” See what I mean? It’s all relative. Nonetheless, I did think it was a little bit of genius to dedicate the shortest day of the year to short people. Which, as these things almost always seem to do, got me thinking. If there was, and I’m not saying there should be, a National Shallow Person’s Day, what day would that be?

So right off the bat there are dates that simply have to be eliminated. Like January 15, or any day thereabouts lest by some unfortunate accident we were to overlap with Martin Luther King Day, a day that even a shallow person would not want to usurp. For that matter, anything close to Labour Day, President’s Day, the Queen’s birthday, Christmas and all other religious holidays, are off the table, mostly for obvious reasons that I shouldn’t have to explain here. I did give some consideration to the “Hallmark Card” days (well that’s what we call them in our house) like Mother’s and Father’s Day, Valentine’s and Halloween, the latter being a real contender until I realized there could be some expectation around costuming for the occasion.  The funny thing though was, the more I thought about the best choice of a day, the less able I was able to come up with anything remotely as clever as the ones I had just learned about.

And that’s when it happened. That’s when I realized that shallow people don’t succumb to convention. We’re not slaves to the calendar. No one can tell us which day should be ours and which day shouldn’t be. Afterall, we’re shallow. Isn’t life really mostly about us? So here’s what I say. Go ahead and pick your day. Any day you want, barring the ones mentioned above of course to avoid casting any sort of shadow on our kind. Own it. Make it yours. You deserve a day of your own. As a matter of fact, I’m making tomorrow my very own National Shallow Person’s Day. So, go ahead. Wish me a happy one. And I’ll be sure to wish you one too, if you tell me when it is of course. 

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Dec 08 2015
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It could happen to you


brainy-peopleI know I’ve said this before but at the risk of repeating myself, I thought I would mention that my Mother, kenahora, (don’t worry, you can check it out here.) recently had her 100th birthday. And if you can excuse the redundancy, you should also know that my Mother has three sisters who are, respectively, 96, 94 and 85 years old. Their Mother was 102. So to say I know something about living long is a bit of an understatement. I know a lot about living long. And well for that matter because, if I might say so, all of these ladies have lived and are living, very wonderful lives. Which, as Martha would say (and yes, I’ve said this before too), is a very good thing. Given the facts, it’s not all that surprising that people who know this story of mine jump to the somewhat dubious conclusion that I too will one day find myself, hammer and nail in hand, placing that elusive to most plaque from the Queen (or more likely, in my case, the King) on my living room wall. And while I might, I also might not because, as you are most likely aware, there are no guarantees in this or any other life and one never knows what one will face each and every day. It’s just the way it goes. What will be will be. Ca sera sera.

Nevertheless, not too long ago I found myself watching a docu/news show about longevity and the amazing research taking place that will, sooner than later, let all of us live to be 1000. That’s right. Scientists tell us that it is possible that someone who is alive today will still be alive 1000 years from now. So if you are reading this, it could happen to you. Apparently there are various ways for this to come to pass, most of which I don’t care to understand as they seem to demand some rather invasive medical procedures, and one of which involves downloading your brain into a computer which doesn’t seem quite so onerous and I would imagine, would be somewhat faster and require much less direct participation from me. It’s complicated but I suppose if you think you are still thinking, perhaps you are. Cogito ergo sum.  And I suppose it wouldn’t be all that bad. Especially if they could take that computer brain and put it into a fantastic robot body. I mean, imagine. Not only could you live for a 1000 years but you could do it in someone else’s hot body. Like Marilyn Monroe. Or Jennifer Lopez. Or perhaps Ms. Streisand which in my particular case, wouldn’t be much of a stretch or, from what I hear, much different. But as compelling as all of this might sound, as a shallow person I got thinking about the prospect of being stuck on this earth for a thousand years and decided there could be a considerable downside because knowing what I know, I have to ask, who really wants to live to be 1000? And the more I thought about it, the more reasons I came up with, so in true “shallow be my name” fashion, I thought I would take this opportunity to share some of the most persuasive of them with you. Here they are. My top 10, most persuasive reasons for not wanting to live to be 1000 at the end of which, I am confident, you truly will be careful for what you wish.

#1. If you can live to be 1000 so can that irritating neighbor of yours.
#2. You’re gonna need a year’s worth of stars to get a free one at Starbucks and that’s a lotta lattes.
#3. Survivor season 753, and Jeff Probst is still counting the votes.
#4. Gas is $700.00 a litre, food costs you a couple grand a week and you haven’t had a raise in 500 years.
#5. 1000 years old and you still haven’t won the lottery.
#6. Just how many times do you think you can feign excitement when you hear “Honey, I’m home”!
#7. Meatloaf again?
#8. If you’ve said this once you’ve said it a million times. Literally.
#9. Your brain has been downloaded to a computer and you’re living in a robot body. Think about it.
#10. And last but not least, I’ll still be writing this blog and you’ll still feel obligated to read it 1000 years from now.

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Nov 01 2015
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Informative

They Picked Me!

scalesHonestly, it had never once crossed my mind. But it happened. I suppose I should start by telling you that, in my new home I’ve adopted a few routines, one of which is trekking down from my office mid-afternoon to check the mail. It’s not a really big deal. It’s something I do, now that I can. Mostly there are no surprises, just the usual junk mail which, as I recall, came in pretty handy when we were packing up all our belongings but is of much less use to me now. Most days I could probably forego the trip altogether but since I paid Canada Post the required fee to, apparently, make sure that all this junk mail got rerouted to my current address, I feel some obligation to at least retrieve it on a regular basis. I suppose it is nice to know that I could have ordered “two pizzas for the price of one” had I still lived anywhere near the designated delivery zone, which I don’t. So I was more than a little surprised the other day when I reached into the mailbox and discovered a rather official looking envelope with the now familiar yellow “reroute” label firmly attached, and a return address that made it quite clear that when I opened up this letter, I was going to find out all of the details I needed to know about where, when and how I should present myself for jury duty.

That’s right. I was summoned for jury duty by the province in which I no longer live. Thirty-eight years I lived in that town and not once did anyone ask me who was, or was not guilty of any particular crime. And now, all of a sudden, out of the blue, now that I no longer have to endure the bitter cold of the north winds, they picked me! Now they want me to decide the fate of some hooligan who had nothing better to do on a Saturday night than pilfer a poor, law-abiding citizen’s house. Or hold-up a gas station. Worse yet. They might ask me to decide whether some white collar guy who cooked the books so no one would know he had embezzled funds from his employer to cover his opulent lifestyle and nasty little gambling habit, should spend his remaining years sleeping on a cot beside “Dirty Joe” whose nickname is well deserved since (and I’ve only heard this third hand) showers are not mandatory in the slammer. And even if they were, no one would dare get close enough to Joe to make that happen. I’m no accountant. I wasn’t even good at math. How am I supposed to know if he was really entitled to his windfall or not? Besides, I have trouble some mornings deciding what colour t-shirt to put on, which for some people might seem like a reasonable dilemma, but not for me. The duds in my closet are pretty much black and white, which most of the aforementioned decisions I imagine, are not.

Fortunately for all involved, and that includes, me, my fellow jurors and the alleged culprits, (note I have no preconceived notions as to their guilt) I no longer reside in that province which, if I have read all of the instructions correctly, will disqualify me from my civic duty. At least I’ve applied to have it disqualify me from my civic duty and hopefully the clerk who makes those decisions will agree with my assessment of the situation.  Not that I’ve changed that much since I left although things are quite a bit more laid back over here on the Island and perhaps, how should I put this, a bit more forgiving. Anyway, I’m guessing I’m off the hook but that hasn’t stopped me from thinking about how this all might have gone down if I wasn’t. You see, getting called for jury duty doesn’t mean that getting the gig is a slam dunk. You have to be chosen, the basis of which I understand is imparted to a select few, much like the code shared by magicians. Which left me with a heapful of questions, the answers to which would be dependant on whether I wanted to get picked or not. Like is it better to be dress prissy or maybe a little too hip? Although, pretty much regardless of circumstance, it’s never a good thing for someone my age to try to look a little too hip. Should I appear quiet or perhaps somewhat outspoken? Do they want a leader or a follower? Since I’ve always kind of danced to my own drum I’m not sure how to look like either of those. I suppose if I didn’t want to leave anything to chance I could look around when they called my name once or twice and finally respond with something like “I’m sorry. I just zoned out there for a few minutes. What was it you were asking?”  I began to think that this whole thing was just one big decision after another, culminating in perhaps the most important decision of all. And that scared me quite a bit. Until it occurred to me. They would call me to the front of the room and it would go something like this:

Jury Picker: Please state your name
Me: Wendy
Jury Picker: And what do you do?
Me. I write a blog about being shallow. It’s called “Shallow be My Name”.
Jury Picker: Thank you very much for your time. You can be dismissed
Me: But wait. I haven’t even told you where I live yet.

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Oct 15 2015
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Informative

Never Hug a Stranger

no hugsSo I’m watching a special on Mary Tyler Moore while writing this latest blog post (it’s my kind of multitasking). Before I know it, what should come on but the most famous scene of all time, the group hug that takes place as Mary and her station mates close the door at WJM TV for the very last time. Go figure!. That’s exactly what I was writing about. No, not Mary Tyler Moore. I mean, I could write about her but I’d need more time to think about it.  What I happened to be writing about at that very same moment, and this seems to be beyond coincidence to me, is hugging. You see, I’m not exactly sure why, but there’s been quite a lot of hugging going on these days. Maybe it has something to do with this move of mine. Apparently convention dictates that when someone says goodbye they need to do so within inches of someone else’s body. Then again, it could have something to do with that 100th birthday I just attended in my old hometown, as saying hello seems to have the same effect on people as saying goodbye. They need to do it at very close quarters. And that’s something I just don’t understand. Mostly, and you can ask just about anyone who knows me, because I don’t like to hug. Not one little bit.

For some time now I have wondered why I have such an aversion to hugging. Sure. I’m shallow. But isn’t that all the more reason for me to go through the motions of what for most people, seems to have become an obligatory gesture regardless of the occasion? Because let’s face it. People hug other people whether they’re happy or sad, coming or going, winners or losers, meeting old friends or new acquaintances, really just about for any reason these days. There are even those who want to give away hugs for free. It’s become quite ubiquitous and, if I might be so bold to suggest, at least in some cases, a little hollow. So you would think I could get on board with that. But I can’t.

As long as I can remember (and that’s quite a long time on some days) there’s been a social norm around personal space. When we talk to people we like to have a foot or two between us, perhaps more depending on circumstances. We need that little piece of airspace to feel comfortable. So why is it that, all of a sudden, it’s ok to cross that imaginary line at the drop of a hat? Many times, for what seems to me to be some rather spurious reasons. Where a quick shake of the hand used to suffice now, before we know it, we find ourselves locked in an embrace with someone whose name has just alluded us. And it’s awkward. Because there’s always that “to hug or not to hug” moment when you’re not sure what’s going to happen next. Like when you’ve just spent five or so minutes in conversation with someone you know, I might add not all that well, and  you foolishly mention your impending move. Just as you are ready to wrap things up, turn and go on your merry way, you notice your compatriot taking a slight step forward, arms starting to raise from their side. You  think you know what’s going to happen next but how can you be sure? I don’t know about you but for me the upshot of this rather confusing moment is a somewhat inelegant dance in which I do my best to sidestep the inevitable. If I’m lucky, I’ll manage to escape with something that resembles a rather klutzy pat on the back, excusing myself with a smile and an apologetic “I don’t hug”, in the nicest way that I can.  If I’m not, well I’ll end up locked in the arms of someone I hardly know or worse yet, who I haven’t seen for a long time not entirely without reason, wondering how a couple of seconds can possibly go by as slowly as these.

There was a point in time that I was convinced that my aversion to hugging could be attributed to my somewhat less than average stature. You see when people like me hug, or are hugged by people like many of you, our face often ends up somewhere other than where we would like it to be. This is particularly true if there is a discrepancy of a foot or more between us. Just let me say that it can become a little uncomfortable. And while this was a plausible enough explanation for my hugging disdain, it didn’t really seem to fill the bill in all cases because while many people are, not everyone is taller than me. For the most part, I remained stumped as to why I disliked hugging so much. That is until I met up with an old cousin of mine who I hadn’t seen for many, many, years.

Remember that 100 year birthday I’ve been talking so much about? Well it turned out to be quite the family get together. As is oft to happen at these things, one has the chance to renew acquaintances with people they haven’t seen for a very long time. I get talking with this cousin of mine and we start to reminisce about our Fathers. Now let me  say that my Father was one of the wisest men I have ever known. So my cuz and I are sharing stories, remembering all the good times, working out the family history, mostly wondering why we don’t do this more often, when he turns to me and says “your Father always told me that our family makes great strangers”.  And that’s when it hit me. That’s when it all started to make sense.  In that one simple statement I found my answer to the question I have been asking myself for so long. Of course I hate hugging.  And honestly, no one should ever try to hug a stranger.  

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Looking for the update? You’ll find it here.

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