Yesterday afternoon, my son and his friend wanted to hold an impromptu garage sale.

“Wait for summer,” I told them. “There won’t be anyone on the street, and you only have an hour before dinner.”

But they insisted, so I let them set up TV trays on the sidewalk. They carefully displayed their toys and trinkets, while I hovered inside the screen door pretending not to watch.

First, a young guy with a hockey bag walked by and bought a plastic harmonica for $5, because the boys didn’t have change and he only had a $5 bill. Then an old man bought something. The neighbours came by, went home to get cash, and returned. A kid from down the street begged his dad for an allowance advance.

Everything on the boys’ table was labelled 25 cents, and every single shopper paid above asking price.

All of which is to say that the world is obviously a kinder, happier place than I realized. Tomorrow, we will probably solve climate change.

Kindergarten:
Isn’t this historic building lovely? And the teacher is so sweet. Of course I’ll drive for those field trips. Reading volunteer needed? Sign me up. And I’ll bake for the Halloween Howl and the Christmas Market and the Spring Fling and the Teacher Appreciation Lunch and the Centennial Tea and the International Lunch and the Pancake Breakfast and the Earth Savers Bake Sale. I would LOVE to volunteer for art on Fridays. Oh, here is my hand-knit afghan for the silent auction fundraiser, and do you need a lunch room supervisor on Monday? Because those darlings are so darned-tooting cute when they’re throwing orange slices at me.

Grade Three:
Why did no one tell me about the asbestos? These crazy volunteer hours and all this fundraising… it’s unsustainable. We need to change the system. Please sign me up for the Seismic Committee and the PAC executive. School board meeting on Tuesday? Let’s meet for a drink beforehand, and we’ll call it a date. Oooh… and how about a rally? Because that could be fun AND effective! After that, we’ll launch our petition, our letter-writing campaign, and our crowdfunding. Don’t you just love that Margaret Mead quote?

Grade Seven:
Here’s a buck for tomorrow’s bake sale, kiddo. Now pass your mom her beer.

I’m speaking to a Brownie troop this week. I’m not sure how this happened. One minute, I was volunteering at my kids’ pancake breakfast and chatting to another mom. The next minute, I was agreeing to be a guest speaker at a January meeting.

Here’s the problem: I am a failed Brownie. I had desperately wanted to be a Brownie so I could wear that brown dress and sash to school every Tuesday, with my jeans rolled up underneath. But when I actually joined, my leaders (owls? why are they owls?) kept yammering on about getting these badges, without specifically explaining what I had to do to get these badges, or why I would want to.

After three weeks, I couldn’t take it any longer. I quit. In the car after that final meeting, I got a big lecture from my mom about not quitting activities. But I must have won, because I never went back.

I’m considering telling this week’s Brownie troop that they should focus on careers other than writing. Any kid willing to follow that many directions and jump through that many hoops to earn useless badges is too comfortable with authority to become a writer.

Min tells me this would be an inappropriate presentation. But he quit his Scout troop after three meetings, too, so who is he to talk?

I love popcorn. Like, really, really love popcorn. Alex, one of my roommates in university, has disliked the smell ever since she lived with me, because she breathed in too many popcorn fumes.

When left to my own devices, I eat it for dinner.

So, when the kids were tucked into bed last week and Min was out seeing a movie with friends, I made a big bowl of popcorn and settled down to watch trash TV. When I got to the bottom of the bowl, I started looking for those crunchy, half-popped kernels. And that’s when I noticed a small black spec.

When I turned on the light, I could see another black spec. With legs.

I ran into the kitchen and emptied the air popper. No specs. Then I emptied the bag. SPECS! And let’s be honest, they were not specs, they were BUGS.

Weevils. (Because of course I googled them immediately to make sure I wasn’t going to die.) Weevils apparently love popcorn just as much as I do. And they can have it. Because I don’t think I’m ever, ever eating it again.

We went downtown over the holidays for a two-day staycation at a nice hotel. I used an obscene number of towels, which I then tossed indiscriminately on the floor for other people to pick up. I was feeling guilty by day two, and this made me think:

a. if towel overuse is all I have to feel guilty about, I’m leading a very dull life; and,

b. friends flew to Mexico over the holidays. I could cause the laundering of a LOT of towels before equalling the climate/social cost of that trip.

Then I felt petty about these justifications. Until I heard a CBC interview about the Paris climate-change agreement. You know what methods the international community has chosen to ensure that countries meet their emissions goals?

Comparison and shaming.

In a nutshell: “My towel use is less damaging than your flight, so there.”

We are staking the entire future of humanity on peer pressure.

Also, I am back at home, maid-less and tan-less, working diligently. In case you want to compare.