Living the dream

“So, what is it about Sorrento you like the best?” Asked my wife. We were having a glass of wine at a small place off the main road. My wife, the more social one of our partnership, had started to engage local residents to find out what they liked; what was good but not touristy

The owner, a woman who appeared to be in her late 40’s and whose name escapes me, is the third generation to run the restaurant. She was serving a unique plate of three different cheeses with a small bowl of honey in the middle.

“Each cheese is stronger, so start at the mild and work around to the strongest.” She said. She pointed at the strongest flavored cheese, “When you get to this one, dip it in the honey.” Not wishing to wait, we disregarded the instructions and started with the honey-strong cheese combination first and that is when my wife asked her the question.

“I don’t like the traffic.” She said after a moment’s thought and turned back to the kitchen. We hadn’t seen much traffic in Sorrento, at least not compared to the nightmare in Florence and what I was expecting a few days later in Rome. She was proud of being the third generation, engaging in conversation and seemed to enjoy her role. I pictured the traffic in Sorrento during the high season with the challenge of a single road serving a busy coast.

In contrast was the artist we met in San Gimignano in Tuscany. Trying to get a better view of the valley below, we met Carl, an artist. Born in Germany, Carl spent time in Italy with his parents and moved to New York to learn to paint, staying 10 years with an American wife. When the marriage broke down, he moved back to Italy, settling in the tiny town of San Gimignano where he has been for the last 35 years. He loves what he does and it shows in his paintings, one of which we purchased.

It was in Civita Bagnoregio, a small, almost deserted town on top of an outcrop that can only be reached by a land bridge, that we met a chef from Cleveland. He had been working in the area for 10 years and decided to work at a small restaurant in Civita Bagnoregio, surrounded by a valley that extended essentially the entire circumference of the town. When he first arrived, he found himself snowed in for a week, thankful he was trapped in a restaurant. After a short reprieve, he was snowed in again. And he loves it.

As I continue my search for work, I am reminded that being in an environment you love, doing work you love, makes for a pretty great life. Even if the traffic is a little bit challenging at times.

If I were you . . .

“Would you like to schedule a time for some feedback on your interview?” She said. Walking Molly the Doodle, I took a phone call and learned the position I interviewed for a month ago was going to someone else. At least the silence had ended.

“Yes, that would be great.” I replied trying to get something of value from the investment I had made. We set a date and I carried on with our walk, thinking about feedback. Did I really want it? Were they offering feedback because they felt there was something important they could share or were they letting me down easy? What did I want from the feedback? I decided to explore feedback in more detail.

I found three definitions for feedback. The first definition reads, “The return of part of the output of a machine, system, or circuit to the input in a way that affects its performance.” I think of this as the feedback you get while performing a task. When I kick the end of the bed with my toe, I get feedback in the form of pain, dance around, say a couple of naughty words and swear I will never do that again. The learning lasts until the following morning when I repeat the exercise.

You see this feedback in an interview by the way people respond to your answers and their body language. I try not to read too much into body language, but I was in an interview where the General Manager crossed his arms and his legs and leaned back in his chair and asked, “Do you have any questions?” I knew then and there that this was going nowhere. The next day I found out they had changed the entire job description and re-posted the job.

I try to read my audience in an interview, looking at each person as I talk trying to see what catches their attention. There seems to be an added dynamic in panel interviews where no one wants to express any emotion that may indicate to their partners an interest or leaning, perhaps wanting to know what the others are thinking before they reveal their own thoughts. I sometimes wonder if they are paying more attention to each other than me. All I can do is ask questions.

The second definition reads, “The high whistling or howling noise caused by feedback in a loudspeaker.” Well, this one made a lot of sense and I think is the most common. It usually starts with, “If I were you . . .” or, “here is what I would have done.” When directed towards me, all I hear are the aforementioned high whistling or howling noise.

Having said that, I am particularly good at delivering this kind of feedback. But if you can get feedback on your feedback, I found no one listening and started resisting the temptation. Oddly, this feedback is generally given when you haven’t asked for any.

The last definition is, “Comments in the form of opinions about and reactions to something, intended to provide useful information for future decisions and development.” The word opinion makes me realize there is little objectivity in feedback. It’s not about what someone has seen, but how someone has interpreted it, with a little judgment thrown in for good luck. Reactions are emotions and therefore subjective, too. This feedback is useful if you get into the same situation with the same people, but not necessarily valid for other circumstances.

“Hello?” I say answering the phone. It is time for my feedback session. I am disappointed that it is coming from someone in HR and not the hiring manager.

“On the positive side,” she says, “we only interview qualified individuals.” This makes my resume blush but provides no insight for improvement. It also begs the question of why you would interview candidates that are not qualified.

I can hear her shuffling through pages and get the feeling she is unprepared for the meeting. She provides some general feedback and I learn I could have been more specific in my answers, which says as much about their interviewing capabilities as my own. I have an overwhelming desire to give her feedback.

The call did help me put feedback in perspective, though. While someone can give you feedback, it is up to me, not them, to interpret it in a way that is useful. In the future, I will ask if my answer has been specific enough.

And if you are not open to change, then all you will hear is a high whistling or howling noise.

The Intervention

“What types of interventions would you use here?” said the instructor. I’m in my final organizational development class and noticing the frequency with which we use the word intervention for the things we do. It’s not a word you hear in the average conversation.

One definition says, “to occur as an extraneous or unplanned circumstance.” I can see how the rain may intervene in my plans for a picnic but generally I use the word ruin or in some cases, a four-letter variation. Perhaps we could find ways to introduce it into our normal conversations.

“Sorry, about this intervention in your life, but we no longer need your services,” his boss said with a smile.

“That’s OK,” he replied. “I’m sorry about the intervention I’m about to have with the hood of your car.”

As a parent, I never told my kids to settle down or I would intervene, though on second thought, this might have worked. My father used to say, “Enough is as good as a feed” when my brother and I would get on his nerves. We would both come to an immediate stop and look at him, wondering what on earth he meant. The next five minutes were spent in quiet conversation trying to figure it out. Perhaps some inane expression or word is what it takes to get someone’s attention.

Another, more active definition of intervention is, “to involve oneself in a situation so as to alter or hinder an action or development.” It sounds aggressive, like I arrive at an organization, blow a whistle and shout,” Attention everyone, we are about to have an intervention. Stop what you are doing. Now.”

At times in our course we huddled around a table planning a set of interventions as if we were invading an unsuspecting country. I’m not surprised we need training on conflict management. Perhaps we should pay more attention to the words we use and why we use them. Does using the word intervention predispose us to particular actions or attitudes? Would we think differently if we used different words?

Well, as you ponder that thought, I’m going to intervene in my own thinking process with a glass of beer.

This intervention’s for you!

If you don’t know where you are, how did you get here?

I hadn’t been back from vacation for more than a day when, as I prepared for a meeting, it occurred to me. Seventeen days in Italy. My break from looking for work, self-improvement and self-doubt. Six months ago I left my office for the last time, a victim of the very restructuring I worked hard to create. The irony still makes me chuckle. Well, it makes me chuckle now.

The more I talked about my vacation, the more it felt like a metaphor for the transformation I’ve gone through over those six months. I have learned some new tools, organizational models and consulting processes, but it was my attitude and behaviours that, like old dusty rugs, needed to be hung out and beaten before returning to use.

Italy turned out to be our honeymoon. Beth and I didn’t plan it that way. We booked the trip last summer and sometime in the fall decided to get married at Christmas. I just started calling it our honeymoon, never having had one in my first marriage. As the date approached, we developed an agenda that would see us travel from Venice, through Florence, Siena, Sorrento and end in Rome. We bought more books on Italy than we could take with us, researched places to visit, stay and eat. As we left for the airport, we had maps, plans and excitement.

It is funny the assumptions you don’t know you are making. I drive around Toronto most days and at each corner there are street signs. Sometimes they are small and hard to find, but for the most part they are visible and let me know where I am at any particular time. I use these signs to navigate my way around.

It was in Venice when it first struck me that Italian cities have their street signs etched on the side of buildings at corners. At least some of the time. If they are there, they are difficult to see from the road. You can arrive at a piazza, or square, and there is a sign naming the piazza you have just found yourself in without any indication of the roads that led you there in the first place. You have a map, but you don’t know where you are.

There are no cars in Venice, so this was mildly frustrating but manageable. We stopped being concerned about the route we were taking to reach any particular destination. We knew we would end up at Saint Mark’s square or wherever we had our sights on, but why did it matter which path we took?

We started to just wander, using the occasional sign to steer us in the right direction. In the process we discovered some wonderful streets, shops and food while not missing out on any of the important sites we wanted to see. In the piazza of the Jewish Ghetto, I discovered children playing soccer amidst memorials of past horrors, the irony not lost on me. Shopkeepers shared stories. Our time in Venice was richer because we did not get committed to the path, just the destination.

Driving through Florence at rush hour really showed our reliance on street signs, stopping several times to get out of the car and find a street name. After two hours, we parked at the train station and took a cab to our hotel, a few minutes walk away but a universe by car. Leaving Florence was just as challenging. At one point I asked two chefs taking a break in a small piazza to show me on my map where we were. It was when they struggled to locate themselves that it dawned on me I was asking the wrong question.

Many Italian roads use the word via the way we use street, meaning that it is the road to someplace. They seem less concerned about where they are than where they are going. I should have asked the chefs how to get out of Florence; this they would know. That was an important revelation. Ask the right question. If you want to be somewhere else, don’t get too concerned about where you are; you won’t be there for long.

It was at this point where we sat down and started to reflect on our experiences so far and if we wanted to change anything. Over excellent wine and food, we could feel the trip moving from sites to experiences. We didn’t throw out the agenda; we just decided to be open to what opportunities were presented, even if that meant being lost.

Siena brought another interesting observation. Although we were staying in Siena, we decided to change our original plans and spend most of our time in the Tuscan countryside, visiting small towns to enjoy the sights and sample the fine food and wine of the region.

We found ourselves along with one other guest sitting in a small Trattoria. The owner in stained chef apparel, walked over to us from the open kitchen in the corner and instead of providing a menu, rattled off each item in Italian. Beth and I looked at each other. His halting English and the gracious help of the other guest allowed us select some terrific food. We carried on with two more courses, enjoying the ambiance of something genuinely Italian. Our new friend was from Sweden, working in the area and had previously worked in Canada.

Italians linger over their food, enjoying the taste, surroundings and company. Coffee is something they do standing up at a bar and, given the miniscule size of their cups, nothing they spend much time doing. We linger over coffee, which I find odd, as caffeine is a stimulant.

This was living in the moment. Being aware of your surroundings. Using all the senses. It’s less about where you are and more about how you are. Not only are the experiences richer by being in the moment, but so is the learning. The journey was as important as the destination.

It all came together in Rome. Beth and I decided we would spend our last three days soaking up the city rather than dashing from site to site. We walked. We ate. And we drank wine. We found a place I called the book bar not far from our hotel. Nello, the owner, shared with us some excellent local wine and introduced us to a restaurant run by friends of his. While we sipped wine at his bar, a parade of neighbors joined us in the fashion of Cheers. You can’t plan something like that. You have to let it come to you. You have to be open to the possibilities.

We arrived back in Toronto on a Wednesday and on Friday I met with a college to discuss contract work around building a strength-based organization. I have been working on this for a while. As I prepared for the meeting, I thought about my approach. I knew where I wanted to go and I had an outline, but I was open to how the meeting may unfold. I needed to stay open to the possibilities. And I needed to have questions. The right questions. Ones that would help get them where they wanted to be.

Perhaps most important, I needed to be present. I needed to be focused on the moment rather than the next one or where I wanted them to get to so that I could understand all aspects of the situation. This would help me find their path and avoid me pushing them along mine.

I have a bigger toolkit now. I know a few more acronyms and jargon. But I also have a philosophy. And that may be of far greater value.

Have a good day

“Have a good day,” she said as she handed me my coffee. It was the third time today I had heard this phrase, as if something about me indicated I wasn’t having a very good day and they were encouraging me to do something about it.

“Thank you,” I said. “And how is your day going?”

“Terrible,” she replied, already looking at the next person in line. As I went looking for a lid, I thought it was rather generous of her to wish for me something that was so elusive to her that day. I carefully eased the lid onto the cup, not wanting to splash steaming hot coffee on my hand as I have in the past and make having a good day more difficult.

I wandered upstairs and found a seat and as I sipped my coffee, started to think about what makes a good day. Have a good day, I thought. Sounds like an order. Sounds like it is entirely up to me. I know I don’t want to have a bad day. I don’t get up in the morning, look in the mirror and say, “I had a good day yesterday so today I’m going to have a bad day.” Although I admit acting that way sometimes, with every little frustration fueling my sour mood. Then, when asked about my day, I say it was terrible as if it wasn’t my fault.

What does a good day look like for someone out of work? Can I create a good day for myself or is it a random event? I know that finding job opportunities that are interesting contribute to a good day. Getting work would be a good day, no a great day. But by that definition, I would have very few good days. I want lots of good days. This expectation would make most days mediocre at best.

Checking the Internet brings up a site with 30 ways to have a good day, which seems like 29 too many. Another, with only 11 steps seems more attractive. Should it really be this complicated? Some of the steps are easy. Get a good night’s sleep, exercise, drink water, eat breakfast and have a shower. My wife insists on this last one. It helps her have a good day.

Some of the others are more challenging, at least to do every day. Do something you are scared of. I’m scared of a number of things, but not 365 things each year. Another is to be spontaneous, but this takes too much planning. Being nice to people would be easier if I didn’t spend most of my time alone with Molly the Doodle. I’m nice to her. I’m nice to my laptop.

Perhaps a good day comes from meeting objectives. I write a to do list each morning. Do I have a good day if I meet them all? I have a habit of putting things on the list I’ve already done so I can check them off. I could have a good day before I’m finished breakfast by that definition.

Completing my to do list doesn’t seem enough. Yes, I’m happy I completed all of the tasks, though sometimes I have quite a large list and I don’t get through them all and still feel pretty good about the day. Perhaps planning to have a good day isn’t how it works. When I reflect on past good days, one thing in common seems to be how I react to what life throws my way. Take spilling coffee on my hand. It hurts, but should it ruin the rest of the day? I remember a day I had a series of bad meetings. At the end of the day, I wrote in my journal about the experience, reflecting on what I had learned. I was amazed at how much I had learned, and I can’t call that a bad day.

The job of getting a job is a lot of work. And most of it is about rejection or worse, silence. As hard as it is sometimes, how I choose to approach each day, how I deal with the randomness of life is my choice. Maybe that’s the spontaneously scary thing I need to do.

So yes, I think I will have a good day.

It’s a question of discipline

Vacations disrupt your routine. Well, I guess that’s what they are supposed to do; else it wouldn’t be a break from anything. Getting out of the routine is a whole lot easier than getting back into it. It took only moments to get into Dolce Vita, but I’m struggling with focusing so soon after returning.

It’s a question of discipline. Yes, it is approaching noon and, if I was still on vacation, a signal for a glass of wine. I admit it is a difficult thing to give up, but a glass of Brunello di Montalcino and submitting resumes to prospective employers can’t be good combination.

“I notice that you have listed Nello in Montalcino as a reference,” said the voice on the phone. “You didn’t provide any contact information. How can we reach him?”

“Oh, that’s easy. You turn left at the piazza.” I reply.

Working from home is full of distractions. And procrastination is easy. I find it hard to stay in the room. The room where I’m working. I have a desire to celebrate small victories rather than build on them. I’ll get up and head out of the room as if I know where I’m going, do a circuit of the house and end up back where I started. That is if I don’t find something that needs to be done, like folding clothes or rearranging the bookshelf. Important stuff. Sometimes instead of doing things, I’ll just stop and make a list of all the things I need to do.

“Well Molly, I’ve just sent off another application,” I say as Molly the Doodle wanders into the kitchen where I am camped out at the table. “Let’s go for a walk.” She looks at me for a moment and then turns around. Obviously it is nap time. Molly doesn’t procrastinate with naps.

With no help from man’s best friend, I look around the room and my eyes land on the fridge. It is calling me. So is the coffee machine. The kettle. I notice three dirty dishes and think they need to be washed. Now. I turn back to my laptop and sigh.

“Three hundred and sixty-four more sleeps until my next vacation,” I say.

Now that’s funny

“So where have you been?” she said, pouring my grande bold coffee. Only one day back from a vacation in Italy and already I find myself satisfying a need to get back into my more delicious habits.

“I’ve been on vacation. In Italy,” I replied eyeing an apple fritter. Italian pastries have, I believe, ruined that pleasure, but finding a grande coffee there proved impossible. She returned with a large steaming cup.

“Oh,” she said. “Nice. What were you vacationing from? What do you do?” she said. Things were obviously slow and dull this particular morning. Just my luck.

“Actually, I’m looking for work at the moment.” I answered, picking up my coffee. I have long been over hiding this fact.

“That’s funny,” she said, “taking a vacation from not working.”

“Yes, I guess it is,” I replied, not thinking it was funny at all. It was relaxing. It was certainly fun. It may have been ironic. But it wasn’t funny.

“Finding a job is a lot of work,” I said to Molly as we walked home. I had carried on my habit of talking to myself while in Italy, as I didn’t think anyone would understand me. It was my way of keeping pickpockets and street vendors from approaching.

My level of frustration didn’t reveal itself until arriving in Venice. We took a boat from the airport to the Rialto Bridge. There are no cars in Venice, so we walked to our small hotel near an open-air vegetable market amongst many other pedestrians. Venice is on an island, so you can pretty much wander wherever you want without getting lost. You can get wet, but not lost. I could feel the tension lift.

“I’m happy to see you savoring your food,” my wife said one evening. We were enjoying a delicious and surprisingly inexpensive dinner at one of the many small family run restaurants we discovered on our journey. “You always eat so fast.”

I hadn’t realized I was eating more slowly. I was certainly enjoying the food. You linger over meals in Italy. We linger over coffee at home, which to me now sounds odd since caffeine is a stimulant. However, given that coffee is served here in something marginally larger than a shot glass, it would be hard linger.

Now that I am back and can resume the job hunt, I feel more relaxed and a little clearer on what I want. Not because I was thinking about it while away, but because I wasn’t thinking about it.

As I entered the house, the phone rang. It showed “Private Caller” on the panel. Usually not a call I take, but living the dolce vita, I picked it up. Mistake. The caller reminded me I had a card that collected points towards free movies. This I knew. Apparently the points can also be used towards fast food certificates, which I didn’t know. But there was more.

“With our Visa card,” said the caller, “you can collect points even faster and there is no cost to the card.”

Well there might be a cost to my health I thought. I just ate myself across Italy and enjoyed fantastic home made food, served quickly, without a fast food restaurant in sight.

I declined their gracious offer of culinary delights and, as I hung up the phone I thought, now that’s funny.

Eyes, ears and no brain

As I prepare for a long awaited, and highly needed vacation, I reflect on a recent horoscope that reminded me of another trip. My horoscope suggested I use my eyes and ears today to make sure I know what is actually going on in my world.

I made a trip to Ottawa when I was in my mid twenties. My friend Jamie and his wife Janet were renting a car in Vancouver and heading east through the Rockies. Their destination was a house in the countryside not too far from Ottawa to stay with friends. I was going to meet them there, stay overnight and drive them to Toronto, where after a short stay they would take a flight home.

The drive to Ottawa from Toronto while long was uneventful. I arrived late in the day with a case of beer in anticipation of the party scheduled for that evening. The house was well into the countryside with no other houses in sight. Introduced to the owners by Jamie, I was told I would be sleeping on the floor of the basement and provided an air mattress and sleeping bag. I’m sure the beer would keep me comfortable.

I met a number of people that night, none I remember (not their fault). I do remember having a beer in my hand the entire night. At least until we ran out. I remember opening the fridge, pulling out three oranges and demonstrating my juggling prowess. While my juggling is at best mildly entertaining for a couple of minutes, watching Janet and others attempt it while under the influence provided a good hour of hilarious fun.

As everyone disappeared, I made a final trip to the bathroom and found my bed in the basement. I crawled into the sleeping bag and promptly fell asleep.

Later, I opened my eyes. It was pitch black. I closed and opened my eyes without seeing a difference. At first I wasn’t sure where I was. But I did know where I wanted to be – the bathroom.

In these situations, my brain tries to convince my bladder it can wait until morning. As usual, my bladder won the argument. I got on all fours and started to crawl towards where I thought the stairs were. Climbing to the top on hands and feet, I opened the door and stepped into the main floor.

It was pitch black again. No moonlight through the windows or a streetlight. Nothing but darkness. I dropped back on my hands and knees. Although I had used the washroom many times to make room for more beer, I had no idea where it was from here. I did know it was up a short flight of stairs in the back-split house somewhere on the other side of the kitchen, which I believed was somewhere to the right. I started crawling again swaying one hand in front of me to locate a wall to follow.

I knew I was in the kitchen when I put my hand in the cat’s water bowl. It never occurred to me that I might be making a lot of noise. More interesting, it never occurred to me to turn on a light. However, it did occur to Janet as she came out of the bedroom. The sudden brightness stopped me in my tracks. I can’t imagine what she must have thought as she saw me on all fours beside a spilt water bowl with nothing on but my briefs.

“What are you doing?” she said looking down at me from the landing. “Are you thirsty?”

“I’m looking for the bathroom.” I replied. I started to feel a little exposed and a lot silly.

“It’s right here. Try to do it a little quieter.” She said, heading back into the bedroom.

I stood up and hastily went into the bathroom. Upon exiting, I turned off the hall light. Pitch black again. I felt my way down the stairs and, at the bottom I got back on all fours. Confident of the path back to my bed, started crawling through the darkness.

It wasn’t until my head found my pillow that it occurred to me I could have left the light on to find my way back to bed. My eyes and ears aren’t much help when my brain isn’t participating.

For obvious reasons, the drive back to Toronto the next day was subdued. Jamie slept most of the way and Janet would occasionally chuckle while looking out the window. I’m not sure she was remembering the juggling.

The hardest part of a job is getting it in the first place

The interview completed, I took the elevator down to the lobby of the office building. Collapsing into a chair, a wave of exhaustion flooded over me.

I applied for the position at the closing date six weeks ago having discovered the opportunity three weeks earlier. I spent that time doing my research, customizing my letter and resume and more or less second-guessing my every thought. It seems counterintuitive, but the closer the fit a job appears, the more customization I do with my resume. This job looked like a good fit so it was a lot of work.

I was in my Organizational Development class when I got the call. It had been over a month without word and while I hadn’t written them off, I had stopped thinking about it. The class was on a break and I had retreated to one of the corners to take the call.

“If you are still interested,” she said, “we would like you to come in for an interview.”

What I like about phones is that I can pump my fist in the air, perform a happy dance and make all kinds of strange faces and then calmly say, “Of course, I would love to.” Should my IPhone go video, I will miss these secret moments of exuberance.

The interview would take place in two weeks. It would be a structured interview with five behavioral questions and I would have a half hour beforehand to review them. In addition, I was to prepare and deliver a presentation and would receive the material the Friday before the Monday interview. There goes the weekend.

I awoke Monday morning fully charged. Good thing as I had to walk Molly the Doodle to get refurbished at the dog spa. A lady exiting her house froze at the odd sight of a man in a suit walking a dirty, scruffy looking dog. I said good morning without getting a reply. The 45-minute walk gave me a chance to review the presentation and stories. Molly looked up as my inner voice crept out on occasion although others likely thought I was on a cell phone.

Arriving as planned, I was ushered into a room and provided the questions. I pushed back a moment of panic. Pulling out some paper, I started to jot down some notes to prompt me during the interview. I was anxious to get started.

And now I find myself sitting in the lobby realizing just how much energy I had put into the preparation and the interview.

The hardest part of a job is getting it in the first place.

My you’re looking sentient today

I decided to ride my bike to my Expressive Writing class on a sunny but crisp Saturday morning. The joy was rapidly evaporating as I stop for what seems every red traffic light possible.

“Bastard,” I say, hoping no one can hear. I swear the traffic lights can see me coming. I don’t know why I choose to think this particular set of traffic lights was created from an illicit affair and not only has consciousness, but exhibits cruelty towards me. I might as well be in a car. At least I could be more vocal without the possibility of judgmental listeners.

Despite the frequent stops I arrive early for class. In a stroke of irony, the word for the day is sentient. It means having consciousness; subjectively responding with feeling. I had been thinking of the traffic lights as sentient objects responding to my arrival by turning from green to red. There are a number of people I have met I would not describe as sentient as they display an entire lack of self-awareness. Some only respond to their own reflection.

While assuming that the traffic lights are acting human, if not somewhat vindictive, I often find myself assuming intent to what people do during the day. Driving is a good example.

My first reaction to some unusual driver’s behaviour is that they are inconsiderate or don’t know the rules of the rode. The words idiot, moron, fool and imbecile come to mind and often, to voice. Someone driving slow and definitely acting lost generates anger rather than pity and understanding. Long left-turn lanes are accompanied by street signs you can’t see until well past the end of the turning queue. But no, the assumption is a stray car desperate to merge near the front is trying to bud-in.

Of course when I do it, there is a logical and justifiable reason never remembered when I see someone doing the same thing three days later. Yes, on occasion, I act with sentience and not always in a good way. Poor me, I have to sit even longer in this comfortable seat listening to my favourite music. It’s just not fair.

So, if my assumptions are going to drive my reactions, then I might as well have positive ones. I started doing this several years ago. People going fast needed to be somewhere. People get lost. They can’t see Toronto’s itsy-bitsy street signs until it is too late, and reading the rules of a parking sign requires both a telescope and a legal assistant. Since adopting this strategy, I have been more relaxed driving. At least when I fall off the wagon I catch myself on the first bounce.

Of course, this philosophy doesn’t extend itself to the other sentient beings that may happen to be in the car. While Molly the Doodle simply enjoys the ride, others are less forgiving and, much to my surprise, have reached across and honked the horn on my behalf.

“What is that idiot doing?” I hear from the back of the car.

“Oh, I’m sure they are just looking for a parking spot,” I reply, “and my, aren’t you looking very sentient today.”

“Why, thank you.”

And while I cut some slack for my fellow commuters, I still think those moronic traffic lights have my number. You know they talk to each other, don’t you?