Speechless

I'm an only child, sort of. Well, actually there is the brother, Gary, but he is profoundly retarded, never spoke, and never lived with us at home after he was 5 years old. Only children think that everyone wants to hear what they have to say. This is due to conditioning. When we spoke as children, the adults listened and responded. It encouraged us to be talkers. It is the same with my own only child. Some people appreciate that talkative nature more than others. Ex used to put his hands up in defense at the breakfast table as if to physically deflect the words. He was cursed to have a wife and a daughter who were both talkers.

Oh, but I am further induced to talk. I have a really quick mind. I'm a fast processor. And I absorb new information like a sponge. When someone speaks to me or when something happens, I have something to say about it before most people hear it or see it. And this is not boasting or touting fine skills I've developed with hard work and dedication. I'm just stating the way I am. I didn't ask for it. I just got it. This is how I am made. Ex processed more slowly and was slower to come up with commentary. Ex likely stuck his foot in his mouth far less frequently than I.

I had a long career and many jobs that have required me to communicate both verbally and in writing with people at various levels of an organization. When you need the impassioned speech filled with righteous indignation before the school board, I'm likely the woman you'd tap. If it's time for steely, barely controlled outrage with just a touch of civility at the negotiations table, I can do that well. And in a discplinary hearing, if one's client's behavior needs to be diluted with a soft, firm voice pleading for equal applications of reason and mercy, I manage that nicely. I have spent much time at the podium or on the stage training groups of up to 1,000 and I'm good at handling the questions that come in fast and hard from left field. I'm a talker. Always have something to say.

When I interviewed with David, I seemed an unlikely fit as his business manager. I knew nothing about carpet or carpet cleaning, I'd never seen the software, I'd never worked in a service industry or scheduled routes to include multiple vehicles and multiple technicians covering a valley filled with nearly 2 million people. I'd never seen GPS work and I was so pink-collar middle class, I stuck out like a sore thumb in the environment. I wonder why he would even consider hiring me? Well, technically, I know the answer. He read the resume. He listened to me speak. He wagered that I could get where he was going, based on where I'd already been. He told me he'd call me within a few days regardless of the decision he made. He called in an hour and asked me to come to work the next day. I was to turn 55 in a couple of months. I told him I'd give him 15 years. Many months later, I came across the file where he'd kept the resumes and applications. I saw some sad ones. David speaks plainly. "Used hard and not taken care of" appeared on one offering. "Does not speak well. She could never be put on the phones." And on mine, "Beginning a pension in two months. Smart! Looks good. Professional. Friendly. She will be great on the phones."

I reported the next day and was immediately tucked into an incubator. I caught on to the software pretty quickly, and GPS. But I was not allowed to answer a telephone and I was never, ever left alone. Not for a moment. For months. David and I shared a very large office, occupying two desks that each faced the other. We could practically bump knees except for the modesty panels on the front of each desk. And I listened to him book jobs all day, every day. Hundreds and hundreds of jobs. I could soon tell when he had a live one on the other end of the phone - the live ones want to be informed and educated. I could tell when he had one of those who does not want to converse about carpet cleaning, but simply wants to book the job. Let the technicians talk with those people at the door on the appointed day! I asked questions and I memorized the script. I learned to sense what kinds of accommodation to give a tender case - the elderly, someone who was ill, the pastor of a tiny church or the person who provided family day care in her home.

Before he hired me (or anyone else), David knew he'd want to send "her" to carpet cleaning classes. [And "her" could have been "him". David is not gender biased in any way.] Why? "She/he" was never going to clean a carpet. He knew he wanted someone on the phones who knew about carpet and carpet cleaning and pH levels and natural fibers like cotton or wool vs. common fourth generation nylon carpeting. He wanted someone who could talk Pet Urine 101 earnestly and sincerely, without scaring potential customers away. I went to the classes and determined I would ace the exam! I didn't get 100%, but I got the highest score of anyone ever in our company ~ 97%. I am a certified carpet technician. I have gained a wealth of knowledge listening to the technicians, too. When they speak of mixing a cleaning solution to pH 15, I know they nearly melted that carpet. When they speak of the valuable red, white and black custom wool rug, I know they used dye-lock to prevent color running.
Finally, David began to go out to the bank or out to pick up lunch and bring it back to eat at his desk. I was allowed, and then encouraged, to meet the general public of Las Vegas as fast as I could pick up the receiver. He critiqued me in the beginning, urging me sometimes to pull in the reins, and other times to keep talking. I listened to the daily horror stories and comical stories and I rarely failed to ask, "How did you fix that, homes? What did you do?" I became confident. I knew about carpet! There was talk for more than a year about taking me away from the office for a morning to go out on a route with selected technicians to see how it all happened. That didn't occur, with one thing and then another. Alas, I no longer want to go out with any of them. I've heard enough about the homes of the general public. I'm not made of tough enough stuff. I don't have to know everything there is to know in this world. After a couple of months on the phone, I went off on a potential customer and thought, "Well, that speaks well of you, right in front of David." I sneaked a peek at him. He was grinning from ear-to-ear. "I'd have used stronger language and applied it a full 5 minutes earlier. I didn't think you had it in you, and I was afraid you'd bleed to death someday."

After 6 months, it was deep winter and I made a comment one day. "I walk every day in complete dark, I arrive here in the near-dark, I go home in the near-dark and there's no window to the outside. I haven't seen daylight in weeks." I was moved immediately to the best seat in the house and I've operated mostly solo ever since. It is acknowledged that I book even more jobs than David does. If I am in the house and handling fewer than 3 telephones at a time, no one else is to answer an incoming call. I have had my share of being beaten up and I've barked back at people enough times to keep my reputation properly inflated. I've had odd calls and frightening ones and a couple of weeks ago, I recognized a scam that could have cost the company money. I can give the low-down on pet urine damage to the extent that I am called the Ph. D. of Pee. And, although it is a rare occurrence, it gets my goat that I've been caught speechless a time or two. It only seems to happen when I'm alone and have no one to call upon for assistance.

It was literally one of the first days I was alone at the desk with no one else anywhere nearby. We didn't use the radios or BlackBerries yet. I remembered setting the appointment for a man out in the farthest reaches of Henderson. He sounded elderly and afflicted by a respiratory problem. Maybe emphysema or severe asthma. I slowed my speech way down to talk with him, gave him several reassurances about our quality service and got the job. My best team did the work, a technician with 15 years experience and a strong assistant. They'd left the customer's home hours earlier. The customer called me, wheezing and distressed. "Your men cleaned the carpet and I took my wife to lunch and a movie. We just came back home. The carpet is bumpy and lumpy and rolling like ocean waves in every room!" "WTF?", thought I. My mind raced. What could the homes have done? Why had this happened? Where was my support team? When I was a sweet young thing just starting out with the union, an old cynical mentor taught me, "When you can't give them substance, give them form." But I couldn't give this poor man anything. Nearly speechless. I began to sputter. "Sir, I'm sorry. I don't know the answer. But I will find the answer out and you will hear from me." I waited an eternity for David to return and nearly plucked at his arm when he came in. The story tumbled out of my face and my eyes bugged. He grinned. "He has action-back carpet! It'll be right in the morning." "What? Are you sure?" He was sure. Action-back carpet relaxes during cleaning and buckles. It contracts as it dries and returns to its original condition. I got to tell that elderly man this information. He didn't believe me. I didn't believe me, either. He was gracious enough to call me the next morning to say, "You were right, lady!" OK, I love learning new things.

So a year goes by and now I think I'm pretty smart. Cocky, maybe. I was pleased to land a job cleaning carpet and tile in the human resources department of a major hotel-casino group. If I posted the logo, the reader would say, "Ah!" Although a technician had gone out to measure and inspect the premises, the negotiation really occurred on e-mail between "the girls", an HR administrative assistant and me. I felt a lot of ownership for this job. On the designated evening, I dispatched every man and every van. They worked about 7 hours with Security dogging their every footstep. This enterprise employs about 8,000 people and there are laws governing human resources department records. In huddle, I'd teased them: "If you slip and start to take a fall, don't reach out for a file cabinet for support. Security will get you!" The job went smoothly and Cesar chirped me at 2:00 a.m. on Thursday morning to let me know they had finished. Dana paid promptly the next morning with a credit card and was effusive about the work performed. "We'll call you again next spring!" Great! We love repeat business, and especially large jobs like that. Dana called again on the next Tuesday. "Hi, Leslie, I just wanted to thank you again for the terrific job your crew did." "What's up with this?", I'm thinking. Then she said it. "I'm just wondering why we have mushrooms growing up through the carpet in the offices along one side of the building. Really big mushrooms." "WTF?" I was home alone again, too. And, once again, nearly speechless.

As the different teams checked in for the day, I grilled every man. "What can this be? How can that happen?" No one had a clue. We Googled. We called the IICRC, the organization that certifies each of us as technicians and our company as an IICRC-certified firm. I was promised a call back, but gained no concrete information. The last team rolled in and I put forth my quandary. One of the men looked as startled as I felt and stated he had no idea how such a thing could happen. The other man is not much of a talker. He is thrifty with words and he'd never try to out-holler the group or any one of the rest of us. He didn't join in the babbling and head scratching. But I could read his face. Something was working in his head. I began to hush the raucous crowd. "What? Do you know what could have happened here?" He spoke so quietly some of the men leaned forward to hear him. He did it with four sentences. "Leslie, call her tomorrow and have her ask Maintenance if they're sitting on a cracked slab. I think they must be. We introduced moisture when we cleaned. The water went down through the crack into the dark earth and started a mighty crop of mushrooms growing - they can only grow upward." I looked around the room. I know these men well. I could tell some of them thought that was a pretty credible diagnosis, and some of them said so out loud. I called Dana the next morning and it took her about an hour to learn that they are sitting on a cracked slab caused by a plumbing leak in 2003. Mushrooms. Nearly speechless.

This was going to be the something that charmed me, but something happened as I typed the last paragraph that has me grinning from ear to ear. So this is the honorary something that charmed me. Mother Badger had cataract surgery yesterday and to my happy surprise, by the evening she was e-mailing back and forth. She clearly had her wits about her and was learning to cover the one eye with a tissue while using her computer glasses for the eye that hasn't had the surgery yet. She has no pain, but she's glad we postponed my visit for a week so she can get firmly on her feet. She was back on e-mail this morning to say she is bruised to the extent that she doesn't think this is the time to go to the singles' club looking for a date or to a place where children gather. Yay, Mother Badger! One down and one to go.

In my ears right now: Two favored artists and a beautiful Louvin Brothers song. It's been covered by many artists, but this is the version for me. How's the world treating you?


Something that charmed me: This is literally true. This actually just happened. Cesar has a very good customer who has called for his services 8 times for various houses she owns. She is a generous tipper who knows the ropes about scheduling online so she'll get a discount. She knows to ask for Cesar in the Comments section. Cesar commented today that this was his first visit to the woman's personal home. It was a large job that took many hours and was a good money-maker for him. It's been a few hours since Cesar finished the job. The call came and the customer was as pleasant as she has always been. "Hi, Cesar cleaned my carpet this morning and it's not quite dry, but I'm a little concerned . . . there are bumps and waves throughout the house . . ." Altogether now: action-back carpet! Alas, I have never again been able to exhibit my genius about mushrooms growing through the carpet, but I do take some pleasure in reassuring the good people that their carpet will look as good as new in the morning!

I Feel Like Having Some Company ~ Come and Walk a Mile in My Moccasins with Me

If the reader needs some background, my last post sets the stage for most of what I'll write about here. Or just scroll down, rather than use the link.

All right, if you visit this blog often, if you're one of the wonderful souls who virtually loves me, may I ask you to join in a huge, loud "AW, Les!"? This windy, windy spring in Las Vegas has nearly made me lose my mind. It is oppressive. I'm also physically tired and emotionally jumbly and the work pace has picked up sufficiently to remind me that I used to go like hell at the desk and I'm out of practice. David's off on his cruise (setting sail as I type this) and I got some grief I've come to expect when he vacations. No matter how much preparation is made, how many discussions held, as David leaves town, at least one of the homes will try to pick me off in some way and I have to become The Skirt With a Badge. [Yep, the photo shows my own real badges!] None of them ever gives me any grief when David is in Las Vegas, even if not at the office, but . . . . I don't care for it much, but Saturday I was reminded how levelly and civilly I can behave while leaving no question what will and will not be tolerated. That was on Vacation Day 1: The Man is Not Even Out of Nevada.

I'd come up with a plan to restore and refresh myself by seeking out cactus flowers and horned toads at a spot in the Mojave Preserve I know intimately. It is a location where I have retreated when I've needed to expend some angst. It is a place where I have gone solo in order to perform necessary rituals that are not well-suited to conducting before an audience. They were, however, effective for me as I struggled for balance. It is a place that has been featured in the national news for the past week due to a Supreme Court decision favored by the conservative judges. I'll blog more about that in the future. It is a place that could be squeezed into a very narrow window of opportunity as other demands, other activities, other interests and the schedules of others compete for attention. Although it wasn't to be the preferred full-on weekend trip, it would be sufficient to fill a deep, deep need.

I'm no rookie at planning outings in the Mojave. I know how to monitor weather in even the remotest locations by watching weather conditions in several locations nearby. Which place has the approximate same altitude and where does the mountain range cut through? I know what to pack to eat, how much drinking water to carry, and how to dress for the conditions. I know whether the hikes will be rocky or sandy. I know what is likely to be seen based on the month, and even the time in the month. Different species of cactus bloom at different times, and in a predictable order. Lizards emerge from hibernation into the sun at the approximate time that I do the same. Sunday was to be the day. Claret cups, beavertails, chollas, hedgehogs and prickly pears virtually assured to be in some phase of flowering. Horned toads practically guaranteed in the loose sand at the mouths of the ant excavations, their favorite place to dine.

I'm not a good enough wordsmith to accurately describe my state of shock. For on Saturday night and Sunday, the wind became even stronger, even worse, in Las Vegas. I'm not sure which is more troubling to me, being slammed by it as I walk for 8 or 10 miles, or hearing the shriek that hasn't stopped for more than a day or so in weeks. Before setting out for my walk, I checked conditions at the desert destination. Cooler temperatures than Las Vegas, but not a "wind" icon to be seen. I walked in misery, then ran the laundry and dishwasher, attempted to restore my home to a decent condition after a busy week. Everything everyone else does on their time off, right.? When I took out the trash and walked to the mailbox, I noted the gale was worse. But I was hanging my hat on those weather spots with no wind icons. I was in the market when the e-mail came. "It's worse out there than it is here. What do you think?" What I thought was not printable! "I'll e- you from home. 10 minutes." We e-mailed. We talked on the phone. We pulled the plug. For I am the first to admit that if I stepped out in the Mojave and it was blowing worse than in Las Vegas, I'd burst into tears. "If you still want to go, I'm willing" was the gift offered to me. But, no. I knew I'd be unpleasant company. I knew no horned toad worth his scales would be out skittering around in the sand. No ants would labor at the door of the colony, at risk of becoming a horned toad meal. "How many horned toads did you see?" asked Doozyanner, in commentary. Um. None, Dooz. "Les, you in the desert yet?" chirped Matt on the BlackBerry. No.

OK, what am I going to do here? I can jump off the deck or crash my car into a wall. I can laugh or cry. I can become philosophical about it. Oh, right! I'm 57 years old and I haven't landed on "philosophical" yet - or at least not ever landed and stuck there. I could go shopping, and retail therapy is always effective for me, but that means I'd have to go out in the damned wind. What I did with the few "found" hours was a revelation to me. For I did something highly unusual. I turned on the Hallmark channel which was running some 24 hours of I Love Lucy. Lucy episodes make nice white noise for me. And then I relaxed in my own home. It was clean and tidy. I couldn't make work out of anything. I took some books down and remembered how much I love them. I played certain music on the Bose over the top of Lucy. Good music. I ran my hands across the fabric that screams my name, washed and ironed long ago but never made into the project I really and truly do want to execute. I didn't fool myself into thinking I was quite ready to do that project on this day. It was enough to just stroke the fabric. But the thought entered my head that perhaps I will do the project someday soon, as I am exhibiting some evidence of rejoining the living. Coming out of the darkness. I made a wonderful dinner to share. We played cards. I began a discussion about very difficult things and never shed a tear. I expressed myself fully and, though filled with emotion, I was unemotional. My reward was a caring and sincere real conversation, meaning both parties speak and both parties listen.

Monday, I stepped into my office. A full crew had run on Sunday and the work orders and collected payments were neatly stacked on my desk. At first glance, I thought I spied a pink calculator on top of the stack. I don't own a pink calculator, but whatever. There was coffee to brew, homes to greet, computers to light up, my food for the week to be tossed into the refrigerator. When I finally settled, the technician who gave me so much grief on Saturday said something quietly. "I brought you something, Les." I looked at him and he pointed to the calculator. I looked more closely and saw it was not what I had taken it to be. It was something else. Homey jumped up and snatched it, grabbed my BlackBerry, and grinning ear-to-ear, said, "I'm sorry I was such an ass. I brought you a pink BlackBerry skin . . . " He spent the next 5 minutes showing me the ins and outs of aligning the various buttons and how to maneuver the Direct Connect tab we use so frequently. It touched me. For he had also sent me a text message Saturday in the middle of his first job. Obviously, he was still churning about his behavior over the weekend. He has a well-developed conscience. It's one of the things I like about him.

The general public ate us up and spit us out all day long. The phones rang off the hook. I booked so many jobs I had to look back at some spreadsheets to see the last time I'd attained such a number. June 17, 2008. Cesar's steam cleaning machine went down three times at one job and I had to re-route the remainder of the day's work. On GPS, that re-routing thing always reminds me of billiard balls struck hard and rolling in every direction. I don't like re-routing. It distresses me. But I do it well. Three customers hung up on me when I was in mid-cry, something that bothers me far worse than having them call me "bitch". I had listened to screaming toddlers for a full 5 minutes before their mother slammed the receiver down on me. We had a little excitement due to the fact that our imprinted checks and bank cards still have not arrived after our bank account was looted and then closed. The e-mail he typed from somewhere in the Pacific off of Mexico landed in the late afternoon. I felt like I'd been pulled through the eye of a needle and I really didn't want to even look at one of the 7 e-mail accounts loaded into that BlackBerry. But I looked. That's what I do. David! "How is everything going?" I'm quick on the keyboard and I also know that while he would want to know how we were surviving, he is on vacation and wouldn't linger in his e-mail box. "XLNTLY!", I lied. To my surprise he popped back on. "Too few words from you. What's wrong?" "Absolutely nothing. Go take your cruise." I didn't hear from him again. He trusts that I've got his back. Vacation Day 3: Manic Monday.

And so go the days . . . what's been happening in your world? Tell me all about it . . . .

In my ears right now:


Something that charmed me: Driving home from Manic Monday, I spotted something pinkish. Las Vegas is dotted with enormous water retention basins - great holes in the ground to collect rainwater during the monsoon season, thereby preventing the floods we suffer due to runoff. In the area where I live, the basin perimeters are beautifully landscaped with native plants. And there, right on Desert Inn Road in the middle of commute traffic, was a profusion of prickly pears in bloom! I changed lanes tout suite and circled the block. Yes, best in the afternoon sinking sun, I think. I can get out, sit cross-legged on the sidewalk and get right in there. I spun the block again. Yes, I'll try them from a couple of different angles, looking east and then west. It hit me. There is no place to park anywhere near these cactus. Not remotely near, for one may not park anywhere on a major street in Las Vegas at any time. So this evening, I shall leave the office, taking the camera, park on the nearest side street, walk 1.2 miles to the cactus, fold my legs under me on the concrete, snap a few amateurish pictures, unfold myself from the sidewalk and walk 1.2 miles back to the car. Have I mentioned I have a tremendous need to see the cactus flowers?

Some photo credits: J. D. Morehouse

Schizophrenia (the Weather's) and Other Assorted Ailments (My Own)

I started the day giddy. Ebullient. I walked my miles in an environment that did not include winds sufficient to tear my limbs from my body. No rain splattered me. When the sky began to lighten, I could tell there wasn't a cloud in it. An hour later, I left for work and my pea coat felt a bit much. Hmmm . . maybe the cute Sgt. Pepper's jacket could soon exit the coat closet!

The morning continued to be lovely. In the first e-mail exchanged, I confessed to nearly weeping as I drove to work in the spring. My phones jangled like they have not done in a very long time. It's obvious Mr. and Mrs. Las Vegas are thinking "spring cleaning time". I booked jobs until hell wouldn't have me any more and this thrilled me to the extent that I repeatedly radioed David to tell him that's what I was doing. Home dudes were so busy that every one of my war wagons was out on the road well utilized.

Across the period of one short hour, it all changed. The sun went, the clouds came. The rain came down in sheets. David appeared for a short while and we simply shook our heads at one another. Will it ever end? Is there some force of nature that has it in for our small carpet cleaning business?

The wind presented itself for a change. Its short absence obviously revitalized it. It sucked two gigantic sets of double doors in-and-out, in-and-out until I finally had to lock them. All of my paperwork threatened to be torn out the door and flung across Las Vegas.


The shingles on my barn roof began to flap just as the crabby Mr. and Mrs. Las Vegas emerged from beneath their bridge in order to dial my number. But they didn't flap loudly enough to drown out some really rude comments flung over the phone at me. My best e-mailing buddy flew off the radar for awhile and I was working myself into a snit. One doesn't want to contemplate me when I am being skunked at work by the weather again.

First, I paced. I tried to find music that would soothe rather than agitate. I pulled out some old, daunting, problem files to occupy me. Nothing worked well. I was working myself into a spin and I decided to try something. I sometimes use a set of mindfulness skills to decompress. Some of the activities can include "stop and feel your ribcage move as you breathe" or "look upon yourself right now to see just exactly what you are doing". I looked upon myself to see what I was doing . . . and I burst into a donkey laugh. For I was doing exactly what I do each and every day at a particular time. What the heezy else would I be doing? It made me want to challenge the bloggers to chime in on something that amuses me.

I like to laugh. I like to laugh at people. The person I like most to laugh at is me. I am made up of warts and bumps and scars and bruises and I am laughable. Some of my flaws don't need to be aired in my blog, but some of my obsessive compulsive stuff is funny. Occasionally I try to make deals with myself to try something different or break the cycle in some way, but mostly - if the behavior is not harmful - I'm really OK with being the OC nut job that I am.

So here's the challenge to the bloggers: Share something in my Comment section that you do obsessively for no good reason and that you really don't have much control to change. What is it that you do that makes you the quirky one you are?

Here's mine: This is what I was doing when I looked upon myself this morning. Of course it's what I was doing ~ it was 10:00! Every day of life I eat a cucumber. At precisely 10:00. Cut with the same knife, cut with the same series of knife strokes, cut in exactly the same way. I put a precise amount of red wine vinegar on the cucumber slices and apply the precise number of twists to the sea salt grinder. Could I eat a cucumber at 9:45 or 10:15? Certainly. But I'd still eat the one at 10:00.

The sun has returned. The wind has remained. The phones started up again. It's only Wednesday and this will already go down as our best week of the year so far. I stressed, I laughed, and I was reminded how funny we are ~ myself and those I like to connect with. All will be well.

In my ears right now: An old favorite! I wish I danced like Mellencamp. Alas, I do not.

Something that charmed me: Pinky and Blaze have a new sister. Meet Little Red.

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