Public Good

In university we studied the public good. This was how lighthouses got built. We would take individual demand curves, horizontally sum them and then see where they intersected the cost curve. At this price, so many lighthouses would get built by society. It was a way round the free rider problem and ensuring that the lighthouse got built. Apparently public park benches also fell under this category.

Imagine my surprise when I ripped open an unexpected letter from Bell today and found that they were enlarging my local calling area. Hurrah! Except that it was to areas, I don't call so I don't pay long distance anyway. A public good that doesn't help me. This didn't bother me until I learned that for this added good, I was now to pay fifty cents a month for the next 36 months - THREE years. It suddenly struck me that public goods were not good. I am subsidizing the calls of someone else. I am not benefiting. I would like to opt out.

My economics tells me that if I could opt out, then everyone would opt out and it would never happen. All I know is that my demand curve is so low that someone else's must be really high to make it intersect the cost curve at all. My gut feeling is that there is no cost associated. They're earning rents and stealing my consumer surplus.

I want my consumer surplus back. I'm pretty sure it counts as theft of an intangible.

Things I Learned in Training

In Public Service Training
Disclaimer - contains potentially inappropriate comments

- I will get called for the one answer I don't have. My facial expression will be such that the facilitator will later apologize and my group will assure me they've got my back. Apparently when asked to repeat the question after being told your answer wasn't quite right- saying blank for the blanks is not a normal reaction.

-If you have enough public servants in a room, you can cut the patriotism with a knife. They will all be well indoctrinated in why their department matters to Canadians. There will be too many departments looking out for my safety and well-being. Did you know there is a department in charge of communicable diseases? and it's not Health Canada.

-Too many public servants take philosophy in school. Under no other circumstances would an exercise turn into a debate on what exactly the societal norms of Canada are. Somehow people making out in a sauna will be relevant to the debate.

-The same public servants will know what the difference between the prisoner, vacationer, consumer, and adventurer are. I will decide I'm a prisoner/adventurer. I will be told these are diagonal in the spectrum and therefore impossible. I will retreat back into my cell.

-Being the youngest and female means you automatically become secretary. Saying you can't spell does not get you out of the job.

-All those who rave about working for the civil service are retiring in the next month.

-By the six degrees of separation, if you know someone from New Brunswick, you will know someone who worked in a sawmill.

-The moose hunting season in New Brunswick is only three days. In Newfoundland, it's four months. One moose licence will keep four guys happy until they don't get a moose. No one has been caribou hunting nor black bear hunting. Learning to hunt with a bow is deemed a good thing. Inquires on why guns were then invented are not appreciated.

-If you are having an affair at work and are evaluating people to turn it into a threesome by e-mail, your e-mails will get ATIPed.

-If you belong to the military and have a part time job as a stripper, you will get 30 days in jail.

You didn't . . . oh dear

"Guess what I got at the garage sale Mum?"

"What?"

"Think Me"

"A table?"

"Nope"

"Clothes? Furniture? Knitting stuff?"

"Nope, think Me."

"Sewing stuff."

"yeah . . . keep thinking"

"A treadle . . . oh no . . . you didn't . . . oh dear."

Spot the Engineer

There are engineers and there are engineers. One group are the sort that thought it would be cool to be an engineer. The other are the true engineers - the ones that personify all the engineer stereotypes. I should know. My brother is an engineer, my cousin is an engineer, and the rest of the family is painted with great big engineering strokes. There's a reason my toolbox puts all my male friends to shame and I can't lift it.

Asking my father any question about how something worked generally meant that a pad of paper and a pen would be brought out as sketches of the inner workings of something would be explained. Any explanation was thorough and in detail. It became the way you expected things to be explained.

I'm in the market for a bike. I don't know much about bikes but I know enough about mechanical things to know that you need to know about them to make an informed purchase. I started canvasing my friends. What do you know about bikes? One of my friends knew about bikes. His e-mails detailing what I needed to look for were thorough and detailed. He graciously agreed to come with me on a bike shopping expedition.

I learned more about bikes then I thought there was to know. I had only recently learned that one could get different sorts of bikes. All of a sudden I was learning why the various types of bikes were made differently. It was about your centre of gravity, where the pivot point on the wheel for the steering was, how much clearance was needed for the different tires and dirt, why you might need disk brakes, the difference between spring and air shocks, the frame set-up, the welding of the joints, the placement of the handle bars, the treads of the tire . . . then in the middle of explaining the difference in the diameter of the wheels, he paused and looked slightly embarrassed.

"I'm sorry. This is rather a technical engineering explanation . I don't want to overwhelm you with details."

I gave him a big smile, "Don't worry. My brother's an engineer."

If I'm not overwhelmed with information, then I don't feel that I've had a proper explanation. I'm used to being taken out of my depth. You discover that when you try to put your feet down, you don't drown. You understand what they're talking about. I was back in an environment that I understood.

"Why does the diameter matter?"

He immediately launched back into the technical explanation. I'm pretty sure if the tires hadn't been right there, he would have whipped out a pad and pencil and started drawing.

He was thorough and went into detail.

He's a true engineer.

Support the Youth

When the thermometer starts to climb, and the week-end rolls around, the garage sale season starts in full swing. With the advent of the garage sale season comes the newest generation of lemonade and KoolAid stands. Today was the Glebe Garage Sale - the garage event of the year. I had wandered about halfway around before I remembered the rule - ye shalt buy from a lemonade stand manned by small children. Except that there was so many, how was one to choose? There are only so many glasses of watery lemonade that one can drink especially when restroom facilities are few and far between.

Normally, you buy from the cute kid. The cute kid has an unfair advantage, it will make a killing. The average child will barely break even. I know. I've played Lemonade Stand (on the Commodore 64 nonetheless). I tend to go broke really fast. The game doesn't allow you to use the cute factor.

Then I spotted the child of six who I would give my business too. He was operating under a tree, on a road less travelled and he was looking slightly bored. So my friend and I ambled over to inspect the wares. The boy was not selling drinks - oh no. He had upped the entrepreneur factor and was selling temporary tattoos. There was no choice. You either got tattooed with a Sens logo or you didn't get one at all. I love temporary tattoos. I was thrilled. I got to support youth initiative, and I got a tattoo.

I rolled up my sleeve, squatted down on the sidewalk and waited to be branded a Sens fan. The boy refused any offer of help from his father, so his father gave directions from above. "Place the tattoo, now get the sponge wet, not too wet, ok, now put it on the tattoo." The little boy very carefully concentrated and applied the wet sponge to my arm. I noticed with a shock that he was using cold water. He furrowed his forehead and pushed harder. Cold water trickled down my arm. I tried not to gasp and stared straight ahead concentrating on the crack in the pavement. I'd heard that getting tattooed hurt but I was unprepared for the real experience. After an interval he removed the tattoo and carefully peeled away the backing. There it was - I was branded a Sens Fan!



My friend wouldn't get one. He must have figured out that the water was cold. Then again, he wouldn't get his face painted either.

I love getting my face painted. When I was a child, face painters were excellent. Your face became a work of art. Preteens aren't quite that good. They are also taken back when an "adult" announces that she wants her face painted. They also go and get the best artist. In my enthusiasm to support the local youth, I had an excuse to have my face painted. No one had told me that the Glebe Garage sale was like the school fair all over again. After the girl had very carefully mixed various paint sticks together, I had a large butterfly painted on one check and a smaller one on the other - in bright custom colours, mixed specially. She apologized for the wings not being properly symmetrical. I assured her that it was hard to get it right when the person you were painting kept smiling and laughing. But when you're having your face painted, you're having fun. With fun comes facial movements and lopsided butterflies.

For the rest of the day, I wandered around with butterfly checks, showing people my Sens tattoo. They hid their jealously remarkably well. I know better. Next year they too will support the youth. It's too much fun not too.

Just a little colour

Tomorrow I shall wear pants and a turtle neck. Tomorrow the temperature should top thirty degrees Celsius. I might wear a scarf.

My uncle has an interesting job. He ends up with a lot of samples which he then gives to the various relatives that might find it useful. In a box, in the middle of my living room, I have the latest. I have three different hair dyes, a highlighting kit and lots and lots of self-tanner.

I have self tanner in a cream form - two different shades - an aerosol can and in towelette form. The towelette form promised not to streak. So I decided to give it a shot - forgetting that I was no longer in school and so could not show up with the bad results of whatever experiment I'd lasted inflicted on myself.

The neat thing about it was that you took the cloth, swabbed it all over yourself and let it dry. It dried quickly and there was no colour. At this point, you're thinking you're pretty cool - a tan with no fuss. And then slowly the colour appears which is neat. Except that it doesn't appear everywhere and in the places it is appearing, it keeps appearing.

I'm a bit scared to wake up tomorrow. I have a feeling I'll be a different colour than when I went to sleep. It will not be a good colour.

I've found before that natural tends to be your best look. I don't look as good with red or light brown hair as I do with dark. Others disagree. I don't tan. I stay pasty white or I turn lobster red - there is hardly any inbetween. I don't think I'm supposed to turn chestnut brown or rather chestnut orange. It doesn't look right.

My arms look ok. I remembered that I don't tan on the underneath of the arms so I just swiped the cloth across the top of them. The legs, on the other hand, are a bit of a mess. I missed some spots and I may or may not have hit points that aren't supposed to tan. I don't tan so I don't know what on normal people changes colour.

Tomorrow I'll have a shower - I will exfoliate off the top layer of skin and apply baby powder. With any luck, I can approximate a normal skin tone.

It's true, tanning is bad for you. It damages the skin. I've learned the hard way.

Scattered Thoughts of Reflection

I gave my a speech today. It was supposed to be about myself which I hate doing. My mind tends to go blank and I tend to revert back to a description of where I went to school, what my job is and punctuate it with dates. I don't like being defined by what I do or did. So I gave a speech that had no message, it meandered and felt a bit like a random number generator. I put a lot of thought into the speech and in the end, I decided it was clever. This should have been my first warning - what I think is clever generally confuses people or they miss the nuances. So the speech was in the style of a short story that has no beginning, no middle nor end, yet at the end you feel as though you know something you didn't know before. One of my comments was that I should have given the audience some indication of where the speech was going. Unfortunately, that was the point - the speech was going nowhere but would arrive somewhere, you had to trust me to take you there. I don't understand why people insist on knowing what the ending is before they reach the end. You miss the footwork leading up the final thrust because you know the bad guy dies. There is no element of surprise.

I entitled the speech "Scattered Thoughts of Reflection"

I did however receive a comment that intrigued me. "If you write a book about your scattered thoughts, I promise to read it." Firstly, because I've heard you should write a book before and secondly, because I'm not sure what in the speech intrigued the listener to want to know more in published form. Needless to say, I passed on my blog address. One day I'll figure out why I hate talking about myself but I am perfectly willing to make fun of myself in a public place.

My speech - imagine it being surrisceptly at too fast a pace because I didn't practise the night before so instead read it on the way to work.

To prepare for my speech today, I sat down cross legged on my carpet, cracked open my Competent Communication manual and turned to Project 1 – the Ice Breaker. I scanned the paragraphs looking for what I had to do. I read, “The best way to begin your speaking experience is to talk about a familiar subject – yourself.” The paragraph continued on, “you should choose several interesting aspects of your life to talk about.”

Right, I thought. That’s easy. I can skip the boring bits. I pulled out a piece of paper and wrote ME on the top in large letters. I stared at the paper for a few seconds. Nothing came immediately to mind. I rechecked the manual. It struck me that it would be better if I categorized the interesting things about myself so that I could choose one category. It would be easier to weave them into the story I was supposed to be telling. I went hunting for my pen set. I’m a big fan of writing things in different colours that way you can tell immediately by looking at the page what belongs in which category. My brother gave me the pen set when I was in undergrad for my economic courses. My notes from undergrad are very carefully written. The demand curves are always in blue; the supply curves are always in red and the axises are always drawn with a ruler. When I was a tutor, I would always hand over my ruler to my students as soon as they started drawing freehand. At the next session, they always brought a ruler.

Having found my pen set, I underlined ME in red with a ruler. I then wrote interesting things under it in green and underlined it again in orange. I concentrated very hard for a few seconds. Still nothing. I decided that I was thirsty and needed a drink to help me think. Something that would assist the mental juices to flow and allow me to ponder. I wanted a cup of tea. So I got up again and started making a pot of tea. I have become very definite in what I like in a tea. I like black based Indian assam teas and I prefer loose leaf. This is mainly because I drink Fortnum and Mason Tea. Fortnum and Mason take their tea seriously. They have rare teas which cost a small fortune and even rarer teas which cost an arm and a leg. They also have more normal teas. If you drink Fortnum and Mason tea, you feel that you should make an effort. Thus I have switched to loose leaf. At first I used a tea ball but I have since learned that if you throw the tea into the properly warmed pot loose, you get a better brew. This time I decided to drink my rose tea, which is a China tea base so it’s not as strong. I have tea cups with roses on them. There’s something special about drinking rose tea out of rose china cups. I always feel better when I’ve sat down with a pot of tea and a proper tea cup. You feel as though you have time to deal with your problems.

This time the problem was choosing interesting things about me. I peered at the manual again. I only need three or four interesting aspects. Well then, I drew two lines across my page in purple to create four boxes. I stared at the page again and sucked the end of my pen. I numbered the boxes. I took a sip of tea. I decided that I needed a cookie to dunk in the tea. I paused. I wasn’t supposed to be eating cookies right now but I needed a mental stimulant. I’m taking up hiking and biking this summer and I’m in training. I’m going from negative fitness to something approaching fit. Hence the cookie ban. I’m starting with the hiking. I have new hiking shoes. They’re red. I’m a big fan of red footwear. This started when I was younger and trying to choose between red or black winter boots. I thought the red ones were too flashy. My mother looked at me and said, “You have the rest of your life to wear black winter boots. Get the red ones.” So I did. When your feet look happy, you feel happy. On my first trial run with them, they worked fine. I, on the other hand, needed to work on my hill climbing ability. I looked at the cookies. You can’t eat one cookie and you can’t eat an odd amount of cookies. It doesn’t feel right. I decided on two.

By now, it was approaching dusk. I got up to turn on a light. I stared at my sofa. Why was I sitting on the floor when I had a full sofa? It was a bit of a dumb question. I tend to think better when I’m sprawled across the floor. I tend to lie on my stomach and wave my feet in the air. I would be much more productive at work if I could do my work on the ground. As well, my sofa was covered. I had my dressmaking pieces carefully laid across it. I’d eaten dinner on the floor as my kitchen table has my sewing machines covering it. I can consider myself a proper seamstress because I have put the machine’s needle through my finger. My mother always said that you had become a proper seamstress when you had done this. I always thought she was crazy. There was no way my finger was fitting under the foot of the sewing machine. Then my father bought us a treadle machine, which I adopted. I had great fun ensuring that it ran freely and smoothly. I started using it for simple experimental seams. Then I put the needle though my finger. On the old machines, it is possible. If I had the money and the space, I would rescue old treadle machines. People tend to butcher them to make end tables. I love them - a beautiful treadle machine is a work of art. As I was finishing up my MA in Kingston, I discovered an old treadle machine in the antique market. I had never seen one like it before, and after much deliberation, I bought it. The drawers were filled with candy and the entire thing was still covered in dust. As I cleaned it, I kept discovering doors that would open until I could reach all the necessary parts to give them a good dose of oil and a thorough going over with the vacuum cleaner. One of the doors had been glued back together incorrectly so I needed a replacement. My father told me that the glue was such that we couldn’t get it apart. He’s the type of person who if he can’t fix it knows someone who can, so he phoned a friend who phoned a friend who sold me the replacement door.

That reminded me. I had to phone my father. I stared at my paper. My four boxes were still empty. My cat came through from the bedroom where she had been sleeping. As is the way with cats, she came and sat on the page and started washing her face before flopping down on top of it. “Auburn, get off. I’m working on that.” I said. She looked at me and yawned. I checked my watch. I had just enough time to go for my hill climbing walk before getting ready for tomorrow. I stared putting my pens away and collecting up my tea things. Tomorrow I thought, tomorrow I’ll figure out something interesting about myself. Then I thought for a second. Tomorrow was the birthday party of a friend, the day after that I was going hiking and the day after that I was meeting a friend for coffee. I grinned. Why should I do all the hard work? I’d ask my friends for something interesting about myself. They hung out with me. I couldn’t be all that boring.

Hurrah for the Queen!

Taking pictures of fireworks is surprisingly difficult.

They move so fast.

Missed the Memo

I suddenly spied hanging on the rack the cutest skirt and shirt. The shirt had cap sleeves, was a nice shade of burnt orange and had small white flowers scattered over it. The skirt was a khaki tan, A-line and appeared to drape nicely. It struck me that it would be perfect office wear - ideal in that both items were wrinkle-free, they dried quickly (perfect for after you've spilled coffee down your front) and they wicked moisture (perfect for when the air conditioning breaks down, again). Except for the fact that I was in an out-door store. The type of place where you swap tales with the salesmen about the time you hiked into the rainforest in Columbia and they had a monsoon which is why you're back to replace your camelback which got swept away in the storm.

I looked around at the other women's clothing. I was gobsmacked. Last time I checked, if it was outside, you got dirty and you didn't wear a skirt. If you were doing hardcore outdoorsy type stuff, you didn't care what you looked like - you cared how functional it was. Otherwise the Tilley Hat never would have made it past the sketch stage. Yet here I was, surrounded by clothes that were supposed to be appropriate for extreme outdoor activity. All it reminded me of was a 1940's era film in which the heroine emerges from the tent, while on safari, and is wearing white gloves. Appropriate for the time, inappropriate for the place.

Last time I put bare skin near an outdoors area in the summer, I got eaten alive by mosquitoes. Yet, here was a summer dress, spaghetti strapped and low cut, on sale as appropriate for outdoor activity. I thought DEET was environmentally unsound and nothing else works. The number of skirts on sale disturbed me. Several were of a cut, I knew from experience, that did not allow you to move at any great pace. But more to the point, if you were wearing clothing like this, what were you wearing on your feet?

I assumed the point of the clothing was for the backpacker who was staying in hostels. You wish to look smart and not quite so much like a tourist, so you buy the non-wrinkle, quick dry, roll it in a ball clothing that springs to life. However, as you're walking you wear the type of shoes that allow you to walk non-stop - or the kind of shoe that must never be worn with a skirt. The shoe will give you away as a tourist before anything else. The natives will wear cute and impractical sandals and heels. The tourist will wear serious shoes. You can pick them out a mile away on the street. If you're going to look like a tourist, you might as well embrace it rather than look like you tried and didn't succeed.

At first glance I thought I had missed a whole new clothing trend - the trend of cool outdoor clothes - and then I realised that the trend had missed the point. When you're descending a rock cliff through an inch of mud, a light tan skirt isn't going to help. The tan pants that are indestructible and ugly to boot will. You'll hate them so much, you won't care if you wreck them so you'll never think twice about what you're wearing. And as they're indestructible, you'll never destroy them, and you'll decide to descend the rock face on your butt, thereby choosing the easiest, fastest and safest way. Now try that in a skirt. I thought so.

Made by Me

My parents are arriving tomorrow. They're coming for the week-end. I'm not ready. I haven't started cleaning my place. There's no food in the fridge. I was talking to a friend yesterday on msn, explaining my lack of action on the issue. She started laughing. "Have clothes hanging everywhere so there's no place to sit." I didn't laugh in response. She knows me too well.

There isn't exactly clothes everywhere; there is nowhere to sit. I was sitting on the floor as I was talking to her - in the sole square that had nothing on it. It was reserved for sitting. There are parts of clothing everywhere. I've been working on my shirt dress. My entire apartment has been devoted to this task. Friends have made comments about creating my own private sweatshop. I prefer to think of it as my own private atelier. I'm creating my own haute couture. I'm also improving my delivery of profanity and pushing the boundaries of my patience.

My table is covered with pins, spools of thread, sewing machines and manuals. The chairs have pattern pieces, in both tissue paper and fabric, carefully laid on them. The bookcase has the full length mirror leaning against it. The ironing board is in the kitchen and two irons are taking up the kitchen counter on one side; the other side has tailor's chalk, more pins, and scissors on it. The carpet space not reserved for sitting has even more pins, scissors, tailor's chalk, instructions and books strewn all over it. In fact, most surfaces have pins on them. I have not stepped on one yet. Actually I have stepped on many of them, they were laying flat, so it doesn't count.

I'm trying to get the dress finished before they arrive. I've had to reset the collar numerous times on various sides. I had to recut out the collar as I'd sewn it together upside down. I've had pins sticking into me as I tried it on yet again to ensure that it was going together correctly. I got scared that I had made the wrong side. I spent a few seconds trying to decide whether it was more work to let the sides out or to lose weight. I decided to lose weight. By then it was time for fortification, so I poured a cup of tea and grabbed a few cookies.

I'd realised that the dress needs thirteen buttons down the front. I'm not sure how to do button holes, or rather how to line up thirteen holes so that not only are they aligned with the button but in a vertical line down the front. My mother, on the other hand, does. I've pointed out that if she truly loves me, she will do these button holes for me. She's thinking about it. I've always said she loved my brother best.

Tonight I finished basting in the last sleeve. I'll sew them in when my mother has agreed they're set properly. My next step is to go around my apartment clearing space and wielding a magnet looking for pins. My Dad always manages to step on them so that he sticks them in his feet. I have no idea how he does it. I never do. I think he does it on purpose.

Mother's Day

Tomorrow is Mother's Day.

I didn't send my mother a card.

I won't send her flowers.

I might phone her.

Yes, I am the stereotypical awful daughter.

Except that my mother is not the stereotypical mother, which means that you don't have to play by the rules.

I'm not sending my mother a card because we both agree that cards are overpriced and it's hard to find a decent one.

I'm not sending her flowers because she prefers plants and she prefers to choose them herself. She's not a fan of chocolate.

I probably won't phone her because I phoned her four times today. I'm not sure she wants to hear from me again so soon.

I prefer to do the unexpected. Mother's day is expected and scripted. My mother and I dislike the hallmark holidays. They've become obligatory and as a consequence, assume an importance out of proportion with daily life. If you do something unexpected for your mother or father a few times out of the year, and remember to make them feel special on a daily or even a weekly basis, there's no reason why you should need a special day.

I'm lucky my mother and I agree on this.

My grandmother doesn't. I had to check with my mother whether I had to phone her. Apparently, grandparent's day is later in the year. I've marked it on my calendar. You only miss it once.

I've already chosen the card.

It was overpriced.

It hurt.

Need for Speed

Sometimes you realise that life has been a little sedate. This can mean that you've been fairly sedimentary and staying clear of that type of activity known as exercise. Your heart rate hasn't risen above just enough to keep the blood flowing and your muscles are forgetting they have a purpose. Life and you ambles along. Then something happens and sedate is no longer an option.

I went hiking today. For all those doubters, I can hike. I grew up with a forest in my backyard. I think this is why I never think of going hiking. It seems so organised, so planned. I was used to taking the dog, a jacket to keep the mosquitoes at bay and heading out the back gate. Today, we went hiking by a waterfall and it was straight up for most of the way. This was different from normal trails and so much more fun. The rocks formed a natural staircase and when they spread into a rock outcrop, we had to scramble across the rock face. We lost the path several times and coming down at one point, we had to slide along the rock face. It was great.

However, more to the point, it was a gorgeous day. It wasn't hot, yet the sun was shining. The sky had just enough clouds to make it picture perfect and there was a slight breeze. The cherry and apple trees were starting in blossom and with the right wind, the scent carried. In short, it was perfect touring weather.

To make it worse, the way we took to get to the waterfall was a perfect touring road. The road was paved, there were slight hills and the road twisted and turned through the hills and valleys. Except there were two massive problems: I wasn't driving and we were in a Toyota Yaris.

There is nothing worse than having perfect touring conditions and

no

car.


Not that I normally get to drive while touring. I do however get the experience. The driver is concentrating on holding the wheel steady, no power steering here, there's the slight touches to the spark and gas, and the easing of the brakes at the stop sign. As you start back up again, the driver puts the car through her paces until she's back in third gear and you're again flying along.

Flying would be key. When you have the wind in your hair, the sun on your face, the smells of the spring in the country wafting through the air and the feel of the road underneath you, you're driving.

The road was perfect. It was the type where you ease her into the corners and accelerate out of the turns, taking the crests of the hills and letting up on the dip down. Maybe not quite what you'd do with the average touring, but surely in a speedster. In my mind, I was flying though the countryside while in actuality, I was being driven sedately along in air conditioned comfort.

I'm agitated tonight. I want to drive. I want to go back to this road. I want to be driving my speedster. I'd take it into the turns and over the hills. I'd come back with a sun and wind burnt face. My hair would be a mess under my aviator hat and my sunglasses would be dusty. It could rain and I would still be happy.

I realise I've been sedate. I haven't gone at relative high speeds in a car without seat belts, doors or a full windscreen, with my shoes off and my feet resting on the running board. I haven't been rained on. I haven't gotten lost and had to ask at a farm house where the main road was. I haven't been worried that we couldn't stop at the end of a hill or make it to the top of the next one or that the rain is going to cause the coil box to short out.

Next summer, I'll be ready. Everyone else will go hiking. I'll look surprised. That's tame stuff, I'll say. I need to get the ole heart up. I'm going touring.

Get out Much?

I grew up in a suburban neighbourhood. The type of place where the buses are infrequent and a pain to use. You drive everywhere and walk nowhere.

Now I live downtown. I walk everywhere as it's faster than taking the bus. I reserve my bus trips for going to mall or the far ends of town. I very very rarely get to go in a car now, which is why car rides have become a big deal.

I discovered recently that I am not alone in enjoying car rides now just for the sake of having a ride. There had been a large group of us who had gone to support a friend who was taking part in a play. This was community theatre at its best. It also was held out in the middle of nowhere - relative to downtown.

Driving back into town, my friend and I were in the back of the car exclaiming about how rarely we get to go in cars. We noted that we had no idea where we were. The four of us made dismissive noises about the fact that we' were in the middle of nowhere.

Then I spotted Ikea. "Ikea's all the way out here?" The two of us in the back starting paying attention to the different stores and buildings we were passing, trying to orient ourselves. We started pointing out the different places of note. "So that's where that store is. I see their ads all the time. I didn't know that store was all the way out here." "I didn't know we had that store. Look over there."

It quickly became apparent that we rarely get out of the downtown area. We hit the tourist level. "Look it's the National Post building," my friend went and then together we chorused, "The Ottawa Citizen." We had reached full blown tourist stage. The two in the front turned around to stare at us as we collapsed in a fit of giggles.

Our friend in the front turned to the driver. "These girls would make a cheap date." she said. "All you'd have to do is take them to Dairy Queen, buy them a toffee parfait and then take them driving around town. They'd have a blast." We were about to retaliate when we caught sight of another landmark and together we chorused, 'Look it's the Weston AND the Hilton." Our reputation was then sealed as the two girls who didn't get out enough.

We didn't care. We were having too much fun driving around in car, laughing at ourselves and how ridiculous we'd become. Walking will do that to you.

Apparently it isn't that far out. Another group walked back. It took them an hour. But that's a story for another day.