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.

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!

Little Charmer ~ Not ME, the Rug!

In my last post, I told about the wool megalo-rug that nearly beat me in a dust-up. Rugs come in all shapes and sizes. Some are more charming than others.

In our small carpet cleaning business, we do things as simply and consistently as we can. It makes us efficient. It makes us credible to the customers when both the office and the technicians say the same thing about any situation. David and I are good communicators. Everyone knows everything he needs to know about any subject. Some of our touchstones include explaining pet urine damage the same way to every customer every time, quoting room prices the same to everyone who calls in, and explaining carpet repairs in precisely the same way every single time. But perhaps the most deeply ingrained piece of information we share is our minimum service charge. Each of us could tell that number in our sleep. It's a simple concept. We cannot roll a van with one or two technicians, all of the equipment, all of the cleaning solutions, the cost of the business license, liability insurance, advertising costs . . . for less than a particular dollar amount. In most cases, that minimum charge does not come into play. Most people have their entire homes cleaned at one time, and the cost exceeds the minimum service charge. I never even have to utter those words. But once in awhile, Mrs. Las Vegas only wants one room in her home cleaned and the minimum sounds a little pricey.

When the technicians arrive at a customer's house, their flexibility quotient rises dramatically. Now someone from our company can see the carpet. I've given the estimate over the phone based on the customer's own description of the carpet's condition. But one person's idea of "filthy" is another person's concept of "not too bad".The technicians might recommend a little preconditioning treatment or a rotary scrub, or pet damage restoration. They are free to price these services as they see fit (within a loose framework). David's philosophy is, "They're out there. We're not. They've assessed the carpet and the customer. We have not. Let them secure the job." Sometimes we have to work a little extra to hold the job. "Let me call the office and see if I can offer you a small discount. If the office OKs that, may I get started right away?" I sometimes ask the technician if it is even worth doing the work if the customer is asking to pay an extremely low amount. If the technician says, "No. It's not worth it. This will be trouble forever. They're cheap and demanding.", I tell him to roll up his hoses and roll on down the road.

The (wonderful) flip side of taking money away from a customer in exchange for services is that we also have the ability to give a good customer extra attention. My technicians see every kind of situation every day of life. Single parents struggling, elderly people just trying to get by, an obviously really fine individual who has been laid off three times in a year. The men are quiet when they tell me, "That poor woman, Les. She is living in hard times. I knocked out a couple of rooms of premium service and didn't say anything or ask for more money. She needs help." Or, "Les, that couple were in their 80s and have been in that house since 1965. The carpet was so clean, I don't know why they called us. Maybe they just had a reminder on the calendar they didn't question. I gave them a couple of rooms of Scotchguard for free." We've had days where a woman customer has asked a technician to walk her to her car because of a domestic dispute. Not comfortable for anyone. We help people up from the floor when they've failed to heed our warning, "Be careful stepping from the wet carpet onto the tiles." And one of the commonest "gimmes" is to clean a few small area rugs without charge. When one weighs a $500 cleaning job against 3 minutes of work on the rugs, it just makes good business sense. The kindness is remembered, and the customer will invite us to return in a year. There exists a friendly rivalry between the technicians. They watch each other closely. "How much did you sell today?" It should be no surprise that our best carpet cleaners are also our best salesmen.

A woman called to ask me about cleaning an area rug. She knew more than the average caller. She knew the dimensions of her rug and she knew it was 100% wool. I quickly calculated the square feet and applied our price per square foot. I held this up against our minimum service charge. Yikes! This was going to be an expensive rug cleaning. I started my usual presentation: "For our minimum service charge we could do another rug or perhaps a room of carpet . . . " She doesn't like people coming into her home. Um, OK, the rug could be brought to our office. She took our address and I forgot about her for a week.

Yesterday, I looked out on the deck. A small woman, probably very near my own age, struggled along the breezeway, a very appropriately named passageway here on the second floor. Windsock might also be properly descriptive. She turned the corner and aimed for my door. I greeted her and she commented that we were very hard to find. I don't agree, but then I've come here almost every day for nearly three years. "Well, yes, up on the second floor and on the back of the building," I allowed. She had something with her that she proceeded to unfold for me. It clicked immediately! This was the woman with the tiny wool rug. I inspected it and felt on solid ground, even though I don't clean carpets every day like the homes. It certainly was wool. My good eyes told me the dimenstions she had mentioned were about right. It had some pet hair on it and a few spots that gave me some concern. I quoted her our minimum service charge, knowing she'd already heard me say that dollar figure over the phone a week ago. This number so alarmed the woman she had to take a seat in my office. I let her sit. I let her ponder. "Gee, I was hoping you'd do it for about half that amount." I told her, not unpleasantly, all the reasons I had to charge her the minimum service charge. I reminded her we could come to her home and she'd get more value for her money, but that I could not charge less than the minimum. She left the rug and walked away looking pensive.

On Thursdays, David conducts staff meeting and I am second fiddle. On the other days of the week, I conduct "huddle". "Huddle" means, "at 7:00 sharp, gather in the office, have your work orders and your route sheet in your hand, have a pen, pay attention. She who must be obeyed is about to speak." In huddle, we go through the day's work, team by team, van by van. I tell the men everything I remember about each job or customer. I tell them if a job is simply unremarkable. The homes have come to appreciate huddle, because I possess an uncanny ability to call people for what they are, for reading a situation for what it is, even though I've only participated in one telephone conversation. It is a rare day that someone does not come in and say, "Les, you had that man dead-on. It made me able to work with him better, understanding what kind of person he is." In huddle, we also share our daily stories from our adventures in the big city. It's a safe place to talk, to tell, to ask, to share. Sometimes someone has a need to bite in huddle. That's OK, too. We leave huddle as friends. And better informed. Invariably, before and after huddle there is much good natured milling around, coffee being consumed, "good morning"s, bustle.

Huddle was almost over this morning when Matt noticed it. "What's that on the floor?" I'd nearly forgotten to mention the rug. I grinned. "Oh, it's a handkerchief I booked. The customer brought it in. I need it to be cleaned so she can pick it up." They all stared at it. I like to have fun, too, so I put on a little show. Got a little smarty assed. I picked the rug up and spun it on my hand like Luigi tossing pizza dough. They stared at me. "Is that all there is for this job?" "That's it homes. Just the one little hankie." It got really quiet. "Um, Les, how did you price that out?" I said I'd charged the minimum service charge. "And somebody went for that?" "Well, you're looking at the rug, homes." There was some shuffling of feet and gazing at the floor. "What? What's up?" To a man, they agreed that this rug was one of the size and type they'd clean for free on any job where the customer had been half-way pleasant. It was simply the right thing to do. "Well, let's talk about this, guys. How would it be if I let anyone walk in off the streets and give me things to clean and I gave it to them for free? I don't have the advantage you have. I'm not in their home doing lots of other work and just adding this as a little nicety. I have to insist on the minimum service charge." They averted their gaze and shuffled their feet again. I saw shoulders start to shake. I heard some snickers and someone said, "God damn. She's never cleaned a carpet in her life and she just got the highest paying job we've ever had for a rug if you consider its size." We all cackled. It was Matt who came up with the idea. "Let's put her in a war wagon, send her out ahead of us to knock on the doors of every job for the day. She can sell the jobs and we'll just follow her, cleaning carpet!" I just stuck to the script. We take minimum service charge very seriously here.

Joseph and Justin cleaned the hankie. It had issues. The spots that concerned me were curry, Joseph said. Curry doesn't come out. It's permanent. Joseph has 35 years experience at carpet cleaning. Joseph has celebrity clients in Hollywood. I don't doubt those spots are curry. I don't doubt curry is a permanent stain. How does the reader think I'll deal with the customer? The rug cleaned up beautifully except for the curry spots. What would you do? I already know what I'll do!

In my ears right now: Miss Fiona of Sunnybrook Farm. Yes, I like it!

Something that charmed me: We were driving west on a major boulevard through the city. We'd had a great afternoon together and were chatting, thinking about dinner. We stopped at a traffic light in an older section of the city. Here many small old houses have been turned into business offices - an insurance agency, a florist, etc. One of them, neutral in color (mainly) and otherwise unremarkable, caught my eye. For the upper 20% of the building was given over to a brightly colored, eye-catching promotion. Superimposed over stripes of the red, white and blue was a good likeness of the U.S. president. In large, tidy letters was proclaimed "Obama Pedicure ~ $9.99". What the heezy? I've scratched my head for days. What does the reader suppose might make that pedicure distinctly Obaman?

Things That Make You Go Hmmm

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

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

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

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

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

In my ears right now: What else?

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

Dragonfly Thoughts Drifting

After a burst of exuberance, and I've had one, I sometimes retreat to a quiet place and let my thoughts flit lazily across my consciousness. I want to consider what's happened, what I wrote, what I read and what anyone had to say about it. Spring came, literally overnight. Business picked up, literally overnight. My personal life became better, more fulfilling, almost overnight. Except for a rude little medical annoyance that required attention and kept me up most of Monday night, I'm in a good place. Loved. Appreciated. Hopeful. Coming out of the heart of darkness.

I went off on a woman this morning. She was difficult. Not a pleasant communicator. She talked over the top of me and her own utterances were short and clipped. I prefer customers who will interact fully with me ~ I can give them a more accurate estimate which makes a better transaction for everyone. But I kept my cool. Until I didn't keep it any more. She called in about having a rug cleaned. She knew its dimensions, which puts her ahead of many. I asked if the rug was synthetic or a natural fiber like cotton or wool. I need to know that. The pricing is widely disparate and one doesn't want to set the homes up for any surprises at the door. She didn't know, so I asked her to look under the corners of the rug to see if there was a label. "Well, it was made in China." "Does it say what it was made from in China?" We finally landed on cotton and I quoted. She was OK with the price. She said she would like to have the rug cleaned and then have us put it down in a room and put all the furniture on it. We don't do that. They're carpet cleaners, not furniture movers. We try to be reasonable, but a roomful of furniture is a big order. Times have been rough, however, so I tried something. I decided to find out what the furniture was. If it was anything less than a grand piano or a massive entertainment center, I was going to go for it and charge her for it. Homes wouldn't love it, but I don't turn jobs away. "Can you give me a list of the items of furniture?" That seemed to put her over the top. She was done with me. "You know, you're really a big hassle. I think I'll call Stanley Steemer. They won't ask all these questions." That seemed to put me over the top. I was done with her. Undoubtedly, the fact that I had a dose of pain medication in my system was a factor. In a very calm and level voice, I said, "Madam, I do apologize for being such a pain in your ass this morning. Do call Stanley Steemer and have them over to *#@+ up your Chinese cotton rug." It felt pretty good. David grinned from ear to ear. It's been a long time since I had the luxury of being able to go off on an unpleasant customer.

I was reviewing Monday's post, and I got to feeling a little sensitive about something. I feel compelled to say something about it. I learned a long time ago that many things can be taken out of context when observed as typed text on a monitor, no face to read, no voice to hear. So I was going on about being a website designer, saleswoman, scheduler/dispatcher, bean counter, small claims extorter and most desired employee to ever arrive from my home planet of Gobazz. Today it made me blush and think, "Well, aren't you special?" I believe this is the first time I've ever felt compelled to explain myself on my blog, but I do. I'm not bragging when I say things like that. You see, I don't have the biggest ego in the world. For much of life I have felt inadequate or unappreciated. So when I say that David badly wanted to hire me, I'm saying, "Lookie here - there is someone who wants me to come to work because he thinks I have something going on. Imagine!" When I say I'm a great saleswoman, I should accompany that with "and I never had the confidence that I could do such a thing." When I talk about crunching the numbers, I should include the fact that numbers have always scared me and now, after a lot of hard work, I am comfortable with them. There is no logical reason that I should be able to create and maintain websites, but I stuck out my jaw, played with the software, asked lots of questions of a mentor, and it all fell into place for me. I use a label on my blog quite frequently - "learning new things". I am awed by the power and energy generated by learning new things. I am grateful that I can still do that - learn new things and do them well. I love the challenge of delving into something new and learning all the elements of it. I've learned things about myself that I didn't know before this job. Because for major parts of my life I have been pretty convinced that I am a loser. I hope that deflects any notions the reader may have entertained that I have one huge head and how in the world would I be able to fit it through the door! My last words on the subject are these: having and expressing confidence is new to me, and it's damned heady stuff.

And, finally, with a big old donkey laugh at myself . . in the last post I went on and on about the economy (sort of, at least more than one reader thought that's what I was writing about), to the extent that Kirk rethought his own good March 15th post and Kass asked me, in comments, if I was a fan of Keynesian Economics. Uh-oh. Reader, I am reminded that one wants to be cautious when using words. One wants to find the balance between the way something feels and making broad sweeping statements. I should have stated that I understand economics as it applies to my tiny little test tube-sized world and not one inch beyond it. Economics has always been very simple to me. Work really hard to make a lot of money so one can spend it on the things one loves. That said, however, one doesn't want to appear to be a complete dolt. I know how to Google. I know how to learn new things. So I noodled around and landed on this: Keynesian Economics advocates a mixed economy - private sector decisions balanced by public sector policy responses. Balance is the strongest theme of this theory, it seems to me, and I think balance is what we want, but currently lack in our U.S. economy. Keynesian Economics ruled in the last part of the Great Depression, World War II and during the post-war expansion. It began to go out of favor in the U.S. during the 1970s, since which time our entire economic structure has gone to hell in a handbasket and the American middle class has lost ground. Since the U.S. economic crisis beginning in 2007, the Keynesian theory is once again being embraced. Enough said for me! Yes, I am in favor of Keynesian Economics. And that will be my final statement about things as weighty as the economy. I much preferred the Keynes biography and the story of the love of his life, the pretty Russian ballerina. The charts and graphs about Keynesian Economics leave me cold. I'm all about people, not numbers.

And the reader may rest assured that economics will not be taken up again on this blog. Nor am I likely to feel the need to 'splain myself very frequently.

In my ears right now: What else? Coming Out of the Dark ~ Gloria Estefan.


Something that charmed me: Yesterday I set the alarm, locked the office and went down to my car. I was experiencing some pain. I'd not taken pain meds in the afternoon because I wanted to be clear-headed to drive home. I was kind of crabby. I turned the key in the ignition and my little chariot came to life. The display on the dashboard told me it was 76 degrees! I don't suppose the ambient temperature was 76 degrees, but down near the blacktop, where the sensor is located . . . I zipped down the window and hung my head out, gulping air like the family dog.

Goin' to the Chapel, But Not to Get Married

Those who visit here regularly already know my job is important to me for many reasons. Oh, sure, it is additional income to my pension. It keeps me busy, off the streets, and out of the casinos. But those are not what appeal so much. I like being part of a successful David business in a staggering Goliath industry going down for the count. I love being part of a tightly-bound team, doing my part and more. I love the connections I have made with the others ~ they are family now. I am amazed at the things I do - and well - that I would never have expected. Design and maintain multiple websites? Huh? Saleswoman extraordinaire? Oh, no, no. I don't have the personality for it. Create a realistic business budget, keep to it, know where to pare it in bad times and keep track of it on QuickBooks? Um, it is a challenge for me to balance my checking account correctly. Schedule multiple service vehicles and multiple technicians to cover the valley, make appointments timely and be able to handle the uh-ohs like machinery breakdowns? I was not good at this for a long time. I am now. We have never failed to arrive at one appointment! Learn and execute the steps of suing a party in small claims court and relieving them of their property as part payment to us? Yes, I did! I learned by making multiple errors at every step, and trying again until I had it. Last Monday David told me that when he hired me, he wanted me badly but he had a concern: that the job wasn't good enough for me and that I was too good for the job. Little carpet cleaning office job. What?

I have written extensively about the company and our work and I do not intend to rehash what's already been told. If the reader is interested in David's momentary questioning of his sanity for opening a business that would bring the general public down upon us, it's been related. To read about the meteoric rise, the agony of the tanking economy and the head-scratching about whether we were seeing a rebound, go here. If the reader wants to know about the dead body or the day the cops came to collect me or all about the wonderful anniversary party held in my honor, it's all there. And if one likes misery, there's plenty to read about when things became too slow, the customers began to be difficult, and times were not very good. But that's not what this post is about.

Among other things I did not expect to become, I am rather a statistician/trend predictor/crystal ball-rubbing observer. When times went bad and I was no longer so busy I could scarcely breathe, I began to gather information. I do this when I suffer many kinds of distress - start pulling in data to examine. Someone I admire told me that fear is simply not having enough information and I suppose my actions support that theory. I started making charts and spread sheets that talk to each other. I made friends with the Farmer's Almanac and my own work order history, the local and national news archives. Within a few months I was able to make some fairly accurate predictions. But once my body of information grew, and combined with my memory for names, places and events, I now may qualify for soothsayer status! For I can state what day of the week this was last year, what the weather was like, if the schools were open, whether a holiday approached, what the economy was doing, what was in the headlines . . . . and what that will mean to our business now. For whatever reason, folks, I have a very high degree of accuracy. I can't contemplate why. I never intended to predict the future. By the way, David is also very good at calling the trends, but he is more visceral. He gathers information with which to make predictions differently than I do.

We have a number of catchphrases that we use in our little world. "Dandruff" spoken on the radio, means the customer is a flake. "Batshit" indicates "this woman is crazed". Some go longer: "When Les is in the house, nobody else answer the phone ~ she gets the jobs." The holiest of the holy, however, the one that has guided us through some very tough times, is David's: "Just keep doing what we do so well. Keep showing up and doing it right." It's how he lives his life and runs all of his businesses. He provides the best of absolutely everything there is - technology, service vehicles, cleaning solutions, machinery, uniforms. Then it's on us to do our jobs. We muse sometimes on those who do the best they can and are satisfied with that versus those who do their jobs the best it can possibly be done by anyone. The latter is what we prefer. And, mostly, that is the sort of worker who has remained through the down times.

Last fall I took a call for some tile and grout cleaning. It was for a church with a name that struck me as way out there - sounding almost cultlike. It had an address on a street that intersects with the Strip and I knew by the address number that it would be near the Strip. Hmm . . . . cult for tourists. The young man who booked the job said he was the facilities manager. I thought, "OK, home dude. Whatever." The job was unusual in that he wanted same-day service and it had to be squeezed between church services. Most similar jobs would be arranged for night time service when no one was expected in the building, but we were so slow, I would try to accommodate anything. I sent Cesar, among our best ever. He did his usual exemplary work, moving double time and putting down fans to dry one area as he moved on to clean the next, clock ticking. At the end of the job we took an American Express card and never heard from the customer again. When Cesar came back in, I asked about the cult. "No, Les, it's a Catholic church." Hmmm . . . I know about Catholic, and that name doesn't sound right, but OK. Cesar knows. "I think it's pretty big, but I didn't see it all. The building is big, but I was only working in the entryway and the big double doors were locked. I couldn't see inside."

Over the past two weeks, the pace has picked up. Dramatically. Last week was the best week we've had in many, many months, both in terms of new jobs booked and money earned. I've been listening very carefully to potential customers as they call in, trying to feel the pulse, and reviewing the events of the past 18 months or so. I pulled out all the impedimenta that make me the forecaster I have become and I began to concentrate. I landed on a theory that says we are beginning a slow, but steady climb out of the darkness, with the occasional windfall. I went to talk to David about it. "David, I'm no John Maynard Keynes, but I think I'm onto something and here are all the reasons why." He sat bolt upright. The next morning at staff meeting, he had me go over it with the homes. They agreed with my theory and were able to add some other indications from what they've experienced out in the mean streets. Today is the first day of daylight savings time and I am reminded of the home dude who once called me an octopus because of my ability to handle so many phones, pens and a keyboard at the same time. Today is an octopus day. The phones are screaming. I'm booking jobs.

Last week on a nasty wintry day, an e-mail dropped into the customer service inbox. Both David and I access that account and we saw it come in at the same time. Oh! Home dude from the church from last fall. Because of the "phenomenal" job Cesar did on the tile and grout, home dude wants an estimate for a "very large" area of carpet cleaning. ". . . the church, the gift shop, stock room, front office, back office and wedding chapel . . . " We each leapt to our feet and nearly collided in the hallway. I began an intense exchange of e-mails with the facilities manager and made that man my own. Now he was bonded to two of us, Cesar and me! The next morning, I had Cesar wear his "dress uniform", the shirt with all the certification badges. He took the digital, rolling measuring device - no pedestrian tape measure for this! I watched him cross the city on GPS. I counted the minutes while I knew he was inside. My BlackBerry chirped: "Les?" I do not have to see Cesar's face with my eyes to know what facial expression he is wearing. "Come on, Cesar, don't toy with me. Tell me." To put it in perspective for the reader, it will require every man and every van. It will take 8-10 hours, in the middle of which I will take lunch to them. 11,000 square feet of carpet and 156 twenty-foot pews! March income!

"Just keep doing what we do so well. Keep showing up and doing it right."

In my ears right now: The Dixie Cups ~ Goin' to the Chapel. Why the YouTube image shows The Shirelles ~ Will You Love Me Tomorrow, I'm not certain. I wasn't in charge of that.

Something that charmed me: I can think of few single days more objectionable than last Saturday. The wind was frightening. Only once have I personally witnessed worse wind and that was nearly a life-altering experience. But this was epic, too! When I stopped for red lights, it troubled me to see the big light standards bouncing wildly in the wind. Sunday was slightly better, but still the wind screamed out of the north sufficiently to make us pull the plug on a walk only a few miles into it. Today we expect 71 degrees and this will be the coolest day of the week. St. Patrick's Day will be 80 degrees! And the wind slumbers. By mid-morning, I threw open the big double doors that were nearly sucked off of the building on Saturday. The birds outside trilled at the little birdies inside . . . .

In the good old days when the rocket ship was heading for the moon and not crashing back to earth, we had a certain number by which we weighed whether a day was good or bad. If I booked that many jobs, it was a good day. Today I exceeded that number of bookings! I'm going to be straight and say it was stressful, as I am rusty. And I'm not complaining.

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.