Seek and Ye Shall Find

One day Ter spoke to me from the kitchen. “You may have noticed the box of little meat pies in the freezer.”

I hadn’t, so without looking up from my crossword, I replied, “I don’t look on the upper shelf.”

“It’s not on the upper shelf,” she said. “It’s on the lower shelf, with your tea treats.”

Wait a minute. That’s my go-to shelf, where Ziploc bags of cookies, tarts, brownies and muffins are stacked one atop the other. I go in there twice a day, yet I had seen no box of little meat pies.

I finally looked up at her, puzzling. “Under the pizza crust?”

“No,” she said patiently, “on top of the muffins.”

I had taken out a muffin for breakfast the previous day. You would think I’d have noticed a sizeable box of little meat pies, but nope. I hadn’t.

I can’t even say that was a one-off. A week or two earlier, I’d spied a box of apple cinnamon Cheerios next to the box of originals on top of the fridge and asked Ter when she had bought it.

“Two days ago,” she said.

I’d eaten a bowl of originals that morning and not seen the bright green box standing beside the bright yellow one? Really? Really?

If I’m not looking for it, apparently I won’t see it. This applies to more than meat pies and cereal boxes, incidentally. In this era of extreme hyper-sensitivity (hyper-hyper-sensitivity?), eventually someone somewhere will take offense at something you say or do. Some folks are so touchy that they’ll even take offense on behalf of others, without consulting those others, by the way, but merely on the presumption that others might be offended if they knew what had been said or done. The self-appointed PC police go digging for titbits to be offended about, then spread the word. People get upset about things they had no idea existed. Sometimes that’s good. We must be aware of what we can change for the betterment of all. At its worst, however, it’s petty, destructive, frustrating, unproductive, or just plain stupid.

Which brings me to my point:

Taking offense is a choice. If I’m not looking to be offended, insulted or pissed off, chances are I won’t be offended, insulted or pissed off. I admit, personal circumstances can make me more sensitive than usual—being human is a tougher gig than any of us imagined when we signed up for it—but in the long run, the decision to be offended is mine, no matter what the perpetrator’s intent.

Forget ignorance. Oblivion is bliss.

Word O’ the Day

Once in a while, I come across a word – like “flânerie” or “cozen” – that is so good it becomes part of my vocabulary. My all-time favourite board game is Balderdash, where players try to guess the definition of a lesser known word. Everyone writes down what they think, and the options are read aloud along with the true meaning. The player who guesses the correct one gets a point. (The same game was known in ye olden days as “Dictionary” and played with, you guessed it, a dictionary and scrap paper.) Some meanings are obvious. Others, not so much. Therein lies the fun of the game.

People are extremely creative when it comes to supposing what a word might mean. One of my favourites was my brother-in-law’s attempt at “costard”: the villainous offspring of an aunt or uncle. Or words to that effect.

Another was my older older brother’s shot at “pyrope”: a rope for lassoing runaway pies.

And incorrect though it is, I still use the word “bagge” when referring to the ground crew who handle luggage at the airport.

Each morning, I open my email to discover Merriam-Webster’s word of the day. Many of them I already know. Others go straight to the delete folder (I am at work, after all). But there are occasions when the WOTD is so intriguing that I have to know what it means.

The best one last week was “crapulous”, an adjective that sounded so applicable to my life of late that I had to pursue it. But does it mean what it sounds to mean? In the tradition of Balderdash, choose one of these three definitions:

“sick from excessive indulgence in liquor”

“requiring skimming, as in a soup or stock”

“the opposite of fabulous”

On your marks, get set … Look it up!

No Foolin’

I have never, ever appreciated practical jokes. Admittedly, I laugh at those played between characters on a sitcom, but gags unleashed on innocent people for the amusement of others is cruel. I am enraged when my alarm clock goes off; the adrenaline jolt from being the butt of a practical joke might turn me homicidal if it doesn’t give me a heart attack first. I can’t imagine anyone likes being the subject of someone else’s prank—unless the prank turns on the prankster and then who looks the idiot?

So April Fools’ is my least favourite calendar occasion. I hold Valentine’s Day in higher esteem, and how little I feel about February 14 is no secret. I do, however, enjoy the irony of April 1 being the first day of the government’s new fiscal year; it seems appropriate, given the unbridled shenanigans we all endure as public servants and/or good taxpaying citizens.

Personal feelings aside, I recognize some folks have a softer view of April Fools’ Day and might enjoy being duped. They may also expect it, which would negate the tone of a more serious piece should such an individual happen on this blog. Which is why I decided to post my (sort of) Easter-themed Sunday piece tomorrow instead.

Oscar Wilde said that life is too important to be taken seriously. Stephen Hawking said life would be tragic if it wasn’t so funny. I won’t deny that (insert deity here) has a sense of humour since if the Creator of All There Is didn’t have one, neither would we. I’m grateful for my ability to laugh at myself, to laugh at life’s absurdities, and to laugh at other people’s perceptions of same. I hope I have never laughed at someone else’s unsuspecting expense, and the best (or worst) practical joke I can think of it is to forward my work phone to the Premier’s office. I won’t do it, though. After all, the Premier doesn’t answer his own phone. A harried and unsuspecting civil servant does, and would probably not appreciate the joke.

Happy Fiscal New Year, folks.

The Hint of a Smile

I’ve been practicing yoga since January. I follow a thirty minute program on DVD two or three times a week. Each session ends with a ten minute meditation guided by the instructor. In the beginning, it was easier for me to stretch my body and breathe. The meditation was harder because my mind jumps around like a hyper Jack Russell and seven months ago, I was still very much controlled by my thoughts.

For instance, at the end of the practice, the instructor invites us to bring our hands together at our heart centre, close our eyes, and breathe. “Feel the hint of a smile on your face,” she says—and when I first heard that, I nearly blew apart resisting the urge to laugh. Oh, puh-leese! “The hint of a smile?” Seriously? Come on!

But I did it because a) I was alone, and b) I was determined to adhere to the practice no matter what, and guess what? Something strange occurred.

I felt happier. Instantly. And not just because the brutal floor poses were over. What the …?

Over the next few months, I continued to persevere and gradually my cynical snotitude melted away like the tension in my neck during the ear-to-shoulder pose. Even now, today, after completing the practice and listening to the meditation, I summoned a smile to my face. And you know what? It never fails! Calling a smile equals instant happy!

I’m not talking goofy grin here; just a little curve to the lips in a peaceful moment. They say it takes fewer muscles to smile than it does to frown. If the path of least resistance is your preference (as it is mine), you might want to give it a try, just for fun. Just to see what happens.

I bet you’ll feel better for it.

With love,

The Best Medicine

“I can’t stop laughing.”

Nicole often says this when she’s posted a funny on her F***book page. Whether or not I get the joke, her statement always cheers me. The mental image of my dear poet friend doubled over and howling is a guaranteed smile. And if I happen to get the joke, I do the same thing.

I knew someone who once observed that crazy people don’t smile. If that’s true, then few truly crazy folks have crossed my path. Borderline is another story.

I’ve just survived another fiscal year end at work. It happens every year, and every year I warn my colleagues to beware, for I will lose my sense of humour in the crunch of balancing my budget to my forecast. In fact, it’s practically a given that anyone forced to manage financials on March 31 will do the same thing. I got through it okay this time (I think), but others lost their warmth and charm while struggling to get last-minute payments into a balky system before the books closed at midnight. We will recover. We always do. But man, it’s rough because it permeates life outside the office as well, and when that happens … grim barely begins to describe it.

I’m pretty sure that laughter is a gift that comes with us from before. I sincerely hope that we take it with us when we leave. I can’t imagine any sort of existence without it. I can’t imagine this existence without it, and I am extremely grateful for people who can make me smile or, better yet, laugh until my ribs ache. I appreciate a TV series that inspires one good belly laugh per episode (and it needn’t be a “comedy” series, either). A TV series that does it more than once per episode is gold. When a comic dies, like David Brenner, Robin Williams, and more recently, Garry Shandling, I sense the dimming of the world as a whole, because funny people make it a brighter place.

Laughs in literature are even more precious. Writing comedy is difficult. A lot of humour is in the delivery, so how do you make someone laugh at words on a page? It’s a gift, I tell you!

I was born into a group of very funny people. My sibs are each hilarious in his/her own fashion—even on a red-faced rant, my wee sister will crack me up with an unexpected turn of phrase. My brothers are wry and dry, and my older sister can tell a story with such wit that you remember it years later. And I’m pretty droll, myself. Even when a situation is impossibly contrary, I am able to inject some humour into it.

Except at fiscal year end.

Make ʼem Laugh

The world got a little darker yesterday. David Brenner, my favourite comedian of all time, passed away from cancer at the age of 78. He was a ground breaker in the 70s, with a true gift for pointing out the absurdities in life.

I loved his south Philly accent, his flashy style and big Buick grin; he laughed at his own jokes and to this day, many of his quotes remain relevant; proof that genuine humour is truly timeless.

Regrettably, I lost sight of him over the past twenty years, though I did reacquaint myself with him via YouTube in 2011. I had also bookmarked his website with every intention of visiting on occasion. Just two days ago, I referred to his story about how the female mosquito doesnʼt buzz, but as she is the biter, if youʼre lying in bed on a hot summer night and you hear nothing, be afraid. I have no idea if thatʼs a fact, but the laughs were undeniably real. So many have rooted in my memory, so many belly laughs and hysterical tears. I remember more of his jokes than I do of anyone elseʼs (with the possible exception of my younger older brother). Thereʼs the legacy, right? That his humour is part of my history and part of my joy. A lot of people will be grateful that he lived.

Count me among them.