How Much? By When?

My mother used to poke fun of my incessant list-making. It wasn't so much the exercise she scoffed at. Heck, she was the one who taught me the habit of writing out daily "to-do's." It was more my content, which always began with a hardy "get out of bed," which she found amusing. But who knows how much I would've accomplished if I wouldn't have been able to cross off my first task? Getting out of bed is kind of critical...

Okay, so early on my lists might have been trifling. But by performing those tasks, I began to learn the feeling of accomplishment. And as I grew older, the items on my lists became a bit more refined. I focused on activities like studying or piano. And as the mindset of of a list-maker goes, I was prone to monitor how accomplished I could become in my studies and piano. And as it turned out, I did okay.

Bill Gates most recently wrote a thoughtful piece in the Wall Street Journal about the importance of measuring progress in the plight to fix the problems of the world. Using the steam engine as the original innovation of measuring progress when energy output was used as a metric to hone the design of engine models, Mr. Gates suggests that by setting a goal, and by measuring results, and continuing to hone, true progress can made in just about any discipline. The article, effectively, presents how infant mortality has declined and how education could be reformed. I thought to myself, "Right on, brother."

At work, our management team was discussing 2013 goals at the end of the year. The question was posed, "Should we even set these goals for our staff?" The argument was that since staff was accountable to do their job, we should just see if we can achieve our overall goals without measuring specific progress. I have to admit, I froze upon hearing the idea. Not set goals for our staff? I didn't care for it at all. It was kind of like...not making a list for the day. I diplomatically argued against it...as did a few other managers. Ultimately, we decided to trudge forward with team goals set in place, happily measuring progress on a monthly basis. Admittedly, I felt a tinge of guilt for not giving my staff a free pass for the year. Then I read the Bill Gates article. I don't feel so guilty anymore. As a matter of fact, I felt a bit emboldened by the article. I think I'll suggest to my kids that they need to start making daily lists. I don't even care if the list starts with "Get out of bed." Actually, I'd be happy with that.

At the End of the Day...

Some of you may or may not know, but I work for a bank. I also happen to be a manager in the bank. Most recently, my boss decided to conduct something called a "360 degree" assessment in which a few of my direct reports and other peers reviewed me. While I haven't been told of the results entirely, my boss hinted of one of my major performance weaknesses. And before he even spoke the words, I pretty much guessed it anyway. It's a bit analogous to getting my kids to do their chores. In the working world, it's called "holding people accountable."

My daughter's dresser

Here's the thing about accountability. There's a distinction between how well expectations are communicated and how much you can expect one to be accountable for. Take our kids, for example. How many times do I ask Cole to brush his teeth before an orange crust forms over his enamel? Or how many times do I ask Alex to put away her clothes before dust settles on the pile–necessitating another washing? (Maybe I'm just not asking with a gnarly enough timbre in my voice.)

But on to adults, where I don't think I need to worry about the pitch of my voice, nor do I think I need to worry about eloquence so much. But I've certainly encountered situations at work when I've questioned whether I've communicated my expectations with clarity. Some expectations, granted, seem obvious. Like showing up for work. Yes, I tend to be that manager who gives second chances. Maybe too many second chances. And while it's easy for everyone to judge, opining that perhaps I'm a bit too lenient, I can't help but wonder if this time will be the second chance that will make a difference to someone. Maybe it will. Maybe it won't.

I'm a strong believer that we, as individuals, are accountable for our own destinies. But I know, in my heart, we should all keep encouraging those individuals who perhaps are struggling. Maybe that encouragement comes in the form of tough love, of which, undoubtedly, I have not mastered. But I think the key word in that phrase is, "love."

A few years ago Seth Godin wrote an eBook called Graceful, with the subtitle "making a difference in a world that needs you." I scanned the book,  pondering this issue of accountability. And as I reflected on some of the themes of the book, I determined something. I probably wouldn't have changed any managerial actions I have taken in the past. And I'm not so sure my approach will change much in the future. If it does, I only hope it's because I am becoming more...graceful.

I'll wrap up this blog with a few these quotes from the book.  Certainly, they're worthy of more reflection...

"Kindness creates connection. It generates respect (on both sides) and it scales."

"People seek meaning. Will you offer to them?"

Now that's a Blog!

I came across an article on how to make a successful blog. (They provided Ana White's blog as an example. It's pretty awesome, isn't it? I was suspicious though. One woman created and managed this? Really?) As a business person, I felt a teensy bit silly for not thinking of it before. Really, to attract a million followers, you only need to present stuff people want to see. Brilliant! So, I started to brainstorm products that might be useful just in case my followers have grown tired of hearing about my kids, husband and dog. Admittedly, nothing was coming to me at first. (Should I discuss the movie we watched last night? Star Wars I? I just don't think anyone would care...)

Okay, so here's what I came up with. My two product picks of the week...

1. The Wall Street Journal: My favorite daily paper. The Journal teaches me words like inimitable, bonhomie and superannuated...even if I don't ever use them, or remember them by next month. The journalism is pure poetry. I often find myself smiling upon a sentence...even if the message being delivered was bitter. It will also make you super duper informed. Or, as a journalist from WS would probably say, you'll reflect a certain air of erudition.
2. ZUM soap and lotion. With ingredients like goats milk, and other organic elements, I feel like I'm at a spa whenever I dab a bit of lemon grass, eucalyptus or sea salt on me. Amazingly enough, the stuff is sold at my mother's store,  rubi j. (How's that for a plug, Mummy?)

Okay, now that I feel a bit like a used-car salesman, how about a quick story from the home front. So, we got new furniture. In the process, we transitioned the old sectional to the basement to make room for the new. Of course, it's always interesting to see what wrappers, toys, ponytail holders, etc. will rise up when a couch is moved. What you don't usually expect to find is a complete sloppy joe. So, once again, I declared the living room FOOD FREE. I felt this would be particularly critical now that we've just spent a small fortune on furniture. Guess how long it lasted? As I was snapping a photo tonight, I noticed Cole was slurping up a plate of mac-n-cheese. Well, at least it wasn't something that won't spill all over the place...

Life...a little after 40

A couple of weeks ago, we went to see This is 40. I didn’t really care if the critics raved about it, I just had a feeling the show would resonate. And it did. I loved it. It validated the fact we all tend to muddle through the same, intimate, terrifying, despicable, lovely, hilarious, monstrous, adorable, awful and mundane issues of everyday life. The themes of the movie I liked best? (Anti-spoiler alert...the rest of the blog contains no information about the movie.)

Parenting: Even if you ever pictured yourself as a June Cleaver or a Claire Huxtable, by the time you turn forty, your parenting style turns a bit lax. Ideas of organic feeding troughs, or unadulterated PBS are tossed out the window. Oh, sure you have spurts of ambitiousness, banning sugar and declaring family game nights in lieu of the TV. But it only takes a few days of Parchesi before you're curled up with the kids, eating zebra cakes, and watching Ted for the third time. Okay, maybe that's just me.

Romance: Not too many years ago, I’d put a fair amount of thought into my New Year’s Eve attire. And I still do! But my thoughts have taken an Eddie Bauer approach. I choose the sweater that will keep me fairly warm and select shoes which will have the least likelihood of me falling. I'm not to the hip-breaking point, but I certainly don't want to trip. And if I would’ve had just an inkling of romance in me this year, I wouldn’t have chowed down on the yummy Brussels sprouts that commanded me to the ladies room and left my stomach spinning, spinning, spinning. I didn’t even get to eat my dessert! (Only someone over 40 would be pissed about that.) My lucky husband. We were home just a few seconds before the ball dropped. In central time, that means 10:59:50.

Money and In-Laws: In the interest of time, I think I'll leave these topic for another time. They deserve their own post.

  

You know what? I kind of like this juncture in our lives. We certainly are more interesting…i.e., this time when our morphing body parts seem to be taking a life of their own. Who knows what mole or whisker we'll wake up to find growing on our face or back? The only certainty? My husband and I will be the only people vaguely interested. And we'll probably discuss the protrusion, with a sense of glee, for the entire morning.

Yep. This is 40. Wonder for 50 will have in store?

Christmastime is Near!

Cole asked me this week, “When we putting up our Christmas lights?”

Looks like we'll be shooting for next November. 

I have a certain queasiness. I don't think (but won't confirm) it's been caused by the influx of sugar to my system. It's three days before the big day, and I feeling like some sort of Christmas flunky. Yesterday I was telling my family about a Secret Santa work story. When they asked about my Secret Santa, and I quickly informed them that I had decided not to participate this year, I was met with scorn. “What are you? Some sort of Scrooge?”

Am I? I don't think so...

Besides the lack of lights surrounding our house, most of our decorations are still sitting at the bottom of the basement stairs. But the tree is up. It didn't get hoisted the Friday after Thanksgiving as is our normal tradition. As the days in December ticked away, I toyed with the idea of a tree-less year. Then my son decided to decorate a little tree for his room, and the guilt of attempting the Norman Rockwell Christmas for the kiddos overpowered me. I dragged the tree upstairs, with images in my mind of the family hanging ornaments together, singing a harmonic Joy to the World. Maybe we'd even string a little popcorn. But as is usual, the tradition never goes quite so lovely.

I shouted, and shouted, for assistance. I got one helper. (Hubby had to toss out a testy, "Help your mom!" ) But within a few minutes, however, my helper was disengaged. As was typical of the annual event, I found myself decorating alone–throwing the ornaments on the tree just to finish the project. 

Beyond the tree, I have little other decorations around the house. (Obviously, a travesty since we never have a guest...except the Schwann's man.)  I'm not done shopping. I haven't baked. My house is super dirty. And most tragically, I haven't done a Christmas card yet–this is most awful, because I'm sure everyone has been checking their mail for pics of my kids and my dog. 

But guess what? Despite my anxiety, I decided that being a Christmas flunky isn't such a bad thing. (Look at Clark Griswold.) In the scheme of things, what matters most? This year, in particular, I will step into this holiday season with an enormous amount of gratitude.

Doug and I ran across our camera the other day. We haven't been using it, since it's a bit handier to take pics on my phone. Anyway, we found a treasure trove of photos–including some from last Christmas. Forget decorations. Forget baking. I think the most important thing we can do this holiday is laugh and find some hugs.

Eating Licorice

While an abundance of issues are worthy of a blog post (the power of giving, the fiscal cliff, watching Lincoln and Twilight in the same week), today I stumbled on to a topic that hasn't received nearly enough commentary: chewing licorice.

When we are kids, we can eat candy without thinking too much about decorum. We gobble it down, and chunks of bright, hardened sugar circle our lips, then residue tends to journey towards our ears. A few lucky pieces will make it into our hair until Mom finds it in a brush and must scissor it out. But it's all kind of funny. Heck, it's cute! With a bit of a finger wag, and a repressed smile, we are told, "Chew with your mouth closed."

Then we grow a little older. If you're a girl, and you turn into a teenager, eating candy can be seen as something sensual. Eating licorice is not only acceptable, but it might even be encouraged by some twisted, or not so twisted male. One temptress might twirl the licorice, play with it in her mouth, or use it as a straw for soda before deciding to actually nibble at it. Ahh, isn't that...sweet? Whether you think it's sweet, sexy, or unremarkable, it's probably not gross.

Then, you turn forty.

Today I spent the day at a Creighton basketball game with a fifth-grade girl I mentor for the Teammates Program. As we began to snack on our concessions, a small horror overtook me as I began to chew on my licorice. As the candy began its descent into my throat, I remembered how I've been known to choke on the red stuff. And since I wasn't around the familiar territory of family, I slowed my mastication way down so that the candy was practically water before I swallowed. Obviously, the joy of candy has lost its luster. So, under the pretense of benevolence, I gave out most of the damn Twizzlers. Truthfully, I just didn't want puke on anyone.

While the Blue Jays were beating Akron, I had an epiphany. Older ladies (defined as over forty) shouldn't eat candy in public. It's not becoming. Okay, okay. Maybe that's a little harsh. I don't want to discriminate. Older men (also defined as over forty) should follow the same rule. I've witnessed my husband inhale Milk Duds a time or two. And for any of you that think I'm particularly intolerant, think about the health repercussions. Not making a fool of oneself eating candy, in public, might reduce the overall sugar consumption and perhaps prevent type II diabetes.

So, next time I'm at the movie, I will consider my plan. Then I'll most likely remember, with glee, the darkness in the theater. And tell my husband to go ahead with the large pack of Milk Duds and medium popcorn to share. We geezers will choke our snacks down together. Not so sure I'll be delaying the diabetes.

BFF's

 About a month ago, I found myself in a bit of a slump. I couldn’t seem to find my smile, no matter how hard I tried. Empirically, I realized the ridiculousness of my forlorn state of mind. Accomplished kids. Loving husband. Healthy parents. Good job. Great home in the community I adore. Happy with my weight. Only kidding. I'm never happy with my weight. But my muffin top wasn't the root cause of my melancholy. I felt sad. Empty. But I couldn't quite articulate the reason why.

I adored Doug’s attempts to mitigate the gloom during this patch. Anyone remember the scene on Animal House when Bluto used clownery tactics to uplift Flounder after the demolition of his brother’s pristine car? Well, my hubby can crack a metaphoric beer over his head pretty well too. Yup. He’s really good at getting me to chuckle. But like Flounder, I wasn't laughing very long.

As I sorted out my feelings with my dear husband, it dawned on me. I hadn’t connected with any of my closest friends lately. Actually I hadn't seen them for...months. One had moved to St. Louis last year, and while we keep in touch almost daily via Words with Friends, it’s just not quite the same as seeing her in person. Another works a few blocks from me, so obviously getting together for lunch is quite a challenge. And my other closest friend lives about three minutes from my house, so obviously that's another unworkable situation.

Ugh. Pitiful? Methinks.

I reduced my Facebook check-ins. Not only did it waste too much time, but I found it to be a bit depressing. All these people, with all these friends, doing all these cool things that didn't involve work. And I noticed people getting up to 100 “Likes”! (If I post anything, I’m usually happy with one "Like." My mom or cousins are typical shoe-ins.)  But Facebook wasn't the answer. Social media can do many things. But it wasn't going to make me happier.

Despite my great love for my family, and the time I cherish with them—which I do abundantly—I decided I was lonely for my best friends. So after a few attempts, I was able to sanction a lunch appointment with one of my longest-running pals, Lyn. We could’ve and should’ve just taken the afternoon off, because we had too much to discuss between issues that can't be disclosed on this blog...to protect the innocent. Then on a whim, I kidnapped my friend, Amy, to see the ever-poignant Twilight finale, which I'd like to review here. (Actually no need...it's just like the other four movies, capiche?) We topped that glorious day off at that most celebrated of shopping centers…Target. A blissful day indeed.

Me and Amy...the baseball fans that we are.

It didn’t really matter what I did with my friends. I was merely happy to be connecting with them once again. Nothing soothes the soul like another girlfriend. Somehow I had convinced myself that none of us really have time for each other anymore. But there should always be time for those who matter to you. When we are young, friendships take precedence over almost everything. As we age, obligations fill that space. While those obligations (kids, hubby,etc.) make life utterly worthwhile, we can’t forget to tend to our friendships. Who else will listen to those stories about our kids and our husbands?

Lyn and me. Scowl implies she'd rather have been biking.