Tag Archives: Life

Metal head and the missed opportunity

Last week The Musician had an orthodontist appointment.  He has many, many orthodontist appointments, and he is always a rockstar before, during and after them.  I don’t know if there is a kid alive who is more into his braces and what they’re going to do for him than he is.  He has some serious jaw and alignment problems, so this whole process is going to take the better part of about 6 years….we’re just into year 2, I think.  So yeah, it’s a long haul.

Anyway this latest appointment was a doozy – they made some adjustments, put spacers between his molars, so now he can’t actually close his mouth all the way, and did a bunch of other stuff to him.  And, as I said before, rockstar.  He’s awesome.  Later though, his mouth and head started to hurt, and he couldn’t really eat anything that wasn’t the consistency of porridge.  Still he soldiered on.  The next morning, he just looked so sad.  He was tired, and his mouth hurt.  Tried to eat a soft egg and bread – no toast, too crunchy – and he sort of was able to get that down.  We gave him some Tylenol and he went to school with something just as soft in his lunch.  Poor kid.

Later that day I was talking to a friend who has a little guy who is almost 2.  She said he was getting his molars, so that was throwing off his routine with sleep and eating and all that.  And I started thinking about my boy – almost 13, but with similar symptoms, just a very different cause. 

And it makes sense that when I saw him come downstairs looking so sad and tired I just wanted to scoop him up and get his blanky and cuddle him on the couch.  Which is what I would have done when he was 2 and teething and feeling so yucky.  And I can still do that, of course.  He does like a good cuddle even now.  But there’s just less time for that, especially in the mornings when there are lunches to make, homework to finish, showers to be had, and all those school and work day morning things.

By the end of the day he was feeling much better – the Tylenol worked, he had started to get used to the spacers and the feeling of all the adjustments.  Dinner was no problem, he went to karate and hung out with this friends.

And I had missed my chance to cuddle a rockstar.  It’s a good lesson to have learned, though.  Time.  There never seems to be enough, but it’s important to use the time you’ve got wisely.  Because you just never know.


Oh yes, it’s building.  All I need to do is 9 more posts – well, 8 after this one I guess – and I am getting to the end of my ideas.  When I started posting every day, I was going along really well, with (mostly) interesting posts, many of them sitting in draft, awaiting the light of day, and it was great.  Now, thanks to the fact that I cannot seem to get a goddamned good night of sleep, no matter what I do, the well, she is running dry. 

Sleep.  I used to take it for granted, you know?  As you do when you’re young and healthy and childless and all that.  As the adult years creep in, bringing more responsibilities and stresses to life, sleep patterns change.  Now you do – or at least I did – spend some nights lying awake worrying about this and that – job, house, partner, money, ageing parents, all that.  And then, if you have children, there are more changes, more disruptions to the world of sleep.  For a few years, really.  And I look back on those years of sleepless nights with a sense of wonder.  Not as in the wonder that is my children, no.  More like it’s a fucking wonder I didn’t seriously harm someone or myself when I was spending months at a time going on less than 4 hours sleep each night. 

This year particularly has been a bad one for sleep.  So much shit going down, really since the beginning of the year, causing endless sleepless nights or fits of sleep interrupted by insanely disturbing dreams or aches and pains that lift me out of fitful sleep.  So even when I do manage to get a solid 6-7 hours?  I still feel like I’ve been hit by a truck in the mornings.

I think I need a vacation.

Customer Service-R-Us

A couple of weeks ago I decided that I needed to buy a couple of new bras.  Stop reading now if you’re easily put off by mentions of lingerie, etc.  I mean it.

Okay, if you’re still with me… I had good luck with bras from Change last time I needed them, so off I went.  I have recently been fitted, so I chose two that I liked in my size, tried them on, found that they both fit and flattered, and so I bought them.  All in all about a 20 minute shopping experience.  Done and done.

Flash forward two days later, I am getting dressed to go to work, I decide to wear one of the new bras, and it’s comfy and it’s all good.  When I go to take it off later in the evening though?  Bang – strap breaks.  WTF, seriously?  Brand new bra?  Aaargh.  Okay, so I check it out – it’s clearly a part that was folded over and stitched in place – these bras are all “convertible” – which always cracks me up because you know convertibles are topless -hahaha!  *ahem* Anyway, the bra works as a criss-cross back, so there is gadgetry that allows that, and it looked as if one of the straps wasn’t sewn as tightly as it should have been.

So, okay I’ve got the receipt, all I need to do is go back and exchange it, right?  Which isn’t as easy as it sounds, there seemed to have been forces at work all week to keep me away from the store, and to keep me from having any time whatsoever to exchange it.  Until last night.  So armed with my malfunctioning bra, I hit the mall.  And on the way there I am going through the possible scenarios: they won’t accept returns; they’ll think I wore it for the entire two weeks and wore it out; they’ll blame me for breaking the strap.  Seriously, who does this?  Anyway, I arrived at the store, waited for the clerk to finish with a customer and then approached the desk.  And here’s how it went down:

me:  “hi, I have something to return”

her: “oh?”

me: thinking *oh this is it, there’s no way this exchange is happening* “um, yes, I bought this bra about 10 days ago and wore it once – it was great – then when I took it off, the strap broke”  *now showing her the bra in question*

her: “OMG what?  I…I…have never seen that happen before!”

me: again, thinking *uh huh, and so it’s my fault???*

her:  “Wow, I am SO sorry this happened to you!”

me: “uh…what?”

her:  “I mean that’s awful, there’s no way this should happen, let me go grab another one in your size, unless you want to try something else, if you’re worried that this might be a flaw in the product??”

me: “um, no I’m sure it was a fluke, the same one is fine”

her: “ok, here you go, give it a try, it’s a slightly different style but same pattern and fit, so see what you think”

me: “uh – okay…”

So in I go to the change room and she’s back there too doing some sorting or whatever, and chatting with me through the door:

her: “I just feel so badly that you had to come back and boy I’d be angry if I were you, but you’re so…pleasant about it!”

me: “well, I guess…you know, things like this can happen, so um…yeah, it’s ok, just glad it didn’t happen when I was wearing it you know?”

her:  “OMG I hadn’t even thought about that, how horrible that would have been!  Again, I’m really sorry, and thanks for being so kind about the whole thing!”

me: “uh, again, it’s no problem”

This would be what I call probably the best – if at times a little gushy – customer service I have ever experienced.  Ever.  I even scanned it for sarcasm and it came back clean.  No questions asked, no “wow this makes my evening soooo much harder, bitch” nothing at all except “I am sorry that the product we sold you was not top quality, and I will make it right”.

So Change?  You’ve got me – and my boobs – for life.

Attempting to breathe

So you know how when your life is just kind of going along and you’re getting things done – you’re working, enjoying family life, exercising, shopping, paying the bills and making lunches and it’s all kind of just regular, day-to-day stuff and nothing too out of the ordinary, but that’s ok because it’s all good, you’re just kind of living your life?  Yeah, me neither.  At least not this year.

This year, for the most part, has been pretty shittastic.  And I understand that yes, it could be so much worse, and yes, there are people who struggle much more than we do.  I get that.  But in a year when you’ve already lost a parent, and then your husband – who is normally beyond healthy – has to spend 3 days in hospital with an infection of the lining of his heart, causing severe chest pain and shortness of breath…  You see what I’m getting at? 

So he’s going to be ok, but his recovery is going to be slow.  And in the meantime, life continues at its own breakneck speed, and every so often I need to remind myself that yes, it could be worse.  And ask myself not only “did I eat today?” but more importantly “did I breathe today?”.  Because I know I can stand to miss a meal or two, but air is very necessary.  And we have people who are concerned for us, and people who want to help, which gives me warm feelings to know that our friends are there and helping to make things right in the world for us.

And then I take the recycling and green cart out this morning and see that the passenger window of our car is smashed and an iPod and connector gone.  Aaaaaand once again it seems like life couldn’t get any worse, and the warm fuzzies I had for humanity just yesterday have had the life choked out of them. 

Shit happens, as they say.  And I get that.  But I am so tired of shit happening to us.  That’s all.

Weekends = Cool. Yes.

Yesterday was the big Tiger-Cats game where The Genealogist and The Musician appeared at half-time in the martial arts demonstration team.  Mighty cool.  Both the performance and the temperature.  Brrr it’s getting chilly ’round these parts, that’s for sure.  Then today was a gardening kinda day, with some serious tidying up of the front gardens and the planting of some mums and asters – very, very pretty and also quite cool. 

Then I spent some time roasting tomatoes, onions and garlic à la Michael Smith from Chef at Home, which I then turned into tomato sauce.  Mmmmmm….tasty and oh, so cool.

Now, in honour of the coolness that was my weekend I offer this:

And tomorrow is Monday.  So not cool.

It was just like a vacation…

So I was off for five days over Easter.  Five.  Friday and Monday were holidays for my workplace which is already sweet enough, and then I just up and decided to take Thursday off too, so as to have even more time to enjoy.  And enjoy I did.  The weather was spectacular, which, can I just say?  NEVER HAPPENS TO ME.  Whether it’s a day or a week or a month, you can guarantee that the weather will be craptastic, so it was particularly exciting to have all this time off and to actually be able to get outside and not freeze my ass off or get rained on, or attacked by locusts, or whatever.  Awesome.

In other daily news type stuff, my bus driver got lost this morning.  Not lost-lost, just forgot to take a turn where she was supposed to, causing much panic on her part, calling in to bus control, asking what to do now.  Turns out, just um go around the block and back to the place where you missed the turn duh.  So for those of us who need to catch a connecting bus, well too bad, that ship has sailed.  Or bus has left, whatever.  So I was 20 minutes late for work, so no big really, but you know what?  That’s about the 5th time that has happened to me this year.  Always different bus drivers, sometimes different routes, and often me going up to the front saying politely: “um, excuse me, but I’m not sure if there’s a route change that we don’t know about, but the bus normally turns down that street back there so what the hell, do I have to do everything?”  Or, you know, words to that effect.  I don’t know, man.  I rode the bus all through high school, university, to work during my college years and not once do I remember a bus driver zoning out and missing a turn, going off route (without some sort of reason – accident, watermain break, etc.)  So why now?  What is going on with the bus drivers in my city?  Especially now when there is a disembodied voice telling you what the next stop is, they sometimes still go the wrong way?  Are they even listening to that pleasant disembodied voice?  Or is it like when you’re driving home from work, say, and you decide before you get in the car that you’re going to stop at the market on the way home and pick up a few things, and then you just wind up driving straight home because you’re on auto-pilot?  Maybe it’s like that.  Which doesn’t completely instill confidence, that’s for sure.  I guess I’m old-fashioned, but I kind of like my bus drivers to be, you know, paying attention.  That sort of thing. 

But whatever, it’s still the best way to travel, in my opinion.  Because a monthly bus pass – $87.  Being able to blame your driver on your being late for work – priceless.

Guerilla my dreams

So that actually wasn’t spring after all.  Well technically, according to the calendar it is now spring, but around here we are back to 4C and rain, which causes me to whine and shiver and gives me a pissy headache.  But, you know, onward and everything.

I am one of those people who does a lot of stuff, but if I am ever asked point blank “what are your hobbies?” I have no list at the ready.  Karate?  Sure, I do that, but is it a hobby?  I don’t know.  Maybe, I guess, if you consider sweating a lot and throwing people around a hobby.  Gardening?  Yeah, I do that too, but not in an organized fashion with a real plan or even anything resembling continuity.  I used to do yoga, but again…hobby or exercise or lifestyle?  I’m not sure.  Reading?  Um, doesn’t everyone read?  I have always kind of thought of reading as a skill as opposed to a pasttime or hobby.  You know, a large percentage of the population can read, so it’s not rare or anything.  And again, what constitutes a bona fide hobby anyway?  Wikipedia (I know) defines the word hobby thusly: “A hobby is an activity or interest that is undertaken for pleasure or relaxation, often in one’s spare time.”  Huh.  Ok, well if you put it that way. 

If you ever visit Michael’s or any other crafty-type store, you might think that the true definition of hobby is “Pursuit of an activity or interest that will cost you shitloads of money, leaving you unfulfilled and with a whole lotta crap in your house that you will probably need a whole other room for eventually”.  Because wow.  In the past couple of years I have watched the scrapbooking section of the Michael’s I occasionally frequent go from an aisle or two to nearly half the store.  Want to find coloured paper?  Well you can’t.  You can find acid-free scrapbooking pages in a variety of rainbow colours for about a thousand dollars a package.  But just want some green or yellow paper for everyday use?  Did I just hear you scoff at me, Michael’s employee?  Yes, I think I did.

I have to be careful, because I know a lot of scrapbookers (actually just saying that makes my teeth hurt) and they are hardcore, people.  They speak a different language, they use special expensive scissors (that look to the uninitiated anyway, just like regular scissors!) they spend a fortune on embellishments and stickers for their pages, they speak in special coded languages about weights and types of paper and they attend weekends away where they engage in special scrapbook activities and events (I assume, anyway).  And for all my mocking and scoffing at their way of life?  I am actually, deep down, a little envious.

Not of the forking out thousands of dollars for stuff, of course.  But more for the ability of the scrapbooker to organize their activities, family events and outings into photo essays, complete with appropriate slogans and nicely crafted cut-outs of relevant items of interest.  I find the whole thing fascinating and repulsive at the same time.  And while I occasionally will wander the aisles of the scrapbooking paraphenalia in awe, and browse through my friends’ well-organized scrapbooks replete with smiling babies surrounde by hearts and flowers, I am never, ever tempted to start down that path.  Why?  Because I know it is something that would set me up for complete and utter failure.

I started this post by saying I am a person who does a lot of stuff, and it’s true.  But I am entirely guerilla in my approach to these things.  Take knitting for example.  I have a friend who is an excellent knitter.  I decided I wanted to knit.  I bought needles and yarn and busted out a whole bunch of scarves last fall, some of which were nice enough to actually give away as Christmas presents.  But would it occur to me to, you know, take a course or learn to read a pattern?  Hell, no.  It’s all about being in the moment.  I want to knit!  NOW!  And I do.  And I will again, and eventually I might even branch out to an actual pattern, but it’s the initial burst of excitement that does it for me.  Gardening is the same.  Last spring I created a bed and planted a bunch of stuff.  Was it stuff that grows well together?  Maybe, maybe not.  It was just seeds I bought at a garden show on a whim.  Let’s have lettuces!  Cilantro!  And OMG tomatillos!  Why the hell not?!?  Yay gardening!

And you know, my guerilla approach has worked for me, for the most part.  Even my foray into yoga was guerilla-based, as was my introduction to running.  (Ask me about the time I went to return some books to the library and came home with a new pair of running shoes and all signed up for a 10 week learn-to-run course with a 5km race at the end of the 10 weeks.)  So stuff works out in the end for me, but there is something about the scrapbook world that just dooms me to failure, I can feel it.  Maybe it’s because my thousands upon thousands of photos and souvenirs are in boxes in my attic.  Maybe because my parents’ thousand upon thousands of photos and souvenirs are in similar boxes and suitcases in their attic.  I don’t seem to have the scrapbooking gene, perhaps. 

And besides, what’s the fun of beginning a hobby only to continue it?  And be good, and successful at it?  And complete entire projects from beginning to end?  Why would I want to do that when there are so many other things to dive into guerilla-style?  Like photography!  Or baking!  Or sewing!  Or wine appreciation!

Actually I might start on that last one tonight.  Suck it, scrapbookers.

ETA:  After I posted this, I realized that the premise of the post reminded me of something I had read previously.  So I did some digging and lo and behold, the Pop Culture Librarian did this “lack of a list of hobbies you can just bust out for people when they ask”-type post first, way back in 2007.  Clearly I have no original thoughts.  So props, kudos and apologies.  And everyone needs to go read the PCL on a regular basis, because she is outstanding.  That is all.

A clean desk is the sign of a what?

Since it’s the end of the year and even more precisely, the end of a decade, I have been taking the time here at work to do a bit of housecleaning.  Or deskcleaning I guess it is.  (and incidentally, did you catch that?  Still blogging from work.  Santa clearly did not get the memo about the adorable netbook I so desperately need)  So where was I?  Yes, deskcleaning.  I am a fairly organized person, but when it comes to my desk, I seem to have trouble.  Sometimes it’s not entirely my fault.  People give me things.  Articles, pieces of paper, drafts of patient education materials, handbooks.  For the most part I manage to file things accordingly or give them back to their owners when possible, but every so often, shit gets away from me and I wind up with stacks of paper and other stuff that I just can’t seem to clear.  So yesterday and today I have been spending a good chunk of quality time with the surface of my desk; clearing, filing, dusting (omg ewww…), wiping surfaces with lovely Method French Lavender-scented wipes (I am totally serious), and just generally getting the place shipshape in time for the new year.  And I have to admit that I am loving it, and am going to do my best to keep it this way for the entire year.  Ahaha – no really.

When I was doing my library skooling, I did a placement at a special library.  Which is, for those of you who aren’t hip to the ‘brary-speak, a library that is part of an organization or company, as opposed to a public, school, academic, etc. library.  So not special as in “awww, special!” just, you know, specialIZED.  Or something.  Anyway, I was working there for about a month, and was paired with a lovely woman in cataloguing who was rather eccentric in the best possible ways.  She was very smart, had an amazing sense of style which had nothing to do with the 20th century, and she was extremely good at helping me understand subject cataloguing.  Which is pretty awesome because while I have mad library skillz, they do not lie in the cataloguing.  But, by the time I was finished with this placement, I had actually grown to enjoy it.  And even considered applying for cataloguing jobs.  Yeah, she was that good.

The one thing I remember most about her was her desk.  It was always clean.  Not during work hours, where she’d have zillions of books and papers on it in order to do her job, but at the end of every day she would straighten and organize and only then would she shut off her computer and make her way home.  This fascinated me to no end.  And not only would her desk be clean, but she had the habit of lining up her pencils and pens (she only ever had one or two on the go at any time) vertically in the centre of the desk, in preparation for the next day.  The whole process was so zen, so ritualized.  And do you know what happened?  By the end of my time there, I was doing the exact same thing.  Clearing things away, straightening, EVEN LINING UP MY PENS.  And each morning I came back in to work I felt this sense of calm, as the quiet writing tools greeted me, grounding me and allowing me to get right down to business.

So, what happened?  Why have I lost that sense of order? 

Have you ever had a job where you had to look busy all the time?  Even if you’re checking the movie listings online or reading blogs or whatever because you really have nothing to do, even after you’ve asked for stuff to do?  I spent many years in jobs like that, and it seemed that the more files you had on your desk, the more journals that were open to interesting (and work-related) articles, the more pieces of paper that were stacked up around you meant that you were working hard and were busy.  Those kind of jobs?  Are soul-sucking and I have had more than my share.  But now, I am in a fantastic job where I am busy most of the time and if I’m not, it’s ok to take an extended lunch or read a couple of blogs.  It’s real grown-up work, and the only reason I have a fortress of paper around me now is that it’s become habit.  So what better way to start the new year than to make a fresh start, to file the articles, put away the journals and shred the papers that need to be shredded.  And, of course, make a resolution to never let it get that bad again.  So now, the old “A clean desk is the sign of a sick mind” quote?  Does not apply.  Think of the calming properties of a clean desk, think of arriving in the morning to a desk with nothing staring at you, nothing commanding you to get right to work on this or that project before you have even taken off your coat.  Feels pretty damned good to me.

Lining up your pencils is optional.

‘Tis the season to be…shaming?

I was at The Artist’s school Holiday Concert this morning before hauling ass up to work.  Yes, I have become one of *those* parents.  The ones who leave as soon as their kid’s bit is done.  I admit it.  I used to scoff at those parents back, you know, when I had a part-time job allowing me to be flexible, or when I was unemployed and therefore able to be just about anywhere at any given time.  “Wow, how hard is it to wait another 20 minutes until the whole show is over?” I used to think in my mildly superior way.  Well, yeah, actually?  It can be very hard.  Especially when you need to catch a bus to catch another bus and there is no one to hold down the fort for you.  So that was me, ducking out as soon as the last notes were sung.  Which in my case, wasn’t too bad, since it never fails that my kids are always among the last classes to perform.  C’est la vie, I guess.  Anyway, The Artist, by virtue of his height, was in the back row, so it made it hard to get good photos of him.  He did a nice little sway to the music, which was awesome, and he saw me and his Nana sitting in the 5th row, so he knew we were there beaming up at him. 

But all of this was after what I think is probably the worst bastardization of a holiday song I’ve ever heard.  Now, I have no idea if this is a for reals song, or if this is something the teacher of this other class made up but, however it came to be, it was appalling.  It was all about Santa crashing through the roof of some kid’s bedroom – good so far, huh?  But it gets better!  Sung to the tune of  “Jingle Bells”, this was the chorus:

Santa Claus, Santa Claus, you are much too fat!

I was sleeping peacefully and now my bed is flat!

Santa Claus, Santa Claus, how much do you weight?

I’m glad I’m not a reindeer, who has to pull your sleigh!

WTF?  Since when has Santa started to be subjected to the Jenny Craiging of our culture?  There was more, too, about him shouting “I want a piece of cake!” and then when the sleigh took off again, it was flying really low, and wobbled, etc., cos you know, there’s a fat guy in it!  I just sat there with my jaw on the sticky floor and was astounded by the HIGH-sterical laughter around me.  Wha’?  Now, of course Santa has always been “chubby and round, a right jolly old elf”, and ok, we get that.  It’s descriptive, and kind of poetic.  But this?  Calling him out?  Calling him fat?  Asking how much he weighs?  This?  This is fat shaming.  And, not only is it fat shaming, but it is fat shaming  of the guy who is bringing you presents you ungrateful mothereffing brat.  I was appalled.  And I really hope I wasn’t the only one, but judging from the wild applause, I may have been.  Dude.  I mean really.  Why?  Why is this a thing?  It made me a little sad to hear all these sweet kids singing this finger-pointing song with big smiles on their faces.  How many of them might go and sing it to another kid, using the kid’s name in place of Santa Claus.  It’s a playground taunt just waiting to happen, I swear it is.  And not only that, this song makes it okay to call people fat.  “haha Santa is fat!  And you know who else is fat?  You!”  And the “oh it’s just a silly song” defense does not fly with me.  Words matter.  They mean things.  And this is reinforcing that fat = goofy + clumsy + too-much-cake-eating.  Fat is a joke, right?

This school prides itself on being inclusive.  Not only were there Christmas songs, but we had Chanukah represented and if I’d been able to stick around, I know someone would have worked up something about Kwanzaa and possibly festivals from other cultures/religions.  The school has a zero-tolerance policy for bullying and violence, and each month a virtue is highlighted, so the focus might be on “patience” or “helpfulness” or other positive traits.  December’s virtue, in case you were wondering?  Is “respect”. 

Just not for the fat people.  Joy to the fucking world.

Skirting the issue

Last Friday I was walking down the hallway at work towards the water fountain to fill up my water bottle, when I passed a colleague’s desk, caught her eye and said “Hello” as I passed. She looked at me, startled. Then she said “Oh, hi!” in a very pleasant manner. Initially I kind of did a mental “uh, wha’?” reponse to her startledness at seeing me and did the head to toe check: something on the front of my shirt? buttons undone and cleavage exposed? fly open? toilet paper on the shoe? What the what?  So anyway, later on that day I met up with her in the washroom (not on purpose, let me hasten to add) and she said the following: “Sorry I seemed so out of it when I saw you earlier. It’s just that I’d never seen you wearing pants before, I was shocked!”

Now, as you’ve probably realized from the amazingly witty title of this blog post, it’s not that I go around pantsless at work, it’s that I am a skirt person. Or a dress person. I am not a pants person. But, on the occasional casual Friday, or on days where I am doing dirty jobs (stop it) like cleaning out my storage room or reorganizing our bookshelves in the library, I will often wear jeans. But every other day of the calendar year? It’s all legs, all the time, baby.

I came to this realization a few months ago when something similar happened while I was waiting in line for a coffee. Another woman with whom I am acquainted at work joined the queue right behind me and when I noticed her there I turned around to say hello, and she said “I thought it was you, but I just have never seen you wearing pants before”.  I sort of did a “huh” kind of thing, and when I got home that night I had a look in my closet.  And you know what?  No pants.  At any given time I have about 6-8 skirts in rotation, plus a few dresses.  Lots of tops, tights and kicky shoes.  But no “work appropriate” pants.  How did this happen?  I’m sure I used to have and wear pants.  I know I did.  So what happened?  I think what happened is that with some of the pairs I owned, I just got tired of them, or they no longer fit properly, or they were no longer in style and I just got rid of them.  Shipped them off (not all at once, but every so often) to Goodwill or Community Living.  And then?  Then I just didn’t replace them.  If I needed a new outfit or something new for work?  It came in skirt form.  I love skirts.  LOVE. THEM.  So it really just seems like a waste of the wardrobe budget to invest in pants, which I don’t actually like to wear much.  Unless it’s jeans.  Jeans I like.  But I guess it just never occurred to me that people would actually, you know, notice.  Or care.

So it makes me wonder – is this a thing people?  DO people actually notice things like whether or not a certain person wears pants or skirts?  Would it be the same with long-sleeved shirts?  Or vests?  Or scarves?  Or any other item of clothing?  Really?  Both times I was a bit surprised that these women actually paid attention to stuff like that.  Huh.  I see loads of people every day here at work and I will be damned if I can tell you which of them solely rock pants or dresses.  Except maybe for the men.  I think it’s safe to say that they all are wearing pants every day.

So I’m baffled.  The only thing I can think is that the two women mentioned are strictly pants ladies.  One works in a more physical job, and is therefore usually in jeans or very casual pants.  The other has a desk job, but after our chat in the washroom, she mentioned that she’s the opposite of me – only ever wears pants.  So maybe that’s where the fascination lies?  I don’t know.  And incidentally, I don’t mean the fascination with me per se.  I just mean the fascination of seeing someone in skirts every day.  Cos you know, fascination with me would be unwarranted, really.  And also a bit creepy.

So help me out, blogfriends.  Would you notice one way or the other?  Would you think to comment? Or would you just do the mental “skirt again today, wonder if she owns any pants?” thing?  Because I am, by nature, an extremely observant person, but am apparently missing the part of the brain that pays attention to the clothing habits of her colleagues. 

And in case you’re wondering?  Jeans today.