Anyone who has known me for a time knows one definite thing about me. I hate to be startled. It is not funny to leap out from behind a door and scream at me. It is not high comedy to drop a loud cup on the kitchen floor as I’m standing there. I hate when you’re all charged up with static electricity and you poke me and giggle. Chances are, I will instinctively hit you. Hard. It’s not a choice I make, just something my body does in response. I can’t control it, so it’s best not to risk it.

Despite the notion that everyone loves a surprise, I don’t. I hate surprises. I want to know what’s next. I want to have a plan. I want to be prepared. I want to have the laundry folded and lip gloss on before the folks show up at my door with a huge check for five million dollars and a TV crew. Is that too much to ask?

I ask for the same courtesy from my clients. I promise not to spring it on you that Candidate Jane owns three horses that need to be included in her relocation package if you promise to tell me that there will likely be another round of interviews before a decision can be made. Let’s both allow the other to gloss up and powder our noses before Ed McMahon appears. Deal?