Kindness makes us all feel better

Here in BC, in the early days of the pandemic, Dr. Bonny Henry ended each of her daily COVID-19 updates with the words “Be kind, be calm, be safe.” I don’t know about you, but I found it soothing. We all desperately needed kindness (plus calm and safety!) to cope with life’s bizarre turn. Twenty challenging months later, it’s even more important to ramp up the kindness to one another.

Mr. Fluffster and I, setting out for a long walk in downtown Vancouver on November 13, were stopped by a woman who asked if she could interrupt our conversation. We said “Yes, of course,” thinking she wanted directions. Instead, much to our surprise, she said, “I just wanted to say that you two make such a nice couple.”

Mr. Fluffster told her, “Nobody has ever paid us that compliment before!” Then we wished her the best of all possible days and went on our way.

I discovered later that November 13 is World Kindness Day. Was that her motivation? I’d prefer to think that she truly believed we are a nice couple.

I was tickled pink. She contributed meaningfully to our happiness and perhaps that of someone else who might benefit from our paying it forward.

When many people, understandably stressed not just by the pandemic but also by weather disasters and the state of the world, act negatively towards others, it’s a breath of fresh air to hear something pleasant out of nowhere.

Right now, we all need to take comfort from simple things. The sun was shining when we went out for a walk yesterday, and I noticed that many of the people we passed along the trail were smiling and inclined to say hello or nod in a friendly way (whether they knew us or not). I don’t know about them, but I was smiling because of the sunshine. Retaining that feeling and goodwill towards others through the cold winter to come will require effort.

Just think. If we all resolved to say one nice thing to someone (anyone, not necessarily a stranger) once a week, imagine the cumulative effect that could have. Wouldn’t our world become a better place?

Let’s start a movement. One kindness hour every week.

I feel better already.

Of half-mast masks and bus bozos

The Fluffster offspring has coined an apropos term since resuming travel to his downtown office: bus bozos. What’s a bus bozo, you ask? Well, I’ve expanded my use of it beyond his original meaning: allow me to expound.

Bus bozos are folks we’ve all encountered in indoor spaces (not just buses!) over the past 18 months, who read from a different playbook than we do when it comes to face masks. Most of us have seen public service announcements and news items about the proper use of face masks, and how they protect us from COVID-19. Some of us have also seen Uncle Festus holding forth on Facebook, but we’re not buying that baloney.

I see these bozos in grocery stores and shopping malls as well as on transit. Every bus or Skytrain ride includes at least one. Their philosophy? As long as the face mask sits somewhere on their head or face, they’re following the guidelines. The most common location is that shown below.

Bozos, that’s not how this works. Masks aren’t chin straps or mouth guards. They’re meant to contain the aerosols and droplets you cough, sneeze, or breathe out. Those pretty much all come out of your nose and mouth (not oozing out of your chin). 

Covering up only your mouth and chin won’t protect us from COVID-19. Nor does it mean that you won’t be asked to cover up. Though more likely, you’ll be permitted to go on your merry way, but with my evil thoughts hanging like a black cloud over your head.

Nobody likes face masks. To the essential workers forced to wear them all day, every day, I feel for you. I get that you need to pull the damn thing off your nose every once in a while just to breathe. Those of us lucky enough to stay home and live our lives mostly maskless must be understanding towards those who can’t.

But sadly, masks aren’t optional indoors and we’re stuck with them for now.

To the woman who got on my bus wearing a mask, only to sit down and pull it under her chin until it was time to get off the bus, This isn’t a damn restaurant, lady! (No, she wasn’t eating.)

To the young man with mask at half-mast, singing loudly on the Skytrain: I applaud your efforts to cheer everyone up, but you’d get a lot more ‘likes’ if you did it with a mask on.

To the grumpy old men in my grocery store, also with masks at half-mast: Ok, maybe you were forced to do the shopping this week, and you’re going to show your irritation by not putting that damn thing over your nose. It effectively makes me social distance from you, but it doesn’t protect either of us from those nasty aerosols...

Finally, to the unmasked, embarrassed man who said he’d forgotten his mask, asked was it ok if he got on the elevator anyway, and backed away when I said I’d prefer he wear one: Thank you, sir. You did the right thing.

I’m sure you all have your own versions of these encounters. The curious thing about mask wearing is that only a few vocal people refuse outright to wear one, although they, at least, have the courage of their convictions (wrong as they may be). All these half-mast bus bozos are just pretending to be outlaws.

To all the faux-outlaws: Buster, you ain’t Billy the Kid. He wore it over his nose.

Created by Lia Rahdiah from the Noun Project; created by Lia Rahdiah from the Noun Project; created by icon54 from Noun Project

Reflections on plain language and dog poop

In 2014, while out for a walk with my mother-in-law in Ontario, we came upon the sign above. I was so flabbergasted, I returned to take a photograph. A couple of years ago I went by again to see if it was still there, and it was.

It has haunted me ever since. This sign has survived at least seven years. Not only that, but in May 2019, the same municipality put up more of them! Ms. Fluffster is gobsmacked.

Googling “Bylaw #122-87” yields 2002 and 2020 results that claim this particular bylaw has been repealed. I can’t seem to find a copy of said bylaw, but that makes sense if it was repealed twice! Of course, that begs the question of whether it even has legal teeth.

It has, deservedly, earned an American Centre for Plain Language WTF award. I’m not sure if those awarding it knew the sign was Canadian, but that doesn’t matter. It makes their case with a vengeance.

Where to begin? Will your average dog-walker read it and say to themselves, “oh, shoot, I forgot Fido’s poop bags?” Or will they instead (assuming they understand it) muse on how to “remove all excrement” from a living, breathing, eating, pooping creature? Incidentally, a picture of this sign has been posted to Flickr, where commenters are busy speculating on the mechanics of how to do this. If you’re interested.

I suspect that most people will get to “excrement” and stop reading.

Let’s just parse the language. The word “Persons” drives me crazy. In my worldview, the plural of person is people. Those who know language (like Grammarly.com) mostly agree with me, but they make an exception for legal writing and distinct ethnic groups. While I agree with the latter, I’ve spent years showing writers how to eliminate it from the former.

“Persons shall”: Well, that either means it’s going to happen in future, or the writer strongly believes it will. But not you absolutely have to do this, for which “Persons must” would be required.

“Persons shall remove all excrement”: Whoa, hang on there! All excrement? Everywhere? And how on earth does one “remove” it? (For more, see Flickr note, above.) 

“Persons shall remove all excrement from pets”: Ok, remove from pets. Clear enough. Presumably this also applies to pet cats, budgies, monkeys, tigers, or boa constrictors, not just dogs.

“Persons shall remove all excrement from pets pursuant”: Here, my brain explodes. Pursuant to what? The missing “to” between “pursuant” and “Bylaw” on the next line suggests that this is actually the archaic usage of the word pursuant (since the sign creators are keen on such usage, after all) and really means “following.”

If that’s the case, are these “pets pursuant” chasing me? If so, and they’re really big pets, forget about me stopping to “remove all excrement,” thank you very much. I’d rather cough up the $2,000.

There are alternatives to this kind of bafflegab, and not all municipalities are as misguided as Vaughan. Some places have signs that everyone can understand. For example, someone at the District of North Vancouver Municipal Hall revealed a healthy sense of humour when this sign was created. It even comes with its own doggie bag dispenser.

I fled academia in my youth to escape impenetrable language and pretentious people, and then spent another 30 years successfully (mostly) convincing legal professionals that, to be effective, communication must avoid convoluted sentences and jargon that folks don’t understand. There’s no advantage to writing laws (or bylaws) that nobody can follow. It doesn’t make compliance more likely (the reverse, in fact). 

So if you want that s*** picked up, it’s time to put up a sign that says so.

Created by Nikita Kozin from Noun Project; Created by Luis Prado from Noun Project; Dog Poop by corpus delicti from the Noun Project

Confessions of a late-blooming but mostly dedicated Canucks fan

My only exposure to hockey before 2010 was accompanying my best friend to watch her older brother play at the local arena when we were in our teens. As I recall, those games chiefly featured dropped gloves and fist fights, both on and off the ice. I don’t remember much about the games or who won or lost. I was a pacifist, not keen to watch violence of any kind, but true friendship has its responsibilities.

In the first 30 years of our marriage, Mr. Fluffster from time to time expressed a desire to go to a live hockey game, but whenever he did, the Fluffster offspring and I would rapidly find really pressing business elsewhere.

Fast forward 40 years to the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics. By the final gold medal game, I’d started to pay attention (couldn’t avoid it, as Mr. Fluffster watched, and by that time of day, I was reluctant to shift my carcass off the couch and go do something else). I got to know the Canadian players, and began to understand the rules (and the appeal) of the game. I also discovered that fights were actually not the main draw.

The following year, Mr. Fluffster began watching the Vancouver Canucks occasionally and I joined, wielding my bit of hard-earned hockey knowledge. I didn’t always stick around for the whole game, but a seed had been planted.

For his birthday in May, it occurred to me that a pair of hockey tickets might be welcome. My naivete about the difference between regular season and playoff tickets led me to venture blithely and optimistically onto the Internet. By some miracle avoiding dodgy sites, I stumbled onto a reputable reseller with a pair of tickets for a second round Canucks versus Predators game at a reasonable price! Mr. Fluffster was surprised, and most impressed.

The evening of our game arrived, and we took our places in the very loud Rogers Arena. Our seats had little white Canucks towels hung over the backs (towels pictured, top of this post). These puzzled me a bit, never having watched an NHL playoff game (or any game) in person before.

When the first mad round of towel waving started, I felt thoroughly self-conscious. Could I really pick that thing up and wave it around my head, screaming loudly? My first attempt was probably quite comical:

go Canucks, go!

Subsequent efforts became slowly less inhibited (and louder) as the game progressed and goals were scored. By the end, I was shouting with the best of them (well, maybe not quite; I’m not that loud). But I found it quite liberating.

As I recall, the Canucks lost that particular game, but they went on to knock Nashville out of the second round. That was the year they went to game 7 before losing the Stanley Cup to Boston. By that time, I was a hardened fan. My siblings and their families arrived for a family reunion in mid-June, and were told we’d be available to entertain them every evening except June 15, which we planned to spend in front of our television, and we’d be happy to suggest alternative outings if they weren’t interested. 

My two nephews and niece decided they wanted to be in the thick of things and headed downtown to watch the game on big screens with the crowds. My sister and brother-in-law opted to watch with us (everyone else went to a movie). The Fluffster offspring was working that evening, and didn’t get home until after the game had ended.

The aftermath was, of course, a historical black eye for Vancouver. My nephews and niece came home just at the end of the second period, saying they didn’t like the general atmosphere downtown and preferred to just come watch with us. Yes, they’re very sensible.

The Fluffster offspring got home just in time to watch the news coverage. We could actually see the smoke rising over downtown from our window. When my sister went home, she took great pleasure in telling colleagues who asked about her trip: “Oh, we had a riot!”

My love affair with hockey continues to this day. Sadly, Canucks overall results have gone downhill since 2011, but I haven’t yet given up on the possibility that one day, they’ll make it past the first or second round and win a Stanley Cup. I always was one for the underdog.

Sadly, the Fluffster offspring has never come on board. In 2012, he spent a weekend at a “game jam,” where groups of aspiring software developers, graphic designers, and the like work for 60 hours straight creating video games together. He came home with a door prize, which he described as “some kind of sports jersey” before staggering off to bed. When pressed the next morning, he conceded that the sport was hockey. “Oh, and it’s got a signature on it.” He couldn’t remember which team or which player. It turned out to be an Alex Burrows signed Canucks jersey worth more than $300. That was the point at which we gave up all hope.

We continue to be fans to this day. I’m now keener than Mr. Fluffster, who watches bits here and there, but doesn’t get enthusiastic until playoffs (and even then, only if warranted).

One of the things I miss about not working is post-game celebrations or commiserations with Canucks fan colleagues. Those just aren’t as much fun on my own. I might have to join a Facebook group or something.

Go, Canucks, Go!

Please?

trophy cup by Nikita Kozin from the Noun Project; hockey by Tamiko Young from the Noun Project

Talking pedestrian walk signals (and how to break them)

Pedestrian walk signals are, well, rather pedestrian for most of us. We take them for granted. They’re intended to get us across the street safely and, more generally, to enable pedestrians and vehicles to coexist and cooperate in close quarters. They’ve evolved somewhat over the years, but some features (like the little white walking man and orange “don’t walk” hand above) have been around for a long time. One could question those choices (a white man? an orange hand?) but it’s probably too late now. We’re so used to them that changing them now would just create traffic chaos. There are more worthwhile battles out there.

The countdown timer (below) is a relatively more recent addition to many stoplights. What’s a bit disconcerting about them though is that they each have different tallies. These are probably scientifically deduced, based on street width, number of pedestrians, volume of traffic, etc., but it’s still a bit unsettling not to know whether I’ll be getting a 5, 10, 15, or 20-or-more count to scuttle across the street once that white walking man disappears. If I'm in an unfamiliar neighbourhood, there’s no way to know for sure until the countdown begins. If I follow the rules and start out only when the white walking man appears, I'm already in the intersection. So the big question is always, will I find myself going from leisurely stroll to hotwalk to frenzied gallop because this timer’s only giving me a 5? It certainly adds some excitement to even the most mundane walk.

Sounds were added more than 10 years ago, starting with the “cuckoo sound when the north-south walk light is active, and … a chirp-chirp sound when the east-west walk light is active” (at least, that’s how it’s described in Surrey). I recall when my mother last visited Vancouver, (circa 2010), going for a walk with her and finding myself half way across the street before realizing that she hadn’t moved and was still standing by the signal trying to spot the bird whose sounds she could hear. That she wasn’t familiar with the sound likely means they weren’t being used yet in Ontario. Although it’s entirely possible she was doing the same thing at home too. She was an avid birder and always easily distracted from whatever task she had on hand.

Some cursory googling shows there was a movement afoot around that time to replace the chirps with something called the Canadian Melody to rescue those distractable birders (oh, and also because the sound wasn’t distinctive or loud enough to be heard over traffic), but as I’ve never heard that melody in BC, I guess that didn’t take hold anywhere, aside from Prince George. Of course, I’ve never been to Prince George, so perhaps that explains it.

Over the past couple of years, pedestrian walk signal sounds have evolved and expanded to address the needs of the visually impaired. The signal at the corner of my street when first installed had a repertoire of announcements in addition to the chirps and cuckoos. It would utter a sharp “Wait!” when you pushed the button if the light was red, and a rather robotic “Walk Signal Is On” when the white walking man appeared. And a little red light would come on above the button. I must here confess to taking a perverse childish delight in pushing the button just to hear it bark “Wait! Wait! Wait! Wait!” repeatedly (but usually only when I was on my own). I know, I know. I need to get a life.

However, in the last couple of months, that same signal (now slightly soiled, above) has stopped barking “Wait!” altogether or turning on that little red light. It still tells me “Walk Signal Is On,” but seems to have lost its desire to prevent me stepping out into moving traffic.

It’s probably a battery issue or a question of aging equipment (maybe that mud that also sullied the sign got into the works?), but some inner part of my brain thinks it’s exacting revenge for my repeated button-pushing. Or maybe I truly did break the thing, so the concomitant risks to my neighbours are all on my head. Oops.