Friday, December 21, 2007

Why bother?

It was a classic case of wardrobe meltdown. I stood in front of my closet, trying not to bite my nails (must save remains of nails for New Year manicure), and getting more and more frustrated. I was reaching the point when I had decided that I would be unable to go to work. I had nothing, nothing, to wear. I knew that I had gaps in my wardrobe but I hadn't realised that they had grown into massive craters.

It either didn't fit, the necessaray matching piece was not clean, or even worse it was packed in my suitcase. The things packed in my suitcase gave me great trouble. Did I need them to be clean? Or could I wash them upon arrival? "Hi Mum, can you wash all this for me?" I discarded the idea.

The pile of rejects grew, my nails started disappearing, and my frustration level grew. My fall back of black no longer existed. My black pants were no longer wearable. In desperation, I decided to aim for my black skirt. The first pair of black tights I found had a massive run in the heel. It felt like it would grow. I kept digging and finally located another pair.

Now that my bottom half was covered, I turned to the matter of the top half. Easy, black wool turtle neck. It used to belong to my Mum, like most of my better clothing. Vintage, darling and endless confusion as to why your mother was so much thinner than you. I pulled it over my head and looked in the mirror. Tah Dah! I'm dressed! And then I saw it, a very noticeable hole at the neck. In desperation, I looked for something to hide it. Anything!

My eyes lighted on my mother's black and white silk scarf. I'm not a fan of scarves. They always feel contrived to me. Today however, I was going to wear a scarf. I tied it round my neck, cleverly placing it on an angle so that the large floppy bow covered the hole.

I was relieved. I could now go to work.

Once at work, I had a lady walk by, turn and come back to tell me she liked my outfit. One of my co-workers appeared stunned when I appeared to ask him a question. He proclaimed it elegant. They were both French. The French are supposed to know a thing or two about being well dressed.

It was my secret chuckle all day. I had reached the French sophistication level of dressing and if I moved in the wrong direction, my outfit was going to literally fall apart. I'm going to buy more black (it always matches) and more scarves. I hear you can hide bad hair days with them too. I mean, why bother?

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Breakfast

Breakfast should be easy enough. That's why hotels have room service: you pick your breakfast, phone it down and while you're busy shaving, they deliver it. You just need to be quick. He had noted the previous evening that the staff seemed to leave the meal outside the door. He had a sneaking suspicion that if you weren't quick, someone either pinched your meal or small boys spat on it.

He grabbed the in-room menu and plunked himself down on his bed. He quickly scanned the options. He needed something quick and easy. Although his habit was to have Belgium waffles when away, he thought he should try something less sticky. At the bottom, he found the basics - like toast and cereal. He thought he should be healthy and have orange juice as well. His eyes skipped over into the column in which the prices were listed. He opened his eyes wide and his jaw dropped. "They want $5 for orange juice!" Then he noticed the small print. He made it a habit to always read the small print. It was where companies put the information they didn't actually want you to know. On top of his $5 for orange juice, he would have to pay a tax and a fixed delivery and gratuity fee. He did some quick mental math. The orange juice alone would cost in the range of $9. He almost phoned to find out if the kitchen juiced the oranges to order. Maybe they would let him pick the type of orange they used. Then he realised that other than Naval and Juice, he wasn't aware of any other types. Seville! Oh, that was for marmalade and cleaning brass. Clearly not to be drunk . . . .

He sighed. While it was useful to be fully prepared, it was boring. He started to rummage in his suitcase. After a quick search, he located what he was looking for: a single serving of instant oatmeal in its envelope. He took the carafe from the coffee maker and headed to the bathroom. He had noted with pleasure that the hotel provided take-away disposable cups so that he could take tea to his first meeting. The water started to drip into the china mug and when he thought it had reached 3/4 of a cup, he took a deep breath, removed the cup and switched it for the disposable cup. Phew, minimal puddle. He dumped the oatmeal into the china cup, and added a tea bag to the disposable cup.

A short time later, he was dressed. He had downed his oatmeal, and brushed his teeth. He grabbed his writing folder, his name tag, the day's schedule and his tea. Opening the door, he took a deep breath. He uttered a quick prayer the sessions would be interested and strode towards the elevator.

Monday, December 03, 2007

Charities

It seems that everywhere you go now someone, somewhere, has a a pet charity for which they are trying to raise money. I was recently at a Broadway show where at the end, the actors hit the audience up for change on the way out to support their charity, "Broadway Cares."

I'm not the activist sort and I don't have a favourite charity. My friends normally are and do. I know just enough to be nervous. I know that there are reputable charities out there and ones that aren't. I have a friend who keeps up on this information and every now and then I'll run a charity by her.

My dirty secret though is that the charities I support aren't PC. I'll hesitate to give money to a poor developing country, but my university knows that I'm good for cash. Horror! Yes, my charitable donations go not to support those who are hungry, who have no shelter and who are suffering from war, but to support and uphold the greedy upper class.

But I disagree.

I have a huge karma debt that I owe to my university. I was a middle-class student who was falling between the financial support cracks. I didn't qualify for state aid based on parental income but my parent's couldn't afford to pay for my schooling. I knew that I was going to have to pay my own way through. By grade seven, my peers were starting to think about post-secondary education. My friend's talked of going to university. I wouldn't say either way. I said I was thinking of community college.

We were 14 and our ability to become employed was limited. Those of use who were paying our own way through got a job in the year in which we turned 16. By the end of high school, we were balancing part time jobs and our grades, trying to maximize both. The kids I worked with were all trying to save for university and college. One year as my aunt gave me birthday money, she looked at me, "This is for you to spend on yourself. It is not to go in the bank." It went in the bank. Everything went in the bank. I still talked of college.

Then I lucked out. I didn't qualify for bursary assistance but I won a scholarship. The scholarship gave me hope like nothing else. In the way that student bodies splinter, the kids who were paying their own way through clubbed together. They knew their stuff and they studied. They took school seriously. Those of them who were on scholarship took it even more seriously. I had several friend's on the same scholarship. You could tell by their faces, their marks on exams. A good mark garnered no reaction. Anything too close to the mark cut-off level meant a widening of the eyes. Either way, the test would be examined with a fine tooth comb. There was no room for error and an error made once could not be repeated.

Now when I tell people I was going to go to community college, they laugh at me. They don't understand. These are the same people who wonder why I always bring my lunch to work. It's related, but I won't tell them that.

I give to my university to assist the students who were like me. To rich to get assistance but too poor to make it on their own, these kids do all that they can to get themselves through school. And if they can't make it, we might lose the kid who would have been a doctor, the one who may have been a human rights lawyer, or the one who would have worked for the UN. And when someone's taken a chance on you, then you'll take a chance on other people.

My charity may not be PC, but I believe in it.

Sunday, December 02, 2007

Suits

Tomorrow we're having a meeting at work. It's a big deal. People come in from all over the country and it lasts all day. It happens once a year. I'm not involved with any of the organization. All I have to do is show up and fill a seat, take good notes and not ask stupid questions.

There is the matter of showing up appropriately. We tend not to wear suits at work. There really isn't much point. If you wear suit, you tend to get asked if you have a job interview that day. So no one wears suits.

This consensus of no-suit wearing works, as long as everyone understands the circumstances when a suit is necessary. Last year, no one had explained that the annual meeting was a suit wearing occasion. It just wasn't billed that way. So a colleague and I showed up in our normal work wear - which is perfectly suitable for work, it just ain't for a suit wearing meeting. To our initial amazement which soon turned to horror, everyone else was wearing a suit.

This year we were prepared. At our last group meeting before the big day, my colleague clarified the situation. "Are we wearing suits on Monday?" There was a pause as we all looked round the table at each other. My manager shook his head slowly, "I think that would be appropriate." We had a consensus. We were all going to be suits for the day.

We were not the only ones to be worried. I met another colleague in the elevator who was carrying a bag from a local shoe store. She volunteered the information that she had bought new shoes to wear with the suit she's going to wear on Monday. I know for a fact she's going to be sitting down the entire time she gives her presentation. But suit panic knows no bounds. This year we'll all be prepared.