Negotiating with contractors

The sub-title of this blog is "Beware the contractor driving the nice pick-up truck"

 

Four days ago, six days after our almost new heatpump failed, an electrician showed up to give us a bid on writing for a back-up generator. Not our primary generator mind you, but what will be a third; a secondary to a secondary. Our primary gas generator burns a gallon an hour, unsustainable for a ten day-long black-out like the one we had two years ago. The back-up generator is a small, quite thing, good for our trailor, the one we moved on the tarmac and lived in during those 10 days, after the propane gave out. No, this my friends, is going to be the mother of all generators. A propane-powered, run-a-hotel jobby that will be cemented in to the ground to prevent non-forklift drivers from taking it while we're gone.

 

"You need a new electrical system," we are informed by the propane guy, assessing our back-up to the back-up system. "One that automatically turns on the generator when the power ebbs." Those exist? Rog and I thought, looking at one another. Sure, we can send men to the moon, but a generator that starts up on its own, without beheading a chicken or bowing to the east at sunrise. wow. Times sure have changed.

 

"Duly noted," Rog replies, telling me he'll handle it. Thus, a few days later, electrician number one pulls up in his bright red pickup truck that looked more expensive than our home.

 

"Did you get a bid over the phone?" I asked Rog. He returned my question with a look designed to accomplish one thing: shut me up, validating he completely ignored rule number one.

 

Always pre-qualify a potential service provider over the phone.
"I didn't have time" he said, to create out a  "spec sheet" of needs, along with our hypothetical budget. This saves both parties time and money, and he cut a corner on this one. Rather than get in to a debate about pre-qualifying, I employed my fight avoidance policy and retreated to my corner rather than have a physical altercation in front of a witness. Rog summarized the visit by saying the guy was nice, he'd provide us a reasonable bit, and that he'd "handled it just fine."

Spec sheet items:

• Project timeframe (sometimes a job is less expensive if the contractor is already in the area)
• Project scope (if a room, have the dimensions etc)
• Project work already done (if you have done demo etc)
• Project materials (do you have extra sheetrock lying about that can be used)
• Project dependencies (wiring to be done first)
• Project bids (who many you are getting, from whom if they ask)

 

A week later, we hadn't received a bid, so I used a referral from the contractor who installed our woodworking for the remodel. I'd met electrician number 2 once before, last number, and he offered he'd do a job for an hourly rate of $40 bucks. This electrician was given a sense of the job (on the phone), and approximated between $500-$1,000. He came by, and within 24 hours gave us a bid.

 

Electrician number one estimate: $7,000 plus tax.
Electrician number two estimate: $800 plus tax.

 

Rog was speechless. I found my speech, quick enough to let fly a few, unprintable words. What, in this economy, could give an electrician the idea we'd be a) stupid enough, b) rich enough, and c) unaware we had an ethical issue with paying good money to a crack addict.

 

Turns out, Rog broke rule number 2 with the first electrician. Get a soft bid over the phone, based upon the spec sheet. Rog didn't ask for an approximate dollar amount, nor did he provide a budget. I, on the other hand, provided both a budget, asked for a rate (electrician #2 charges $40/hour). Rog had to regain some sense of self on this one, so he called back electrician #1, and found out this:

 

1-he doesn't do the work himself. He hires it out at @$50-60 per hour.
2-the job itself was bid at @20 hours (both electricians provided this estimate)

 

That meant the guy in the red pick-up truck was skimming $5K for the 15 minutes he spent at the house.

 

Rule number 3 is to ask to understand who is doing the work. Of course, you ask the question "do you do the work yourself, or are you contracting the job?" during the pre-qualification. When an individual is actualling doing the work, rates, hourly/project etc can all be negotiated.

 

I asked Rog if he was going to call out electrician number one, to determine if his wife knew about his "problem" and he shrugged it off. Why bother, he asked.

 

For home owners around the world, the fourth rule is this:

 

Treat the job, every job, like a business transaction. That means you don't take it personally when the contractor shows up and suddenly adds a lot of other expenses.

If your place is a shack, you might get a fair bid across the board. If your place is decent, it's going to range. Fair to high, but no one is going to give you a break for being poor. If you live in a nice joint, your done-for. Only the most ethical of contractors is going to do you right and charge and honest wage. I'm not saying this because of bias. I'm saying it out of twenty years of experience. Trust me, I've lived in shacks, ok condos, a decent condo and a home that was a shack that has turned out to be pretty nice. In those two decades, the number of honest, moral contractors (and by this, I mean individuals working in the construction industry), can be counted on one hand.

 

That's 5 or less for those wondering.

 

All that aside, the four great contractors I presently have are fantastic. I'm looking forward to adding this electrician as the fifth. His friend, who referred him in the first place, has been providing work for us on and off for over five years. He probably hangs with good people. I'm pretty confident the guy will stick to 40/hour. Of course, if I can save a few sheckles I'm going to pocket the difference, and call it a marital tax for doing Rog's job.

To summarize:
1-pre-qualify
2-create a spec sheet of what's required (review and approve this with spouse/partner) so every potential service provider is given the same information
3-get an approximate cost over the phone
4-understand the business model (in other words, who is doing the actual work, the owner or a sub-contractor)
5-don't take it personally when the contractor shows up and suddenly adds a lot of other expenses.

The night the gun went off

For about a year after our break-in, I had a serious aversion to cookie jar heads and all things that go boo in the night. Rog figured it was time to get a gun. I was morally opposed to having guns for any reason other than target shooting, thereby limiting the gun collection to shotguns or rifles (skeet, trap and far away targets). Rog pointed out this was overkill and silly in the case of an intruder. Not only would it hurt my shoulder and damage my hearing, but it would be highly unoperable in the heat of the moment. We were at an impass.

As the argument raged on, I became pregnant, Rog started a company, traveled a lot for work and I was at home a lot (on bedrest), me and the P-Dog. I was uncompromising on the purchase of a gun, so he borrowed the neighbors device.

Now, you must know that all I  knew at the time about handguns was what I saw on TV. Unlike certain female relatives, I thought a Glock was anothe name for a male appendage, and a Ruetger was the German equivalent of the big man-thing. (How do the product managers come up with these great names by the way? We don't have purses named after vaginas, or that I know of...) In any case, he gets this revolver that looks seriously old school. It's only slightly smaller than the tommy guns Al Capone carried around The Untouchables.

"Just unlock the safety, pull the trigger back and point," he says. "It's already loaded." My child was still in my womb, so unless I counted as the minor, we were ok.

He leaves on his first trip. No break-ins. All was well. He leaves again. No issue. About the forth trip he was gone, the lights went out at 11, and the dog lit up. She was on fire. And when a pitbull rages in a house full of windows, the whole place echos and sways.

Do I run down to the neighbors? No, I'd get napped or shot. The dog as well. I really didn't want my P-dog to die, so I decided to stay put. Plus, I was pregnant. I wouldn't get far.

Do I stay inside and wait to get attacked or worse? My dog would get shot first, then me. Once again, I couldn't bare the thought of my poor dog getting nicked.

My gun shot

I'm up on the third floor, debating my options, when it dawned on me. Get the gun and fire a warning shot off my deck If a gun boat can shoot a warning missle across the bow, like in Hunt for Red October, and the Roosky submarine descends, I could do the same.

I part the black sea of Rog's underwear to find the gun, ready and loaded. (for those of you getting antsy, this is worth the stress). I pick up the gun, open the door off the master bedroom and get ready to shoot. The dog is still going nuts, waking up the entire vallye. I see this figure running off in the woods (this was pre-fence) and I figure I'm in the clear.

My heart racing, I breath for a few minutes, wondering whether or not to still shoot the gun in the air. Would I get arrested or given a fine for shooting, I wonder. I had no clue on the rules in this wilderness I call home. As I'm having this mental argument with myself, the dog relaxes, and I figure all is well. The intruder left, unwilling to go against a pregnant woman with a pitbull.

I go inside, shut the doors, and look at the gun. It's still cocked. What do I do now? I wondered. Can I uncock this thing?

At this point in the story, I must pause, for even my own mother probably knows how to uncock a revolver. I didn't. Still don't really. Will it go off? Then I thought I could somehow drop the bullets out, but am unsure how to do that as well. The worst event would be for it to blow and shoot my face off.

As the dog is staring at me, hoping I don't miss and kill her, I point the thing up randomly (away from my face, a self-preservation instinct that served me well) and whatya know. The damn thing went off, right like that.

I just about peed myself. The dog flipped out, ran around the room like a nut, and the only thing I could think of was "did it hit a window?" To appreciate this thought, you must know I love vitamin D. Anything that eliminates the sallow, half-dead Washingtonian look is a good thing. Thus, when we moved in to this abode and began remodeling, we had lots and lots of windows put in. Besides, we live with trees all around. Who's going to see us? I might have died that night, but if I lived, unharmed, but blew out a window with my stupidity, it could be grounds for divorce.

I searched and searched for the bullet hole. Couldn't find it. I looked up on the log beams, no where. I searched the cracks on the walls. No where.

The story draws to its conclusion when I tell Rog we had another "visitor." He, of course, quickly transitioned from concern for my safety to concern about my level of stupidity. After he calmed down (I was alive after all), and voiced the opinion that had I come to a sad and sudden end, at least I would have spared the world a stupid DNA strand, he joined the search for the bullet hole.

2 months later, we found it. Right under the molding of the bedroom window, a centimeter from the window itself. Ultimately, I gave in, allowed Rog to get a few handguns, which have proper, coded storage, and for which I'm properly trained.

The bullet hole? It's still there.

Addictive Chocolate Dessert aka Best Krinkle Treats

It's time. I've made my people wait long enough. To follow is the recipe for "my" version of Krinkle Treats. I suspect the word Krinkle is used because dough is rolled in a ball, then placed in powdered sugar (confectioners sugar), rolled around/covered completely. When it bakes, the white breaks apart, or krinkles, like a chocolate earthquake.

Note to all: you have read, sympathized and laughed at my obsession with these cookies. These are highly addictive; the dough moreso for me than the actual baked cookie. I believe it's because the dough is thicker than a mousse before it's been chilled, and has a different texture than chocolate cornstarch pudding, which is also divine to eat when warm. The picture and trend is clear: warm, chocolate and dense.

Another minor note: The heavyweight, tastebudless, caffeine freaks in the northwest like the darker stuff, as in, the original recipe calls for 100% bittersweet chocolate, unsweetened cocoa and coffee. However, I puke on that recipe. A single bite of the dough or half a cookie literally flies me to the moon from the caffeine rush. Within fifteen minutes, I get a splitting headache, and I'm morally opposed to spending money on rich butter and expensive chocolate only to let others eat my wares. Thus, I cut this down for myself, making my guests eat my own concoction. Guess what? It's been beloved for years now.

Note to the 'true lightweights' e.g. those that don't eat a lot of chocolate. I've found that no matter how much "sugar" a person eats, chocolate brings forth a very different reaction. Thus, I suspect persons like my mother will go so far as to substitute out the bittersweet chocolate for a 100% semi-sweet recipe. That's OK. Part of being a great cook is knowing your own tastes, the preference of your family/friends, and adjust the recipe accordingly.

To give proper credit where credit is due, the original original recipe can be found on page 155 of my all-time favorite chocolate cookbook, The International Chocolate Cookbook by Nancy Baggett. The book is unreal. I've made every recipe in the thing, resulting in a book that should be replaced every other year, but I can't let go of it, much like Rog's bball jersey from the state basketball finals. (mine book isn't as stinky as his jersey fyi).

Below is my recipe and it eliminates 4 items in the above and changes a few other items (like mine btr of course!)

Krinkle Treats

Time to make dough: @20 min
Time to freeze dough: 4 hours
Cooktime: 9-9.5 min

Ingredients
7.5 oz salted butter (I love Tillamook)
4 oz Bittersweet chocolate, chopped
4 oz Semisweet chocolate, chopped
*Note: use a high quality, Ghiradelli or better. If you use Baker's, the dough will be rougher/corser and lack the smooth, silky texture.
3 eggs
2/3 cp superfine sugar (if you have none, you can use regular, but it dramatically changes the dough and cookie. It will turn out a bit more like cake versus a wonderfully dense product). A word to the wise-if you have only Baker's chocolate and regular sugar, this notches the recipe way down to being ok-good, not spectacular-great.
1 tsp good vanilla (see note above. Real vanilla creates a superior taste. Imitation vanilla is not half as good, and actually changes the flavor).
1 1/2 cup flour
salt to taste (in other words, it's up to you. I always put in about 1/2 tsp or so)
1/2 tsp baking powder


Preparation

• Place butter in a metal bowl over boiling water. 
• When the butter is half-way melted, add the chocolate. Continually stir so as not to burn the chocolate. When the chocolate is nearly melted, remove the bowl from the stove and place on the counter. Let the mixture cool slightly. 

*Baker's tip: when a recipe says "let cool slightly" what it really means is that the mixture can't be burning to the touch, but still warm enough to dissolve the other ingredients, like sugar. The best way to test this is to dip your index finger in a bit of chocolate and place on your wrist (like a baby's bottle). It should be warm but not burning.

• Add the eggs one at a time, mixing with a fork. Don't overbeat. Overbeating adds air in to the mixture, creating a fluffy, cake experience which is the opposite of a nice, dense cookie. Just stir enough to mix the eggs. 
• Add superfine sugar and let stand for 8 minutes. This is required for the sugar to dissolve.
• Combine the flour, salt and baking powder first (do not sift, as the result will be cakey-not dense)
• Once the entire batter is mixed, place in a covered container, like a Ziploc plastic container, and place in the freezer for 4 hours.
• Remove, and using a spoon or small ladel, scoop out the batter is equal sizes. 
• Roll in your hands, then place in the sifted powdered sugar.
• Coat completely
• Place on a non-stick pan (with or without parchment paper but do NOT use non-stick spray of any kind as it will utterly ruin the recipe.
• Cook for 9-10 min.

When you are ready to cook- 325 degrees

Baker's tip: this last part is absolutely critical--and I'm talking the cook time. If you bake for more than 10 min, these little babies will harden up like hockey pucks within 15 minutes of being out of the oven. You must, I repeat must, slightly undercook. They will be slightly gooey when removed. That's what you want. The cookies cool, and then can be placed in a container once cooled. When eaten, either cold or room temperature, the inside is moist and divine. The cookies can last up to 4-5 days if stored in the fridge or someplace cool. 

There you have it. Go forth and attempt to remain unaddicted.

What men really want

It was time to make ammends. The chocolate eating incident wasn't the instigator, it was the last straw. Rog has been making the bed for nearly a year, thanks to the little bit of man-enlightenment and a hundred-dollar set of CDs on relationships, so I figured it was my turn.

My turn to truly make him happy. Not the temporary, face flushing, heart-pumping happy. That's more like sheer joy. No, his is simple happiness, the satisfaction only to be derived from a car being "Porsche clean," to use Rog's terminology. Since I'm not a 'clean my tire-wells with a toothbrush kind of a gal,' I have to settle for "Sarah clean," which is better than nothing.

I start by vacuuming out my car. Not once, but several times in a week. It got noticed.

"Nice job," he said, surprised and dismissive at the same time. "Keep it that way for a few days," he requested. It was a little snarky, I thought. After all, rule number two in our house is that we (none of us) eat in the car. Rule number one is that we don't eat in the bed. That's how high a clean car ranks in our house. So I'm OK with a few pine needles that get between the rubber mat and the tan carpet. It doesn't keep me awake at nights. Apparently, those needles are the same ones chasing him around in his dreams.

I vacuumed the car again a few days later, then last night, after once again, getting caught in the act. This morning, I saw my vacuum still hooked up to the powerchord by my car, and figured why not? I'll just leave the thing plugged in, so anytime I want, I can throw down a few cleaning swipes.

In the heat of my moment of motivational exhuberance, I opened the door of his car, vacuumed it and was done.

"What did you do to my car?" Rog said this morning, right before work. Rog is a man of many eyebrow frowns. This one happened to be the happy frown, not the I'm in a rage frown or I've really got to hit the toilet frown. But the 'you've been my wife for 12 years and you've confused me' frown.

"Nothing," I said, automatically defensive. You must understand this car is one I drove once, and was disallowed to ever drive again, like a fourteen year old who took it out for a spin and nearly crashed it. Well, ok. So I did take it out without express permission, almost took out the oil plate, which apparently, is not a good thing on a lowered sports car with expensive, German names I can't begin to pronounce, all before I hit a hundred and twenty-eight in third gear. I just really wanted to know if I too, could get the thing to shoot flames when I went into fourth like Rog, and what 400+ horsepower really means to a girl forced to drive a deisel for speed control reasons.

"It's clean," he said, almost in awe. He'd noticed the moment he stepped foot in the micro vehicle, was shellshocked out of starting the thing and came right back in. I told him I cleaned it. It wasn't a big deal I said.

He looked at me as though I were Heidi Klum walking down the runway in little more than some wings and string.

"Wow. Thanks."

That was it folks. The unknown secret to happiness in a relationship. At least an emotion lasting more than four and a half minutes.I figure if Rog can continue to make the bed without being immasculated, I can clean his carpets w/out being unliberated.

And so it continues. I clean his floors, which I'm sure has some twisted, Freudian symbolism that my inner women's libber is going to conveniently ignore. Rather, I'm going to focus on the eternal love that now flows from my act of kindness. Diamonds are a girls best friend? pasha....get a shopvac

Caught in the act-again

There I was, lounging in liquid heat, a degree below the temperature necessary to fry a turtle, re-reading a romance novel that shall not be named for fear of ridicule, and I hear the lock of the bathroom door being picked. (I've recently taken to locking the door to prevent unwanted 5-yr old visitors entering during what is best described as a 'private moment.') If Porsche were picking the lock, I had a little klepto on my hands. If Rog was trying to enter, he intended on surprising me. I immediately licked off my chocolate-pudding covered spoon, reached over the edge of my claw-foot bathtub, and quietly placed said spoon on the floor, at a position I thought was invisible from where he would stand. I had just enough time to reposition myself, only my hands gripping my book above water.

"Do you have a problem you're not telling me about?" he asked, his face scrunched with worry, though his eyes were angry. His right hand came from behind to show me the evidence of an addiction not quite kicked.

It was a plastic, ziploc container, full of brown stripes, the remnants of what was once Krinkle Treat dough.

"Haven't we been through this enough times already?" he said, exasperated, like he'd been staging interventions and I kept escaping to go for a night of clubbing.

I wanted to laugh. I'm naked, reading a novel, and he's finding carcasses of treats past.

"It was on the second shelf the your vanity. In the bathroom," he exclaimed. And that was just one, he fumed on. He listed the other places he's found what he refers to as my 'stash.'

• the top shelf of two rung kitty stand
• my dresser drawer, by my bed, behind my old passports and on top of my journal
• a spoon with hardened brown dough under the couch (I was disgusted I told him, I thought the cleaners would have been more thorough) 
• in the gym ("the gym of all places!" He was unparalled in his righteous indignation. "I needed a pick me up before I worked out," was all I could get out.)
• the trailer had two containers ("it was going to be a long trip," said I, meekly)

At this point, I clutched the 400 page book above my chest, as though I could protect my lame self.

"It's not like it's crack," I sputtered, hoping he'd move on and out of my one-space.

"You're right. It's not. It's worse!!" 

"Oh come on," I said. "It's not half as bad as Starbuck's," I said, recalling that I'd only recently learned Starbuck's had drive-thrus (much to the delight of my coffee-drinking, school moms who now have one more thing to tease me about. "It's only a few times a week."

That stopped him. He does this Starbuck's is evil, if only for the traffic jams it causes, along with the fact half his co-workers can't function without a double-grande latte (is that an actual size and drink? I apologize for all non-coffee drinkers out there. Can I just say super huge cup of tar?)

Now, I can write about my strategy for having my chocolate without suffering the ill side effects of withdrawals.  Since my last wagon jumping off incident, a few weeks back, I realized the big problem was waiting so long to kick "the habit." Instead of going two months with chocolate every day, what I needed to do was have a temporary 'cleansing' one a week. Skip a chocolate meal, like an intentional fast, or even get crazy and go without for a day. Then the consequential headache lasts only an hour or so, not a two-day pain extravaganza.

My version of Starbucks-Boehm's in Issaquah, WA

"You're such a masochist," he said, turning away. Clearly, his attempt at humiliating me to giving up the brown stuff hadn't worked. Trying to instill shame in the shameless was going nowhere.

"On the bright side, I now have a few more of my containers back, so thanks!"

Rog told me he wasn't going to leave without extracting a promise of no more Krinkle Treat dough (recipe forthcoming, I triple-promise). I said sure. Once the door was shut, I promptly figured out when I could go down and hit Boehm's candies. No more evidence. No more getting caught in the act. I could go back to enjoying my tub-time in peace.

The Climactic Rush

Rarely do I write about writing. It's redundancy at its finest I think. Plus, who wants to read about the writing part of an author's life? It's the gossip, the daily grind that seems to entertain. Sure, I tell folks not to read People Magazine, as it's the dumbed down version of Hollywood. If you want the real scoop, what's truly happening, read Star and the Enquirer. And don't apologize for it. They are always right, and nearly always unearth the truth a year or two before the 'credible' papers deign to write a bit of gossip. But I digress...

I'm taking a break from writing the climactic scene in my latest book, a time-travel adventure for 18 yr olds, the classical "YA" category, with all the blood, gore, and 'adult' themes of a Robert Ludlum, sans the bad language of a Stephen King novel and not quite so much of the drawn-out, love story lines of a S. Meyer book. In other words, it's strong on plot, character and pacing, the action-packed type of book that makes my heart pump without the elements that don't appeal to me as a reader.

Two things happen to me at this stage. After writing more than 300 pages, my mind is racing and I'm typing so fast, I skip over words. Literally. I just can't keep up. My heart is beating wildly, just as if I'm the character in the book, getting chased, almost dying, killing the bad guys, saving the redeeming characters....and then BAM. My dog barks, I nearly wet myself, and have to start all over again. The lights on my property just went out, I have to yell for Rog to get up and turn them on (because pit-bull or not, I'm not going to load up my gun just to walk around this friggin place and do it myself)...

The second thing that happens is I realize that while I'm supposed to be sending every 50 pages off to the movie producer for approval, I keep thinking "just ten more pages..." All day long, while I'm busy driving my daughter to school, dealing w/a service repairman or changing diapers, I'm thinking plot lines. When I do get the chance to write, it flows, and then, I'm literally exhausted. It's as tiring as if I'd run ten miles, or had a wonderful thirty minute (or ten) horizontal mambo experience with Rog, swinging from the rafters in high-heels and stockings.

Truth is, I can't turn it off. For a week, I've been shuffling around several climactic scenes--and since this is the first book/movie in a five book/movie deal, it has to be nailed. I've got foreshadowing going on, multiple primary and secondary characters, motivation, and symbolic details that require alignment. The 5-series outline has been long done (finished that while in Tahoe over the summer), but now that I'm writing it out, I can-not turn it off.

Last night, I dreamt I was going through my own personal version of the second coming, complete with earthquakes (that I jumped over due to superhuman spider skills), escaped a Pompeii-like ash-searing experience by locking myself in a building, until the ash seeped through the windows and under the doors, causing me to flee, right in to a red river of flowing lava. Not to be deterred, (or melted, for this was a dream), I grabbed a hold of a tree, landed on the ground and then balanced myself as new volcanos erupted underneath me. It wasn't until I nearly died when three men chased me down and pulled out their guns that I finally woke up.

Of course, it was good timing. Little Sophia, our nine-month old, then decided to cry for three solid hours. Didn't want food, to be held, wasn't teething, nor did she have a dirty diaper. I think I projected my badness on to her little head, and she was just as freaked out as I was. We were both the walking dead today. Even my husband said I looked wasted.

The upper here, is that I'm probably two weeks away from being done, give or take. That's exciting. I might go get a pair of fake nails put on to celebrate. (writer's and piano players, of which I'm both) have terrible nails. Short and terrible, excepting perhaps, mom, who gets regular manicures. Mine-terrible. Rog wishes I could type flat-fingered, so I could scratch his back a bit more, but alas. It is not to be. I spend the money, then rip the nails off because I get antsy sitting for 40 minutes when I could be doing something productive. Like right now. I could be finishing my climactic scene, but I'm droning on about my micro-world of writing. I must go.

P.S. if you're interested in knowing the truth about Christina A, Courtney C and a few others, read the last two issues of Star. This time around, they got the juice right, not the others:-

More great ideas from "She"

"She's" been at it again. Full of advice, wisdom, suggestions on how to better this blog and all things therein.

My industrious She recently sent me a block tracker, to keep track of my random acts of writing. I received this late last Friday night, opened it and went black. I didn't pass out mind you. I think my pupils contracted at the font size and sheer love the girl put in to creating a block tracker.

"So you don't write the same thing twice," she said. I don't even produce spreadsheets that good for work I told her, as she noted the colors were intended to reduce eye fatigue. Surely, no one has ever loved me this much.

It didn't stop there. I then received another suggestion to put a 'scatter-dot' image on my blog. Three days after I'd created my blog, she suggested a visitor tracker. I put it up. Those are individual visitors, which is interesting. I didn't know my mom loved me so much. 

"A what??" I asked to my phone as I listened to the voice message. Here I am, thinking I'm all that about technology. I freaking live within a crow's spitting distance from Microsoft, a veritable hive of graphics, and I'd never come across a scatter-dot graphic that plots my visitor's. I figure--what the heck. She's been right about everything else, including my number one article, the perfect eyebrow, I might as well get crazy and go scatter-plot.

Up goes my clustermap yesterday. Unfortunately, it's not pulling my data, and won't do so for another 4 days, so I've gone old-school. I've posted the information for you to see where these folks are coming from. It's nuts. I mean, the Ukraine? South Africa? Singapore? I don't know if my writing has relevance for people in my own micro town, let alone Botswana. Someone must really have a lot of time on their hands, or I'm slimmer thighs is the hottest topic in Germany these days. And Pakistan? I can only figure my headscarves are cool, or I have a Dear John from my college days who never got my letter.

United States 2,349

India 14

United Kingdom 9

Canada 7

Singapore 7

Ukraine 6

Germany 4

Philippines 4

Indonesia 3

Pakistan 3

Russia 2

Australia 1

Denmark 1

Iran 1

Netherlands 1

I must say, my She is the ace in my deck of cards, which was already stacked in my favor. Unlike my mom, who waits until after I've written a blog to tell me I look like a fool, my She helps prevent some amount of idiocy, while redirecting a reader's attention to impressive colorful images. If you aren't knocked out by my amazing writing, look at the red dots of my in-the-moment scatter dots. I'll be doing the same.

Go for the DDs

George's DDs never looked
so good

Isn't DDs a perfect metaphor for society nowadays, or for life, for that matter? Go for--as in, "go out and get." This is an updated Just-Do-It come Livestrong mantra for achievement. The second part, "the DDs"   contains all that is right, and yet wrong, about society. Unless you are a puritan soul (and I'm not), living amongst the Amish in Pennsylvania (I don't mean to always be picking on the Amish, but they are in the US, and I think, are still a bit more pure than some loin-clothe wearing group in the Amazon rainforest), the very notion of double-d's conjurs mammoth-sized breasts that swell and heave with the rising and setting of the sun, the earth's very gravitational pull drawing a tsunami size chest-wave sent to destroy small breasted women everywhere.

Why not? society seems to ask. As long as achievement is the goal, the payoff should NOT be modest nor small. It should H.U.G.E. Double-D huge in fact. Be bold. Be big. Be Busty. Ask Trump. Why have a small combover when it can be Ginormica?

I contend another set of DD's is called for. Back to the basics. The very roots of the true puritans that founded this great nation of ours. It has nothing to do with bras and Vicky Secret's. No. The DD's stood for something.

Discipline and Determination.

Two words our forefathers embodied, along with faux white hair, wooden teeth and knee-high white socks. Discipline to take the long view for the family and not lose sight of it when a floosy in a short skirt ripped stockings and a red garter belt walked by on her way to the watering well. To plow the farm on the hot evening when teradactel-size bugs were diving down for a gnarly neck-bite when the other guys were carousing at the pub. The discipline to put stay focused and stay in school during the gold rush. Above all, the discipline to hone the fine art of determination, the underpinning core and foundation that allows achievement of a goal.

Determination is the sister companion to Discipline. Determination means that no matter what happens, what obstacle might be erected, crushing blow given, or setback experienced, determination never leaves. This is the gasoline that fuels discipline. 

"I am determined to lose ten pounds." Determination= motivation. Goal=ten pounds. Yet without discipline (the car), I'm standing with a gallon of gas and my 2 legs. I might get to my destination, but it will take a long long time. Since I'm a determined soul, I'm going to create a schedule and stick to it. This is where discipline comes in handy. Discipline= the ability to get up in morning when it's cold and rainy. Discipline is doing standing leg lifts when I'm stirring a pot of soup. Discipline is not eating two helpings of my mom's awesome bread pudding (or a third, when she's not looking, as though her not seeing me is as though it never happened).

The above is in fact, a real process I'm going through. I have wonderful examples of DD's around me. The helpful kind (other women's breast help me not).

A woman I know, a married mother of three, my same age, goes to the gym every morning at 5 am. She also goes to school herself, picks up her son in the afternoon, and finds time to volunteer in not only our class, but with the local school foundation. In some ways very typical of the busy, overextended mom. In others, she's exemplary. She gets her butt out of bed every morning, and she has the tight, tone, better-than-a-modern-day-seventeen-year-old to prove it. 

"Leslie," I exclaimed, "how do you do it?" (sorry Les-shout out here)...

"I just do it," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "I have to. It keeps me sane and I want to fit in my clothes."

The determination (goal of fitting in pants and sanity are good motivators), and the discipline to get up and roll, is the admirable trait. 

The dictionary defines discipline as an 'activity, exercise or a regimen that develops or improves a skill' : A daily stint at the typewriter is excellent discipline for a writer.

Can you imagine how different our lives would be if we (me included) had a bit more determination and the discipline to see it through. As much as I try to accomplish on a daily basis, I see only areas of improvement. I run around thinking 'not enough time, not enough time'.... 

Thus, I prioritize. I swap morning workouts for some sit-ups so I can write my latest manuscript. I have a can of cold tuna, take 5 minutes to steam three cups of spinach and throw in an apple for lunch, all so I can consume it within 10 minutes and get back to writing while the girls are sleeping. I wait to talk with my mom until I'm on a walk with the dog, so I can make 4 girls happy (me, Sophia, who is strapped to the Baby Bjorn on my chest, my mom and P-doggy)...you get the picture. I'm not becoming the superstar in any area--cooking, athleticism or being the next great American novelist, but I AM making headway. And for me, that's all that matters. Hearkening back to my friend, the producer's comment, about an inch of film each day turns in to a mile, and enough miles makes a movie, I'm inching my way along. One day...walla! I have my manuscript done, my ten pounds are gone and my food--well, I just make some chocolate mousse and call it a day.

As I'm want to do, I'll end this pump-you-up pep talk with a story. This last Sunday morning, the wind whipped up, the power flickered on and off, just enough to short out our monstrous, and monstrously expensive, brand-new heat pump. We are the Burmuda traingle of appliances, invariably getting the "one in ten thousand" that doesn't work. No joke. Our Dacor stove ("this is the first time in five years we've seen this" or the oven "the light goes out one in every ten thousand. We never see this!") Sure.

We have this thing less than two months, and a little on and off, and the compressor is shot. While I'm listening to "Steve" tell me why it's not working, and that I truly am "the first customer in four years to have this problem," he starts asking me what I do since he overheard a conversation with a producer from LA. I have no problem he eavesdropped. It's funny actually. I imagine myself being a repairman, listening to a woman in little o'ld Maple Valley talk about movie sets, and I'd wonder if a) she were talking to herself, making it up, b) she was on crack or c) if she really had someone live on the phone who knew what the 'hey' she was talking about.

Suffice it to say I satisfied his curiosity, and it got him to say something I hear all the time (and I mean, all the time). "I've always wanted to..." followed by, "it's been my life dream to..." ending with, "when I find the time..." You know where I'm going with this, and how the story is going to end. You may skip to the finish line now. If you are a new reader, and not familiar with my oh-so-mealy-mouse comments, I   politely listened, then hit him with the obvious.

"What's stopping you?" I asked. He responded ...time, the kids...etc. I looked at his sizable girth, and thought to myself, 'a little less football and pizza on Monday nights and you might realize your dream.' Smiling as I bit my lip, I then provided some motivation (scolding strangers does no good, fyi)...

"Try ten minutes a day," I suggested. "You can do anything for ten minutes a day." 

He shook his head. "That's tough." At that point, I had a visual of a man on a toilet. Some men stay on the toilet, reading a magazine for longer than 10 minutes (or so I've heard tale). 

Not to be deterred, I told him about my cousin, a woman with three kids, who, after getting tired of hearing herself whine about not accomplishing her goals, decided to accept my '10-minute challenge.' Every day, after she arrived home from work, she'd stay in her car for 10 minutes, writing down thoughts for her book. It was incredibly hard at first, she related, as her kids came out and opened the doors. She locked them. They yelled at her through the windows. She rolled them up. They pounded on the sides until she ignored them and they finally left. By the end of the first week, her kids were trained she needed 10 minutes. By the end of two weeks, she had the outine of her book completed. She is now three-quarters of the way through her first novel. All from 10 minutes a day.

That, my fair readers, is the result of determination (to write a book) and the discipline to sit for ten minutes, rain or shine, kids or no kids, and get the d--n thing done.

I'm proud of my cousin. I want to be proud of my heat pump repairman. Above all, I want to be proud of everyone that goes around sporting DDs. :)