Has the US gone ‘Coco’?

If I believed in reincarnation, I would seriously wonder about the past life of our puppy. 

Coco, who originated from two litters born at the same time which were amalgamated into one big mass of dogs; one of eleven, has a zest for life that is incorrigible.  So aside from sleeping in between pillows in the most bizarre and strange positions, hiding his head in the corner when he’s scared (I assume those to be reminiscent of the pile of puppies from whence he came), burrowing in mud immediately following his bath, chewing on his own foot and seeking out the garden sprinkler on a regular basis...   

 

He has a fascination for socks and underwear that he steals from the laundry basket and hides in the cushions of the sofa...

Yes, I know..., a huge embarrassing moment just waiting to happen.  Can’t wait until I have guests in my house sitting on my sofa and voila, behold, in lieu of a napkin, we have... 

Needless to say he has some seriously dodgy, doggy proclivities. 

But this is not new; we all seem to have taken a little baggage from our past.  The US election results were announced first week of November and I cannot help but wonder if the results aren’t remnant of some unearthed, age-old skeletons that many would prefer remain forgotten.   

For two weeks ago a country that is supposed to be the watchdog of democracy, freedom and prosperity (to those of us situated in floundering democracies), demonstrated that instead of constructive vision and integrity, racism and sexism now gets you to one of the most powerful positions in the world; a position that is ironically supposed to uphold the value of humanity. 

A serious bone of contention, I’d say. 

The scary part is: that when you fail to deal with your past, it usually destroys your future. 

Talk to us, we know... it’s a pursuit of objectives SA is also busy with.  Corruption, violence, racism,... we too are working hard to pee on the hard earned progress made under the constructive leadership of the likes of former SA President Nelson Mandela.    

     

I just hope that for the sake of Americans and the rest of the world, US President Elect Trump’s vision is to truly make America great and not to be the biggest dog with the largest bone at the expense of the United States and the rest of the world. 

For if destructive ideology got him into the white house, I for one, seriously have my doubts as to his intention to be America’s knight in shining armor rather than the dog who bares his teeth at everyone else... Grrrr. 

I believe Trump’s election to office is a reflection of something called ‘mathematical visioning’ ¹ which is a calculated reflection of what the [almost] majority have been thinking but not saying aloud.  But thanks to a secret ballot, that voice has now been heard. 

Unfortunately sometimes, it really is a good idea to hide your dirty laundry, not air it out in public. 

And hopefully in a hiding place a little more strategic than Coco’s. 

For according to Trump’s account of the American reality, many Americans may find themselves falling short of Trump’s definition of ‘American’... in his quest to restore “law and order,” “secure borders “ and provide “protection from terrorism.” 

And Barack, sorry, US President Barack Obama, you might be one of them.  But then again, since you have accumulated a large pile of bones, maybe you can stay... 

Needless to say, Trump has clearly communicated his intention to do more ‘sniffing around’. 

Destructive leaders like to brand themselves as the ‘solution in times of trouble’ and ‘the only one who can’ and who leverage fear and control as opposed to influence as the stick of change and tell you that it’s the best thing you can do ‘for your children’. 

All I can say is that from a leadership perspective; beware the lone wolf. 

So like Coco, who exhibits no tact and no consideration as to the consequences of his actions, we find that for the sake of all those involved and in a proactive effort to avoid the potential embarrassment he can cause, he, like tyranny, sometimes requires a leash.

¹ Hamburger, Yair Amichai. (2000) Mathematical Leadership Vision.  The Journal of Psychology. 134(6), 601-611. 

Those People Again...

I am looking for those people. 

You know; ‘those ones.’

 

The ones that everyone seems to know about; but nobody actually knows.  You know; those people.  Surely somebody should know someone.  You hear about them all the time.  Always less sophisticated than the people who talk about them.  Always never like us.  They are all the same.  Those ones.  

Maybe its time to be asking... does anybody have something new to say?  Does somebody actually know what they are talking about? 

   

So I am looking for those ones to find out if it is true.  Could there really be a population of people who are really all the same?  Not like ‘my own people’ to whom the grace of individuality has been extended to explain away our own ‘bad apples’.  You know; ‘those ones’.  “They’re all like that.”   

And so when asking around if anyone knows anyone from ‘those ones.’  The answer is always the same.  ‘No, we don’t actually visit those ones.  We don’t communicate.  We don’t get along.  We don’t talk.  We don’t even associate with those ones.  And so if you don’t talk, communicate, get along or associate for that matter, I think it is most reasonable to be asking - how is it that you think you know so much about those ones that you actually do not know? 

Not sure about you..., but I am confused.

My diversity of life experience has destroyed any illusion that I can claim to know anything about ‘those ones’.  I’ve lived in too many places; have too many people I care about, crossed to many cultures to know that ‘those ones’ are always very much like me.  That ‘those ones’ are me and I am ‘those.’  And any of ‘those’ are likely to be in my direct family or circle of friends. 

The luxury of ignorance is not in my corner on this one.  As soon as someone starts talking about ‘those ones,’ I know they don’t know what they’re talking about.  What becomes abundantly apparent is that they know so little about their own humanity that they can look at other people and convince themselves that they have nothing in common.  They’re not like them.  They’re better.  That is a lie.  It is really too bad that they’re simply human too and are unaware.   

      

And as long as we continue to dialogue about ‘us’ and ‘them’, we lose touch with our humanity and grieve our Creator.  

And so while I continue to hear so much about ‘those ones’, about how they are and what they do, for the life of me, I cannot seem to figure out, who the hell are “those people” anyway?

Does anyone actually know them?

- END -

Listen Dumbo, Get out of my Face - A Call for an Increase in Common Sense

I recently sent through a strategy document that focused on social development and received a very polite, ‘thank you very much but we don’t think you are qualified to advise’.  That’s the politically correct version, of “Listen Dumbo, get out of my face”.  The funny thing about strategy is that it needs to address the question at hand and I think the biggest and most common mistake that we make is asking the wrong questions and as a result; we define the issue incorrectly. 

It would appear that I continue to have some of my least intelligent conversations with experts. 

I dread a conversation with ‘experts’.  

I swear that something must happen after someone is handed their PhD papers.  The brain goes on leave or something.  They are the quickest to power play and seldom answer my questions (my assumption is that their expertise has run out – their assumption is that I am simply so not on their level).  Whatever the cause, it seems almost impossible to teach an ‘expert’ anything or get a straight answer.    

  

My latest conversation with a so called ‘expert’ went something like this;

“So let me understand this, you want to increase the regulation and policy on a trade that is already illegal”...

“Yes.  In order to better manage the current situation we need to focus on the policy, legal and judiciary aspects of the trade.” 

“Okay, but the trade is already illegal and statistics indicate that this intervention strategy has had little to no effect to date.  So the fact that the trade continues means that the people who are engaged in trading have little to no regard for the law, which would suggest that making more laws will have little to no impact... Thus the definition of ‘illegal’...”

The dialogue degenerated rapidly from there.  Am I the only one who thinks that making more laws to manage people who simply disregard law as a waste of time, money and effort?  Why is it that when ‘an expert’ is not able to answer your questions your qualifications and title becomes automatically relevant.  

      

One of the biggest questions that is seldom asked is:  Is it working?  Are we getting the results that we are looking for?  What is the bottom line or cause (politically correct for ‘why’?)?  

  

And so having this experience regularly has highlighted another question; what makes somebody qualified?  Somebody with experience...  Somebody with knowledge...  Somebody with an education in the field...? 

These so called ‘experts’ that we hold in high esteem are often well equipped with knowledge.  They hold a piece of paper which they earned by researching a subject that is narrow in focus and makes them a specialist in a very specific field; a ‘paper’ which somehow in today’s society places them as an ‘expert’ in some field.  But somehow, possessing knowledge and the application of knowledge seem to be different activities all together.    

There are a few more things I think should be asked of someone when holding ‘experts’ in high esteem and those are:  What is their track record?  Do they hold a stake in the outcomes that are being sought?  How do they weigh the significance of result and process?  (Working hard and producing nothing, nor should getting the results at all costs be held in high esteem)  What are their intentions insofar as contributing to the matter at hand?  Do they actually care to use their expertise in a way that contributes positively to society and achieve the results that have been prioritised?   

When a position held or expertise sought is to attain money and power... whatever the decisions, the outcomes will generally not be ones that will benefit the majority. 

This way of thinking is not new and is bound to reoccur in a society that holds in high esteem; money, position and power.

 

Another conversation of note with an ‘expert’ concluded something like this...

“Please excuse my wife as she is just not that educated you see.”  A statement followed by a condescending little pat on her arm and a flicker of hurt on her face.

 

                A statement said to the same wife who raised his children while he pursued his PhD.  A statement to the same women who got pregnant in high school with the same man and who paid her in dues in lost opportunity and a life time spent with a man who now looks down at her.  A woman who, even though he is the reason why she never had the opportunity to pursue her own dreams, is the reason he has a PhD today. 

“Yes, there we agree.  There is a fool in the room.  But it’s just not your wife” I think to myself.

Thus, my conclusion on the matter is quite simple.  There is a big difference between knowledge and wisdom and an educated fool is simply that: a fool with a bunch of papers. 

That being said, isn’t it time we start addressing the issues and the outcomes?  

Please!?!

...

- END - 

 

The Need to Know Who... Well sort-of!

 ‘Hey, whose going to be the leader if you’re leaving,’ one of the girls called anxiously as her pigtails bounced.  My daughter at age seven diligently appointed a leader and climbed into the car ready to depart from school while I stifle a smile, my desire to laugh out loud and the urge to roll my eyes.  Not only did she have to make the decision, she already had a full five year plan on who was going to be the leader of their little primary school group of friends as they transitioned from grade one to grade five. 

A plan which she diligently followed as she got older and threw her support behind whomever was allocated ‘the leader’ for that particular year.  A plan which regularly provided me with high levels of amusement as she faithfully talked about the leader over the years not realising that she was orchestrating the dynamics of the group from the back. 

A plan that still makes me chuckle to this day and I periodically remind her about. 
 
To her credit, she strove to be faithful and fair to all the members of the group; an endeavour that did make me somewhat proud of the person she is. 

When I started this blog, it was my hope that people would follow ideas and not the person behind the scenes and thus deliberately left my name out of the site.  And while I do understand the hesitancy..., a great deal of hesitancy, I would like to know why is it that we follow people we perceive to know because we simply recognise their face from some magazine, seen them somewhere, or admire their talents, or they hold a position of power, etc,

Or why is it we are much more willing to follow people who simply tell us what it is we would like to hear instead of the truth or what we need to hear. 

We seem content to settle for an illusion of knowing someone rather than an understanding of what that person stands for or represents.   

I worry about this concept of ‘follow...’  The word has come to represent a passive activity despite its active contribution towards some of the greatest human rights violations and atrocities in history.  Its passivity allows events to happen that never would have if people understood that following should essentially be an active activity.  An activity whereby one should continually evaluate the vision and merits of the person being followed and as a result, makes an active decision to put their support behind that person because they agree with what the person stands for and what they intend to achieve.   

And so the tendency to passively follow is perpetuating a language and a culture of power.  We follow people because of their monetary worth, beauty, status, position, or what we stand to gain by aligning ourselves with those who hold a degree of power due to circumstance; ... a circumstance subject to change. 

I, the chronic sceptic that I am, cannot imagine placing my support behind someone who has no vision of what they intend to achieve and who leverages their ‘power over’ instead of seeing value in anyone else... simply because they hold a position of power (for the moment).       

So rooted deeply in my cynicism, I am in search of a leader...  one who has a vision for this country.  Someone who holds fast to the principle that humanity has value by virtue of it being a common humanity; a leader whose moral compass is not shifted by the relativity of the time and who stands for something worth standing for and not the accumulation of personal wealth and power. 

A leader whose absence seems to be increasingly apparent...   

An absence that active followers and general citizens should become increasingly concerned about... because it is seldom leaders who pay for their mistakes, but rather the followers who take the brunt of their leader’s poor decisions. 

Just ask those at Marikana...

 

 

 

 

Those Waves of Change

At the beginning of the year, I had four garden chairs and a table...

But it has been a rough year for garden furniture.  Well – my garden furniture anyways.  You see, the plastic table and two chairs were stolen about three months back, a feat which left two wooden chairs as they were unable to be hoisted over the fence in a hurry, as they were a little bit heavier than the plastic ones.  Now plastic chairs are not usually high on the list of thievable items of choice, so imagine that those were not the initial target when the plan for theft was being hatched.  

That said, it left me with two chairs, and I was thankful that they were the better quality items of the garden furniture.  The thankfulness stems from a South African tendency to always try and consider the worst. ‘Wow, sorry about your _________ (fill stolen item in blank), at least no one was hurt’ – standard encouragement, albeit absolute bullshit, to stifle the irritation of living in a high crime zone.  So that’s nice and all, but what about my chairs?

So like a well indoctrinated local, I was thankful until a few weeks back when the river came for a visit in the form of a flood ... So while the wooden furniture was too heavy to hoist..., the same wooden furniture floats!

And my thankfulness somewhat dissipated ... 

But while sloshing through the rubble in my goulashes, I found one of my chairs tangled up in the vegetation of the neighbour’s yard, covered with mud...  and there in the back of my mind the urge to be thankful begins to show signs of life...  But no, it was immediately squashed and a basic life question... at what point do we bury the urge for gratitude and replace it with a life draining cynicism that seems to serve the embittered so well? 

The irony of life is that disaster and opportunity are often presented as the flip sides of the same coin.  Disaster is the presentation of a situation in which change is thrust upon people, unasked for and usually unwanted – but generally unavoidable. 

The question is – are we in tune enough to recognise the presentation of opportunity in the midst of it or are we too focused on what we had and the desire to go back to where we come from?  Sadly, embitterment only ensures that the coin is never flipped over.

The problem with going back is that we are assuming that there a space for the ‘back’ in the future; which by its very nature should sound the alarm bells of impossibility in the depths of rational thinking. 

But as human beings we tend to be less then rational and emotionally carry a desire to retreat to a time in which we felt ‘safe’ or at least had an illusion of agency and influence in our world.  

Ironically the life journey, no matter to what point, always begins at its present moment.  That said; I cannot help but wish for the time when the complex boundary walls were once intact as we wait with consternation the outcomes of insurance claims which seem to be taking longer than necessary...

In the mean time, it should be acknowledged that it took the river about an hour to demolish over 200m of infrastructure, a feat which will take probably about six months to recover from.        

So on the flip side of the disaster coin, there is usually opportunity.  It is just that one needs to have the courage to turn the coin over and consider the other side.    

Thus, for the moment, all I can do is simply relax with a good cup of coffee and a clean garden chair while I contemplate what could have been, but wasn’t, in the midst of broken walls, muck, make shift fences, razor wire and plants that are struggling to recover from their unanticipated mud bath.

And when that has been fully considered, take some time to deliberate what opportunity it may provide to change things that we would have been unable to change, if all was intact as it once was...

And six months from now, when all has been rebuilt better than before, I might even be thankful. 

Until then, that niggling gratitude will have to be kept to a bare minimum while I am forced to start each day with the walls down, until that too, changes. 

 

 

New Year Ramblings

It was a completely new year before I started a new ‘how hard can it be’ project. 

I am so proud of my restraint (my daughter just rolled her eyes). 

The fact that it was less than ten days is irrelevant as far as I am concerned.  The change in date indicates a high level of restraint on the change addict’s part and that is the story we will be sticking to for the moment. 

But if we were to confess our sins at the beginning of the year, the shiny bamboo floor got to me okay... 

And I learned that when one is dizzy, it’s generally not a good idea to be up on a ladder; a condition that was probably a direct result of some serious over exposure to fumes.   

As a result, I have a good bruise on my arm and a huge one on my hip that sort of resembles a huge hickey gone wrong administered by an enormous giant with protruding teeth and is a gruesome shade of plum purple with bits of torn flesh.

But that said; I still do like things that are shiny... 

the potential of something (or someone) to be more than what it is (they are) now...   

And I learned something quite serious about change in the process. 

1.       Change can be painful. 

2.       Change requires a purposeful course of action and an exertion of concentrated and focused energy on the part of somebody...

3.       Things will always get worse before they get better.

4.       Change always starts from where you are now.   

That said, in the midst of New Year’s aspirations and good ideas, perhaps one should hold the goals and ambitions against the criteria listed above and consider the resolution in terms of action and energy instead of results. 

Action and energy are in one’s control, results may be subject to a whole other list of variables.  That said; let’s make it a year of positive change!   

I wish you all God’s richest blessings in 2015! 

 

Renovations – how hard can it be?

 
So this past week, I wondered if it might be possible to divorce myself.

I have this symptom which is likely a by-product of being diagnosed with a change addiction that regularly rears its head and it’s called the ‘how hard can it be’ syndrome. 

Perhaps some of you also suffer from this and usually you find out in the middle of a ‘little’ experiment that it appears to be a ‘little harder than anticipated’ when you are in way to deep to undo what has already been done and rethink the process. 

A conclusion that was drawn when my kitchen was so dirty it looked like the sand dunes of Namibia due to the high levels of saw dust that had seeped into every nook and cranny and was now definitely not fit for food preparation of any sorts and the kettle needed to be unearthed by qualified archaeologists and sterilised before every usage.  And the ankle deep sawdust in the upstairs bathroom, which was before all my bright ideas once cream in colour, now needed industrial equipment for a full on evacuation and removal operation, not to mention the state of the rooms actually undergoing renovations. 

And I wondered to myself if this might be a good time to move. 

Because if it were anyone besides myself turning my house into that sort of state, it would be definitely grounds for divorce or at minimum a prolonged stay at a nearby hotel, alone. 

Except I was the problem in this case and one can hardly run away from oneself albeit, I am sure many have tried. 

My daughter must have been in the process of Googling ‘how to replace your mom’ or ‘ways to put your mother on Ritalin without her knowing’.  I cannot help but wonder if the rights of children are regularly violated due to the genetic lotto that all children are subjected to because they are simply not in a position to trade in their parents; poor things.            

See the story is simple, it happened when I found out that the company would not be paying my agreed salary (that is another blog, once I have found the amusement in that), and I concluded that the carpet in some of the rooms might be contributing toward some of the ill health we have been experiencing the past few months and so decided to pull it out and put in a hardwood floor.

I mean, how hard can it be? 

Well for starters it was the carpet’s intention to be a permanent fixture in the house, installed back in the days when things were done properly to industrial proportions.  Aside from the glue that securely ensured that a portion of the screed underneath came with it, the underlay, due to simple touch, released a cloud of something that resembled pictures of biological warfare they show to primary school children.  So armed with a dust mask and gloves, I went to battle.  A few hours in, I took to calling in reinforcements all of whom were currently and conveniently unavailable.  Which is what tends to happen when you do not have a spouse of your own that you can persuasively convince to do your dirty work and have to rely on a borrowed muscle power every now and then.          

A few hours later, nearly suffering from excess exhaustion, the carpet was on its way out the door.  But the door in my house is of course, as anticipated, not conveniently located.  It is through the hallway, down the stairs into the dining room, through the entrance hall and out the front door.  A process which in an open plan house, has just spread a cloud of hazardess dust through every single room in the house; an airborne haze which took a good couple of hours to settle.   

And underneath the carpet, was a bright pink chemical stain.  More than ten years old, it still had the ability to colour plaster that was smeared over top of it and come to the surface.  It is scary what you can find in the process of undergoing renovations; a stain which in the state of my exhaustion brought on a highly destabilised emotional state; a stain which has been subsequently chipped out of the screed and removed.        

I then proceeded to bleach floors, swear at the smell and the glue scraping process, purchase bamboo flooring, swear at the price, put underlay, swear at the inability of it to lay flat, trim door frames, swear at broken blades in power tools, cut floor boards,  swear at the lack of tools in my house that are needed for this job, purchase tools, swear at the project creep as a result, use my kitchen counter as a work bench and cut it too, swear, nail in base boards and hit my fingers a few times, swear, varnish base boards, spill varnish, swear...  

I am sure you get the picture.  

I am still not finished with the work... but am now at least hoping that the room is dust and toxin free and our health can improve.

And so now while I am tackling the mountains of sawdust still in the upstairs bathroom to see if the cream colour of the bathroom is still intact after hours of the much needed excavation operation, I promise to convince myself that next time I ask the question of how hard can it be, I will explore the possibility that the answer to the question just might be; ‘damn difficult’, and not allow the gleaming new bamboo floor lure me into any future illusions about the process and potential of renovations. 

But once the dirt is gone... there are just no guarantees... that the change addict will remember any lessons learned. 

And who will wait just long enough to forget the process a little before she begins again ‘cause that bamboo floor looks sooo shiny... 

And like a crow that is attracted to shiny things, the shine with eventually win out.

 ‘Shiny.’ ‘Damn difficult.’ ‘Shiny.’ ‘Damn difficult.’ ‘Shiny.’ ‘Damn difficult.’ ‘Shiny’. ‘Difficult’. ‘Damn shiny.’  ‘Difficult.’  ‘Damn shiny.’  ‘Damn Shiny.’  ‘Damn Shiny.’   

That is what it means to be a true change addict.      

 

On Food Trucks and Frucks

These days, between work, study and parenting, I am generally doing very well if I know what day of the week it is and arrive home before 9:30pm.

And while writing crosses my mind once in a while, I have been extremely busy, studying change... I know, fancy that, the change addict, studying change. 

It has been so hectic; my daughter even informed me this week, that she would appreciate at least “one day of parenting” a week. 

If your children are requesting parenting, you know things are bad and your schedule is managing you, not the other way around and so I am counting down the days until my last exam in about two weeks time.  

That and I have also started a new project in the food truck industry which is adding to my schedule.

And while the industry is relatively large overseas, here locally, it has barely begun.  And I cannot help but wonder exactly how it will adjust to the South African market, or rather just how the South African market will adjust to it. 

In one of my previous positions much of my marketing work was to reposition an American social development concept for a South African market. 

You see, South Africans culturally are quite big on slang.

So you see, How are you in South African is ‘how’z it?’  In other country’s ‘how are you’ is ‘how are you’?

And hey my brother is “hey bru.” 

A washroom / restroom is referred to as a ‘loo’. 

That’s fine / cool is ‘sharp’.  It took me a long time to figure out what that was because the pronunciation was ‘shap’. 

Slang here tends to be highly economical in its usage of phonetics and generally efficient. 

Similarly there are eleven official languages and so if there are concepts that don’t quite translate, they simply become adopted, words like tsotsi (street savvy thug), lekker (tasty / great) to mention but a few. 

That said; it brings me a question.  What will be the street lingo be for food trucks?  I know; food trucks are food trucks.  But in what markets are they food trucks?  Not the SA market. 

I have my concerns about the language of food truck or mobile kitchen.  The streets will never adapt to lingo like that.  Mobile kitchen is simply too long, food truck conjures up images of a delivery truck with food and so generally the market will pick up on that and build an association.
So we explored a few ideas with my daughter (on my one day of parenting this week) and made a few suggestions.  One that we liked and thought had some potential was mobicat which was short for mobile catering unit, not bad - but already a brand, or koscaddy (kos is food in Afrikaans), not bad but maybe a little long.  Has a nice ring to it though.  And while we explored a few more options, have actually not come to a conclusion on the matter.

That said we do have some concerns. Knowing that ‘how are you’ is ‘how’z it’ and ‘hey my brother’ is ‘hey bru’, we are concerned that the shortened version of food truck...          

I am not so sure I would like to tell people I work in the frucking industry.  Aside from the standard reply to that statement which would be; ‘Sweetheart, we all work in frucking industries’, I myself might have the urge to ask someone working in the frucking industry whether an average day at work is spent vertically or horizontally? 

It has the sort of sound to it that might suggest most working time is spent on the back which would be a gross violation of reality. 

I mean, can’t you hear it.  ‘Where did you get that?’ ‘I got the burger from the fruck on the corner’.  

‘Well which fruck did you get it from, the one with wheels or the one wearing jeans with the chef’s hat? 

Not good people.  Not good at all. 

I cannot help but wonder why food trucks have less of a presence in Canada when in the US it is an enormous industry.  And the answer is simple.  They would be ‘FRUCKS’ there too.         

Because driving that thing through winter would be a mission and when it gets stuck on snow filled roads believe me, it would most definitely be a ‘Fruck’ and I am quite sure that the ‘food’ in ‘food truck’ has been adequately replaced with another adjective.  

That said, ‘fruck’ is a word that would be easy to place into the market... no effort at all, and the entertainment value is somewhat high level... 

But as a parent, I must conclude that it’s just not a good idea.  Because we will have created the excuse for children, who when accessing alternative adjectives for expression and emphasis, will tell us implicitly that:

‘I did not say what you think I said Mom,’ I said ‘Fruck’. 

‘You know, Fruck, short for F-O-O-O-O-D truck.  Hellooo... where you been, Ma?’  ‘Where you been?’

  

       

 

 

In Desperate Times - Bring on the Ritalin...

Okay, given the number of projects I start on a regular basis and the number of plans I have hidden up my sleeves at any given time, at some level I am sort of wondering if I should have been diagnosed with ADHD as a child. 

I even wonder if other people consider such possibilities...  Undiagnosed adult ADHD sufferers who never just quite knew what the issue was...   

So what I would like to know is whether Ritalin would enable me to continue to focus in a job that does the same thing over and over and over and over again?  Because even the previous four 'overs' are enough to lead me in search of new information, yet alone the daily grind of doing the same thing day in and day out.   

I have also been told by a friend of mine that I don’t ‘stick to things’ (bastard – who are you to judge).  And I have been analysing the situation closely wondering if perhaps there might be some truth to that as I am in search of yet other opportunities in the workplace, yet again.  Yeah, I know;  nobody wants to hear it.   

And as such while there is some evidence that suggests that might be the case; the jury is still outstanding on the verdict although my tendency to go back to school (again) was met with my editor querying whether there are support groups for people like me.  ‘Information addicts are us’ or something.    

So in an effort to collect data on the situation I proceeded to do an online Adult ADHD test.  Now the test itself has a disclaimer that states ‘this is not a diagnostic tool’. 

That said, the test scales states that:

If you scored 34 & up... You may have symptoms of Adult ADHD.

My score: 41.  (http://psychcentral.com/cgi-bin/addquiz.cgi) 

 – Yep there it is... as everyone close to me has probably suspected for a very long time.   

Now before I delve into the implications of that diagnostic, I do need to briefly reflect on the positioning and potential bias of some of the questions.  One of which refers to whether one gets irritated while waiting in a queue.  Except that the test is not South African and so it states ‘waiting in line’. 

Unfortunately, in a country that prioritizes customer service, this may be an indication, but nobody who ever goes to a bank on a weekend at month end in South Africa comes out with the same blood pressure they went in with.  You see, here, instead increasing the speed of customer service, we put chairs and television sets to entertain the queue while they wait.  Like watching the third rerun of some dated television show / sports programme is going to disguise the irritation that an hour and a half has pasted while you were waiting in line. 

Thus I have concluded that those departing with ‘no irritation’, probably have ‘no pulse.’ 

Does that then mean we have a whole country with high levels of ADHD?  I doubt it.  Wide spread lousy customer service - maybe.   

Truth be told, I wonder how many kids diagnosed with ADHD just process information differently. 

From experience, information I receive needs to have a use and a purpose and fit into information already in my brain.  It also gets rewritten in a different format (implications, importance, etc.) before storing, – into what I deem to be, ‘a more useable format J’. Thus, yes, there is a lot of noise and static in my brain.  That said; I struggle to reproduce exactly what someone else has done and said, a characteristic which has shown up in my school marks my entire life – especially in an environment where regurgitation is considered more desirable than critical thinking.  And so I find memorisation to be extremely difficult, but critical thinking and strategy come much easier.      

Thus, I will need to delve into my mind and see how far the jury is in the diagnostic as there appears to be substantial evidence both for and against...        

Upon an analysis of the evidence, I may be inclined to allow myself to be diagnosed as suffering from an information compulsion, disorganised, variety obsessed, and a change addict, etc., but would to prefer to leave my brain free of drugs that will force it to process information like most other people do even if it might improve my memory – and there are days I feel like I need that - like when I am looking for my keys that are in my hand..    

That said, I am somewhat inclined to consider seriously the diagnosis of ‘ADHD’.  I think it’s dangerous to put children into a box that will enable them to reason away internally whatever weaknesses they may have and maybe even force them to change the way their brain processes information.  PS – one of my degrees (yes, complete... why are you asking) is in psychology.

My recommendation with the luxury of hindsight would be to consider making the environment as stable and predictable as possible for these children who have high levels of internal chaos.  And I would urge parents to seriously consider the implication of giving children learning medications.  I am not saying don’t do it, but urge you to look seriously at the matter and take into account possible alternatives.        

I was the kid who would be highly likely to be diagnosed with ADHD in today’s society.  A diagnosis that I was never given over even tested for.  Thankfully I grew up in a relatively structured and predictable environment; enough to give me some balance to my internal chaos.  And so despite of exhibiting many of the ADHD symptoms, I have come to the conclusion that the score of 41 should be ‘shoved’. 

What usage would it serve me aside from giving me a medical reason why ‘I can’t...?     

As a result, I am forced to live with a mind that whose internal jury system is able to hang itself and intent on a continual quest for new information.  A mind I often wish came with an off switch. (Ritalin perhaps?)  Note to self - consider for further exploration. 

I suppose it just might be one of those perils of being a change addict because nothing will change if we all think alike...

 

Sprinkled with Paranoia

I have been struggling a little bit with my car that past few weeks.  And while sometimes you wish car repairs are one of those things you could post-pone doing, they sort of have a way of ensuring they become urgent. 

It’s annoying really.  The damn thing just stops. 

So mine was on the verge of doing just that when I took it in for repairs.  The way I saw it was that either I put holes in the bottom and we could propel it Flintstone style, or I needed to find some mechanical assistance.  And after weighing my options, the pro’s and cons, i.e. no gym membership needed, less petrol costs, etc., I decided that mechanical assistance is probably best.       

Having taken in my car previously for a disk replacement, I took it to the same place, not sure if they do clutch replacement or not.  I drive in and roll down my window to ask. 

One of the sales people comes to my car and asks if he can help and in response to my query replies,

“No, we normally do not do clutch replacement, but ‘don’t worry, we can make a plan”.  (I can see that the motivation to ‘make a plan’ is clearly a result of this man liking what he sees.  God bless those who make hair dye, make-up, spanx and booster bras.  Heaven knows what I am going to do when my blessed age of 29 gradually creeps up).    

The statement ‘don’t worry’ is really an indication that there are things you should be worrying about but are being asked to make the deliberate choice not too.  And that alone, is usually reason enough to worry! 

The ‘making of a plan’ is infamous for just that.  It is as it sounds.  People organise, and make a plan.  And the plan is, aside from the paper with pictures of dead presidents, a paperless transaction.  

Experience has taught me that with car repairs, it really does not matter how business gets done, because someone is about to be screwed. It was my hope and prayer that it wasn’t going to be me this time.          

Not faced with an infinite amount of options (my car will not go far), I submit to ‘the plan’.   

A few hours later, after some price negotiation, which is now about 60% of the original quotation, they need cash to “purchase the parts”. 

Internal alarm bells sound.  ‘Oh, hell no.  My car and cash?  Sounds like a rat.’     

A request, to which I asked if they could not purchase the parts and I reimburse them? 

Besides, how far am I going to go if they have my car, out of the two of us, they were sitting with the balance of power.  An agreement to which they originally agreed and then reneged and I needed to come up with at least half, an amount to which they undertook to finance the balance.

I walk back to the workshop, cash in hand revisiting the process in my head and examining myself for errors of judgement and checking my internal stupidity barometer...  It is now 4pm and the car, is now laying in about four hundred pieces; a sight at which my stomach turned and an obvious indication that it is much too late to change my mind.  

Not having transport, the ‘garage’ arranges for a car for me.                

My ‘courtesy car’ is the first guy’s personal car, a 2004, royal blue Corsa lite.  Not a luxury car by any stretch of the imagination, but hey, a car is a car and they are sitting with my car, in 400 pieces, no paperwork and cash.  I need to have my head examined.  At least my having a car (albeit a poor trade off), is a small consolation that they are somewhat serious about fixing my car, so I tell myself.       

So I climb in and prepare to depart.  The car’s gear shift where the gear indicators had been rubbed off with time and so the first exercise was to establish exactly where reverse was.  Incidentally the car also brought to my attention that power steering is a luxury. 

After some effort I manage and pull myself into traffic.  I am acutely aware that I am putting on the windshield wipers instead of the signal lights when suddenly I am jerked backwards.  I am now driving from the back seat instead of the front; a position from which I am no longer able to reach the pedals thanks to the sudden collapse of the seatback.  In a state of heighten alertness (code for full on panic), I pull desperately on the steering wheel shifting myself forward enough to access the foot petals and slam on the brakes before the rapidly approaching red light.  My heart pounding, I manage to stop the car and attempt to get the seat back to return to its upright position. 

A whole lot of drama for a simple half a block of progress.      

Yes, I am missing my car even more now.  And an FYI, seatbelts are entirely useless when there is no seat back.        

All in all, I manage to arrive home safely with only two additional terrifying visits to the back seat; holding on desperately to hope established on the promise that the car would be fixed yet this evening.  

When it’s ready “we will call you”, they had promised.

But by six pm, I still had no telephone call and now I am beginning to wonder if I had not inadvertently purchased the petrol to take my car to Mozambique for a permanent holiday on the coast – which wouldn’t be so bad if I were in it...  assuming of course that ‘in it’ would imply at minimum, sitting comfortably in the driver’s seat and not tucked in the boot (trunk). 

Once again, I find myself revisiting my decision making processes for errors of judgement and decide that perhaps I need to drive back to the garage and check whether my car is still there (I mean – because after all I will be able to something about it if it isn’t-haha). 

So I climb back into my courtesy chariot and aside from the automated front to back seat transfer mechanism, I also do not have headlights that actually work and it is already dark outside.  I drive back to the garage... periodically flashed by oncoming traffic – the polite way of saying, “turn on your lights you moron” -  with only one trip to the back seat this time. 

I arrive at the garage to find that the building has been locked up.  The side gate is still open and one ‘back business’ is still busy, but not the one where my car is located.  The good news: my car is still there, albeit with no front tires.  It does however look as though it is in a few less pieces than my last visit, but it does not look like it has any intention of being returned to me yet this evening; a sight which causes some irritation.        

On my way again, I call and enquire whether my car will still be fixed yet today.  I will check and phone you back, he tells me. 

The phone remains silent. 

I still have no evidence that my car is there or had been there in the event that someone drives it away.  

‘I should have taken a picture’! I think to myself more irritated.        

I go back, this time with a friend, angry with myself for not thinking of taking a picture the first time around. 

It’s been about 30 minutes since I left.  It’s now closed.  Locked up tight.  I estimate the time gap and assume that my car must still be there. We travel around to the back and peak over the boundary fence. 

Yes it has reached the full height of madness , a security guard is walking over to check ‘what in hell we are doing’.  We ignore him.     

The car is there.  Its bonnet open and front tires still off; a sight which this time causes relief.       

I take a picture between the barbed wire attached to the top of the boundary fence as ‘evidence’ if needed, that my car really ‘was there’.  Just in case. 

That night, I put myself to bed and sink into an uneasy sleep. 

The next morning I wake up and arrive at the garage as soon as I am able, the complimentary Corsa keeping me in the front seat the whole way this time.        

And there she was.  My car.  All fixed up, in one piece and ready to go; running like new.    

I breathed a sigh of relief, said a prayer of thanks and paid the balance. 

For a change, it’s a happy ending, but I am well aware that it could have been otherwise. 

I cannot help but wonder if more happy endings such as this one would soon start to change our expectations and perceptions.  It may even significantly contribute towards a reduction in paranoia. 

But that, I suppose, is entirely up to us.