Is giving up the same as failure?

This will not be true of my story, and that's just fine.
From Positive Outlooks Blog 

It's been fifteen months since I left my last job (but who's counting?), and I still obsess over what went wrong.

Retirement =/= Nothing to do

Photography: it's one of the ways I pass my time

Never, ever ask someone who is retired what they do all day. It's as silly as asking a stay-at-home parent how they spend all that time. (I won't get into the whole "must be nice to be a stay-at-home mother and do nothing all day" argument. Insane.)

As everyone who has retired before me can attest, there is no shortage of stuff to keep me busy. The delightful part is that I can take my time about it.

This was not the plan.

Late last week, I had a talk with my boss about how I'm doing. It was a tough talk because, in spite of having cut back to half-time, I'm still exhausted and my joints complain loudly. "Weary to my bones," as Simon & Garfunkel sang.

I told her I needed to stop work. Trying to keep the boat afloat at work while allowing my body to recover balance was just not working; it was a disservice to my employer and to myself. If I'd been with them longer (years instead of months), I might have asked for a period of leave without pay, but they've already been great about allowing me to try part-time.

If I knew what I was dealing with (mono, say) and could anticipate a recuperation period, I'd be in a better position to negotiate. But I'm still living with unknowns.

And because of my values -- hard work, commitment, professionalism -- I was unhappy feeling that I couldn't give 100%. I knew I needed rest, but felt ashamed coming in late or leaving early. I felt apologetic, especially toward the team of people I supervise. (I don't like calling them "my employees" because I don't own them and I don't even pay them myself.) I felt disappointed in myself, like I'd let people down, people I care about.they deserve more.

So, today I tendered my official resignation, giving a few weeks' notice, during which I will continue my part-time hours.

And it kind of sucked, but I got through it. My colleagues and team were incredibly supportive and understanding.

This may end up being an early retirement, but I kind of hope not. I enjoy the mental challenge of work, and the social interactions. I hope to take on some consulting work or freelance writing, but if my health doesn't improve, then I'm not sure how well that will work.

Mostly, right now, aside from feeling tired, I feel so very grateful that this is even an option for me. If we relied on my income to pay the mortgage, then I'd keep plugging away. Instead, I have the luxury of stepping away for a period of time, restoring body and soul, and then looking at a different plan for my future.

For now, "I'm just trying to get some rest."

Follow Your Bliss

I'm not much of a philosopher, but I came across this statement by Joseph Campbell:

If you follow your bliss, you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while, waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living. Wherever you are—if you are following your bliss, you are enjoying that refreshment, that life within you, all the time.

The concept, as I understand it, is that we can know our true and proper path in life if we follow what brings us bliss or rapture.

A seventies philosophy, if ever there was one!

But I think most career coaches offer similar advice: strive to do something that touches your passion. So I was thinking about this today, as I woke up from a four-hour nap. I thought: if I followed my bliss, it would probably have something to do with reading, babies, and sleeping. [I readily acknowledge that babies and sleeping are incompatible.]

If I were a cat, I could come close, except for the reading. But I think that would be a pretty good trade off.

I could always volunteer for sleep-related studies, but I'm not convinced that it would pay well or allow me to sleep whenever the heck I feel like it.

Retirement and grandparenthood are probably the closest I'll come in this lifetime. I'm looking forward to that.

Home again, home again, jiggety-jog.

Cozy.

Where was I? Oh yah. I was going to check exactly where I've been over the past . . . how many weeks was it?

A couple of years ago, I posted about the crazy, coming-and-going schedule Steve and I had kept that spring. Well, friends, this has been another one of those springs, and much of it was my own doing.

I count that between May 26 and today, I have spent a total of five days in the office. FIVE DAYS out of 32 working days!

I was in the office on May 16, 17, 21, 22, and 23.
I put Steve's camping trip in there only to be consistent with my previous calendar.

Spring happens to be "Crazy Conference Season" in our business, which requires a good amount of travel for me. When you add in vacation travel, some planned sick time, and a four-day course - it adds up.

When I arrived back at the office this afternoon, there were several calls of "Welcome back!"

For much of that time I've been "at home," but most of May I wasn't even in Ottawa. Last weekend, I took my daughter out for dinner and she said, "I've missed you."

And, although I had wireless access during the work-related travel, it is really difficult to stay on top of things while you are in transit. I took care of anything urgent and important, but there were plenty of things that were important but not urgent that got moved to the longer-term task list.

It all means that I feel a little tired and a little disconnected.

It is good to be back, and I'm looking forward to getting caught up on things.

Mantras

There's more meandering than usual with this post, but bear with me. It'll all tie up into a pretty bow at the end. Or a bow, at least.

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"You is kind. You is smart. You is important." Aibileen to Mae Mobley in Kathryn Stockett's The Help

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As a self-centred adolescent, I directed all of my judgmental angst at my mother. "Stupidfatlazyslobofabitch," I sobbed into my pillow.

In late March 1990, my father died. In early June of the same year, I graduated with two degrees. The following day, I gave birth to my second child.

By fall of that year, I was a grief-stricken, miserable puddle.

I'd gone from the academic world to the realm of the stay-at-home mother. My body was soft from childbirth. Exhausted from dealing with a toddler and a colicky infant, it was all I could do to put the kids into a stroller for a walk; I lived in sweat pants. Poor Steve bore the brunt of my irritability.

Stupidfatlazyslobofabitch

I'd come full circle. In dark times, those words would weave through my mind, but lately a new string of words has come to the fore: fucketyfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

Nice, eh? The powerless little rant, of a toddler stomping her foot.

I know I'm not the first or loudest to say it, but I do believe that the words we say only to ourselves, the words that no one else hears, are disproportionately powerful.

Precioussssss

Unspoken words insinuate themselves into our psyches. Kathryn Stockett knew this.

But we can't simply delete the old track; we need to over-write it. So the challenge, now, is to rewrite the mantra, the "sound, syllable, word, or group of words that is considered capable of  'creating transformation'," according to Wikipedia.

I wonder what would happen if I took my favourite Bible verse and turned it into a mantra? 

"Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable--if anything is excellent or praiseworthy -- think about such things." Philippians 4:8

truenoblerightpure
lovelyadmirable
excellentpraiseworthy

I'll let you know how it goes. Or maybe you'll see for yourself.

All's well that ends well.

Do you remember my saying that I always forget to pack something when I travel? Even with a list, I invariably check something off before I've actually stuffed it in my bag, simply because I intend to put it in the bag. Dumb, I know.

More often than not, however, I simply ignore the list.

In the past, I have forgotten:

• pyjamas
• underwear
• charger for laptop
• charger for phone or camera
• prescriptions
• shoes
• umbrella
• raincoat

This is by no means an exhaustive list, just some of the items in recent memory that I have ended up purchasing under duress. In fact, I now have not one, but two universal laptop chargers.

Today, I'm in Quebec City. I'm here early with Steve for a little RR&R (romantic rest & relaxation) before a business function on Tuesday and Wednesday. My plan is to telecommute on Monday, while nailing down all final details and logistics for the work events.

Not surprisingly, I left the office late on Friday. When I finally shut down my laptop and grabbed my laptop bag (stuffed with various printed materials for our events), I felt pretty smug about how prepared I was. I had it in the bag.

Except, as I discovered on Saturday morning, I did not have one crucial piece of equipment in the bag: my work laptop with all my special software! I did have all my critical files on a memory stick, and I could've brought my personal laptop in its place, but that would have severely limited my telecommuting. So we had to stop by the office.

Also, I had neglected to order a prescription refill and had to stop by the pharmacy before we could head for Quebec.

As we got into the car after picking up my meds, I promptly spilled a full cup of hot coffee down the front of my pants. I grabbed my clean jeans out of the suitcase and decided to change in the car (the parking lot was not very full and we were in a fairly deserted area of the lot).

As you might have predicted, an SUV pulled up beside our little Toyota, giving the driver a nice perspective of my bare legs and granny panties. I turned my head away from him, in the full belief that, if I couldn't see him, he couldn't see me. That's how it works, right?

In the end, we made it to Quebec City shortly after sunset, with my work laptop, clean pants, and my prescriptions.

Today, we've enjoyed all the RR&R prescribed. Here are some pictures of beautiful, beautiful Quebec.

Inukshuk

The first time I saw an inukshuk, I was fascinated. Now, however, they are such a pervasive icon of Canadian northern culture that I'm a little jaded. This particular one, however, was quite lovely.

The Quebec Legislature

We then went inside the walls of vieux Québec, the only fortified city in Canada (possibly North America, though Steve thinks there may be some old Spanish fortifications in Florida).

Not sure why they had a sculpture of Ben Kingsley.
Oh, wait, yah, that's probably Gandhi.

It really felt as though we had magically travelled backwards through time 250 years. As with Kingston, the stone and architecture were captivating.

This is where we ate brunch.

Aux anciens canadiens

This is the restaurant that my sister recommended - and where we will be dining this evening. As soon as we saw it, Steve said, "Oh! That's where we ate last time we came here. We ate upstairs." I would not have recognized it if my life depended on it (that was almost 30 years ago), but I did remember eating at a quaint, delightful restaurant in the old city, so I trusted Stephen.  

It is the oldest house in Quebec, built between 1675 and 1676.

Art in the city

There was shopping a-plenty!

As with an old, European city, the streets were really more like laneways - narrow and winding.

Meanwhile I found this captivating floor mat inside a dressing room. Made myself dizzy twirling in circles to watch my footprints come and go.

You can tell by the pictures that it was overcast. It was also quite chilly - cold enough that we saw this as we left the walled part of the city.

Temps were not freezing, so we figure there was some means of artificially freezing the ice. These poor ladies were not dressed for the weather at all. 

Les muses

So it has all ended well. We'll enjoy dinner tonight, I'm sure (Steve even called to make a reservation, even though it required using the phone), but I doubt that I'll have much time to get out with the camera this week. 

Seven Tips for Dressing for the Workplace

I once attended a workshop where the instructor stated that every workplace has a dress code, whether it is written down or not. She advocated writing it down because not everyone is as observant as one might hope.

Anyway, over the years I've developed some guidelines for looking professional in the workplace. And since your workplace probably does not have a written dress code, here is a starting point for you.

One Word: Grooming

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But I don't get it. . .
why isn't she smiling?

         

The scary thing is that customs and security agents are supposed to recognize this as the same person as in the previous picture.

I have hidden that picture from you for, lo, these many years. Aren't you glad?


And it really didn't take all that much to go from the before to the after. Both were taken on the same day within about half an hour of each other.

• Smile. It makes people feel like magicians when they can make your face transform into something beautiful. (Plus you'll scare fewer babies on the bus.) Caution: don't walk around with an open-mouth smile. People will compare you to Dopey.
• Comb hair and pull into a controlled style. 
• Wash face. (I have the dreadful habit of sleeping in my makeup.)
• Concealer and a little bit of neutral eye shadow, a soft fluff of blush, and mascara. I also always wear lipstick because I have no natural lip colour and people keep thinking I am dying. In this case, I painted carefully around the cold sore (so I wouldn't contaminate the lipstick). 

"Business Casual" does not mean "casual."

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Be presentable enough at all times that you could meet your boss's boss or your top client. Even in a relaxed workplace, as where I work now, you need to look pulled together. My rule-of-thumb for business casual is that either the top or the bottom can be casual, but the other half needs to be business dress.

Some examples:

• Jeans with a crisp white button-down shirt, or a jacket (but not a jean jacket), or a twin set.
• A more casual top (but still modest, of course) with dress pants.
• A fun-printed skirt with a tank top and sweater.

Just make sure the casual part is in good repair with no stains or rips.

"Sexy" is a four-letter word in the workplace.

---

Cleavage? No.
Intentional hints of undergarments? Bad idea.
[Don't even consider going full Lewinsky!] 

Despite what shows like House and The Practice might indicate, dressing like Dr. Cuddy or Ally McBeal will not help you gain credibility in the workplace.

It's not a question of potential harassment; it's a question of showing off your best asset. If your best assets are your ass and cleavage, well then maybe the Dr. Cuddy look is your best route. However, if you want to be recognized for your brains, your work ethic, or your skills, then showing your curves is just . . . throwing a curve. [OMG, I am so funny!]

I will allow an exception to this guideline: you are allowed one saxy thang. As with the business-casual look, if everything else about your outfit is CEO-worthy, then you may slip in one small hint of sexy.

For example, if Dr. Cuddy's top were long-sleeved and slightly less fitted, she might be able to get away with that much cleavage (but without the lace showing). Or if the top showed no cleavage, she could allow her camisole to peek out the top.

Tread carefully, though. I once wore fishnet stockings with an otherwise staid suit and got several comments on it. Oops..

BTW, rule-of-thumb for decolletage: your top should come to two inches above your cleavage. If it doesn't, add a camisole.

Accessorize!

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The right scarf, necklace or ear rings can make an otherwise plain outfit stand out. I often buy a necklace or scarf at the same time as I buy a dress or suit. Not only is this convenient, but when the seasons change the available colours will also change.

Pearls and simple chains are timeless, of course, and can lift a simple dress to Jackie O status.

Just be careful not to overdo it. Choose which item you want to receive the attention. If you have a busy top, then skip the necklace. A patterned jacket and a patterned scarf may work well on the runway, but may make you look like a runaway train. [And they just keep on coming!]

Remind yourself that you are neither Gisele Bundchen nor Rachel Zoe.

Enjoy the trends, but invest in classics.

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A few weeks ago I saw a young woman wearing a trench coat in a Burberry-type print. I knew immediately that it was a knock-off because the stripes of the plaid were not lined up at the seams. She would have been further ahead to buy a decent trench coat in a neutral fabric.

Quality materials and workmanship will show.

On the other hand, some things are so trendy that you should not pay top dollar for them.

Dress for your size, not your fanta-size.

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As someone who has lost and gained more pounds than I care to admit, this is really hard for me. I hate buying a larger size! Hate it, hate it, hate it. But nothing says "overweight and gaining" faster than a too-snug top or pants.

I've also erred by buying clothes that I'm sure I'll fit into next month when I lose just a little bit more.

Don't sweat the small stuff.

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It happens to everyone: pantyhose slide down a silky girdle; coffee spills down a white blouse; a classic hairdo slides miserably during a job interview. As my brother commented on that hairdo post, "If it is any consolation, the guy interviewers were oblivious to your situation, and the girls would have totally understood and given you bonus points."

There are, of course, haters who will hate, but I always have great respect for anyone who can soldier through when things are falling apart. It says much about their characters.

Remember this:

This is what bravery and grace look like.

According to Lady Bird Johnson, who was also present, "Her hair [was] falling in her face but [she was] very composed ... I looked at her. Mrs. Kennedy's dress was stained with blood. One leg was almost entirely covered with it and her right glove was caked, it was caked with blood – her husband's blood. Somehow that was one of the most poignant sights – that immaculate woman, exquisitely dressed, and caked in blood."

Source: 40 of the Most Powerful Photographs Ever Taken

Wynn Anne Versus the Volcano

Based on Joe Versus the Volcano,
a very under-rated movie.

This is a continuation from my previous post, where I started to write about my father, who died almost exactly a year after he retired.

My dad's nickname at work was OT Simpson. The OT stood for "overtime" because he was always looking for extra pay. With seven children to feed, clothe, shelter, and send to university, that's probably no surprise.

He worked in construction, from dawn to dusk. He was gone before I woke in the morning, back in time for a late dinner. He often took a nap in the evening.

When he finally retired, I think we all felt he was overdue for a rest.

But he'd had triple-bypass surgery about four eight years earlier and was not in good health. He'd tried to quit smoking but we all knew he was sneaking cigarettes. His blood sugar was bad (though he was not diagnosed with diabetes).

And then, one night at dinner after complaining of an upset stomach all day, he collapsed. He never regained consciousness. He was 66 years old.

In Joe Versus the Volcano, the main character is a workaday chap slogging away in a mind-numbingly dead-end, pointless job. One day, he learns that the annoying cough he has developed is a terminal illness and he has mere weeks to live.

In classic Hollywood style, he drops everything and takes off to have an adventure. (I almost told you how the story ends, but you'll have to see the movie for that!)

As I pondered my own health and mortality, I wondered: if my dad had known at 50 that he only had 16 years left, would he have made any different choices? Would he, like Joe, have dropped everything and taken off on an adventure?

One of the questions Steve and I have tossed around is whether or not I will retire when he does two years from now. Because I took many years off to have babies (years that I do not for one moment regret), I've thought about tacking some of those years on to this end of my career.

I enjoy my job and the people I work with. I look forward to going to work (though I often wish it began later in the day) and enjoy the creative and collaborative aspects of my job. I don't feel like I'm just punching the clock until I can retire.

Financially, it would be difficult but not impossible for me to retire with Steve.

But as Steve and I chatted over a piece of carrot cake, it occurred to me that this is not an either-or situation. Could I re-jig my work hours? Switch to part-time or contract? Maybe even freelance?

No decisions made, but it's on my mind.

And then what?

War Child | Source

When I worked at the Canadian International Development Agency (counterpart of USAID), I hired a freelance writer who was also working for the Aga Khan foundation. She was editing a book that featured illustrations by "war-affected children."

I had never heard the term before, but it has definitely found a home in my brain and my heart.

The recent Kony 2012 campaign has raised awareness of two aspects of children in war zones: 1) boys being coerced into being "soldiers," and 2) girls being raped or even held captive as sex slaves (I do not for one moment doubt that boys were raped as well).

These are horrors -- and they need to stop. The sooner the better. I would not say that they need to be stopped "at any cost," but I do hope that in Uganda and elsewhere the use of child soldiers and the sexual abuse of girls and women will come to an end. (Well, really, who doesn't hope for that?) I pray for that end.

The question that's been running through my mind all this week, however, is "And then what?" How do those (now) soldiers who have been made to perform gruesome crimes, who have perhaps become the rapists and kidnappers themselves -- how do they "go back home"?

The writer who worked for me showed me the book she was working on. She told me it was giving her nightmares, and I was not surprised. The book was filled with crude drawings of dismemberment, rapes, and bombings. Red was a predominant colour.

Somehow these children had to go on with their lives.

Later, when I met new arrivals to Canada from Somalia, who had once been refugees, I looked at them with different eyes. Here were children who had seen horrors, who were now in a country where they were impoverished and treated as unwanted people. So very much to deal with.

I don't have an answer to the question I ask. I just want it to be raised. So we stop Kony. Then what?

Off his meds? Or off his rocker?

Don't you sometimes wish you could invoke call screening after you've picked up the phone?

When you work in public relations or public affairs as I do, you sometimes get phone calls that are difficult to deal with. Of course, there are the expected calls from journalists who may or may not be sympathetic to your point of view. But I'm thinking more of the phone calls from ... people. Who are, perhaps, working in a different reality.

At a previous job, I had a colleague who had the patience of a saint. She had a frequent caller who would talk her ear off about his concerns and how urgent it was that senior leaders in our organization react immediately. He managed to track her even when her phone number changed. He was never rude or threatening, but his concerns were always just a little unhinged.

In his military career, Steve has dealt with calls from "tin-foil hat wearers" who were convinced that the military was doing things that caused strange things to occur. [Undoubtedly, the military has done such things, but not under Steve's purview.]

I've had those calls, too. They upset me in the same way that street people do: they are unpredictable, they don't follow the conventions in which I find comfort. They don't seem to take hints, they don't listen, and they will talk endlessly!

I feel torn between wanting to say, "You are delusional, dude," and treating them like any other [sane] person on the planet.

Over the years, I've gotten better at confidently interrupting and saying things like, "I'm just going to interject ..."

My objective is to be kind but also clear that our conversation has reached its max potential; we are done. I'm not above giving false assurances. ("I'll be sure to let so-and-so know.") But I also don't want to imply that we are developing a relationship.

How do you handle these interactions? Do you ever pretend that you're Mulder and that there really is a conspiracy and that this caller has the "truth" that is "out there"?

Call the WAH-mbulance!

I love Vancouver, but the feeling does NOT seem to be mutual.

Last summer I came out to work at a conference, but I came down with a bug a day or so before flying out. It was nasty; I swore it was turning into pneumonia (I've never before or since heard sounds like that coming from my chest). I dragged myself through the three days, went home and collapsed in bed.

Again, I'm in Vancouver, and again I'm sick. I've finally caught the cold that had been bouncing around our office and at home. (Steve even took a sick day! I can count on one hand the number of times he has done that in his career.)

Fortunately, my boss is here and she also had the cold, so she knows how miserable it is.

But I feel guilty! Yes, guilty. For all the expense of flying me out here, putting me up and I'm contributing ... very little really.

I hope the Cold FX kicks in tomorrow, so I can put forth more of an effort.

And as a final whine, I didn't bring my camera, and I really wish I had. Packing light sucks.

A Desirable Person

This picture has nothing to do with this post. I just like it.

"What is desirable in a person is kindness, and it is better to be poor than a liar."

Proverbs 19:22

One of the big challenges of teaching is to provide instruction - especially correction - without adding humiliation to the mix. And, while this is true at any age, I think it must be especially true with adult students. Especially adults who are taking professional development or special-interest courses. 

Remember when I wrote about "conscious incompetence"? It is a horrible feeling, being aware of one's own lack of skill. The word uncomfortable doesn't begin to describe it. 

Yesterday, I took a course in media relations. It was a very good course, with lots of practical exercises and critiques. Most of us in the classroom had many years of communications experience and even actually had some media experience as well. But one person had clearly been thrown in the deep end. 

As we individually prepared for our radio interview, the teacher, Carl, saw that one student, let's call her Nancy, was flushed and had written only three or four words on her paper. Her body language spoke dejection. He spent a couple of unobtrusive minutes with her, quietly working through the problem, then allowed her some time to finish the task and pull herself together. 

When it was her turn to record an interview, he let Nancy choose whether to go first, last or somewhere in between. He gave her space and time to feel comfortable, so she could do her best, so she would be able to learn rather than feeling stressed (which effectively blocks all incoming information). When it was her turn to be critiqued, he was encouraging but also provided constructive pointers. 

I happened to leave the classroom at the same time as Nancy, and I asked her how she felt about the day. 

"Well, it wasn't easy," she said, "but I'm glad I did it. I feel like I learned a lot and will be able to apply it to my job."

Today, I reflected on how I witnessed his caring and kindness towards one student who faced a bigger mountain than the rest of us. It could have gone differently. She could have left feeling wounded, and we bystanders could have felt embarrassed for her, perhaps angry on her behalf. Instead, we not only learned some skills for dealing with the media, but we also shared in a very positive human experience. It felt good to be part of that, even if only on the periphery. 

So, thank you, Carl.

A traveller's tale

Sleeping in a hotel room is always a bit dicey: the pillow's too hard; the elevator is too close; a group of high-school girls is giggling in the hall ... so many things can go wrong.

Here is the tale of what went wrong on Sunday night at the beautiful Hilton Bonaventure in Montreal, where I was upgraded to a room with a view onto the idyllic courtyard.

1. I drank coffee - albeit decaffeinated - in the evening, which I never do.
2. I downloaded a really, really good book to my Kindle (Damage, by Josephine Hart), which proved to be impossible to put down.
3. The feather pillows were too hard.
4. Every time the heat/cool fan went on, it ka-THUNKed and startled me. (I finally figured out how to turn it to stay on constantly, but it took me a while.)

Consequently, I was still awake (though trying to sleep) at two o'clock in the morning, when my neighbours started to loudly QUACK or HONK. I don't know whether they were enjoying themselves or fighting - but it was LOUD, and it went on for a long time.

It was disturbing enough for long enough that I finally grabbed my glasses and looked out the window into the courtyard.

That was when I noticed there were indeed ducks. Or swans. Big, white birds, anyway. It was dark, but I could tell there were several of them, and they were quacking to beat the band. I couldn't see what they were doing, only that they were doing it noisily.

Admitting defeat, I climbed back under the covers and pulled one of the many pillows over my head and was asleep within a short while.

Interestingly, the next night I got to bed at a reasonable hour and had no such disturbance. But I had to wonder if I was the only guest whose sleep had ever been disturbed by activities in the courtyard pond.

View of the courtyard from my room, taken the morning after my sleepless night.
The hotel is on the top floors of the hotel and has created a tiny woodland.

And here is the same picture with all the wildlife highlighted.

Quite the crowded little corner of the world.

If I had a million dollars

Love that song. But that's not what inspired today's post. I was over at Anna Beth (AB) Chao's design-and-style blog where she posted about cute things "that cost around or over $500." Interesting approach because usually these style articles talk about inexpensive things that are nevertheless very stylish. (Many of them rely heavily on IKEA.)

But it got me to thinking: if money were no object, what would I do with all that moolah?

1. To work or to retire?
   That's the first question, of course. I actually work with some people who are independently wealthy and could sleep in for the rest of their lives, but who choose to come to work each day because they believe in the importance of their contribution and they love what they do.
   
   In my case, I think I would continue to work because I'm enjoying my job.
   
   
2. Move or stay?
   Move. This little place would be nice, in the toney area of Rockliffe Park. Exquisite neighbourhood, close to downtown, beautiful well-maintained older homes. 

   

   Only $1.6 million. Let's get two!

   
   
   Okay, so a mere million dollars would not be enough for that fantasy house. Plus, I do like our location and the easy access to the Ottawa River Parkway. Hmm. Maybe we'd just renovate our current house and add some interesting architectural details to this 1965-era shoebox.
   
   Here's what I'd do to our current house: more attractive roof over our porch; extend garage to a double garage and extend sun room; master suite over the garage and sun room; upgrade kitchen; new windows; flagstone stairs and landscaping in front yard; efficient fireplace insert; French doors in dining room; finish landscaping back yard (including a waterfall and hot tub). You could probably build a whole new house for all the changes I'd make.
   
   
3. Buy experiences, not things.
   Frankly, we have plenty of things in our life. (Just check the crowded basement.) What we have a shortage of is experiences - mostly related to travel. Machu Picchu, Greece, Ireland, Europe, India, Canada. Of course, I'd need the right clothes and shoes for these trips. And I'd want to bring back art or jewelry from all of these locations. And I'd want to bring along family and friends.
   
   
4. Share it.
   I would like to set up a small research endowment. I'm not sure how I would choose what to sponsor ... mental health, autism, cystic fibrosis, diabetes, heart and stroke. 

As I mentally pencil in dollar amounts beside each of these things, it occurs to me that what I could really use is $1 million per annum. Since I don't buy lottery tickets and I haven't published a book that's been optioned by Brad Pitt, I'll have to find some other source of huge income. Seems to me that Kim Kardashian or Paris Hilton could spare some change.

Oh, heck. Maybe I should just go ahead and make my own sex tape. What? You don't think it would be the boon to my career that it was to theirs? I'm sure there's a market for videos of middle-aged-multi-pregnancy women enjoying themselves. Dim lighting and soft focus can do a lot...

Courtesy is a Very Good Thing

UPDATE: Now includes Home Improvement audio clip!
UDPATE: In trying to add said audio clip, this post got re-published with a new date. I don't know how to fix that. Sorry. I don't even know what date I originally published it.

This is a dung beetle. You don't really want to be a dung beetle, do you?
Source: Wikipedia

Last week I was staying in a hotel. I was also miserably sick (remember the plague I mentioned?) and decided to slip into my ratty pyjamas (hey, I was staying alone) and order room service rather than sharing my toxic self with all the other diners. I called down to the restaurant, ordered and said that I would like to charge the meal to my room. Simple, right?

Oh, you naive sweet things who hold out hope for humanity ...

They asked if I had "the green slip." [Insert "Home Improvement" Wha-UH? tune.]

Apparently, the front desk was supposed to have given me a little slip of paper indicating that I had a credit card on file for incidentals. I don't think I have EVER registered at a hotel without putting a credit card on file. (I mean, except that one time we were only staying by the hour, but this was not that kind of hotel, so I was confused.) [Update: Just kidding. I've never stayed at a by-the-hour hotel.]

I explained that I was in my pyjamas already, and she could tell by my barely audible voice that I was sick, so she agreed to contact the front desk herself to confirm that the guest in room 313 [Hmmm. Just noticed the unlucky room number. Could that explain the catastrophic health repercussions for both me and my computer?] sorry - to confirm that the guest in room 313 had a valid credit card on file. It was a courteous thing for her to do and I was grateful.

Disappointingly, I was not feeling any better the next night, but I had forgotten to stop at the front desk for the valuable green slip - I was in such a rush to collapse onto my bed. After a nap, I ordered room service again, forcing gasping words through my constricted throat, but this time the Dining Room Nazi refused to make any concessions for me. I ended up calling the front desk and gasping my request, who then delivered the coveted chit to my room. I called the dining room again and raspily [Blogger says "raspily" is not a word. Wha-UH?] confirmed that I was eligible to bill the meal to my room.

Then I hacked up a lung and collapsed into a puddle on the floor by the door, waiting for the food. I ate my meal when it came and determined that I would not stay at that hotel again as their customer focus was not up to snuff. (I had also been punted off an elevator earlier at this hotel, by a staff member.)

All of this is not to whine (well not JUST to whine), but to illustrate why I'm such a big believer in courtesy - being nice to each other. I think it is the sweetener in civilization. Things like:

• Leaving a little extra room between your car and the one in front of you so other drivers can merge in.
• Holding the door open for the person behind you or holding the elevator for someone who's racing to catch it.
• Passing the sugar bowl to the person who just received his cup of coffee - without being asked.
• Wiping the bathroom counter.
• Stepping to the side so others can pass.
• Anything listed on the list of 25 Manners Every Kid Should Know By Age 9

These little courtesies make such a big difference!  They take almost no effort to give, cost nothing most of the time and can affect someone's mood - and consequently the mood of the next person they encounter. I know, it's trite. It's the old "pay it forward" meme, but evidently some people haven't heard it yet.

The flip side, of course, is that I really hope karma (in the colloquial sense, not the real Hindu sense necessarily) is real. People who do the following things should come back as dung beetles:

• Drivers who cut off other drivers or zoom ahead and cut in when there is a long line waiting.
• People who refuse to walk single-file on narrow sidewalks when there are oncoming pedestrians.
• People who don't clean up after their pets or children.
• People who commit the offenses referred to in this post.
• People who intentionally hurt other people.

So, go forth into the world and be nice to each other lest you pass your next life as a dung beetle.

Sweating Buckets

Yus, yus, yus! I sweat and indeed I DO sweat.* I've whined about it before on this blog.

• Most recently, when I expressed my undying affection for our new ceiling fan.
• In June, when I wrote about taking antidepressants.
• A year ago when I bemoaned my follicular frustrations when job-hunting.
• When we first moved back to Ottawa's humidity.

What I haven't yet explained is that I am no ordinary sweater, er, person who sweats. As I wrote in my post about taking antidepressants,

They make me sweat like an icy beer on a humid day. Not pretty. (I have actually corroded the enamel on my hair clips.)

I sweat with the very least exertion. And it's not just the ole pits, which would be fine. Antiperspirant covers that. It's my fricking HEAD. 

Today, for example, I had a very simple task: drawing lines and writing text on sheets of Bristol board. Easy-peasy. There was not enough room at my cubicle (where I have a strategically placed fan to cool me), so I was working in an air-conditioned meeting room. 

After ten minutes, my hair was drenched, my face was dripping onto the Bristol board. SPLOT ... SPLOT ... SPLOT. And that's with taking breaks to go back to my fan (which I could not move because of an awkward plug location) to cool down.

My particular affliction is a mild case of "serotonin syndrome." I say "mild" in the sense that my sweating is not life-threatening, which true serotonin syndrome can be. The obvious treatment is ... to stop taking the drug. However, when I stop taking my antidepressant, I become depressed, which, in my case, is a life-threatening (and life-enjoyment-threatening) condition. 

So, I stay on the drugs. Side effects are worth the cost, but let me tell you, it is MISERABLE! (Just because I've accepted the side effects doesn't mean that I have to be happy about them or that I can spare you from sharing in my misery!) The only thing I have found that really works is fans.

Add menopausal hot flashes to this mix and I fear that I am at serious risk of spontaneous combustion (like my barbecue), which just happens to be Allie Brosh's solution to accidentally responding to someone who isn't talking to you. So, um, I guess I've got that going for me.

Magnificent artwork by the inimitable**
Allie Brosh at Hyperbole and a Half.

Fortunately, I currently have a small fan pointed at me, and a cold glass of sangria by my side, so I'm good right now. But I'll let you know if I do burst into flames. 

* A reference to Beatrix Potter: "Yus, yus, yus! they eat and indeed they DO eat!" said Aunt Pettitoes, looking at her family with pride."


** I just learned that I have been using "inimicable" incorrectly all these years, when I really meant "inimitable." So embarrassed. 

On the Road Again

Every so often it happens that Steve's job and mine go through almost concurrent spates of travel. We are just nearing the end of one such period.

I'll be home just long enough to wash
my underwear and re-pack my suitcase.

I used to envy Steve all the travel he did for work - especially when I was a stay-at-home mom and we couldn't afford hotel vacations. I coveted the thrill of flying to new places, the pleasure of sleeping in a crisply made bed, having a bathroom that was polished daily, eating every meal in a restaurant. All this without the continual interruptions of little people clamouring to have their bottoms wiped. (Or worse, not clamouring, but not doing it themselves, either.)

But I've done more traveling with my last job and this one, and the bloom is off the rose. I now acknowledge the tedium of spending hours in airport concourses, missing flights, or having bags searched. I have a greater appreciation for the feeling of mild panic when things go sideways at home while I'm away and can do nothing to set things right. I've seen how life gets put "on hold" when one of us is away.

I guess, as with most things in life, moderation is a good thing. I do like to travel - both for work and for pleasure - and I certainly enjoy hotel living, but I also like being home. Home is such a very good thing.

It's been a crazy couple of months, and I'm looking forward to having a stay-cation later this summer, once I put my suitcase in longer-term storage.

Suddenly, it's spring!

I went away for a few days (after days and days and WEEKS of rain) and when I came back, this - along with sunshine - is what greeted me:

Spring! 

Actually, those are what greeted me in the park

across the street from our house when I got home from work.
This is what first greeted me at the Ottawa airport:

I do love that waterfall.

---

In Ontario, this is a long weekend, Victoria Day weekend, in honour of Queen Victoria. (Also known as May 2-4 weekend, as in "a 2-4 of beer.")

She was not known as a real "party gal,"
but we do have a long weekend in her honour,
so I like her just fine.

Most Ontarians start working on their gardens this weekend. Before this date, at least in Ottawa, there is a very good chance that there will be a freeze (or snow, even), so if you plant before this, you do so at your own risk.

Given the desolate state of our landscaping, it won't surprise you that it was with much enthusiasm that Steve, Emily and I ventured to the gardening store, Artistic Landscapes and Designs. The plan was to buy more chicken rock. We did that, but also came home with several shrubs, including a magnolia! I've never owned a magnolia, but have wanted one ever since we lived in Alabama.

Our very own magnolia!

We also got a Japanese maple with feathery red leaves and a blue spruce, along with some dogwoods and a purple sandcherry, and a bearberry.

I worked in the backyard through the heat of the mid-day - and have the sunburn to prove it. [No fewer than three of my cousins have been diagnosed with skin cancer, so you'd think I would know better!] As the afternoon shade reached the patio, Steve and I sat down for some chips & salsa and Corona. Aaah.

After that bit of refreshment, I popped out front to survey our front yard. The neighbours all have well trimmed lawns and mature gardens. Our yard is ... how do I put it nicely ... naturalized. We have patches of wild violets and a large swath of lily of the valley and a mangy spattering of grass.

Ever since I was a little urchin with an ear-piercing soprano voice and sang, "White Coral Bells Upon a Slender Stalk," I have been enchanted with lily of the valley. It doesn't hurt that they appear as darling little cups in fairy tales.

Those little curls on the bottoms of the bells?
Exquisite.

I was afraid that we had destroyed these little gems, but they have come back abundantly, and I am glad. I won't show a picture of the whole yard; it's too embarrassing.

So, with my bank account drained and my back sprained, I shall relax for the rest of this weekend and enjoy our patio. If you happen to be in the neighbourhood, do stop in for a beer.

A Particularly Contemporary Dilemma

Nothing says "Internet Age" like the expression, "Pictures, or it didn't happen." That's because nowadays, it is highly improbably that anything of real significance will happen without being captured by a digital camera. Hence the retort to wild claims: show us the photographic evidence or we will not believe you.

And then, Osama Bin Laden was assassinated. With knee-jerk predictability, the hordes yelled, "Pix or it didn't happen!"

Thank heavens, the administration paused and thought better of it. Because, really, we don't need to see that. The pictures do, in fact, exist. I don't doubt that for a second.

And I can assure you that, if those pictures were released, sooner or later, you would see that. Here's how I know.

A little over a year ago, I attended a social-media "boot camp." Not much rigorous training went on, but we did have a captivating speaker who knew his way around social media the way I know my way around a bowl of ice cream. (I am a very skilled ice-cream eater.)

Anyway, the lecturer was whizzing along talking about how corporations have NO CONTROL over social media, that it is viral and that, once something is "out there" it is public domain and we cannot spin the message or, as the saying goes, "put it back in the box." Then he showed us the real, actual video of Saddam Hussein's execution. I was unprepared and shocked.

This is definitely not something I would have sought out.

The lecturer's point seemed to be that the video undermined the purported message of justice being carried out. (It looked like a snuff film, or what I would imagine a snuff film to look like.)

But what really struck me was that I was watching the taking of another human's life and I felt ... nothing. Really. I was horrified at the thought of watching something like this in a context of ... entertainment? It felt wrong. But I did not feel any empathy with the victim or with the witnesses or the executioner.

And that lack of empathy - with anyone involved - made me feel less human. Have I become so jaded by modern drama (like Inglourious Basterds or other Quentin Tarantino creations) that I can dissociate myself from this? Is that a good thing?

"Less human" may be the wrong expression. Maybe it is "too human" and "not godlike enough."

So, as I've listened to the calls for images of bin Laden's execution, I am pleased that the Obama administration has not released those images. We don't need them. They would put this event into the realm of entertainment, not history, where it belongs.

The world has no shortage of ugliness, of pain, or horror or of things that take something from our souls. Let's not clamour for more. On that note, I leave you with this verse:

"Finally, [fellow travelers on this sod] brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable--if anything is excellent or praiseworthy--think about such things."   ~ Philippians 4:8