Life's Little Ironies

The only time I got the photo function to work,
from the long-since-deleted Clumsy Ninja app on my iPad.

I was in Thunder Bay from around ten in the morning until four in the afternoon one day this past week. 

During that time, I spent about twenty minutes on a stage making a presentation to one hundred and fifty representatives from municipalities in northwestern Ontario, and about an hour workshopping some public policy concepts with seven (count 'em, seven) people from aforesaid municipalities.

It's 577 nautical miles in each direction from Toronto to Thunder Bay - total trip 1154 nautical miles. At about 50 pounds of CO2 per mile, that's 57,700 pounds of carbon dioxide, divided by the thirty or so passengers plus crew on the plane with me, making my share of the greenhouse gas emissions about 1,923 pounds of CO2 for the trip.

Of course I was in Thunder Bay to talk about climate change. 

At one point I asked the members of the really not very engaged audience how they thought they would reduce their own greenhouse gas emissions by 40% (relative to 1990) by 2030, or even by 15% by 2020.  

I said, "I ask myself that question just about every day. What would I do to reduce my emissions by that much."  

My answer - that I kept to myself - was to reduce my trips to Thunder Bay.

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Another Experiment in Behavioural Science - Part VIII

With this week's question, we are 80% of the way to the end of this ultra-low-carbon endeavour. 

The sage, inspiring, dazzling horde of respondents continues to grow. Last week one hero took just 8 seconds to respond!  

You'll find this week's question here.

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen

Speechless

Self-appointed supervisor oversees inexplicable mayhem on Sherbourne Street

There's a lot going on in this week's picture that you can't see all that well. Behind the man on the sidewalk, there's a local tv station doing a man-in-the-street interview. Across the street obscured by traffic are two of seven police cruisers huddled around the scene of a crime. 

At about 7:30 in the morning three Saturdays ago, a disagreement arose for unknown reasons in a rooming house across the street from where I live. There was a struggle, one of the parties pulled a weapon of some sort, attacked two people, and fled south on Sherbourne to where he had parked his vehicle. You can read the details here.

At the time, I was at my computer, writing my blog. I heard the commotion. I looked out my window and saw a man in a grey tracksuit - the suspect, I later learned - as he trotted slowly down Sherbourne Street.

When the police cruisers arrived, I stepped away from my computer, put on some proper clothes and went to tell them what I saw.

They were not interested in what I had to say. One of the officers on the scene directed me to sit on a step until they had time to talk with me.

Instead, I listened to the officer as she radioed in her report. There were several eye-witnesses to the whole incident, and all I had to offer was a scrap of information confirming what they already knew.

I went back home.

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Yesterday, I attended a day-long meeting of a panel of experts advising the government on one of its major priorities. I was second on the agenda and was to have presented on the overall framing of the strategy for government action - providing answers to the question of "why" as opposed to "what" the government would do, or "how." These were topics for other presentations that day.

In fact, the leading agenda item was one of the major "whats." The discussion on that item went long, taking all the time set for my presentation. After that, the panel's estimable chair stuck to the agenda, giving priority to all the other items over mine. 

At almost the very end of a long day, and after about half of the panel members had already left, the chair gave me twenty minutes to cover an hour's worth of material. When I was about two thirds of the way through the presentation, the chair called the proceedings to a halt. We'd gone over time and facility staff needed to clear the room for another function.

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The "why" of the brutal incident on Sherbourne Street may never be fully known, but I'll hazard this guess: the preconditions for violence in my neighbourhood are established by de facto policies of the municipal police that warehouse drug dealers and the people they prey on in the same place. Police figure that if the mayhem is intramural, no one will care. They are likely right about that.

The estimable chair of the expert panel seemed to be applying a similar logic: given the choice between discussing what a government is doing as opposed to why a government is doing something, people will prefer the former over the latter. If you never really get around to exploring the why, no one will care.

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Another Experiment in Behavioural Science - Part VII

With this week's question, we are 70% of the way to the end of this historic, epochal, epic, iconic, effort. 

The wise, awesome, brilliant hordes of respondents just keeps getting bigger and bigger. The fastest time for a response to last week's question was 22 seconds!  

You'll find this week's question here.

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen

Chaos Theory

The YMCA on Grosvenor Street in Toronto: big, welcoming, bustling.

It's been quite a week at work. 

Of course and as always these are confidential matters, so it's time to visit our friend the Queen and her Advisors.

**********

The Queen of a small and pleasant realm was in her chambers, applying herself to her endless stream of paperwork but being distracted by a persistent, irritating fly.

The Queen called upon one of her most trusted advisors.

"This fly is driving me crazy," she said when the advisor came to her, "please get rid of it."

The advisor was a kind-hearted person, so would not kill the fly, but rather shooed it out the window. What the adviser saw there gave him a start.

"Oh, Queen," the advisor said, "you better come and look at this."

The Queen came to the window.

"Sweet mother of God," she said.

Stretched out below her window was the vast expanse of the Yessir Yessir Highway. And on that highway were hordes of messengers and advisors engaged in every conceivable form of conflict: daggers drawn, horns locked, pistols cocked, blindly battling. They were yelling and crying and throwing sticks and stones at one another.

"What has happened," the Queen asked her advisor, "that would bring the kingdom to this?"

"The Troll Bridge," answered the advisor, naming the source of all power and peril along the Yessir Yessir Highway.

"Ah," said the Queen, understanding completely. "Well we'd best just shut the window and let what's going on out there simmer down before we open it again."

Obliging his Queen, the advisor shut the window, but, just before the frames touched, the pesky fly flew back into the Queen's chambers.

"Ooops," said the advisor, and the Queen looked up again from her paperwork. She saw the fly.

"Don't worry about it," said the Queen. 

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Another Experiment in Behavioural Science - Part VI

The number of brilliant, brave, best-smelling-ever survey respondents continues to grow. Those who respond still spend less than a single minute of their time. 

You'll find this week's question here.

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen

The Parent Trap

Mom and Dad, early 1980's, Ottawa, Ontario

I left my parents' house to begin my first year of university in early September, 1977. I was nineteen-going-on-twenty years old. I packed my suitcase with all the things I owned and took the Greyhound bus to Waterloo. I think my mother may have driven me to the bus station in Trenton to help me on my way, but I really don't remember.

I have only one clear recollection from that whole day. When I got to the Kitchener/Waterloo station, the driver struggled with my jam-crammed suitcase as he lifted it out from under the bus. He said "you running away from home?"

I nodded, said "yes."

Fast forward a couple of decades.

About ten years ago, when I was working at the City of Toronto, a colleague complained one day about having to complete her daughters' university applications.

"Why on earth are you doing your kid's university applications?"

"Well, you can't really expect them to do them on their own," she said.

I wondered why not. Were her kids developmentally handicapped?

Fast forward to this week.

I was killing time in a room full of people waiting for a meeting with the Minister who'd been delayed by protesters at another meeting. Sitting next to me was a mother with a child headed to university (no word on who had filled in the forms). The mother complained that the university had not e-mailed her that her daughter's tuition was due. Instead they had e-mailed her daughter, which makes sense when you think about who the university has the contractual relationship with. But, said the mother, "everyone knows it's the parents who are paying the tuition. And my daughter didn't tell me I needed to pay until the day the tuition was due!"

People who act as if their children were developmentally handicapped sometimes say that parents these days are "much more involved in their kids lives" than our parents were. 

Also this past week, I was talking with yet another mother facing her daughter's departure to university. She reacted strongly when I told her the story that starts this post about my last day as a permanent resident of my parents' house. 

When I said "from the day I left for university, I considered myself to be on my own," she seemed to also hear "and I never saw my parents alive again." I comforted her with assurances that even though I moved away, I visited home frequently, and called my mom every Sunday for the next thirty years.

This was quite a week for parenting stories. Here's one more. 

Bruce's lovely Auntie Arlie died peacefully on August 30 at the great age of 97. At the reception after her funeral service, I chatted with her nephew, Bruce Schmitt, whose children's children were surging around us, a lively, happy bunch of youngsters. I commented on how cute his grandchildren were. 

"The greatest thing about being a grandparent," said Bruce, "is you get perspective on what matters." Then he recounted for me the details about how, many years before, he had forced his son to sit at the dinner table for three hours until he ate the stone cold broccoli on his plate. 

"It did not matter that he didn't want that broccoli," said Bruce, obviously pained by the ancient memory, "but I couldn't see that at the time and I'd worked myself into a corner that I couldn't get out of. That was so foolish."

Auntie Arlie, by the way, was never a parent herself. But she is remembered most for the limitless, unconditional love she gave to all the people who gathered to celebrate her life on September 3, 2015.

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Another Experiment in Behavioural Science - Part V

Once again, huge thanks to all the great-smelling heroes who are sharing as much as minute of their time to participate. You'll find this week's question here.

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen

Have Cane. Will Travel.

When I went to see the director of the physiotherapy clinic I mentioned in last week's post, one of the things he told me was to get a cane.

He said, "most people don't like this advice ..." and I knew why not. 

As he spoke the words, the image that came to mind was my mother walking toward me when I'd come home for a visit in the late 80's. She was using a cane. I was struck at the time by the realization that my mother was growing old.

Growing old isn't just for parents anymore.

But, as with all the advice the physiotherapist has given me, the cane has made my life better. Without it to help distribute the weight my hip bears, I can walk painlessly maybe a kilometre or two before I'm seized up in agony. With the cane, I can go ten times that far, no problem.

Canes totally rock.

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Another Experiment in Behavioural Science - Part IV

The ranks just keep growing of super smart survey respondents. Join the burgeoning sweet-smelling hordes by responding to this week's question here.

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen

Twenty-first Century Customer Service

Off level: View from the Peak to Peak Gondola - Whistler, B.C.

I've been getting a lot of chirpy, personal, pseudo-analytical articles from LinkedIn these days and am inspired to share the following.

Not long ago a friend of mine ordered some shirts on line from a US company. The shirts came in good time and were very nice, but my friend was surprised by the hefty customs fee.

My friend wrote to the company, saying they should prepare their customers for these nasty shocks by mentioning on their website that customs fees apply for shipments outside the US.

To my friend's surprise, he promptly received a reply from the president of the company apologizing for his bad experience and offering a complete refund.

For my friend, this set a new benchmark in customer service.

Shortly after this, my friend ran into some rough customer weather when he was being measured and selecting fabric for some bespoke suits. The service was not up to his expectations, so he wrote to the company and complained.

The responses were not quite as accommodating as had been the shirt company's. After a long correspondence my friend conceded that he was not going to receive any kind of refund for the poor service and had to settle for the suits, paying full price.

It's ridiculous to make generalizations from just two examples, so I'll add one of my own.

I'm still processing what my life is going to be like now that I have osteoarthritis in my right hip and no other options at the moment besides sucking it up and gobbling pain killers.

One of the recommendations I got from the Holland Centre was to go to a physiotherapist (by the way, if you are under 70 and are not completely crippled by arthritis pain, there is no reason for you to go to the Holland Centre).

The box tickers at the Holland did not explain why they recommended that I should go to a physiotherapist, but I found a clinic that was on my way to work and had good on line testimonials, so I called and made an appointment.

At my first appointment, I met my therapist, a young man (I'm guessing maybe twelve, thirteen years old) who seemed nice. He did an assessment and said I should do three different exercises in sets of two three times a day.

I thought "how the hell am I going to do that?"

As much as I could on my stupid public servant schedule, which includes ten hour days and lots of travel, I did the prescribed exercises. For the first little while they made me feel better. Then they began to make me feel worse.

Over the next two appointments - at 75 bucks a pop - the young therapist took stabs at finding a mix of exercises for me that I still did not have enough time in the day to do. I felt I was paying a lot of money to help him up his learning curve.

I'd made up my mind that I was done with the physiotherapist when a "how are we doing?" e-mail from the clinic popped into my mailbox.

Given this opportunity to share, I wrote to say that I was not satisfied with the treatment I received and that I assumed my next appointment would be my last.

To my surprise, in short order came a reply from the director of the clinic, who, after the exchange of one more e-mail, offered to work with me personally until we'd found a way to keep me reasonably fit and out of pain.

For free.

Now do you see a pattern?

In the good old days of the last century, dissatisfied customers had the options of

• lumping it
• complaining to their friends
• writing to the company and receiving a form letter in reply enclosed with coupons for their next purchase of the product they were complaining about

People received full refunds without also having to return the product as frequently as pigs flew. Almost no one got products for free (as did my friend) or pro bono services for a potentially unlimited time (that would be me).

Something's going on here. 

Is it the fear of the global shaming power the Internet grants anyone with a wifi device and an axe to grind? 

Or is it something else? 

The Director of the clinic explained that he made his unbelievably kind offer to me because the care he gives his clients is "his thing." Nothing matters more to him. 

So is it the "be passionate about what you do" ethos that has grabbed the business world that makes company presidents and clinic directors more concerned about reputation and service than making a buck?

Whatever the cause, the one generalization that applies - as my friend learned - is don't expect this from everybody. Not yet, anyway.

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Another Experiment in Behavioural Science - Part III

So far my research into behavioural science has shown that people like to be considered sweet-smelling. There were 'way more responses to Question 2 than Question 1. 

The other trend emerging is that practically all respondents take less than one minute to answer the single question the weekly survey poses. Most do it in less than thirty seconds. A speedy significant minority do it in less than twenty seconds.

So be fast. Be measured. Smell your best and respond to today's survey question. You can find it here.

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen

Adventures on the Yessir Yessir Highway

The Whole Fam Damily: Clark Family reunion, Qualicum Beach, July 11 2015
Photo Credit: Kevan MacRow

Here's another instalment from our friend the Queen and her Advisors.

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The Queen's realm is traversed by a highroad known as the Yessir Yessir Highway, running between the Queen's castle and that of the Emperor. The Emperor is the titular ruler of several small, pleasant realms including the Queen's. 

The Queen's most recent adventures along this highway began with the unexpected arrival of a messenger.

"Oh great Queen," said the messenger, "the Emperor has asked for your presence at the Annual Great-Gab-Fest."

It had never been the case in the whole history of the realm that rulers had ever gone to the Great-Gab-Fest, so the Queen asked why she needed to go. 

"Because no one else will go," said the messenger, really trying to be helpful.

The Queen asked the same question, but in a different way. "What needs to be done at the Great-Gab-Fest that makes it necessary for me to go?"

"You need to help the Emperor in his demonstration of how to slay a dragon."

"But I don't know how to slay a dragon," said the Queen, "The ruler next door does. Go ask her." 

Thinking this cleared things up, the Queen went back to whatever task she had been in the middle of but that she could no longer recall because of the messenger's interruption. Another messenger entered.

"Oh great Queen," said the second messenger. "The Greatest Ruler has promised a workshop on dragon slaying at the Great-Gab-Fest and you are on the hook to make it happen." 

The Greatest Ruler was the boss of the Emperor, so was the Queen's Boss's Boss.

Impressed by the source of the request, the Queen tried to keep her tone even, "Didn't someone just come in here asking about the same thing? Did you talk with them? Dragon slaying belongs to the realm next door."

"Also," said the Queen, angling to settle the matter once and for all, "I will be away on a quest during the Great-Gab-Fest."

For almost half a day, this gambit worked. Then the first messenger returned, bringing a fresh piece of information.

"Oh great Queen, the news has spread like wildfire that your quest has been cancelled. Now you must attend the Great-Gab-Fest and talk for five minutes about anything at all."

"What?" said the Queen, forgetting to sound delighted. "The Great-Gab-Fest is a four day journey. I must go there to talk for five minutes? About anything I want? That makes no sense whatsoever.

"Can you tell me," said the Queen looking at the crestfallen messenger, "where these requests are coming from?"

"From the Troll bridge," said the messenger. 

Everyone wanting to reach the Emperor had to cross the Troll Bridge. It was a place of great power and peril. 

The Queen didn't see any other way to sort out the bizaare requests, so she and the messenger made their way along the Yessir Yessir Highway to the Troll Bridge.

Once there, the Queen and messenger were met with an eerie silence. The bridge normally swarmed with armies of trolls, but it was the season for troll holidays, and the place was practically deserted. They found what appeared to be the one troll in residence, slouched over a glowing magic tablet. It condescended to lift its eyes only after the Queen and messenger had made several offerings of songs and semi-precious stones.

"What do you want?" it asked.

"Most noble troll," began the Queen, "we are grateful for your wisdom and infinite patience. We come seeking answers about the Great-Gab-Fest and who must attend to help the Emperor."

"I've already told you," snapped the troll, "go away."

"Can we please check to make sure we have heard your wise direction correctly?" persisted the Queen. She quickly told the troll of the strange requests, her lack of knowledge about dragon slaying and the sorry waste of time in travelling four days in each direction to speak for five minutes. 

"That's not what I asked for," growled the troll. 

"Yes it is," said the foolishly brave and instantly career-limited messenger.

"Alright then" said the Queen, whose patience was approaching dangerously low levels, "We are agreed. The Emperor needs help to demonstrate how to slay a dragon at the Great-Gab-Fest, so you," the Queen turned to the messenger, "need to ask this of someone from the realm next door to mine."

The Queen did not add, "which is what I asked you to do the first time we had this conversation" due to the dangers of speaking these words in the presence of the troll, but she was sorely tempted. 

Returning home on the Yessir Yessir Highway, the Queen pretended to pay attention to the messenger's long and many complaints about the trolls and the Troll Bridge. Her thoughts were otherwise occupied with the question of whether this was truly the end of the adventure ...

Stay tuned.

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Another Experiment in Behavioural Science - Part II


Thanks to all the wise, generous, good-looking, glamorous, sweet-smelling and heroic people who answered Question One.

All readers who would also like to be considered wise, generous, good-looking, glamorous, sweet-smelling and heroic may want to respond to this week's question, which you can find here.

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen