If patience is a virtue then I am descending lower and lower to the "hot place" with no hope of coolant or fan, on a daily basis. If patience is a virtue then why does the squeaky wheel get the grease? If patience is a virtue then why is it that the loudest voice in the crowd is the only one heard above the din? If patience is a virtue then I must be the least virtuous person on the planet having lost mine close to 45 years ago. (Stop the snickering! Not that kind of virtue, you mono-tracked minded individuals!!) Suffice it to say that I am not a patient person. I am more of a "get it done now, but yesterday is better" sort of woman. I don't do "process" at all well. I try to delegate, but I get upset when it isn't done according to my timetable. I don't accept excuses with the best of humour and I have little tolerance for stupidity. (It is probably why I tend to make such great sport of politics and it's minions. Politicians are full of excuses and stupidity!) I spend a great deal of time trying to atone for these character flaws every year, but in the simplest of terms--I DON'T DO BULLSHIT!!!!! Combine this impatient nature with a quick and volatile temper, inherited from my dad, and you have the makings of Mount St Helen's in Thornhill. In my defense, I have mellowed with age. I still get anxious and upset when somebody tells me that a certain task (read: kitchen renovation) will be mostly completed by a certain date, (read: December 7th-Pearl Harbour-the irony) and it almost certainly will not be. But I have learned some coping mechanisms. Firstly, there is the husband. As calm, cool and patient a man as has ever walked. It takes a great deal to get him riled. He is the water to my fire. I send him into the breach whenever something goes awry and he handles it better than a diplomat. He understands the game that these contractors engage in, and he is willing to play it because he knows that in the end, he holds the most important card-the money! I can't get past the image of them all filleted and skewered served on a bed of rice pilaf. He also works in the real world as opposed to the cloistered existence I sometimes find myself in. He knows how to talk to them and massage the egos and get the best out of everybody. I want to crush them under the weight of my size 4 1/2 heels. (Not incredibly daunting, I realize.) He sees the end of the game, I live in the here and now. His approach is so much better then mine if I ever want to see a kitchen again, let alone cook in one, so I let him handle it. My second coping mechanism is one that I discovered last year. For my birthday, the husband bought me a wonderful gift. He bestowed upon me a standing punching bag and boxing gloves. It is a wonderful workout that tones the arms and abs, and is incredibly aerobic. It also serves the dual purpose of aggressiveness therapy. I fixate on an imaginary image and plaster it on the bag. (Outdoor Hunky's face has been there a lot lately) I then beat the living tar out of the thing for as long as my body will allow. I feel better, I look better and I tend not to blow as easily. Hopefully, I will see the virtue in all of this at the dedication.
Indoor Reliable is again working on Shabbos, so hopefully I will have some fresh photos to share over the weekend. Older son called yesterday to find out if I survived the white stuff and to remind me that even though the snow sucks, at least I have a wall. I always knew he was a smart-ass! Secretly, I think that the two offspring have a bet going on. I really believe that there is a pool out there trying to figure out the date when dear old mom will finally crack. Guess what? Three weeks and counting and I'm still here.
Shabbat Shalom to all who observe and need it.
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