Sometimes While One Ponders . . .

. . . why she cannot write/is not writing despite being full of much to say, she could just post a couple of fairly credible pictures taken while on the brief outing away from home. I struggled with feeling that might appear just a little bit derivative, since so many bloggers post their photographs of flowers and the desert and - dang it! - some of the very same things I've aimed at. I prickle at appearing derivative. On the other hand, I went where I went and it's in the desert and cactus flowers abound, and cactus without flowers, and other sights that charmed me. If one can't be creative in one way, then try another. And keep trying to figure out about why the avoidance before going on the trip and why the avoidance since coming back. What's going on here?

I've written many times about feeling no urge to be a photographer. I've shared life with two different very talented such artists and it's made it just a little too easy for me to say, "Would you please aim your magical instrument over in that direction and see what you can get for me?" I'm lazy. I have to admit it. And I don't feel any fire to learn the operation of the camera to produce magic of my own. I'd rather play with words. Nevertheless, I'd be an idiot if I didn't know a little bit about how to capture a decent enough picture and I was lucky to do so on my trip.

I walk for miles in the street every day and on my visit to Arizona, I was fortunate to sleep in each day, pushing off at 6:00 a.m. The sun was just rising and the cactus flowers at their dewiest, not yet wilting from harsh sun. It charms me that the streets in Mother Badger's community are filled with walkers and golfers and cyclists and more at 6:00 a.m. And almost everyone speaks to say hello! I'm unaccustomed to that. For my few days, I added a camera to the usual iPod, BlackBerry, bottle of water and other various and sundry items. I was glad I did so!

I found love in the desert!

I'm charmed by a community where the residents

provide their

plants with courtesy umbrellas . . . .

And trim the trees into lollipops with white-painted trunks.

Good morning, Lollipop Tree!

Toward the end of this day's walk I came upon a blooming cactus I've photographed before in past years. I shot from several feet away and people could say, "Oh, nice cactus. Nice flowers." That was good enough for me. This time I approached it a little differently. I dropped to my knees and got in close. Some of the petals touched my hot, sweaty face. I tried a few shots, placing the sun over left or right shoulder. I tried both with and without macro. I like what I captured! I like the depth of the yellow and green pool with little hair-like structures and an alien hand with too many fingers. I like the dots in the far background that are the pores of the cactus plant. I like the milk-white ruffled petals and especially the ones in the upper righthand corner that appear to have sugar sprinkled on them. I'm purposely leaving this one at a very high resolution to keep the detail in. So that's how it's done! There are more to share, but this is my bravely trotted-out first. What do you think?

In my ears right now: Nothing. I'm too busy in my head trying to figure myself out. This is a rare occasion.

Something that charmed me: Mailman Steve just came by and gave me a stack of unremarkable mail. He was almost out the door when he groped inside his pouch and said, "Oh, I almost forgot!' It was for me personally. Both the return address and my address contained our blogger names. It needs its own complete post and I shall turn my attention to that, with the photos. I'm not only charmed, I'm astounded. This isn't the first time, but one of many special times that another blogger has reached out and touched me. It completely blows me away. Have I mentioned I think bloggers lean toward "kinder than most sorts"?

Crack a Champagne Bottle Across My Bow - I'm Sailing

The time had come to leave for Mother Badger's home. She was expecting me. I'd already sent the e-mail to say what time I would leave. She can do arithmetic. She'd know approximately when I'd arrive. Cesar had helped me feel confident about my car. I'd made checklists and cross-referenced information that really shouldn't matter. It's not like there aren't stores down there if I forgot something. The car was fueled up and my things packed inside it. I'd walked a brisk 10 miles, showered, dressed comfortably for a long ride. And that's when I began to fiddle fart around. Uh-oh. What was going on here? This is a trip I very much wanted to take. So why . . . . ? I'm not telling how many times I drove across the street to the convenience store and back home. It is embarrassing. There I bought junk food that I never ate. It went into the trash at Mother Badger's. I'm not telling what the junk food was, either. I left home and headed toward the beltway. Using streets I know do not go through to the major boulevard. I've lived in the same neighborhood for more than 7 years. Why was I purposely avoiding the beltway? I drove in circles for miles. What the heezy?

I stopped living a few years ago. Some events in my life had broken me just a little and I slowed nearly to a halt. Then the headlines began to scream about national financial ruin and I closed down a little more. To the amusement of the homes, I took steps to prevent my decline and potential homelessness. I had my car insurance policy analyzed and tweaked it and, after charting what and how much TV I watch, I reduced my cable TV service. I cut the high-speed internet to moderately high-speed internet. Hey, I don't download large files or play computer games! I began to sell unwanted, unneeded things on eBay and I hunkered down, waiting for the pain. I stopped doing many things I've done all of my adult life. Like a little shopping for pleasure and traveling a little and buying quirky (inexpensive) things to decorate my home and my office. Like reading, a most beloved pastime since the age of 4. Like the annual trip to the beach in July. Like volunteering to help organizations that support causes I embrace. Like being a political activist. Where did I go? I know why I went, but I don't know where I went. I was lost and my world shrunk. If it wasn't about walking, working, haircut, doctor, dentist, it wasn't happening any more. With the exception of the very rare camping trip or cycling race weekend, I literally did not go away. For far too long. I now know that didn't do anything good for me. I didn't get a badge for being the most stalwart shut-in.

I couldn't avoid the on-ramp any longer. If I didn't set out now, I'd arrive later than expected and I don't do late. I merged into traffic and I was agog. I, the decades-long freeway warrior, had dropped into a world I no longer recognized. Commute traffic, and lots of it! I asked myself, "I wonder why I never hear the homes bitch about traffic? This is hideous!" But that didn't last long. Within minutes my old treachery on the blacktop had returned and I was sailing smoothly in the next-to-fastest lane. As my comfort level on the road returned to me, so did many other things. It proved to be a journey of reminders and affirmations, five hours alone with myself, my music, my car, the road, my desert and my confidence. No one accidentally chirped me and I didn't once chirp any one of them. I soaked up sunshine through the windshield and I did not feel pressured or hurried whatsoever. I took a break and did it well.

Although I would rather have a MapQuest printout that tells me specifically to go from Highway 93 South for 132 miles to Highway 40 East for 79 miles, I had a stretch of journey I'd have to manage by eyeballing. The construction delays on the $240 million Hoover Dam bypass are notorious, and I didn't intend to sit for an hour or more roasting in my own juices. There is an alternate route that adds about 23 miles and half-an-hour to the trip, and that suited me. The trouble is, I'd only taken that route once, and in the opposite direction. Some of the highway numbers were not known, and one has to watch for a couple of turnoffs that are easily missed. Mother Badger had reminded me, "One can easily end up in Needles, CA, by missing that turnoff!" Needles is hours out of the way. Comfort and confidence settled around my shoulders, warm like a shawl. I passed through Searchlight and thought of it as Senator Harry Reid's childhood home and a mark along the road to where we camp at Paiute Gorge. I spotted the sign announcing Cal-Nev-Ari in 9 miles, right near where the three state boundaries meet. I was musing about the community established by Nancy and Slim Kidwell in the 1960s, its 400 residents, casino, motel, RV park, mobile home park, convenience store and airport . . . airport? Yep. FAA designated. As I spied the marker for my turnoff, I was reminded I am good at observing signs and landmarks. I have a good head for maps and I'm logical. I know how to get around. And I knew precisely where I was located on the map.

Soon I was descending through the sharp, craggy red and caramel sandstone to the Colorado River gorge where Laughlin lies. No more merry e-mailing on the BlackBerry from behind the wheel, as the road took a sharp downhill grade and there were switchbacks to be dealt with. Now I pulled over, rather than driving while intexticated. I was reminded how much I love my Mojave Desert (and the Sonoran, where I would soon arrive) and how, if one doesn't have the privilege of going to the desert, one can derive much pleasure from driving through it. I crossed the bridge over the Colorado River and into Arizona, which always thrills me. Where I live, one sees more dry washes and sandy creekbeds than rushing rivers. It's exciting! I drove up out of the gorge through Bullhead City and crossed the preposterously named Golden Valley. I call it Arizona's armpit. When I spotted the wide vista of badlands, I knew Kingman was nearing. Kingman was about half-way to my destination, and after Kingman I had MapQuest directions right to Mother Badger's door. I know Kingman well. I know not to get myself trapped on the main drag where the highway dumps all travelers who then converge upon the many gas stations and convenience stores. I know to drive through the long place and stop at the very last truck stop which is never as congested. Although I didn't actually need gas, I knew how far away were the next services. One doesn't take chances. I bought a large coffee and walked through the aisles filled with ceramic roadrunners and resin coiled rattlesnake figurines. One wonders how much "authentic" southwestern merchandise is actually sold by these establishments, because they all have huge inventories of such items. Back in the car, I cranked up the custom music mix delivered to me the previous day, sipped at my coffee and drove out of Kingman. Some miles ahead, I turned onto another highway and it soon became apparent I was no longer in the Mojave and no longer in the transition between the Mojave and the Sonoran. I was there - in the Sonoran Desert!

After one turns onto the highway, there is not much "civilization" until one arrives at the Phoenix suburbs. There are long, long stretches of desert to enjoy and its personality begins to change quite suddenly. I climbed into the high, rocky reaches and was treated to my first view of a jungle of bear grass, green and bushy at the ground, with high, reedy fans standing ten feet tall. Photographing the bear grass has always been a goal of the man with the camera, preferably at a time of day when the sun shines golden through the fan. Alas, unfathomable to me, the desert here is fenced for miles and miles and miles. Pictures could only be taken from a distance, through fence material. Please don't fence in the desert! Finally, I saw the first iconic saguaro - indisputable evidence that one is in the Sonoran. There are some saguaros in Las Vegas, but they are not native in the Mojave. In the winter they must wear a burlap jacket, and they are not easily cultivated here. But they thrive in their home in the Sonoran, clustering into forests of the tall, many-armed cacti. If one steps onto this bus often, it may be remembered that I am starved for the sight of cactus flowers this year. And now I was in for a treat, for the saguaro were blooming in profusion! Saguaros can live more than 150 years and grow from 15 to 50 feet in height. It takes up to 75 years for them to develop a side arm. The state of Arizona takes saguaro conservation very seriously and it is common to see them supported by upright angled boards with soft pads protecting the cactus' flesh from the wood. Often large segments break off of the main plant and some very odd shapes are attained.

Early in my love of the desert, I was terribly misled by a gorgeous Jack Dykinga photo of a saguaro in bloom. I saw that the flower of the saguaro was as huge and showy as the cactus itself, and said so. This brought a laugh, for saguaro flowers are as tiny as the saguaro is huge! The esteemed Dykinga had been fortunate to find a downed saguaro arm and get right in on the bloom with a macro shot that made it look enormous, I was told. Today I know that the flowers are tiny, but can be abundant as they pop out on the very tips of the cactus' arms. Driving along observing the cactus, I got playful. I wanted to see the flowers up close and personal. As I am a woman who will not ascend a step-stool, it is unlikely I will ever be perched in any way at the top of a 50 foot cactus, there to inspect its blooms. However, as I whizzed past a particular saguaro, I saw that its flowers weren't terribly high in the air, and maybe if I made a U-turn at one of the infrequent highway crossovers . . . . It was about a 12-mile detour. I remembered that sometimes I've enjoyed aiming a point-and-shoot camera at something that charms me and sharing the results with others. The reader wants to understand I have no urge and I do not need to make fine photographs. I'm perfectly happy getting a crude likeness of the reality and saying, "Look what I saw!" And so, here it is: look what I saw. Later in my trip I managed some fairly credible pictures, but this was for fun. I remembered that I once liked to go away and see the sights and have some fun. I jumped back into the car and made my way past Snoopys (plural - Snoopies?) on the rocketship in Wikieup (don't ask me, I don't know why!) ~ "Hey, Snoopys!"


The highways almost completely bypass Wickenburg now, rather than go straight through the middle of town. I'd been warned about the two roundabouts I'd need to navigate, but I did that well. I have roundabouts in Summerlin, near home, and I've driven them in the U.K. They don't disturb me. And then it was the long, last, straight, full-of-road-construction 30 miles. Although I have visited many times, I've never learned the layout of the streets in MB's community. For one thing, the streets all curve and change names. For another, I was never the driver. But I learned that both MapQuest and MB had served me well. I pulled into the driveway, took in a very deep breath, popped the code into the alarm system and stepped to the back door. "I knew you were here! I saw the sun shine through Alfie's cat door when you opened the garage door!" Hugs were exchanged and each of us exclaimed about the other's hair. I'd never seen her beautiful silver mane cropped very much like my own, though a little longer. She'd never seen mine since Christine was put in charge of its maintenance. We chatted a little and she told me to take my things to my familiar room. Though I recently commiserated with my friend on e-mail about the stresses of traveling, as I brought my things inside and arranged them, I remembered that travel doesn't stress me. I'm organized and careful. I keep lists and check them. I don't leave things back or lose them. I remembered I'm pretty good at this traveling and visiting thing. I sent the promised e-mails to those who insisted I let them know I'd arrived. It was going to be a lovely few days! I knew it immediately.

In my ears right now: The finger-snappingest, most dance-inspiring hit of 1997, by three children. Amber loved it. I liked it, too. One heard it in the streets and the stores. I confess that I had a little difficulty re-entering my world this week. I was a little down. It's taken a few days, but I'm feeling pretty Mmm Bop right now! I defy the reader to play this tune and not want to dance around. In fact . . . . excuse me for just a moment, please.


Something that charmed me: The arrival of that 23rd follower charmed me. Please note that all followers charm me, but there's a story. For number 23 is Willy, likely the best girlfriend I have ever had, and since 1986. Oh, yes, he is a man, to be sure. And no, not gay. Not at all. But what we have is a deep, understanding, girlfriends kind of thing and I'm pleased he has popped on my bus.

One photo credit: J. D. Morehouse (Snoopys at Wikieup)

Maybe I Should Just Stuff it in the Mattress

I did not find the merry month of May so very. Although our business soared in March and April, May was tepid. Lukewarm. I needed a few more 11,000 square foot church jobs to drop into my lap unbidden. The wind screamed on maddeningly, making me feel low much of the time. My blog birthday would come up at the end of the month and I thought that would set me writing at a quick pace, but May was my least prolific month since I started the blog. I wasn't reading other blogs with the same degree of frequency, nor commenting as much. I dealt with two major stressors during the month, car fears and money fears. I spent a long time trying to land on why I blog, what I expect to get from it, what I do get from it, and whether I want to continue with it. I'd endured a little angst, a little disillusionment, and I needed to rethink exactly what it was about for me. I found my answers.

My understanding of the intricacies of money management has been, mostly, elementary. I learned young that one wanted to earn a lot of it, save a lot of it, spend a lot of it. But I never learned a "plan". Money just "was". One didn't guide money. Until one became divorced and on her own at age 50. Then one learned to build the budget and handle the spreadsheets and of whom to ask the hard questions and which publications to study. Mother Badger has taught me much about money, as has David and I've gained a wealth (great word!) of knowledge from building and sticking to the budget for our company. I'm pretty savvy in my old age!

On the first Sunday of 2009, I drove through Wells Fargo Bank's stand of ATMs and juggled all my cards, seeking to handle my finances the way that I do. My pension is directly deposited to my Sun West Bank account. I do quite a bit of transferring between the two banks and I juggle several different accounts for my personal use and that of my tiny consulting business. Once a month, I go online to make certain the pension was properly deposited at Sun West. No, I don't have to look 16 times. I look once. The reader may believe, I know where my money is parked and I know just exactly how much of it there is.

I was on my way to see Christine for my haircut and color. She prefers cash payment, so I attempted to withdraw $140 from the Sun West account. "Insufficient funds". What? I knew how much money was in that account and it far exceeded $140. I did a balance inquiry that revealed I had the princely sum of $4.20 available. I didn't like it at all. None of my bank accounts ever sinks into single digits. I knew what should have been in the account and I was a bit concerned, but I knew that sometimes information doesn't translate well between banks and I needed to keep my appointment with Christine. I pulled the $140 from my Wells Fargo account and continued with my day.

Arriving at work the next morning, the first Monday in January, 2009, I sent the technicians out on their routes, but was very eager to go online to see what was happening with my account at Sun West. To my shock, there had been a series of large cash withdrawals from my account between Friday night and Sunday morning! I'd been cleaned out. Yes, it was close in proximity to New Year's, but I'd done no partying, and I felt certain no videotape of me with a lampshade on my head at the ATM could be produced. When startled/shocked, I tend to look over my shoulder to see if any Candid Camera camcorders are aimed at me. Is this a joke? It wasn't. I printed the list of transactions and ran into David's office. "Get your coat and purse! Be at the bank's door at 9:00 when they open.", he advised. I did that. I was the first customer through the door that day. I signed affadavits and sworn statements, and they reassured me I'd suffer no loss until the investigation was completed. It took very little time ~ maybe 15 days. I'd been defrauded in some way that was never explained to me. I never lost a penny. That bank took care of me and my dollars.

On Saturday, May 29th, I went online to verify my pension had been deposited to Sun West. I've banked there for 6 years, so their splash page is very familiar to me. Hey! What the heezy? "Where are the pictures of so many of the actual employees I recognize? Where is the picture of my branch in the building that has been there since the 1970s?", thought I. For here is what I saw on the screen:

On Friday, May 28, 2010, Sun West Bank, Las Vegas, NV was closed by the Nevada Department of Business and Industry, Financial Institutions Division. Subsequently, the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation (FDIC) was named Receiver. No advance notice is given to the public when a financial institution is closed.

All deposit accounts, excluding certain brokered deposits, have been transferred to City National Bank, Los Angeles, CA. For more information on City National Bank, visit us at www.cnb.com.

The FDIC has assembled useful information regarding your relationship with Sun West Bank. Besides a checking account, you may have Certificates of Deposit, a business checking account, a Social Security direct deposit, and other relationships with the institution.

Please select the link below to read more about this event:

FDIC Bank Closing Information for Sun West Bank

Online service will remain available.

Continue to Sun West Bank's Online Banking Login:
• Personal
• Business

??!!**## ??!!**## What the ??? I reared back in my chair and looked over my shoulder for the Candid Camera that was not there. Yes, I did see the acronym FDIC on the first reading, so I felt somewhat certain the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation was involved, but one wants to feel damned secure in these situations. With my heart in my mouth, I attempted to gain access to my accounts, using my login and password information. I was successful, and everything seemed as it should be in each account. But that was not good enough. I was alone in the office, so I radioed David who was in another county at a race. "Sir, are you actively racing right this moment?" "No, just setting up. What's up?" I read it to him without ever letting up on the talk button. He heard all of it before he could get one word in edgewise. One can't chirp while being chirped. "What do you think, David?" He said his temperature had begun to rise when I began to read, but he also took some solace in the fact that the passwords worked and the FDIC was involved. "But find out for sure on Monday!" No kidding!

I sent e-mails to my personal financial advisor, Mother Badger, and to the Badger himself. "Um, how badly would this disturb you on a Saturday afternoon of a 3-day weekend?" The e-mails fairly flew for awhile, and the consensus opinion was that I was probably OK. I am. David saw it on the news on Sunday night. By Monday morning, City National Bank had a welcome page on the website to reassure Sun West customers and those of other failed banks they've recently taken on. Yow. We're advised to continue using the checks and bank cards from Sun West until further notice, and the existing employees have been retained. The only visible difference to the customers will be the new sign on the building. Relief? No. I'm transferring everything to Wells Fargo. I believe I mentioned in my last post that if a car fails me, I want nothing to do with that car again. It pales in comparison with what happens to me internally when my bank fails.

At work, we slithered out of May on our bellies like a snake, but - to my surprise - when I crunched the numbers, I learned we actually turned a small profit. For reasons I should no longer try to divine, for it will surely make me ill someday, the phones began to scream on June 1. Why that specific day? What were the conditions? Was Jupiter aligned with Mars? Stop it, Leslie! I've booked more jobs in three days than I booked in some weeks in the heart of darkness after the economy slid. We fired a technician we love who had returned on a 90-day trial basis after we fired him at the holidays. He won't get a third chance with us. David started his two high schoolers at work today - their first jobs, with the world in front of them to be enjoyed. Today I ran more vans than I have on one day in months. Some men were running solo, which means they were earning at their highest level of income. We like that.

Matt radioed in after his first job, just like he is supposed to do. "I've experienced a first, Leslie." I asked what had happened and he told me he killed a customer's pet. ??!!**##??!!**## What could have happened? Did he run over a dog or squash a cat in the driveway? Suck a bird up the wand while he was dry-stroking? "Matt, what??" He arrived at the customer's home to find mother and child crying hysterically. In the house was a large adhesive rodent trap and the child's hamster had become stuck in it. The customer had tried to remove the hamster, but he was good and truly stuck and was clearly in distress. The woman asked Matt to kill the suffering animal - to put it out of its very apparent misery. Matt is a big, gruff, tough very emotional and sensitive human being. "Oh, lady, no. Oh, no, no. I can't do that. I love animals. No, no m'am." She begged him, explaining that her husband could not come home for hours and she had no one else to ask. Her small son was becoming more distressed by the minute. Matt took the animal out to the van and attempted to dislodge the hamster using various tools and even some safe cleaning solutions to try to break the adhesive bond. He attempted to loosen the animal by cutting its fur without causing further harm. Nothing worked, and the animal was now in trauma. Matt killed it, out of sight of the mother and the boy. I have seen Matt in deep distress. His ears would have been bright red and his eyes full of tears. No, not crying like a little girl. Just showing obvious signs of pain while he did the right thing. He performed a sterling carpet repair and told the little boy his pet was in a better place now. Then this 23-year-old got in his mighty war wagon and continued to his next job where he was treated badly and thrown out on his ear. So go our days.

In my ears right now: My favorite of Gillian Welch's work, April the 14th (Part I).



Something that charmed me: In huddle, we talked about what Matt encountered, how humane he had been to the animal and how he overcame his own misgivings to assist a mother and child. It took only seconds for him to be dubbed the Hamster Hit Man, but that was done in a pat-on-the-back manner rather than hilarity about a pet that died. The assembled homes began to talk about the various ways each of them would have euthanized the hamster once he made the assessment it could not be released from the trap. I scanned their faces, looking for any traces of inappropriate amusement. There was none. They were serious about thinking how they'd handle a distasteful situation with the least distress to anyone involved. I'd be pleased to have any one of them on my tea, if I were in bad circumstances.

The Rehabilitation of a Fallen Female, or What a Difference 24 Hours Makes

Fair warning to the reader: this post will make more sense if you read the previous one. Back here in the little office plaza, after one passes under the stucco arch, are a handful of small businesses. Although different types of operations, they are loosely associated because each is an enterprise of David and George. One doesn't run into many strangers in the plaza because none of the businesses attracts walk-in traffic. There is a pattern to where each person parks and it is easy to understand the workday of others that one sees taking a cigarette break every day at 10:00, 12:00 and 2:00. When one needs certain kinds of services, chances are David and/or George runs a business that provides just what's needed. George pulls a lot of mechanic work from the inhabitants of this small world, just as we clean a lot of carpets for them.

David's comfort zone was announced on my first day of work. "When would you like me to take breaks and lunch?" His reply, delivered with an enormous grin, was along the lines of him being happiest if I'd never leave my desk. Ever. He was pretty serious, though very pleasant. Now, wait. I'm a former labor union rep. I can recite entire chunks of the Fair Labor Standards Act from memory and I take employee rights and benefits seriously. But I looked around me. This wasn't Kansas or corporate. This was different. I reminded myself that stepping away from corporate and trying something new was a gift I gave myself. David fully understands that people have business to conduct. He is reasonable. And so it has developed that, while I still have to leave the desk to see my dentist, most kinds of errand-running is done on my behalf by someone else. Various characters act as my personal shoppers, go to my home to pick things up for me, make bank deposits, take my car for service and other things most people do for themselves. I remain in the first mate's seat. This works in our world.

As I prepare to take a break of several days for the first time in far too long, I've enlisted Cesar to be my go-to man. I want the security of knowing my car is travel-worthy. I don't understand cars and I don't know how to fix them. I will travel a good distance through an area where it would be difficult to gain assistance. I'm not 25 and cute. I could not rely on the first male passerby to stop and assist me. I have been well wrapped up in knots and feel I keep hitting brick walls while trying to move my agenda. And this is all due to the perverse nature of my car, Lucy Sue, who attracts the oddest automobile mishaps I've ever heard about. She is the fallen female referenced in the post title and she has fallen into some disrepair. She's a little worse for wear and tear. The latest freakish fix necessitated waiting for the arrival of a special-order part and I'm starting to sweat whether I'll have decent transportation when it comes time to leave. I have too few men hanging around to caravan to George's shop with my car to drop it off and then come back together. I was terribly distressed by the time Cesar finished his route Friday and prepared to work for me for the rest of the day.

For a week I have driven in abject terror with my hood tied down and gaping open like a slackjaw. The wind has made that hood bounce as I drive into it, and I have suffered many visions of the hood snapping off, coming through the windshield, and slicing my head off. I require the installation of a new cable under the hood of the car so that hood can be opened and closed to allow for other maintenance to be performed. "I'm off, Les. I'll chirp you from George's shop to let you know what's going on." I don't have to see Cesar's face to know when he's funning me. "Uh-oh, Les, they can't do it until tomorrow!" I could envision him grinning, and I told him to stop it. He said they'd been waiting for him and already had the hood up. He radioed again almost immediately. "Les, this is your lucky day." Oh. Oh, no. I don't need any more luck. And I'm convinced that any luck about that car is going to be the bad variety. "Just shoot me, Cesar. What now?" "No, really, Les! It's good!" He told me I didn't need a new cable at all! "Your hood latch was dirty! He fixed you up with two squirts of WD-40 and a shop rag! You just saved $144.25." My hood latch was dirty. And have I mentioned I drove around for a week . . never mind.

"Cesar, come on, let's move this thing along. Come back to the office and get some money. Let's get the oil change now and some of the other things accomplished." Within two hours, Lucy Sue had had an oil change and received a new oil filter and air filter. Each and every one of her body fluids had been topped off , her brakes, tires and wiper blades inspected. The belts, hoses and cooling system had been thoroughly checked out, as had her electrical system. All of this cost me $12.40, for last winter I gave $20 to a man who came soliciting. For my $20, I got a card that entitles me to 3 "free" oil changes and a variety of other free or discounted services. "You need a new battery, Les. We bake them here in the desert and yours is 4 years old. It didn't even register on the voltage meter. They don't give any warning when they are ready to give up the ghost. We'll get it tomorrow." OK, a battery. That doesn't scare me. I have experience in buying new batteries. Minutes after Cesar dropped off the car, Vicente and Lucy appeared to apply the weekly car cleaning and detailing. I pored over the paperwork Cesar brought back and some lights came on for me. I understood what I was reading, in an elementary way. Cars don't literally have a million mysterious systems. They have maybe 20 areas one needs to know a little bit about. And one needs to know where to go to have the car inspected and recommendations made. All of this across the span of one afternoon. I love learning new things!

Mother Badger began a volley of e-mails, so I had a friend as the car repairs shook out. "How could life go on without duct tape and WD-40?", she quipped. MB is in planning mode. She's collecting the coupons for the outlet stores where we shop. In her community, discount punch cards and special shopping days for those under age 50 are a big hit, among other gimmicks. She suggested that with all that knick-knack-paddy-whack, perhaps the stores would owe me money after I finished my shopping! She wonders whether the cucumbers she bought me will still be fresh, but if not, we'll go buy more. She's suggested which stores we should hit on which days, and which days to go to the garage and estate sales. I agreed to her plan immediately. She's good! She's got piles of treasure she plans to donate to charity if I don't want the gems. And she has an upholstered chair for me if it will fit in my car. I give her a tip of the hat for planning all the hunting and gathering first, and then spending some time figuring how we'll get it into the notorious Nissan. "Hang onto the rope that secured the hood. We may need it to tie down the trunk!" We could launch a military offensive between us. She would be the general and I a corporal, and I like it that way.

The morning began like many others. We sandwich the serious part of our morning huddle between two layers of b.s., joking, complaining, whining and telling the stories of what we see and hear in the mean streets. "Les, what was up with that customer?" "Homes, I don't know how you do it. I'd run screaming." I remind them to hydrate as we have turned extremely hot very suddenly. They turn in their work orders and money collected. I tell them every impression their potential customers made on me when I booked the jobs. I give public kudos when one of them has taken a bullet for the company and I give constructive criticism when one of them has done something annoying that the others might easily do as well. I do it gently. I always preface it with, "This is not to beat you up. It is to share details about something that could happen to any of you and to work together on ways we can avoid it happening again." It works in our world. They don't resent me. They try things that their peers and I suggest.

During one of the layers of b.s., joking, complaining, whining and telling the stories of what we see and hear in the mean streets, I heard some comments that suggested everyone had all the scoop about my car's return to respectability. "What, men, do you have a grapevine on those BlackBerries? Each man tells the next man?" This was curious to me. "Well, yeah, Les. We've all been giving input and suggestions. We've tried to think of every possible thing that could worry you and take care of it in advance. We want you to relax and have a good time." Well! And that's when it happened. I took an imaginary step backward and listened to a testosterone-fueled car maintenance confab begin. They tossed factoids and tidbits back and forth and engaged in a little one-upsmanship. Suddenly something happened. A comment was aimed at me: "Les, at about 30-35,000 miles, get your serpentine belt and your brakes inspected. Get the radiator flushed then, too." I'd never been given such advice. "Nah, dude, it'll be three more years before her odometer gets there and we don't want her to wait three years! She needs to do this by the calendar, not by the miles. She doesn't drive enough." I rejoined the party.

"Wait, homes. You know I'm a note taker. Let me get a pad and pen. I've never heard anything like this and I think I'd draw some strength from knowing such things. And be orderly. Stop talking over the top of each other." They spewed forth information for half an hour and I scribbled. I asked questions until I understood. When they disagreed about some of the finer points, I asked them to brainstorm until they could reach a consensus. They did that. I drew a little diagram and chirped a couple of them to clarify fine points. I created a spreadsheet and then a chart. I'm good at that stuff. When Cesar came in from getting the new battery and wiper blades, I asked him to review my chart. "Do I have all of it right?" I did! "Have I missed anything?" Nothing! I get this to the degree that I need to get it. I'm never going to change my own oil or do much under the hood personally. But I'm no longer 100% stupid. I made the spreadsheets. I made the charts. I printed and laminated them. When I got into the car after the end of the workday, I tucked it all into the glove compartment. I don't laminate until I am certain. I am certain. I can learn enough to manage this stuff and not have it overwhelm me.

In my ears right now: When the band split up in 1980, Don Henley said there would be a reunion "when hell freezes over". Hell froze in 1994. I'd always liked them. I liked them better after they'd put a few years on themselves and resolved their differences.

Something that charmed me: The men charmed me. Their conspiring to send me off safe and free of distress. Their willingness to slow down and let me take notes and ask girlish questions until I understood. "What was your father good for, Les?" "Plenty of things, homey, but not teaching me about cars!" "What about Ex?" "He didn't understand them, either. It's a wonder we didn't burn up, blow up and blow out our cars."

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!

The Week in Review

I felt that was a very lofty title for a piece about a set of anecdotes not so lofty, but I'm a little silly today. David has been on vacation and I have experienced a rebirth in my job, a flowering. I'd stopped living, just a little, without realizing it. My edge had dulled, in some respects, simply due to repetitive motion. I'm back. I'm alive. I remember how it feels to be creative and risk-taking. I remember how good it feels to laugh my ass off and continue to dig deep inside myself to find the positives and the support I can give as a gift to others.

I am surrounded in my work life by males exclusively. I care for each of them tremendously, and for different reasons. Each of them brings a raft of fine qualities to our world. Each of them is challenged by certain obstacles. Just like every other human being. Our work backgrounds could not be more diverse. The homes may be a little intimidated by the things I know how to do, and well. And they awe me with what they do that I know I'm not capable of doing. We just have different roles in the drama.

While David has been away, I've conducted morning huddle each day and the full-on staff meeting on Thursday. These gatherings are where we talk about the day's work ahead - what I gleaned from talking to the customer on the phone, what we ran into the last time we cleaned for this or that repeat customer, which vans or steam cleaning machines have issues, what product needs to be reordered and who did what last night. These are also the times when we air personal grievances or do a little hollering or give public kudos to one of our own who took a bullet for the team. In huddle, we rah! the Badger in his latest race and applaud the achievements of someone's child and ask about the health of someone else's mother. And before or after huddle, almost invariably, comes our version of the bedtime story - the blogs.

An entire culture has sprung up around the blogs. The homes now know the players and ask about them. "What's Tag got to say on either of his blogs?" "What's the Badger aiming his fine camera at today?" "What kind of mischief is Kass trying to draw you into, Les?" "Tell us about some of the new bloggers you've found." I read the blogs (they want to hear it aloud, not read it for themselves) and we cackle mightily, or react with sober silence or look at one another to say, "I have to go think about that for awhile. I'm not sure what I think/feel." They peer across my shoulder at the monitor. They ask me how it's done, how one adds pictures, how comments work. And now the homes want to give input to my blog! I've lightly tossed out the comment, "You know, you could have one of your very own. I'd help you." No one has taken me up on it. But they're decidedly curious and into these blogs.

I've written about Matt so many times, it led a woman friend to ask if I have a crush on him. What? No! It's just that he and I have a connection that is deep and electric. (If the reader wishes to learn more about Matt than I am going to write in this post, look for the label "Matt"). We are fascinated by one another. Matt has more IQ points than the law should allow. And yet he is innocent. Naive. Simple. Young. Things startle him. He's been around the block and has seen some of what the world contains. But it's as if someone took him around the world, showed him the sights, and failed to explain what he was looking at. He still possesses a huge sense of wonder. He is large and loud and blunt and hilarious and relentless.

Matt acts as my personal shopper at yard sales throughout the valley. He once located a solid oak dresser for me, sent a picture by the BlackBerry, fostered my negotiation with the seller through the BlackBerry and drove around all day with that dresser in the van like a passenger. The thing was so huge he could not see around it, not even to use the mirrors to drive. When he arrived back at the office that evening, he had to ask another technician to guide him into the driveway so he wouldn't be hit by another vehicle. He is full of surprises! This week he chirped me and asked, "Hey, Les, do you want a brand-new microwave, never out of the box?" Apropos of nothing. I wondered what was up, but I could hear his mother in the background, so I knew it wasn't a prank. "Ummm, sure. I've got the huge built-in one in good shape, but one can't have too many new, still-in-the-box microwaves, Matt." Where did he get the several microwaves he was handing out? Oh, it's very Las Vegas-y quirky. No, they're not stolen.

All right, so Matt has an up-and-down history with us. He was good and truly fired at Thanksgiving and we didn't hear from him for awhile. He stopped in one afternoon and spent hours with me. I commented to David that I sensed a difference. When he came to ask for his job back, David gave it to him with some conditions. He's succeeding this time, due in part (we believe) to a new addition to his life - a young lady with her head screwed on properly. She works and goes to school. She expects certain behaviors of Matt and gives him love in return. It's a beautiful thing. Alas, Miss Erin's parents retired and she was expected to move in order to remain living in the family home. Matt took a week off to help move the family to northern California. While staying in Shasta County, Matt encountered many signs for a political candidate for County Assessor-Recorder who has the same name as mine. This so fascinated the young man, it seems he nearly crashed the car every time he saw a sign. He has not been able to stop talking about it since he returned. I've finally said, "Matt, look in the phone directory of any sizable city. You'll find lots of people with my last name. And Leslie is a pretty common name among people of a certain age. In school, I always had to be Leslie M because there were other Leslies in the class." No. It's not computing for him. He knows the person who possesses my name and it's me and nobody else. Never mind that I've Googled that impostor in Shasta County and shown him her picture on the County government website. "Leslie, I think you're going to win, too, because you've got more signs out than anyone." OK, homey. It'll be a hellish commute, but once I'm elected, I shall do my best to serve the citizens of Shasta County. Yesterday, Matt chirped me from the van. He's loud when he whispers, and now he was shouting. I could hear Cesar in the background, trying to shush him. Miss Erin has had enough after 10 days away from her Matt. She's coming back to start a life with him!

We've drawn closer this week, the homes and me. We've laughed while delivering a week of stunning performance. But there's more. The homes got playful. They began to express some things that were funny to them and became a little creative and I like that because I've never seen it in them. One came up with an idea for a tagging blog that I may soon post. He thought it up on his own, too. Another asked if I had my camera at work. I did. He asked if he could take a picture of something he thought was hilarious and if I'd post it. I had to be diplomatic. "I'll post it as long as it doesn't completely mortify me." And so, I present the photograph that reveals my feet don't touch the floor when I sit in my chair. The good red leather Coach loafers just dangle in the air. This amuses them! Homey stretched out on his belly on the floor to take that picture, too. Everyone agreed that Matt and I had finally, officially, become twins this week, fostered by the many discussions about my upcoming election. "Hey, Les," came the request, "could we put up a picture that shows how much twins can look alike?" "Sure, guys!"


But it wasn't all fun and games. Something profound happened this week. Profound is a relative term and ours is a tiny little world, but profundity occurred. I am an efficient office monkey. I have perfected the art of the nearly paperless office. I sputter when David offers to buy us more file cabinets, because we're not going to collect any more paper here, thank you very much. I stand by the old administrative assistants' adage, "Touch every project as few times as possible." There has existed a cruel plot to mess with my sense of smooth operation. The homes, on every job they undertake, have to mess with a lot of numbers. Charges for various services, discounts, fuel surcharges, waste disposal fees. They are often hit with a counteroffer: "OK, you're quoting me $579.14 for that. Will you take $500 out the door?" Of course they will! No one walks away from a $500 job. The rub comes when homes start crunching the numbers, for the fuel and waste charges cannot be adjusted. Those belong to the company. The only movable part of the feast is the cost of their services. My men are not mathematicians. Not one of them. They radio in an amount they hope is pretty close to right on. Later in the job they sell a little teflon stainguard or pick up some tile and grout to clean and the numbers change again. Each time they call in numbers, I update several different tracking documents. When the numbers change, I update again. And again. And again. When the work orders come in at the end of the day, more times than not I discover that the numbers weren't correct in any one of the conversations. Last week I did the slow burn for the millionth time. We're busy now. I can't pat them on their heads any more and be their codependent. I took one particularly hideous job and counted how many reports and documents I had to adjust because the math was wrong. Again. 17 documents and reports. Literally.

It occurred to me while I was walking. A 10-mile walk in the dark before dawn allows one to solve many of the world's problems. I remembered something a wise person told me when Amber was a toddler. "Tell her what you want her to do. Don't tell her what not to do. She'll just land on something else that still may or may not be what you want her to do." Hmmm . . I do not suggest that my men are naughty children who need to be controlled. But maybe they simply don't know what I want or how to do it. In huddle I made an announcement I wasn't sure would fly. "I need everyone to get a calculator and a pen or pencil and some paper. Don't sit anywhere near each other and do not talk to each other. Although our golden rule is always to help each other out, this is a solo exercise. I need to find out your own personal stumbling blocks." I passed out a real, particularly harrowing math exercise. The one that I'd had to adjust 17 times. They got to see all the scritch-scratching on the work order and while they could easily visualize what the technician had gone through during that transaction, they didn't know how to sort it all out. "Your assignment is to provide me with three things: the correct amount for services, fuel and waste. If you don't even know where to begin, then man up and say so. I will give you a jump start." To my amazement, they were quiet and immediately started to work. No objections. No exchanged looks of pain. Justin spoke up after 5 minutes. "Les, I don't know the first thing to do. Looking at this paper with all these numbers just confuses me." Oh! OK. I needed to underwhelm Justin. We went into David's private office and after just a few reminders, he was able to get started.

That first day, a couple of them were successful at landing on the correct number. But that wasn't good enough for me, because those two were already pretty adept at it before I presented the challenge. The second day, another couple rose above the surface of the water. By Wednesday, they appeared in huddle with calculators and pencils without being reminded. By Wednesday, those who were feeling sturdy began to tutor those who struggled. "Are we going to keep doing this, Les?" "Yes, homes, because I believe the way we learn things is to do them. And then do them again." On Friday I looked around the room and I was touched by how much they looked like gigantic children, silently working. I'm not being humorous here. I expected to get grief for this, and they each took it seriously, just going down the path where I pointed. Today is Saturday. "No math exercise this morning, homes!", I announced. Oh. I detected a little disappointment. "But I have the mother of all evil for you on Monday morning." They perked up a little. And then I heard it. For you see, I always preface the exercise with some lecture and I debrief the exercise with brainstorming and free input from everyone. I've used new phrases and descriptors they've never heard before. Some of them are sturdy enough to say, "Please explain that. I don't understand."

So this morning we had an in-depth discussion about the day's work. I was asked about my 2-hour massage last night and reported it "the best one ever". The fact that I called a woman a bitch on the telephone yesterday was poked and prodded by one and all. This was big copy for two reasons. I do not risk losing business except in the rarest of circumstances. And I do not believe bitch is a word that should be applied to anyone. I had a lapse in my usual balanced affect. Troy chimed in, "She was really level and reasonable until she wasn't any more. The woman doesn't know her and couldn't see her, so she didn't know Les was about to go off. But I knew. I couldn't look at her or I'd have started laughing. And she called her a bitch in a really calm voice, too." They began to drift away and mill about. Two of the men were talking about one of the week's math exercises. And then I heard it. "Naw, dude, the value of the job . . . . " A wide grin slowly took over my face. For you see, Justin - the crustiest of them all - had just naturally spoken a phrase I had coined and explained. "The value of the job." I said I felt that something really important had happened to us this week, and they all said they agreed. A homey consensus. And that's when Mr. Crusty said, "Hey, we should have a potluck like other places do. Let's bring what we know how to make and enjoy a meal together!" We're going to do that, too!

In my ears right now: I consider it to be her best. I'm disappointed that she is terribly under-represented on YouTube.

Something that charmed me: I'm soon to go visiting. I'm very excited, and it seems Mother Badger is also looking forward to it. She's about to have cataract surgery, but before she does that, she's lining up the stores where we'll shop, and what would I like to eat? How about that chili relleno casserole (meatless)? Cesar is vetting my car for me as I will not have cell phone signal for much of my journey. It has been too long since I got in my car and went away for the simple purpose of seeing someone I care for and just enjoying one another's company. It will be warm near Phoenix and there's that marvelous cushy walking track made from recycled milk cartons . . .