My Guys - The Home Dudes

In my work, I am surrounded by males. I'm the only hen in the barnyard. This was not comfortable for me for a very long period, because I had never quite figured the species out. No brother. My father, husband and the love of my life were not good study subjects - they were too close to me to be objectively observed. It was a difficult learning process, but I believe I've caught on. I like this configuration. I've got the best seat in the house.

David is an entrepreneur. He had made a good deal of money in some of his endeavors and decided to open an additional small business he knew something about - carpet cleaning. He is a man who will only do things first class, and his new business was no different. All new everything, the best everything. From technology to service vehicles, from products to staff, it has to be the best. That's how he rolls.

I came along 3 months after the business opened and his office manager was about to move. His ad was not what typically would have drawn a response from me, but he was the only human being I reached that day. All other potential offers required me to e-mail, fax or speak to voicemail. I wanted to connect with a living being. I went to see him that afternoon. He said he would let me know within a few days. He called me an hour later and said to start working the next day. I knew nothing about carpet cleaning, small business, scheduling and dispatching, creating websites or any of the things I do today. He selected me for my broader experience and allowed me to learn the details. He's a good mentor. I'm a good learner.

It's been like that for us. We are both rather difficult and extreme people. We are polar opposites on the surface - our separate experiences and journey - but at the core we are twin brothers from different mothers. We work alike. We think alike. We emote similarly. He has put his million dollar baby business in my hands to manage and he steps away and lets me do so. More recently, on the occasions when I ask him to ring in on something, his answer is usually, "I want you to do what you think is right." It's heady stuff. I've never run a business. I've never even worked for a face, a person. I've worked for corporations and labor unions and places run by boards of directors. More will be written about my work, no doubt, but this post was meant to be about the home dudes.

Carpet cleaning technicians are just like any other box of chocolates and we've been through a lot of them. We've had those who embezzled us and stole our money as well as our innocence. We've had old ones, drama kings, misogynists, hell raisers, ladies men, functioning illiterates, marginal nice folks and some really fine citizens. When the recession slammed us unexpectedly 9 months ago, the last remaining difficult ones managed to pretty quickly fire themselves, to the relief of all of us who were left standing. And now we're a smaller, but mighty band of warriors made stronger by being the ones who stayed in, tightened our belts, committed to stay for the ride. And now we're resurfacing!

We developed a mantra some months ago, those of us who are the stayers. "Just keep doing it as right as we can do it. Under-promise and over-deliver. Be as good as we are - on every job." David adjusted budgets and cut expenses, began to pay some expenses personally and communicated openly with everyone. Soon we were managing a small profit. I became a statistician and learned to predict when we'd have more work - and my predictions are pretty dead on. I stopped going off at impossible people on the phone - I can't sacrifice one job to my sharp tongue. Our technicians became kinder to seniors and war veterans, single moms and assorted pathetics, just to keep every job on the books. They became less willing to leave a job that was going south because it would affect all of us.

We're a snapshot of an American phenom: a small business that held on despite some really dark days. We all adjusted how we do things. We kept communicating. We developed a foundation built on mutual trust and it feels powerful. We've truly become worth more than the sum of all our components. You're going to hear much about my home dudes!

In my ears right now: Lucinda Williams, "Over Time"

Why I like it/her: She's a real tough girl. Tough enough to show us that she could also easily bleed to death from emotional pain.

Something that charmed me today: The Badger's dawn e-mails: the weather conditions, his breakfast, his layers of cycling clothes. He is strong and confident going into this race. The gun went off 7 minutes ago. He's riding now and for another 1 1/2 hours or so. I wonder if the turns in those descents will still be muddy or dry and loose.

Computerless + Sleepless = Deep Distress

Photo credit: J.D. Morehouse

I had to work a long time yesterday on the words I wanted to post. I am going to begin speaking of other people and I want to do it well and fairly. So I typed awhile late in the day and decided to drive home, think about my words and spend a quiet evening finishing the post.

Got home, greeted Dylan and Virginia Woolf, made coffee . . . I was ready.

The Badger recently built me a new computer worthy of a Ferrari kit, a siren and a warning label. It is fast. I am spoiled. Now I blog, and I must have that computer. I reached my hand out to bring her to life ~ ~ ~ nothing. OK, I know what to do in that case. Power her off and start again. And again. And again.

Quick e-mail version of my own personal tagline from Apollo 13: "Badger, we have a problem." Repeated 2-line e-mails back and forth. Finally from him: "Look on the back. You should have 4 green lights. If any of them are amber, you're fried." 2 of the 4 were amber. I wanted to go out and run 20 red lights in no one's honor.

So, when the computer dies and it's a Thursday night and you've been promised that a new one will be built after this race weekend is over, wouldn't you just read a book, walk some extra miles, pop in a movie? Maybe you would, but I didn't. I kept getting up and obsessively trying to fire that computer up, disturbing cats and myself. When I accepted that I'd worked myself into a nice insomniac snit, I decided to read. Last year at the holidays, I was given a gift of the seminal John Lennon biography by Philip Norman. I had immediately consumed the first 725 pages, but then I put the book down because I didn't want to read the end. I already knew how the story turned out, you see. I finished my book last night. He still died. It still hurt.

And still no sleep for the wicked! For walking, I went out of my way to locate my Pearl Izumi shoes, the ones that are just about 100% wrong for walking on concrete. I thereby ensured that my feet would flap like ducks' feet for 8 miles. They did.

Addiction is a theme in my tapestry. I think I may have a little blog addiction going on, but I can't locate a 12-step program! So, while in the shower, I found myself grinning, shampoo on my teeth. The night had finally ended. The sun was coming up. If I hurried, I'd get to the office and have access . . . to all those blogs.

In my ears right now: The Lennon Legend, what else?

Why I like it: Come on, it's my hero. I even like his bad music.

Something that charmed me today: The first e-mail I received: "I'm sorry this happened to you while I am away." All right. Thank you. I'll stop being a boob now.

All the Comforts of Home

In the photo: Bloomsbury Bird and Benson Bird host the Badger's birds. The Badger had gone to a race for a few days and we cheered him on from far afield.

It pleases me that I work in a place where my every comfort matters and my little eccentricities are not only tolerated, but encouraged. I have a deep-seated need to be surrounded by things that are beautiful to me and that please me. My job is stressful to say the least, and several times each day I need to have my eyes land on something lovely, my ears take in sounds that please me, and I frequently jump out of my chair to do stretches or weights and bands. It keeps me from running away screaming or from seizing up into a fetal position whimpering.

We recently moved from very cramped quarters to a spacious and, probably, damned funny new office. We're on the second floor with a large deck that's ours alone. I sit up in the treetops with my doors thrown wide open and get the effect of working outside. For whatever reason (we didn't do this) both David's and my offices have mood lighting - go figure. It's restful and I figure the lower light might shave a good 5 years off of me. We have the best technology on the planet and I spend my day at the big dual monitors, watching our service teams move around the valley on GPS. "What is that chucklehead doing, driving around in circles at 53 miles an hour for the last 7 minutes?" We needed some storage space out on the deck, so Troy built us a miniature barn!

Because I am a nester, we have sweet little plants and homey little touches everywhere. But what startles people and brings smiles and comments are our pets. David and I eac keep beautiful betta fish - when I need to slide away momentarily, I focus on Mr. Redfish who glides in his water with the little front fins going a mile a minute. David brings his much loved shih tzus a few times a week, just because he can.

But my favorites, by far, are the birds. My birds (our company mascots, because we're not birdbrains) live in a veritable parakeet palace. They're placed near a sunny window so they think they're outdoors (because they are birdbrains and are easily fooled). They chirp and twitter all day long, and they draw the attention of everyone who steps into our office. They make me laugh out loud several times a day and I am treated to the sight of manly men stepping over to their home and making kissy noises at them or talking pookie-pookie talk. Sometimes a customer will ask me over the phone if I am somewhere with birds, and if I've deduced that customer has any sense of humor, I say, "No, sir, those are the voices in my head channeling through the telephone."

I guess what I really had to say today is this: I had the big career. It was grand, the pension is wonderful, I felt very accomplished, it's over. I worked in the sterile offices of corporate America. The money was great and last winter I eBayed off more cute little suits than the law allows. That's not what I do any more. Now, I work as hard as I ever did, but in a place where what matters, right after succeeding in business, of course . . . is that everyone is comfortable and feels good. It suits me better. It's a rare Monday that I don't come in and say, sincerely, "I am so happy I have this place to come to."

In my ears right now: Mellencamp, "Cherry Bomb"

Why I like it: One of the best nostalgia tunes ever. Fiddle music! Fun and funny. Wry.

Something that charmed me today: Bloomsbury Bird and Benson Bird, just like every day.

Venerable Things

Although in Blogging Profiles there are thousands of people who are interested in the most esoteric subjects, I am the only one who comes up as interested in "venerable things". Maybe I didn't select descriptive words that would match me up with anyone else on this. Maybe I wasn't very clear.

When I use that term, I intend it to say that I am drawn to objects that are old and have some charm to me. I have the most beautiful crystal inkwell, circa 1800, with a tortoiseshell lid (I don't approve of tortoiseshell, but animal rights was not a big crusade in early 1800s England) and the monogram "L" that is always the first item I put out in a new home. I own a small piece of the Berlin Wall. I love a pair of eyeglasses frames I bought at an estate sale for $1 - they seem to be 1930s, are round, tortoiseshell again and I would look pretty wonderful in them but no modern day lab has been willing to make new glasses with them - they are concerned the frames can't take the necessary temperature. ;( I'm willing to take the heat, but the lab isn't. On my dining room wall, I have decorated with a collection of 1920s-forward kitchen implements with red-painted wooden handles (I like them more when the paint is chipped and worn from a good woman's repeated use of them) . . . I like small, not necessarily "valuable" objects that some other person once loved, needed and/or used. It's that human connection thing again. Someone held this in their hand, wore these on their face, dipped their pen into this . .

So, in the theme of venerable things, the item shown above is about to go up for auction and is expected to fetch some thousands of dollars. It is connected to a celebrity, now dead. Anyone want to take a shot at what it is? By the way, I would not consider this object a venerable thing. Uh-uh. No.

In my ears right now: Blues Traveler, "Run Around"

Why I like it: It speaks of pain and disillusion, but its tempo is upbeat. It's a conundrum. Or the writer/singer puts on a good, brave face.

Something that charmed me today: This morning in my office, everyone happened to land in the same room at the same time for just a moment. We are an amazing flock of seagulls, truly some remarkable characters, who really, really like one another and feel we've been brought together for some purpose that's not yet within our grasp to know. It's warm and beautiful outside. Our small business is soaring out of the recession with a mighty flap of our wings. Things are good right here, right now. And suddenly, every one of us was speaking of past days and addictions. Most of us have overcome most of those addictions. But we spoke very human, very painful, maybe shameful things to one another. I'm not sure how it started, but suddenly we were right there. And everyone was valued, respected, admired by everyone else. I'm the girl here. I teared up at something I heard that was evidence of someone's pain. One of the guys looked me straight in the eye and said, "I can't believe you did that to yourself and I can't believe you found your way out." It's good to be understood and not condemned.

Vicente

Photo credit: J. D. Morehouse

In June in the desert we get dramatic skies and days that alternate screaming wind (which flings dust into crevices everywhere) with spitting rain. This morning's raindrop count in my part of the valley was 147 on my front windshield, 19 on my rear windshield, 1 on my eyelid behind my glasses as I got out of the car. Speaking of that car, it looks like someone has thrown mudpies at it and that makes me unnappy. The inside is pristine, the outside looks like hell and where the Sam Hill is Vicente?

Vicente is a tall, stocky Mexican-American man who drives his rig around Las Vegas, pops into businesses and asks if people need to have their cars washed or detailed. He is not young. His black eyes dance. His dentistry includes gold "frames" around all of this front teeth and he has a smile that must make his face ache. His rig is quite presentable and the signage on it is expensive. It's my sense that he does well in his business. He wears good clothing - appropriate to what he does for a living, but good quality, clean, decent. Even a small woman alone would not be concerned about giving her car keys to Vicente - one is certain he will only drive it around the corner of the parking lot and return it to its parking stall.

To say that English is Vicente's second language would be saying too much. He has mastered every phrase he needs, however: "Need car wash?" "You're beautiful." "$20." "How's business?" If one tries to engage him in conversation, perhaps to suggest that she would like her car washed every other week rather than most Fridays . . . . his face becomes the perfect mask of puzzlement. Now I'm pretty good in a pinch, so I tried to show him that every other week thing on a huge calendar posted in the office. Uh-uh. No comprende. So, OK, it's not like I'm spending grocery money on car washes. I'll stick with the convenience of it and continue on with it most Fridays.

The trouble with our 2-year tango is this: Vicente is the poorest car washer in the world. He must like to vacuum the carpet, because it always has those cool diamond-shaped pattern from the vacuum attachment. I know he goes after the windows with vigor. On them he uses the towels with oily substances, so when I get in to drive it, I get the bright shiny grease slick effect. Never ever has he lowered the windows to get to the entire glass surface. I can tell when I lower the windows by the colletion of dust on the top strip. My windshield wipers always have threads of white towel flapping. My spilled Starbucks seems destined to remain on the console forever. My boss had Vicente clean his car once and has never repeated the experience for all my reasons stated.

And then there's his schedule! He says "every Friday". But it's more like every Friday when there's rain promised for Friday night, and never on the Friday when the week-long rain showers have ended. It's like "this guy washes cars - that's his livelihood. Doesn't he know when people want to have their cars washed?" So why do I put up with it? There are other options.

Except Vicente has charmed me. First he shared some new English words with me that he has learned. "Kidney dialysis" and "want to see my shunt?" When I heard that, I knew I'd be buying these car washes for as long as he can deliver them up between dialysis visits. My co-workers shake their heads on the Fridays that I write the check with the 50% tip. Even I have thought of asking my co-worker Cesar to speak to Vicente in Spanish and tell him our small business is feeling the pinch, and I can only afford car washes on a less frequent schedule.

And then he charmed me further. Two weeks ago Vicente chugged up the stairs to my second floor office to return my keys and collect his check. My iPod was playing and his face kind of lit up. "Beatles?" I smiled and nodded my head. And the man opened his mouth and let fly with a list of perfectly prounounced names: Jim Morrison, Mick Jagger, Herman's Hermits, Dave Clark Five, Gerry & The Pacemakers, The Animals, Jefferson Airplane . . . . . I am sure my jaw dropped, literally. And I haven't seen him since. I hope I do, and soon.

In my ears right now: Emmylou Harris - Artist's Choice

Why I like it: These CDs sold by Starbucks feature music selected by various well-known artists. I own a number of them and they always lead me to new, interesting performers. Musician's musicians.

Something that charmed me today: Remembering Vicente's recitation of every known music group of the 60's-70's. In perfect English.