The other night, on my way home from work, I stopped at the grocery store. I don’t buy the family groceries, but I frequently stop in after work to pick up the items that we forgot, ran out of, or have recently decided we’d like to eat. I am by far the biggest contributor to the new items on our grocery list, so I don’t mind being the one to stop in on my way home from work.

On this particular trip I picked up some eggs and a package of spring mix, which is really just a collection of different lettuces, with no actual ties to any particular season, and approached the check-out aisle.  I use the aisle that caters to those shoppers who only ever come to the grocery store on their way home from work, the one for eight items or fewer, and loaded my food onto the conveyor belt.

The woman working at the counter is someone I’ve seen several times before, never striking me as friendly or unfriendly, she’s just pleasant enough. My assessment of the check-out woman will factor into the story in just a bit.

While my eggs and spring mix took their short ride to the front of the line, the check-out woman noticed her co-worker walking by, pushing a cart loaded with boxes, apparently on her way to stock some shelves.

“Make sure you take it easy, Janice!” she yelled over my shoulder.

“I will,” said Janice.

Turning back to me, the check-out woman said, “She’s pregnant.”

“Ah,” I said. That’s what you say when you really have no reaction, but don’t want to seem like you don’t care at all.

“It’s not that bad,” she said.

“Hmm?” I asked. That’s what you say when you hadn’t said anything in the first place, making you wonder what the response is in reference to, while also wondering if the person you’re talking to believes they are able to read your mind.  

“Working here, it’s not that tiring for someone who’s pregnant.”

“Oh!” I said, wondering why she might think I was concerned about how tired Janice would be from her cart pushing and shelf stocking.

“I tended bar right up until my due date, it’s not that tiring,” she volunteered, now seeming surer of her ability to know and respond to my every unspoken thought.

“Oh, really?” I offered, though I hadn’t at any point expected her to provide me with details of her own pregnancy, had I known there was ever a pregnancy to discuss.  

“And there’s no reason to put on a lot of weight when you’re pregnant,” she added with the hint of disdain you might expect when talking to an infrequent grocery shopper who obviously had been misinformed about the proper weight gain of pregnant women and needed to be set straight.

“Nope,” she carried on, “when I was pregnant, I actually lost weight! I was 113 pounds when I got pregnant and 117 pounds after.”

Wait, what? That doesn’t even make—

“A woman should put on the weight of the baby, plus 10 pounds of water weight, and that’s it. There’s no reason for any woman to put on more than that.” I thought she might pound her fist on the conveyor belt or throw my spring mix at me for emphasis.

Though this check-out woman would have no way of knowing, I have two kids of my own, have witnessed many family members, friends and co-workers go through pregnancies and I know that being pregnant seems to turn you into a magnet for advice and criticism. But what I’d never witnessed before was the nerve one could strike simply by trying to buy some eggs and spring mix, actions so rarely associated with confrontation, and saying “Ah,” “Hmm?” and “Oh!” When did it become so acceptable to offer pregnancy advice that even infrequent grocery shoppers - men no less! - would have to worry about people dispelling myths they didn’t promote and stand corrected on thoughts they never had?

As I stood there, dumbfounded, I thought the following:

I don’t know why you’re telling me this...Hmm, I don’t even know your name, but I’m going to call you ‘Sally’ for the rest of this thought, not because it’s your name, quite likely it isn’t, but it makes it easier on me and I’m getting a little pleasure out of calling you a name I suspect to be wrong. Listen, Sally, I don’t know how I offended you with my spring mix and my eggs, or maybe it’s the fact that I don’t come in as often as some and sure, I only ever go to the aisle with eight items or fewer. But I follow your rules, I never exceed the eight items, except once and several of those items were the same thing (and there’s no way you even knew about that). I bring my own bags, even though I forget them half the time in my car because I don’t do this very often, but I try, Sally, I try. And yeah, I see that there’s now someone behind me who has three cans of cat food, a bottle of Diet Pepsi and some celery and I’m as confused as you are about how any of that goes together and I know that if this thought goes on too long, we’re going to have to open another line.

But Sally, you’re wrong about me. I don’t judge you or any other pregnant woman for the weight she gains, the shelves she stocks or the bar she tends. I think it’s weird that people just put their hands on the bellies of pregnant women without asking and think more people need to just stop doing that.  I wish more people would keep their opinions to themselves and unless some harm is going to come to a baby by not speaking up, can’t we please just let each woman experience her pregnancy her own way?

I am not going to ever benefit from your advice, I have never violated these rules, nor have I ever gained so much weight to warrant this lecture. I have no idea why you’re angry, how the conversation ever got this far, or why we couldn’t just stick to what I came in here for in the first place.

I need some eggs and spring mix.

And for the first time, I hoped she could read my mind.

As we stood outside the toy store, watching a dizzying number of people walk up and down Hurontario Street, a street many towns would refer to as Main Street, we spotted our first Elvis.

The unmistakeable jet-black hair, the bright yellow blazer, set against black pants and two-tone dress shoes, he seemed to rise above the crowd as he walked past.  We were only five minutes into our afternoon at the 18^th annual Collingwood Elvis Festival and already the kids, looking over toys they didn’t need, had missed what we had come to see.

They were disappointed when they emerged from the store, but we told them they had nothing to worry about, because this weekend Elvis was everywhere.

He was on posters and on life-size cardboard cut-outs in storefront windows, squished beside mannequins, vacuum cleaners and offers of great savings on beach getaways. He was in the bank, waiting to use the ATM and sampling hot sauces from a vendor at a temporary location on the street. He was inside car dealerships and on cookies at Tim Horton’s. According to the banner above the main entrance, he was at All Saints Church on Saturday, parishioners also enjoying bacon on a bun in the parking lot from 10 am to 7 pm. 

He was old, young, thin, heavy, wearing jewel encrusted jump suits, capes and blazers of blindingly brilliant colours. There truly was an Elvis for everyone.

If you’re wondering about a connection between Collingwood and Elvis, and why this event has come to be held here, as far as I can tell there isn’t one.  But the Elvis Festival, which celebrates the man, the music, and the nostalgia of Elvis Presley, brings fans and tribute artists (the preferred term over impersonators)  to Collingwood from all around the world for four days each year, making this the largest Elvis Festival held anywhere.

Anxious to take in the festival, we walked farther down the street, hearing Elvis songs played over loudspeakers that lined the sidewalk. We passed an Elvis fan singing a karaoke version of Love me Tender, surrounding most notes but drawing a good crowd nonetheless. As we walked on, I heard the announcer say, “We have lots of songs to choose from, not just Elvis, we have Johnny Cash...Patsy Cline...” his voice trailing off, perhaps unsure if his song selection truly was very expansive.

At the corner of Hurontario and Simcoe Streets there was an area cordoned off for the different Elvises to perform on the street. A female Elvis was set to perform, her white SUV with Florida license plates parked nearby, pictures on the vehicle indicating she called herself “Lady E,” a bumper sticker urging people not to re-elect Barack Obama revealing that she is also likely a Republican.  

Just as she was about to sing, Lady E realized her microphone wasn’t working, causing the sound man and a giant Elvis, who moments earlier had been standing behind me in the crowd, to try to fix the problem. While the 200 people watched and waited in the hot sun, I watched Lady E for any hint that she was upset that she had driven all the way from Florida and now couldn’t perform, but instead, saw her smile and pose for pictures. Knowing we had much more to see, we left before the problem was resolved and only hope she was finally able to do her set.

Around the corner was the main stage where both amateur and professional tribute artists were performing for a panel of judges and a crowd of 1,200 people.  The first three performers that we saw were from Japan, Denmark and Brazil, removing any doubt that this had indeed become an international event.

“The preliminary rounds were held at the curling club so you know the people on the main stage can all sing,” said the master of ceremonies, in the first of many offhand remarks we would hear.

Several other performers from near and far took the stage and excited the crowd to varying degrees. One performer, singing The Impossible Dream, stopped after the first line and asked if he could start again as the song was too low and the judges allowed it without a problem. I assume the performers have their songs on CDs and aside from simply not being prepared, it was puzzling how the song could ever be too low, but to his credit he did a great job of the song the second time around. Clearly, while the Elvis Festival has grown to be a significant international event, the handling of situations like this let you know that the focus is still on the performers and the fans and it hasn’t taken itself too seriously.

The master of ceremonies took the stage again and talked about the time, money and effort that each of the tribute artists puts into their craft, in particular getting to Collingwood to compete against their peers and to entertain all of the Elvis fans that assemble. Each has made enormous sacrifices to be here, he told us, before adding the cringe inducing, “The prize money is not that good.”

While better words could surely have been used to capture the thought, he did make a good point – very few of the people we saw on that stage were able to make a decent living, or a living at all, from their act, but they do it for the thrill of performing, to pay tribute to Elvis Presley and to take part in festivals such as this.

And as long as there are Elvis fans, tribute artists and events like the Elvis Festival, there will be a special kind of entertainment in Collingwood and I’ll try to attend every year.

The other night, I was at an industry event that began with a “get to know someone new” kind of game. I generally dislike these games because I’m not overly willing to open up to people I don’t know well and it makes it harder to insist that no one ever takes the time to get to know the real me. That’s harder not impossible.

My partner and I very quickly hit on eleven things we did not have in common before she asked me something that caught me totally by surprise, “What’s on your bucket list?”

I’m not sure how long people have been talking about bucket lists, but the first I heard of it was a few years ago, around the release of the movie of the same name, starring Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson. (I’ve never seen the movie, but hear it’s quite good, none of which is relevant to this story).

The concept of a bucket list is listing those things you wish to do before you die, or “kick the bucket,” a phrase that likely has some literal meaning that someday I must look up to make myself an even greater bore at parties. 

While it may seem unlikely, I believe this was the first time I’ve ever been asked this question and since I had no prepared answer, certainly not one I’m comfortable sharing with someone I don’t know overly well, who may take this an opportunity to tell the world that I’m an open book, it fell into the category of questions I’ve been asked throughout my life to which I can only provide disappointing answers:

What did you do on your summer vacation?
Um... is it possible I didn’t do anything?

You had a day to yourself, what have you been doing all this time?
Um...

So, what do you do for a living?
I’m in Communications, which means that, I... um...

How was your weekend?
(Remembering nothing)  It was good, but too short! *hilarious laughter*

But getting back to the bucket list, you may ask, “Why would this be tough to answer?”  Is it because I never think of dying and therefore have no sense of urgency to create such a list? No, I know as well as anyone that I may be hit by a bus tomorrow, contract scurvy or spontaneously combust, so that can’t be it.

Is it because I’m not a list maker? No, I spend a great deal of time making lists of all kinds: “To do” lists, grocery lists...ok, I expected there to be more lists, but the point is that I do make them.

So, why then have I never come up with a bucket list? I think the answer is that I don’t think my bucket list captures the wondrous, near magical experiences and adventures that I hear from others when they openly share their bucket lists with me.  

They want to skydive, attend the Olympics, sleep in ice hotels, visit every continent over a long weekend, and have picnics in outer space. These are the items that I hear on bucket lists. This is what is expected.

My list is quite different.

Just once, I’d like to leave my house without breaking a spider web with my face. I’d like put on a t-shirt and not have an antiperspirant mark.  On many a weekend, my goal is simply, to not shave.

How do you tell people this is your bucket list?

Just once, I’d like to accidentally eat too much horseradish and not feel like I’ve been “Maced.” I’d like to someday have a blog post go viral (and just because I once wrote a post that contained the phrase “swimming with sharks” that gets five daily page views forever, that doesn’t count). I’d like to know once and for all which way I’m supposed to point my toes when I get a cramp in my calf muscle.

These are not the items that most people have on their bucket lists.

I’d like to someday be comfortable with people telling me I look five years younger than I am before I wake up to realize that I look 10 years older than my age, likely caused by the stress of this impossible to explain attitude toward looking younger.

I’d like to someday throw away my glasses and contacts, but realize that laser eye surgery is a simple solution that I’m avoiding due to a fear of lasers ever being pointed at my eyes. So, at best, this belongs on the list of “incomplete ideas” not the bucket list.

You see the trouble I’m having?

I’d like to someday find my unread copy of On the Road which is lost somewhere in my house or possibly borrowed by my father-in-law and never returned. I’d like to know the difference between a zucchini and an English cucumber, though admittedly I’ve only cared since seeing them side by side at the grocery store one evening this week.

I’d like to know how Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony were ever married. This doesn’t have anything to do with anything, but none of it sits right with me.

These are my priorities.

I suppose I should try to be better prepared to answer the question the next time I’m asked. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m not likely to share my true list with too many people, so I’ll avoid all that and give them what they expect, what they want.

Before I die I really want to ride my bicycle clear across Italy, stopping occasionally to learn the language from the locals, to drink wine and to eat cheese, lots and lots of cheese.

This is my dream.  

The other day I walked to the side of my yard and something caught my attention. There, on the ground, close to the house were the first signs of my rhubarb patch sprouting up from the ground.  

Ah, yes. Glorious rhubarb.  

I must admit I've developed a love-hate relationship with rhubarb and you really can't say you know me until you know these details. 

Let's start with the plant itself. I didn't plant it, it came with the house. In fact, no one in history has ever planted rhubarb, it just comes with houses and people eat it. Look it up. 

Rhubarb requires no effort. It grows, you pick it, it grows back, you pick it again, it snows, the rhubarb spends the entire winter thinking of ways to grow sooner next year. You don't prepare the ground for rhubarb, it prefers to grow out of dirt, but will grow out of concrete slabs if necessary. You don't water rhubarb and you don't talk to rhubarb. You simply pass by every few days and say, "Are you kidding me? How could you possibly have grown that much since I last looked?" 

Rhubarb patches cannot be destroyed. When I was a kid, our rhubarb patch was in the middle of our backyard toboggan hill and doubled as first base in warmer months. We slid over it over and ran through it thousands of times a year and the rhubarb was never affected. Rhubarb patches will live forever and scientists should spend more time studying rhubarb DNA, specifically the "live forever" part. 

There are two ways to eat rhubarb-raw and with massive amounts of sugar. The taste of raw rhubarb is too sour for human beings so I would recommend the massive amount of sugar option. When you think you have enough sugar, you don't. Trust me. 

My wife doesn't enjoy the taste of rhubarb and refuses to eat it. I could lie to myself and say I'll make rhubarb pies and rhubarb tarts and just simply stick rhubarb stalks into sugar dishes until my teeth rot, but none of that is ever going to happen. So, I give my rhubarb away to my mother and my sister. 

My mother has taught me all that I know about rhubarb and perhaps all there is to know about rhubarb. She tells me I need to pull it out by grabbing it near the bottom of the stalk and just pull. She repeats the "just pull" part, likely figuring the second mention will prevent me from cutting down the rhubarb with an axe, or harvesting only the poisonous leaves. She also taught me that rhubarb is only good for the first few months of the growing season, so it should be noted that each year will only produce about 75 arm-fulls of rhubarb or enough to make 900 or so pies. 

My sister lives close by and will sometimes just take the rhubarb without asking. It grows so fast, there is only a 10 minute window where you will know that any of it has been taken and all rhubarb stealers know this. 

Between the two of them, they take more rhubarb than they can use themselves and give some away to other family members. If I'm ever at a family function where rhubarb is served, there's a good chance it came from my patch. People make a fuss over me as though I am in some way responsible for the quality of the rhubarb... 

If they only knew.

 Maurice Sendak, best known as the author and illustrator of the beloved children’s book, Where The Wild Things Are, died today at age 83.

If, like me, you were born after 1960, chances are good that Where The Wild Things Are was part of your childhood. If you have children of your own, you’ve likely made it part of theirs too.

As a child I had a vivid imagination and would get absolutely lost in worlds I had invented, so it’s no surprise that I related so easily to the adventure that begins, “The night that Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind or another.”  

Like Max, forests would sometimes grow and grow in my room after I had leaped into my bed to avoid the wild things hiding beneath and covered my head with my blankets to protect me from the creatures that lurked in the darkness.

I dreamed of travelling in and out of weeks and almost over a year to jungles filled with dinosaurs and other strange beasts where I was forced to conquer my fears before I could land safely back in my bed.

Sometimes, before nodding off, I would imagine my bed was a jet airplane and my blankets would hold me tight as I shot through my window, out into the open sky, to circle the earth at dizzying speeds.

Some nights, I imagined I was a wild thing myself, powerful, brave, unafraid of anything.

Whatever it was, I was constantly dreaming and Where The Wild Things Are told me that was okay. It told me that little boys and girls were expected to imagine things. The book confirmed what I already knew - that the world was full of possibilities and that nothing was too wonderful to imagine if you tried.

It told me too that there are times that all boys and girls get in trouble with their parents, but after a while, the anger passes and you realize that they never stopped loving you. Not even long enough for your supper to get cold.

The story captured so perfectly the magic of imagining yourself in a thrilling adventure that often defied all logic and the comfort of the most magical place of all – your own bed.    

When they were smaller, I read Where The Wild Things Are to both my children and today, I watch them as they play make-believe games in their rooms with dolls, cars and other things. I hope they never lose the wonder of using their imaginations. I know I never did.

If you haven’t read Where The Wild Things Are in a while, you should. If you’ve never read it to your children, make sure that you do. And most of all, no matter what your situation, remember to sometimes let your imagination run wild and explore worlds and times that challenge and scare us.

Let the wild rumpus start. Go to where the wild things are.

RIP Maurice Sendak

This past weekend, we held my son’s seventh birthday party at Laser Quest in Kitchener. Although my son was naturally excited to have his friends at his party, for weeks he had made it clear that he really wanted me to play in the laser games.

Before we were allowed into the urban laser warzone, each of us had to pick our codenames. With varying degrees of thought and originality, our band of warriors became: Yourself, Sonic, Princess, Zack, Smiley, Hulk, Ironman and Arceus. I chose the codename “Hawkeye” for no reason whatsoever.

My son, “Hulk,” insisted that the two of us team up and he led me to high ground as soon as we were allowed into the game area. When our lasers were activated and the game began, Hulk shot rapidly and randomly in all directions and I had to be careful that I wasn’t zapped in one of the worst cases of friendly fire in laser quest history.

There were two other children’s birthday parties going on at the same time, all of us contributing to the laser chaos of mostly little people running around the game area.  I had very little strategy coming into the match, but what little I had went out the window when lasers started flying at me from all directions, many of them aimed at my kneecaps. Hulk and I ran from place to place, often finding ourselves pinned down in a bad spot, taking heavy laser fire, before shooting ourselves out of danger.

 During the first game, “Ironman” started to cry when he couldn’t find any of his comrades and I felt really awful for him. I wondered if he might change his codename to “Lost and Scared” and knew that I needed to take better care of him for the remainder of the games.

After a gruelling 15 minutes, the game was over and we exited the game area to see our scores. Surprisingly, I had bested the other 33 players and had the high score. Considering that I had beaten 28 children in claiming top spot, it was a dubious honour indeed.

Before the second game started, one of the other groups of kids pointed at me and said, “We’re all going to get you next game!”  It seemed that by winning the first round, Hawkeye had earned a Bullseye and I was in a bit of laser trouble. Thinking quickly, I asked the other kids in my son’s party if they would join me and the soldier formerly known as Hulk, who now went by “Mr. Time Twister,” in battling this other group of kids. Zack, who now called himself “Super Zack” and Ironman were the most enthusiastic and I had myself an army of little people.

Game one chaos returned for game two and I realized I was in more danger than ever of being zapped by my own men. “Listen up guys,” I said. “Whatever you do – don’t shoot each other!” It was an order I would repeat 50 or 60 additional times throughout the game.

I swear, I have no military experience.

 Super Zack volunteered to lead all enemy attacks, mostly those he called himself, without warning or backup. On those rare times he led something other than a suicide mission, his objective seemed to be to get to a place directly in our line of fire and not surprisingly, he was lasered more than any other player in the game.

Sonic was a lone wolf who regularly wandered away from the group, surprising us by emerging quickly from behind a corner, forcing us to shoot him on sight.

Arceus had changed his name to “Hunter” for the second game, but if he did any hunting, I did not notice.

Ironman shrugged off the effects of war and suffered no further breakdowns on the battlefield. Though he posted a lousy score, I think he was thrilled to be part of the group.

Our guns deactivated, we returned to base and waited to see our scores. Hunter turned to me and asked if I had gel or sweat dripping down my forehead.

“Both, Hunter,” I replied. “Both.”

Completely exhausted, we filed into the party room and sat around the long, wooden table. We helped ourselves to a juice box, some Oreo cookies, potato chips, and more mini marshmallows than anyone should ever eat. The room was filled with laughter and battle stories as the ice cream cake was served.

Ironman and Super Zack asked me between bites of their cake to explain their scorecards to them, but I didn’t have the heart to tell them they had placed 33^rd and 34^th, each of them finishing with negative scores.

“You both did great,” I told them as huge smiles grew on their faces, turned blue from the cake and marshmallows.

What else could you tell your laser brothers in arms?

Today, in the midst of a typical day at the office, I snuck out for my annual eye exam.

While there’s no sign telling me to announce my presence upon arrival, I know this is the accepted practice at every doctor’s office on the planet, so I provided my name to the woman behind the counter and told her that I was here for my appointment.

She seemed puzzled and mumbled to herself, “Hmm...you are, are you?” as she glanced at the computer screen in front of her, robbing me immediately of the confidence I’d had when I walked in. An instant later she said, “Oh, yes you’ve been here many times,” which seemed to imply that those with a long history of bad eyesight would certainly have their appointments honoured.

The woman, “Helen,” asked me to follow her and another young woman to the examination room. There, the younger woman was introduced to me as “the intern” in much the same way one might refer to “the desk” or “the chair.”

While my forehead and chin were pressed unnaturally against the outside of a machine, Helen gave the intern a quick lesson on how the machine worked and how they were going to record whatever measurements it spit out. Then, she said, “Because of his age, we’ll also need to do this test here,” her hand pointing to something on the other side of the machine I obviously couldn’t see. I chose to ignore the comment about my age and instead braced myself for whatever the machine might soon do – shooting bursts of air into my unsuspecting eyes or merely blinding me with bright lights are the two options of which I am most fond.

I was pleased to learn that I was only asked to refrain from blinking for about seven minutes and focus on a series of green squares, while ignoring the red line that dissected the squares that was impossible not to notice. The tests done, I was told that the machine had taken pictures of my eyes and that I would be reviewing with my eye doctor. I could hardly wait.

Led out of the first waiting room, I was taken to another where my eye doctor was waiting. I was asked to read letters projected on the wall, while covering one eye with a paddle and strap myself into another machine, telling my eye doctor that one was clearer than two, three was clearer than one and five was obviously for an entirely different patient.

The final test was to hold a card at arm’s length and read a short paragraph. I was able to see it clearly and while I don’t remember the exact words, it went something like:

In today’s society there a great many instances of men having to chase their hats...

When I was finished with those words, without thinking, I said, “Well, isn’t that the truth?” My doctor burst out laughing and I was reminded that with each passing day, I’m becoming more like my father.

As we were finished with the tests, my doctor turned to her computer and clicked on the pictures of my eyes taken in the next room. “So this is the back of your eye,” she said, as she pointed to something that looked like the moon with a series of red rivers running through it. The rivers, she explained, were blood vessels and she asked me if it bothered me to look at these pictures. “No, I’m fine,” I lied, as I felt my hands grow cold.

“This is the optical nerve,” she continued, “And this is the macular area,” her tone indicating that the white and the black moon spots were exactly as she had hoped they would be.

My second moon looked just like my first and I was told that these pictures allowed for a profile view, where the layers of the eye’s moon rivers could be better seen. The screen changed to what appeared to be a mountain range and I learned that my mountain moon eyes dipped in exactly the right place.

At my age...I can’t tell you what a relief that was.