On being ...

On being ... a work in progress

2010-02-15T19:12:00.002-05:00

By Ingrid Sapona

I’ve never been particularly coy about my age. But, for the past month or so I’ve been debating about whether I’d write a column about turning 50. I don’t think I was in denial about it, but I did worry about shattering the picture some readers might have of me as a nubile, Victoria’s Secret model type. But, given that my age is likely to come up in news stories when I win the Pulitzer, I may as well admit here that I first graced the stage in February 1960.

Actually, the main reason I didn’t think I’d write about turning 50 is because I don’t want to be one of those people who write about a fairly common experiences as though they’re the first person to have ever gone through it. You know the stuff I’m talking about -- books and articles by baby-boomers about things like becoming a parent or trying to balance family and work. Those books always seem full of recriminations and outrage that “no one ever told us about this…”. The way I see it, our parents’ generation didn’t write about such things because they weren’t nearly as self-absorbed as we are AND because they were too busy catering to us!

Anyway, I decided to write about it, in large part, because one of the biggest surprises about turning 50 is how much of a non-event it is. Don’t get me wrong, thanks to family and friends who went all-out, I had a wonderful long weekend of celebrating. But, the actual fact of being 50 doesn’t seem like a big deal. Given my general risk-averse nature and my good fortune of having good health, turning 50 isn’t really much of an accomplishment.

Mind you, just because I don’t feel any different days after turning 50 doesn’t mean I feel I’m the same person I was at, say, 40. (There’s no point in comparing how one felt at 18, 25, or in even in your 30s -- it goes without saying that because of biology alone my 50-year-old self is different.) If anything, turning 50 has gotten me thinking about how subtle and incremental the changes are -- and yet, when taken as a whole, the differences in who I am now and who I used to be are quite remarkable.

For example, awareness of being older than famous people really used to trip me up. I’m not talking about the realization that you’re old enough to be some Olympic athlete’s mother. I’m talking about realizing you’re older than some legend or world leader. I’ll never forget how weirded out I was when I found out in 2001 that Cal Ripkin (the Iron Man of baseball) is six months younger than me. But, looking back on it, it’s clear that shocking revelation helped prepare me for the inevitable -- being older than the President! Now I pretty much assume I’m older than most people in the news.

I find I’m also way less fixated on how much money some of my contemporaries make. At some point I finally stopped comparing myself to people whose salaries, bonuses and perks are the subject of articles in the business section of the paper. It took me a long time to realize that the obscenely high salaries constantly reported on represent the outliers, not the norm. And, more importantly, somewhere along the way to 50 I realized that salary shouldn’t be confused with self-worth.

I also know a lot more about friendship. When you’re young, friendships seem to come easy: you’re thrown together through circumstance (classes and activities) and if the same things make you giggle, you’re pretty much friends. It wasn’t until my 30s and 40s that a few particularly special people helped me see the attributes I truly value in a friend -- qualities I now try to bring to my friendships with others.

At some point I realized that being fiercely independent doesn’t mean you shouldn’t let people help you. I’ve finally learned that when people offer to help, it isn’t necessarily because they think I can’t get by on my own. Indeed, I now see accepting someone’s help as a way of honouring them.

And I’ve become more self-aware, especially when it comes to the many ways and times I’m overly critical -- of myself and others. Though I’d like to say that at 50 I’ve stopped being so critical, that would be a lie. But, I’ve gotten much better at recognizing when my critical nature takes over and I’ve learned to rein it in and to focus my energy on cultivating equanimity instead. Admittedly, I’ve not mastered equanimity but, more-and-more, I find myself consciously striving toward it and feeling the rewards of it.

And, though it may sound obvious, the biggest difference is that I’ve come to realize that life is a work in progress. At 18 I thought I was fully formed. I was oh-so grown up -- sure of myself, my abilities, and my path. But, in my 20s and 30s, as I made my way head-first down that path, if something happened that seemed to send me off course, I used to re-double my efforts to get be back on that course. Thankfully, over time I realized such effort is often both emotionally draining and pointless, as life has a way of unfolding as it sees fit.

I guess the best thing about being this age is that I’ve learned to not only accept course corrections, but to greet them for what they are: new adventures. So, I have to say -- I’m looking forward to the next 50!

© 2010 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... repurposed

2010-01-30T21:48:00.003-05:00

By Ingrid Sapona

One of the nice things about living alone is you don’t have to explain your everyday behaviour or decisions to anyone. That said, I often catch myself coming up with rationalizations for my actions, as if I had to justify them to someone. Wait, that sounds a bit odd. Let me put a more normal-sounding spin on it: before I decide whether to do something, I mentally go through as many arguments -- pro and con -- as I can. Maybe it’ll make more sense if I give you an example of something I found myself debating about last week.

I’m taking a phys ed course one night a week at a local high school. It’s a “boot camp”, which amounts to a bunch of middle-age folks doing laps, squats, lunges, sit-ups, and pushups in a gymnasium. (I know, it sounds like we’re trying to re-connect with our youth. Well, I for one was never that into gym in my youth. Believe me, the only thing I’m “re-connecting with” are muscles I never knew I had.)

Anyway, some of the stuff we do requires lying on our stomachs or backs on the floor. I’m long past worrying about cooties, but I have to admit, the gym floor is pretty disgusting. After the first class most of the women brought yoga mats. I don’t have one and I figured a towel would be fine since I just go home, shower, and throw my clothes in the laundry. But, during last week’s class I realized another problem is that the floor (a basketball court) is quite slippery, making floor work both gross and hazardous.

By the time I got in the car after the class that night, my inner debate team was raring to go on the issue of whether I should buy a yoga mat. First up was the “buy it” side: “Just bite the bullet and buy a yoga mat – it doesn’t have to be anything fancy or expensive. So what if it disintegrates after four months? It only has to last for six more sessions.”

Then the contra viewpoint chimed in: “Come on -- you’re not one of those yoga mat-totting baby boomers. Please…”

Then the rebuttal: “But think of your knees – that floor is so hard on them – aren’t they worth protecting? Go on, get one…”

Followed by the surrebutter (I’m a lawyer – look it up if you don’t believe me!): “So just double the damned towel when you’re doing something on your knees, no big deal. Besides, where would you store a yoga mat? You have no room for more stuff!” Finally, as I hit the shower, the moderator chimed in: “No need to decide tonight…”.

Though I thought I had put it out of my head, the next afternoon it was clear that I hadn’t. I was obsessed with trying to think of something I could use besides a towel or yoga mat. Before I knew it I was digging through the bottom of a closet to see whether I still had a long, narrow carpet I was no longer using. (If you must know, I was no longer using it because I ruined it last year by putting in the washer. As you can see from the photo I took at the time, somehow the washer took a fairly large, fray-free bite out of the carpet.) I was pretty sure I had gotten rid of it because storage space is precious and it certainly wasn’t suitable for my front hall any more.

I couldn’t believe it when I found the carpet neatly rolled up in the corner of the closet. Why had I kept it? And how long had I had it? I checked the date on the photo – it was from May 2009 -- eight months! Just then a voice inside my head chided me with, “Yeah, space is at a premium … so premium you’re keeping holey carpets!”

Unrolling it ignited a whole new discussion in my head: Would it be too embarrassing to use in the gym class? That debate went something like this: “Embarrassing? How about pathetic? Who brings a floor runner to a gym class -- even an un-torn one?”

“But the runner is exactly the size of a yoga mat. And, it’s certainly clean (after all, it’s not been used since the washing that caused the mysterious hole) so it would be a hell of a lot nicer than that icky gym floor. And it has a rubber backing, so no more sliding around. So what if it has a hole? Besides, who’ll notice it?”

“True, no one will notice the hole -- they’ll be too busy snickering at the loser who brought a carpet to boot camp!”

“This isn’t high school (well, it is, but I’m beyond high school, if you know what I mean). What do I care what people think? Besides, I’m there for a workout -- not to impress anyone.”

This point/counter-point went on for quite some time until I came up with the winning argument -- one in favour of taking the carpet to the class. It’s very clever, if I must say so myself – it provides an excuse, er, rationale, for why I didn’t throw the carpet out last May and it is oh so 21st century: I’m repurposing the runner.

What’s that? You’ve never heard of repurposing? Well, think of it as the 4th R – reduce, reuse, and recycle are all so yesterday…

You know, I’ll bet repurposing catches on. If not, maybe my holey runner will start a trend in workout gear. Stranger things have caught on…

© 2010 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... seen differently

2010-01-15T18:26:00.002-05:00

By Ingrid Sapona

I realized recently that I’m a bit of a butter snob. Well, judgmental about it at restaurants is more accurate. I’ll get back to that in a minute….

A couple weeks ago I went with two friends (Trish and Stu -- not their real names) and my sister to O.Noir Toronto – a restaurant where you eat in complete darkness. (For those whose French is rusty, noir means black in French. Clever, non?)

Yes, O.Noir is a concept restaurant, but it’s not a gimmick. The concept came from Zurich’s Blind Cow Restaurant, which was started by a blind minister in 1999. The idea is to give people a sense of what it’s like for a blind person to eat a meal out.

Other friends had eaten there so I knew a bit about what to expect. For example, I knew that, to ensure total darkness in the dining room, you’re asked to take off watches and devices that might emit light. I also knew you order before entering the dining room and that you could order items from the menu or a surprise multi-course meal. (To ensure a trip to the Emergency Room isn’t part of the surprise, you’re asked if you have food allergies.)

Though I knew these details, the implications of them didn’t register with me until I was there. For example, though I planned on ordering the surprise (my friends who’d dined there dared me to), when I saw steak on the menu it dawned on me that I’d have a hell of a time cutting a steak in the dark and so ordering shrimp suddenly seemed like a good idea. Remembering the dare, however, I went stuck with the surprise.

When Trish decided to order off the menu, Stu, in his usual enthusiastic manner, said, “Great -- I’ll get the surprise and we can share!” As soon as Stu said this, all of us had the same thought: how do you share when you can’t see? It never occurred to me that if I were visually impaired I’d have a hard time sharing appetizers and desserts, which is one of my biggest pleasures when eating out.

After we placed our order we were introduced to our server -- Jenny -- who, like all the servers there, was visually impaired. Jenny asked us to form a line, with each of us holding the shoulder of the person in front of us; she then guided us to our table. Thankfully the walk wasn’t too far.

Once we were seated, Jenny explained the orientation of our place settings and encouraged us to feel for our plate, cutlery, water glass, etc. Then she offered us rolls and told us we’d find our bread plate and butter if we reach out far in front of us.

Ah yes, the butter. In reaching for it I noticed it was one of those single-serve, plastic packets you peel the foil off to unwrap. When I felt it I thought, “hmmm … rather cafeteria-like.” But when I was ready to start buttering my bread, I was damned thankful I could feel the little container -- thanks to it, I had at least a chance of getting butter on the knife and then on the bread.

Before leaving to get our drinks, Jenny asked our names. This seemed really odd to me. But, when she started serving the appetizers I realized that by learning our names she was able to ensure she gave each of us what we’d ordered. And, I must say, I’ve never appreciated knowing the server’s name as much as I did that night. More than once I could hear someone nearby but I had no idea who it is -- it was nice to be able to discretely ask: “Jenny?”

When the entrees arrived, though Stu and I quickly agreed that our main course was chicken (thankfully de-boned), figuring out what accompanied it was trickier. There were a few vegetables I never did conclusively identify. Mind you, because I was intent on figuring out what I was eating, I seemed to notice the taste of the food more than usual.

I was unprepared for how challenging it was to find the food on the plate. The best I could do was kind of stab with my fork and hope I got something. And, though finding your mouth seems straightforward, there’s room for surprise there too. One time, as I brought the fork to my mouth, I felt something gently slap my cheek. I quickly realized it was an asparagus spear jutting off the fork. Though I laughed about it, I did think how embarrassed I’d have been if others had seen me do that, which certainly could be the case when a blind person eats with others who are sighted.

The evening featured revelations for each of us. My sister, for example, became aware of a habit she never realized she had: she likes to eat in a particular order -- a bite of meat, then some potato, then some vegetable. Not an easy habit to indulge when you can’t see your food. And at one point Stu asked: “Do you guys find yourself nodding when someone says something? I just realized how much I do that! I guess if I want you to know I’m agreeing with something, I’ve actually got to say it. It’s so funny…”

With no pun intended, I must say the experience made me see many things differently. I gained a tremendous respect for how hard it must be to make your way through a world you can’t see. Simple tasks like salting your food become challenging, and you must be very trusting of others for things that sighted people take for granted, like the ease of walking to and from the table and passing things to others. I also learned some embarrassing things about myself, like my making butter-based assessments of restaurants. Shame on me… From now on, whenever there are plastic packets of butter, cream, or whatever, instead of passing judgment, I’ll think: “How considerate of the visually impaired”.

© 2010 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... non-traditional

2009-12-30T20:04:00.001-05:00

By Ingrid Sapona

I laughed when I first heard last week that the Pope decided to move the Christmas Eve midnight mass to 10 p.m. I figured either I had mis-heard or the story was a joke. Subsequent news articles, however, confirmed the time change. I guess, contrary to what I had assumed, there is no religious significance to holding the mass at midnight -- it was merely a tradition. This got me thinking about tradition.

Of course, traditions abound in many aspects of peoples’ lives, but the number of traditions people observe around the holidays is pretty amazing. Take food for example: many families have traditions about what they eat and when they eat it (whether it’s turkey on Christmas Day, champagne at the stroke of midnight, or pickled herring on New Years Day), not to mention the sweets they enjoy (chocolate Hanukah coins, fruitcake, candy canes, stollen, Yule logs, etc.).

Many have traditions related to gifts: around what is given (stocking stuffer type things, practical items, luxury items, edible gifts, potent potables, money, donations, etc.), and who they give to (friends, relatives, neighbors, bosses, and so on). Some offices or groups have traditions around gift swaps featuring rules about only giving gag gifts or spending less than $X. Families often even have traditions around when they open gifts and with whom, for example, opening gifts at grandma’s house on Christmas Eve, and at home Christmas morning.

Hell, when you get right down to it, even using the phrase “the holidays” to refer to the period from mid-December to early January has become a tradition (at least in Canada and the U.S.). For example, people can be heard asking pretty much everyone -- regardless of their religion: “What are you up to for the holidays?” Or, “Will you take any time off during the holidays?”

It may be impolitic to say this -- especially during this tradition-rich time of the year -- but I’ve got mixed feelings about traditions. Traditions can be very comforting. They connect us to the past and can remind us of things we value. Often, carrying on a tradition is a way of showing respect for how previous generations might have struggled or how they did things. One tradition in our family, for example, was that my father was in charge of the Christmas Day dinner. Since he died, I’ve taken over the job and I love trying to re-create his feast. Just reading the recipes (which he dictated to me as we made the dinner together the year before he died) I can hear his voice. The meal is not just my tribute to his cooking -- it’s our family’s way of feeling his presence.

For many, the act of developing new traditions is a source of joy. When people get together, for example, they often develop traditions of their own as a way of signifying to each other that they are united (as a couple or even in a business or charitable venture). Some traditions get started accidentally, but they endure through intentional actions. For example, a number of years ago my sister found it was cheaper to fly into Toronto and for us to then drive together to my parents for Christmas than for her to fly directly to where my parents live. Though the flight costs are now pretty comparable, it’s become a tradition that she flies to Toronto because it gives us a chance to spend a bit of extra time together.

But traditions can also be a source of stress and tension. We all know lots of people who get particularly stressed out during the holidays in the name of carrying out certain traditions -- whether it’s feeling they must bake dozens upon dozens of cookies, or spend hundreds of dollars on gifts, or feel obliged to see people they don’t much like.

Traditions often are surrounded by expectations, so there can be a tremendous amount of guilt tied to trying to modify a tradition, much less break one. And, anytime expectation is involved, the possibility of disappointment is always lurking. Take my Dad’s stuffing, for example. I never cared that much for it and when I follow his recipe, it never seems to turn out. But, it’s taken me a long time to get up the nerve to even consider varying it, for fear that others will miss having Dad’s. This year I finally broached the subject and, rather than trying something completely new, my mother and I agreed on how I might tweak Dad’s recipe a bit. (Given how it turned out this year, I suspect my family might welcome the idea of me trying something completely different next year!)

Another problem inherent in modifying a tradition is the fact that people often read things into the change that aren’t intended. “Aunt Ethel didn’t send us a fruitcake this year and she’s never not sent one before, we must have done something to offend her.” Indeed, eyebrows can be raised (and whispers heard) even when there’s a perfectly legitimate reason for varying a tradition. The skepticism voiced in response to the Vatican’s explanation that the decision to hold midnight mass at 10 p.m. was simply “to tire the (82-year-old) Pope a bit less” is the perfect example of this.

So you see, I truly am ambivalent about traditions. But, after having thought about it all week -- though I’m not Catholic -- I’ve decided to use the Vatican’s willingness to vary a long-held tradition as an example in my own life. I’ve decided that in 2010 I’m going to try not to cling to tradition just for tradition’s sake. I’ll do my best to honour traditions when I can, but if they don’t make sense for me and my life any more, I’ll modify them when possible, or let them go, choosing instead to simply hold on to the memories.

All the best to you in the New Year -- and thank you so much for indulging me this past year by reading On being…

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... brand concsious

2009-12-15T20:47:00.002-05:00

By Ingrid Sapona

I’m not a brand snob, nor have I ever been terribly impressed with things simply because of the brand they might be. And, I find it odd when brand names are prominently displayed on the outside of things like clothing. I know, some people want everyone to know they’re wearing a Hilfiger this, or a Roots that. But honestly, am I the only one who thinks labels belong on the inside?

Indeed, maybe I should be embarrassed to admit this, but I once discreetly mentioned to a woman after an exercise class that it seemed there was something small, but quite bright, stuck on her behind. It looked like one of those florescent orange price stickers stores use to show sale prices.

She seemed genuinely appreciative of my mentioning it and when we got back to the ladies change room we both had a closer look. It turned out to be the brand label intentionally sewn into the seam on the outside. Needless to say, I was embarrassed I drew her attention to it, but she seemed equally embarrassed that the label drew attention to her behind. Why would a manufacturer do that? (True, it got my attention -- but for all the wrong reasons!)

Don’t get me wrong -- I pay attention to brand names for some things. To me, a brand represents a certain standard of quality and uniformity of manufacture. I’m willing to pay a bit more for brand names for products I rely on to be of the same quality over time -- things like tea, toothpaste, underwear, etc.

Recently, my faith in brand names and the quality I’ve assumed goes with them has been shaken. The first tremor was caused by a report on the Today Show about holiday shopping at manufacturers’ outlet stores. Though I’d noticed that the number of outlet stores has grown exponentially over the past 10 years or so, I never wondered why. I always thought outlet stores sold seconds or “irregulars”, or stuff from the previous season that didn’t sell.

According to this report, however, many companies actually manufacture items just for their outlet stores. Often these products look like that manufacturer’s regular goods, but they’re made of lower quality materials and are less durable. To the untrained eye (or at least when looked at from a distance) they may look the same, but they aren’t the same quality. I guess that explains the proliferation of outlet stores.

The second, and more discouraging, realization that a brand name doesn’t necessarily guarantee the quality I might expect came last week when I was shopping for a television. I had done some preliminary research and had decided about the type, size (37"), and amount I was willing to spend. I had also decided I’d buy it at an electronics store my family has shopped at for years. This store carries a wide selection at competitive prices, they’re well known for their service, and the salespeople are not on commission, so they don’t pressure you.

Because it was a Saturday before Christmas, I went to the store early. The prices and brands of 37" sets were the same as I’d seen elsewhere. As well, they had a 40" in a brand I was interested in and it was $100 cheaper than the same brand’s 37". I asked a salesperson why the price difference on that set and he immediately said, “That was one of our Black Friday specials and we still have a few.”

On closer examination of the specs I noticed a few differences between the 37" and 40", but they were in things that, frankly, I didn’t think I’d notice at home. The 40" seemed like a good deal. But, I needed to think about it and consider whether that size would fit the room.

Later that day I went back to get the 40". Before handing the salesperson my credit card I had one more question: I asked whether he thought the store’s five year extended warranty (which was $99) was “worth it”. Without skipping a beat he said, “On that set it’s DEFINITELY a good idea -- that’s our Black Friday special.”

The authority with which he spoke and unequivocal nature of his comment compelled me to ask whether they’d experienced problems with that model. He said, “Well, no -- we’ve only had it a couple weeks so it’s too early to tell -- but it’s our Black Friday special.” Still not clear about the implications of it being the Black Friday special, I asked what that meant. He explained that over the past few years companies have become very sophisticated and they manufacture Black Friday specials specifically to a price point. Naturally, to do this, he explained, they use lower grade components.

I told him I thought so-called Black Friday specials were just loss leaders intended to bring folks into stores. He said that they are, but now manufacturers have come up with a way of maintaining their margin and pleasing retailers by offering models specifically manufactured as Black Friday specials. I was astounded -- and even a bit skeptical -- but that might explain why I hadn’t seen any 40" models by that brand a few months ago when I started looking at televisions.

Well, this information certainly brings a whole new meaning to the idea of “special”. In the end, I didn’t go with the Black Friday special; I went with the 37" I had originally had my eye on and I skipped the extended warranty. Time will tell whether I made the right choice.

I don’t know about you, but these revelations make me angry and reduce the limited appreciation I had for brand names. I have no problem with a company that offers a range of products at different prices -- like a book being available in hardcover or paperback. But, a company putting its name on an item and marketing it at a “sale” price when, in fact, it purposely manufactured that item to a lower standard seems dishonest.

So, next time you’re jealous that someone’s wearing this brand of X or has that brand of Y, take heart -- there’s a good chance the item isn’t quite what it appears to be.

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... fixated

2009-11-30T20:54:00.001-05:00

By Ingrid Sapona

I’ve had my condo two years this month. The woman I bought from was the original owner. She had the foresight to buy two storage lockers. The locker room is quite nice -- it’s clean, dry, and well-lit. I had a storage locker in the basement of my apartment and I used it, but I always dreaded going down there. It was dark and dreary, and the boxes of mouse poison in every corner reminded me of things I didn’t like being reminded of.

When I moved, I promised myself I’d make better use of my storage lockers, especially given the luxury of having two. So, I bought big, see-through stackable bins for things like holiday decorations and craft stuff and proper file storage boxes for my business-related things. All the plastic bins and file boxes went into one locker.

My second locker was a different story. Because one of my bedroom dressers didn’t fit in my new bedroom, I put it in the second locker. I figured I’d keep my summer clothes there during winter and visa versa. But, it turned out I had enough closet space in the condo for all my clothes, so I didn’t need the dresser for them.

I kept some sailing gear and linens in it, but that was about it because little else fit easily in the drawers. Over time I ended up piling things on top of the dresser and leaning things against it. Soon the locker looked like a closet you shove items into and quickly push the door closed before something falls out.

The fact I was wasting the extra space I was so excited about when I moved in was weighing on my mind and, in some respects, dragging me down. So, with the second anniversary of the move coming, I decided I should do something about the situation. I knew the first step was to get rid of the dresser.

It took some hunting, but eventually I found a charity furniture bank that picks up larger items (like dressers). Finally, this past Monday I phoned them. I was caught off-guard when they offered to pick it Thursday morning, but I agreed. Suddenly, after two years of dithering, it was full steam ahead on getting organized. I had to move all the stuff out of the locker to get the dresser out and I had to figure out how I’d store things once it was gone.

I decided shelving for storing bins and boxes would be best, but the locker’s an odd shape, so not just any shelves would do. After lots of shopping around, not to mention measuring and sketching out possible configurations, I chose some shelves from Ikea. Getting them home took a couple trips and -- given where I bought them -- some assembly was required. Luckily I had the right tools.

By Friday night the dresser was gone, the shelves were in, I had sorted through my stuff, getting rid of many items I didn’t use, and I had organized what remained. It seemed like quite a whirlwind, but when I was done I felt as though a load had been lifted from my shoulders. Sure, it took me two years to figure out what I wanted, but once I decided, it all came together quickly.

On Saturday a friend called to see whether I had a particular tool. For about a month she’d been looking at different ways of storing her bike. Apparently she finally decided and bought a rack. She had started installing it in her garage but ran into a problem and she needed a particular tool. Unfortunately, I didn’t have what she was looking for. She mentioned she’d ask other friends.

On Sunday I stopped by to see how the installation went. Though she didn’t get her hands on the tool she thought she needed, she had gotten a bit further with the installation. She gave up, however, when she thought she might break the rack if she continued trying. Then she berated herself for becoming “fixated” on the idea of putting up a rack in the first place. Realizing she was just frustrated, I went to look at it. When I saw it, I realized I had just the tool she needed -- a wrench I had used to assemble the shelves.

I offered to go home and get the tool but she told me to forget it because it wasn’t important and it didn’t need to be done right away -- if at all -- because it was just something ridiculous she got in her head! Though I reassured her she’ll appreciate the rack once it’s up, she was too exasperated to agree.

Understanding the urge to implement a decision once you’ve finally made it (especially if you’ve been thinking about it for some time), I went home, got the wrench, and headed back to her house. When I arrived with a smile on my face and the tool in my hand, I simply said I had a bee in my bonnet and I was anxious to see whether we could finish it. Well, ten minutes later we had the rack up and the bike hung.

Afterward she thanked me, but again chided herself for fixating on the rack in the first place. I said I thought she was being a bit hard on herself. I reminded her I had spent the better part of the week “suddenly” attending to the storage locker that I had done nothing with for so long. Sure, I got a bit stressed out about it as I was putting the shelves together, but I kept focusing on the end result, which I saw as a triumph. (Maybe just a triumph over indecisiveness, but a victory all the same!)

The next day she called to tell me that she likes the bike rack -- it was her way of saying thanks. I was happy for her and I know it’ll come in quite handy. Now, if I could just convince her to stop seeing goals as fixations, I think she’d enjoy more of life’s little triumphs.

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... too much fuss?

2009-11-15T18:09:00.002-05:00

By Ingrid Sapona

A girlfriend’s father has been in and out of the hospital lately and she’s been helping her folks out quite a bit so, thinking she deserves a bit of TLC, I invited her over for lunch. Though she jumped at the invitation, she stressed that she didn’t want me to go to any trouble. I told her that I thought she deserved a break and that having her over would be my pleasure. Before we agreed on the date she again reiterated that she hoped I wouldn’t fuss. To be honest, I was a bit irritated at her insistence because I welcomed the opportunity to fuss a bit. But, I contained my annoyance and told her not to worry.

As soon as we hung up I began planning the meal. I love cooking and, for me, having people over presents an opportunity to try something new or an old favourite that I don’t make too often. Part of it is that when you live alone there are some things you just don’t make for yourself because there’s a limit to how many days you can stomach something (even favourite foods lose their appeal by the fourth evening) and there’s only so much space in the freezer for leftovers.

Besides enjoying cooking, I love entertaining. It’s a chance to pull out the proverbial “good china” and there’s always decorating the table and the challenge of creating an atmosphere that’s welcoming and relaxing. (Truth be told, it’s also a great excuse to splurge on a little something in bloom for the table!)

A couple days after making plans with my girlfriend, my godparents phoned to invite me over for dinner. I hadn’t seen them in awhile and I was delighted at the thought. I always enjoy our visits and I know that they both enjoy entertaining and fussing over things. Joe, my godfather, loves to cook and I figured, like me, he welcomed having an excuse to put his formidable talents to use. We quickly settled on a date.

It turns out, I was right. My godparents knocked themselves out with an Asian-inspired three-course feast. Not only was the meal delicious, it was fun to share Joe’s enthusiasm. At one point, after asking him about the sauce adorning the fish, he popped out to the kitchen and returned with the recipe. He then described how he varied it a bit because he wasn’t sure I would like one particular ingredient. Later on my godmother let it slip that for days Joe had been contemplating the “menu he’d serve Ingrid”. I was honoured and happy that they know I truly appreciate the attention to detail and the effort they put into the meal.

Now, back to the get-together with my girlfriend. As it happens, the night before the lunch she phoned to ask if I’d mind postponing for a week because she wasn’t feeling 100%. She asked if it would be a big inconvenience and I reassured her it wouldn’t be. The truth was that by that point most of the meal was ready (I do as much as I can in advance so that when I have a guest I don’t have to spend a lot of time in the kitchen), but that was ok. You see, I really didn’t mind because I had enjoyed all the preparations – the fact that I might have to re-make some of it later didn’t really matter.

So here’s my take on fussing over things. I think everybody fusses in their own way over things that matter to them. Some people fuss over cleaning their car, others fuss over dressing up. I happen to fuss over food and entertaining. The way I see it, fussing can be a form of self-expression and even a creative outlet. So long as your fussing is self-motivated (in other words, you’re not fussing because it’s expected of you) and so long as your fussing doesn’t rise to the level of an obsession or compulsion, I say go for it.

So, next time someone you know starts to fuss over something, I say sit back and let them. Afterward, be sure to revel in the outcome with them -- you’ll both be happier for it!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to looking for a new stuffing recipe -- the holidays are around the corner and I’ve got some things I’d like to fuss over …

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... a rite of passage

2009-10-30T18:32:00.003-04:00

By Ingrid Sapona

A few columns back I mentioned I was notified about being audited by the IRS. Well, I’m happy to report that it’s over. In terms of tax, it was pretty much a non-event (though I owe about $25 plus interest). In other respects, it was quite an ordeal.

It started with a letter notifying me that my 2007 return was selected for a “compliance research examination”. The letter explained that the IRS “must examine randomly selected tax returns to better understand tax compliance and improve the fairness of the tax system.”

The letter went on: “If we find any errors during the examination, we will give you the opportunity to explain them. The results of this and other compliance research examinations will improve our effort to help taxpayers understand and follow the tax law, reduce unnecessary and costly examinations, and reduce burden on taxpayers.” Well that sounds reasonable, I said to myself. The letter instructed me to call Agent John Doe (not his real name) by a certain date.

I immediately phoned my accountant Ted (not his real name). Ted was aware the IRS was conducting a “research project” related to Americans living abroad -- other clients of his firm have been contacted. Lucky me -- I was the first person in Toronto that he’d heard about.

Ted reassured me that I have a straightforward return and he thought it would probably be handled as a “desk audit”, which meant that I’d have to provide specific backup documents related to various items on the return and that would be it. He also offered to be on the line when I phoned Agent Doe. I took him up on the offer and we placed the call.

A gruff-sounding voice answered: “Agent 1234567, John Doe here”. I kid you not – he gave his IRS agent number before his name. I suddenly felt like I was in a Monty Python skit about an officious tax auditor. I took a deep breath and introduced myself.

Agent Doe immediately explained that the examination is related to a research project and that I’m not being audited. Whew -- that’s a relief, I thought. He then added, however, “Of course, if there’s any discrepancy I’ll have to make an adjustment and if you owe anything you’ll have to pay it, along with interest and penalties, if applicable.”

Then, to make me feel better (I assumed), Agent Doe commented that my return is fairly straightforward. Ted and I both voiced our agreement to that. Then I asked about the procedure for this “examination”. I was quite floored when Agent Doe explained he’d be coming to Toronto for the “interview” portion but that in terms of reviewing my records it was my choice: he could either review them “on-site” or he could take them with him.

Ted asked what “on site” meant, given that I work from home. You guessed it – it meant at my home. Then I asked how long it would all take and I was stunned when Agent Doe said probably about five days. “Five days? But you just said my return is straightforward,” I protested. That’s when Agent Doe explained the real difference between this and an audit: “On an audit I would pick a few items and verify your backup documents related to those items to make sure things look right. If things are off by a few bucks, that’s ok. With this research project, however, I have to look at everything and account for things to the penny,” he said. My earlier relief suddenly evaporated as I realized this would be more like a “super audit”.

We settled on a date for the “interview”, leaving for later the decision of whether Agent Doe would be examining my records on my dining room table. Before ending the conversation Agent Doe said he’d courier me information about what he wanted to see. Two days later I received a three-page list of questions.

I immediately began compiling the requested information. I found it all, but I got nervous when I couldn’t come up with the exact figures Ted used on the return. Fortunately, a few days before the audit, Ted walked me through it all. Though I was disappointed to find a few minor errors (basically figures that were transposed), I consoled myself with the idea that Agent Doe was bound to find something. (I hate to sound cynical, but I figure he has to justify the cost of his trip.)

So, at 8:45 a.m. (sharp) on Monday the 19th, I met Agent Doe at the security desk of my building. Taking my cue from our initial conversation, I decided the best approach was formal and all business. So, after asking to see two forms of ID (can you say officious?), I escorted him in. After interviewing me for 90 minutes we started on the specific questions about the return. By lunch time I think it was clear to him that: 1) my operation truly is small and straightforward -- a year’s worth of business receipts fit into one (thin) file folder, and 2) he wasn’t going to need the three days(!) he had scheduled to go through my stuff.

I think he could have plowed through all my information that day, but since he didn’t have another appointment in Toronto until Thursday, he called it quits around 3:45 p.m. Because I was unavailable on Tuesday, he took some of my documents with him and we agreed to meet here on Wednesday. Before leaving, he commented on how organized and thorough my information is. (Damned right, I thought!) Oh, and he mentioned that no one’s ever asked him for two forms of ID. (Damned right, I thought!)

I didn’t know how long it might take on Wednesday, or whether he’d ask for additional information. Turns out, it took less than a half hour. He told me the adjustments he proposed (they were the mistakes Ted and I had caught) and approximately what I would end up owing as a result. I agreed, and that was it. He thanked me for my cooperation and again commended me on my organized and thorough record-keeping.

When all was said and done, though the amount I’m out of pocket is negligible, the whole thing cost me more than 25 man-hours. (Kind of ironic that the alleged reason for this research project is to “reduce unnecessary and costly examinations” – but never mind.) And it was quite stressful. As I was preparing for the audit, I couldn’t help think that I must have been singled out because I did something wrong. Though I take my business seriously and I consider myself a professional, I don’t use any sophisticated software or complicated filing systems. I kept wondering if I should be doing things differently.

Mind you, some good did come of the experience. For one thing, as I was responding to Agent Doe’s questions, I began to feel more confident in my business practices. Indeed, the fact that he complimented me on my records was gratifying. But perhaps the most unexpected positive to come out of the whole thing was my new-found appreciation for what a great role model my father was and how much he taught me about owning a business.

You see, Dad had a small restaurant and starting in junior high he let me earn my allowance by doing his books. I did his weekly payroll (complete with payroll deductions), his weekly income and expenses ledgers, and the monthly, quarterly, and year-end totals. This was long before we had PCs and computer programs. Of course, now we do -- but I never really thought of doing it any way other than the way my father did it.

So there you have the story of my non-audit audit. Or, as I prefer to think of it: the story of my rite of passage as a business person.

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... priceless

2009-10-15T23:23:00.002-04:00

By Ingrid Sapona

Last week a friend and I went to a taping of a well-known Canadian talk show. The show attracts interesting guests from all walks of life. The taping we attended featured a Billboard-topping Canadian singer, a venture capitalist, and the first couple voted off “Battle of the Blades”, a popular Canadian reality show. (Yes, Canadians like reality shows too and, not to be outdone by the U.S., last year the CBC premiered this uniquely-Canadian show -- it features former NHL players teamed with well-known women figure skaters in a pairs figure skating competition.)

Though my friend and I hadn’t ever watched an entire episode of the hour-long talk show, we thought going to a taping would be fun. What clinched the deal was the fact that ordering the (free) tickets on-line was a breeze. I thought we’d have to order tickets weeks, if not months, in advance. Instead, we got tickets for a show later that week.

We were asked to be there promptly at 2:45 p.m. So, at 2:40 we joined about 30 others who were already in the check-in line. At about 2:50 we noticed a second line forming and we speculated that that line probably was for people who hadn’t pre-booked tickets. (The day before the taping the guests were announced on-line and, given the popularity of the Canadian singer that was scheduled, I figured people who hadn’t pre-ordered tickets might have shown up in hopes of their being space.)

When we finally made it up to the check-in person, we were asked to sign in and then join the other line. Apparently that other line wasn’t for the ticket-less -- it was just where you stood after signing in. We dutifully joined that line and waited. Finally, at about 3:30, a bunch of us were ushered into a freight elevator to be taken up to the studio. Well, taken up to the floor the studio was on. There we joined another line. We didn’t get into the studio until about 4:15. By then -- despite my best efforts at staying cheery -- my enthusiasm had diminished quite a bit.

The first segment featured the singer performing two Christmas songs (this was being recorded for airing December 24th). After finishing the second song they decided to re-do the first song because we were, well -- too polite and quiet. On the second take we were urged to let loose, sing along if we wanted, and clap and cheer louder. I guess our efforts were good enough that second time because after that we were ushered back into the hall to wait so they could remove the drums and piano and re-set the seats for a normal interview. When all was said and done, we finally left the studio at about 6:15.

While we were in line and I felt myself getting antsier and antsier, I thought about how I used to be much better at handling such waiting. Indeed, I have many fond memories of my sister and I buying inexpensive lawn seats at concerts and getting there hours early to scope out a prime place and spread our blanket and wait. Mind you, in those days no one frisked you on entry and they didn’t mind if you brought in a sandwich or something to munch on along with your blanket. Nowadays, if you and your blanket make it through the security search, the best you can hope for is concession stands with junk food costing top dollar.

There was a time, too, when friends and I used to think nothing of waiting in line at sold-out documentaries and shows in hopes of snagging one of a handful of rush tickets that might be released minutes before the show starts. I’m not sure when it happened, but at some point a few years back I guess we came to the realization that if there’s something we want to see we should try to get tickets in advance. And, if we don’t manage to get them, we’re fine with that because we realize there are lots of other enjoyable ways of passing time.

On the way home from the taping my friend and I agreed that the guests were entertaining and all, but I don’t think either of us would rush back to attend another taping. And, I think it’s fairly telling that the next day, when another friend asked me how it was, my first comment had to do with the long wait, rather than with anything the guests said or did.

Since then I’ve been thinking more about my impatience that afternoon. I won’t deny that as we were waiting a voice inside my head kept chiding me with: “you get what you pay for” and “there’s no such thing as a free lunch”. And yet, I’m not one of those who goes through life thinking “time is money”. Indeed, I realized long ago that one of the best things about working for myself is the fact that I don’t have to account to anyone else for my time. (Measuring things in tenths of an hour, as I used to have to when I practiced law, is enough to drive anyone crazy and it’s even worse if you start believing that those tenths are worth $X at your charge-out rate!)

Ultimately I think my growing impatience with lineups is a sign of age. Though I didn’t have anything particularly pressing to do that afternoon, I couldn’t help think that life is short and my time could have been better spent than standing in line.

Ah well, I guess I’ll just have to chalk it up to a first hand reminder of something MasterCard has been telling us for years: there’s a difference between free and priceless.

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... complicated

2009-09-30T18:24:00.002-04:00

By Ingrid Sapona

My dear readers, I owe you an apology. I lied in a recent column. If it makes you feel any better, I now realize that when I wrote it, I was lying to myself too. But I’m going to set the record straight -- so here goes: I’m in a love/hate relationship. It’s not healthy, I know. There are times when things are so bad that I end up tossing and turning all night, thinking about what I did wrong and why the relationship is what it is.

There are so many things about the relationship that drive me crazy, it’s hard to know where to start, but here’s one: all the ridiculous choices I’m expected to make. Half the time I don’t even understand what some of the choices are, and yet I’m forced to choose. Mind you, after all these years, I have developed some coping mechanisms. For example, I know better than to ever choose “customize”, as all that ever leads to is more questions designed to make me feel stupid.

And when I ask for help, which I do sometimes -- but usually only as a last resort -- what kind of response do I get? Well, it’s the rare response that’s helpful, let me tell you. Most responses range from gibberish to cryptic. Honestly, I think the Oracle of Delphi’s responses were easier to make sense of!

Intimidation is another hallmark of this relationship. It often takes the form of something seemingly innocuous, like stopping me mid-task and asking, “are you sure you want to continue”? I know that question is meant to strike at the very heart of my insecurity. No, I’m NOT sure -- I’m never sure when I’m asked that. Sometimes I’m brave and forge ahead, hoping that my friend Norton will jump in to help me if need be. But sometimes I stop -- dead in my tracks -- worried that if I go on, something terrible will happen and I’d be left with nothing.

And then there’s the game playing. First it was Password; lately it’s a combination of Password and 20 Questions. Really, how many times should I have to say what my mother’s maiden name was, or what my favourite movie is? Having to verify who I am all the time is hurtful. It’s a constant reminder that I can be easily confused with someone else. Until this relationship, I always thought my uniqueness had more to do with my personality than my ability to come up with -- and remember -- passwords. And to make matters worse, sometimes my choice of password is commented on and I’m reprimanded because it’s too simple or too short.

Another less-than-stellar quality this relationship brings out in me is jealousy. Oh, it’s not that I worry some teen will push me aside and take front and centre in the relationship. (I figure I don’t have much to worry about with them because they’re into more action -- Wii is the euphemism it goes by these days, so I hear.) What I’m jealous of are the few of my generation who are adventurous and interested in trying new things. That’s just not me -- and most of the time I’m not even able to fake it!

Given all these negatives, why do I stay in this relationship? Well, the simple truth is that I’ve gotten to the point that honestly I don’t know what I’d do without it. Sure, it frustrates me, but it’s given me lots and taught me things too. For example, I’ve come to realize that how I might do things isn’t the only way. Indeed, this relationship has made me more tenacious because when my way doesn’t work, I’ve learned to step back and then try a completely different approach. And, when I figure out something that had previously stumped me, my self-esteem skyrockets.

And, in fairness, I know that sometimes I’m not particularly easy to be with either. I can be very demanding and impatient. And I’m sure that sometimes my habits -- like the fact that I’ve been know to keep stuff I no longer need or that I don’t ever use -- can cause problems and slow things down.

I guess the bottom line is that over the years we’ve produced some good work together and I must admit that this relationship has enriched my life in many ways. Not only has it helped me stay connected to family, friends, readers, and clients – it’s helped me make a living without having to leave the house. Pretty cool, I know…

So you see, a couple columns ago when I talked about a how Greek lettering mysteriously appeared at the end of a column (for some, but apparently not all, readers) and I made it sound like I just shrug and take computer-related things in stride -- well, I wasn’t being truthful. The truth is -- for better or worse -- my relationship with computers is way more complicated…

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... a mirror

2009-09-15T16:32:00.001-04:00

By Ingrid Sapona

My sister and I went away for a long weekend. We borrowed Mom’s car and on our way back I suggested we zip through a car wash before giving the car back. I was quite surprised when my sister was dead set against the idea.

At first she said it was because it was too late (it was after dark, but not even 10 p.m.). Then she argued that by the time we got to Mom’s house after the car wash the car would be dirty again because bugs would be attracted to the headlights. Given that the car wash is about a mile and a half from Mom’s, I didn’t buy that argument and I told her so.

After pressing her, she explained that car washes are extremely anxiety-provoking for her. Thinking that maybe she’s become claustrophobic (in which case being in the car while going through a car wash could be unnerving), I asked if that was the problem. She assured me it wasn’t that. Then I asked whether she was worried something might break on the car. Apparently that wasn’t it either. Finally she confessed she gets nervous trying to line up the wheels to get onto the conveyor belt at the car wash and she hates being yelled at by the kid directing her onto it.

I told her the attendant always yells directions about which way to steer to line up your wheels because that’s his job. I figure the yelling has to do with the fact that the car wash is loud and the kid’s trying to communicate with folks who’re inside their cars with the windows rolled up. She agreed that I was probably right, but said she just can’t stand being yelled at. Luckily she’s a good sport so she wasn’t offended at the tears of laughter streaming down my cheeks.

Eventually we compromised: she drove to the gas station and after we filled up, I took over to get us through the car wash. Even though she wasn’t driving, I could see she was anxious as we approached the attendant. He motioned for me to steer more to the right, so I did. Surprisingly, he didn’t yell – he just used hand signals. Eventually, I eased the car onto the conveyor belt.

My sister pointed out that the guy didn’t yell at me and she said I must be better at lining up the wheels than she is. I told her the truth: it was just dumb luck. Once the car was on the conveyor belt a sign lit up about shifting into neutral. I had just started doing so when the kid yelled: “Put it in neutral”. So there you go -- I got yelled at anyway. At that we both laughed and watched as the bubblegum-coloured soap started to swirl over the windows.

After we left the car wash we talked a bit more about her anxiety over it. While it doesn’t matter whether she ever goes through a car wash by herself, my hope was that by analyzing it, somehow the grip of that particular source of anxiety will be lessened.

When I finally got back to my place, I eventually went downstairs to get my mail. As I approached my mailbox my stomach knotted up when I saw a small sticker on it. I knew the sticker was from the security desk -- it meant they had signed for a package or something for me. I wasn’t expecting anything and I immediately got worried because the last time such a sticker appeared it was for a registered letter from the IRS. My immediate thought was that the IRS was writing me again.

I went straight to the security desk, but there was a “back in 5 minutes” sign. So, I went upstairs to unpack, but my stomach was churning. Unable to concentrate, I decided to go back down to face whatever it was that was waiting for me. I can’t tell you how relieved I was when they handed me was a journal that simply didn’t fit into my too full mail box.

After breathing a sigh of relief I headed back upstairs. A few minute later I started laughing, thinking about how ridiculous it was that I was so anxious just because there was a sticker on my mailbox! That reminded me of my laughing at my sister’s anxiety about the car wash. Though her reaction seemed silly to me, I’m sure others would find my anxiety about a potential letter just as ridiculous.

The weekend away with my sister was fun -- and instructive. I don’t know if I’d have found the humour in my own anxiety triggered by that stupid sticker if I hadn’t laughed about her reaction to being yelled at by the kid at the car wash. That’s when I realized that though our anxiety triggers are different, we both have some ridiculous ones!

Since my sister and I live in different cities, she’s not around to act as a mirror for me, as she did over the weekend. But, now that my awareness is heightened, I’m going to pay more attention and to when I’m feeling anxious I’m going to try to figure out what’s triggering it. I’m sure I’ll discover more than a few triggers that are pretty absurd. So, if you hear me laughing at myself, I hope you’ll understand…

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... Greek to me!

2009-08-30T15:22:00.006-04:00

By Ingrid Sapona

Given that I’m half Greek, I realize it’s ironic to admit that I don’t actually know what that line at the very bottom of the last column says -- but it’s true. I know it’s in Greek letters, but I’m really not sure what it says. All I can tell you is what I originally wrote -- and what happened...

It all started with a two word error message (in English, mind you) that popped up when I tried to send On being … summer distractions. The message read: Word error! I’d never gotten that error message before and, try as I might to make sense of it, I never did figure out what it means. I do, however, know the implications of it.

I usually send On being … using Microsoft Outlook. I start with a blank e-mail that I address to myself and on the “bcc” line I insert my On being … mailing list. Then I copy and cut the column text from Microsoft Word (the program I compose it in), paste the text into the e-mail and hit SEND.

When I did that on August 15th I got the aforementioned error message. The message seemed odd to me because I was in Outlook, not Word, but I often find computer error messages cryptic and unhelpful. Unconcerned with the message’s meaning, I clicked on the “x” to close it. Unfortunately, that immediately shut down Outlook.

Undaunted, I re-opened Outlook and tried again. And again. And again. The same thing happened each time. I even tried the computer fix of last resort: I re-booted and tried again. That didn’t help either.

Determined not to be outsmarted by the computer, I decided to take the message literally: maybe there was something wrong with Word and cutting and pasting from that program was causing a problem in Outlook. (It seemed plausible, since Word and Outlook are both Microsoft products.) With that in mind, I figured maybe I could avoid the problem by simply re-typing it directly in Outlook. So, I did that but when I hit SEND, up popped the same damned message.

Feeling somewhat defeated, I decided I should just send it from my Yahoo account, which is what I do when I’m away. Yahoo isn’t ideal because I find the formatting often changes (characters like accent marks and long dashes don’t always “translate” and Yahoo seems to insert extra blank lines between paragraphs), but at least the column would go out.

So, I opened Yahoo and pasted the column into a new message. Just before I went to send it I noticed I had forgotten the copyright information at the bottom, so I quickly typed it in. Then I hit SEND. To my relief, the message went.

A minute later I received my copy of the column. I opened it and when I scrolled through it I noticed the Greek at the bottom. Much like the Outlook error message, which might as well have been in Greek as it meant nothing to me -- I had NO idea what the Greek words said or how they got there. With my primitive ability to sound out Greek letters -- and given where the text was -- I suspected that somehow Yahoo had translated the copyright information into Greek.

Puzzled by it, I e-mailed a Greek cousin who receives my column to ask him what the Greek at the bottom said and whether he had any ideas about how it happened (as he’s a computer specialist). His e-mail response was puzzling. He said he had no idea what I was talking about, as there was no Greek at the bottom and -- to prove his point -- he forwarded his copy of the column to me.

When I scrolled to the bottom of his e-mail the Greek text was clearly there, so I figured he was teasing me. I decided the only way I’d get a real answer would be to phone him, so I did. To my amazement, he really had no idea what I was talking about. Apparently, on his computer, all the text was in English -- even the copyright information.

In discussing it we realized he had received it through Yahoo and so we figured maybe the mysterious conversion doesn’t happen when the e-mail is sent and received via Yahoo. To test this hypothesis we e-mailed the column back and forth to each other using different e-mail programs, but the bizarre result was always the same: it was all in English when he received it and the last line was always in Greek when I received it.

So there you have it -- a curious computer tale from start to finish. When stuff like this happens all I can do is shrug and admit that when it comes to computers and how they work, it’s Greek to me…

Post script: Those of you reading this on-line probably don't realize I started On being ... years ago as a column that I e-mailed out, which I still do for my original readers. (This column clearly relates to what happened with the e-mailed version of the last column.)

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... summer distractions

2009-08-15T21:09:00.003-04:00

By Ingrid Sapona

With my On being … deadline a few days away, I decided I should turn my mind to it. Sometimes, rather like the unpredictable summer lightning storms we’ve been having lately, a topic for the column strikes with no advance warning. But other times I have to comb through the past couple weeks’ doings to come up with a topic.

So, with nothing more pressing work-wise, I decided to spend the afternoon considering what to write about and I thought the balcony might be a great place to seek inspiration. I put on my sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat and grabbed a magazine, figuring that a little light reading might be just the spark I needed.

Fortunately, it was a lovely summer afternoon that was perfect for sitting out … and (as I soon found out) for dozing off. My unplanned little nap ended when I realized the phone was ringing. Since it was within normal working hours and I was kind of playing hooky, I headed inside to answer it. It was a friend and we chatted for some time. When I hung up I went back out on the balcony to resume my task at hand: coming up with a column topic.

Before long, a column idea popped into my head -- actually, it kind of dripped down my neck and back: On being … wilted. Man, it was hot out there! I rationalized that the sweat was just my body re-adjusting to the heat, having been in the air conditioned living room while on the phone, and I tried to convince myself that I’d be fine. Well, a few minutes later, rather than risk dehydration, I headed back inside.

Not wanting to completely lose the lazy summer mood I was in, I decided to make myself a mojito. (After all, I reasoned, I’m growing mint on the balcony just for mojito-making.) I finished going through the magazine at about the same time I finished the drink, so I brought the empty glass back to the kitchen. That’s when the butter and eggs that I took out that morning to make a batch of cookies caught my eye.

Hah! Another column idea: On being … my summer cookie. I know, it sounds odd, but I can explain. Ever since I was a kid there’s been something that has come to memorialize a particular summer. During high school and college there was always a “song of the summer” -- some catchy tune that -- to this day -- instantly transports me back to a particular summer. (A prime example is Boz Scaggs’ “Lowdown” -- oh to be 16 again…)

It’s been a long time since a song has represented a particular summer for me, but I have found other means of conjuring summer memories. A few years ago, for example, I started the tradition of picking a “wine of the summer”. Every aspect of this ritual is enjoyable. It starts by going to a few wine tastings (a cost-effective, not to mention fun, way of trying lots of different wines) in April and May. Then, once I’ve chosen the wine (usually an affordable white), I buy a case or two and that’s what I serve après sailing and at barbeques and get-togethers all summer. Though this may sound odd, I even derive pleasure from seeing the number of bottles on hand dwindle because I know every bottle gone was enjoyed with friends and family. So, for example, the Santa Rita Sauvignon Blanc will forever remind me of the summer of 2004…

In a similar vein, the past few summers have been marked by my quest for the cookie of the summer -- one that elicits such satisfaction among those whom I serve it to that the next time we’re together I know they’re hoping I’ve brought a tin of them with me. The idea of a cookie of the summer all started when I came across a recipe for muesli bars. It initially appealed to me because I thought they’d be the perfect treat to serve on the boat: they wouldn’t melt (like ice cream) or go bad – and they were chock full of things that were “good for you” -- honey, oats, nuts, and seeds. (Well yes, butter and sugar too – but they are a cookie, after all!) The reaction I got the first time I served them made it very clear that I’d be making more of them before that sailing season was over.

Last summer’s cookie featured chocolate chips, toasted almonds, toasted pecans, and raisins -- all held together with the wee-est bit of dough. Delicious -- and a huge hit with everyone who tried them. Anxious to keep up the tradition of choosing a different cookie each summer, this spring I found a peanut butter chocolate chip cookie recipe with a twist: oats and coconut. I made them, but it turns out I wasn’t crazy about the taste (the coconut and oats were weird, and there weren’t enough chips). But, a few batches (and a fair bit of tweaking) later I christened the summer of 2009 cookie: a peanut butter chocolate chip cookie that is, if I must say so myself, perfection.

Well, well, I seem to have gotten a bit distracted here. But then again, that’s what summer’s all about, isn’t it? Lazy afternoons enjoying this or that…

I hope your summer’s going well and that you’ve had some time to enjoy your favourite summer distractions -- whatever they may be. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some cookies to make…

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... unspoken

2009-07-30T23:57:00.002-04:00

By Ingrid Sapona

I usually work alone but I recently got a project that required specialized services that I sub-contracted out to a consulting firm I had worked with before on some small projects. In bidding on the project, I shared with the sub-contractor the actual deadlines because I wanted to be sure they understood the timeframe and expectations. When my proposal was accepted we were both excited and hopeful, figuring that if we did a good job there might be some follow-on work for both of us from this client.

Keen to make a good impression, we decided to deliver a bit more than the client expected on the first deadline. The day before the first deadline the sub-contractor sent me one of the two items we had agreed on submitting and they promised to send the other item the next morning. By early afternoon of the next day I still hadn’t received the second item, so I phoned them. They said the second item took more time than expected but that they’d get it to me by 4:30 p.m. That didn’t leave me enough time to review it and get it to the client by close of business that day.

Because I knew the client hadn’t expected a more complete version of the second item, I decided to send them the finalized first item and my draft of the second item. I was personally disappointed we didn’t send the client all we planned, but I didn’t explicitly tell the sub-contractor I felt they let me down.

Interestingly, after the first deadline the sub-contractor didn’t hesitate to express their frustration that the project was taking more time than they budgeted for. Though I was irritated that they hadn’t come through with all we agreed on, I did feel for them because I know what it’s like to feel as though you’re being underpaid. Because the deal was cut, the most I could do was assure them that I’d do all I could to ensure they wouldn’t spend any more time than necessary.

The final deadline was a couple weeks later on a Thursday. On Monday of that week the sub-contractor phoned to let me know they’d be e-mailing me most of the stuff later that day. I was relieved to hear that and reminded them that I had more to do on it once I got it back from them. My relief was short-lived, however, as the day passed and I didn’t get anything from them. Tuesday morning, when I saw they had finally e-mail the stuff at 11 p.m., I realized we have different views of what “later” means.

That day we were both busy on different aspects of the project but again they assured me they’d send stuff later that day. Once again, however, I went to bed without receiving anything. Wednesday morning I had an e-mail waiting for me -- this time it time stamped 2:35 a.m. I e-mailed them to confirm I had received it and I joked that I felt like we’re in different time zones, given the times they were sending things. Also, worried that we have very different concepts of what constitutes timely delivery, I also took the opportunity to explicitly tell them my intention was to deliver the final project first thing Thursday, not at the close of business (which is what I suspect they were planning on).

At about 3 p.m. on Wednesday they e-mailed saying they’d send their final version to me “around dinner time, or sooner”. By 9 p.m. I hadn’t received anything, so I contacted them to find out what was wrong. They reassured me they were “just proofing it” and said I’d have it soon. “Soon” turned out to be just after midnight! Determined to deliver early in the day, I worked through the night to finalize it and I sent off to the client by 9:30 Thursday morning. Ultimately, we delivered a quality product and the client was happy, which is the most important thing, but it was a trying experience.

Friends I complained to during the process have been surprised by my response when they’ve asked me whether I’d work with that consulting firm again. The truth is, I probably would, though I’d do one thing differently. (No, I’m not talking about giving them “fake deadlines” – you know, two or three days before the real ones. I don’t like it when I feel clients might be doing that to me, so I’m not inclined to do that to others.)

What I would do differently is that I’d make sure I tell them about the one and only rule I apply to all my assignments: under promise, over deliver -- and I’d insist they apply it when dealing with me. I’m quite sure that if they’d have done that, I’d have been spared a lot of anxiety. For example, rather than promising me something “later that day” -- it would have been much better for them to simply promise they’d get it to me by noon the next day. That way, when I open my e-mail the next morning and see they sent something at 11 p.m. the night before, my expectations have not only been met -- they’ve been exceeded!

In my own defense, I must say that the idea of managing expectations hardly seems revolutionary -- it just makes good business sense, which is why I assumed it went without saying… (And that, of course, reminds me of another old adage I should remember next time I make an assumption about what goes without saying … Yup, the one about what the letters in “assume” spell out!)

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... a local yokel

2009-07-15T14:52:00.001-04:00

By Ingrid Sapona

I grew up in Western New York -- a fertile agricultural region. One of my most vivid recollections from when I was very young is of Sunday drives in the country to get fresh fruit and vegetables. Strawberry and cherry picking were annual excursions.

In fact, Dad loved cherries so much we even got to know one cherry farmer by name -- Mr. McCarthy. He had quite a big pick-your-own orchard and he liked and trusted my father enough to let us up on ladders, even though we were quite young. In my teens we started driving up to the lush Niagara Region just over the border in Ontario. Niagara specializes in “tender fruit”.

From May to September Dad marked the weeks by what fruit was coming into season: first strawberries, then cherries, then apricots, then peaches, grapes, and plums, and finally pears and apples. Dad’s enthusiasm rubbed off on me and my tastes became so refined that not only do I have favourite fruits, I developed a preference for specific varieties (like Red Haven peaches).

Of course, my appreciation of fresh fruits and vegetables comes with a down side -- and I don’t mean just sounding snobbish when I ask the produce guy whether the peaches are freestone. The downside relates to grocery stores. You see, thanks to fruit-exporting countries like Chile and Costa Rica who have summer when we have winter, you can get pretty much anything you might desire year around -- and it’s all pretty inexpensive. I’ve become so spoiled at the easy availability I pay less and less attention to what’s in season locally. Worse yet, even when I realize that a local crop is available, I’ve become so used to paying so little for imported fruit that I balk at the higher cost at local farmers’ markets.

And, as long as I’m being candid, I may as well confess that I have even come to like California strawberries. Years ago I used to buy them only if I was making chocolate dipped strawberries -- their almost unnatural size made them perfect for that purpose and the chocolate made up for their general lack of taste. But the past couple years I think they’ve done something that has improved their taste and when they’re on sale for as little as $1.99-$2.50/lb, which they often are, I find them irresistible.

I recently read an interesting article about those California strawberries I’ve been buying. The article confirmed the fact that it’s not my imagination that they taste better now than they used to -- apparently we have genetic engineers at places like UC Davis to thank for that. Of course, the article also discussed the carbon footprint aspects of trucking them the 2000+ miles to my neighborhood. The socially conscious part of me is concerned about that, but since I’m not prepared to only eat root vegetables from, say, October to May, or give up olive oil (which too comes from thousands of miles away), it seems a tad disingenuous to foreswear California strawberries just because they spend some time on the road.

Earlier this summer a friend was going strawberry picking one Saturday and asked if I wanted to come along. I declined, in part because I had other things to do that day but also because I thought it would be quite time consuming and the berries would be more expensive than I normally pay. A couple weeks later she called and said she hadn’t made it strawberry picking earlier but she heard there were still some fields with berries and again, she invited me to join her. I passed.

A couple days later I was in the supermarket and there was a small display of local strawberries for $2.99/quart. Right next to it was a large display featuring California strawberries for $1.99/lb. Feeling a bit of guilt about not doing much these days to support local farmers, despite the higher price, I bought a quart of the local berries. When I got home, I put them in the refrigerator. Because they were near their peak in terms of ripeness and I didn’t want to forget I had them, I left them on the refrigerator shelf rather than hidden away in the crisper.

Later that day I opened the refrigerator and I was overcome by the most wonderful aroma. It took me a minute to figure out that it was the strawberries. I was quite taken aback. I couldn’t remember the last time I noticed the scent of a strawberry -- the California behemoths have barely any aroma. So, rather than devour the berries quickly, as I usually do -- over the next few days I enjoyed them as slowly as possible -- as much to savour their scent as their taste.

Unfortunately, by the time I became reacquainted with our local little red gems, it was the end of the strawberry season for this year. But, that olfactory reawakening has made me reconsider my lack of commitment to local, in-season fruits and vegetables -- and fortunately there’s still lots more good stuff to be harvested before the frost is on the (local) pumpkin. I guess you could say that I’m reverting back to being a local yokel…

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... sold

2009-06-30T14:49:00.000-04:00

By Ingrid Sapona

When I moved here over 20 years ago I found my dentist -- Dr. M -- through a good friend. I liked Dr. M from the very first visit and I stuck with him. I was so pleased with my friend’s recommendation of Dr. M, I also signed on with her GP. I went to that doctor for a couple years, but I never felt completely comfortable with her. When she moved her practice to the suburbs I decided to try to find someone closer. At the urging of a doctor friend, I got a few names and I basically interviewed them. I struck gold through that process when I found Dr. E. I loved her manner and I felt comfortable enough to discuss anything with her.

One of the things I took into consideration when I was looking for a doctor and dentist was their age. Though there’s something reassuring about a parental figure -- I wanted someone who wouldn’t be retiring for awhile because I didn’t want to be doctor shopping again too soon. I’m not a great judge of age, but I figured Dr. M and Dr. E were only a few years older than me. Did I mention it was about 20 years ago that I found them?

Three years ago when I went for my annual physical Dr. E was not there. She had broken her hip (while running, of all things!) and was out of commission. I had the choice of re-scheduling the physical months later when Dr. E was back or seeing a substitute that Dr. E had found. I kept the appointment and I liked the sub – she had a similar, approachable style.

Then, about a year ago, I got a letter from Dr. E explaining she was retiring early but that she had found someone to take over her practice. In the letter she introduced Dr. L, telling us about her background and experience. She also explained how we could get our records transferred if we didn’t want to go to the new doctor. Dr. E’s office even had an open house for patients to meet Dr. L. Though I was quite devastated by Dr. E’s retirement, the way she handled the transition made me feel I was being left in good hands.

Earlier this month I had a dental appointment. As the appointment approached, I was surprised Dr. M’s office didn’t call to remind me about it, as they usually do. Finally, the day before the appointment I got a voice mail reminder. The caller (a voice I didn’t recognize) also mentioned “some changes”, including that the office had moved and that a Dr. Y had bought the practice from Dr. M, who had semi-retired.

Stunned, I phoned the office. After making sure I understood exactly where the new office was, Dr. Y’s receptionist assured me I’d still see my normal hygienist. That was great, I told her, but I wanted to see Dr. M. She said that shouldn’t be a problem because, as it happened, Dr. M would be in that day and she’d make sure he’d see me.

While I was with the hygienist, Dr. M popped his head in and said hello. When the hygienist was done, Dr. Y came in and introduced himself and proceeded to examine me. When he was done, I mentioned I wanted to see Dr. M. He mumbled something under his breath but said that would be fine and he dispatched the hygienist to get Dr. M.

When she came back and said Dr. M. was busy, I said I’d be happy to wait at reception until he was free. I could tell this didn’t set well, but I didn’t care. A few minutes later I was ushered into Dr. M’s office. Dr. M clearly thought I was there for his opinion on my dental health, but I told him that wasn’t my main concern.

I explained that I found it odd that he hadn’t sent a letter or anything. He sighed and explained that he planned on doing so and had written one but that Dr. Y asked him not to send it. Instead, apparently, Dr. Y agreed to give a copy of the letter to patients when they came in. Well, despite having had my exam and having paid, I wasn’t given any letter.

Dr. M was apologetic and asked his assistant to get me a copy of it. While we were waiting he explained that he didn’t think it was appropriate to mail a letter before the deal closed but he planned on sending one immediately afterward. But, once the sale was complete, Dr. Y pointed out that, strictly speaking, the patients were no longer Dr. M’s and Dr. Y didn’t want the letter sent. Dr. Y’s rationale was that he thought a letter might prompt patients to go elsewhere, especially since the office itself had relocated.

I told Dr. M that I disagreed with that decision and I explained that, if anything, the way it was handled left me feeling abandoned, not to mention wondering about Dr. Y’s credentials. In essence, I wanted to hear something from Dr. M that would make me feel reassured about the person to whom my care was being entrusted.

On an intellectual level I know medicine is a business and that practices are “bought and sold”, but as a patient I don’t appreciate being made to feel that I’m a commodity that’s just part of a deal. And, having been part of two such sales in the past year, I can tell you there’s more to buying a practice than buying a roster of names. Or, to put it another way, when a doctor buys a practice he ought to realize that patients must be “sold” on being treated by the new guy and that that sale isn’t about business.

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... duped?

2009-06-15T10:47:00.000-04:00

By Ingrid Sapona

The title of this column is courtesy of my friend Barb (who I hope doesn’t mind me attributing it to her). She offered it up as we were leaving the opening night of a free, three-day grand finale of Luminato, an arts and culture festival. The finale featured Canada’s world-famous Cirque du Soleil in an event created exclusively for the festival. The media was abuzz about the event, but details were scant.

Festival organizers described the Cirque performance as involving two mythical communities of performers -- one representing the untamed, natural world and the other representing man-made urbanization. Members of the two communities would start at different ends of the waterfront and make their way toward the centre where they’d converge later in the weekend. Given this, I had the impression Cirque performers would be roaming around the waterfront, interacting with people. A newspaper article on Thursday, however, described two distinct points on the waterfront where the Cirque had set up stages of some sort.

Barb and I were curious about the event, but neither of us had any set expectations about the performance. If anything, we both were a bit skeptical, given all the hype. But, it was a lovely evening and we ventured down to the waterfront with open minds.

When we got to the first location the Cirque had set something up, we were surprised at how elaborate the stage was. The area, which is used for ice skating in the winter, had been transformed into a marsh, complete with whimsical trees and cattails and dreamy Cirque music was playing in the background. It was nearly 7 o’clock and quite a crowd had gathered. We understood the performance was from 7 – 9 p.m., so we joined the crowd.

After about 15 minutes of waiting with no sign of even a single performer, much less any performance beginning, we headed toward the other end of the waterfront to see what might be going on there. It was almost 8 o’clock by the time we made our way to the other whimsical Cirque stage. There too, Cirque music was playing and a large crowd had gathered. Once again, we joined the crowd and waited. After a few minutes I asked a couple folks whether they’d seen anything so far and they said no.

There was a garden nearby that I’d never walked through, so we decided to head there before it got dark. We figured that by the time we returned to the Cirque stage area, the performance would probably be underway. As we were making our way toward the garden we noticed a few Cirque performers headed toward us. Some were on stilts, one was dressed as a horseman, complete with an elaborate wooden-framed horse, and another was some sort of nymph. After that, we were on the look-out for other performers. We soon saw some that looked like a rag-tag street gang. Though it was fun watching them meander through the crowd, the interactions were pretty much what you get with normal street buskers.

We ended up back at the skating rink turned marsh (the first Cirque stage we saw that night) by about 8:45 p.m. The crowd had grown, but we still couldn’t see any performers there. I asked some people what we’d missed and the answer was: nothing. The performance, which was scheduled to end in just 15 minutes, hadn’t started -- or at least it hadn’t made its way there yet.

Barb and I loitered there for a few minutes – mainly to check out peoples’ reaction as they waited. To our surprise, most seemed un-phased by the wait. Maybe they were just happy to be by the lake on a beautiful evening, or maybe showing restlessness (much less irritation) just isn’t part of the Canadian temperament. I did see one couple briskly walking away and I heard the guy telling people who passed him that the performance was over. When I asked him if it had even begun, he looked me straight in the eye and said, “Well, I guess that’s the question, isn’t it?”

Not interested in waiting around any longer, we left. Though we had had a nice evening (it was a pleasure to walk around the harbourfront), we agreed it was unbelievable, not to mention rude, that the Cirque kept the crowd waiting like that. We laughed at the thought that maybe the joke was on Toronto – and Torontonians. Perhaps the Cirque folks were using Luminato to bring to life PT Barnum’s famous comment about fooling people!

We also talked about the fact that even though neither of us went with any real expectations about the Cirque’s performance, somehow we felt disappointed. That’s when the idea of an On being… about expectations came to me.

Pleased that I had an idea for On being…, I reassured Barb that the evening wasn’t a total bust because it gave me an idea for the column. To this, Barb very drolly said, “Let me guess: On being … duped?” I had to laugh. I told her I was thinking of something a bit more philosophical, but she did have a point. In thinking about Barb’s title I realized that, in fact, we did have an expectation going into the evening: we expected not to end up feeling like fools for waiting around for a show that, as far as we could tell, never really materialized.

As a post script I should tell you that according to the Toronto Star, apparently there was some kind of performance that evening -- we just didn’t stay long enough to see it. I don’t feel too bad about missing it, however. According to the newspaper, because the show was so late getting started it was “cut short and seemed underwhelming”. Underwhelming indeed…

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... tricks of the trade

2009-05-30T15:56:00.001-04:00

By Ingrid Sapona

As a kid, I was more inclined to spend time doing crafts than reading a book or playing sports. I don’t know if it’s because I liked working with my hands or not, but I also always liked learning about how things were made. So, I was more likely to watch shows like This Old House than the Brady Bunch.

This Old House made a lasting impression on me in a couple ways. First, I was amazed by the fact that there were specialized tools for all sorts of things. I mean, a miter box for cutting right angles – how clever is that! And then there’s the router. To this day, I think routers have to be one of the most fascinating tools. Hell, even the dictionary definition of router makes them sound cool: a machine with a revolving vertical spindle and cutter for milling out the surface of wood or metal (according to Merriam-Webster.com).

The other thing that left a big impression on me was the idea that every trade has its own tricks – those little extras the lay person simply doesn’t know to do, or doesn’t think would make a difference in the finished product. Tricks of the trade don’t necessarily make things easier. In fact, often they’re additional steps – things you can skip without causing any real problems. But, doing them always pays off because the finished product looks better and more professional.

Though I’ll never be converting an old farmhouse into a stylish inn (like the folks always seemed to be doing on This Old House), the show left me with an appreciation for the little tricks and techniques that elevate competent handiwork to the level of craftsmanship and gave me a thirst for learning about such tricks with regard to projects I undertake. For example, in high school I used to do a lot of needlepoint. I reached a level of skill that many admired and that I was pleased with, but I was always striving to make my work more professional looking.

One day I was showing a project I was working on to a woman who made a living selling her needlework. She commented on the fact that I used black to outline part of the design. She then suggested I try dark brown, explaining that black draws the eye in and therefore de-emphasizes the rest of the design. Dark brown, she said, offers the contrast necessary for the outline effect, but it doesn’t create a visual distraction. That afternoon I bought some dark brown wool and tried it. I was astounded by the difference. It was a simple trick, but one I’d never heard, or read, about and would never have come up with on my own.

It’s been a long time since I’ve done any projects with my hands, but this spring I needed to repair some gashes on my boat’s hull that happened last fall during haul out. I was nervous about doing the work because the last time I did such work was during the first season I had the boat. Back then, not knowing anything about fiberglass, much less about the “gel coat” finish, I asked around and learned as much as I could about how to do the repair. I did an ok job, especially when viewed from a distance, but every spring when I’m washing and waxing the hull, my handiwork mocks me. And, given the location of the gashes, I worried that if I didn’t refine my gel coating technique, the boat might end up looking like something only a mother could love.

So, over the winter I took a fiberglass repair course. It was great because it demystified the processes and helped me get over my fear of the chemicals involved. The hands-on work was also useful because it helped me get a good feel for using the materials. Of course, I was well aware that practicing on a horizontal flat surface in a temperature-controlled setting (the classroom) was very different from working on a vertical curved surface (the side of a boat sitting in a cradle) outside in early March.

Because the course was only four weeks, we didn’t have time for more than the basics in terms of practicing finishing techniques, but the instructor was enthusiastic and eagerly shared his knowledge and experience. As we were working away, he shared many tricks of the trade. We didn’t have time to try most of them in the classroom, but he suggested we try them on our own boats.

One trick he mentioned was to polish the finished surface with a particular brass polish. When he suggested it, many who were familiar with the product were skeptical because they thought doing so might leave a yellowish tint. Though I was familiar with the polish he mentioned, I didn’t have any at home. But, when I was out buying all the stuff I’d need to do my boat repairs, I also picked up a can of the polish, figuring I may as well give his suggestion a try.

Well, you probably know where I’m going with this. I diligently followed all the steps we learned and I applied every trick he mentioned – including using the brass polish – and I’m thrilled to report that the gel coat work turned out terrific. Besides being proud of my workmanship, I’m grateful for having had a tremendously skilled instructor who graciously shared so many tricks of the trade.

I know some may think that my fascination with learning tricks of the trade is a manifestation of a somewhat unhealthy striving toward perfection. Or perhaps it’s a reflection of an abnormal fear of remaining a jack of all trades, master of none. Could be… or maybe it’s just an appreciation for detail and for a job well done.

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... nickeled-and-dimed

2009-05-15T14:40:00.000-04:00

By Ingrid Sapona

I use the same company for my phone, internet, and digital t.v. service I pay a flat fee and I save (if you can call paying about $150/month saving) because I get “bundling” discounts. When my March bill arrived I noticed it was a bit higher than normal. On closer examination, I saw that the internet service charge was $5 more than it had been. I phoned and, after numerous questions and being put on hold for quite awhile, the customer service rep said there was a billing error and somehow that month I didn’t get all the bundling discounts I should have. He told me they’d credit me $5 on my April bill but that I should pay the current bill in full.

When I got the April bill there was no $5 credit, so I phoned to complain. After 20+ minutes on the phone, the customer service rep once again assured me I’d be credited next month. After hanging up I was very irritated, in part because between last month and this month I spent at least an hour (time digging out previous bills and time on the phone to straighten it out) dealing with this $5 error.

Compounding my irritation was the thought that maybe I should have just paid the $5 and let it go because, clearly, my time’s worth more than $5. But, truth be told, I also knew that part of what was nagging at me was the thought that maybe my knee-jerk reaction to fight such overcharges comes from worrying I’m not as financially as secure as I’d like to be or, worse yet, that such disputes are a manifestation of being a penny pincher.

After calming down, I realized I’d be a happier person if I didn’t let things like this bother me, so I began thinking of techniques I might try to cultivate more of a sense of equanimity. One idea I came up with is to set a dollar amount below which I wouldn’t quibble. In other words, borrowing a concept from my accounting friends, I’d set a personal “materiality threshold” and I’d only spend time on issues involving amounts over that threshold. But what amount should I choose? I decided to ruminate on that question for a few days.

As it happens, the very next day I got a parking ticket. They’re doing repairs to my condominium’s garage and the management company arranged with the City for residents to park on the street overnight, so long as we displayed special permits. Despite the fact that I prominently displayed the permit on my dashboard, I got a $40 ticket! I was livid.

No sooner did I sit down to write a letter about the ticket than I thought of my materiality threshold question. Though I hadn’t yet settled on an amount, it took me less than three seconds to decide it certainly was something less than $40. Besides, I’m a fast typist and it wouldn’t take me long to write the condo management company telling them I expected them to deal with the ticket.

The following day’s mail brought yet another opportunity for me to either practice developing equanimity, or to narrow in on a personal materiality threshold. This opportunity came in the form of a $29 late fee applied to my April Chase Visa bill. In March, Chase had returned a $53 cheque I wrote on a U.S. dollar account I have with my Canadian bank. In the past, they’ve accepted payment from this account. I phoned Chase immediately to find out what the problem was.

It’s a long story but it has something to do with the fact that my Canadian bank recently issued me new cheques that apparently can no longer be cleared under the U.S.’s clearing system. The upshot of that 45+ minute conversation was that I had to get a U.S. money order to pay Chase. Getting the money order and mailing it with a letter explaining that the problem wasn’t my fault took two more hours.

Fast forward to the other day and my April bill with the $29 late fee. Naturally, I phoned Chase for an explanation. They said the fee was because the March payment was late. I couldn’t believe any late fee was charged, much less $29 on a $53 bill! I again explained it wasn’t my fault that they returned the cheque and I asked them to waive the fee because I’ve always paid in full and on time. After 55+ minutes on the phone, it was clear Chase wouldn’t budge. (I’ve already cut up the Chase card but I can’t afford to jeopardize my credit rating by simply ignoring the $29 fee, regardless of whether I think it’s fair or appropriate.) They suggested I ask my Canadian bank to reimburse me the $29 since it was their change to the cheques that caused the problem.

So, what to do? I’d already spent nearly an hour on the phone with Chase about this damned $29 (not to mention the time I spent on the phone with them in March). Do I take up the matter with my bank or do I bite the bullet and forget about it?

Well, I’m sorry to report that equanimity didn’t triumph, but I am getting closer to nailing down my materiality threshold. (Clearly it’s something under $29!) I took it up with my bank and, thankfully, it took less than an hour of my time and my bank reimbursed me the $29.

To be honest, I don’t know if setting a materiality threshold is the answer, but the way things are going lately, I worry that if I don’t, I may end up being nickeled-and-dimed to death.

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... August 8th

2009-04-30T20:25:00.000-04:00

By Ingrid Sapona

Spring officially arrived over a month ago, but it’s barely begun showing here. The daffodils are at their peak this week, but 90% of the trees and bushes have only the smallest buds and lilac trees are at least a month from even thinking of blooming. So, from this perspective, August 8th, which will be mid-to-late summer, seems far, far away.

But, on the other hand, many yacht clubs launched boats this past weekend, racing starts in two weeks, and by the time I find the wire brush for the grill it’ll probably be the 4th of July (or at least Canada Day, which is July 1). So, from that perspective, I know the time will fly and it’ll be August 8th before I realize.

You’re probably wondering about the significance of August 8th. Well, it’s 100 days from today. If my Dad were around to read this, he’d say, “big whoop”. To be honest, I agree -- 100 days doesn’t seem particularly significant. Sure, it’s a nice round number, and especially appealing to those on the metric system (it certainly sounds more impressive than 14.28 weeks), but in the scheme of things -- I can’t think of too many reasons folks would normally take note of 100 days.

And yet, if you happened to catch any U.S. news yesterday, you’d have heard lots of folks clamoring about the 100th day of the Obama presidency. Apparently the press have been grading presidents’ first 100 days since FDR’s time. Some in Obama’s administration tried to downplay it by calling it a “Hallmark card” moment, which certainly sounds cleverer than what Dad would have said, but all the same, much fanfare was made of the event. (I like coincidence as much as the next person, but even I don’t think the fact that Obama held a prime-time press conference on his 100th day is a coincidence.)

I was thinking about what it would feel like to have my last 100 days graded by others and I have to say, I’m not sure I would appreciate it. In fact, if you’d have been on the receiving end of the reaction I got from a sail club member who asked me at launch what was new and whether I’d been anywhere of late, you’d probably be feeling a bit sensitive giving account too. This gentleman -- a well-off retiree who had spent a month in Florida, six weeks skiing in Colorado and some time in Spain or Portugal, I can’t remember which -- laughed in my face when I humbly said that I recently had a delightful long weekend in Cleveland. Honestly, he laughed in my face. On seeing my look of shock at his rudeness, he tried to backtrack by saying it just sounded funny, like a movie title or something. What can I say -- I guess I’ll just chalk it up to my deadpan delivery or something.

But seriously, this idea of grading what you’ve done over 100 days probably isn’t a bad idea. In fact, I’m sure life coaches are all for it, for example, as it really is just a logical extension of the much touted idea of setting goals with definite target dates and measurable objectives. And, the good thing is that -- unlike in school where someone else decides what you’re graded on AND assigns the grade -- in this case, you get to choose what you’re graded on and you’re the primary grader. (Friends and family may offer input, but your grade is what really counts.)

So, I think I’ll give this 100 day report card idea a go. I’ve always been a good student and what’s the worst that can happen? Sure, at the end of the 100 days someone might laugh in my face when I tell them what I’ve been up to, but who cares! What’s important is that I set an agenda and I do my best.

Of course, my agenda won’t be quite as ambitious as Obama’s -- for starters, the only auto industry folks I plan on being in touch with between now and August 8th are the guys who I take my car to for an oil change, and my interaction with banks is pretty much guaranteed to be to be limited to ATMs. But, like his, my agenda will have a mix of fiscal stimulus items and matters with a social impact. On the economic front I’ll be beating the bushes trying to find new clients and trying to get more work from existing clients, and on the social front I’ll be sailing, visiting with friends and family, maybe taking a long weekend here or there, and doing some volunteer work. So, with all that on my plate, I’m sure the next 100 days will fly by. But I’m up for it, and I plan on getting high marks on everything!

What about you? When grades come down on August 8th, what will you be marked on and how will you fare?

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... asked

2009-04-16T06:40:00.006-04:00

By Ingrid Sapona

I have two sisters and we live far apart from each other and from my mother. Mom and I live the closest – she’s about 100 miles away. We all see each other pretty regularly, but because of schedules and what have you, our visits tend to be one-on-one rather than as a group.

When my sister Regina told me she was planning to visit Mom for a long weekend over Easter, Mom suggested they drive up to visit me. I loved the idea and suggested they stay over and that we celebrate Easter here. They agreed and it was set.

In the meanwhile, I thought it would be fun if all of us got together and I mentioned to Regina that I’d ask my other sister (Sonia) if she might be able to join us to surprise Mom. (Sonia, I hope you’ll forgive me for using your name. I know you live in fear of being written about in On being … but I can’t tell this story without mentioning you and using your name seems better than referring to you as Sister #2.)

Regina thought the idea was crazy because Sonia works for an airline and her schedule is anything but nine-to-five. When weather and mechanical problems are factored in, it’s easy to understand how difficult it is for Sonia to make plans. As well, she often picks up additional trips, so she has little free time for social visits, especially ones that come up on short notice.

Though I realized Sonia might not be able to get the time off, I saw no harm in asking her. Sonia’s initial response was non-committal. To be honest, that’s pretty much what I expected -- but it was clear to me that she’d at least think about it and would probably see what she could do.

A few days later Regina called me and was quite excited. Sonia had e-mailed her to let her know she managed to re-arrange her schedule to come for Easter dinner. Naturally, I was pleased, but also a bit surprised by Regina’s utter amazement that Sonia would join us. When I commented on her reaction, Regina admitted that she wouldn’t have even asked Sonia, given how unlikely it seemed she’d be able to come.

Regina’s reaction got me thinking about why I wasn’t as surprised that Sonia went out of her way to make our get-together happen. Besides the fact that I saw little down-side to asking her, I guess I subconsciously thought Sonia might try especially hard to rearrange her schedule because she would appreciate that we asked her to join us.

You see, the past few years I’ve found that when someone goes out of their way to specifically ask me to do something or to join them in doing something, chances are good I’ll say yes. (I suppose I might feel different if I was one of the many who have a hard time saying no, but that’s usually not a problem for me.) Since realizing this about myself, I’ve tried to figure out why I’m so much more inclined to say yes in such circumstances -- and I’ve noticed that the same is often true of others.

Here’s what I’ve come up with about what I call: “the power of being personally asked or invited”. When you think about all the social, family, work, and community things we all participate in, many of them we do either because we think we should or simply out of habit. For example, we go to a networking event because we feel we “should go”, or we go to our aunt’s Labour Day barbeque simply because we always have.

While there’s nothing particularly wrong with doing things that fall into those categories (and doing them can certainly be fulfilling), our participation in them is often pretty impersonal. Though everyone might be genuinely glad to see you at the event, your lack of attendance wouldn’t necessarily be noticed (unless they were expecting you and you stood them up or something). And, of course, when people start to simply expect you to participate, you can end up feeling taken for granted and therefore resentful, which in not healthy.

So, when someone personally asks me to join them or do something with them, I take notice. First off, their asking shows they thought of me individually, and the fact that they took the time out of their busy schedule to do so is also important to me. And, assuming an underlying genuineness on their part, the fact that they risked being rejected or disappointed also is significant to me.

Though it’s a bit of a stretch to say being personally asked has some kind of magic power over me – it definitely never hurts and, when choosing how to spend my time, I’d certainly rather spend it with someone who’s made me feel wanted and welcome. My guess is that Sonia feels the same, which is why she went out of her way to join us on Easter.

Who knows, maybe after reading this Regina and others will be more inclined to reach out and extend personal invitations, especially if they realize that -- for some -- being asked makes all the difference.

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... a useful analogy

2009-03-31T05:30:00.000-04:00

By Ingrid Sapona

I generally like analogies and I often find them to be a handy tool for analyzing things. Indeed, a good analogy can be useful when trying to help someone understand something that they don’t seem to be getting.

Late last fall, when the Wall Street bailouts first started happening (or, more accurately, when the first Wall Street bailouts started happening), I was watching NBC’s Today Show and they had on Erin Burnett, a reporter with CNBC. As you now doubt know, CNBC is dedicated to reporting on Wall Street.

I don’t recall the exact event they were talking about that morning, but I think it must have related to some bonus or severance payment that some Wall Street mogul had been paid or had approved -- or maybe it was about John Thain’s (Merrill Lynch’s (then) CEO) $1.2 million office redecoration. In any event, the amount they were talking about was controversial at the time (the recent “fuss” over AIG bonuses is just the latest episode, after all). Ms. Burnett, trying to put the figure in perspective for the lowly viewer like me, commented that to Wall Street types, the amount was akin to a “rounding error”. Ah yes… a mere seven figure rounding error -- anyone who’s ever tried to balance their chequing account can no doubt relate to that!

Not only did I not find Ms. Burnett’s analogy to a rounding error helpful, I was absolutely incensed by it! Though I don’t believe it was just a case of a poor choice of words spoken in haste -- even if it was -- I think it betrays just how out of touch people who work on Wall Street, and those making big bucks at CNBC reporting on Wall Street, are with the economic reality of the vast majority of Americans (not to mention the rest of the world).

Had CNBC been around to report in pre-revolutionary France, I can’t help wonder if, to help the simple-minded peasants understand comments like “Let them eat cake”, Ms. Burnett would have done a remote broadcast from outside a bakery. Imagine all the trouble that could have been avoided if those darned peasants had just grasped the reality of the situation better…

More recently I’ve been angered and insulted by commentators who have said that the public outcry over the AIG bonuses is misplaced anxiety and that the bonuses are just something concrete that the public can grasp. It’s true, there’s more than enough anxiety to go around these days and the clamor about the bonuses is likely a symptom of that. But how dare commentators demean the public and try to gloss over payouts in the hundreds of millions when that’s more than what many people in America will make over the course of their lifetime. (And NO, it’s not that we object to bonuses being paid despite the fact that the companies have lost billions of dollars -- it’s the inequity of such amounts, period.)

Given the depth of the trouble we’re in, I imagine that for some time to come folks will be offering up many more analogies and maybe some good old fashioned sayings to help us come to grips with the economic mess. I’m not sure how many more platitudes I can take, but to prepare, I’ve thought of a few myself that might be helpful.

For example, maybe one way to explain how companies justify paying astronomical salaries to Wall Street managers and execs is simply to see them as having gotten caught up in a corporate version of “monkey see, monkey do”. Of course, boards wouldn’t dare use such a juvenile analogy -- but, as they bought into the compensation consultants’ arguments that such amounts are “the norm in the industry” and that they had to pony up if they hoped to attract the best and brightest -- the resemblance to monkey see, monkey do is striking. (Especially since -- like monkeys -- it’s clear no one questioned the moral scruples of the supposed best and brightest. Hell, no one ever even stopped to objectively assess whether those folks really were the best and the brightest! But why should they -- that’s not how the game is played, after all.)

Actually, it occurs to me that maybe folks like Ms. Burnett should consider switching their focus from trying to make the average person understand things, to trying to make Wall Street types understand how their behaviour got us into this mess. So, in the spirit of being helpful, to those who might find the public outcry over obscene bonuses -- or the idea of a 90% tax on such amounts -- hard to comprehend, perhaps a bit of reflection on one of my favourite sayings might help them understand: pigs get fat, hogs get slaughtered.

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being … my hero

2009-03-16T05:50:00.000-04:00

By Ingrid Sapona

As a kid growing up, I never had a hero. Not having one didn’t bother me or anything -- I’m just saying, I never had one. During adolescence I became more aware of the fact that I didn’t have one -- but that’s just because I heard people express concern that girls, in general, were at a disadvantage because they didn’t have as many role models or heroes. As I made my way into adulthood, the topic came up occasionally, but pretty much only as a philosophical question over a second or third drink -- and it always seemed to be men that asked. Given all this, at some point, I guess I just figured heroes are a guy thing.

Well, I’ll be darned. After all these years -- I now have a hero. I’ll be honest -- before I sat down to right this, I did a bit of gut checking, soul searching and, of course, I looked up the word to make sure I’m not fooling myself about this. I’m not.

So, I say without hesitation or reservation: Jon Stewart is my hero. I know some women may feel I’m letting down the sisterhood by having a male as a hero -- but to them I say nonsense! As far as I’m concerned, Stewart should be the hero of all who believe no one is telling it like it is when it comes to the economy and who have felt, as I have, unheard in all of this.

You’ve no doubt heard about Stewart’s interview of CNBC’s Jim Cramer last week. The interview was the culmination of a week that started with Stewart’s show (The Daily Show on Comedy Central) ridiculing CNBC’s coverage of Wall Street. Jim Cramer took particular umbrage at the clips the Daily Show ran of his CNBC show “Mad Money” and so, over the course of the week, Cramer popped up on a number of other programs to talk about the economy and to defend himself. Finally, on the 12th, Cramer agreed to be on The Daily Show.

I had mixed feelings about the Stewart/Cramer interview. It had received a lot of hype and I thought it would end up playing out as a manufactured brouhaha -- the verbal equivalent of a World Wresting Federation match. From the moment the interview began, however, it was clear my concerns were unfounded. Stewart was friendly to Cramer, but he was clearly in a serious mood.

Stewart was tremendously well prepared and he proved to be masterful at cross-examination. Early on, after getting Cramer to blow is own horn about the fact that he was a hedge fund manager for many years, Stewart ran a clip of Cramer explaining how easy it is to make money short selling. When the clip was finished, Stewart asked him to explain what that means. Cramer then launched into an impressive sounding explanation that also included him claiming he didn’t short sell. Stewart interrupted and said it sounded like he did. Cramer then said that if it sounded that way, it’s because he was inarticulate. Well -- if you’re a fan of Perry Mason -- you know what’s coming next… Stewart says “roll 210” -- and you guessed it, 210 is a tape of Cramer saying that, in fact, he did short sell.

I’ll admit, I’m not a fan of Cramer -- he’s always struck me as more bluster than substance. That evening he was Mr. Humble, however, admitting again and again that he should have done better but that he tried. One of the most interesting things about Cramer’s performance was that he kept referring to “the shenanigans” that were “going on”. Shenanigans? Shenanigans? Referring to all the abuses and schemes that various companies have carried out the past few years and that have led us into this financial crisis as shenanigans is either incredibly condescending to us or betrays a lack of understanding of what really was going on, either of which is reprehensible.

Stewart then paraphrased one of my favorite concepts from law school, arguing that the financial news industry is not just guilty of a sin of omission -- it was guilty of the sin of commission and that the industry was in bed with Wall Street. Cramer argued they weren’t in bed together and whined that there was nothing he could do because people lied to him. Stewart wouldn’t hear of it, saying the idea CNBC could have on guys from Bear Sterns and Merrill who leveraged 35 to 1 and then blame mortgage holders is insane and he objected to Cramer trying to play the doe-eyed innocent.

Then came the part of the interview that made me want to sing out, “Thank you Mr. Stewart” for giving voice to what many of us feel. After yet another clip, Stewart said, “I gotta tell you -- I understand you want to make finance entertaining, but it’s not a f---ing game … When I watch that … I can’t tell you how angry that makes me because what it tells me is (at this point his voice goes from angry to quietly indignant): You all know. You all know what’s going on…”.

But what really nailed down for me Stewart’s title as my hero was something he said that, though difficult to admit, contains a lesson for us all: “… any time you sell people the idea you don’t have to do anything … that you can sit back and you’ll get 10 to 20% on your money… that’s a lie. Our wealth is work … we’re workers … and selling this idea of ‘hey man, I’ll teach you how to be rich’” is really just an infomercial. Hear, hear, Mr. Stewart.

So there you have it -- a hero is born.

P.S. If you haven’t seen the show and are interested, those in the U.S. can watch it on the Internet at: www.thedailyshow.com; those in Canada can watch it at on CTV's web site.

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... a good luck charm

2009-03-01T09:00:00.000-05:00

By Ingrid Sapona

I’m a bit superstitious -- but in a positive way. In other words, I’m not inclined to think bad things will happen as a result of some random event (like seven years bad luck if you break a mirror). Instead, my brand of superstition is based on the idea that certain things can bring good luck.

A prime example of my positive superstitiousness (to coin a phrase) is my belief that I’m a parking good luck charm. I was reminded of it again just the other evening when a friend and I were headed to a bar we’d never been to before. We had a pretty good idea where it was on this popular, busy street, but we weren’t certain of the exact location.

Just after my friend pointed out the place, I spotted an easy-to-pull-into parking space directly across the street from the front door. It was a very cold evening, so we were especially grateful to have found such a close spot. As I pulled into it, my friend mumbled something about my being lucky. I couldn’t help myself -- I blurted out, “Well, I’m a parking good luck charm”. She didn’t say anything in response, but I’m pretty sure she shot me a “whatever” look.

I first began thinking of myself as a parking good luck charm in my 20s. This one friend and I used to go out at all hours and no matter where we went, we always ended up finding great parking. At some point he commented on the fact that whenever he was with me, he never had a problem finding parking. (Apparently he didn’t have such good fortune normally.)

Then I started noticing that I seem to find primo parking spots even when I’m driving and have someone with me. Eventually I concluded it was happening far too regularly to be a fluke, so since then, if I’m in a car with someone and we’re looking for parking, I confidently announce I’m sure we’ll find a spot because I’m a parking good luck charm.

When I say that, those who don’t know me too well usually react with a pretty cynical, “Yeah, well, I hope you’re right”. Often, just as they finish muttering that, I point out an open space and little more is said about the matter. And then there’s the reaction I get from inveterate disbelievers. One guy I went out with, for example, always used to mock me by saying, “Oh that’s right – a parking good luck charm -- not a bridge fairy.” (His comment was a reference to the Canada/U.S. border crossings at Niagara Falls. Depending on the economic and political climate, the wait to get through Customs on the bridges can be from minutes to hours.)

I’ve thought about why I seem endowed with this luck when it comes to parking. The answer, of course, simple: being a parking good luck charm is nothing more than being confident you’ll find a space and then focusing your attention on your surroundings as soon as you arrive where you’re looking to park. Really, you could call it “parking conscious”. You’d be surprised at how many people aren’t parking conscious.

My belief in my parking luck is very much like a good luck ritual that worked for me in law school. Right before I left for an exam I always played Kenny Loggins’ “This is It”. The title refers to the fact that the present moment is the time for action. I felt that if I left the house singing it, I’d do ok. Looking back, it seems clear the luck I ascribed to the song came from the fact that singing the phrase -- This is It! -- helped me focus on the reality that the moment of the exam was the time for action -- the time to call forth all I’d learned and crammed into my little brain! I guess you could say the song helped make me “exam conscious”.

The great thing about good luck charms is they help you feel lucky and that boosts your confidence, which is bound to make whatever it is you’re up to go more smoothly. The best thing about being a parking good luck charm isn’t that you find great parking -- that’s just an added bonus. The real benefit is that if you feel you’ve been lucky with parking, you end up in a more positive frame of mind, which can help carry you through whatever you’re doing next.

Regardless of whether you believe there’s any such thing as a good luck charm, I hope these examples convince you that you can create your own luck with a positive attitude and by focusing your awareness on the immediate task at hand. So, next time you’re in search of parking, try being your own parking good luck charm -- all it takes is belief and focus. Go on -- give it a try. What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll bet you end up in some pretty sweet spots.

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... bullied

2009-02-16T08:00:00.000-05:00

By Ingrid Sapona

One of my consulting services is creating seminars. A professional association recently hired me to create one on fraud. My client knows full-well that I’m not an expert on fraud but, based on our discussions, they clearly have confidence that I’m capable of learning about it and that I have the experience and skill to create a seminar on it.

This week I set out to start my research for the seminar. When I’m working on a topic I have little knowledge of, I prefer more research to less. I immerse myself in the subject and then distill the information down to create the seminar materials.

My client had offered to help me gather information, or put me in touch with experts they work with, and I took them up on the offer. One of their suggestions was that I contact another association that deals with fraud (let’s call it Association #2) and they gave me a specific name of someone there (let’s call him Mr. Charming).

The woman I spoke with at Association #2 was very nice. When I told her what I’m working on and the information I’m looking for, she confirmed that Mr. Charming would be a good resource and she gave me his number. She also mentioned that Association #3, which I had not heard of before, may have useful information. I wrote down her suggestion and thanked her for her help.

Then I phoned Mr. Charming. I briefly introduced myself and, before launching into my spiel, asked if it was an ok time to talk. He said it was, so I explained that I’m putting together a fraud seminar for Association #1. He immediately asked when the seminar is being given. I explained that I don’t know, but that my work is due at the end of March.

He then told me Association #2 is presenting a panel on fraud at its conference in September and he complained that Association #1 makes lots of money on its seminars and that the seminar I’m working on had better not be competing with Association #2’s September conference. Hoping to allay his concerns, I explained that what I’m working on is for Association #1’s members only and, as far as I know, it’s not meant to compete with anything Association #2 does or is doing. (I mean, really -- if my client was planning something that would step on Association #2’s toes, why would they suggest I contact Association #2 for help? Of course, I bit my tongue.)

I then tried a different tack, explaining that what I’m working on is a seminar, with lectures and group exercises, which is quite different from a session at a conference. Then, quite argumentatively, he told me that the topic “doesn’t work as a seminar”. We seemed to go around and around, with him simply contradicting everything I said. Because I felt I was representing Association #1, I took great care to remain polite.

At one point he mentioned two other sources of information (one of them was Association #3) and asked if I’ve looked at what they’ve done. I innocently -- and honestly -- said I hadn’t because I wasn’t aware of them before that morning, but that I certainly would check them out. He then ripped into me, saying, “You’re clearly not qualified to be working on this if you haven’t even heard of those sources!”

But his tirade didn’t stop there. He then said, “You know – in my business I deal with fraudsters all the time and I think you’re one. My call display says ‘I Sapona’, but that means nothing to me and the fact that you obviously know nothing about this subject is highly suspicious. I think you’re a fraud.”

What do you say when someone says that to you? I paused and then suggested he look at my web site and I began spelling the URL. But before I could finish he said, “I’m not interested in looking at any web site – I want the name of someone I can call at whatever place it is you claim to be working for!”

So, I calmly repeated my client’s name (which you’d think he’d remember, having expressed his concern that Association #1 is trying to muscle in on Association #2’s turf) and gave him the direct dial number of the executive director, as she was the one who hired me. He repeated a few digits of the number, as though he was writing it down, but I doubt he’d ever phone – it was all just part of his bullying me. I politely thanked him for his time and hung up.

When I finally calmed down, I thought about what a miserable guy he must be to behave that way. It reminded me of folks I worked for as a temp one summer. The group I did secretarial worked for did collections on auto loans. When they weren’t out in the field doing repossessions, they were on the phone talking to “deadbeats” (as they generally referred to them) and they were all very aggressive and nasty. They were some of the most miserably unhappy, negative people I had ever met. I always wondered whether it was their job that made them that way, or whether that type of work attracted that type of person. I couldn’t help wonder the same about Mr. Charming.

Thankfully, I’ve got On being… to help me deal with incidents like my run-in with Mr. Charming. And, having written this, I do feel a bit better. But you know what really makes me feel better? The realization that Mr. Charming’s bullying is just his way of compensating for his really small … mind.

© 2009 Ingrid Sapona