Monthly Archives: March 2012

If you’re going to be a b%*$#, you better bring it

A couple of weeks ago, after I lamented the loss of Mr. Rogers, a  friend  took me to task.  He said, “Um you know there JB, you aren’t always, um. Nevermind.  Gentle.”

It’s true.  I can be a pushy, bossy, know-it-all.  I was, and probably always will be a Hermione.   Years of consulting didn’t help.  In the consulting biz, unwavering certainty that one’s opinion is fact, is a highly marketable skill.  A wise mentor once advised me that I could be hard on issues without being so hard on people.  It was a pivotal moment in my life.  Everyone thought I was a b%*$#, and I justified it by accomplishing things.  It was more than expedient, it was necessary.  Or was it?

Leaving the business world brought out my better side.  Without the pressure to perform, I don’t have to push so hard.  These days, most people think  I’m fairly personable.  Perky, even.  But that other side of me–my evil twin–is still there. I’m the product of a Chihuahua and a Malamute, lots of yap and endless determination.  And if it’s required I will bite the crap out of your ankle, even if you’re twice my size.  Seriously.

I can be a b%*$#.  I freely admit it. Lately, my evil twin has made several guest appearances.  I’m not an indiscriminate b%*$#, however. The hulk only emerges when provoked.  Here is what is triggers the green meanie in me:

  • Expecting great things to happen just because you show up.  Having a product for sale is not the same thing as selling a product.  Nothing is automatic. If you throw a party, but don’t send out invitations, you’ll have a lot of leftover cake and balloons.
  • Using protocol as a hammer.  If you want me to get committee approval every time I save your ass, it might take a while, especially if you don’t answer emails.
  • Doing the same thing that failed last time, while assuming it will work this time because you are in charge.  Failure is usually due to process, not people.  They didn’t fail, as much as they didn’t succeed at what mattered.  They didn’t know at the time.  You do.
  • Doing any of the above and being a b%*$# at the same time.
  • B%*$#ing about things not getting  done, dumping the problem on me, and then complaining I’m not being nice enough while I’m cleaning up the mess.

I’m not being nice?  Tough patootie.  Here’s my philosophy, If you’re going to be a b%*$#, you better bring it. Deliver the goods.  It’s not a justification, but it’s a start.

What do I do that’s so bad?  I ask for what I need.   I ask what is possible, and I expect  people to follow through on their agreements.

I also give.  I give lots of credit and appreciation when people come through.  I give them the benefit of the doubt when they don’t.  I give them the right to say, “I can’t do x”, when they follow it up with “but I can do y.”

If that’s a b%*$#, then I’ll wear the tiara.  Because when the chips are down, I know who they’re going to call.  And when they do I will bring it.

 

Words by J. B. Everett

Photograph by Adrienne Hintz

Excuses Village – the fastest growing American city

My son slept through his alarm again today.

In his defense, he does have to get up ridiculously early.  It’s completely counter to his biology.  In their teens, children become creatures of  darkness, like the vampires in Twilight, only slower moving and less sparkly.  That way they can text late into the night when we think they’re asleep.  It’s hard on the parental love life. When they’re too young to drive, they’re always home, and always awake.

Except for 5:15 a.m. when my son is supposed to be in the shower.

I usually go in his room and roust him out of bed, but my husband suggested I was enabling his behavior.  Why bother with an alarm when he can blame his mother for not getting him up on time?  So for Christmas, we got him a no-fail alarm clock.  Not only did it shriek, it had a pad that went under the mattress and shook the bed.  It didn’t take long for my son to disable the shrieking part, and the shaking part was soothing, like a magic fingers massage.  He didn’t even have to put in a quarter.

We parent from the school of natural consequences.  It’s fairly effective.  The problem with natural consequences in this case is that when he misses the bus, I have to drive him to school.  So we decided that if I had to get him up, he owed me an hour of labor during the weekend.  After all, if you come to work late, you have to make up for it with your free time.

He owed us two hours of labor by Wednesday.

When we hit hour three, he cried foul, insisting that his alarm clock never went off.  It’s not the first time we’ve heard that one.  In fact, he has a lot of excuses these days–the test was insanely hard, he didn’t hear me ask him to bring in the garbage cans, that his friend won’t answer his text asking which movie theater they are going to.  He’s beyond being the mayor of excuses village.  He has the keys to the kingdom.  When I talk to other parents, it seems like he’s in very good company.

It would be easy to blame it on being a teen, but as a society we aren’t good role models.  If lack of accountability was a disease, the WHO would call it a pandemic.  I can’t fix the world, only my corner of it.  So, it’s Accountability ‘R Us around here.

It sucks.

I can’t say “I ran out of time.”  I’ve already talked about this one.  It’s baloney, but it sounds so much nicer than, “I could have gone to CVS to get more Metamucil, but I got sucked into Angry Birds.  So sorry.” “I was going to fill the car, but the gas station was on the left, and traffic was really busy, and when I came back, I had to go home via Reston Parkway instead of Wiehle, and there isn’t a station on the way back,” becomes “It was cold, I didn’t want to stand outside, and I knew you’d do it for me since you’re driving the car next.”

Owning your decisions may be honorable, but it pisses people off.

So now what?  Good question.  I don’t have the answer.  I suppose, like many things in life, it’s about balance, and my yoga teacher says balance is all about core strength.  So I’ll stay strong in my center, and hope that my son finds his own.

And if he doesn’t, I’m sure it’s his Dad’s fault.

How do you walk the line?  Comment below!

Words by J. B. Everett

Photograph by Alan Cleaver