Outrunning My Idiot Complex

I’m intimidated by my trainees.

They are educated in ways I hope to attain one day–a degree in physics (physics!), a degree in finance, and possibly degrees in business administration.  They’re well traveled, and they’re much older than I am.

But neither of them know how to coat pharmaceuticals, so they’re stuck with me.  I know coating, at least.  I know it quite well.

Calculus = Smart?

I’ve always desired to be the smartest one in the room.  When I was a preteen my Dad told me how much he’d struggled with trigonometry in school.  I resolved to master it.  In high school I did, indeed, become competent in low-level trigonometry and pushed myself to study the highest maths I could.

I can’t tell you how much time and tears I expended on the subject.  Why?  Because Calculus = smart.  I studied advanced physics.  Why? Physics = smart.

All the while, I was destined to be a… writer.  Woe is me.  If only I’d thought classic literature, poetry and writing classes were the thing for smart people to do!

Recreational IQ Testing

I’ve also been known to take online IQ tests for the fun of it.  I’ve been told they only count if they’re administered by a professional, but I still like to be reassured that my IQ is just a little higher than the average Jane’s.  I may in fact be ‘gifted’.

Never mind how many derelict genius’s there are out there.

I don’t know why intelligence matters so much to me.  I don’t know why I have to be “smart”.  Logically, I believe that IQ helps, but hard work trumps talent every time.  In fact, I have this coworker who I’m certain has a high IQ and is technically “smarter” than I am.  But I outwork him every day, and soon I’m going to pass him.  I don’t believe in saying “Oh, I’m just not smart.”

So why the heck do I have to be a genius?

The Book has a Silver Lining

You can’t choose your IQ, but fortunately there are no limits on the knowledge you may absorb.  So since I’m never smart enough, I keep on reading.  Oh yeah, I love to read, but mostly I’m outrunning my idiot status.  Must know more!  Must read classic novels.  Must read books on leadership.  Must read books on history.  Must read Plato.

I can’t tell you how satisfying it is to sit in a waiting room, reading Plato while everyone else is reading tabloids.  If that doesn’t swell my head, I don’t know what will.

If only they gave PhD’s to people who read enough books.

Close Enough?

Nevertheless, I am now a professor of pharmaceutical coating.  I’ve always wanted to be a professor of something.  I asked MY coach if she feels like an idiot the whole time she is coaching trainees.

“Pretty much,” she said.

Well, then I’m on the right track.

 

 

4 Ways to Know if you are in a Slump

The dictionary says that the word ‘slump’ originates from a word meaning ‘to fall into a bog.’  That’s wonderfully accurate.  The kind of slumps I’m thinking of are quicksand-ish things that suck you down and render you, the high-performance machine, into a tire-spinning mess.

They’re kind of dangerous if not diagnosed.  So here is how to know if you’ve fallen into a bog… and possibly my own tongue-in-cheek confession.

If You Refuse to Eat Your Veggies…

If you usually get your five to seven servings, but now you call those green flakes in your bag of sour cream ‘n onion good enough.  If you call the ketchup on your fries and the lettuce on your burger a salad.

You may be in a slump.

If You’re Watching Way Too Much TV…

If when you’re gunning for a goal you don’t give a rip about when Castle and Becket are getting married, but now it seems like a good reason to stay on the couch.  If you’re surfing YouTube at random–for hours.  If the kids who run the video store don’t need to ask for your phone number to process the rental, ’cause they know it already.

You may be in in a slump.

If You Hate Everyone…

If you’re usually Mr. Nice Guy, but now the world is full of idiots.  If even your Mom can’t get a smile out of you.  If you can’t stand to have someone breathing beside you because the noise drives you wild.

You may be in a slump.

If You Can’t Stand to be in the Same Room as Yourself…

If your internal dialogue consists of constant rants, diatribes, and arguments with yourself.  If you can’t muster the will to say no to yourself anymore.  If it’s Saturday and you’ve ticked nothing off your to-do list and you feel like a fat, lazy slob.

You’re not as bad as you think you are.

Look yourself in the eye and tell yourself “I am worthwhile,” because you are.  Your worth isn’t based on what you do.  You are a human, a unique soul, a special gift.  You are the image-bearer of God.  You might be going through a slump right now.  You may be full out depressed, and I’m sorry.  I wish I could make it better.

But you aren’t a waste of space.

I’ve watched so much TV, YouTube, and movies this week.  I ate two whole bags of chips this week (and I profess to eat low-sugar, low-carb).  I slacked off of blogging and tweeting.  I avoided my novel manuscript.  I was a grumpy bear to my coworkers and my family and ranted a great deal more than is seemly.  I’m sure I’ve been annoying as heck.  About the only things I did right were going running and showing up in church on Sunday morning.

But the clock is at three minutes past midnight.  It’s Tuesday morning, and I have twenty-four hours to try again.

I caught the bouquet. Now what?

So, I caught the bouquet at the wedding yesterday.  My friends congratulated me: “Oh, you’re gonna get married next.”

I smiled.

You see, I’m four for four. I’ve caught four bouquets at four weddings. First time: my friends Heidi and Cole were married. She flung the bouquet, an exquisite arrangement of white roses, orchids and ivy. It fell toward the hands of her sister. I batted it out of the air, and it was in my clutches. Later that evening, I pulled a rose out of it and tangoed around the dance floor with it in my teeth.

I hadn’t had a drop, I swear.

Well! The next summer, it was her sister, who’s grasping fingers I took the bouquet from, who was married. So, I stood among the single ladies on the lawn outside the church. The bride rose up on the wooden railing and flung her gerbera daisies and wildflowers over her shoulder. It fell toward her sister-in-law. I leapt in front and seized the smashed posy from midair.

Guess who got married on Valentines Day?  The sister-in-law.

I was beginning to think I was some sort of good luck charm.  Third wedding, I didn’t have to fight anyone–it was a fair catch.  But a two of the friends I came with got married the next spring–to each other.

Actually, I think all the friends I travelled with are now married except for me.  What the heck?

My coworker got married this weekend. There she was, a beautiful china doll with her big blue eyes and pearly gown. And there I was among the single ladies. They were TALL single ladies, but I was pretty sure I could manage, so I put myself right out in front. The bunch of cala lilies went up up up. They soared toward a chick in a yellow dress.

What happens next is rather blurry.  Somehow the chick in the yellow dress, bouquet in her hands, ended up sprawled on the floor and I came up with the flowers.

You’re welcome, chick in the yellow dress. Invite me to your wedding.  I’ll probably catch your bouquet too.

Poisoning Pigeons in the Park

Spring is here, Sah-puh-ring is here!

And in honour of spring, and my most detested bird, I give you this sadistic tune by Tom Lehrer.

I first heard this ditty performed by my beloved voice teacher at her own birthday party (all dressed up as an old lady) and it has been my song every since–whether performing it in front of an adjudicator in a festival, or singing it with an almost inebriated gusto in the halls at work.

One way to alarm your coworkers, I do assure thee.

I must add that if you had pigeons living on your balcony (and dropping frequent payloads there) you would detest them as well–but, my animal-loving friends, I would never ACTUALLY do the things in the song.  Not to worry.

Enjoy.  I hope this adds a smile to your spring day.

How to Guarantee an Explosion

Tattoos, retirement funds, texting while driving.  What do these things have in common?  My family knows not to bring them up at family gatherings unless we’re itching to be on the receiving end of the rant.

They’re pet topics of certain, beloved family members.  They can’t help but get fired up.  It’s a knee-jerk reaction–we all have them. But why?

 

Jordan and the gang from Messy Mondays have a knack for picking up on human ticks.  I’ll add one thing.

By identifying what ‘sets you off,’ you may be able to identify your greatest fears, and therefore be more objective about what makes you angry.

Business leaders Mark and Kristine Militello talked about how each person has a ‘fear button’–a fear that causes a knee-jerk, angry reaction when provoked. Kristine says her button is value. When she feels she is not valued, she reacts in anger. Mark reacts the same way to what he sees as a lack of respect.

They talked about how, once they discovered what their fear buttons were, they were able to step back, realize why they were angry, and that perhaps the person did not mean to make them feel unvalued or disrespected. Likewise, if the other was angry, they could address their need for value or respect, and diffuse the situation.

We all have these buttons. Mine is intelligence. If I feel patronized, or that my intelligence is being insulted, I get angry. You might not be able to tell–I am a non-demonstrative introvert–but inside, be assured I am fuming.

I have to realize that, for the most part, people don’t mean to insult my intelligence, and I need to not be so thin-skinned about it.

I bet if we were observant, we’d be able to detect the fear buttons of our best friends, spouses, kids and family, and save ourselves the trouble of many knee-jerk reactions.

What is the pet peeve that sets you off?  

What’s the Deal With Celebrity Crushes?

Summer camp is the scene of much stupidity, and preteen girls will argue, but no argument perplexed me as much as the one over who was ‘hotter’—Chad Michael Murray or Paul Walker.

It was the early 2000’s, we were in the spring of our youth, and were just discovering boys—my cabin mates more so than I. I had no idea who Paul Walker was, and had only seen Chad Michael Murray in Freaky Friday (not a high point of his career, or his looks). I didn’t think either was hot, so I sat on my bunk bed and kept my mouth shut.

At about the same time, Brad Pitt was in his ‘Sexiest Man Alive’ days, and my companions were equally goggle-eyed over him. “Disgusting,” I thought. “He’s old enough to be my father.”

I don’t understand celebrity crushes. I mean, what’s the point?

I’ve seen footage of the Beatles performing live, while all around young women are screaming and weeping at the very sight of them–not unlike the mania that surrounds any of Justin Bieber’s shows.

Do any of those young girls, screaming and flailing about in the crowd, think that Bieber will give them a second glance? Yet they’d defend his reputation to the death when he’s caught coming out of a brothel. That isn’t the kind of guy they should be with. Fortunately, they won’t be.

Then there was this episode of the Graham Norton Show, in which Chris Pine’s and Benedict Cumberbatch’s fan clubs compared who had travelled the farthest to see their idol. One chick had travelled from Hong Kong to England to see Benedict Cumberbatch. Hong Kong!

Why?

Did she just want to breath the same air as him? Gaze upon his face? What could she possibly hope for? I’m damn sure Mr. Cumberbatch didn’t think to himself ‘Oh, how touching. From Hong Kong? I must sweep her off her feet. She must be mine!’

I admit that, of all celebrities, the closest thing to a crush I have right now is on Benedict Cumberbatch. I think it may be the accent, because other than his fine blue eyes, I’m not much for his looks. He reminds me of my grandfather.

Not that celebrities don’t fascinate me. I watch the Graham Norton Show, read fashion magazines, and catch the Oscars. I’ve seen all the production videos for The Hobbit. I like to hear celebrities talk about their craft, see what they’re wearing, and hear their funny stories about filming. I enjoy seeing the people behind the characters.

But they’re just people—albeit successful, famous ones.

If I boil it down, what I find appealing about famous men is how they handle themselves in public—suave, gentlemanly. And which woman doesn’t like a man who knows how to behave? They’re well groomed, well dressed, and mannerly and that goes very, very far.

Ah!  That’s probably why people think Benedict Cumberbatch is sexy. He looks good in a suit.  There, solved that one.

But what if it’s all a façade? What if these men are just stuffed silk shirts, while inside they’re full of rot and decay? Time eventually tattles and tells us what they’re made of. Many lead lives worth admiring—excellence in their craft, philanthropy, a healthy family life. But others end up collapsing under the weight of their fame. Like a ketchup bottle, what is inside will come out when squeezed.

And that is a problem we all bear. After all, famous men aren’t gods, but mortals.

Just a thought.

What about you? Have you had a celebrity crush?

A Sure Way to Learn Humility

Perhaps I should avoid debates. I’m not good at them. I’ve been carrying on a debate by email for the last few days, and boy, am I getting schooled.

Why must I learn as I go? Why can’t I just know everything?

I’m not losing the debate, per se, but it seems that at every turn I get a clear view of my ignorance. I am, frankly, racing to stay ahead of my colleague. On Friday I had just pressed ‘send’ on an email containing a careful statement of my position only to turn the page of my colleague’s book and realize I’d missed a chapter–and you know it would be about what I’d just defended, and you know he’d use some of the same quotes as I to defend his own, opposite, viewpoint.

Ugh. It was to the drawing board (and Amazon for more books) for me.

Social media has also been an embarrassing, invigorating mess of learning for me. As an author who aspires to make writing a paying vocation, social media is a must. So, without consulting experts or anything, I just sort of put myself out there. I did horrible things like tweet only links and self-promotion and being rather socially awkward.

And then I was recommended Rise of the Machines by Kristen Lamb, and now I realize I’ve been doing it ALL WRONG! I wish I could delete my Twitter and Facebook profiles and start over, but I can’t.

Why must I learn as I go? Why must I make a mess?

Now that I’ve learned that social media is, get this, for socializing, it has all become so much more fun. But since I haven’t finished the book yet, I suppose I’m in for a few more forehead-slapping moments. Sigh.

And as to the debate? The beauty of this debate is that, even if I don’t win my antagonist over to my side, I will have learned a TON. We’re debating theology–not nit-picky stuff, but things that are of vital importance to our faith. The very fact that I have to race to read ahead shows that I’ve been sorely lacking in my studies.

The Apostle Paul said that God gave him a ‘thorn in the flesh’ to keep from becoming conceited. I suspect my propensity toward mess-making has the same purpose. Heck, if Paul needed to be kept in line, I must really need help.

Laurie Woodward said “The lesson continues until the lesson is learned.” I suppose I better get to it, huh?

In that spirit, for the first time ever, I have composed a post entirely on my phone, with the aid of a Bluetooth keyboard. So, if you see anything out of wack, let me know, eh?

Why You Might Want to Practice Your Smile in the Mirror

Ah, the smile-grimace.

As a retail clerk, I see it a lot. I greet a customer with a smile and a ‘hello’, and what I get in return is this… how should I call it? Lip curl, twitch, frown thing. I think they think they’re smiling. Well, they ain’t.

Dale Carnegie said, “An insincere grin… doesn’t fool anybody. We know it is mechanical and we resent it.” A genuine smile is an expression of genuine happiness, delight, amusement. It says “I’m glad to see you”, “I like you”, “You make me happy”. The grimace thing says, “I’m acknowledging that you exist, now beat it.”

The expression on your face is one of the first things people see. It is part of your first impression, and we know that a first impression is often all you have. As far as I’m concerned, a pleasant countenance is far more important than what the person is wearing, or what sort of body composition they have. The best beauty tip my Mom ever gave me was “Smile, and you’ll look beautiful.” True that, Mom.

My favorite people are all smilers. I work with some fantastic smilers and jokers. When I walk into the preshift meeting, I look for them because I know they’ll smile like they’re glad to see me—and I’m glad to see them. They make work a fun place to be. When they’re gone I miss them.

Carnegie quotes Professor James V. McConnell: “People who smile… tend to manage, teach, and sell more effectively and to raise happier children. There’s far more information in a smile than a frown. That’s why encouragement is a much more effective teaching device than punishment.”

So, if you’re convinced, or if you aren’t, I challenge you to go to a mirror, shiny window, or your smartphone camera, and look at your face. Close your eyes, pretend someone just walked up to you, and smile like you always do. Open your eyes. Is that a smile or a grimace? Worse, is it a rictus?

Oh dear. I hope not.

Then consider this. Daniel Pink says:

A genuine smile involves two facial muscles: (1) the zygomatic major muscle, which stretches from the cheekbone and lifts the corners of the mouth; and (2) the outer part of the orbicularis oculi muscle, which orbits the eye, and is involved in ‘pulling down the eyebrows and the skin below the eyebrows, pulling up the skin below the eye, and raising the cheeks.’
Artificial smiles involve only the zygomatic major. The reason: we can control that muscle, but we can’t control the relevant part of the orbicularis oculi muscle. It contracts spontaneously—and only when we’re experiencing enjoyment…
In other words to detect a fake smile, look at the eyes.

Observe. Here is a picture of me faking a smile.

And here is a picture of me actually smiling.

Now that you know how to detect a fake smile, you’ll see it in yourself and in others. Stop it. Stop faking it. Leadership guru Tim Marks says that he had to practice in front of a mirror, and even practice smiling while driving in order to make a genuine smile a habit.  It mattered that much to him.

I’ve tried to make it a reflex—walk past a person, and smile. Or, if nothing else, try to look pleasant. I’m not sure if I’ve succeeded, but I’ve made progress.  And now I work at a place where I have to wear a mask (not the retail job), and the eyes are the only way to tell that I’m smiling, so it better be genuine.

Well, am I smiling? Am I?

And no, my profession is not ‘bandito’.

Life is hard, and sometimes we are so tired and beat down that it feels impossible to eke out a smile. In times like those, we need the kindness and the smile of another person. It’s important to realize that others have the same need. If a smile is what it takes to brighten up a day, a room, a conversation, a job then that is not too much to ask. And whatever you do, rid your life of the smile grimace, and you will, at least, offend fewer retail clerks.

Much appreciated.

Works referenced:

Carnegie, Dale: How to Win Friends and Influence People. Simon and Schuster, 1936.

Pink, Daniel: A Whole New Mind. The Penguin Group, 2006.

Oh Christmas, Why Did You Have to Go?

They took down Santa’s house this morning–the gaudy snow-covered castle, the plastic reindeer, the picket fence that corralled hopeful parents and fearful toddlers toward good St. Nick. Christmas is over, alas.

Oh Christmas, why did you have to go?

You may understand why I’m feeling a bit down. It’s not that I have a right to complain after twelve days of holidays—the sort of stretch that I haven’t had since I graduated. And after such a long holiday, I was actually looking forward to the structure of a workweek (the structure, anyway). I’m so much better at structure, after all. It’s just that I looked forward to Christmas for so long. I had all these plans—gatherings, parties, hanging out, writing, watching The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug. In my most flustered, most tired times, I would hold out the holidays like a beacon of hope.

And now it’s winter, dead winter. It’s so cold that I wouldn’t put a dog outside. Heck, if there was just an elevator in my building, I’d bring my little car, Strawberry, up and park him between the sofa and the fireplace. I’m positive he’d fit, and this would solve the issue of the windshield frosting up from the inside, and the awful noises the car makes some mornings. Maybe that snow that’s been sitting on the floor mats for weeks would finally melt. Nothing melts in minus thirty, and it’s been minus thirty for a long time, or so it feels.

On the upside, I get more of a workout in this weather because I wear a twenty-pound parka everywhere, and winter boots. The boots are like ankle weights and, when I’m indoors, the coat serves as one of those sauna suits that fitness wackos wear. I need all the help I can get because today I stepped on one of the big floor scales at work, and I seem to have gained back the weight I’d lost before Christmas. Two weeks of doing nothing but watching movies and eating will do that to a body.

Perhaps the passing of Christmas is actually a good thing.

Well, it can’t be helped anyway. I just need to come up with a new ‘carrot’ to dangle in front of my nose. I’ve told you a bit about my goals for the year, and this morning I wrote up my goals for the month. I’m actually kind of pumped about them. After a good holiday, my brain is ready for new challenges.

Perhaps what I’m most excited about (and nervous) is sending my second draft novel to three beta readers for review. In the meantime, I will be doing some beta reading in trade, and cracking out my NaNoWriMo novel. I haven’t read it since November.

I’m also pretty excited about how this blog has been picking up steam since my article “For Trade: One Head” was Freshly Pressed. I sure am looking forward to another year of spilling my guts to you, interacting, and reading what y’all have to say.

So, Happy New Year. Stay warm, and may you find new things to look forward to.

Sir Snodbottom and the Throne

I hope you’ll indulge me a little silliness.  The following was the result of a writing exercise my writing group did the last time we met, entitled “The Christmas I’ll Never Forget”.  This is entirely fictional–after all, they said I didn’t have to write the truth.  I don’t, as a rule, write short stories, but here it goes: 

“What in heaven’s name?” Mom pointed the spatula at the lumpy, bumpy package that was about the size of my little brother.  It was not my little brother, but that would have been cool.

I was busy hip-checking it into the corner behind the tree, but I paused in my exertions. “Huh?”

“What is that?” She poked a finger in IT’s direction and waved the spatula. A piece of cookie dough flew off. It hit the floor and Buster the pug ate it.

“Mom,” I said. “It’s Christmas. I can’t tell you.” The package, wrapped in brown paper, not colourful Christmas paper, could not be hidden.  I had used this line on my little brother already.

“Well don’t…” She sighed. “Don’t knock over the tree, Avery. The angel’s about to fall off.” She reached up and pushed at it with one floury hand. Then she turned and marched back into the kitchen, Buster waddling behind her, smacking his lips.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

The present wouldn’t go any farther in the corner. There it would sit, like an overgrown turd. Maybe if I put a bow on it…?

It had cost me my entire piggybank, and selling my Sidney Crosby card, and cleaning Grandma’s driveway four times, and vacuuming all the sunflower seed hulls from Grandpa’s big Lincoln. It had taken me an hour to walk it, in a wheelbarrow, from Field’s Hardware Store to home. I had to pause several times to rest my arms and I had slipped once and nearly tipped it out. It couldn’t break. It was Mom’s gift.

You see, one fateful evening when she’d been out with my Aunt (Christmas shopping, I think), my brother and I had been playing knights and dragons. I was Sir Snodbottom the Valiant and he was the evil dragon, breathing fire and seeking whom he may devour. I chased him into his lair, the glass-walled shower, and stood outside, waving my mace and taunting him.

“Come out, you big baby!” Lord Snodbottom said, shaking his mace. “Come out and fight.”

“No!” came the muffled voice of the dragon. “Leave me alone. I don’t want to play anymore.”

“Come out, you big baby! You can’t hide forever.”

“Yes I can.”

Thus it continued.  Lord Snodbottom began to grow weary and decided to take a few practice swings with his mace, which was actually Mom’s metal kitchen hammer. His swings became a little too vigorous and the mace collided with the throne—the toilet.
Crash!

What was that?” the dragon squeaked, deep in his lair.

Lord Snodbottom took one look at the great gash in the porcelain throne and fled.

Thus the package. Mr. Fields sure had given me a funny look as I’d laid my money on the counter, and another as we lifted it into the wheelbarrow. I didn’t care. I was Sir Snodbottom, and I would redeem myself.

Christmas morning arrived, and while my little brother and Buster capered around the Christmas tree, I tugged the package into the center of the living room. Mom and Dad came out of their bedroom in their bathrobes, rubbing their eyes. I pointed. “Open this one first.”

Mom glanced at Dad, and Dad grinned. By her expression, I could tell she thought it was some odd prank, or a clay sculpture I had made in school, like last year.

She pulled away the brown paper, and there was a shining new toilet.