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.