Do You Miss Manners?

On her Thought Spot blog, Diane talked about formalities and the way that her father raised her in an environment bursting with old-fashioned military etiquette. What she didn't learn from her father would be instilled in her later, as she trained to become a marine officer. (Here's the link.)

http://the-thought-spot.blogspot.com/2006/12/on-formalities.html

I regard manners in much the same way as I do art -- I may not know manners, but I know what I like. I mentioned to Diane that I prefer to use first names in addressing other adults. I feel it's one of my divine rights as a grown-up. I get to eat dessert first, go to bed when I want, and address other adults by their first name. I made it through high-school so I figure I deserve some special privilege in exchange for all the indignities I suffered at the hands of cruel teenage girls...and boys for that matter. I wield first names like a sword, levelling the social playground by cutting through formalities and pretense. "We are all God's children," I tell myself, "no one person is more or less valuable than another. We all have a purpose."

I felt pretty comfortable with this personal philosophy until I read Diane's blog. It made me realize that a little bit of ceremony may not be a bad thing. Remember when you were a kid and you called your friends' parents Mr. & Mrs. Smith? It was a sign of respect. Gentlemen opened doors for ladies, children didn't cuss in public, and we always wore our best dress to church on Sunday. All examples of how we demonstrated our respect for others. Not exactly ceremony, but certainly it offered some semblance of decorum.

Things changed somewhere along the line; I kind of like the phrase "social decay." It suggests that we need to pay attention to our collective mental hygiene (sorry) in order to see improvements. I see the symptoms of this decay everywhere, particularly where manners are concerned. Here are some observations:

"I want some milk," says little Jimmy.
"What do you say?" asks Mommy.
"Please can I have some milk," little Jimmy obeys.
"Sure sweetie," comes the reply.
A few moments pass.
"Go brush your teeth Jimmy or you'll be late for the bus."

See anything missing from this exchange? I do. I see it all the time. I probably commit this crime of omission myself from time to time. I consider it the "do as I say, not as I do" approach to parental instruction in manners. Here's another one.

"Go brush your teeth please, or you'll be late for the bus," says Mommy.
"Huh?" asks Jimmy.
"The word is pardon," comes Mommy's reply, "and I said, please go brush your teeth." "Mommy, I can't find the toothpaste," Jimmy calls down from the upstairs bathroom.
"What?" yells Mommy.

I'm a parent and I hear this a lot. Well, perhaps it's more accurate to say I recognize it more often because I've grown sensitive to it. In fact, there is a particular individual in my extended family that is especially bad for this. He instructs my children in matters of etiquette while completely disregarding these rules himself. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for the instruction part, but please don't confuse my kids by having them follow one set of rules while you follow another. Here are a few other examples of how we muddy the waters:

• parents who smack their kids and say, "I said no hitting;"
• neighbours who play loud music until 2 a.m. and then throw stones at you when you start your lawn mower the next morning at 8:00 and call you an insensitive ass; and
• dentists who charge $50 for missed appointments and then keep you waiting in their foyer until 9:18 for your 9:00 appointment. "Where's my $50 bucks?" I feel like asking.

Speaking of manners...let's talk about chivalry. If chivalry is dead, I say feminists killed it. How would you like to be on the receiving end of a lecture on the history of feminism and equal rights all the while being accused of oppressive sexist behaviour in response to a single, albeit misplaced, chivalrous act? I can certainly understand how a man might be a little reluctant to flex his gallantry-muscle in modern day society. For those of you willing to open doors or donate a hankie but who may feel unsure of how to rebut an unexpected male-bashing, here's a response I found in a book:

"Are you holding that door open because I'm a woman?" she asks aggressively.
"No, I'm doing it because I am a gentleman," he replies.

...and by the way, I can assure you there are women in the world that long for the "old-fashioned" courtesies that used to come our way. A finely pressed white hankie, a door opened, a seat on the bus, an umbrella on a rainy day, an offer to carry my heavy parcels (to my well-lit parking spot in a busy, public lot.) I understand that perfect strangers might be a little nervous about some of these, what with the avian flu, feminism, and rising crime rates, but if you think you're up for the task go ahead and take the risk. I assure you that any lady would respond politely even if it's to decline your kind gesture.

Some time ago, I committed to being the kindest person I know. Since that time, I discovered that this is not entirely unlike being the most polite person I know. If being kind is about being polite, then shouldn't we be concerned by "social decay?" Are we perhaps too afraid to be kind or have we just forgotten how? In this age of technology, we are raising kids that know how to reprogram the clocks on our VCRs but who couldn't recognize a hankie in a linen line-up. Manners are things that we point out as being absent, but that we often fail to acknowledge when they are present.

About ten years ago, we made fun of technophobes when our parents and grandparents were afraid to touch a computer. What we forgot to value, was their exceptional talent for conducting social interactions. Experts say that baby boomers are an important part of the workforce because they can mentor the Gen-Xers in the finer art of relationship building. Gen-Xers demonstrate great aptitude for technology but the word on the street is that they make crummy supervisors. Seems many of them don't know how to motivate or mentor other people because they often lack basic social skills needed for building and maintaining relationships. That's not to say they don't try.

Ever had an acquaintance (or in some cases, a complete stranger) come up and talk to you about their abusive spouse, their recent bankruptcy and their long list of diagnoses and corresponding treatments? It happens, sure it does. Heck, even if you're not the intended recipient of these little tidbits, you have probably suffered through the uncomfortable second-hand exposure to somebody's public therapy session. Social boundaries have been blurred or even demolished by some unknown force. Let's blame reality TV shows. Whether they deserve it or not, I hate them so let's go with that.

As with all rules, there are also exceptions. There are Baby Boomers who are also sociopaths and empty vessels just like there are Gen-Xers who are charismatic and empathetic humanitarians. We refer to them as weirdos and eccentrics. They are scary and strange because they don't follow the norm. They don't get asked to parties very often and they don't watch reality TV shows.

Diane made me consider that, to others, I may appear boorish and insensitive. I suppose I am sometimes, but not due to any mal intent. Any loutish behaviour would be a product of my ignorance. Having said that, "ignorance of the law is no defense," so I decided I should brush up on my etiquette. I'll get back to you on my findings.

For now, I'll adjust my philosophy on familiarity and offer the respect of a title to any police officers, judges, professors, doctors, dentists, military and political officials. In the meantime, I'm going to read Lynne Truss's book "Talk to the Hand. The Utter Bloody Rudeness of the World Today, or Six Good Reasons to Stay Home and Bolt the Door." I'll share what I find in a future post.

Four Days of Christmas

Well, Christmas is officially over. I know this because the garbage man just threw our bag of wrapping and bows into the back of his truck. It was a lovely bag brimming with red and silver bows with coils of gold foil ribbon twisting themselves through the opening at the top.

In some cases, it took me nearly half an hour to decorate presents as I matched patterns, invisibly joined seams with double-sided tape and then embellished with ribbons and bows and delicate ornaments. I figure that if these gifts are going to wait quietly beneath the tree in my living room for weeks, they had better look sensational because they're basically accessories until the big day arrives. And then...it's over. Bows are snatched, ribbon is cut or stretched and then, at last, the paper is torn from the treasure it conceals to reveal the booty within --- a Fly Pen, an MP3 player, cologne, a wireless mouse. Things we can't live without.

There are some that believe Christmas comes and goes too quickly. There were moments, I felt this way, but in retrospect, it lasted for days this year.

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Day 1.
Christmas Eve we attended a candlelight service at the local church. It was wonderful. At one point, the preacher asked for all of the children to join him by the alter for a Christmas Story.

"The story," he said, " is told by the animals who attended the birth of the baby Jesus. There was a cat, a dog, a lamb, a donkey, and a camel. We don't have enough time to read the whole book but how about you choose which animal and I'll read you their story."

"Cat!" "Lamb!" "Donkey!" the children called at once. "LION!" hollered one little boy as the congregation snickered.

"I heard a lot of animals, but I think the most people wanted to hear from the cat," said preacher, and so he read how the cat arrived with one of the wise men and cleaned himself as he watched the baby Jesus stirring in the manger.

"What animal would you like to hear from next?" asked the preacher.

"Lamb!" "Camel!" and, in a slightly louder voice "Donkey!"

"I heard lots of animals, but I think most of you said that you wanted to hear from the lamb," preacher said, so he told the story in the voice of the gentle lamb.

"We have time for one more animal," he said.

"Camel, Camel!" yelled the kids together.

"I said Donkey!" hollered one little boy, clearly frustrated. "Donkey, Donkey, Donkey," he repeated loudly as he launched an unlit candle in the general direction of the preacher.

"Jacob," his mother hissed, "you stop that."

"I heard a lot of animals," the preacher tactfully continued, "but I think most of you want to hear from the donkey."

I couldn't see Jacob, but I'll assume he listened raptly to how the donkey carried Mary to Bethlehem, guided by Joseph.

It was a lovely service. Christmas Eve candlelight services are always stirring and sacred. I can't imagine a Christmas that didn't begin with a church service. After the service, we returned home and played games until we couldn't keep our eyes open.

Day 2.
Christmas day began at home with stockings, gift opening and a leisurely breakfast followed by a get-together at the in-laws that included more gifts and a sensational turkey dinner. It was a green Christmas and temperatures hovered just above zero. The children played outside in the hot tub as the grown ups chatted by the empty fireplace. We returned home by about 6 pm, exhausted from the day's activities. Twelve hours of Christmas.

Day 3.
After a night of restorative sleep we awoke to a thick, wet blanket of snow. We returned to the in-laws for a Boxing Day brunch and more gift opening with the rest of the family. Home by noon, I prepared the turkey, introduced it to the oven and promptly fell asleep sitting up in the chair. I awoke from my power nap well-prepared to finish making dinner, set the table and open the wine. It was our family Christmas together; just the four of us.

Day 4.
Two days later, we travelled to my brother's for more gift opening and dinner. For the first time in days, we included a salad on the menu. It was a real treat. Between you and me, I've had about all of the pastry that I can handle. Is there any other time of year when we offer between 8-12 desserts for every meal? Can someone help me understand the relationship between Christmas and dessert? I just don't get it.

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Four days. Four full days of Christmas. It doesn't go fast. If you think it goes fast, then try stretching it out. I have a friend that opens one gift each day starting on Christmas Eve. I don't know how the tradition began, but I do know that she loves the way it makes Christmas last.

Four days. Four full days of family. It passes as quickly as a long weekend, slowly at first and then more quickly as the end appears in sight. Once over, we reflect upon it with a longing that tricks us into believing it passed in a matter of moments. If we take the time to enjoy the memories of Christmas however, we remember that it lasted four days.

Four full days of Christmas.

Christmas Cleaning

Saturday morning. Stealing time to visit my e-community before I do my baking and cleaning. I love baking; I detest housecleaning. In fact, I can pretty much predict how this day is going to unfold. I'm going to go nuts baking and then, somewhere around noon, I'm going to realize I only have a few hours left to clean the house. I'll tidy up the counter, cover all my baking and survey the damage before deciding what I can do in a few short hours.

I live in a century home with 12-foot ceilings, hardwood in almost every room, 6 foot high windows, lathe and plaster walls, and a dirt basement. I note the basement because I believe it accounts for my dust problem. There's a kid in the neighbourhood that claims to be allergic to dust. I have my doubts though. He's slept over and suffered no ill effects. Maybe his frequent visits are helping build up his immunity. He's a friend of my son and they spend a lot of time playing video games in son's bedroom. Of all the rooms in the house, that one is the least-sterile. I don't venture in much except for daily laundry deliveries and good-night kisses.

I have two bathrooms. The bathroom is my least-favourite room to clean. My husband got angry one day because he overheard me telling my son...."If you want a happy wife, then take it upon yourself to clean the bathroom." He said that I was telling my son that I wasn't a happy wife. It's not what I meant but I felt bad. I just meant that I hated cleaning the bathroom and a little help would be appreciated. When I was younger, my sister and I would negotiate our cleaning duties. She took the bathrooms, I did everything else. She would be done in 30 minutes and I'd clean half the day; all to avoid scrubbing toilets.

I got a job at a bar when I was in college. I was a waitress. One of my responsibilities was to clean the bathrooms. "Do you realize how disgusting it is to ask your servers to clean the bathroom?" I asked. "Cripes! Customers in a restaurant don't even like to see their servers USE the bathroom much less CLEAN it." They compromised. I had to clean the bathroom at the end of my shift. Small victory.

There are 7 rooms downstairs and 6 rooms upstairs in this house. There was some talk of an addition, but I couldn't imagine this house getting any larger. We already have a "hunting room," and a "piano room." If you have to make up new names for your rooms, you probably don't need them. A living room, kitchen, dining room, bathroom and bedrooms -- that's all you need. I've read my fair share of decorating mags and I've never seen a "hunting room makeover." Maybe I'll call Debbie Travis and see if she's interested in breaking new ground.

Some rooms are easy to clean because nobody uses them. Some rooms are hard to clean because we just open the door, throw in our (insert name of unwanted item here) and close the door. That's how the hunting room got started. It was where my husband stored his hunting paraphernalia. Now it's a hunting room because you have to hunt for anything to find it in the mess that lives there. We could have a tenant inhabiting that room. We'd never know.

The kids are waking, the bird is chirping and Mamma Cat is circling my feet. Time to begin, I think.

Pumpkin squares, biscotti, mincemeat tarts and the last batch of shortbread. I need to thaw the turkey, plan dinner and dust. Vacuum the rugs, launder the cushions and mop the floors and...oh yeah...clean the bathrooms.

Christmas Cookies

One week before Christmas, and all through the house,
The children were restless, they bickered and groused.

The cousins were over, their parents away,
Attending Mom's company year-end hurray.

The children were gathered surrounding the table,
Adding sprinkles to cookies, and preparing their labels.

Mamma in her track suit, dad in the shed,
Trying to survive 'til the kids go to bed.

Back and forth to the kitchen with bowls of fresh batter,
Rich with butter and sugar to make them all fatter.

"Last bowl, here you go, finish making your treats,
I'm going to start dinner, so stay in your seats."

It wasn't too long before voices got thin,
Big, loud, whiny noises that made Mamma cringe.

She returned to the table, with hands on her hips,
Feet firmly planted, a purse in her lips.

"What's going on? I'm trying to get dinner.
My patience is thin, and my good mood is thinner."

"My head will explode if you continue this way.
You'd better shape up and do what I say."

"But Mamma," they said, "little "Em is so ickey,
She's licking her fingers and touching the cookies."

"I'm not licking," said Em, "I'm putting on kisses.
I put them Tay's and on Reid's and on 'Lyssa's."

The kids dropped their heads a little ashamed,
That such a sweet gesture, was met with disdain.

"We're sorry," they chimed together at 'Em,
"S'Okay" she said as she beamed back at them.

Mamma softened and smiled and knelt by the table,
"I'd like my own treat, if you think that you're able."

'Em picked up a cookie shaped just like a tree,
Kissed it on top and passed it to Reid.

"I'll close my eyes, and add on a wish."
He then passed it on to young sister 'Lys.

She pressed the tree-cookie light to her chest
"I'm adding the love," then she passed to her left.

Tay took it up and thought for a while.
"I have an idea," she said with a smile.

She took the tree-cookie and rose from her chair,
She dashed from the room, leaving everyone there.

From the room they could hear the icebox door open,
They squirmed in their seats, excited and hoping.

Tay returned to the room, and held out the tree,
Now a flat gooey mess all lumpy and green.

"Whadja add?" asked the kids as they wondered aloud,
"It's peace," she replied, all cheerful and proud.

"Peace?" thought Mamma, then it soon came to light,
They were peas that Tay added, and oh what a sight.

"Let's bake it," said Mamma, as she took up the tray,
She gently received the tree-cookie from Tay.

They watched as it baked through the door of the oven,
Their kisses and wishes, their peace and their loving.

How is it that children are smarter than us?
They know that Christmas is not about fuss.

It's all about love and peace and good wishes,
And home-baked cookies, sprinkled with kisses.

On Shopping

I finished the last of my Christmas shopping today. Well, actually, I finished last week but I was in town so I thought I'd join the masses for one last kick at the cash. I don't remember ever being this ready for Christmas (I usually finish wrapping gifts on Christmas Eve) and I'm a little uncomfortable with all this extra time I now find on my hands. What to do? What to do?

Gifts are bought, wrapped and waiting patiently encircled beneath the Christmas tree waiting for their big unveiling. Meals are planned and groceries are not so neatly stuffed into my bulging cupboards. Baking is done and whatever didn't go into the garbage bin is now bundled in neat little folds of green and red cellophane ready for delivery to our special friends. Check, check and check.

Why do I now feel lonely for the Christmas crowds? It feels as though I have been standing in line since November. I'm normally an impatient shopper, however lately I've been quite content to stand in line like a good little consumer. Today, for instance, I was at the local Chapters store picking up a parcel for someone special. I love watching people, so as I stood, I carefully observed other people in the line as well as those lucky ones that landed a cashier. One outgoing shopper in a red wrap was engaged in an animated and friendly chat with one of the cashiers.

"That's nice," I thought, "isn't she friendly."

The girl standing in line behind me answered her cell phone. "I'm at Chapters now," she explained, "in line at the check out." She continued on as I returned my attention to the shopper in the red wrap who had belted out a big laugh.

"She's very self-assured," I thought. "To attract so much attention, and with such a long line up."

"I'll help the next person," called another cashier. I wonder if she cut class to work today or if she had already begun her Christmas break.

The self-assured shopper in the red wrap was taking her sweet time. As I took another step forward, I began to wonder if she was completely oblivious to the impatience rippling through the queue. Maybe she was just enjoying her time at the cash after patiently waiting for her turn.

I silently compared her behaviour to mine while I waited. When I get to any cash, and a long line of shoppers trails behind me, I feel obliged to complete my transaction with record-breaking speed. I believe, in fact, that if the check-out became an Olympic sport, I could bring the gold home to Canada. I swipe my card with speed and accuracy, use two-hands to punch in my PIN and press OK, return my card to my wallet and then cram it quickly into my purse and race from the cash with my goods in one hand and a receipt in the other, pulse racing, as I dash to the end of the velvet rope that marks the check-out exit. All that's missing is the banner breaking across my chest as I reach the doors...or a checkered flag...or a horn...anything really.

I move forward again and notice a woman and her child in the line. I barely knew the child was there. The last kid I saw in a line at Chapters flatly refused to move forward when a cash was available. The mother, I recall, grabbed the little boy's hand and half-dragged, half walked him to the cash as she gave apologetic looks to the other shoppers. This mother simply said, "OK sweetie, our turn," as she guided her daughter towards the waiting cashier.

"Quiet kid," I thought.

Move forward again. I realized that the self-assured shopper in the red wrap is gone. She must have left during my daydream.

There's a table right near the end of the line up that has stacks and stacks of tiny little books for teachers, Dad's, gardeners, women, friends, lovers, kids, and so on. Who reads these? Who dares step oh so slightly from the queue to glance at these nano-novels? What if someone passes you? What are the rules? Are there rules? For example, if Buddy is standing at the front of the line and a cash comes available, is it rude to bring this to Buddy's attention in the event that he doesn't hear her call? If I did this, would I be considered helpful or would I be labelled impatient or boorish?

Move forward again. I finally reach the head of the line. I'm next. Almost my turn.

I loathe the responsibility of the "head of the line." I feel as though I'm on alert and my stance changes. I bend my knees a little, edge up on the balls of my feet, ready to move at a moment's notice. I stare at a fixed point and rely on my peripheral vision to alert me to changes in the cash status as I listen carefully for the call of the vacant cash, "Can I help the next person?" Stupid huh? Yeah, but it's either waiting on high-alert or risk being Buddy.

A cash comes available but...wait...she didn't call me. What do I do? Do I move forward? What if she's going on break? How stupid would I look? Do I return to the head of the queue or do I lose my place and start again at the end of the line? My heart thumps. I make a grand gesture of looking towards her and think now that I must have looked as though I was about to take a seizure. It was my way of reassuring the other shoppers that I was aware of this development, that I was not Buddy; I did not need their intervention. Wait...she's asking another employee a question. And then...

"Can I help the next person please?"

I let out a breath and head to the cash. As she rings in my purchases, I whip out my card and hold it in my right hand, stripe to the left, on my mark....get set...go....I punch in the numbers, hit the big green OK button and then quickly return my card and wallet to my purse as the Approved notice pops up in the little window.

"Receipt in the bag OK?" she asks.

"That's fine," I reply.

I grab the bag in one hand, my purse in the other, and take long, brisk strides toward the doors...to the sounds of a cheering crowd in my mind.

Gold baby! That was gold.

Thought for Today

When I look out the window it appears to be a beautiful, sunny day. But it's December 8th and I know better; it may be sunny, but it's not warm. In fact, it's -11°C here in Ottawa, and the weatherman says it feels like -17°C with the windchill. I wonder why we don't factor in the windchill during the summer. How come we don't say that it's 30°C but it feels like 23°C with the windchill? After all, there have been days in the middle of July where I sit on my deck under the glare of the sun and am forced to wrap myself in a towel by an overly-zealous summer breeze.

Perhaps I'm just sensitive about the topic because, as I get older, I am becoming more and more aware of changes in the temperature; particularly where those changes mean a dip in the thermometer. In the past few years, I have become increasingly fond of scarves. I have a growing collection of them to protect my neck from winter's bite. Turtle-necks and scarves have become a staple in my wardrobe. Diane Keaton gets ribbed all the time by fashionistas who criticize her for having a matronly, if not masculine, style of dressing. I'm thinking she just doesn't like to be cold. I'm with you Diane!

I bought a shawl for myself last year around this time. I thought it would make a nice addition to the outfit I intended to wear to our company Christmas party. I reconsidered after I envisioned myself maneuvering my way down the buffet line with a plate in one hand and a wineglass in the other, all the while trying to keep my shawl locked into the folds of my elbows to keep it from dragging behind me. As the scenario played out in my mind, I saw my boss tripping on the dragging end of my shawl and stumbling into me with a plate full of prime-rib swimming in rich, brown gravy. In my mind it ends tragically; he ends up on crutches and I end up fired. Within a few minutes, I managed to convinced myself that I was one bad accessory away from the unemployment line. I decided that I would rather be chilly.

When I realized the temperature was going to stay below zero for good, I changed my PT Cruiser for a Cadillac. It feels like I borrowed my parents' car...it has heated seats though, which makes it perfect for me right now. I just start the ignition, turn on the heated seats and make a hasty retreat to the warmth of the indoors until it's ready. I swear you could fry eggs on these seats. When I find I need to continually reposition myself to avoid, what feels like it could be, a second-degree burn I turn the setting down to low. Every passenger in this car gets a heated seat. There are temperature controls for the passengers in the back and more storage room than my first apartment. If it had running water, I'd be inclined to take up residence for the winter.

I know, I know...Canadians are chronic complainers where weather is concerned. I admit it. We are weather-centric and we revel in it. It is what we talk about and it's how we build our relationships. If the weather gets bad enough, complete strangers will work together to get a car out of a ditch, clear a driveway or even commiserate with one another until the mood lifts.

We Canadians enjoy a love/hate relationship with our weather. We love it and love to talk about it. Even when we hate it, we love to talk about it.

Type Eh?

Kerry Crofton, PH.D., authored a book in 1998 aimed at encouraging Type A personalities to find balance in their life. The book is called, The Healthy Type A, Good News for Go-Getters, and I think it was her way of helping traditional Type-A's avoid a future of emergency-room visits. You know the type I'm talking about – impatient, often over-bearing, control freaks that jack up the office stress-level until it reaches an unbearable intensity.

I found Kerry Crofton’s book as I was browsing through the stacks at my local library earlier in the year. I had just left a highly stressful position for the second time in a row, and was becoming painfully aware that I am the common denominator in my history of punishing positions. Before I committed to a new employer, I needed to be sure that I would not condemn myself to repeating a cycle where I over-extend myself for an employer that rewards good performance with more work.

Step 1, Crofton suggests is to “Take Stock of Your Style.” On page twenty, she provides a tidy little chart to help you plot your behaviours and distinguish where you fall in the range between Unhealthy Type A and Unhealthy Type B. She asks you to consider the following (I'm paraphrasing here):

• Are you a quick-tempered war-monger or do you avoid conflict at all costs, even if it means eating your lunch in a bathroom stall?
• Are you fiercely competitive or do you prefer to keep your ambitions modest such as getting out of bed in the morning?
• Do you live by the clock or do you lose track of time to the point where you worry you may be suffering from a multiple personality disorder?
• Are you the alpha-male (or female) pack leader or are you a tail-wagger that prefers to get an enthusiastic belly rub from your loving owner?
• Are you the best thing since sliced bread or do you carry a mirror so you can confirm that you are not invisible even though people act as though you are?
• Do you embrace change with reckless abandon or run screaming in the opposite direction when someone asks you to try something new like, say, a stoned-wheat cracker?

I am honest enough to realize that where I appear on this chart could change from day-to-day so I made allowances that would let me see my high- and low-ranges for each of these answers. Imagine my surprise when I learned that my basic personality style was actually a Healthy Type B.

I’ve run with the Type A crowd for so long that I just assumed I was one of them. I put in the overtime, I sneered at the “clock watchers” with them, I networked with them after work, and I defended their unrealistic demands and expectations to my peers. I remember enjoying a 15-minute break only once when I was 18-years old and working at a food kiosk in the Kingston Shopping Centre. In 1993 I got married on a Saturday and was back to work the next week attending a Board Meeting that could not be rescheduled. The last time I took a sick day, I was refused access to my office by the staff nurse after she took my temperature, handed me an N95 surgical mask and referred me to the local emergency room. How could I be anything other than a Type A?

Even as I recall these morsels of irrational behaviour, I recognize them for what they are…distorted perceptions of self-importance inflated by arrogance. My mother warned me, “Nobody is indispensable.” But when you get caught up in building your own empire, you forget that even Caesar fell. As your empire grows, you benefit from the rewards of praise and appreciation and you may even revel a little in the envy of your peers. You are rewarded with more important projects that consume even greater amounts of your time and energy. Yes, you have arrived. People listen when you talk and nod in agreement. It’s a splendid feeling, made sweeter perhaps by the knowledge that it is fleeting.

The realization of its end comes suddenly, I think. Invariably, you find yourself locked in a moment where you are forced to choose between the empire you built and the citizens it safeguards; you must choose between the privileges of power and your very purpose for being. In that flash of honest self-examination, you look in your heart and acknowledge those things that are truly important – your health, your family, your spirit, your humanity. It was in one such moment that I understood I would rather be a great mother and a good employee than the reverse.

Is that why I am, at this very moment, a happy-go-lucky, unemployed Type B personality after more than 15 years of Type A behaviour? Could this be the reason I felt as though I wasn’t a “fit” before? Could I have been intuitively aware that my style was spectacularly different from those with whom I worked? What now? What career should I consider if I genuinely wish to protect and maintain my healthy Type B personality – store mannequin, washroom attendant, wine-taster, senator? If I return to full time employment will I slip back into my old, destructive patterns? More questions. Always more questions.

I’m going back to the library stacks to see if I can find some self-help materials written for and by Type B personalities. Perhaps I’ll find a tidy little chart in that book that will expose me as the Type A worker I always understood myself to be. Then again, I wonder if I’ll be able to find such a book. After all, what is the likelihood that a book has ever been written by anyone other than a Type A?

I Live Softly

It’s 5:38 in the morning. I came downstairs for some “alone time” but had only a few moments with my thoughts before my husband awoke. He thinks that my time should be reserved for his purposes and, lately, that involves picking at the scabs of our marriage. I think that he feels they’ll heal faster and so he can’t understand my reluctance to join him in this process of discovery. While he has come to know me better over the past few months, he still doesn’t know some very important things about how I live in this world.

I am an introvert. When I experience disharmony in any part of my life, I can’t (or won’t) be a pretender. I need to be alone to gather energy; this is my coping strategy. The more significant the crisis, the faster it drains my energy. It causes behaviour that is easily misinterpreted, but it is my self-protection. It’s how I keep from going mad.

I accept conflict. I prefer peace to conflict, but I accept it as a necessary part of maintaining healthy relationships. I don’t make it a habit to initiate quarrels, but I will if I feel that it will precipitate an ending to what may be a destructive situation. I won’t back down from a fight but I will consider how its outcome will serve in the interests of those involved. I realize that it is sometimes more advantageous to lose a fight than to win one. I also know that some arguments have no winners.

I am indecisive. I am often described as open-minded and non-judgmental. It is my openness that people seek when they need to safely share their feelings, and I have forged deep and lasting relationships as a result. The irony however, is that I believe these traits contribute to my lack of decisiveness. I worry that I may be apathetic; more still, that I may be submissive.

I am thoughtful. What I mean to say, is that I give deep and careful consideration to my decisions. I will not hastily choose to do, or not to do something that I feel may have a significant impact on my life or on the life of another. The difficulty I have with decision-making means that I need much time and much energy to arrive at my answers. I stand by my commitments or “die trying” and I rarely capitulate. I am perseverant.

I keep my promises. I will not make a commitment if I cannot keep it. I choose my words carefully, because I understand that what we say and how we act forms the basis of our credibility and my credibility is, without question, by most valued asset.

I care deeply. I would say that I have many acquaintances, but few relationships. I carefully choose individuals to become a part of my life and, once there, offer them my deepest loyalty.

And finally, I am a perfectionist. It is what I call, my Sisyphean trait. It is an impossible pursuit and one that I have (with much remorse) passed on to my son. A former boss once told me that “perfection is the enemy of the good.” Brain surgeons and nuclear physicists might argue the point, but for most of us, good is good enough. My saving grace, I believe, is that I understand and recognize my perfectionist tendencies. Acknowledging that you have a problem, they say, is the first step towards resolution.

I read this list again and think how silly it may seem. I think,

I am a friendly, compassionate introvert that can argue both sides of a dispute and then poke holes in the resolution.

Truth is I am not here to judge, but to understand. I have learned what is mine to change and what is mine to accept. I see opportunities rather than threats and I see endless possibilities in shades of gray. Most days, it fills me with wonder.

I like to think I live softly in this world.

Happy Sweet 16!

My niece turned 16 and was gracious enough to involve the family in her big celebration. Not a typical teenager, this girl is an absolute sweetie- pie and she always has been. She is soft-spoken, considerate and thoughtful. While she often dresses in black, it certainly doesn't reflect her mood or her outlook. In fact, I would describe her as sunny though I know better than to suggest she dress in yellow. (Girls get beat up at high school too after all.)


Her arrival was my introduction to aunt-hood. I didn't realize how attached I would become to other people's kids until the first time I held her in my arms. Before she came, I thought babies were breakable little fussy packages that communicated their needs largely through sound and smell. I remember thinking that they were too much responsibility and too much work. What I didn't know at the time, was that they also enrich your lives by filling them with love and pride. I remember her baptism, learning to sit on her own, toddling around as she learned to walk, the first year she really "got Christmas," being a flower girl in my wedding, her first school pictures, when her mom re-decorated her bedroom from "baby" to "big-girl", summers at the cottage, and the first time she babysat for my kids. I can hardly believe it's been 16 years.



My Message for You

You've grown up to be an absolute darling. I know your Mom & Dad are very proud of you and, in fact, we all are. I don't have a lot of advice for you because I think you have a big heart and a good head on your shoulders. That said, being a teenager is going to be amazing at times and arduous at others. The trick to surviving it with your dignity intact is to keep your eye on the prize which lies at the end of your teen-age years. Here are a few tips from me to you:
Decide what kind of person you want to be. What do you want people to say about you? Write that all down somewhere so that you will read it every day. (Consider these areas of your life -- spiritual, health, family, career, adventure, financial and community.)

Trust your instincts. If it doesn't feel right, it probably isn't. Not following the crowd might get you some unwanted attention for a short while, but it passes. Doing something you're uncomfortable with will take longer to work through.

Be your own best friend. If you make a mistake, don't beat yourself up. We all make mistakes, you know that. It's not the absence of mistakes, but rather what you learn from your mistakes that makes you a better person. Forgive yourself and move forward.

Set some goals. I know, I know, it sounds stupid. But think of it as a road map because here's the thing...you are going to make a tonne of decisions in the next few years: who you hang out with; what college to attend; who to date; which jobs to take; which body parts you aren't going to pierce, etc., etc. It's a whole lot easier to make decisions when you know where you are want to go in life. For example, if you hope to head-up a Fortune 500 Company, you might want to re-think tattoos on any body part that isn't customarily covered by clothing, like...say...your face.

And finally...

Respect yourself. If you do, so will everyone else.

Congratulations again Sweet 16! I hope you had a great birthday. Thanks for asking us to help you celebrate. It is an important milestone and we were all happy to share in it with you.

With love.

Me and the Bee

Last week, I had the opportunity to participate in a spelling bee competition. The event was coordinated by a local charity whose programs include, among others, Adult Literacy; part of this agency’s funding is provided by the Lanark County chapter of the United Way. I volunteer as a Board Member of another non-profit organization called the Ontario Early Years Centre/Children’s Resources on Wheels. Since we also obtain funding from the United Way, our group received, and accepted, an invitation to participate in this fundraiser. There were a total of five teams, most with 3 team members. The team in the picture here was representing a youth services group for a local community.

I thought I should get ready so I rented Akeelah and the Bee which is an awesome movie about the Scripps National Spelling Bee Competition in the USA. Akeelah is an 11-year old girl with a gift for words, who attends an inner city school in Los Angeles. A series of events lands Akeelah in the school's first-ever spelling bee to avoid detention. She sweeps the contest, qualifying for a place in the regional spelling bee. Under the mentorship of Dr. Larabee (played by Laurence Fishburne), Akeelah earns her place at the Scripps National Spelling Bee and brings some unexpected, but much needed attention to her school. The movie tells an inspirational story of how Akeelah's desire and belief in herself influences the lives of those around her including her mother, her classmates and her coach, Dr. Larabee. Oh, and me too.

As inspiring as the story was, I have to admit it made me more than a little nervous. The kids in the movie study and spell words I’ve never heard of before like elucubrate and pulchritude (and those were the easy ones I could remember and spell here in my blog). The words we got at our spelling bee were much easier -- effervescent, fluorescent, aubergine, matriarchy, pharmaceutical. Words not normally hard to spell, particularly if your computer is set to auto-correct and your spell-checker is functional. That said, the word accommodation was on the list and I almost always spell that one wrong.

The trick, it turns out, isn't spelling the word correctly, but rather saying the letters correctly into the microphone. Some of those words are l-o-n-g and if you get distracted, it's pretty easy to lose your place. I had to close my eyes and see the word choreography in my mind's eye while I spelled it into the mike. I felt like a dope but -- hey -- whatever works. You have to concentrate because the rules dictate that you can start over, but you can't change the order of the letters that you have already spelled. What good is that? If you make a mistake, you can't self-correct.

We quickly exhausted the word list and were soon presented with a list of words that nobody uses in polite conversation. We really could have used a 12-year-old Scripps speller on our team. As it was, it was me and the ED at the Bee. We spelled our words correctly but when it came to reciting the letters into the microphone, our fearless leader misspoke. Unable to self-correct was the stinger for our team.

We brought home the bronze.

Happy Birthday Baby!

This week my daughter celebrated her 10th birthday. Remember when you were 10? Me neither. I can barely believe that she's 10 already. She's my youngest...my baby. I hate cliches as much as the next person but, wow, seems like only yesterday she was (insert adorable baby behaviour here).

She was an easy baby to care for. She rarely fussed, allowing me to dedicate my full attention to her busy, toddling brother. I remember once going out the door, locking it and starting for the car before I remembered that she was fastened in her carseat inside the front hall. I quickly returned to the house with visions of her red-faced and wailing in protest but, no, I found her waiting patiently for me to return.

She has a gentle spirit and a kind heart. She leaves a distinct impression on anyone she meets whether that's a teacher, a friend, a relative or a visitor. I worry sometimes that she is too compliant, but every now and again she exercises her will and it helps to ease my mind. She doesn't like it when people use poor table manners, swear, act mean towards others, or commit any other equally despicable social faux pas. She almost always uses her best behaviour and expects all others to do the same.

She doesn't think I'm cool, but she does think I'm funny. She doesn't think I have any sense of style, but she'll still let me buy her clothes. She normally takes very good care of her personal possessions but she doesn't keep a tidy bedroom. She smiles when I sing out loud, but she says I have a terrible singing voice. She worries like an old lady but she mothers like a pro. She dresses like a diva, but she refuses to accessorize her hair. She is wonderful.

She reminds me of the inherent good in others, the innocence of childhood, and the timelessness of grace. She's a lesson I learn everyday. She has a beautiful soul.

Happy Birthday Baby!

Corporate Criminals - Part II

Killing Me Softly

Yesterday I talked about corporate criminals behaving like bullies on the international schoolyard. I mentioned Dow Chemical, Lockheed Martin, Phillip Morris, DynCorp and Ford Motors and gave an accounting of their (alleged) sins. I wrote to tell you that Chevron takes home the prize for worst offender in the world. It is, without dispute, Public Enemy Number One.

Originally, I was thinking that I would create an entry to do my part and influence consumer activity but I hadn’t even gotten to Coca Cola or Nestle by the time I ran out of steam. Greedy corporations make me angry, which makes me sarcastic, which makes me tired. That said, today I thought I should finish what I started. So here are more greedy corporations you can feel good about hating.

Caterpillar is a company that manufactures heavy equipment. There’s a Caterpillar distributor in a town near our house. Each Christmas they put some equipment on the front lawn, drape it in Christmas lights and put a plastic Santa in the driver’s seat of one of their bulldozers. It’s cute. Meanwhile, back in Peoria some enterprising salesman at home office is counting his commission after selling bulldozers to the Israeli army. The Israelis use the equipment to destroy Palestinian homes – usually after they’ve violently evicted the occupants, though occasionally when the families are still in residence. Incidentally, the Israelis aren’t keeping this fact a secret from Caterpillar. Caterpillar is charged with contracting with known violators of human rights.


The Coca Cola Company has been around since 1886 and is responsible for producing the world’s most popular soft drink. Remember the commercial they aired back in the 70’s where a handsome and diverse group of vocalists sang, “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing” while holding bottles of coke in their hands? Didn’t that make you feel good about Coke? Yeah, me too. That feeling subsided when I read that Coca Cola is an industrial leader in the abuse of workers’ rights. Worse still, they’ve been accused of kidnapping, assassination and torture. Here are some statistics from Global Exchange’s website:

• 8 union leaders were killed between 1989 and 2002 after protesting labour practices in Columbian bottling plants;
• hundreds of workers have been kidnapped, tortured and detained by paramilitaries who use intimidation tactics to prevent the workers from unionizing;
• Coca Cola extracted 1.5 million litres of deep well water in India severely depleting groundwater and creating shortages that would affect thousands of people (the water was bottled and sold – Dasani and BonAqua);
• Coca Cola re-sold industrial waste to farmers for use as a fertilizer knowing that it contained hazardous lead and cadmium;
• Coca Cola regularly denies health insurance to employees failing to help stop the spread of AIDS in Africa.

Coke, It’s The Real Thing. Well, it’s some kind of thing anyway. I’m posting a link that will take to you Wikipedia’s list of Coca Cola brands. I’m proposing a boycott. Easy for me to say, I don’t drink Coke.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Coca-Cola_brands


I love chocolate. When I saw Nestle’s name on the list, I was scared. It was kind of like finding out that your kid was in a fight at school. You feel disappointed and you want to know what you can do to make things right. I found out Nestle was founded in the 1860’s by a pharmacist who developed food for babies who couldn’t breastfeed. It wasn’t until the 1920’s that Nestle expanded into the chocolate industry. Remember the Nestle Quick Bunny? He was always trying to steal the kids’ chocolate milk. What a character.

Here’s something you may not know…Nestle knowingly buys cocoa beans from farmers who use children illegally as labourers. Global Exchange quotes estimates from the US State Department suggesting that “approximately 109,000 child labourers work in hazardous conditions on cocoa farms in what’s been described as the worst form of child labour.” Save the Children have been involved, as has Unicef and the International Labor Rights Fund. Nestle agreed to end the use of abusive and forced child labour by 2005 but have not done so as yet. According to Global Exchange, Nestle is one of “the most boycotted corporations in the world.” If you want to join in the fun, here’s a link that will take you to a site listing all of their brands.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Nestl%C3%A9_brands

Incidentally, you should know the Nestle has the dubious honor of being the subject of my daughter’s grade 5 social studies assignment. What more could she ask for, a scandal involving chocolate and children. Her presentation was passionate and inspired and so she earned an A-. Today, she prefers Cadbury to Nestle.


Wal-Mart got a mention in yesterday’s blog, but I thought I should share more details about the accusations on Global Exchange. Wal-Mart is accused of workers’ rights violations, labour discrimination and union busting. Wal-Mart is the largest retailer in the world with over 5000 stores and nearly 2 million workers giving it substantial commercial clout. While this kind of influence could serve as a platform for good, Wal-Mart has lowered the bar by routinely putting its own interests above its workers. I found it interesting to know that Sam Walton received the Presidential Medal of Freedom from President George H. W. Bush in 1992. I guess the CEO of Dow Chemical was unavailable.

Last, but not least, Pfizer stands accused of “killer price gouging.” This is neither new, nor should it come as any surprise. The Pharmaceutical trade has been getting a lot of press these days. Ask any AIDS activist to explain how greedy pharmaceutical companies inflate their products to get rich at the expense of the sick and dying. This is, by far, the most appalling of crimes. I’m not sure how the corporate hot shots at Pfizer sleep at night – scratch that, I’ll assume they take Unisom ®. To make sure that nobody gets a piece of their pie, “Pfizer and other drug companies have refused to grant generic licenses for HIV/AIDS drugs” to impoverished nations whose patients spend up to 70% of their monthly wage on medicine. It takes a special kind of evil to take money from the poor.


Consumerism is a word that describes the relationship between what we buy and the effects it has upon how we feel. Because of this, now more than ever, people strongly identify with the products they buy.

With this in mind, remember that every dime you spend has power. Every time you buy a product from one company, you are by default, choosing not to support their competitor. When many people withhold their support, businesses falter or change models to adapt. They try to win back "consumer confidence." So, if you feel like a chocolate bar, why not buy a Cadbury? It’s a little more difficult to apply a consumer strangle-hold on Lockheed Martin and Dow Chemical. After all, what am I going to do, cancel my Christmas orders for Napalm and Trident missiles? Maybe not, but Dow also makes products for home use. Products also manufactured by other companies.

If you believe, like I do, that every one of your actions has an impact, you naturally feel obliged to act deliberately and will probably think twice before making a purchase. If you cannot be inspired to act out of a sense of duty, perhaps what I have written will offend you enough that you will decide to "stick it to the man". Either way, I hope you decide to share your hard-earned money with companies that choose to have a conscience rather than rewarding those that don't.

Thanks for your time.

Corporate Criminals Part I

Companies We Love to Hate

My daughter came home with an assignment from school a few weeks ago. Her grade five class is studying the topic of human rights and so her assignment was to collect two or three articles on that topic. The articles could either discuss the protection and preservation of human rights or present a case involving the violation of human rights. As usual, I turned to the Internet for information. I downloaded a few articles but realized that a 9-year old was not going to be able to passionately prepare and deliver a presentation on either women’s rights or wrongful imprisonment. I had to find something more compelling; something she would relate to and understand. I continued my search.

Within a few short minutes, I stumbled across a website called Global Exchange. The headline was, "Most Wanted" Corporate Human Rights Violators of 2005; Take Action for International Human Rights Day! The web site features 14 companies that are, according to this site, the worst human rights offenders in the world. Interestingly, 13 operate out of the United States of America. Tsk! Tsk! Corporate America.

Global Exchange points out that several of these companies “are being sued under the Alien Tort Claims Act, a law that allows citizens of any nationality to sue in US federal courts for violations of international rights or treaties.” Does anyone else find it ironic that the USA has taken the initiative to establish legislation that allows any citizen of planet earth to sue corporate criminals in an American courtroom? Would an American court really rule in favour of, let’s say Turkish Nationals suing Coca Cola for damages? Am I being too cynical? Maybe, but I can’t ignore the fact that most of the defendants would be citizens contributing to the salaries of court employees while many plaintiffs have never even stopped by to visit.

As you can imagine, I was hooked on the topic and had to learn more. Again, I offer my opinions here as a summary of the information I found. I was compelled to corroborate only one of the charges (involving Nestle) but otherwise did no fact-checking and offer no expertise on the subject. Once again, I simply find it to be a fascinating topic and I had to tell you about it.

The Global Exchange website offers a real who’s-who of Corporate America. The list includes big names like Caterpillar, Ford, Lockheed Martin, Phillip Morris, Chevron, Dow Chemical, Coca Cola, Nestle, Monsanto, DynCorp, KBR (a subsidiary of Halliburton Corp.), Pfizer, Suez (Paris, France) and Wal-Mart.

Some names I would have expected to see on this list. Dow Chemical for instance, is involved in chemical weaponry. It’s pretty hard to get on Santa’s “Nice” list when you build an empire marketing Agent Orange to war mongers. But let’s not feel sorry for Dow just yet…after all, they provided pesticides to Saddam Hussein despite warnings that these products could be used in the manufacture of chemical weapons. (By the way, does anyone know if Bush looked for weapons of mass destruction in Dow’s warehouses?) How is this even possible with current trade laws? I mean, really! Which actress got detained at the airport because she got caught travelling outside the US with fruit in her purse? Does she know about this?

As with Dow, it’s hard to be popular and be the largest military contractor in the world like Lockheed Martin. Let’s face it, if you profit from war you may walk away with the big cheque, but you have to know that somebody else is leaving with the congeniality prize. The difference between Dow and Lockheed Martin, however, is that Lockheed Martin operates primarily on Pentagon contracts; $21.9 billion to be exact (I’ll assume that there’s a clause there somewhere preventing them from selling to foreign enemies like Dow did). When business gets slow, Lockheed Martin has been accused of flexing its foreign policy muscles to get things moving again. What a resourceful strategy. You just don’t see that kind of passion in other markets.

I’ll bet that Phillip Morris has called this list “home” for the past few years or so. It was no surprise to see the name or the charge – aggressively marketing lethal products. I quickly scanned the list for Beretta, Colt or Smith & Wesson, and when I didn’t see them I wondered if maybe I was missing the point. Regardless, it begs the question…Isn’t it time that Phillip Morris did the world a favour and closed their doors? For those people arguing in support of the commercial benefits of the “smoking industry,” can we agree that underpaying illegal immigrants to harvest romaine lettuce instead of tobacco would offer continued employment (albeit under-employment) to an existing labour pool? That’s what you’re worried about right, putting people out of jobs? Wal-Mart can buy all the cigarette factories and turn them into sweatshops so that American children can be exploited too. I mean, why should the kids in China and Indonesia get all the jobs? Isn’t that reverse discrimination?

DynCorp is a private security contractor accused of endangering lives, environmental devastation and sex trafficking. This California-based contractor specializes in providing mercenary services to protect the international interests of statesmen and big business. A whistle-blower went to the courts in 2001 with damning testimony regarding DynCorp’s involvement in rape, sex trafficking, slave trading and in the illegal weapons trade. I’m trying to picture DynCorp’s employment application form. Hell, can you imagine their company Christmas party?

Ford Motor Company is there on the list. Poor Henry’s probably turning over in his grave. Ah Henry, you try to do a good thing for an industrialized nation and look what happens. Well, if the conspiracy theories are correct, Ford’s fuel economy has actually decreased since the Model-T which has driven fuel needs and prices through the…um…hole in the ozone layer. Call me crazy, but Ford isn’t nearly as easy to dislike as, say, DynCorp. It would be easier for me to dislike people who drive Fords; especially the young testosterone-drunk men that tailgate me in their big, V8, 4x4 trucks. I bet the employees at DynCorp all drive Ford Super Duty Trucks. By the way, I drive a Chrysler. If I find out that anyone at Global Exchange drives a Ford, I’m going to be very, very disappointed.

This is getting to be a very long entry so I’m going to finish up by announcing today’s winner and continue tomorrow in Part II – Killing Me Softly, because you won’t believe what I have to say about Nestle, Caterpillar and Coca Cola. Drum roll please. And the winner is… Chevron.

At first, my opinion of Chevron was that it would be pretty hard to be involved in petrochemicals without getting your hands a little dirty. I changed my mind though, when I realized that Sunoco and Exxon Mobil managed to keep their names off the list. In fact, it appears that Chevron is the undisputed champ of all environmental contaminators and human rights violators in the world. Yes, Chevron is the Muhammad Ali of corporate criminals except their “Rumble in the Jungle” left behind billions of gallons of toxic contaminants and few, if any, adoring fans. The phrase used by Global Exchange to capture the extent of their ecological impact was “Rainforest Chernobyl.” Yikes!

In an ingenious move, Chevron outsourced its complaints department to the Nigerian militia in 1998, when they contracted the services of soldiers to protect their pipeline and their reputation. This deadly partnership is allegedly responsible for the deaths of several protestors engaged in non-violent demonstrations. A stellar example of how things can go from bad to worse.

Way to go Chevron, you’re the champ!

See kids, everybody is good at something.

(….stay tuned for tomorrow’s dramatic conclusion.)

A Few Words on Golf

I have one good game of golf every year. Perhaps ironically, it is the one I play by myself after a long winter of not thinking about golf. It is also the one I choose to play alone so that I don't hear "you looked up" umpteen times in one day.

My parents own a golf course in Lanark County. It's called Dalhousie Glen. The picture above shows the 2nd hole taken from the trees at the 3rd tee. The views on the course are sensational, especially near the end of the season.

I don't own my own set of golf clubs so I usually borrow my husband's. I'm 5'9 and I find a lady's club a little short. I could probably try to adjust my swing but, frankly, I'm not that devoted. For any non-golfers, adjusting your swing is roughly the equivalent of reducing your shoe size by one. It's uncomfortable and causes frustration, irritability and pain. It's usually just easier to find a comfortable pair of shoes and try to match them to everything in the closet. Same with my golf swing. I get along fine as long as I look for courses to match my ability. As a matter of courtesy, I steer clear of courses where I may encounter the ubergolfer. You know....

Ubergolfer (pronounced: ooh-burr-gaul-fer)
The loudest, most obnoxious of the anthropoid golfers, the ubergolfer is characterized by its swollen head and unnaturally large mouth. Unlike its cousin the "able-golfer" the ubergolfer is distinguished through peculiarities in its brain anatomy. The cerebellum which helps coordinate movement (balance and muscle coordination) is putter-shaped in the ubergolfer and is known to cause involuntary, repititious golf swings both off and on the course. The frontal lobe (controls problem-solving) is shaped like a driver and lacks the capacity for self-correction though it over-compensates through the correction of others; the pre-frontal cortex (determines personality) is under-developed and is thus attributed to the ubergolfer's personality deficit. Years of evolution have resulted in adaptations in the ubergolfer's accessories so that bags, hats, clubs, etc. are emblazoned with the letters P-I-N-G. This is nature's way of warning other anthropoid golfers that coming into contact with the ubergolfer will result in irritation; prolonged exposure may even cause vomiting. The ubergolfer is semiterrestrial. While harmless on land, the ubergolfer can become aggressive and unpredictable when encountered in sand or water.

I am not a serious golfer and I think I demonstrate that when I leave the clubhouse without either scorecard or pencil. I am, however, sensitive enough to know that my lack of reverence can be offensive to others. I observe golf etiquette in so far as it will impact the games of other players (e.g. I let faster groups play through) but I generally disregard the rules of golf. I suppose it should come as no surprise then, when I say I rarely get invited to tournaments.

In my view, the objective of any leisure activity is to have fun. With that in mind, here are my friendly tips for the novice golfer on how to enjoy a game of golf:

• Buy a nice pair of golf shoes. It's not going to improve your game but - hey -- new shoes!
• Find a small, friendly golf club that doesn't scream hoity-toity when you pull into the parking lot. Avoid any course that has a parking lot full of Mercedes', BMWs, Lincoln Navigators, etc. These are the ubergolfer's preferred mode of transportation. Might I suggest you try Dalhousie Glen?
• Before you leave the parking lot, dump all your clubs on the ground. Pick up your driver, your putter, your wedge and your nine-iron and put them in your golf bag. Throw all the other clubs into the trunk of your car.
• Go to the clubhouse and buy one dozen previously-used golf balls. DO NOT buy a box of brand new balls. You'll feel much better about leaving a $1.00 ball in the water hazard versus a $4.00 ball. Besides, your telescopic ball retriever is in the trunk of your car.
• Grab a package of wooden tees. Don't bother with the plastic tees even if they claim to compensate for your crappy swing. They don't. If they did, the guy behind the counter would be on the pro circuit instead of here trying to peddle plastic tees to you.
• Exit the clubhouse without taking a scorecard and pencil; keep telling yourself that they are the devil's instruments.
• Proceed to the first tee paying close attention to anyone who may be in your immediate vicinity. If you get there with another party, let them play first. Trust me on this. If you have to sit there for an hour while parties come and clear the first tee, do it. If you need to stall, take your driver out of your bag, throw it over your shoulders and drape your hands over either end. This position is called "the warm up." Swivel at the waist or bend left and right a little every now and then.
• When the last group clears the fairway, grab the driver and four balls out of your bag. Drive each of the balls into the fairway. Proceed to the ball that is closest to the green provided that it also offers the best lie and collect the other balls (if you can find them). This is called "best ball."
• Alternating between your driver and iron, continue to swing at the ball until it lands on or near the green. If you over-shoot, grab your wedge and aim back toward the green OR pick up the ball and toss it in a light, underhand motion from the apron. Tossing the ball can loosely be interpreted as a Bisque which can also be loosely interpreted as cheating.
• When your ball finds its way to the green, grab your putter and go to the hole. Pull the flag from the hole and lay it on the green in a position such that it will serve as a backstop for the putt that you are about to miss. Line up your shot. (You can walk around and pretend to "read the hole" if you want to impress anyone looking on, but make sure you don't trip over the flag and attract unwanted attention.)
• Employing a pendulum-like arc, tap your ball with your putter until it drops into the plastic cup. Smile knowingly as you bend at the waist to retrieve your ball and nod deeply as you replace the flag in the hole.
• If you absolutely could not help yourself and you took a scorecard against my advice, tally your score for this hole. To do this, you will need to: add up all your shots; subtract the ones you tried to make with your wedge; and divide that number by the number of balls you have left from the start of that hole -- remember, you started with four.
• Proceed to the next hole and repeat. When you get tired, return to the clubhouse. If you fail to complete the course, remember to reduce the score of you game by the total par of the remaining holes. For example, if you are playing a par 3 course and you quit on hole 12, you reduce your overall score by 18.

Remember, like the old saying goes, "Golf is like sex. You don't have to be any good to enjoy it.

I Feel Petty, Oh So Petty....

I’m cranky.

I spent an hour and a half doing math homework while I hammered away at the knot burning a hole in the back of my neck. When I couldn’t take the pain any longer, I begged my son to deliver a flurry of karate chops to my too-tense shoulders. When he went all crouching dragon, hidden tiger on me, I sent him back to finish his ratios and sweetly summoned my daughter. At my request, she retrieved the rolling pin from the kitchen and did her best to roll out the rigid muscles. It got me off the couch long enough to navigate my way through the bedtime routine.

Why can’t I carry my stress in my abs or my pecs? I have one tight muscle in my body and it’s not doing anybody any good by being so damn conscientious! Where’s the justice in that? Why can’t I have stress and perky breasts? How about stress and a stomach I could bounce a nickel off of? No. I have a bump in the back of my neck and I think we can all predict how that’s going to turn out for me. If you need me, I’ll be in the belfry.

Showers are over and we’re all cuddled together in the big bed smelling like melons and cucumbers. I’m trying to relax with the aid of an orthopedic pillow and my daughter is driving me crazy with her cryptogram. Cryptograms are NOT fun. They’re not even fun when I’m happy and they are especially irritating when I’m crusty. They are torturous time wasters that were invented by cruel and evil men. A word to the wise – if you intend to buy a book of cryptogram puzzles for yourself, make sure the answers are in the back. If you are an American trying your hand at a cryptogram, hide your handguns; if you are Canadian, hide your beer. You will go nuts trying to crack these mind-twisters…unless you cheat…which is what I did tonight because I’m too grumpy for the pretense of patience.

Want to hear something ridiculous? Here’s the solution to her cryptogram:

“Please recall when you last consumed sufficient kohlrabi. This most important question evidences how cryptography can drive one mad.”

I had to read it twice. I thought it was another cryptogram. It’s not clever or funny or satisfying. If you are going to commit hours, if not days, decoding a 19-word message, shouldn’t it say something like...“You will find ten thousand dollars buried under the elm tree at seventeen Fisher Avenue. Don’t forget your shovel.” or even “If you picked up a paintbrush instead of a pencil, jackass, you could have painted your house by now.” Shouldn’t there be a reward of some kind; a laugh, a lesson, financial freedom?

Everybody is tucked into their own beds now. My kids appear to have survived my crabby mood without any permanent damage. I have great kids! I’m relaxing in bed as the team from CSI Miami hunts down another psychopath and I notice that about 80% of the time, Horatio Cain (played by David Caruso) is looking at the ground. Isn’t it strange that he doesn’t look people in the eye? Do you think he writes his lines in chalk on the pavement next to his mark? What is that about?

Enough! I’ve had it! I’m done complaining. I’m going downstairs to find a Tylenol and, if I have to, I’ll chase it with the pomegranate cooler I rescued from the cottage cooler. You have my promise that tomorrow I’ll turn over a leaf. If we’re all lucky, it won’t be poison ivy.

A Fall Day Unwrapped

There's something about this time of year. The air seems cleaner and the sounds more crisp. Views become vistas painted with the colours of autumn. I love the Fall! When it arrives, it's warm and sunny and dry and spectacular.

I spent a weekend at our cabin on the lake a few weeks ago. I woke early to stoke the fire and drive away the dampness that had settled in overnight. I cracked open the curtains and scanned the shoreline to see if I had any visitors. A blue heron was standing watch at his post in the marshes, grand and still among the bullrushes. He is somewhat of a permanent fixture here in my little slice of heaven. I expect him to be here when I come. He's my unknowing companion in the dawn. I could hear a loon though I could not see him behind the morning's mist; it sounded to me as if he was closer to the head of the lake. I remember feeling relieved to hear the distant call because his visits to our shore generally mean that we can expect to see rain.

I wrapped myself in a comforter, quietly opened the sliding door and took a seat on the deck to listen and watch and smell the day arriving. The mist was thick that day. It changed the way the morning sounded. The usual songs of birds and boats and late-season cottagers were smothered by the mantle of fog. I closed my eyes against the morning and listened to the water lapping at the shore just a few feet away. Silently I gave thanks for having this sacred place. It offers me serenity I have yet to find anywhere else.

The sun rose to my left and tugged at the mist with invisible fingers as though unwrapping an especially delicate gift. As the morning eased itself into the lake, the mist receded and unveiled its view to me. The trees on the shore made me think of artist's paintbrushes, waiting to meet the canvas with fiery strokes of red and yellow.



I snuggled deeper into my polyester cocoon and snapped pictures of the day awakening. I'm not sure why I thought I could capture that day with a camera. There are things in this world that must be experienced to be appreciated - a hug, friendship, a great book, daybreak.

As the last few tendrils of mist rose from the lake, I watched the blue heron pluck his breakfast from the yielding waters. In one swift and graceful moment, he broadened his wings and hoisted himself above the bullrushes. I stood and unfurled myself as my companion disappeared behind the treeline. Inhaling deeply, I caught the faint and airy scent of wood smoke as it fell to me from the chimney above.

I listened to hear the stirrings of children inside the cabin. Muffled giggles and shuffling footsteps told me that my day was about to intersect with theirs. I pulled my comforter across my chest like a too-big cape and gave silent thanks for another spectacular day in my own piece of heaven.

Very Little Is Needed to Make a Happy Life

The first thing that I see when I wake up every morning is a wall-hanging that reads:

“Remember this, that very little is needed to make a happy life.

– Marcus Aurelius.

It reminds me that I don’t need an expensive house or a new car or designer clothes to be happy. It hangs next to a drafty, old window that needs to be replaced in a room that is in desperate need of a makeover. The quote reminds me that I can be happy in my faded old jeans as I curl up on my salvaged sofa to re-read my favourite old books. Don’t get me wrong, I would love to live in a beautiful house among beautiful things, but I wouldn’t trade the quality of my life for the quality of my possessions. Not now. Not ever.

Six years ago, I realized that my life was badly out of balance. I remember driving home early one Saturday morning after working a 21-hour day. My project was not complete, my team was still at the site, and I remember feeling resentful that I was forced to leave without finishing but I didn’t have a sitter and I had to be home for the kids. I don’t recall the exact moment when I realized I needed to make a change, but it wasn’t long after that day that I tendered my resignation.

I joined a new company in a part-time position so that I could spend more time with my kids. I chaperoned class trips, I registered the kids in sports, I made home-baked goods for lunches and otherwise doted upon my children. Suddenly, things picked up at work. I filled in for temporary vacancies, I took on more responsibility and before long I was working full-time (and then some) spending more time working and less time at home. Seems I was repeating old mistakes and I was right back where I started. I left my job. Again!

Before making my decision, I asked my kids how they felt about me leaving my job. I warned them that sacrifices would need to be made by all of us. There wouldn’t be a lot of new clothes; there would be fewer parties, less activities, no summer camps, and no sports for awhile. After some thought, and many questions, they decided they could be happy spending time instead of money. I have great kids!

We spent the entire summer together. We went on day trips to local tourist attractions, played a lot of games, talked, and spent time just listening to one another. I learned that when I ask my son to do something, he will do it even though his first reaction is to protest. That is, he will do it provided that it is a reasonable and respectful request. I learned that when my daughter raises her voice to me, she often turns away and smiles in a way that makes me think she is proud of herself for standing up for what she believes in. I am secretly proud of her too, because she is normally so shy and compliant.

The kids are doing well, though I think sometimes they wish they could have it all – the parent and the paycheque. In the last few months, my kids have learned that:
- money doesn’t come from bank machines;
- libraries have the same books as Chapters but without the expense;
- picnic lunches can also be “happy meals;” and,
- water comes from a tap…for free.

The time we spent together this summer was incredibly precious to me and, I believe, to the kids as well. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. When they returned to school in September I was so deeply sorry that our time together had ended, I found it difficult at first to move forward. Maybe it was because I knew deep down that it was a once-in-a-lifetime summer. It is unlikely that I will ever be able to offer that kind of time to my children again and, even if I could, the kids will soon reach an age where they prefer to fill their time with something or someone other than Mom.

These days I’ve been busy trying to find a way to make a life as well as a way to make a living. This time, I promised myself, I won’t make the same mistakes I have in the past. I’ll figure out some way to go back to work if, and only if, I can do it without slipping back into my old workaholic habits. There are things that are more important to me than my job; my kids, for example, my health, my growth, our community, our collective spirit.

Until I figure out what next to do, I’ll read and write and look for inspiration in the everyday. I’ll curl up on my second-hand sofa and sip my tea while I cut coupons from this week’s paper. When the sales flyers come and taunt me with beautiful living rooms and new furniture, I’ll flip through my Summer 2006 Scrapbook and remember why I chose a more modest lifestyle.

I’ll remember that very little is needed to make a happy life.

Rock-it Man!

Last night, my best bud and I went to see Elton John in concert at Scotiabank Place in Ottawa. She bought me a ticket for my birthday last month.

The show opened with Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding, as 15,000 screaming fans welcomed Captain Fantastic to the nation's capital. Somewhere during the first verse of Benny and the Jets, I decided that this was, without question, the best birthday gift ever!

Sir Elton John is, in my opinion, one of the finest entertainers of our musical history. How else do you explain a career lasting over 35 years? There are only a handful of artists that succeed to this level and last night, it was clear to me why and how this marvel of a musician has endured.

For a man whose image was built upon outrageous costumes that have included, in the past, chicken suits and dresses, Sir Elton's outfit last night would be considered boring by some, tasteful by others. Looking grand in a pop-formal ensemble that featured a modestly-bedazzled jacket and brilliant red shirt, Elton John appears to have traded in garish for glamour. Outfit aside, he did treat us to a few showy antics during "The Bitch is Back" including a diva-like pose on top of his baby grand followed by a mule-kick from his piano bench. It wasn't necessary, and it probably wasn't even safe at his age, but it made this wonderfully quirky man all the more endearing.

One of last night's many highlights for me was the revival-like performance of Take Me to the Pilot, featuring a breath-taking introduction as Elton John thundered on the keys of his piano at a speed that seemed humanly impossible. Praise God and Hallelujah! And, while it's not my favourite song, last night's rendition of "Rocket Man" made me believe it might well be one of Elton's favourite songs. His face lit up as he repeated time after time, "I'm a rocket man, I'm a rocket man...." Yes you are! And I think you will be..."for a long, long time". Yes sir, you rock it man!

The band with Elton John included drummer and vocalist Nigel Olsson, guitarist and vocalist Davey Johnstone, Bob Birch on bass, John Mahon on percussion, and one-man orchestra Guy Babylon on keyboard. The technical crew who was not (and probably never will be) introduced, deserves praise for delivering effects that allowed Elton to sing his own backup vocals during the theatrical climax in Rocket Man.

The concert included favourites like Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters, Daniel, I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues, Sorry Seems To Be the Hardest Word, Daniel, Tiny Dancer, Crocodile Rock, Don't Let The Sun Go Down on Me, Philadelphia Freedom, Saturday Night's Alright (For Fighting), and my favourite song - Levon. He also included in this concert series, the title track to Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, saying that it has been years since he performed the song.

Mid-concert, Sir Elton introduced his new album titled The Captain & The Kid. With something sounding strangely like an apology, he introduced and played new tracks from that album including Post Cards From Richard Nixon, Tinderbox and The Bridge. Incidentally, the song The Bridge is worth the cost of the entire CD - the gorgeous harmony in this song nearly brought me to tears. I haven't heard these tracks on the radio, but trust me when I say that this album is sure to offer some new favourites for Elton John fans.

After over two hours of auditory bliss, the concert closed when Elton John dedicated his famous hit "Your Song" to me...well, to everyone in attendance, but he said "to each one of you," so I'm going with that. It was a beautiful gift and I accept it with thanks.

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And a note to Sir Elton John:

My parents are huge fans that have followed your career from its very beginning. I have inherited their adoration as surely as if it were part of my genetic makeup. Your music is familiar, and in its familiarity I find reassurance, inspiration and passion. You have captured and coloured our social and political history in a way that only enduring artists are capable of doing. To echo your own words, "I thank the Lord, there's people out there like you." You make the world a better place.

Vitamin Pee?

My 12-year old son came to me last night to complain about his feet and how sore they were. He normally discusses his personal health issues with his dad but, you know, sometimes when you feel crummy, you just want your mom. His feet were red, swollen messes and it was clear to me that he had a mild case of Athlete's Foot (in his case Athlete's Feet). Never having suffered with this ailment, it was difficult to commiserate. I could only recall memories of my older sister suffering through numerous bouts of Athlete's Foot during her childhood. I gave him a hug, helped treat his immediate symptoms and promised him that I would find him a cure.

As with most Internet searches, my search engine returned hundreds of thousands of great links to resources for Athlete's Foot including: medical encyclopedias; photos (by the way, I'm passing on lunch today); products; literature (kudos again to Amazon's marketing staff); and, personal web sites and blog entries on the topic. I plan to take Medline's advice and visit my pharmacist to discuss an appropriate non-prescription cream, spray or powder that will relieve the pain, swelling and itching. I will follow Wikipedia's advice and continue the treatments even after the symptoms disappear to prevent re-infection from dormant, yet persistent, fungi that linger in footwear too expensive to throw out.

Among the many links, I found a reference to alternative therapies that piqued my interest. You should know that my preference is to avoid unnecessary medical interventions when a more natural, less invasive option is available to me. Naturally (pardon the pun) I followed the link. The title took me by surprise -- Urine Therapy.

I kid you not.

It seems that medical and laboratory researchers have been conducting research on the healing properties of urine which is known to be a source of vital nutrients, hormones, vitamins and antibodies. According to one site, tests using Urine Therapy have been used to treat "cancer, heart disease, allergies, auto-immune diseases, diabetes, asthma, infertility, infections, wounds, etc." In fact, the author of that site talks about her own experience with Urine Therapy's "profound ability" to heal a crippling disease that was, otherwise, incurable.

Please understand that my knowledge of Urine Therapy is limited to a few facts that I gathered (but did not check) during a one-hour search of the Internet. I neither support nor refute claims made about Urine Therapy; I simply find it to be an absolutely fascinating subject.

Articles on the web repeatedly state that urine is NOT a toxic body waste but rather a purified derivative of blood. This is particularly interesting to me since I know first-hand of more than a dozen people who refuse to eat candies from any restaurant's complimentary candy dish. These people agree that the candies in these dishes are all contaminated by urine from patrons who fail to perform adequate hand-washing after trips to the restroom. Do we deduce then that only people who don't wash their hands eat candies from this candy dish? A topic for another day perhaps.

Toxic body waste or not, you're probably wondering how Urine Therapy is administered, I know I was. Urine can either be administered orally (I'll pass on dinner now too) or applied externally. I found several references that suggest that men in India have been ingesting urine for thousands of years and that this practice is not uncommon in the East. No, I don't mean Newfoundland or Rhode Island, I mean the FAR East.

Through my reading, I came to realize that Urine Therapy was not entirely unknown to me before today. I was first introduced to the notion as a household cure for poisonous bites or stings. That is, I have been told that in an emergency, I could pee on a snake bite to disinfect the wound. That said, I grew up on a farm next-door to my loving grandparents who had a makeshift cure for nearly anything but death itself.

My research produced credible sources and compelling arguments in support of Urine Therapy. If you decide to do your own research, you can also use the term "Urea Treatment" to learn about scientific studies in medicine and agriculture.

The truth is, the list of diagnoses successfully treated using Urine Therapy includes some rather daunting diseases -- cancer, hepatitis, multiple sclerosis -- and conventional medicine doesn't guarantee any cures. Wouldn't you try anything to save your life? What if your life wasn't on the line? Would you commit to a daily dose of "Vitamin Pee" if it offered allergy relief? Would you pee on your snake bite?

If my grandfather was still alive, I'm sure he would suggest that my son stand in the shower and urinate on his burning, swollen feet. In fact I'm toying with the idea of printing off an article that suggests this very thing as a treatment just to see how he reacts. I'd probably stop him before he got to the bathroom. Probably.