Homesick...

I am away from home this week working in the town of McAlester, OK.

I generally dislike being away from my home unless the place I am visiting is more interesting/prettier/has nicer creature comforts than my home.  Unfortunately for myself and the good people of this town, McAlester meets none of these criteria.

It is a hilly, green little town that as nearly as I can tell bares no real distinction from many other of the hilly, green little towns in Eastern, OK.  It has taken me two trips before I have found a coffee shop and I am sad to say that after the excitement of my discovery had worn off, the lingering taste of their mediocre coffee had not.  I know that my wife hates it when I bash Oklahoma (see her previous blog at oddholler.blogspot.com) but she has never had to spend any time in McAlester.  If it weren't for my job, I probably would have never had to spend any time here, either.

When I am working out of town, I don't have much choice but to eat at a restaurant for every meal.  For me, this is no real torture.  I love to eat "out".  However, I do prefer lunches on these business trips because I can go alone.  Dinners are often times a forced affair with the other members of the "team" where everyone nervously pretends to like and be interested in everyone else's particular challenges that they may have met during the day.

This is at best awkward and at worst unmanageable.  During these dinners I like to look at my phone a lot and pretend that I am reading extremely important e-mails that must be acted upon immediately.

But with lunch I can take my time, read the newspaper, and not have to expend the energy to pretend that I am interested in some near-stranger's life (not that strangers are incapable of being interesting, but in the case of my company, strange does not typically translate to surprisingly knowledgeable on the subject of mid-century modernism.  It usually translates to, surprisingly knowledgeable on the topic of hunting down, assassinating, and stuffing animals for home display).

Today's lunch was fantastic.  I found a local little Mexican place that was clean, efficient, and whose offerings were delicious.  I got to read the paper and be left in peace to decompress following the crucible that had become my morning. 

Sitting behind me were some teenagers (at least I think they were, that is something that is becoming more and more difficult for me to discern as I hurtle towards my forties) that were being about as obnoxious as you would think teenagers would be - nothing shocking there.  In fact, I became more and more amazed as I continued to eat ( I refuse to say, "as I continued to lunch" - that is a ridiculous use of that particular noun as a verb and it must stop) that the group of braying asses had ceased to upset the calming nature of my meal.

What had changed?  Even a year ago, I probably would have gotten up and moved to a quieter spot in the restaurant or worse, hated myself for not doing so.  Why was this not pissing me off?  Had I become so compassionately zen-like that even small town tweens couldn't rattle me?

Kind of.

It dawned on me seconds later.  My metamorphosis was not gained by some new age mountain top yoga retreat, nor was it forged by some unseen hand of the Almighty.  My peace came from within - it was a sense of knowing.  It was an amazing experience and one that filled me with the overwhelming reassurance that nothing so small would ever bother me again.  I laughed out loud.

The difference is that I now have a child.  And once you go through the experiences that my new family has shared with each other over the last four and a half months, nothing so insignificant as annoying teenagers will ever come close to rattling your cage.

Eating lunch next to small town kids in a Mexican restaurant is infinitely easier than eating lunch with an infant.  Cari and I often laugh about having to scarf our food down as fast as possible because we can see that Grey has just about had enough of sitting in his infant carrier staring at ceiling fans.  It's like running some kind of bizarre epicurean race or training to become a competitive eater.

Most of the time we can't even eat together.  One of us eats while the other one patiently parades our beautiful boy through the restaurant swinging him about in some form of "Superman" flying pose that all of the sudden is the only way that he will be held without crying.

As I was laughing about the ridiculousness that has become our everyday life I started thinking about all of the photos I see of famous people and their children out on the town.

You know, the Pinkett-Smith's and the Jolie-Pitt's of the world carrying on with their-well appointed brood looking slightly haggard by the efforts of parenting which somehow tends to make them even more alluring.

There are countless pictures of these families swashbuckling their way through foreign airports (presumably after they have traveled to some underprivileged nation and immunized all of their children, rebuilt all of their roads, and provided a sustainable Eco-grid that will forever power their village enabling them to no longer be at the mercy of corrupt petroleum producers) looking like they just stepped out of some place in Prospect Heights where the Kings of Leon ripped through a 2 hour set of 70's Glam Band covers in a bar that only existed for one day. 

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words, and if that is true, then some of those words could be used to form a sentence that is a complete lie.  Trust me, nobody that manages six kids on a full time basis could look that good without a stylist and a team of Au pairs hovering in the wings.

If anyone in the world thinks that this is what having children is like, please do not procreate until you and your wife have several million dollar picture deals in your portfolio.

I don't even shower on the weekends.  There is no time and there is no point.  Reading books (other than infant-related) has become a thing of the past.  My bicycle's tires have become under-inflated from lack of use and a layer of fine dust covers my new record player that Cari got me for Christmas.  I don't do a very good job taking care of the lawn anymore because I feel guilty that Cari takes care of Grey all day during the week and I want to help her on the weekends (plus it is God awful hot - jeez, it's not like I didn't know that when I moved back).  I have a particularly difficult time keeping up with my laundry and I will admit I put forth minimum effort on home projects now. 

But...my son is happy. 

In fact he is more than happy -  he is at ease with the world.  Sure, he gets upset sometimes, but you can tell it is out of frustration, not fear.  My wife and I have somehow been able to make him feel safe, cared for, and loved.  And that is something that I didn't know I was capable of doing before he came along.  It is also something that is, and I suspect always will be, a full-time job.  Which is fine by me. 

I've got nothing better to do.

Burnout

I am taking the day off from work today.  I am taking what my company calls a "Personal Day".  That is the box I will check when I get back to work and fill out my "PTO Request".  The "PTO" stands for "Paid Time Off".  That is so stupid.


I haven't taken a day off of work since my son was born in the middle of February, so I figured it was about time.  This was however a completely spontaneous decision.  When I went to bed last night I had full intentions of working today, and although my stomach was experiencing a kind of mild turbulence last night, I am not ill.  Hence the "Personal Day".


I noticed before I started to write this that my last post was in mid December - that's a good break, I guess.  While writing is one of the most enjoyable things that I do, I haven't done it in over 6 months.  There is absolutely no excuse for that.  I could say that work has been crazy and that taking care of a baby leaves me emotionally and physically drained, but those are tired excuses made all the more ridiculous when you figure that writing actually gives me energy.  I have no defense.


So today I have decided to turn off the work phone completely.  I waffled for a bit this morning on this subject.  Most of the time that I am not at work, I still have my phone on and I can't help but read e-mails or listen to messages throughout the day.  I tell myself that it is okay because the phone is on "vibrate" - it is not like it is ringing - just an erratic buzz, like a downed power wire or a dental drill.  It is beyond annoying.


And just to set the record straight, I am not "techie" or even a particularly hard working person.  I do not really care that much for the customers that are calling me, nor do I feel any real need to solve their problems.  There is no altruism in my constant phone checking.  It is more Pavlovian than anything, and I will not do it today.


Today will be a day that I spend with my family doing what I want to do - accomplishing things that interest me, fulfill me, and bring joy to my life.  I will take care of myself so that I might better take care of others.  It will be a day that will help resuscitate my withering interest in my career by getting the Hell away from it for a little while.  A day that I will re-think things and take the time to really pay attention to what life is saying to me.  A day that will be lived the way I want to live it.


I guess you would call it, a "Personal Day".

Option Letter (Revised 2009)

Dear [Name of Client],

Let me first say that all of us here at [Name of Company] were very shocked and surprised to find out about your wish to discontinue our business relationship.  You must believe me when I say to you, that this is the part of my job that I truly hate.

For several [years/some months], you have depended on us to provide the sort of seamless, dependable services that you have come to rely upon in order to grow your business.  To be quite honest, we have also come to rely upon your prompt payments for our services to pad our bottom line - contrary to popular misconception, corporate jets are as expensive as ever!  

Sounds like what we have here is a co-dependent relationship, which as most mental health professionals will tell you , is not a good thing - someone is always let down.  In this case, it’s you.

It is our complete and reckless dependence on your business that moved us to hire our legal team to draft a document several years back called the Customer Service Agreement, or as we refer to it in ambiguous double-talk, the CSA.


Remember when one of our representatives came by your place of business not too long ago and asked you (or maybe just someone standing in your lobby) to update your CSA?

We do, and trust me, we made copies.

Enclosed is a copy of the most recent CSA that you or someone in your employ (perhaps a member of a third-party janitorial service) signed, stating that he or she was in authority to extend your business agreement with us another [36 to 60] months.

Make no mistake, this is a legal and binding document.  Believe me, it was not cheap to hire one of the most feared law firms in the free world to draft such an iron-clad contract.  In fact, when you told me last week that you couldn’t believe your eyes when you opened your billing statement from us, it reminded me of our surprise eighteen years ago when we got the bill from Stearns, Gloucester, and Stein!

While we are on the subject of things that you said over the phone last week, I would like to revisit one particularly unsavory comment that was made in what I now believe was a moment of weakness and fear.  Neither I, nor any member of my company (that I know of), is currently nor have ever been a practicing member of the Nazi party.  I understand that in times of financial distress (48% increase on your last bill) we can all say some things that we don’t mean, so I am willing to overlook your slanderous (maybe?) comment.

However, one other comment that you made makes no sense to me and I should like to revisit it now, in this letter.

When you said that my company and I were making you feel as if you were, “held hostage,” how, exactly, did you mean that?

Although most would agree that being held hostage is not a good thing, my mind immediately jumped to Nelson Mandela and the trials he had with his own South African government.  He was “held hostage” for 27 years, but still he emerged to become the first democratically elected president of his country and later won the Nobel Peace prize - I think it is safe to say, that being “held hostage” is not always a bad thing.

Also, you might reference Patty Hearst, she was held hostage by a left-wing guerrilla group and developed Stockholm Syndrome, which is a condition in which the captive starts to identify with the captor.  If I may speak openly, I think our business relationship could use a little less finger-pointing, and a whole lot more of what Ms. Hearst discovered.  Food for thought...

Anyway, back to your contract, or “agreement.”  As our current records show, the terms of your most recently signed CSA show that you are bound to honor the terms of this agreement until June of 2012, unless my assistant finds a more recently signed document, which could happen because the office is such a mess right now from our weekly “Champagne and Caviar Wednesdays.”


After you break into the fifth case of bubbly, these little parties can get out of hand in a hurry - I am sure you can identify.

But, assuming that this is the most current document we can find, it is now my job (the part I really hate, remember) to make you aware of your options going forward:

Option 1: 

Honor the existing agreement that you (or someone) signed and keep moving forward like nothing ever happened.  We have found this to be the most agreeable and polite of all options.  Best of all, it requires no additional effort on either of our parts - Bonus!

Option 2:

Honor the existing agreement to the end of its term and discontinue services by sending a letter “certified mail” with your intent to cancel not less than 60, but not more than 59 days prior to cancellation date.  Quite honestly, this is a coward’s way out, and we do not recommend it.

Option 3:

You may prematurely exit your existing agreement by paying what our company refers to as “Liquidated Damages”.  Liquidated damages for your account amount to either six months of the base rate of your current bill plus any current balance, or six months of my boss’ current car payment, whichever is greater.  (Note:  My boss is currently driving a  2009 7 series BMW, which she claims she got “for a steal”, so you may be in luck!)

On behalf of myself and the rest of the staff here at [Your Company Name Here], we hope that you have found this correspondence full of valuable information and erupting with agreeable options.  Please take the time to review your wide array of choices and select the one that works best for both of us (hint: Option 1).

If you have not responded to us within 12 hours of receiving this letter we shall assume that you have selected Option 1 (remember, no additional work on your part) and wish to continue down the path that our companies have so boldly forged together - a path paved with trust, encapsulated in honesty, and leading toward a new world of honor, prosperity and profit!  

Please forgive me, I tend to get a little dramatic when I think about our shared business relationship of [years/some months].

Anyhoo, better let me know something pretty soon - tick-tock, tick-tock...

With Warmest Regards to You and Yours This Holiday Season,

Beau M. Adams

La La's Game (Happy Thanksgiving)

On Thanksgiving morning this year I woke up a little late, and when I got downstairs Cari had already made coffee and was preparing her twice-baked sweet potatoes along with her deviled eggs to take over to Mom’s later in the day.

Cari is 7 and 1/2 months pregnant right now and she looked so beautiful in her apron, which was partially covered in baking flour and was doing its best to conceal the pumpkin-sized belly underneath.

Since she had a head start on me, and I was not cooking anything for Thanksgiving this year, I decided my job would be to blow leaves and water the lawn.  

It was an absolutely glorious November morning.  The air was cool and dry and still.  The sun hit my back and shoulders, and it warmed me all the way through.  Since I am protective of my hearing, I had my earplugs in, shutting out the noise of the blower and virtually reducing my world to only what I could see in front of me.

As  I continued to blow all of the leaves into a large pile at the base of my oak tree I couldn’t help but think about Thanksgiving and what it means to me.  I also couldn’t get the idea of how preposterous my current actions might have seemed to the first settlers of this country, the ones we often imagine when we think of the first Thanksgiving.

Almost certainly, my image of the first Thanksgiving is a myth likely created in equal parts by coloring books, grade school, and things that my grandparents told me.  In my mind it is a pristine affair with all invitees in period dress set before a table crowded with cuisine that would rival any four-star restaurant.

The natives are dressed in their full leather beaded tops and pants along with their dress moccasins, there hair woven and braided as to pull it away from their flawless, tanned skin only to reveal their beautiful and prominent features.   Many of them wear a decorative beaded headband, but no headdresses are spotted.  I imagine that the horses they rode to the event are out of sight, having their own version of Thanksgiving consisting of hay and apples provided to them by the Pilgrim Wives Auxiliary.

The pilgrims are a vision in black with their conservative coats, knickers, and buckled accessories that add just the right amount of zip to their otherwise staid and puritan attire.  Their hats are tall and well shaped and their shoes and belts shined to mirror quality.  And no one has dirt beneath their fingernails.

The weather is agreeable and cooperative that day as the large well crafted dining table is set outside for the feast.  A deciduous forest with its leaves hemorrhaging magnificent yellows, oranges, and reds provides the backdrop.  The air is absent of wind and the sun is shining, but not in annoying way, where it might be a distraction.  Perhaps it is dappled by the autumn leaves gently finding their way to the ground.

Before the great feast there are countless blessings put upon the food and the goodwill being forged between the newcomers and the rightful inhabitants of this beautiful land, who are really happy that the puritans came along because they really wanted some new friends.

I then laughed to myself, or maybe aloud (after all, I had earplugs in), and thought about how absurd my version of the first Thanksgiving had become, and how much I dearly loved it, anyway.

We were the last of the guests to arrive at Mom’s house and when we got to the door we were enveloped in hugs, kisses, and smiles.  All of the family flooded the entry way and shoved their way towards us creating the most wonderful sense of claustrophobia.  It was a nearly overwhelming scene and I made a mental note to always be the last to arrive from now on.

As we waited for the dinner to finish its long journey from purchase to preparation we talked and laughed, told stories and explained inside jokes, and eventually went outside to throw the football around the yard.  Those who did not participate were fortunate enough to be entertained by my Aunt Deresa’s inventive receiving style, which included an almost total implosion of her midsection as the ball arrived at her body, my God brother Gabriel’s unconventional passing attempts that involved a post-throw kick in the air courtesy of his trailing lower leg, and perhaps the best arm of a non-drafted free agent belonging to my pregnant wife.  I’ve never had more fun throwing the football with three people and part of me fears I never will again.

Dinner time was nearing so we moved inside and I made certain to tell my mother to make sure that no one started eating this year until we all had told each other what we were thankful for.  Upon hearing this announcement, my Aunt Deresa, whose grandchildren have nicknamed her La La, exclaimed, “We’re going to do that again this year?  I hate that game.”

I laughed and asked Cari if she could explain to La La that it was not a game so much as it was an actual expression of your feelings of thankfulness and gratitude.  This information did nothing to change La La's feelings towards the exercise, and she proceeded to tell everyone to stop talking to her so that she may try to think of something that she was thankful for, presumably in attempt not to lose “the game”.

We set before a table expertly decorated by my God brother Allan and proceeded to speak, one at a time, in an effort to describe what we were all thankful for.  Most were thankful for the other members of the family at the table, some were thankful for the return of Whitney Houston to the top of the pop charts (Gabriel), and even the food got a mention.  When it came to my turn I pulled out of my pocket a small field notebook and, with apologies for delaying the feast, I began to read what I had written earlier that morning in anticipation of the Thanksgiving Game:

“What would the pilgrims think of our version of Thanksgiving?

They would probably be overwhelmed by the massive amounts of food, the impressive display of holiday decor, not to mention the invention of central heat and air.

But, what did the pilgrims know, anyway?  These were people who wore buckles on their hats.

All differences aside, surely they would approve of the common theme of our very different thanksgiving celebrations.  Friends and family gathering to proclaim their most heartfelt thanks for the gifts that they have received.

Continuing their tradition, I would like to express my thanks for the people at this table.

I am thankful for my Mother who worries too much, loves too much, and does too much.  And as often as I may protest, I am glad that she does.

I am thankful for Deresa and Wayne.  There is not a person in the world that could be in Aunt Deresa’s presence and keep a smile from drawing across their face.  And no one could love her more than “Homer”.  For that, I am thankful.

I am thankful for Gabe and Allan.  Their love, talent, and grace provide an energy that everyone should be so lucky to witness.

I am thankful for Coach Jones, who puts up with our eccentricities, and greets our family dramas with strength and humor.

I am thankful for my brother, Christopher, my hero.  He accomplishes more on a daily basis than most of us can claim in a decade.

I am thankful for Aunt Pat and Uncle Jay.  Aunt Pat breathes new life into this family, and my uncle Jay, as always, is the most charming person I have had the privilege to know.

I am thankful for my wife, Cari.  It is no small task to put up with a person such as myself, and she does it with grace and ease.  She is the most intelligent, talented, and beautiful woman I have ever known.  She defends the defenseless and supports the fallen.  She always seems to be on the right side of an argument, which can be really frustrating for me, but that is why I love her.  She makes me re-visit everything I thought I already knew about life, and then patiently waits for me to catch up.  Her support is unending and her love is absent of judgement.  This is why she will be such a great Mother.

I am thankful for little Grey Matthew.  If I had any advice for him in his future dealings with this family, I would say, ‘Just be yourself.’  The chances are better than average, given your pedigree, that you will be a little different than most of the people you know, and that is okay.

Because the thing that I am most thankful for, is the fact that my family is not boring.  Boring just doesn’t cut it in this family.

And there is something to be said for a family where the only way to fit in, is to not fit in.

That is truly something to be thankful for.”

Happy Thanksgiving 2009

Fair Trade

I made the mistake at looking at my paycheck the other day.  I usually don’t pay much attention to it because I already know the amount, as it has been directly deposited into my account the night before I get it.  But for some reason, I decided to give it a look just to see what I had been missing.

As I was following the lines and numbers across the page, I noticed a column that said Year-to-Date Earnings and a number beneath it that was just that, the amount of money (pre-tax and deductions) that my company has issued to me since January 1st. 

And here is how my brain works:  I thought, that is not enough money to trade for my happiness.

And then I thought:  But, it is a lot of money.

And then I thought:   There must not be any amount of money that is worth being unhappy for.

And then I got depressed because I always thought if I could just make “X” amount of money, then it would make me happy.  I always thought, this job isn’t worth what they are paying me, but if they paid me $20,000 more, I might have to reconsider. 

At some point I adopted the notion, wrongly so, that no one really likes their job, so you might as well get paid well to do it.  As a former boss of mine once said, “Money doesn’t buy happiness, but it makes being miserable a whole helluva lot easier.”

The bottom line, I guess, is that there will be no amount of payment that will be an even trade for hating my job.  So maybe I should just do what I love, and let the money part work itself out.  This sounds suspiciously simple...

When I was about 8 years old, like most boys, I wanted to be like my dad.  I wanted to look like him, dress like him, and act like him - basically, I wanted to be him.

One day when we were driving to the lake in his jeep, he asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.  I told him I wanted to be an eye doctor (my father is an optometrist).  He looked at me with disbelief and said, “No, you don’t want to do that.”

When I asked him why, he said, “Because you wouldn’t like it.  The patients are a real hassle and you don’t make much money.”

As the years went by, occasionally the subject would come up again, and all of the things I was interested in were subsequently shot down.

“A therapist,” I would say.

“You wouldn’t want to sit and listen to people’s problems all day.  That would be depressing,” my father would reply.

“A filmmaker,” I would say.  

“That would be kind of hard to do from Oklahoma,” he said.  “You know, we are a long way from Hollywood where all of that stuff happens.”  I guess it never occurred to either of us that I could move to California.

“A writer,” I once said.  “You can do that from anywhere.”

“You could,” he said, “but it is extremely difficult to get paid to write.  You might as well say that you wanted to be a professional athlete.  There are probably as many of those as there are paid writers.”  I had already been told that I wouldn’t be able to be a professional athlete.

And so it went on, with me suggesting ideas and him picking them off, like some kind of occupational skeet-shooting exercise.  He had no shortage of negative points to make relative to my vocational aspirations. 

To be fair, I hadn’t shown much promise in school.  I tested exceptionally well, but my grades were just average.  Perhaps he just didn’t think that I possessed the aptitude to perform any of these tasks.  I know now, he didn’t believe in me enough to encourage me.

Maybe my father wasn’t the best person to go to on the subject of career placement.  After all, he never liked his job - and I am certain that he still doesn’t.

When you are a kid, you don’t know any better than to ask your father for, and subsequently, take his advice.  He is the best reference that you have access to, and you trust him completely.  I was disappointed when my dad told me that all of the things that I wanted to be would be impossible, but I didn’t question him.  He was all-knowing to me, and he would remain that way for quite some time.

Now, I am about to have a son.  And I guess I am writing this as a reminder to myself of the awesome amount of influence I will soon wield.  I must try to be mindful of how my words can quickly tear down, or inspire a thought.  I must remember the ridiculous amount of trust that will be bestowed upon me without question.

While I don’t want to be the type of parent who sets my child up for disappointment by being completely unrealistic, I also have to be open to the fact that my son will be like me, but he will not be me.  And while being a scientist in a lab might sound like punishment to me, it might be just the fit for him.

One thing is for sure:  I owe it to my son to be open and accepting to everything that sparks his interest or makes him happy.  I also owe it to him to get a job where I am not trading my paycheck for happiness.

Great Expectations

October 5, 2009

Today,  I got my first rejection letter as a writer.  Actually, it wasn’t even a letter.  It was a rejection e-mail.  It was from McSweeney’s.  A lot of people I talk to don’t know what McSweeney’s is, and I suppose that given the state of reading today, that is normal.  I don’t even know what it is, really.  As near as I can tell, it is a website that is full of contributed materials from all kinds of writers, although there seems to be some favoritism towards certain ones.  Perhaps, because they are good.  They also have a division that publishes and sells books from people who contribute to their site.  

It seems like most of the material is humor based, although that is certainly not a prerequisite.  I like that about the site, though.  I enjoy reading the humor and much of it is quite good.  I also fancy myself a humor writer which seems to be a subject that is very much open for debate at present.  I have written a few things over the last couple of years based on the formats that McSweeney’s seems to endorse on their website.  They have categories for writing in Lists (kind of like a top ten list of funny items), Open Letters to People or Entities Who are Unlikely to Respond (these are particularly hilarious to me), and the rest are just kind of parodies of everyday events or common practices in business, or what have you.

Almost everything that they publish is hilarious.  Only on occasion do I think something is dull or not particularly witty.  Sometimes, I totally miss the humor in a piece because the subject material is above my head.  The people who get published seem to be extremely well educated.  That is another component of the website that I like.  I am not very well educated, so when I am able to comprehend the material in an essay on the website, it makes me feel really smart. 

The piece that I selected for submission was an open letter to my neighbor that I had written about a year and a half ago.  It is a terribly fictional account of an occurrence in the Spring of 2008.  It was written very quickly and has what I think are some truly funny elements.  Although it may not be the most groundbreaking piece ever to be submitted to McSweeney’s, I did judge it to be slightly funnier than some of the things that have been published.  This was my criteria for submitting the piece.

About a week after sending it in, I got an e-mail response from “Kelly”, an intern at McSweeney’s.  She said, “I appreciate the look, but I’m afraid I am going to pass on this one.”  I don’t really know what that means.  What does it mean when you turn something in that is not visual in nature and someone says that they appreciate “the look”?  I chalked it up to industry-speak.  You don’t want to ask “Kelly” what she meant when she said,“the look”, and make a fool of yourself to an intern.  So, I sent her an e-mail response thanking her for reading it and promising that I would try again.

When I got the rejection e-mail, I was kind of crushed.  Most people would say that this is a fairly normal reaction.  Maybe so, but I was kind of expecting this to be the start of something glorious.  Not that it warranted glory, but just kind of because that’s how my brain works.  When I finally got up my nerve to tell my wife, Cari, about the rejection she said, “What did they say?  What was the reason for rejecting it?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “they didn’t really give one.  They said, ‘They appreciate the look’.”

“Appreciate the look?” she asked, “What does that mean?”

I told her I didn’t know what it meant.  She felt badly for me, but ultimately I felt that she was not really that surprised.  I mean, it’s pretty normal to get rejected on the first thing that you have ever offered up for publication.  It is probably pretty normal to get rejected a lot of times.  I read about people that have way more talent than I have that have worked for years and been rejected repeatedly.  Obviously, though, this is not what I thought would happen to me. 

 Cari could tell that I was taking this a little harder than perhaps I should be.  She said, “It’s okay, you just have to keep trying.  This was your first try.  What did you expect them to say?”

I told her that I kind of expected them to say something like, “Tell me you have more!”

And with this, Cari erupted into laughter as loud and hard as I have ever heard her laugh, and I started to laugh with her, too.  It was ridiculous.  I am not making this up.  In my head, I thought that once they got a taste of my particular brand of humor, my biggest problem would be producing enough material to keep up with demand.  I actually had daydreams of telling my boss how I was going to have to quit my job immediately and how I knew that it was going to be difficult to replace me, but this was of terrible importance that I free myself up to start producing the amount of fiction necessary to satiate my new found audience.  I also had nightmares that I would not be able to keep up with the workload, or that I would run out of witty things to say about the state of the world these days.  Well, I guess I can save that concern for another day.

I don’t know what this says about my character.  In all actuality, I am kind of afraid to know.  If you didn’t like me, you would probably say that I have delusions of grandeur or that I am really full of myself.  Maybe so.  I don’t think so, but someone with that affliction probably wouldn’t think that about himself.

I hope what it says about me is that I am an optimist, and maybe a little bit of a dreamer.  I can live with that.  I’ve been called worse.

Salesgestions!® by Beau M. Adams

To:  All Salespersons

Re:  Differentiating Yourself

In today’s competitive sales market we must find new and interesting ways to set ourselves apart from our competition.  When price and service are not your allies, you must find new and inventive ways to differentiate yourself and add value to your prospective customers.  Here are a few tips, or Salegestions!®, to help you along the way:

Greeting

It is true what they say:  “Unless you are really pretty, or have tons of power and influence, you never get a second chance to make a first impression.”  With that in mind, let’s examine how we make initial contact with our customers.

Telephone

Typical Greeting:

“Hello, my name is [your name here] from [name of your company here].  The reason for my call was to see if I could speak to someone regarding your [sales specific need].  Could you connect me with the person who makes those type of purchasing decisions for your company?

Boooooorrriiinng.  That is how a loser speaks to someone on the phone. Now, let’s see how a creative salesperson approaches this task.

Differentiated Greeting:

“Hello, my name is [your name here] and I am in possession of a large cash prize for the person at your company who handles [products you are trying to sell].  Could you please patch me through immediately to [him or her], as I am tempted to spend this money on an Italian Villa and several priceless antique bicycles (the kind with the big wheel in front) for my pet kangaroo’s 23rd birthday.”

Now, which one would you pay more attention to?  Obviously, our job is to get the attention of the customer and produce results.  If you were a receptionist, wouldn’t you rather interrupt the shareholder's meeting with the promise of a financial windfall (and a tale about a supposed marsupial)?  I thought so.

Sometimes getting someone’s attention with a positive statement like this can be difficult.  Either they do not believe you to be in possession of said prizes, or they start asking too many questions.  In this instance, you can immediately deflect their arguments by shifting into negative reward mode.

Negative Attention Getter:

“Your [Family/loved ones] have been kidnapped and are currently being fed a steady diet of grub worms and corn tortillas with nothing but flat Diet Slice® to wash them down.  They are being held in an undisclosed location and will be set free as soon as I am able to speak with [contact name].  If you deny me this opportunity, they will be made to participate in focus groups assigned with the task of determining the residual chemical effects of household pesticides.  Please patch me through to [decision maker] immediately!  Obviously, by asking too many questions, you have also forfeited the aforementioned cash prize.  Providing that you transfer my call immediately, I will have the decency not to mention what a disgrace you are to your company.  Thank you.”

Wow!  Now that should get their attention!  Congratulations, you are well on your way to making a sale!

Notice, how a slight shift in the way you approach telephone sales calls can make a big difference?  Now that we have mastered the phones, let’s look at the ways we can bring some individuality to in-person calls.

In-person Sales Calls

In-person calls come with their own special brand of obstacles and can at times seem as though we are walking through a minefield (minus those pesky explosions).  For instance, you may not be very physically attractive.  Unfortunately, this will almost certainly ensure that no one will want to give you their precious time.  But with my proven attention-getting techniques, even a homely person can get through to the decision maker.

The first step to a successful in-person sales call is to get past the “gatekeeper”.  This is a simple process and one that quite frankly, too many salespersons use as an excuse for a lack of creative thinking.  In order to get past the “gatekeeper,” you must first identify him/her.  Easy, it’s the first person that talks to you!

In order to get past the “gatekeeper”, casually mention that as you were coming into the office you noticed that their car was on fire.  If they say that they don’t drive a car, then simply respond, “Car?  Did I say your car was on fire?  I meant to say your personal home is on fire.”  That should distract them.  And just like that, you are into the office.

At this point, using what you have compiled through extensive online research, track down the decision maker’s office.  He/She will more than likely be extremely surprised to see you.  Don’t get panicked.  Before they get a chance to speak, always say this, “You haven’t aged a day.”  Decision makers tend to love flattery.  The fact that you have never seen them before in your life will not matter, trust me.  Next, calmly walk over to them with a big grin, and grasping both of their hands, look them dead in the eye and proceed to give them a kiss on either cheek like a person of European descent. Now the sales call can begin!

Would your competitor ever even think of behaving in such a manner?  They most certainly would not.  And that my friends, is the definition of differentiation.  

Salegestions!® are a registered trademark of Beau M. Adams and Kickball Enterprises, LLC.  They are a creative if somewhat misleading way to make it through the work week without losing your mind.  Also, if they are printed out and folded correctly, they make spectacular paper airplanes.*

*Beau M. Adams and Kickball Enterprises, LLC not responsible for eye, arm, or any other physical or emotional injury connected to the fashioning of Salesgestions!® into paper airplanes.