girl at large

The Gross Out Award

I sell used furniture. There's no getting around that.

I was on site today for my first sizable installation of workstations--there to go over the design plan with the installers, watch the offload process, learn and ...clean. By the time they get to the next customer, workstation components will have bumps and bruises and be in need of a cleaning--but at less than a third the cost of new (and green too!), that's ok.

Boogers, however, are not ok.

Someone sat at their desk for years (literally years), picked their nose and wiped it on the bottom of the pencil drawer. The flaky, crusty, smearing mess was spectacularly on display when the desk was staged on its end as it was being moved into it's new home. And yes, I had to scrub brush it off.

Storm Warning

Even if the bedroom window had not been open, the thunderstorm earlier this week would have woken me. It was a huge, booming monster of a storm--at one point, the thunder following the lightning by only one second--it was right above the house. I was dreaming when it began, and as the windows rattled from the wind, the storm became intertwined in my dream. As did Buncle Tom's midget story told the previous afternoon. Correction: Buncle Tom's FAMOUS midget story. The story is not famous, the midget was.

Back to my story: in my waking and yet still dreaming mind, the storm was Dorothy's tornado, whirling with Oz characters including aforementioned midget, all wielding menacing commercial table legs.

What Have I Done?

Some days, there's just no escaping the feeling that I've made a huge mistake.

X-hell

I took an all-day Excel class today, and loved it. Not that I love Excel--that stuff was written by the devil--but I loved learning to understand it. We work with a beast of a spreadsheet at work for quoting (hundreds of parts, hundreds of parts, hundreds of parts, hundreds of parts, hundreds of parts) and every time I opened it, a part of my brain would physically explode. When the garish colors, non-sensical math symbols and endless rows of gibberish came up on the screen I could feel a slippery cheese curd chunk of my brain splurt against the side of my skullbone in protest. Not to mention the faint fluttering sound of my artistic soul struggling for air.
Of course, the nic-fits probably contribute to this sensation, but I swear, that worksheet is the junkiest bit of business I've ever seen. Is it wrong to be itching to get to work to look at it now with educated eyes?

And want to make more spreadsheets, more spreadsheets, more spreadsheets?

Worse Than Greek

I figured out, at last, what's been frustrating me at work about the flow, communication, data, information retrieval, order entry, etc...it's a PC world, and I'm a MAC!

Excel. Ugh. Windows. Double Ugh. Blackberry. Ugh Ugh Ugh. Devices don't speak to each other, everything needs another ap that then needs a new ap to run...and the instructions are written in an assumptive tone, without a thought to the end user's frame of reference. Templates don't work on Blackberry, Great Plains won't email reports ....nothing is intuitive--there are rough seams everywhere. And it all takes twice as long to accomplish something half as useful. Not to mention taking twice as many people---it all breaks my golden work rule--Touch Something Once. (and only once!)

HOW DO PEOPLE WORK THIS WAY?!?!?

Do You Have To Go?

The First of What Will Most Likely Be Many Humiliations

I'm the winner of this week's email contact contest, "Uncle/Boss" Tom gives me my reward. God help me, the man is cheesy.

So Long Portland

A night out with co-workers, a send off to Wisconsin. Someone brought a cheesehead, literally.

Big Ol' To Do List

-get new job. Check.
-quit current job. Check.
-upgrade AAA membership. Check.
-give 30 day notice to landlord. Check.
-do walk through with landlord. Check.
-find new apartment!
-get snow tires.
-get oil change and 50k mile tune up.
-get dog tuned up.
-get quotes for moving containers/transport. Check.
-get DOT street permits for moving containers. Check.
-get rid of half the shit I own.
-clean out storage space.
-cancel/move electric, cable, phone.
-completely freak out at overwhelming list of things to do!

It Will Be Good To Be Home

It's amazing--I never knew I still had so many friends still back in Wisconsin! What a perfect time to join Facebook---I've been 'friended' by so many familiar faces!

I'm searching high and low for an apartment in Milwaukee. Portland is so dog-friendly, I'd forgotten that other towns aren't so keen on your four legged friend sharing the apartment. The right one will come along, but it's frustrating to be turned away when everyone knows that dog owners are far superior people, and very desirable renters. Who else will pick up steaming poo first thing in the morning? Isn't that just the kind of person you want as a tenant?

For those who don't know, I'm moving back to Wisconsin. I had to leave my current job, the market being what it is, and I've been wanting to get back to 'home' or at least near family for a few years now. I was originally aiming for Chicago, but the dart landed a little higher, and a little closer to a dairy farm. As it turns out, I'm probably going to love Milwaukee.

Because we lived in Fond du Lac, and visited Chicago so often for our 'big city' fix, we rarely went to Milwaukee when I was growing up. As a third grader, I toured a brewery on a field trip, but that was about the extent of my knowledge of the place. The more research I do, the more I see that it has a heck of a lot in common with Portland--they are such similiar cities in fact, you could call it Portland North. The same population (Milwauke is 20k bigger), similiar demographics, similiar industry/business base, similiar neighborhoods (Pearl District=Third Ward, Riverfront=Riverfront, Shorewood=Sellwood, Brady Street = NW 23rd, Downer Street = Hawthorne, and on and on). Swap the mountains for the lake, rain for snow, and you've got the same place!

Bonus, it's only an hour and half from Chicago...and all the Quinlans!

You Can Go Home Again

I'm going to need sweaters. Lots of sweaters.

Snow Days

It started last Sunday (my birthday!) and was a welcome winter break---even the rumor of snow and ice here is enough to bring Portland to a stand still. I had the day off, and enjoyed watching the pretty white flakes fall, as I finished making my own snowflake ornaments for the holiday.

By Tuesday, I was house-bound, ice-bound and bored. My apartment is up a steep hill, then around a bend, and up another steeper hill (think San Francisco covered in three inches of ice). It's a hill that never sees a plow truck. Or salt. SALT, people, SALT! Yes it ruins your car, yes it kills the salmon---but it melts the ice!

I had an adventure I'm not ready to share yet, due to embarrassment, on Monday when I tried to get out by car. Let's just say that was the nicest cop I've ever met.

On Wednesday, after a friend helped me get to my car to get to work, the white stuff started flying again. My treacherous hill was even more treacherous. So, I had to get....chains. Yes, chains. It's medieval, but here in the hilly Northwest, it's what they do. This story is less embarrassing. In fact, I come off quite capable, almost butch.

I left the empty store early and headed to the tire store. After waiting in the Russian-style queue, I got my bag of tire chains. I joined the others huddled around the television in the corner, not to catch the lastest news, but to watch a tire-chain installation instructional video.

Crouched down in the cold, wet and dirty curb, I managed to wrestle the tire chains on. Greasy, muddy and with frozen fingers, I pulled out slowly and headed home. Well, I headed to the grocery store for reinforcements of wine, firewood, and chocolate first. Then home. As I made it up the first and easiest hill, I had to pull aside to let the wrecker through---towing a UPS truck! As I had made my slow way through the slippery streets, I noticed that some cars had chains on the front, some on the back tires. At the last minute, just before I was going to attempt to mount the hill that had terrifyingly defeated me on Monday, I asked the UPS guy if I had the chains on the correct tires.

"Do you have front wheel drive?"
"Um, I have no idea" -quick check of owners manual, yes, it's front wheel drive. Who knows these things?
"Then they should be on the front tires"

Out in the muck again, embracing my tires as I removed the chains from the rear wheels and put them on the front. It's a messy, dirty job. But once you put them on the first time, you'll always remember. I'm a pro now. And I'll be damned, those ancient traction devices did the job--I made it up the slippery slope and safely home!

I've made it in to work the last four days, despite the continuing storm, which is worsening tonight. No more excuses, no more snow days--I am a lady with chains!

I Could Too!

Today's work place quote:

" I could rock a suede skirt." -me

-look of doubt from co-worker

"I could too! I could totally ROCK a suede skirt" -me, incredulous and insistent

-24 year old co-worker walks away with look of mixed amusement and pity, not at the prospect of my about-to-be-thirty-six year old bottomside straining under an unfortunate hide, but at my lame and inexperienced use of the word "rock".

Why Yes, It Does.

While at the chiropractor's this week, when discussing the current dismal state of affairs and the gloomy pervailing attitude, I mentioned that despite the disaster befalling all of us at the low-end of the scale (now is not the time to make your living on commission), I've somehow entered a state of relaxed resignation.

I'm no longer stressed, I know there's nothing I can do and that it's out of my hands now. This acceptance has brought me better sleep and an acid-free stomach.

My doctor replied: "The End of Days suits you!"

Does The Truth Always Have to Hurt?

As part of Work Therapy, we have to take a Talents/Strengths evaluation (StrengthsFinder)--a series of questions meant to determine your top five Strengths/Talents inherant to how you operate in the world--at work and otherwise.

Mine are, in order:

-Input
-Achiever (notice the lack of Over- or Under-)
-Learner
-Restorative
-Communication

The descriptions of each Talent seem to fit me, and the Achiever title isn't as obnoxious as one might think. A few lines of the in-depth descriptions really hit home:

"If you like to travel, it is because each new location offers novel artifacts and facts. These can be acquired and then stored away." (Input)
"You start each day at Zero. By the end of the day you must achieve something tangible to feel good about yourself" (Achiever)
"This Learner theme does not necessarily mean that you seek to become the subject matter expert, or that you are striving for the respect that accompanies a professional or academic credential. The outcome of the learning is less significant than the “getting there.” (Learner)
"But what is certain is that you enjoy bringing things back to life. It is a wonderful feeling to identify the undermining factor(s), eradicate them, and restore something to its true glory. Intuitively, you know that without your intervention, this thing—this machine, this technique, this person, this company—might have ceased to function. You fixed it, resuscitated it, rekindled its vitality. Phrasing it the way you might, you saved it." (Restorative)
"This is why people like to listen to you. Your word pictures pique their interest, sharpen their world, and inspire them to act." (Communication)

The first thing, the FIRST thing I said to my boss, during the INTERVIEW was "I don't want to be your manager. I will be your best salesperson, but don't reward me by promoting me to management where I will be ineffective and miserable".

Clearly, I didn't stick to my guns and here I am, three years later--ineffective and miserable. And it's so familiar--it's happened in every single job I've ever held. I hope, I pray, that Work Therapy gives me the strength to stand my ground and negotiate a position that lets me go back to what I do best--one without that dreadful title of Manager. (cringe)

Is there such a thing as 'Designer/Chief Problem Solver'?

See What I Mean?

They've brought in a Business Coach at work. I was scheduled to meet with her, as an introduction to the process, for half an hour on Friday.

I was with a client at the appointed time, so the bookkeeper went first. When my time came, we sat in the only available space with a closable door and some privacy. The meeting was to be confidential, and an opportunity to express the things we would like to change about our work environment and business culture.

I was all set to unload my many, many issues when a co-worker knocked on the door, unable to answer a customers question. I excused myself, and helped the customer--the customer was one I was expecting to drop in--I had prepared the co-worker with exact instructions on how to help her and explained that I would not be available. It took me three minutes to wrap up the $328 sale. Of course, it took 10 minutes to do the required charming chit-chat.

Ok, back in my seat, still not-unloaded because the Coach had barely had a chance to finish explaining her role, expectations, etc. What then? My boss barges in, no knocking, no apology.

Time's up.

I fumed the rest of the day--here's probably the most important meeting of my entire tenure at this job, and a co-worker can't muster up the stuff to hold off a customer or complete the sale? And adding insult, I found out later that he asked my bosses (both of them!) if he could interrupt my meeting and they said YES. Man up, figure it out yourself! And then the boss, throwing the door open on a confidential and sensitive meeting to do what, check for email from his boyfriend??

Then, a day later, I realized that perhaps it was better that I didn't get to list my many small and large complaints (I might have embarrassed myself by crying anyway)--when two beautiful examples of my problems came right through the door!

Descriptive Disaster

Sentence of the Day at work:

"I have to have constant, hot lubrication."

Get your minds out of the gutter, the topic was beverages.

Still My Fondest Dreams

A co-worker asked me what I had wanted to be when I grew up, when I was little:

"A textile designer".
"And one of the people who does the tiny little line drawings and doodles in the New Yorker."

(pause)

"Oh, and a war-zone photojournalist".

"A what?" (shocked expression).

"Yeah, why not? I have one of the coats even."

I wonder if Tom still wants to be a racecar driver.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

I've given in, I've succombed to the hippy-dippy, sandal-wearing life-style such as it is out here on the Granola Coast.

After two weeks of agony, my boss finally convinced me to see his Chiropractor. The magic words were "It's covered on our health plan". Ok, for free, I'll try anything. To be able to move again, I'll try anything.

My back problems are the result of too many years of moving furniture, a general disconnect with how to use my body, and oodles of stress--I'm a stress-holder-inner. It oozes its way out in muscle cramps, swollen joints, and debilitating back strains. How can a chiropractor help me? Unless he knows how to track a mis-labeled blanket-wrap shipment, direct five phone calls a minute, design and deliver a furnished model unit on a zero budget in one day, correct the books and manage a surly staff, then it didn't look likely.

Turns out, he's a miracle worker. I am converted. Once a week now, I go for an 'adjustment'. There's nervous chit-chat, followed by some awkward massaging and touching, and finally, a good-old back cracking snap. It's all over in less than 20 minutes.

Sounds like a date.

Imagine how good I'd feel if I actually had sex?

Back Again

I did my back in again this week. On Dad's advice, I got myself a "nifty little garment", aka a back brace. Soooo sexy. Just about as attractive as the grunting sounds I make when trying to pick up a pencil.

I can't bend, I can't turn, I can hardly walk--I'm doing the 'back pain' shuffle. I gave the dog her water this morning with a watering can because I can't reach her bowl. Good thing she's wired to eat anything, anywhere--I tossed a handful of dog food on the floor. She thinks it's a new game-Find the Kibble That Rolled Under the Fridge.

My doc gave me meds --Vicodin and Flexeral. The Flexeral works great, loosens it up so I can move and maybe try to walk it off a bit. But I'm in so much pain, I have to give in and take the Vicodin afterall--which gives me just a tiny window to get a few things done around the house before I fall into a drooling stupor. Kate + meds= snoozeville.

I got the meds by phone, but in desperation, I did go in to see her yesterday. I really strained it this time--there's a huge knot over my right hip, the muscles are in nearly continuous spasm. She advised having my "Husband, Boyfriend, Girlfriend or Partner" help work out the knot. Blank look. "Boyfriend?". "Partner?, Girlfriend?" Bless her, she was so focused on being 'pc' with the inclusion of a same-sex significant other that she didn't even consider there'd be a big fat Nobody.

And I thought the worse pain I would feel this month was the dental work last week. Oh, how I wish that were true.

Bachelor Aid

Tom adjusts to the new location of 'his spot'. Ruby stands guard.

Before

After

Tom's new place is great, big and light and roomy. All the family pitched in to send him furnishings--from Grandpa's prints to Mom's rug to John and Molly's redo of the chairs to Aunt Peg's couch, table and bed. He worked on Friday, so I spent most of the day cleaning, organizing and arranging furniture...sounds so familiar. Was I on a break or still at work? I have a problem--even 1000 miles away, I still want to put things in their right place.

Favorite conversation with my brother (aside from The Lightbulb Story):
Tom: sniff, sniff "Did you wash my sheets or something?"
Me: "Yes, I washed your sheets, the toss pillows covers..even your duvet cover."
Tom: "You can wash those?"

Did we not grow up the same house? At least I was spared the Easy Mac--he had that for lunch when I was out enjoying my time in LA...by visiting a furniture factory.

Things People Say

Just a few gems that I've been subject to this week at work---

"I just don't know if I can order those chairs today, I just lost $150,000 in the market!". (Excuse me, how rude is that? Lady, look at me--I'm a retail clerk. I'll never, in my entire life of working, have $150,000 to gain or lose!)

"You look like you lost A TON of weight!" (Um, I haven't lost any, but thanks. Wait, just HOW FAT did you think I was?)

What Did You Just Say To Me?

A lanky designer, dressed all in fail-safe black, looking down at me, literally, from the top of the staircase with a sizing-up scowl: "Your hair is kind of cute. I don't usually like short, brown hair. But yours is ok".

Funny, I don't usually like tall bitches, but you're ok too.

Just be patient already!

Everyone wants to phone it in...or fax it or email it. With all the ways we have to ask for stuff, look for stuff, and order stuff, the actual walk-in customer is becoming a treasured thing.

This person made time in their day, drove around for five to fifteen minutes for parking which they had to pay for, locked everything up and walked in our door. Not the five other doors to furniture stores on the block, but our door.

It is my retail duty, yes duty, to give them my full and undivided attention. They've earned it. They are here, and obviously want to buy something.

Our phone system sends calls to voicemail when a staff member isn't available. Call my extension, get my voicemail=I'm with someone. You can dial 0 and get to the reception phone, but guess what? More than two customers in the store? You get voicemail again--we're with someone!

Yesterday, when I was balancing two someones, the reception phone rang and rang and rang and rang and rang. I excused myself from both customers, and answered the phone, hoping someone had died.

"Did you get my email I sent a few minutes ago?"

Retail Slave

The store expansion and renovation is complete--visually and physically anyway, I still have loads of things to do like tagging, inventory, training, and oh you know, answering stupid questions.

Our expansion involved the creation of entirely new floor--the basement was excavated (digging 5 feet down), a wall blown out and a stair case put in. It's the new lower, or "Studio" level, 6,000 square feet of furnshings. Woo-hoo!

But customers sometimes don't get it...

"What's downstairs?"

The first time I heard this, I was confused and replied "What do you mean?" Imagine quizzical expression. The customer was serious, --"Oh, more furniture". Duh. What else would be downstairs in a furniture store?

I dismissed it as one dim wit. But I was wrong---this question keeps coming. And I don't know how to reply. Isn't it obvious? Wouldn't you just KNOW that an expanded showroom floor would, you know, feature more merchandise? Wouldn't a bigger grocery store just have MORE groceries? Apparently not. Apparently, it is a great mystery, this new 'downstairs'.

The question is getting so boring, I'm experimenting with new answers..

"Our exciting new Dungeon Level features chains, whips and a large selection of vinyl apparel."
"Downstairs you'll find Portland's finest ass-waxing salon."
"Come on down, there are pin ball machines!"

Vegas Baby

Last week, I went to Las Vegas at the last minute to attend two days of the World Market Home Furnishings Trade Show. I went to Vegas, with my boss, to work. Contain your excitement on my behalf. We stayed at the Luxor, said to be visible from space. The Great Wall, the Amazon and ...The Luxor--what a planet.

In short, my impression of Vegas is summed up in this story:

One evening, walking back to the hotel from dinner, enjoying natural air and a moment devoid of casino-din, my boss said to me: "Wow, look up at that moon!"

It was full; perfectly round and full and glowing with celestial beauty.

My reply, with a tone of intense disgust: "Which hotel did THAT?"

Big Week

I was in North Carolina this past week, 'drinking the Kool-Aid' at a classic furniture factory; Hickory Chair.

We spent a day at the Biltmore Estate, viewing America's largest private home, then had dinner at a place that boasts the largest bbq platters, served on garbage pail lids.

In the Vanderbilt estate, we viewed master portraits by John Singer Sargent, then later in the trip some of our party visited Priscilla's Adult Gifts.

It was quite the heady cultural mix.

How much Ikea can you fit in a Jag?

I rented a car yesterday to make the trip up to Seattle for an Ikea run. I know, not a good idea on a Saturday--the punters were out in full force for the Swedish meatballs, but it's a rare weekend off and I need more bookshelves (too much Powell's).

I had reserved a standard mid-size, in hopes of getting something with ok gas mileage and folding back seats. They had one on the lot, only the previous renter had failed to put the keys in the night drop box. So I was bumped up, free of charge, to...get this, a Jag! ha ha!

As it turns out, you CAN fit a heck of alot in the back of a Jag. Which is a good thing, because I found much more than I had planned on getting, of course.

Now, where's my allen wrench?

p.s. A note on the car itself; I'm never very impressed when a high-end version of anything is recreated in a lower-end version. When you start at the top and cheap out, the results usually disappoint (as opposed to starting with little and seeing how much you can create, which I greatly admire--a la Ikea now that I think of it).

The X-type Jag is no exception--aside from the pretty front end (that you can't see when parking!), it's a bummer of a design. The interior is anything but intuitive--I had to refer to the manual THREE times during the trip to locate and understand controls (cruise control, the gas cap release, the back seat fold down mechanism). Despite a dozen adjustment levers, the seat design also left my behind and back aching--for long trips, lack of lumbar support is a serious flaw that no amount of leather can cure.

And on the road? Speedy, but slushy. What good is pep if you can't control it? The steering wheel behaved like an pretty accessory, not a tool. On curves at highway speeds, it felt like the entire chassis was sliding out from under me. Not good.

I wonder what the 70 year-old lady in the fish bowl next to me had in her handbag.

My boss said something the other day that I will add to my list of favorite sayings:

"You've done a great job wallpapering the bedroom closet, but the fire that started in the kitchen is now in the living room".

It's a perfect analogy for the retail business--keep your head down too long on a piddly project, and you miss the bigger picture (usually sales). It also applies to my experience at the Portland Airport Security Checkpoint.

I had a metal card-holder in my back pocket (especially when traveling, I like to keep one credit card and form of ID in my purse, another set in my pocket--if a thief gets one, at least I have the other). I had forgotten about it when emptying my person of metal goods before walking through x-ray. I had removed my earrings, necklace, coat, shoes, even my belt. These security checks are humbling enough, does the container for my personal belongings really have to be a dog dish? Don't get me started.

So, the machine beeps at my card holder. I immediately realize my oversight and pull it out, "Oh, here, it's this, I forgot, so sorry." Not good enough.

I'm pulled aside into the clear-glass paneled exam area (the 'fish bowl'), told to stand with my feet apart on the diagram (designed for 6ft tall men) and then patted down by Attila. She didn't even want to look at the offending object. It was tossed aside, along with my passport (!) and ticket, onto a chair in plain view and easy reach of anyone still lingering at the exit of the security area--which was a lot of people. Putting on their shoes and buckling their pants. Out of context, it looked like the last five minutes of an orgy.

I don't mind being hand-scanned. I can spread my legs and open out my arms wide. I don't mind being cooperative. I do, however, mind the loud running commentary: "I'm going to touch your breasts now, How's that underwire working for ya?, Ok, free government back rub!" Free government backrub? Excuse me? No one can bear to hear lame attempts at funny when being stared at by fifty strangers, held in an akward physical position and fondled by a government agent in an ill-fitting uniform. Could we perhaps do this with some dignity??

After another few humiliating moments, I was allowed to proceed. Which meant making my way back through the fray to pick up my belongings (out of the school desk tray and dog dish). My coat, shoes, and purse had not been further inspected, I was free to go.

In my purse? A lighter, a crochet hook and thread scissors. All contraband.