Getting to know my shadow

“Control freak..!! Control freak..!!”

Oh, no. Was I doing it again?

I am finding out that I’m not the person I always thought I was. All my life, if you’d asked me to describe myself, I’d tell you I was a laid back, easy going guy. Live and let live. Do your own thing. Chill out, man.

You get the picture.

Sadly, as I’ve been doing a little introspection over the last little while, I’ve noticed that I can actually be rather inflexible and controlling with other people. I seem to have a need to micromanage. Sometimes… OK, most of the time. (All the time…?)

How can this be? How can I not have noticed all my life?

I was listening to life coach Debbie Ford on a radio show last week. She was explaining about a person’s shadow side – that dark side of us that we don’t really want to be, the part of us we don’t want other people to see, the part of us with all those buttons that other people push and drive us crazy. So what do we do? We suppress that part of us and deny that it even exists.

Now, this shadow side is not necessarily evil. It’s made up of those parts of our character that were always discouraged, about which we were (or still are) teased. Every family has its shadow side – the things you were told you shouldn’t be: noisy, artistic, blue collar. As we’re growing up, we pick up these rules unconsciously and firmly tuck away any “wrong” feelings we might have, until we end up confused and not even knowing ourselves.

The problem is that this hidden dark side insists on coming out. (Ususally at the most inopportune time.)  It just covers up your eyes, so most of the time you don’t see it. You think you are acting quite differently from the way you really are. When you do notice, it drives you crazy.

You might say you don’t want to be like your parents. Then you hate it when recognize those aspects in your life – and go ballistic when you see your kids do it.

Suppress it as much as you like, but those characteristics will pop up like submerged beach balls. Rage, crusade against them, and one day, shloop, those beach balls will pop up out of the water and you’ll act them out. This has been the downfall of many a powerful person.

Anything you don’t embrace will end up controlling you. So what to do? Find your shadow side and get to know it.

How do you do that? Here’s a few ideas:

- pick one of your positive traits and look for the opposite
- do you see irritating characteristics in others? Maybe that’s you? (“You spot it, you got it.”)
- identify what others are “always” doing to you. (“Everyone is always trying to control me.”) and see if that’s something you’re doing
what makes you angry? Do you do that?
- what things do you beat yourself up for? (Don’t make excuses, like “I’m just trying to be practical.”)

Then what?

Give voice to your those inside selves. Writing or journaling is a good way of going about it.

Just remember, this is human and happens to all of us.

Me? I’ll keep blogging. And go back to doing morning pages.

How about you?

Too, too frugal

OK, I know. This time I’ve gone too far.

I mean, everyone wants to save a buck, but this time I think I’ve taken it to an extreme: I have found to make my disposable razors last longer. How? By sharpening them.

No, wait. Don’t leave yet. This system actually works. It’s really easy. And it’s free.

Remember those old black-and-white movies with a scene in the barber shop. The barber would lather up the guy in the chair for a shave. Then he’d take out his straight razor. (I just always knew he was going to dispatch the guy in the chair. I could never expose my throat to some cold-blooded stranger with a straight razor. But I’m getting off topic.) But before he started shaving, he’d run the razor back and forth along a flexible strip of leather, known as a strop. You’d usually see it hanging on or near the chair.

Zip-zap-zip-zap-zip-zap-zip-zap.

This diversion of a few seconds before the shave makes an amazing difference to the sharpness of the blade. If you thought that blade was sharp before, you’d be amazed how sharp it could be after just a few trips along the strop, and how much smoother the resulting shave would be.

It turns out that this principle works on more than straight razors and with materials other than leather. Canvas. Denim.

Hey, my jeans are denim. And a few strokes along the fabric (moving in the non-cutting direction), first one way and then the other, restores a keen edge to the blade.

So, it’s not so much that I’m trying to squeak an extra month or two of use out of my 10¢ disposable razor. It is a handy trick to know when you’re at the campground, have just pulled your razor out of your kit and, as you start to shave, realize you should have brought along a new razor. A few quick swipes (zip-zip-zap-zap) and you can finish your shave with more comfort.

As a long term cost-saving solution? Well, you get what you pay for.

Want more details and video instructions? Check out: http://lifehacker.com/5356529/extend-your-razors-life-with-a-pair-of-jeans

Sharing the Wisdom

My degrees are not hung on the wall here at home, nor do I have an office where I can prominently display them. I should put them up though. They’re quite “old school”. Traditional old english printing, hand lettered calligraphy. Not something that’s been spewed out of a printer by the thousands.

I like to think, with all my formal education along with the natural wisdom I have gained through my years of worldly experience, that I can be a resource to my kids as they go through college and university, that I can offer a depth of insight they have not had the opportunity to yet develop during their brief time in this world.

If I smoked a pipe, I could puff it and nod my head and off-handedly explain how the scientific and philosophical mysteries with which they are struggling all tie neatly together.

So it was this evening when my daughter approached me for help with her paper.

“Dad….  Can you help me with my hanging indents?”

Being Funemployed

Recently, I was taking a short break at the bus loop. There was still a few minutes left until I had to to pull my bus around and up to the stop. I was flipping through a discarded newspaper and decided to check out my horoscope. (Sometimes I’ll check out a few different ones so I can choose the one I like best.)

This one said simply,

Imagine being in the middle of a rat race, and feeling out of sync. If this is your reality, it’s time to change things.

I glanced out the jostling crowd waiting for me at the stop and the snarl of traffic I was about to plunge into. Sigh….

I tossed the paper aside and randomly opened up another one. “The Joys of Funemployment” teased the headline. It was an article about how some casualties of the crumbling economy are turning lost jobs and unemployment lines into a time of career reassessment and creation of creative businesses – a combination of work and fun: telecom employee to graphic designer, sales manger to jeweler, school administrator to baker. Funemployment.

What would I do if I were to stop working to pay the bills to work at something… fun?

I remember having a run-away-from-home impulse when I saw a hand-lettered sign in the window of the bakery on Granville Island. Wanted: Baker’s helper. It was an all night shift. I’d most likely spend my time hefting huge bags of flour, and cleaning impossibly doughy equipment, but it still sounded like fun. At home, I’ll often bake bread as way to relax. There’s a magic to how a crusty loaf comes together and a special ambience to a workspace dusty with flour and cornmeal.

I’m sure that’s also why my heart (but not my brain) brought me back several times to the ad for the small bakery for sale in the Kootenays – way out at the far end of a road that didn’t really go anywhere else other than the edge of the lake. I always wondered if people drove all the way out there to get their bread warm out of the oven, or if the loaves were delivered to town in an ancient bread truck with the Keep on Truckin’ guy painted on the side.

I thought back to some of the appealing, but off-the-wall, opportunites that have trotted in front of me in the past. There was the time that they were looking for a radio operator for an oceanographic ship mapping off the west coast of Africa. Or the RV tour company wanting campground hosts in Mexico. I’ve thought about being a special effects artist (Ray Harryhausen was my hero when I was in high school), a farrier, a writer of film scores, and restorer of old theatre pipe organs. I’ve considered being a photographer, working as a stained glass artist, and making custom convertible tops for trucks and boats. And that’s just a small portion of my list.

I’m going to start watching out for new ideas and opportunities and this time actually consider them as something I could really do instead of rejecting them out-of-hand as impractical and a shaky career move. Heck, I’ve already done the shaky thing, so I’m free to move out a bit more. Sure, the day-to-day reality might not be exactly what I imagined but I’ve run into a lot of people who are thriving by doing what they love.

* * *

Today I checked my horoscope again. It said,

You’re oozing with brilliant ideas lately. Instead of talking about them, act on them.

I must be on the right track.

Who will clean up the goopy mess?

To: Whoever took the pink basket with the Tide upside-down in it on top of the shelves in the laundry room:

It was a neatly lettered note, carefully placed in the middle of the kitchen table.

Did you not think that the Tide was in there upside down for a REASON?? Or notice the goop all over the bottom?

There is no getting away from anguish and exasperation (and worse) when you live in a home with a bunch of other people. Cleanup is a continual job. One or two dirty dishes quickly become a over-full sink. A pair of shoes slipped off at the door becomes a mountain of footwear in the entryway. Any delay in taking laundry out of the dryer results in a backlog of laundry and baskets. How can anyone even find an empty basket if they’re all being used to hold everyone else’s dirty laundry and are all lined up in a row in front of the washer? The temptation to fake it, borrow and switch is just too great. (Do you think anyone will notice?)

You can please clean up the goopy mess on top of the shelf because it’s disgusting. Thanks!

Responsibility is a heavy burden. Clean-up is hard work. Doing it is tantamount to admitting that you were the cause of the problem, the person at fault. (It’s out of sight. No one will know.)

PS Why did you ever take my basket in the first place???

Why aren’t there more baskets in the first place? Why does everyone else use up the detergent so that there’s none left for me? Why aren’t people there promptly to move clothes from basket to washer, washer to dryer, dryer to basket and then put them away so that the basket is available for other people to use? (Can’t you do your laundry on a day that you’re not working?)

And, by the way, why is the garbage so full that I can’t put anything more into it?

Spices of Life

The air smelled of pine trees, campfires, and BBQs. It was a sunny afternoon and we were camped at Cultus Lake, relaxing in the shade of a big cedar tree. Our friend John (actually a relative, I’m told, but I can never get these things straight) stuck his head around the corner of the motorhome and said, “Hey! Have you got any chili sauce?” Margaret peered over her sunglasses at him. “Would you prefer Mexican, Thai, Cajun, or Chinese?”

Our motorhome has never been short of interesting spices and condiments. (Or books, but that’s another story.) Margaret can rustle around under the kitchen sink for a few moments and come up with the most amazing and obscure flavourings. When I’m cooking at home and don’t have the proper ingredients, I’ll head out to the driveway, where we park the motorhome, and yes, there I’ll find what I want.

Which is why I was surprised when, one Christmas at Palm Springs as we were getting ready to roast a turkey, Margaret couldn’t find any sage or poultry seasoning. “I’ll use something else,” she said.

Aargh-h-h! Non-traditional stuffing? I couldn’t stand it. (OK. I admit it. I’m not as gastronomically adventurous as she is. I’m not completely inflexible, but there is a proper way to season turkey stuffing.) “Just give me a few minutes,” I said, grabbed a measuring cup, and headed out the door.

I started at the campsite next door and knocked confidently on the trailer door. “Can I borrow a cup of sage?” I asked the Hawaiian-shirted man who opened the door. I explained my dilemma, easing the confused expression on his face a little. After consulting with someone inside, he shook his head and sadly told me they couldn’t help. Well, not everyone on the road cooks like we do. Can’t expect miracles.

On to the next site. The couple sitting under the awning looked curiously at my empty measuring cup. “Sage? Do you have any?” I told my sad tale of the stuffing about to go wrong, the sumptuous but somehow incomplete dinner being prepared as we spoke. No luck. Nice folks, but what? Do all these people eat their turkey dinners at the diner?

It took a little bit of searching and cajoling but finally one woman came out of her gleaming white fifth-wheel trailer, beaming and clutching a bottle of poultry seasoning. “This is mostly sage,” she said. “You can have it. I have two of them.”

I can truly say that the dinner was fabulous and the stuffing was, well, perfect. I also realized that my sage-hunting expedition, while it had something to do with spices and seasoning, had much more to do with meeting our neighbours.

Each inquiry I made with the empty cup in my hand turned into a conversation about us and them, where we had come from and why we loved travelling, introductions to pets, useful hints and suggestions about the area and on-the-road travel, and an invitation to come back and visit. And in the days that followed, during our walks around the park, we had lots of new friends who came up to ask how our dinner turned out and to chat about good times.

Which is why it’s a good idea not to have absolutely everything you need along on your trip.

Buying the Electric Cockroach

A while ago I wrote about the clutter in my life. Have I conquered it? No-o-o.

Unfortunately, I love gadgets. I am always amazed at the products they sell on TV. They work so well. They are so-o-o easy to use. I always want to buy them all. I need them. I could order them all.

But there’s a problem. When I buy things, I need to fiddle with them before I buy them. Turn them over in my hands. Poke at the buttons. So, how could I buy something “not available in any store” that I can’t touch?

And then there’s allowing six weeks for delivery? What’s with that? I could walk to Twinkerville, Rhode Island, and back in that time. And then, what if I don’t like it? Sure I can get my money back but I’ve invested twice the price of the product in shipping costs. Nope. TV products just don’t work for me.

Then, one day, I saw a store selling “As Seen on TV” products – packed full of all those “not available in any store” products. Wow!

I came out with some really good, useful stuff. A power mini can opener, potato peeling gloves, an electric nail trimmer. I decided against the wallet that turns into a suitcase. There will be other days for shopping.

I was so excited. When I got home, I dragged out an armload of potatoes from the cooler. At 8 seconds each (like it promised on the package) I could have all these babies gleaming white in under 2 minutes. Scrub-a-dub-dub under the tap and…

Was there a switch I had to turn on? I scrubbed some more. And a little while longer. The potato was looking, well, maybe a little cleaner. I took off the gloves, opened the drawer, and took out my trusty peeler.

Next, it was time to open a can. I found a couple of AA batteries (it said, after all, batteries not included) and readied the can. All I had to do was hook the little guy onto the edge of the can, press the button, and stand back. The opener would twirl around the edge of the can, stop, and leave me with an open can and a lid with no sharp edges.

I hooked the opener onto the can, pressed the button, and… nothing. Maybe I hadn’t hooked it on right. A few attempts later, I hit the button, and the opener groaned into action. I watched as it haltingly made its way around, the non-cutting end waggling back and forth, looking for all the world like a giant white cocroach trying to figure out how to get into the can. It made it most of the way around and stopped. Wouldn’t budge. Wouldn’t come off the can.

After a lot of poking, yanking, and button-pushing, it made another full circuit of the can and I successfully removed the lid, with no sharp edges, as promised. Almost sliced off a finger on the razor sharp edge of the can, though.

Cute gadget, but I’m not sure I’ll always have 5 or 10 minutes to open a can. It’s still a great conversation piece. (“Hey. Look at this thing. Bet you can’t figure out what it is.”)

I’ll try out the nail trimmer when I get some C-cell batteries. I mean, who keeps C-cell batteries in their house. Really.

Suburban Lawn Guy — not!

My idea of a good time is sitting under the awning of my motorhome, checking out the view and tinkling the ice cubes in my glass.

In the suburbs, the idea of a good time is using up every spare minute of your weekend taking care of your lawn.

If you live in the suburbs you gotta have a good lawn. It’s expected. Unfortunately, even though I live in the suburb,  I’m not a good lawn guy. I don’t want to go out there and mow and cut and weed and aerate and fertilize and apply all those chemicals.

Sure, it would be nice to have having a lush, well manicured expanse of green around the house – one that’s the envy of all the area’s golf course owners. But a dream lawn like that takes time and expense – and I’m not inclined to spend either on my lawn.

So it grows as it will. Wild, crazy and full of all kinds of unrecognizable growth. I don’t usually cut it until the neighbours start gathering in front of the house at dusk, standing silently, torches flickering. OK, OK, I’ll cut it. Don’t they realize that my lawnmower still needs a tuneup?

Some parts of my yard have a little moss. Actually, so much moss that there isn’t a blade of grass to be seen anywhere. Maybe I can buy some concrete pagodas and turn the area into a Japanese garden.

No, I really don’t want to look after the lawn. That’s one reason I like RV parks. Some of them are rustic. I like that. Some of them have lawns. I like that too. But there, someone else looks after it. Not me. Hooray!

We once had a nice suburban home. Bought it brand spanking new. Had the landscapers put the back yard together. Our favourite neighbour came over and asked, “Why do you always go away in your trailer on the weekends? If you like your trailer so much, why don’t you sell your home?” So we did. Smartest thing I ever did.

But did I learn anything? Nope. Here we are back in the suburbs again. Nothing wrong with that. Except for the lawn. So what should I do? Maybe find a new owner for the place. Someone who owns a tuned-up, turbo-charged, automatic-shift lawnmower, who loves to use all those brushes, combs, and clippers necessary to tame those unruly blades of grass. Someone knowledgable about the contents of those bags of… stuff that has to be spread out over the lawn using those whirly-bladed doo-dads. Someone who sees it as a life-enhancing challenge to take on those strange leafy things that keep popping up out of the ground.

Then, maybe, I’ll go ask my neighbour, the one with the lawn straight out of Architectural Digest, if I can park my motorhome in his driveway and stay awhile.