girl at large

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.