No Offense!

Old age and menopause (not always 100% the same thing) have loosened my tongue. No longer am I choked by the harsh words that bubble into my mind when I am assaulted, affronted, annoyed or attacked. They now pop out into the sound waves. This is both a good thing and a bad thing. No longer am I nearly ready to explode with pent-up resentments. But I have had to learn to make a quick getaway. Yes, yes, I do understand that we all go out into the world with our own individual makeup of education, experience, culture and personal sensibilities. I get it that many of the strangers we encounter won't have all that much in common with us. Strangers aren't necessarily friends we simply haven't met yet. They may not speak our language, even if we all appear to be spewing English. I am fascinated by the utterances that get a person's goat. Or don't. I live in a place where people seem, increasingly, compelled to throw words around at high volume. I'm as bad as the next old bag with a surly attitude.

Early in life, I learned how to deal with "Hey, Baby" and later with "Hey, Mama". Those come less frequently now, and most often when he can see my clothes, but not my face - maybe hidden a little by sunglasses or hat. I've yet to hear "Hey, Granny", but that could come. While I do not invite or appreciate those greetings, usually I put an end to the quick exchange with "Not your baby, not your mama!" I've always felt those gents are not looking for an actual dialog and the very sound of another person's voice in reply shuts them up. I believe those comments are made for some show of bravado for the entertainment of other males and really have little to do with me. More recently, the barbs contain the word "bitch" which angers me immediately. "F*#king bitch" or "old bitch" get me going. "Old white bitch" is worse. I feel like that takes unpleasantness to a new plane. I have found that women almost always use only the word "bitch" toward one another. Shame on us.

Replying to the unexpected verbal assault is tricky business. I'm already on record with the reasons I no longer flip strangers off. Nope. Not since July, 1976. So, for me at least, sometimes I censor myself out of concern for my safety and well-being. I'm small, older, possess no martial arts skills or weapons. If I assess that we're going to restrict ourselves to verbal warfare, I'm likely in it to win it. This works well with a pack of not too scary adolescent males who are too afraid to make eye contact. Maybe I decide not to say anything because of security worries, but walk off muttering brilliant bon mots to myself. Observation: the best riposte in the world loses steam if delivered over coffee with friends rather than right in the face of some lexical antagonist. One feels kind of chickenshitly brilliant. "Wish I'd said that right in his face."

It is important to me to explain I don't go looking for trouble, at least not out in the streets among strangers. Mostly, I do not carry a chip on my shoulder. By nature and by training, I am a peacemaker, a mediator. I'd much prefer to converse with a stranger about the 8-inch dog she's walking on a string than get into a mouth fight. But I grapple with the fact that I've also allowed myself to be attacked too much in life, abused, without objection. Turning the other cheek too often can result in sore, chapped skin. Neither aggressive nor timid, I am looking for the middle ground where I can live with myself. I try to weigh whether I'm ever going to see some spouting fool again, whether I think s/he is a threat to myself or others or offensive to people who cannot defend themselves. Then I decide whether to waste my breath. Mostly, I don't. Sometimes I cannot contain myself. Occasionally, I resort to good, strong Anglo-Saxon  words of no ambiguity.

Each of us has our boundaries. I won't tolerate overt sexual epithets, or those that touch on race, gender, creed, disability and more, whether the comment is aimed at me or someone else. I have to bark back about those, unless my safety is in question. I get that men do not wish to be called "boys". I understand that certain descriptors of country-of-origin have changed across time and I try to be aware of the most acceptable, least hate-inciting versions and to use those. Having suffered a few pangs of my own when I pushed my biracial baby in her stroller, I try to walk very, very softly and carry no stick at all. Sometimes, the less said, the better.

I heard the phrase when I was a child and I thought it was hilarious. It contained no terrible individual words but conjured up, in my fertile imagination, contortions and results that I found funny. It packed a lot of sass and told the recipient just exactly what s/he could go do, short of the big guns phrase involving the word "f*#k". It is still hilarious to me and I might pay the price of - oh, say - lunch or a beer to watch an attempt made. I wouldn't attempt it myself.

School is out and there are vehicles everywhere filled with excited young people. I stopped at a red light, cars both in front of me and behind me. I read sign language well, and the gesticulations of the driver behind me indicated he wanted me to pull up a little so he could scoot around me. I guess he and the other 16-year-olds were in a hurry. I didn't intend to move. I didn't have more than 18 inches clearance. He tapped my bumper twice. I didn't care for it and hung my head out to say, "Look, Asshole." I used the appellation "Asshole" as if it were his given name as his mother christened him. He did not care for that and maneuvered his urban assault vehicle alongside mine, using bike lane and gutter/sidewalk. From a pretty sharp tilt, he began to go off on me, his face not 12 inches from my passenger's own countenance. When he stopped for breath, I unleashed it, my smarty phrase. "You go piss up a rope!" The young Turks in Asshole's SUV truly loved my repartee, but it appears Asshole took exception to it. I suspect it was his youthful inexperience that caused him to accelerate his Suburban right into the trunk of a pretty substantial palm tree located on the same sidewalk that had so recently given him a leg up.

So how about you? What gets your goat out in the world of shouted warfare?

Something that charmed me: I've driven past it for years, the Dental Implant Institute with the shaded, rolling green grounds that make me think about the place Simon & Garfunkel's Mrs. Robinson went for her rest cure. Oh, the place clearly uses entirely too much water that we don't have to keep its lawns emerald, and I've never understood about the dolphin statuary here in the desert, but - hey - who am I? Maybe the owners love dolphins or come from an ocean environment or maybe there was a sale on dolphin sculpture. And I've pondered whether, should I decide to get dental implants after my free exam, they'd send their courtesy limo or their "fun van" to pick me up and deliver me safely home. So today, I'm rolling along the road. It's a little warmer than the past several days and soon we'll hit summer heat. WTF? I spun the block. New statuary at the Dental Implant Institute! Great big dental implants, brand new, judging by the condition of the paint. Custom made it would appear. Taller than I.

Eased Her - a Love of Springtime

Easter has never held a lot of meaning for me, as such. Oh, yeah, when Amber was a little girl, we spent weeks making springtime bird houses for the relatives, and flowery bracelets and yummy treats like bunny cakes for the big family gathering held at my mother's home. I always loved making small, cotton floral frocks for my child who - obligingly, happily - never failed to announce loudly, "My mom made this dress!" As if her mother knew how to do something world-shaking. Stepfather always made a grand entrance carrying approximately 17 tons of strawberries freshly picked in the fields of north San Diego County. It was a nice gathering of food, fun and confabulation. The kids (meaning children and menfolk) would go into the ravine behind my mother's home for the egg hunt - some of the colorful plastic ovoids contained a lottery ticket or a dollar bill. Others held pastel sweets or tiny toys. One notable case of poison ivy emerged on the body of an adult man coming out of that ravine. No child ever came to harm. It was a sweet, warm, lazy day. Later, when I decided nature and the changing seasons, new growth of flora, new intensity to the sun's glow and the blue of the sky were more meaningful to me than any religious tenets, I still enjoyed "Eastertime". I just call it "Spring".

The past week has intrigued me as I have practiced mindfulness and living in the now. Sincere thanks to my sister blogger, CramCake, for reminding me of mindfulness, for I'd forgotten it somehow! I'd completed a work assignment that drained my reserves of energy and creativity. I was given an unexpected few days of "nothing much going on, no demands". Sometimes a void in my day has caused me distress. Not now. The memories I indulged in were of the soft, bunny tail type, not the ones with razor sharp edges. I snickered a lot. No tears, no angst, no regrets. I kind of eased on down the road. That's rather new business for me. Calm, rested. Can "satisfied" be far behind? Maybe . . . . never mind. I wanted to write for the blog, but I could not. I could not plant myself in the chair at the computer, viewing the monitor and the slice of the world I see through the French doors. Not for a little while.My friend, the Sea Hag, and I loved - oh, we loved - to sing very loudly and poorly, but with great gusto. Mostly, we favored heavily harmonized boy band tunes, and those with a concentration on a boyish lead singer. We danced, as well, though I was always dicey about dancing with her when she was pregnant, and I'm not sure why. It's not like anyone would think I made her that way. Oh, well. We sang and danced up and down the corridors of a tension-filled workplace, to the delight (mostly) of the other staff. Our rendition of Solitary Man should be archived - um, somewhere - for posterity. Yes, I know it may sound odd that "Melinda was mine" and that "Sue came along, loved me strong". It doesn't matter! Get it? So, in my ears right now: a firm favorite. Give me a hairbrush microphone, and I'm off. In a pinch, I can sing all the parts. And I can still dance, sort of.

Play it! Oh, come on! I must to confess to being a little selfish sometimes in life. I knew the part I wanted to sing and I'd "work" the Sea Hag. Funny how I almost always landed where I wanted to be. The Sea Hag wasn't dumb. Maybe it just mattered less to her than it did to me. So, for this pick, I argued that the lead singer was skinny and had a pretty remarkable nose, while the guitar player was gorgeous, and therefore, she must take the guitarist's part. " . . .'cause I'd already kno-o-o-ow".

I found "the kicks" this week at Ross on Tuesday (Geezer Day), so I saved 10% ~ always a factor in my selection. You see, spring isn't official, never mind summer, until I have found "the kicks". I mark the passage of time and season with the purchase of the year's most wonderful shoes. It puts a spring in my step, one might say. The kicks must have a little edge to them, and it's better if they make me grin or laugh out loud. I'm not terrifically subtle. Uh-huh, I know spring/summer kicks are expected to be yellow or white, but that doesn't work for me. I have an unreasonable attachment to black for pants and shoes. The 2011 model sports a zipper up the back and reveals not only the foot tattoo, but a little toe cleavage. Oh, these will be fun!

For the first time in many years, I found myself at the bargaining table, representing [gulp] myself. I was a strong advocate for many years, for other people. It is more difficult for me to negotiate for myself, mostly because I've mostly felt unworthy in my life. I approached the proceedings with some trepidation, though I was to sit across from friends, David and George. The issue was how and how much to pay me for my writing project which is being performed in pieces across a wide span of time. We'd agreed at the outset that none of us had experience in paying for writing, we'd monitor the first installment and go from there. I was now delivering up Segment 1. I had lots of data to set out. They had the first tangible evidence that I could create exactly what they wanted. I spoke to them in terms of time spent, research conducted, interviews held, travel time. "Surely you must have a figure in mind, Les." I didn't! I'm a trained and collaborative bargainer. I came with the information - all verifiable. Now it was time for us to arrive at some sensible amount and move forward. Lest any reader be tempted to come and snatch my "bone" from me, I'll simply say this: I'd already been given advances so I wasn't working for free. Nothing would have made me squeeze them unfairly. I didn't need to. I came away with far more than I would ever have asked for. And that sets the table for the future. Nice. I thought to treat myself to a Starbucks on the way home. Instead, I filled up my gas tank for an amount equal to about 10 Starbucks treats. And I felt satisfied.

To my surprise, in a week full of those, my dance card is pretty much punched for today. I've been rather a shut-in for quite awhile, but it appears those new kicks are going to carry me out into the world. There is a social function at the Club where I attend AA meetings. Go figure - while I can put my guts out on a tray in AA meetings, I have found it far more difficult to socialize with the fellowship before and after meetings, so I am forcing myself today to take my potluck contribution of fried chicken and to stay for an hour (minimally). I won't eat there, as I'm invited to a few other functions, but I will aim for talking with 5 people I don't know, and if I need to, I can duck into a meeting. Then off to a traditional Easter ham dinner among friends. I contributed a banana cream pie which I also will not eat. And then, and then . . .

Her name is Kim and her wonderful blog is Numinosity. A fascinating and talented artist in unlimited (apparently) media, she was long ago designated as a blogger I'd most willingly follow around for 72 hours. She is a self-styled "rustafarian" (one who loves rust) who maintains homes in both Arizona and Alaska and commutes between them a la snowbird. Today, Kim and husband set out from Arizona and will drive through Las Vegas at dinnertime and then I will eat. Yep, the cell phone is already glued to my forehead. "Hey, Kim, does husband understand the juju of blogger meet-up? Will he take pictures of us?" "They call him Papa Razzi!" "Hey, Kim, you know that last round of ephemera earrings?" "I'll have them handy in the truck so you can make a selection." If any of my other events runs short, maybe I'll go out onto the highway and into the desert looking for rust treasures as I pass the time waiting. Yes, I'm kidding. One day can only hold so much.

Today is the birthday of my dear blogger friend, Kass, who has taken a blog break for awhile to pursue other important matters. I miss her! I'm sure I'm not alone in that. A year ago, some of us took an imaginary world-wide birthday tour in celebration of the auspicious occasion. I'm thinking of you with love today, Girlfriend. What a difference a year makes, good, bad and indifferent.

Something that charmed me: This past week charmed me. I was too depleted to swim against the current or attempt to control the world. I just went with the flow. Things I expected to happen, didn't. Things I didn't expect to happen, did. I was given so many gifts of the unexpected sort, that I must get busy giving back.

Spring, Sprang, Sprung, Sproing - Part 2

So I was on my little spring day tripper outing and I'd felt the sun on my bones, spotted some silly stuff along the way to my destination, made horse friends - very remarkable for me - and spirit friends - not so remarkable for me at all. I do that. But the day only holds so many hours and there were many other things I'd spotted that were calling my name. I eased down the sharp dirt track from the cemetery, car windows down, grinning.

I'd seen the sign on one of my circuits and thought "What?" A National Wildlife Refuge? Here? It seemed unlikely. This place is a tiny blemish on the butt of Nevada, not a destination. No one lives here and no one (well, me, but I'm odd) would set out to come here on purpose. By all means, protect the wildlife, but would you really build a little center there? I pulled into the parking lot through the gates and was immediately encouraged to see that there were public restrooms. Even a porta-potty is preferable to finding a spot in the desert, so I got out of the car and hurried toward the place that beckoned me. I noticed an RV and a pickup truck in the parking lot. Four adults were chatting pleasantly. I appeared to be the only other person around.

I opened the door of the restroom tentatively. Sometimes these places aren't very pleasant and one wants to brace oneself. Yep, a porta-potty, but to my surprise, the facility was large and clean! But that was only my first impression. When I sat down to take care of business, I began to really study my surroundings. The toilet was clean and no odor emanated from the depths. The floor sparkled. The desired paper products were abundant. And while there was no sink or running water, there was an incongruous substitute. For, hanging from the disabled visitors' handrail, were several bottles of scented hand sanitizer attached by ribbons. Not string, not twine. Decorative ribbon. Lilac, lemon, pine and citrus hand sanitizer. Upon the walls of this palatial porta-potty were long rows of blue disks, marching in line like a platoon of soldiers. Orderly. Not rag tag. "What the heezy?" thought I. I stood on tiptoes and craned my neck. Air fresheners. Miles and miles of air fresheners. I gave a rueful moment over to thinking about my own bathroom at home. The health department is not down my neck, but my floor was not as clean as this outhouse floor and I hang nothing from anything else with ribbon. I pay attention to keeping the bathroom pleasant enough, but I have the one oil fragrancer, not miles of disks. One bar of soap and one pump bottle of a liquid formulation. I made up my mind. I was going out for the camera and coming back in to snap one in this interesting place. Alas, I was waylaid.

When I left the restroom, I was not moving at the speed I was when I entered. I was a bit more leisurely. I noticed the pickup truck was gone and the RV owners seemed to have gone inside. I aimed for the car, but some color caught my attention and I stopped for a moment. Posters. Lots of posters on the ground. Regular poster board one would buy at Wal-Mart and illustrations probably taken from the internet, printed at home, cut and glued to the poster board. Much text had also been printed and pasted, but there were handwritten comments added and arrows from text to picture and picture to text. From these posters I quickly learned that this place was a refuge for dragonflies and damselflies and several species of little bitty Nevada native fishes. I am charmed by dragonflies and damselflies! Who knew? As I mused on this information, I looked around to take in my surroundings more deeply.

There was fence surrounding it, so I could tell how large the refuge is - not very. The landscape is native and wild. I could see a stream and some springs for which the area is named. Well, yes, if some of the protected species are fishes, water is needed. But it was the quality of the structures that struck me. For here in Puckerbrush, USA, is a tiny but world class wildlife refuge. There are several patio areas with picnic tables, enclosed by adobe style curved walls. Wooden paths and bridges lead to several pools where one can observe the fishes, rather like viewing the stars on the Hollywood Blvd. Walk of Fame. The parking lot is in glorious repair, and I've already described the bathrooms. I can attest to the reader that one department of the U.S. government seems to have deep pockets, and that would be the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service. I was processing a lot of information, but all of these observations took place in a few short seconds after I stepped out of the restroom. I took one step toward the car and a very loud slamming noise startled me.

I looked toward the RV and saw a large, older woman charging down the steps at me. Clearly, she had thrown the door open in order to make my acquaintance. Behind her, an older man took the stairs with more care. They aimed themselves at me and they were talking. Both of them. A mile a minute. When the woman reached me, she tugged at my sleeve - literally - and shepherded me to a long folding table set up in front of their RV. Before I tell more of the story, I want to describe the couple. I am 57 and I take care about using the words "old" or "older". They were older. Their RV was shiny and clean. Their faces were scrubbed and their clothes very decent. They exuded cleanliness, good health, good humor. It was not my impression they were newlyweds. No, this pair of bookends fairly screamed, "Decades together, four kids and now grandbabies." They are the sort who would call each other "Mama" and "Dad". And they were passionate about their avocation ~ for these good people are the volunteer curators of the refuge. They come in their RV virtually every day of life, sit parked in the parking lot and wait for the visitors to arrive. They give tours through that small microcosm and they give information. Oh, do they give information. As Mama regaled me with stories about the fishes, Dad smacked brochures, bookmarks, maps and guides into my hand like a mad card dealer. I did a lot of smiling and head bobbing, beause there was no pause for me to slip a word in, even if to ask a question. Finally, with some regret, because I liked Mama and Dad, I spoke with my hands. I touched Mama on the arm and said, "Thank you so much." And I turned to take my leave. Climbing into the car, I was reminded how much I am attracted by passionate people. I am passionate myself and I like seeing fire in others. These people touched me with their dogged commitment to what they love. And I imagine they clean that restroom every other day, Dad emptying the waste baskets and Mama scrubbing the floor on her hands and knees. Now I'd made a pair of human friends. I hoped, sincerely, that the odd traveler and a lot of school field trip visitors come to see Mama and Dad and the damselflies and the fishes.

Along the way to where I wanted to stop and eat a bite, I thought, "Why not?" I'd befriended horses. Why would I pass up an opportunity to greet a sheep or two? They were beautiful to look at. In fact, I think a sheep is a more attractive animal than a horse. I just like the way they look. This flock were lovely, neutral colored creatures with black heads and hooves. They charmed me. As long as I was in the car. I'm a city girl and that's OK with me - I'm not apologizing. I'm open minded and adventuresome and I have myself some desert exploits. But I'm not as keen about farm animals. Especially the ones that smell. Really, really badly. The pen was in very good order, so I knew the stench wasn't due to neglect. I deduced that sheep must simply smell this way. I didn't care for it much. I stepped up to the fence and spoke softly. After all, those horses had found me quite fascinating and I was willing to endure the funk for a short while if the sheep would come over and connect with me. Uh-uh. It wasn't to be. The specimen featured stared at me for about 10 minutes and showed not a shred of curiosity. I am not sure what this means. Perhaps I am simply not a sheep charmer. Perhaps horses are more personable than sheep. Maybe that sheep thought I was stinky. Regardless, we made no connection.

I was empty. I'd had nothing to eat all day, and too much coffee. Some calories were needed. I'd seen pretty much all I wanted to see, except the car seemed to have a mind of its own and pulled off onto the shoulder. "Make this the last stop, Les. You need to eat." I was feeling like a horse expert by now, so imagine my surprise when I stepped up to the rail fence, spoke, and was completely ignored. Perhaps they had not received the horse memo that I was a grand friend to horses. I felt a little stung, a little miffed. And then it occurred to me. They were eating! They weren't going to desert a meal in favor of coming over to greet me. I could understand that. I was hungry too. I called out, "It's OK, horsey homes. I understand." I put the camera up to my face and as I did, one horse gave me the loveliest wave hello and good-bye! Can the reader tell which horse was happiest to meet me? I give that animal high marks for exuberance and congeniality. I got into the car and drove to my picnic spot, feeling delighted to have made so many friends in one day.

I drove a short distance to a high spot on a hill. The breeze was light and the sun warm. I ate outside standing up. I just wanted to be outdoors. I could see the highway far off in the distance and far below me. I planned to take a long downhill (Ha, Tag! Going downhill!), really fast few miles to the highway and then spin around on my heel and motor myself back up that sharp grade without breaking stride. Reader, I know about gradient. This one was at least 10% (maybe as much as 12%) for a very long stretch. After that uprising hill comes a false flat and then another hill of 8-10%. I felt that strong. That confident. I'd do it withoutbreaking stride. Getting ready was rather involved. Keys? Check. BlackBerry? Always. MP3? Yes, with an extra battery tucked into my pocket. Big bottle of water? Uh-huh. Need some more hands, Les? Absolutely! I powered up the MP3. It started to play Track 47. I selected it purposely. It sets the tone for a fabulous walk at a really good pace. It makes a woman do a few dance steps in the highway before she begins to stride. You may listen to it below.

In my ears right now: One of the best tunes in my MP3. Check David Ruffin's eyeglasses and the choreography and the collars and the saxophone. I defy anyone to listen to this and not dance on the sidewalk or the highway! Oh, I like it by the Rolling Stones, too. Mick Jagger with his eye makeup and knickers and his narrow ass. But the Temptations rock this. I've left it large so the video can be enjoyed.

Something that charmed me: This day. This day charmed me. The sun and the breeze and the simple fare of cheese and melon and a hard-boiled egg I took along. The sound of no phones screaming charmed me. Having no bitchy people in my personal space charmed me. Looking a fear in the eye (horses) charmed me. Seeing a lovely old couple doing what they love charmed me. Getting ready to step off for some road miles charmed me. I was so charmed, I even felt charmed about returning to work the next day. But that would be hours and hours after my hilly picnic.

One photo credit (LimesNow only half paying attention): J. D. Morehouse

Things That Make You Go Hmmm

Imponderables. Headscratchers. Baffling things. Elusive concepts. Things that make you go hmmmm . . .

I can easily work up a big old donkey laugh about many things appropriate and inappropriate, raunchy, clever, funny only to me or just simply silly. I do humor pretty well, even when I'm the only one who understands it. In our company's infancy, we gave some business to every advertising salesperson who came our way. We did direct mail and door hangers, coupons, YellowBook, Yellow Pages and on seat cushions used in the bleachers at high school football games. Our vans have excellent, expensive signage and we had magnets made that we can place on the refrigerator at every home or business we enter. We plunged into craigslist and the mysteries of Yahoo and Google at which David quickly became a wizard ~ one wants to cheer out loud for his brilliance. From the first job we booked, part of our script has been to ask, "How did you hear about our company?" It's not rocket science. We were trying to learn which of our advertising dollars were paying off. In less than a year we knew exactly what we should stick with and we eliminated everything else as unnecessary expense. At least in our community, 99% of our business come from four sources plus the technicians' repeat business gained by the good work they perform. I have now spoken with about 4 bazillion people in the big city and there is a behavior among certain of them that I don't get. When I present the question to someone who found us on the internet, the answer is quick and short: "Googled you!" or "I found you online." OK, easy enough. Write that down and move on. However, when the caller's reply is "In the Yellow Pages, " it is followed nearly 100% of the time by an ascending trill of laughter or a giggle. It's not that this annoys me. I don't care. I just need the information. But I muse on why so many people find locating a business in the Yellow Pages so amusing they have to laugh out loud.

Blogger baffles me, not infrequently. It's got little twitches and hiccups that annoy me, mainly because I don't fully understand why they occur. I am very detail-oriented. When I write a post, I'm scrupulous about the words I select, the layout of the post, the presentation of illustrations, the unveiling of what is in my ears right now and something that charmed me. None of which is meant to imply that there is anything special about my blog except that I know what I want it to look like. Imagine my surprise when I take a look at a post that's been up for awhile and the photos are all askew! Huh? How did that happen? Who's been in my blog and monkeyed up the works? I do not like lots of pink air space in the blog's appearance. I edit in html vigilantly to make sure there is no excess. So where has it come from when I sometimes look in a few days later? Who's blowing air into my blog, and will they please discontinue from doing so? But the worst . . . oh the worst! I had been blogging for a short while and I had my hard-earned first four or five followers. That feels pretty heady, and all you other bloggers know it. One values the followers, whether "declared" (publicly following) or simply showing support by appearing and commenting from time to time. I logged on, only to find that all of my followers were gone. Not one. All. I will admit to spending a bit of time feeling very uncomfortable, wondering what I could have written or illustrated that would make everyone run off at the same time. And, of course, soon enough, whoops! There they were again.

My phone script is designed to get enough information from the customer to understand the scope of services we might provide. Part of that includes getting a list of rooms to be cleaned and that is a tall order for some people. In reply to my statement, "I need to get a list of rooms you'd like us to clean", I get such recitals as "Well, it's 1,800 sq. ft." No, please. I don't need the square footage. Just a list of rooms. "The carpet isn't very dirty." Please, tell me the rooms. "It's all the rooms in the house." Yes, but I don't know your home, do I? So I developed a little verbal assist - I talk to far too many people to go through this continually. Now I say, "I need to get a list of rooms you'd like us to clean, like living room, dining room, bedroom . . . " That really works for most of the women! They usually begin a quick, orderly, accurate listing of the rooms that compose their home. An astonishing number of men, even the ones who now understand what I'm asking for, begin to sputter quizzically. They simply can't tell me what rooms are in their homes. Some mutter, some express frustration with me, some say, "I'll have to call you back." I'm not male-bashing, reader. I'm simply observing that a startling percentage of men can't relate simple details about their homes. A smart-ass on the other end of the phone might be tempted to ask, "Well, do ya live there?" Both men and women make me grin with this: about half of the homes we clean include a staircase. Nearly 100% of the time, the caller tells me in exactly this way, "Oh, and we have stairs going up." Now this is a thing that makes me go hmmmmm. Don't those stairs go down, as well? Do I need to be concerned about 50% of the denizens of Las Vegas ascending their stairs and being trapped on the upper floor because the stairs only go up?

A rose by any other name . . . . When I learned that I was going to give birth to a daughter, I gave her name a great deal of thought. Ex and I consulted frequently about it and landed on a name we considered perfect. For we wanted that child to have a euphonious appellation. I figured it would be the same for any parent. Oh, maybe others would be compelled to give a traditional family name, or a name to honor something in nature. My point is that I thought any parent would consider naming a child an important piece of business. David had answered the phone and sold the carpet repair job. He hollered out to ask me to book it. I began my list of questions and soon learned the woman's first name is Lady. Her real first name. The one her mother gave her. OK, home girl. Whatever. The next day we got an online booking from a man who is a little tightly wound. I know this about him because he was so anxious about having two rooms of carpet cleaned, he felt compelled to exchange about 10 e-mails with me. I noticed that he seemed pretty proud of being a doctor, because I never was privy to his first name. Just Dr. Jones. Every time. After the homes cleaned his carpet, the work order and a check were turned in. Imprinted on the check: Doctor Jones. I furrowed my brow. "That's his name, Les. I asked him. That's what his parents named him." OK, well why not a Doctor in the same week I booked a Lady? I couldn't believe it when I saw the online booking come in. What the hell? A customer put Mister as his first name. Mister was also part of his e-mail address. Come on! Because he booked online, I never had a conversation with the man, but I was now so name hinky I put a sticky note on the work order. "Homes, ask him if that's really his name and then let me know!" I watched Joseph and Mike on GPS as they pulled up to the job. I waited while they inspected and got a signature for services. My BlackBerry chirped. "That's his name, Les, given to him by his mother and father." OK, well why not a Mister in the same week I booked a Lady and a Doctor?

In my ears right now: What else?

Something that charmed me: I dispatched a team of two to a customer's home on Plaid Cactus Court today. This made me go hmmmm. For I am a woman who has spent a lot of time in a number of desert areas. And I don't think such a thing exists. Although I have seen a lizard with so many colors and patterns it looked like it had been made of spare parts from other lizards. But a plaid cactus? Nah!

What the Hell is the Matter with People (Chapter 1)?

I usually find it hard to return to work after an absence. Reentry is highly overrated. One's daily rhythms have changed and one feels a bit out of sorts getting back into the routine. I'm no different from anyone else in that way, but I've found it far more difficult this week than at almost any other time I can remember. By noon Monday I'd been beaten up on the phones so severely, I went to the sanctuary of David's office doorway to say, "The personality of the general public didn't improve a bit while I was away." He grinned his big, slow David smile and said, "Well, no, and you were unavailable to take their calls for a week, so now they're even more angry." Yep.

A segment of my life that I savor is watching how people behave. I am fascinated by the people immediately surrounding me and the people who accost me on the phone and the people who do lovely things that no one else will ever know about. I'm interested in the people I see on the bus stop and those who walk out in the predawn every day like I do and in the homeless man who sleeps behind our office building and bathes with the hose and soap and towels we are careful to leave out there for him. I am strongly pulled to elderly persons and I like young people like the home dudes. I'm strongly opinionated after long study, and I feel certain that most people treat others either very well or very poorly in a given situation, with not many behaving middle-of-the-road.

In my workplace, we all love Sonia Sotomayor's soundbite, "Reasonable people can disagree." David has printed it and posted it in many vantage points in his world. He wants to remind himself of it at every opportunity. The trouble is, in my opinion, there just aren't all that many reasonable people out there. Those who try to behave reasonably probably get steamrolled often, become bitter and snap back once in awhile. Those who are unreasonable would seem to feed their own frenzy by the frequency with which they go off, thereby drawing more negative energy.

I would claim to you that when I drive past a train wreck, I don't like to look, but I invariably look, so maybe I should rethink my claim. I purposely watch people interact, and then I go into my reverie about why those people just did what they did or said what they said. I'm afraid I walk around looking either startled or dreamy a lot. One should try the people-studying thing. You may never land on a solid answer to "why do they do that?" but the ride will be thrilling!

I am drawn to the blog written by The Old Bag. I am not a cyclist, but I have a good understanding of cyclists, follow a few, get their language and get what's important to them as relates to their cycling. This woman is fun to follow, because she is sharp and creative and has the skill of saying much with few words. What pulls me the most are her posts expressing exuberance about something that happened on the ride or during some other outdoor pursuit. She is passionate about her time on the bike which she propels with her body, which emits no noxious fumes, which makes no noise, which takes up little room on the road. Her mantra is "Please, after you." Yet she draws rude comments from young, dweeby male cyclists, stopped for a rest as she powers past them, to the effect that her male companion might have to slow down for her to catch up. And she has to watch out for her life and limb every time she rides, because motorists will edge and challenge for road space.

It is much the same for The Badger who describes a day on the bike in the best zip code in our city where the residents would be Las Vegas' best educated, with the highest income and the most likely to have some fitness routine - wouldn't you expect them to respect the cyclist? Of course, he has also been paintballed and shot in the streets on his bike, so Friday's little skirmishes are likely anticlimactic, even though he grouses about them. Flipped off and bunny hopping the curb aren't the worst things he's endured.

The puzzle for me is this: OK, nobody is required to love cyclists in their funny outfits on their odd looking bikes. But what is it about them that draws such aggression? Where we live, road rage and aggression are rampant. Motorists don't want to share the road with other motorists. But put a cyclist or a pedestrian in the mix and the stakes are raised. As a long-distance walker, I have my own stories to tell and have sometimes had to sit on the curb almost ill after a near miss. At least two disagreeing drivers are somewhat well matched in their cars. What is it that cranks up the heat when some drivers see "competition" in the form of a human being unprotected by any armor? Simple bullying at work? Predator and prey? People who feel so small about themselves that they have to crush other people to feel a little larger? I've already said, the answer is hard to find. We don't have enough information about the other players. But I'll share an anecdote in closing.

It was late afternoon on New Year's Eve and we'd shared a great walk with lots of invigorating conversation. It was still light enough that the cars didn't need their headlights. We entered a crosswalk. On the other side of the street, preparing to make a right-hand turn, was a mammoth SUV. We know what to watch for. She'd likely make that turn before we finished crossing, so we needed to pace ourselves. We watched her. She didn't jump, so we stepped it up a little bit to clear the crosswalk. Ten steps from the curb, we heard her engine start to accelerate. We looked up to see her looking over her shoulder for oncoming traffic, talking animatedly on her cell phone, and accelerating - perhaps that phone call caused her pedal foot too much excitement. We couldn't jump backwards into the busy street. My knees went weak and I wasn't sure I'd make it all the way to the curb. The Badger leapt into action, snatching me by the arm, pulling me onto the curb. What he did next was pretty remarkable. He leapt into the air as if he were a frog, not a badger, and flat-hand smacked the passenger side window, startling the passenger who also seemed not to have noticed us. He let fly with some good plain language in a very loud voice [one might say he shouted] and we staggered a few yards away to where we planted our arses against a block wall and hyperventilated.

We could hear the woman's SUV as she made the turn and it seemed she had slowed down quite a bit. The gas pedal was probably not floored. She was pulling up near us, so I began to compose myself, because if she apologized - as it seemed she was about to - I wanted to say "OK, but please - be careful. Watch the crosswalks. Put down the cell phone. Ask your passenger to be your co-pilot. We were about 30 seconds from being killed beneath your tires." When her mighty war wagon came to a complete (illegal) stop in the bike lane and the window was completely down, she leaned across the passenger and delivered her message: "Potty mouth!" They roared off toward the fine, exciting mall on the fun, exciting Las Vegas Strip as we dragged ourselves to my home for dinner where we both were rather subdued . . . . .


In my ears right now: Bloomsbury and Benson Bird chirping their heads off. One could take a lesson from them. No matter how nasty everyone is, they're happy all the time. But then, they are birdbrains!

Something that charmed me: An e-mail I received that was so lovely and welcomed, though simple. "Good night, Limes. I'm looking forward to seeing you." Don't we all want to have someone whose eyes light up at the thought of getting together? Connecting with others is what it's all about for me. I think I'll brew us some really special coffee to share.

Communic8ing with Others

All right, those who follow this blog already have it figured out. For me, it's all about connecting with other people. That's what I do. And I like it. It fills me up. There's a rule in our business that if Limes is in the house, no one else is to answer the ringing phone. Why is that? Because I'm pretty good at connecting with others, even if we're only talking on the phone. A few months after he employed me, David was startled to realize that I booked more jobs than even he did. And he's good. The result of the house rule is that I talk to an awful lot of people.

I use a script to find out about a potential customer's carpet cleaning needs. I can't give a realistic quote if I don't know how long it's been since a professional carpet cleaner has worked on it, whether there are any remarkable spots, stains or heavy soiling, whether there are misbehaving pets in the home, etc., etc. I am glass smooth with the script - I've done it thousands of times and I probably could do it in my sleep, carefully recording the responses and working to make the connection that will land us the job.

Because I am experienced and skilled at running the script, and because I am a person who can juggle a lot of balls at the same time, I go a bit afield while booking the job. I listen for age and accent. Do I need to speak up a bit or speak more plainly in order to best communicate with the caller? I listen for the caller with a good curious mind to open the door to me - I'll give 20 minutes of Pet Urine 101, if that's what the caller wants. If the potential customer is bad-mouthing Stanley Steemr or Chem-Dry, I can tell them the reason the methods used by those companies aren't effective for their needs.

I use True Colors to the extent that I can through the phone - if I've got a brand new mommy on the other end, I become as blue as I really am. "Oh, my baby is 19 now, but I remember the earliest days . . ." If I detect vivid gold (these people live by the clock and count the seconds), I'll try to give them the first appointment of the day so I can safely say, "I'll have a team of two at your doorstep promptly at 7:00 a.m." None of this is false or smarmy. I'm simply trying to relate with people in a way that seems will be most comfortable for them.

I talk to enough people to lump them into categories. I can give a short label and any one of the homes knows what's up. "High squirrel factor, home dudes! Anything can happen." "Limes, was this person kind of difficult when you booked her?" "Dandruff, homey!" The customer seemed flaky to me. "Limes, this man needs all kinds of pet treatment but is only willing to pay for a basic!" "Squeaker, home dude." The customer came across as so tight he squeaks. It's a bit different with David and me. We only talk to the customers on the phone. We don't see them in person. But we have a code of our own, as well. "Limes, I need you to finish booking this one. It's a whiner." What David calls a whiner, I call a hem-and-haw-er, but I still know what I'm getting into. This is the person who won't be able to choose between having service on Wednesday or Thursday, but will subject me to the intricacies of the maze in her head while she tries to make that torturous decision.

In the days when the phone jangled so persistently I could barely manage time for a meal at my desk, I was a bit cavalier. If I had a complete and total idiot on the other end of the line, I could pull the plug in any manner I chose, from simply hanging up the phone to delivering up some sharp words. But not now. Now I bend over backwards to get the job. It means I bite my tongue as difficult people speak rudely to me. It means I do not audibly sigh as the caller yammers on for 10 solid minutes about his calendar and the difficulty of fitting in this life-altering activity of having the carpet cleaned. I do not try to rush the confused. I slow down my rapid-fire speech. I use the word "Sir" to men who don't deserve that little show of respect. I speak gently, as if to a child. Mostly I do pretty well. Last week, however, I lost two jobs and was told off by people from a group I almost always enjoy and who usually find me pretty OK ~ the elderly.

The old gentleman (when I use the word "old", count on the person being at least 80) had a soft, but gravelly voice. A long-time smoker, I would guess. He was a talker. I let him ramble. He had no sense of humor. Believe me, I always try. When the other person has none, it puts me at a disadvantage. He talked on and on, giving me no useful information. I'd finally spent enough time with him to know I needed to take the lead. "Sir, I have a few short questions to ask you about your carpet's condition and then I can give you a responsible quote." I asked what rooms he wanted us to clean, "like, living room, dining room, bedroom . . . . " "Well, I have 1,725 square feet of . . . " Folks, I don't need square footage. I need a list of rooms. He continued the stream of words, never directly answering my question. I tried for the next question in my script: "Can you tell me the last time the carpet was professionally cleaned?" He proceeded to answer that with what brand and color the carpet was. "Sir, are there any spots or stains or heavy soil on the carpet?" He took a biting tone and told me to shut up so he could tell me what he needed! I was stunned. But I hung in there. (I need to tell the reader that "shut up" is particularly difficult for me.) I am not exaggerating. The man talked for 10 minutes. He finally said, "Madam, are you there?" "I am, Sir, but you told me to shut up, so I was letting you finish what you had to say." "I believe I'll find another company whose 'secretary' isn't so snippy!" Slam! He pulled the plug! I don't care for "secretary". I don't care for "shut up". And I hate to see my batting average slip. I went into David's doorway and got my attitude back up with a little conversation and giggles.

The next morning, I answered to an elderly lady. She had a sense of humor, so I was more at ease. She got it about giving me a list of rooms she wanted to have cleaned. She could tell me when the carpet was last professionally cleaned. I asked about spots, stains or heavy soil. "Well, we do have a puppy." Uh-oh. Carpet cleaning red flag. Urine requires extra attention and sometimes major restoration work. I need lots of information if there is pet damage. "M'am, is there urine on the carpet?" "Yes, there is." "OK, well, we're experts and we can take care of that, but I need to get a better understanding of how extensive the pet damage is . . do you think there is pet urine in each of the rooms you've listed? How big is the puppy and how long have you had it in the home?" "You're asking me too many questions!" Slam! She pulled the plug. Yow.

In my ears right now: Not enough phone traffic. I need to talk to a few people in order to book a few jobs. I read an article this morning that said the recession should end in the third quarter. We're in the third quarter. Let it end. Please.

Something that charmed me: For every difficult person I talk on the phone with, there are three nice ones. A nice, nice man called in one time and I divined that he had a good curious mind. I went into Pet Urine 101 with fervor. He never interrupted me except to say, "OK, I get it". "That makes sense." When I had run out of words, he said, "Damn, Lady, did you go to college for that?" The Badger dubbed me the Ph.D. of Pee.

Photo credit for half-portrait of the blogger:
J. D. Morehouse