Lawn Envy

The last few weeks have been pretty crazy at work; lots of ten hour days and emails flying back and forth. To make matters worse, the weather here in the DC area has produced skyrocketing pollen levels. I can't tell you if this perfect storm of stress and pollen was coincidence or karmic retribution, but either way, it resulted in a predictable outcome: I got sick.

Despite lots of self-imposed guilt, I ended up working from home for several days last month, while I was attempting to fight a pernicious springtime bug. Aside from getting a lot of attention from my two cats, I was able to spend most of my days either working quietly, or trying to rest and recuperate. Having already succumbed to one of the hazards of my neighborhood (tree pollen), my decision to work from home exposed to another neighborhood hazard: door-to-door solicitors.

The act of soliciting door-to-door has always confused me. On the surface, it makes sense. I understand the law of averages, and I know that if you knock on enough doors, eventually you will find someone who is willing to buy whatever it is that you are selling. However, I never understood the marketing strategy of peddling home improvement services door-to-door.  The way I see it, if you are a contractor or some other tradesman and you do quality work, the business will follow. If you have enough time to go door-to-door and solicit business, it probably means that you do not have work lined up right now.

In my experience (and by experience, I mean doing business with a lot of crappy contractors over the years), if you are a tradesman and you are out of work, there is probably a reason for it! Going door-to-door and advertising your availability just perpetuates that image, at least that's the way I see it.  The moral of the story is that I never buy any home improvement services from anybody who is soliciting door-to-door. If I don't have a personal reference from someone I know and trust about the quality of your work, you will never get any business from me (no matter how many flyers you tape to my door). The only people I will hire to work on my home are the ones who have already been tested, preferably on someone else's home!

Still, I occasionally get duped into answering the door by contractors who are canvassing our neighborhood. Last month was such an occasion. I was working quietly at my kitchen table, when I heard a knock on my front door. I opened the door, and immediately regretted that decision; on my front stoop was a smiling salesman wearing a Scott's Lawn Service polo shirt.

     "Good afternoon, sir!" the salesman said. "I'm from Scott's lawn service and I noticed that you have a bit of a clover problem in your lawn."

      "Thanks, but I'm not interested in lawn service, and I'm actually quite busy right now." I replied as I closed the front door.

As I sat down again at my kitchen table, the ridiculousness of the salesman's argument dawned on me. I have been on the receiving end of many sales pitches, but I can't remember many of them that called out my flaws in such a direct way. After all, the basic argument that the Scott's salesman was making was this: Your lawn is ugly, and you're too stupid to fix it yourself, so give me money to do it for you.

As a consultant, I'm quite familiar with all the justifications for outsourcing, yet, I've rarely approached my corporate clients with the chutzpah that the lawn guy had. Can you imagine what that would look like?

     Client: "So what can I do for you, Lee?"

     Lee: "Your business is a mess, and since you're in charge, I would guess it's your fault."

     Client: "Excuse me?"

      Lee: "It's simple. You're too stupid to fix your problem. I'm smarter than you. Pay me lots of money and I'll fix it for you."

As you can imagine, this would not go over very well. In fact, most consultants will not even call you wrong to your face. They'll spin the problem, and use jargon to offer a solution, like providing "value adds" or freeing up resources to focus on "core competencies." They'll usually use the word "leverage" as a verb. A lot.

The reason most consultants are well practiced spin doctors, is that most people don't like having their own flaws pointed out. If you are feeling defensive about what someone said to you, who cares if they said what they meant? It doesn't matter, because you're not listening. You're too pissed off!

This is one situation where I recommend a departure from my cardinal rule: saying what you mean when someone has just told you that you are worthless is NOT a good idea!

I know that my lawn isn't going to end up on a magazine cover anytime soon, but it doesn't bother me. My lawn is not perfect, but to be fair, I've got bigger things to worry about than some rogue clovers! Yet, maybe the consulting metaphor is too specific. Perhaps I should use a more typical comparison.

How about this instead...

Imagine yourself waking through the local shopping mall. You pass a hair salon and a stylist shouts over to you:

     "Hey! Your haircut sucks. It makes you look ugly. Let me help you with that!"

Hmm. That didn't feel very nice. But it's okay, because there's a sale at your favorite clothing store. A sales associate greets you at the door with big smile:

     "Wow. Your clothes are really out of style. If you don't update your wardrobe with this season's latest fashions, nobody will love you."

Wow. That's some strange customer service, isn't it? But no need to worry, because the food court is up ahead. Maybe a snack will make you feel better. In fact, that place ahead is giving out free samples:

     "Hey buddy! You can't cook, and even if you could, nobody would want to eat it. Want to try some greasy chicken on a toothpick?"

Suddenly, your appetite is gone. Maybe you should just get out of here as fast as possible. You run past a line of stores...

An electronics store:

     "You have no talent, and will spend your whole life on your couch. A bigger TV will make you feel better about your pathetic existence."

A shoe store:

     "Do you have poor self-image? Because, you should. I mean, look at you! You need to get in shape, but first buy these running shoes!"

A gadget store:

     "Your career is totally pathetic. If you had a miniature remote-controlled helicopter, you could imagine that you have an exciting job, instead of being a big disappointment. And it runs on AA batteries!"

One of those e-Cigarette kiosks:

      "Sure, this product is stupid, and this job is lame, but I'm only 18. At least I have the rest of my life ahead of me!"

Okay, that last guy was probably just bitter about working at an e-Cigarette kiosk, but nonetheless, those people didn't do a very good job making you want to buy what they were selling did they?

Didn't think so.

Makes you think twice about criticizing someone's lawn, doesn't it?

Happy shopping!
-Lee

P.S. If you're reading this, Mr. Scott's lawn service guy, stop taping your damned flyers to my door!!!

Narrator de Force

We are two chapters into our little short story experiment, and I am rather pleased to report that I have had an epiphany of sorts this week!

Just to provide a little background on my paradigm shift, Ben and I have been writing together for a little while now. When I say together, I don't mean that we have co-written any works (other than some technical reports and occasional improv routines back when we worked together at a telecommunications company that shall not be named), but rather that we collaborated on some of our personal writing projects. Ben and I had a routine of getting together on Friday nights to share and critique each other's novels.

During that time, I've read through several of his projects in one form or another. When I read Ben's stories, I always noticed how different his style and tone was compared to mine. I couldn't tell you how, nor could I put my finger on why, but I could always tell that what I was reading came from Ben.

When I started writing our short story, I didn't give much thought to how I would use style, tone and other mechanics in my chapter. In that regard, I'm definitely firmly entrenched in the "Gardener" camp (but I'll let Ben write a post that explains what that means!). Still, I knocked out my chapter and waited eagerly to see what Ben would do with the characters I had conjured.

When I finally got to read Ben's chapter, the differences between his writing style and mine became much clearer, thanks to the common subject matter that we shared. Pretty soon I was able to figure out what was different between the chapters: Ben and I have very different narrators!

When most people think of narrators, they imagine an old fatherly voice that provides the voice overs for fairy tales. However, all stories have narrators. They may be a character in the story, or more often, they are an abstract observer of the story. Still, the "voice" of the narrator provides a lot of the story's personality. In the case of our story, I realized that Ben's narrator has a very conversational voice, whereas mine is much more formal. This got me to thinking: where does a narrator's voice come from? Is it a reflection of how we communicate? A projection of how we see and synthesize the world?

In the end, I decided that the easiest explanation is that the voice of a writer's narrator is probably a very good facsimile of their internal monologue (I guess that means I can finally start making money by talking to myself). I also assume that most people have internal monologues, after all, if you didn't have an internal monologue, how could you replay the argument you just lost and try to figure out what you SHOULD have said? Still, I would also venture that most people that do not regularly engage in creative writing are seldom faced with an external representation of their own internal monologue. Making your internal monologue external is actually very hard to do in life. Yet, it is very easy to do as a writer (in fact, I'm doing it right now).

This begs the question for you, dear reader: Do you actually know what your internal monologue sounds like? If not, how do you think it would sound if it told a story to someone other than yourself? Is your internal monologue conversational and prosaic, like Ben's? Or is it formal and analytical, like mine? I've said in the past that we all have a responsibility to say what we mean, and that infers that we are saying it to someone else. ..

But how much thought and care do you put into how you communicate with yourself?

Feel free to post some comments with your thoughts, but beware: you may find yourself analyzing your internal monologue, with your internal monologue, albeit in an externalized form.

Yeah. That just happened. We've gone Meta!

I hope you all have a great Memorial Day Holiday!
-Lee

Chapter Two

     Patrick got into the driver’s seat of the car after carefully help Cecelia into the passenger’s. She was scowling and muttering something under her breath. By her expression and posture, she was obviously in a great deal of pain.
     He considered asking if there was anything else he could do for her, but he had already received quite an earful for trying to help her into the car. The acerbic young woman seemed to want simultaneously to be coddled and left alone. Well, he had been working at the hotel for several years, so he knew how to handle a difficult guest.

     It was unfortunate, though. When he had received the call from the bartender he had been fairly certain that it was a simple twisted ankle, or mild scrape. He had been pleasantly surprised at seeing the pretty young woman in a bikini. Until she had opened her mouth.

     “It should only be a few minutes to Jackson Memorial hospital, Mis- er Doctor. I’m sure they will have you fixed up in no time.” Patrick said brightly. He pulled the sedan out into traffic and headed towards the on-ramp for 95 North.     

     “You’re taking 95? At this time of day?” It was the first words that Cecilia had spoken to him since she had allowed him to help her into the car.     

     “Yes, Doctor, the hospital is only a few minute up 95. It’s the fastest way.” Years of experience allowed Patrick to keep the frustration out of his voice. Though this was not how interactions with women usually went for him. He had moved to Miami to go to college and ended up spending all of his time getting laid or at the beach, or sometimes both to succeed as a student. Eventually he dropped out and started working for the hotel. The pay was decent, the hours were great, he got to work on his tan, and the tourists were always looking for some local fun.

      He almost cursed when he pulled onto 95 and ground to a halt. His ears started to burn as he felt Cecelia’s, No, Doctor Shanahan’s he corrected himself, eyes on him. He did not need to look over to see that she was glaring at him.

      Cecelia started rummaging through her bag and pulled out a smart phone. After a few seconds she pointed imperiously at the next exit. “Get off here and turn left.” She said without looking at him.

      Patrick inhaled deeply and managed to keep from sighing. He knew this area, and the ‘least-time’ route that Google swore by was known to every local as well. It would be just as jam packed as 95, but not as direct. He considered arguing and decided to just let it go. The customer is always right! He reminded himself.

      Just as he had expected the road was just as jam packed, but it seemed to be moving slightly better than 95. After just a few minutes he pulled up at the Emergency Room and got out to help her out of the passenger side. As he walked around the car, Patrick caught a glimpse of Cecelia through the windshield. In that moment, the frown fell away from her face and he saw something else. He thought he saw fear. That moment made him realize how scared and alone she must feel.

      “Here we are, Doctor. I’ll just have the valet park the car and stay with you until we get you fixed up.” Patrick said, opening the door and giving her a hand.

      “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I have far more time in hospitals than you ever will. And I am perfectly capable of overseeing my own care.” Cecelia said as she leaned on him and limped into the ER.

      “I understand, Ma’am, but it’s company policy. I could lose my job if I don’t stay.” Patrick was bending the truth more than a little.

      “I don’t care about your job. But, if you insist on staying, go get me the admittance forms.” Cecelia said.

      Patrick handed the keys over to the valet and turned to help her to a seat. Cecelia had already hobbled over to one on her own. Patrick shook his head and went to see the triage nurse. The bored looking, middle-aged nurse sat behind the counter in faded blue scrubs and handed Patrick a clip board without looking at him. “Fill out the top section and return it to the triage station.” She said waving in the general direction of another bored looking male nurse in blue scrubs nurse.

      “Uh, ok, thanks!” Patrick flashed his most charming smile, which the nurse did not see, and took the paperwork back to Cecelia who started working through it with practiced ease. They sat in silence for several minutes while she worked and he fidgeted. When she finished she handed him the clipboard without a word.

      Patrick was starting to regret his decision to stay with Cecelia, but he was committed now. He walked up to the nurse who was at the triage station and handed him the clipboard. The nurse glanced at Patrick and started going through the clipboard.

      “Are you Cecelia Shanahan?” He asked, raising an eyebrow to Patrick.

      “No, she’s over there.” Patrick said, pointing.

      The nurse’s brightened visibly when he saw the young woman in a bikini. “Injured foot, huh? I should probably go speak with her directly."

      “Yeah, sure, pal. That’s a good idea, she’s really a sweet girl.” Patrick was relieved to have Cecelia’s sharp tongue shred someone else for a change.

      Less than five minutes later, they were wheeling Cecelia out of the waiting room. Her foot was wrapped in an icepack and gauze. Her sarong had already been disposed of. The triage nurse was pushing her wheelchair, which was not his job, but he had already determined it would be less work than arguing with the lady. Now he just wanted to hand her off and get away from her.

      He sat in the waiting room and leafed through a three month old issue of People magazine. He was prepared for a long wait. His cellphone buzzed at him, the caller ID showed it was the hotel. He answered it quietly, “Hello?”

      “Patrick, it’s Jimmy.” Said the bartender who had first tried to help Cecelia. “Carolyn’s wondering when you are going to be back to work. Have you dropped off the uhh guest yet?”

      “Yeah, she asked me to stay and wait here. It should not be long.” Patrick replied with a smile.

      “She asked you to stay. Right. Look, Patrick, I get it, she’s hot and all. But what’s your angle here? The long game? There are other girls here at the bar that are just as good looking, and way way sweeter.” Jimmy asked.

      “Where’s your sense of customer service?” Patrick asked with mock outrage. “This poor woman hurt her foot and needs our help. Besides I’m here to help avoid a lawsuit.”

      “Uh huh. Well I’ll tell Carolyn. But be prepared to get a phone call from her.” Jimmy said and hung up with his characteristic abruptness.

      Patrick felt his smile widen as he put his phone back in his pocket. He stood and walked back to the entry desk. This time the bored nurse looked at him and straightened a little in her chair.

      “Excuse me, Miss.” Patrick said trying his most charming smile on her again. This time it worked. “But can you tell me where I can get a cup of coffee please? And let me know how you take yours, of course.”

      The nurse blushed slightly and her left hand, the one carrying a wedding band, dropped below the desk as she smiled back and pointed with her right hand. “That way, down the hall and to the right. And I take it black with some sugar.”

      “Of course you do. Thanks.” Patrick said with a nod. He turned and walked to the coffee shop. He could use the caffeine. But he needed that confidence booster from the nurse back there.

Chapter One

     Cecelia walked through the lobby of the convention center, dodging islands of chatting academics as she followed the signs for the parking garage.
     "Dr. Shanahan!" cried a voice behind her. Cecelia turned around to see who was going to ruin her plan for a stealthy exit from that morning's meetings.
     "Hi Miles," said Cecelia to her colleague. Miles was a fellow in orthopedic surgery at Boston Medical Center, and Cecelia was his boss.
     "Are you going to the reception this afternoon?" asked Miles.
     "What reception?" asked Cecelia.
     "The one that Boston University is sponsoring." said Miles. "There's a consortium that will be presenting some research on the use of new polymers in artificial joints."
     "Sounds riveting." said Cecelia.
     "Yeah, a bit of a snoozer," said Miles, "But I know some of the panelists from BU who are going to be there."
     "So you're just going for the meet and greet?" asked Cecelia.
     "Nope. For the free booze." said Miles with a grin.
     "Thought so." said Cecelia. "I'll pass this time. There's something I have to take care of this afternoon."
     "Okay," said Miles, "Have fun. See you later!" But Cecelia had already turned and was rushing down the hallway.
     "See ya!" shouted Cecelia, as she waved at Miles over her shoulder.

     Cecelia dashed out into the parking garage, and ran over to her rental car. She threw her briefcase in the passenger seat, started the engine, and sped out of the garage. Twenty minutes later, she was pulling up to the porte cochere of the posh hotel on Miami Beach where she was staying. Cecelia handed the car keys to the valet, and cantered through the hotel lobby to elevators. She took the elevator to the fourth floor, then ran down hallway to her room at the end of the hall.
Five minutes later, Cecelia strolled out of her room. Her white button-down blouse, navy skirt, and tan pumps had been replaced by a turquoise bikini and cork sandals, with a navy sarong wrapped around her waist and a canvas tote hanging from her shoulder. Cecelia strolled down the hall to the elevator, went down to the lobby level, then headed straight for the beach.
     Cecelia sighed when she got outside and felt the sun on her face. She only had one rule when she had to go out of town for business trips and conferences: one afternoon was set aside just for her. Since she learned that she was coming to this convention in Miami, she knew exactly what she was going to do on that day: walk on the beach with her feet in the water. It was a silly little diversion, but it was something she could not do back home.
     Setting goals like this was Cecelia's way of convincing herself that she was not a complete workaholic. She also did not want to waste the trip to Florida. She could get plenty of seafood back home in Boston, but getting the chance, let alone having the spare time, to put on a swimsuit and stroll on the beach was very rare.
     Cecelia walked south along the boardwalk, and started wondering who would be attending the reception she was skipping. Almost immediately,she realized that she was thinking about work, and tried to shake the thoughts of the convention from her head. She walked out onto the beach, past a brightly colored lifeguard stand, and stopped about twenty feet from the water. She stared out at the cruise ships passing Key Biscayne, and started thinking about the next day's agenda.
     "Dammit, Celia!" she yelled at herself, "You're supposed to be relaxing!" Suddenly, something flapped in front of Cecelia's face. She jumped back, and as she stumbled to get her footing, she saw a flock of seagulls darting and swirling in the air above her. She started to swear at the birds, but quickly realized how odd that might look to the other people on the beach. Cecelia decided to ignore the birds and walk along the water's edge instead. She threw her sandals into her canvas bag, then skipped down to the water's edge, strolling through the cold, foamy water.
     The cold water between her toes and the sea breeze on her shoulders gave Cecelia goosebumps, and she finally started to relax and forget about work. She smiled as she felt the water splashing around her knees, then she felt a sudden sharp pain in her left foot. Her ankle gave way, and Cecelia fell face first into the wet sand. She grabbed at her ankle, which was shooting with pain, and she felt something warm and slippery. When she brushed the sand from her face and looked at her hand, it was covered with blood.
     Cecelia winced at the intense pain radiating from her leg. She examined her foot, and saw that a fragment of a scallop shell had become deeply impaled into the bottom of her foot. She carefully removed the shell fragment, and tightly wrapped her sarong around her wound. Slowly, she stood up and began limping back toward the hotel. It took almost ten minutes to retrace her step with the soaked sarong weighing down her foot, but Cecelia eventually hobbled across the pool deck and sat down on a stool at the pool bar. A young bartender wearing Bermuda shorts and an aloha shirt walked over and placed a cocktail napkin in front of Cecelia.
     "What can I get you?" the bartender asked.
     "I need some alcohol, please." said Cecelia.
     "That's usually the case around here," said the bartender as he gestured around the pool bar, "hence my earlier question: what can I get you?"
     "I don't need a drink, you idiot!" said Cecelia, "I sliced my foot open on a broken shell! I need rubbing alcohol!" Cecelia unwrapped her tourniquet and showed the bartender her bloody foot"
     "Oh god!" said the bartender when he saw the blood. "Just wait here, I'll call a manager!" Cecelia rolled her eyes and waited while the bartender phoned for help. A couple of minutes later, an older man wearing khaki pants and a dark polo shirt walked over to the bar. He was carrying a bright orange duffel bag and a bag of ice.
     "Hi, Ma'am." said the man in the polo shirt. "I'm Patrick, the shift supervisor. I understand you need some medical help."
     "You think so?" said Cecelia as she showed him her foot.
     "Wow." said Patrick as he looked at the still-oozing puncture wound. "You're going to need a doctor. Are you a guest here?"
     "Yes," answered Cecelia, "room four twelve."
     "Okay," said Patrick, "I'll give you a ride to the emergency room. I just need your name - I'm going to have to file an incident report. Miss...?"
     "Doctor." said Cecelia.
     "Yes," said Patrick, "You need a doctor. Miss...?
     "Jeez, now you're Abbot and he's Costello?" shouted Cecelia as she gestured to the bartender, "My name. It's not Miss, it's Doctor! Dr. Cecelia Shanahan."
     "Oh." said Patrick, "Of course. Dr. Shanahan. Can I help you to the lobby? We have a car there. It's only a short drive to the hospital."
     "Fine." said Cecelia as she grabbed Patrick's arm and limped across the courtyard and through the hotel lobby.

Changing Course

If you have taken a look at my bio page on this blog, you may recall that one of the reasons that I decided to start blogging was to serve as a diversion from writing fiction. That argument still holds true; however, as my job has become more demanding over the last several months, I have found myself with less and less time available to devote to my writing.

While I have struggled with finding the right work/life balance (or perhaps the right living/writing balance), I have been fortunate enough to have a friend to hold me accountable to my lofty goals of someday writing something other than technical reports and sales proposals. The good news is that he and I will try something new to keep the act of writing a regular part of our lives. With that in mid, I'd like to introduce Ben Russell as the newest author on the Bitter Grammar blog.

While I will still try to provide regular updates featuring observations about the humor of miscommunication, Ben and I have decided to use this blog as a platform for an experiment: publishing a collaborative short story. We will alternate writing sections of the story consecutively, and will be posting these sections to this blog. This represents a bit of a departure from my usual discourses on the humor of miscommunication, but I hope it will prove interesting nonetheless. You see, while we may decide to edit and revise this story offline (likely in a dark smoky room somewhere in the future), for the time being, we will do the rough drafts in plain slight of this blog's "many" readers (Hi Mom).
As we post our chapters to the blog, we will provide our comments and feedback online and invite you to do the same. The only rule we will have during this exercise is that Ben and I will not be allowed to undo the decisions of the other writer. Much like the art of theatrical improvisation, this story will be built on a foundation of "yes, and" storytelling. And, just like a non-smoking restaurant that does not provide ashtrays, there are no "buts" allowed."

I have no idea whether this will turn out well or not, but I'm sure of one thing. There are probably a lot of worse things to read than whatever Ben and I manage to come up with!

So, in the words of Monty Python: ...and now for something completely different!

Enjoy!
-Lee