Author: Meg Glenn

Take What You Can Get

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I often find myself at community events, expos and all kinds of fun events interacting with the public – sometimes through my work, sometimes it’s with one of the organizations where I volunteer. Maybe I’m just a spectator. Even as many times as I’ve gone to these events, and despite my saying I won’t be surprised at anything… I usually am. Sometimes, even when I think I’ve seen it all, I’m surprised by the mish-mash of people I see at these events. The people watching isn’t quite as good as what you find at an airport – that’s a blog post for another day soon – but it’s still pretty interesting, and one of the things I really get a kick out of. I love the observation almost as much as actually talking with people to hear their stories.

Depending on the event, you may have anything from moms and kids, business attendees picking up a stress ball, retirees replenishing their personal stashes of pens, note pads, key chains and such. There’s sometimes the student crowd who are there for extra points in some class AND to snag a power bank or car charger if they find one, assuming they haven’t been cleaned out by the previous groups. I really do appreciate when community members support these events – it sure makes the day more interesting.

As my grandfather said, it takes all kinds to make the world go ’round, and you can find a lot of those kinds at these community events. Depending on the purpose of the event, you might find fun costumes (our city does a completely delightful caterpillar parade to celebrate spring, and you are likely to find butterflies and all sorts of costumes… awesome), politicians stumping with speeches (GREAT people watching), people passing out the aforementioned goodies, and people “trick or treating” for said goodies – just there to take whatever they can get.

The takers/getters intrigue me; they may or may not even WANT the items they’re grabbing, but they snag whatever is available for the taking. My mind wanders as I’m watching this go down: is this what they do in other areas of their lives? Or are they giddy and caught up in the euphoria of the goodies? Perhaps they’ve discovered the answers to life’s great questions lie in a nifty stylus pen or a funeral home fan with just enough firmness to not flip & flop as they furiously wave it? I’ll grant you this from personal experience – at summer events across the Deep South, a good funeral home fan is the answer to at least one of life’s great questions…can I create enough of a breeze so that I don’t pass out of heat exhaustion before I get to my car and turn the A/C on MAX? (and the answer is just barely)

I guess the personal growth nugget for me here is that watching the “getters” is sort of a metaphor for life, in a weird way. They are so busy “getting” that they are never satisfied with what they got, because they’ve already moved on to the next “get.” There’s not time to enjoy the squishy stress ball because the next shiny object is already in view at the next booth. Oooooh, I need to get that pack of tomato seeds – check. Free bottle of water – check, and can I get an extra?

Sidebar: let me offer a little color on the tomato seeds. Anyone who knows me knows I LOATHE the mushy wretchedness of a tomato. Blech. So if I picked up your tomato seeds, I am 100% in “getter” mode… or I wasn’t wearing my reading glasses, and I totally think I picked up something else. Boy, am I going to be surprised when I get home – and NOT in a good way. My nose is wrinkled as I type this – just thinking about them grosses me out!

Okay, back to my bits, here. I hope I’m at least cultivating an attitude of contentment and gratitude along with those tomatoes. Otherwise, the frenzied hunting & gathering leaves no time to appreciate the fruits of the labor. It’s always about the next “get,” valuable or not. Sort of a twisted keeping score where whomever collects the most trinkets wins, even if sometimes they ultimately don’t.

Don’t get me wrong – it’s not that I think drive and ambition are bad things. They’re not. I hope I achieve some measure of balance in the grand scheme of things. Because, when the “getting” is over and I’ve made it home with 2 bottles of water, a pack of tomato seeds and 3 notepads from the local banks and realtors, did I just take what was there to get? Or did I also take time to gather and get what I really needed from the day – which, honestly, often has more to do with the interesting people than their things.

One man’s trash

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One of the people living at my house has been labeled a tosser… and one of us is definitely not a tosser, by any definition. It’s one of those point-counterpoint things, I guess. I mean, I don’t think the keeper has crossed into hoarder territory. Flirted with it, maybe. And let me just clear up any confusion on who’s who… I am not the keeper. Except for Jimmy. Definitely keeping him. The rest of the stuff? Totally negotiable. In fact, I sometimes look at all of the “goodies” we have hanging around, and it’s enough to make my eyes twitch. The stacks and piles and what-not… it treads all over my last nerve.

I mean, I guess it’s at least remotely possible we might someday need to walk the length of a room two feet off the ground and might, therefore, actually have a reason to simultaneously use all 8 step stools and ladders we’ve acquired over the years, all at one time. Maybe?

Or maybe we’ll just up and host a city-wide block party someday and need even that leaky cooler with the cracked top… don’t get rid of that!

I kid, mostly. You can take one look at our garage and tell that I don’t always win. Sing it with me now: Five garden rakes, four pop-up tents, three Christmas soldiers, two grandfather clocks… and a partridge in a pear tree (we don’t really have a partridge, or a pear tree, but hey, it fit). Some things are sentimental and we hang onto them because they were important to someone we love, like my mom’s senior yearbook or the flashlights and American flags Jimmy’s dad loved. All of them. All. Of. Them.

Then there is the group of things we’re keeping because they’re “still good.” Dear me, Mr. Beans! My theory: if the items in question are still good, let them go in peace & be good for someone else, somewhere else. If we replaced the doorknobs and switch plate covers in the house, we don’t need a spare set, do we? That’s not generally something where the average Joe keeps a spare. There’s no way that makes the Family Feud board of things people save “just in case.” And even if we do save them, will we remember where we put them? The answer is a solid no to all of that, by the way.

And while we’re at it, I don’t have the space or the patience to house the 10 pound container of Miracle-Gro from Y2K anymore. My un-green thumb adventures are near-legendary. I don’t need a giant bucket of fertilizer mocking me too.

Mind you, the purging bug doesn’t always strike me either.. For you keepers, I can see how it sometimes feels like way too many decisions, on top of all of the other decisions we have to make all day, for sure. What am I going to wear? What about my hair? And shoes? Who’s going to get the dogs to the vet to get their toenails trimmed? And what’s for supper?

Eeee-gads, as my Gram would say… the supper question. If we could have a supper fairy, I would be SUCH a happy camper. Actually, I don’t mind the cooking of the supper, it’s the decision… or rather, indecision. We do fine making big decisions all day long. And then we get home and have to decide on the last meal of the day. And that’s where we hit a wall.

So, apparently, what we really need is a supper DECIDING fairy. A darling little pixie to head off this fruitless conversation. Maybe instead of a Tinkerbell wand, she has a spinner app on her tiny little tablet, because otherwise, it sounds like this at our house:

What about a salad? Mehhh.

How about spaghetti? I don’t know…

Chicken on the grill? Nah, not feeling it.

Annnnnddd… we’re back to takeout.

With a side order of boxes still hanging around in the garage. You know, the dollar store holiday décor with an expiring statute of limitations – finally approaching the point where nobody remembers they’re from our first Christmas, when we didn’t care that Santa was a closeout. Well, dang – now *I’m* getting sentimental. Looks like that box gets to stay with us a little longer.

Some days you get the bear…

Meg Glenn Tags: , , , , , , 6 Comments

And some days the bear gets you, as my dad says. Actually his version is a little more colorful, but that’s not where we’re headed, so we’ll run with the hypothetical bear for now. At any rate, in spite of your best efforts, some days are just NOT your day. You are shooting to be strategic, and execute strongly, and lead with conviction, and deliver results, and make a difference. You gather the data, make the best decision based on the information at hand, and then, “BAM!” Here’s a whole new bunch of intel that sinks your battleship, to borrow a board game reference.

And you know what? It happens. Is it frustrating? Yes. Does it upset your applecart?  Yep. Can you throw a tantrum? Maybe in private, yes. At least for me, anyway. I’m generally not a big fan of fits in public – especially my own fits, because they’re just not very pretty. It’s not a good look on me, worse than horizontal stripes. Hissy fits aren’t necessarily a good look on anyone, really, but not everybody gets that, do they? We can all think of that certain someone we know who is an expert, in fact. “Oh, sweetie, your crazy is showing a little there… yep, rrrriiiight there… you’ll want to tuck that back in, dear.

Here’s the thing though – usually, the battleship blower-upper isn’t maliciously calling “B4.” It’s more often good intentions gone awry. You know what else? I do it too sometimes. I think I am rocking and rolling,  doing the right things, and then someone comes along and says I’ve sunk their battleship. Oops. Totally my bad. I’ll own it and apologize, even if it’s an accidental shelling. I don’t quite know how you spell that blowing up sound, but you know what I’m saying. Just nod like you get it. 

 

battleship

Not sure I’d take this to battle, but you get the idea

 

The game box for Battleship used to say winning takes a combination of strategy and luck. Yikes. Strategy, I can handle. Think it through, look at your options versus your end goal, plot your course. As one of my sales colleagues says, “Make the plan and work the plan.” And he’s totally right. You break down the end goal and figure out how to succeed at each step, on the game board or in the game of life (yours, not Milton Bradley’s).

It’s the luck part that can derail in a heartbeat. Luck is not a strategy. I’ve heard that luck is where preparation meets opportunity. Sometimes it’s your opportunity, but sometimes you’re depending on someone else’s preparation meeting opportunity. I hope that the ones I’m depending on have made their plans and are working them accordingly. Ehhhhh – not always the case, I know.

If not? Sometimes it’s in my purview to offer advice on righting the ship, if you will. At work, for instance, when I’m working with my team, if I see us veering off course, I can speak up, make sure we’re doing the things we need to be doing to steer back on track. Then there are the other times. The times I find myself in the crossfire with a galvanized garbage can top for a shield, and a colander for a helmet. Those are definitely NOT toy-pedos coming at me. That’s going to leave a mark… on my forehead.

When that happens, I hope I set a good example for getting up to fight the good fight again. I don’t want to be the person wailing, “You sank my battleship!” (In my head I hear a “WAAAAH” behind it. You do too, now, don’t you?)

Instead, I want to be the person who owns the mistake and evaluates, then makes the corrections and goes at it again without giving up. Full steam ahead, determined that tomorrow IS going to be my day. Take that, you hypothetical bear. 

Pops of Color

Meg Glenn 2 Comments

I am a fan of color. I am not an all-white and neutrals kind of girl, not often prone to sticking with ‘burbs beige. I get into a palette of colors and am energized. I call  it inspiration, but my hubby calls it psychedelic… and overwhelming. Please don’t encourage him, by the way – he doesn’t need any help.

I tell people that we have never in our years together opened a paint can that there wasn’t at least a little gasp and a shaking of his head or rubbing his forehead. He looks at me the same way every time – that “you can’t be serious” look, usually followed with a conversation that starts with, “You can’t be serious. Did you even look at the paint after they mixed it???”

As I try to reassure him that it’ll be fine, he is not convinced. He’s thinking we’re about to find ourselves living in a bowling alley birthday party room, which is awesome and festive but perhaps a bit over stimulating over the long haul. The whole first coat is spent on what is by now a pretty well-rehearsed back and forth. “I don’t think this is right.”

“Sure it is, we’ll love it.”

“But what if we hate it?”

“That’s certainly possible.”

“You’re not helping. Seriously, what if it’s awful?”

“We paint over it.”

“You’re killing me. Seriously killing me.”

“Paint is cheap; it’s low risk. We’re going for it.”

Thankfully for me, it usually works out. From the burgundy bedroom circa 1995 (that took four SLOW coats to even out) to the red hutch in our dining room to the poppy colored bathroom two years ago, he’s seen an awful lot of color come into our lives. And 90% of the time, he has ended up a fan. Not always immediately, sometimes it takes a minute to grow on him.

He even likes the poppy, which I admit, had me a little worried. After the first coat, it was so bright that it reflected an orange-y glow onto the adjacent hallway wall that made it look like we had a neon bar sign in there. I looked down the hallway thinking for a moment we might have a scene from Backdraft in progress. I wavered for a brief moment, considering how we might have overshot a smidgen. But once we finished getting the mirror back up and the shower curtain & towels in there, it came together fine. A little more powder room, a lot less Saturday night singing karaoke in our guest shower. All good in the end.

There was that one very unfortunate mustard gold color in the hallway… take my advice, your smartphone is good for many things but displaying paint chips accurately is not one of them. Yikes. Just trust me.  I couldn’t wait to get that bad little deal fixed.

So when we recently painted several rooms at our house, and I said I wanted Tidewater on the ceiling, he thought, “Here we go again. Willy Wonka, here we come.”

And now that it’s done? He loves it, and so do I.

The personal growth “bit” here? I guess part of it is remembering that adding a pop of literal and figurative color to our lives is a good thing here and there, just to keep things interesting. You don’t always know what will end up inspiring you. Give it a shot, go for the gold. I mean, you’ll get an ugly mustard colored hallway every now and then, and if you hate it, you fix it with a new pop of color. Maybe not ‘burbs beige though… some other cool color of the rainbow. Yeaaaaaaahh, now we’re talking.

Forward Progress Only

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You’re thinking I’m about to talk football, right? And you’re excited to talk about football, since we’re over a month past the Super Bowl and still probably a month away from spring games and the draft. You’re in withdrawal, I can see it. Easy, Slim Shady… this isn’t really that kind of story.

Don’t get me wrong – I live in the Deep South where football rules much of our calendar. My dear friend’s daughter is planning a wedding for this fall, and the first question, almost without fail, from all of our friends… Is State home or away that weekend? I’m totally not kidding. So I get where you’re coming from.

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One of these two loves all things football. And I’m standing next to him. 🙂

 

In fact, I often say our garage door clicker seems to  also automatically turn on the TV to ESPN. It’s truly magic how quickly it happens when we get home in the evenings. I tried timing it once – I didn’t even get the stopwatch app open on my phone – amazing. My husband just plain loves sports. LOVES sports. Like, REALLLLLLY LOVES SPORTS. Especially football. It’s his happy place.

Me? I speak “the language” well enough to stay up with the conversation, most of the time. I even know some of the jargon, which I like to mic-drop into a conversation every now and then and walk away… just so he doesn’t take a notion to underestimate me.

I like to chime in occasionally with a new context-appropriate trash talking comment or obscure stat I’ve picked up, just to watch the funny look on his face – during the commercials, of course – otherwise he probably wouldn’t hear me. “Oh my gosh – what was THAT guy thinking? No way that play works in a 3rd and long – his YAC is basically zero.” Dah-dah-dah, dah-dah-dah. That’s a SportsCenter reference, for those who need an interpreter.

(By the way, YAC – pronounced like the buffalo-ish creature – stands for yards after contact… as in he gets hit and just falls down… no way he can push through and make the 1st down… impressive for a girl, right?)

Jimmy’s giant YAC… oh, wait, that’s the wrong kind of yak

 

Okay, I digress… because that’s not the forward progress I’m talking about, at least not today. Today’s “bit” is called Forward Progress Only as a nod to my towing skills, or lack thereof. As in driving with a trailer attached to my vehicle. Last Saturday, I set out on a solo adventure, hauling our ATV to camp to ride the trails with family. Jimmy was otherwise committed for the day. He normally handles the hauling of things when we need to, so I was a little worried about whether I could actually get down there and back safely, and without having to go in reverse at all in the 160 miles or so roundtrip. Because I am SPECTACULARLY BAD at backing up with a trailer. I can’t even quantify the level to which I stink at it. Here’s the mental image for you… me behind the steering wheel, trailer hooked to the back and 4-wheeler loaded, weaving S-L-O-W-L-Y on our cul de sac, correcting back and forth like an off-balance chicken, because I can’t figure out which way to turn the steering wheel in order to make it go where I want it to go. It’s backwards, you know, especially challenging for a lefty living in a righty world… or at least that’s the theory I’m going with.

True story: Jimmy threw out his back once doing yard work at his parents’ house, the first time I ever HAD to back up our trailer and truck. I made it home fine (forward progress all the way), but then had to get the blasted thing backed into the driveway and around the side of the house. It was excruciating – for him and for me. Two feet back, veering the wrong direction. Put it back in drive and inch back forward. Try it again. Rinse and repeat. Y’all… we BOTH needed a muscle relaxer after that little exercise. I mean… dang.

So the thought of setting out on last weekend’s adventure was enough to have us all a little worried. I almost chickened out. My parents, trying to be supportive, just said to drive very carefully. Notice they threw in the “very.” It wasn’t lost on me, and I wasn’t offended at all.

I did make it, there and back, with no incident, which I considered a win. And no backing up. Whew, extra points. I prayed extra hard on the way, bargaining really, as if I were on a game show or rolling dice at a casino. “Forward progress, no whammies. Straight there and back, no reverse. Come on, work with me now – Meggie needs a new pair of shoes!”

As I was driving home, I was thinking about forward progress. In football, it refers to how far the ball carrier makes it before he’s down or out of bounds. It’s the point where his forward momentum carries him before he’s stopped. What a great metaphor – just as he keeps pushing, with the help of his teammates – so must I. Being content with the results of regular effort gets me exactly wherever I am today – no further forward progress. So if I never back the trailer, how am I ever going to get good at it?

letsride

Ready to ride… forward.

 

It doesn’t matter whether I’m talking about honing a new skill set at work, mastering reverse with a trailer, or finally figuring out the perfect biscuit recipe at home (Bonus bit for you today – the perfect biscuit recipe. You’re welcome.). It’s always about forward progress. I run into roadblocks, just like an opposing team on the playing field, and it’s up to me to keep working at it, studying the playbook and practicing till the extra effort pays off. Forward progress, pressing on. I like it.

You know what that means for me, don’t you? More towing practice, till I get the hang of it. Watch out, squirrels and anyone else in my path.

Giving ‘Em the Business

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I always made it a point to catch up with my Gram Fuller at least once a week. Even in college, as soon as I set up my own long distance plan and connected it to my first credit card, it was so I could call and catch up with her – mainly to see what shenanigans she and her posse of little old ladies were getting into. They did league bowling and lunches out on the town well into their 80’s, and I’d have absolutely loved to be a fly on the wall with them (yes, these were the days before cell phones and unlimited talk/text/data and long distance wasn’t included in any minutes plan – stay with me here).

She might have a golden yarn to relay, like the time they got pulled over for speeding – can you imagine the officer’s surprise to walk up on a cackling car full of sassy senior citizens? He let them off with a warning, and I’m sure he walked back to his car shaking his head, secretly hoping to be like them someday. I can just picture them “giving him the business,” as she called it… and actually that could mean anything from playful teasing to a serious dressing down, depending on the situation. Thankfully, we got way more of the teasing and playfulness – as is usually the case with grandmothers, right?

By the time I was calling from college, the business was far more tame, more likely to be of the pie baking variety, or volunteering at the church’s fundraiser. They might be manning the purple cow booth at the local grape jamboree or heading to their weekly lunch at Honey Bee’s.

Don’t get me wrong – they weathered serious storms – world wars, the Great Depression, family tragedies, the grind of working years, raising children, retirement, aging and losing their spouses. Throughout it all, they had each other – their own little troupe of Golden Girls. And they sure had fun giving each other and their families “the business.” I so admired her combination of grace and determination as she aged – it can’t have been easy, but she continued giving us the business, remarking often how her own mother would say that getting old isn’t for sissies. Even as she lay in the hospital after a devastating stroke, the twinkle was there, and she tried to manage a little chuckle as my dad and my sister came to visit and were up to our usual at her bedside – giving each other the business. That’s kind of what we do – laughter is good for what ails us. The not taking ourselves too seriously helps us cope, even when the outlook is bleak.

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Our Golden Girl at Niagra Falls, circa 1993

My husband Jimmy would say I might have paid attention a little too well, as he gets “the business” often. Like, a lot. Most of it is in the playful teasing category, and I hope I don’t cross the line into hurtful jabs without meaning to. We have plenty enough serious in our lives – just like you probably do. So we treasure the moments when one of us says something silly or does something goofy, or even quotes one of our favorite movies, opening the door for a little “business.”

Movie one-liners are one of our favorite ways to communicate.  We’ve had entire conversations that were nothing but funny movie lines.

Jimmy: “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”

Me: “I carried a watermelon.”

Jimmy: “He wouldn’t know a good idea if it hit him in the Pechanga.”

And so on. And on. And on. Bonus points are awarded if we can both switch movies and stay on track. Not that the bonus points mean anything beyond that we’re proud of the volley of zingers, challenging each other to dig deep, not wanting to be the one who has to throw in the towel.

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Having the time of our life at the Dirty Dancing live show in Memphis

So that’s it for now. I’m thankful for “the business.” I don’t have a pretty bow to put on my thoughts here, no major epiphany or great advice to share – other than reminding myself it’s okay to take a break for funny in the midst of whatever I’m working through. You have the same occasional pass too. I’m grateful for those moments where you let go of the stress and just have some fun. I really am. And now I’m moving on.

Me: “I’m going to hop out of the car here and pick up some flowers.”

Jimmy (catching the switch from Dirty Dancing to The American President): “No, sir. No hopping.”

Leaning Toward Fisher’s

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As with the other sayings I’ve talked about recently, I don’t know how many times I have heard my mom use this saying, talking about something askew. “No, no – stand it up straighter, it’s leaning toward Fisher’s.” All of my friends have always said my family is full of old sayings, so I just chalked it up to a famous something called Fisher’s somewhere at some time in history, and assumed EVERYBODY knew this old saying. I never questioned it whatsoever. As a kid, it didn’t even occur to me to question the saying – I figured out the meaning from the context pretty easily and straightened up whatever was crooked. Wherever Fisher’s was, we didn’t want to be leaning that way, at least according to my parents.

The not asking… the assumption… the “this is the way we’ve always done it.” Ring a bell? How often do we do that – for ourselves, personally and professionally?

It reminds me of my friend Leigh’s story about her mom teaching her how to cook a ham. First, you cut it in half, and then you season it and bake it at the proper temperature, for the designated amount of time. She asked her mom why you cut the ham in half first, just trying to understand the process, and her mom said, “That’s how your grandmother taught me.”

Eventually she asked her grandmother the same question, thinking she was about to unlock a family secret for the ages. The answer: her grandmother’s original oven as a newlywed was apartment sized, and thus too small to handle a large whole ham for their first holiday at their new place. Her very practical remedy was to cut it in half so it wasn’t quite so tall and would then fit. Genius – for her situation.

But now, three generations have cut the ham in half, not because it makes a better ham, but because one ham, 60+ years ago, was too big for the oven. Wait – what?

I started thinking about that. What am I doing in my life – at work, at home – that may not make sense anymore, but I do it because that’s what I’ve always done and how I’ve always done it? Are you thinking the same thing?

What do I need to let go of in order to grow and learn new ways of doing even bigger & better things? That’s where I find myself. Not always easy, to be sure. Doing the things we’ve done well for a long time gives us a measure of comfort… we’re rock star fishies in that pond. But if I’m so busy doing all of that, how do I get to bigger & better things? I’ll hand off the comfortable for bigger and better any day… bring on the learning curve.

So back to the leaning and the Fisher’s. You know where I’m headed with this, don’t you? What has become just another one of those sayings in my family, and I assumed in everyone else’s… isn’t really an old saying at all. The supermarket in the next block from my grandparents’ home in Geneva, Ohio? Yep, Fisher’s.

So the first picture that was tilted? An absolutely accurate description of how to right it. Nailed it. For the rest of us, all these years later, we may need to think differently. Because leaning toward Kroger isn’t a thing yet.

Down the block from Fisher’s

You Do What Ya Gotta Do

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I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve muttered this old saying. Sometimes it’s just an acknowledgement when someone says thanks for some extra effort, an aw-shucks shrugging off, “No problem!” kind of response.

And there are the other times. The times when it’s not me saying I get to choose Door Number One, with its fancy, top-shelf hootie-hoo whatever it is with a party to boot… it’s usually doing what needs to be done, even if it’s Door Number Three. The new word for this is “adulting”, which those in their 20’s often say with either great accomplishment or equally great disdain in their voice. It usually depends on whether they’re buying the spectacular shoes and big-screen TV, or they’re suffering through another bowl of ramen noodles so they can make the rent payment without having to ask their parents for help. The ramen crowd always gets props from me, by the way.

Funny sidebar: I’ll never forget one of my high school friends, when he’d break the rules, his dad would always say in his best game show host voice, “You’ve done it now, Mister… now you get to see what’s behind Dooooooooor Number Three!” Which was, of course, his funny way of announcing the grounding or whatever consequence was to follow. Funny to him, mind you… not to my friend so much. He never tipped his hand as to what was behind Door Number One or Door Number Two… we knew for sure Door Number Three was always going to be a major bummer though.

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Tell him what he won behind Door Number Three!

Okay, so that was a little bit of a rabbit hole, but kind of not. Usually Door Number Three was the result of the infamous “poor life choices.” So I guess Door Number Three was about the here & now – what often was, and still sometimes is, way more fun in the moment than doing the right thing.

It boils down to emotional intelligence, which completely fascinates me. Someone who can put their emotions in perspective within the greater situation almost always earns at least some measure of respect from me. I totally get that it’s not that they don’t HAVE feelings – it’s that they can keep them in check as the situation warrants… the old stiff upper lip. Not always terribly popular, by the way. I want Door Number One, or even Door Number Two, and I want it now. Bring on the ice cream sundae… with extra sprinkles. You too?

I also  get that some of us are just more impetuous than others, and it takes serious commitment to stretch our emotional intelligence. Delayed gratification. Choosing to “do what you gotta do.” And let’s be honest, we all have those moments when we just want to take the easy way out – whether it’s a shortcut at work, putting off the groundwork that makes things happen down the road, or blowing off the 5am workout and staying in bed.

Maybe for you, it’s choosing to stop and take a deep breath when you get that snarky email from a bullying colleague. It’s logically rebutting their laundry list of demands and emotional spew, when what you really want to do is the old “eye for an eye,” repaying their snark with well-deserved sarcasm.

Someone asked me this week about my leadership style and how I establish respect. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I think it comes down to EQ, and just “doing what you gotta do.” It’s choosing Door Number One when you sometimes want Door Number Three, if just for a minute. Staying above the fray. For me, when I don’t make it personal and emotional, I don’t get dragged into the drama. And I sure don’t need the drama.

Okay, so I’m moving on for now. I’m rolling up my sleeves and getting on with doing what I gotta do. Catch you next time – and thank you for reading.

PS – here’s a good recent read re: EQ, from Forbes.

A Dollar Waiting On a Dime

Meg Glenn 1 Comment

“Oh, for crying out loud… come on already! We got a dollar waitin’ on a dime here!”

I can still hear my former boss’ voice in my head and picture him high-tailing it up the hallway to the next meeting or call, hollering over his shoulder to keep everyone on track. And as much as he was the dollar to our dimes, he used this completely in jest, never thinking himself more than anyone else. He was the guy who led the company, but would stop on the way in the front door to straighten the welcome mat so we’d make the best first impression. True story… can’t tell you how many times I saw him do that. He was a one-of-a-kind leader, and I hope I do a good job of following his example. So even when he would stop and wave his arms, squawking about dollars and dimes, there was almost always a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face.

The bottom line… the dollar, whether it’s people or projects, is to be mindful of what’s most important to me and keep the main thing, the main thing. It’s super easy to look up and realize I’m on the way to getting stalled out by the less essential, waiting on the dimes in my life to get moving. That’s another one of those things that’s true in business as in life, right?

If you’ve ever driven a stick shift and had to stop on a hill, you know the agony of a stalled engine and having to dump the clutch and gun it to get it rolling again. Even now, I get sweaty palms flashing back to the first time I had to get that old Datsun going again on the hilly side street near our house. I kept working at it and finally mastered that magical clutch-gas combination without all the herky-jerky stop & go.

I juggle priorities, just like everyone else, and some days, like yesterday, it feels like I’m herding cats to get even the little things accomplished. I’m waiting on this thing, or that phone call, or another email. Yesterday I got dimed, big time. So today, I’m back in that old stick shift truck, not letting that blasted stop sign on the hill get to me. In the world of dollars and dimes, I’m aiming to come out ahead. Wish me luck.

 

pupschilling

Dime, schmime… (Daisy & Buster, who totally do NOT get the concept of rushing anywhere, ever – unless, of course, there happens to be a tennis ball involved).

 

 

 

 

Like socks on a rooster…

Meg Glenn Tags: , , , , 4 Comments

One of my dad’s favorite sayings… I have to admit, for a long time I had no idea what this one meant – he was always just so proud of himself when he could work it into a conversation that we had a good laugh and moved on with our lives. He really is pretty groovy and comical sometimes.

The thought of “socks on a rooster” still always makes me smile, if only because of the mental image that always pops in my head. You just pictured a chicken wearing fuzzy socks, right? Me too. Never gets old. It elicits a mental giggle… and it gets me. Every. Time. In fact, I’m smiling as I type this.

For the longest time, my husband would give me that weird “I just don’t get you and your people” look when I too would get to say, “Looky there, just like socks on a rooster…” in just the perfect situation. While I was giving myself an internal high-five, he was thinking I was a little off my rocker. Not sayin’ he’s totally incorrect, but the satisfaction made the raised eyebrow totally worth it (For the record, I’ve even heard him use the rooster socks reference, which is awesome. And a riot. I’m rubbing off on him. And there’s nothing he can do about it.)

Back to the roosters and their socks. I finally ran across this one day, and it made perfect sense to me.

chickensocks

You’re giggling right now, aren’t you?

 

My ah-ha moment! So I still love Dad’s interpretation of the saying, which actually probably was learned from my Gram… hilarious in her own right. It IS at least partially about the right fit when you didn’t think you’d fit at all.

But there’s the neat-o factor too. Don’t we all want to be unique and neat and wonderful and find just the right fit? Yep, we do.

It’s about who we are – in business terms, especially in the world of advertising where I spend my days, it would be our unique selling proposition – our one thing… the thing that makes us special and worthy of consideration. We all have it – it’s a matter of tapping into it, embracing it, and putting it out there in just the right way. It’s getting that individual message to just the right people – the people who are going to think what you have to offer fits the bill like – well, socks on a rooster.

For my sister and me, the Thelma and Louise of aspiring authors, we each like to think the other has neatness for days… with plenty to spare. And we dream of the day when everyone else gets on board with our neater-than-chicken-socks story.