What a difference a daze makes!

Amazingly, I got a tremendous amount accomplished on Sunday with my wonky toe and all. It's manifesting the colors of several varietal grapes. Meh. Maybe I'll put a picture up soon, but not today.

Anyhoo. I needed to rearrange 75% of the furniture to make things fit properly, so see that ginormous cabinet with the sliding glass doors in the background? Well, I managed to move it to its new place with the help of a single neighbor. In truth, he did most of the work, but it was surprisingly easy to shift across the smooth concrete floor. Yay! Concrete's not just a great surface for dog pee.

I spent some goodly bit of time disgorging the cabinet of its contents, and then re-filling it. This is where I keep my best cookware and serving pieces, as well as collectible glassware and da booze. I thought it had been several years since I'd turned on the Jetson's TV (panasonic Orbitel TR-005, circa 1969-ish), and I was wondering if it still works. Well, it does, but it had a much better picture when I use to watch Marshal Dillon on it every night at 2am. The sound is great, actually. The images are ghostly, though.

Check out those aerials, though-- methinks this little Martian has a Napoleon complex with those outrageously long antennae.

So, the first night she was here, doglet rolled and tumbled down the rather long staircase in the dark. Poor thing. I shoulda knowed my day was coming.

After the 14 steps down, there's a landing with 3 steps down to the concrete floor in my apartment.

So, um, I had an exhausting day Saturday speaking to tour groups outdoors for hours. It was really hot out, but at least there was a nice, dry breeze. Anyhoo, it was great to get home and into the A/C. I went upstairs and changed out of my sweaty clothes and kicked off my boots, leaving on my socks. Doglet was outside and yelping to be let back in, so I went downstairs in my sockfeet. (you know what's coming, right?) I let her in and she squirted past and down the 3 steps to the concrete floor, narrowly avoiding being stepped on by yours truly. Well, I didn't seat my foot squarely on the step, and it shot out from under me, making me fall onto the top of that foot on the next step and (I believe) breaking my middle toe. Yowch.

But wait! There's more!
So then I completed my trajectory down to the concrete floor, where I landed in a position which I think would defy the minds which crafted Yoga and Kama Sutra. I landed on my left hip and right knee simultaneously. I don't know how that's possible, and I think I couldn't get into that position again for any amount of money. I dunno, splits? In that instant of exquisite agony, my mind flashed "damn! what hurts worst?" Actually, that moment, the hip was the real kicker, followed closely by the knee and then the broken toe, which I thought might be several broken toes.

Anyway, it was terrible. I had to lay down and take a nap-- if I didn't move, things didn't seem to hurt so much. Now the worst is my knee, then the toe, and the hip doesn't hurt at all- nice when the padding does what it's sposta.

Anyway, there went my industrious Saturday night I'd planned, riding waves of domestic zeal and whatnot. Oh well, I'll clean and organize tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day, and it'll feel better then, right?

Right?

I think I already posted Naked Girl Falling Down the Stairs by the Cramps. I seem to remember feeling slightly embarrassed that Dad would see Lux Interior on my blog, even though he was on very good behaviour in that video, albeit in a red latex jumpsuit, patent leather pumps and a full complement of makeup.

At least I wasn't naked.

Saturday Music

Kind of sweet home-grown roadtrip video to Silently by Blonde Redhead

The View From My Perch

One day late and a dollar short, I wish the very best and happiest of birthdays to the ever-fetching Breda, who encourages my shoe-sickness by telling me that my footwear obsession is my duty, as I am taking one for the team. Well, for once I'll step up to the plate and be a team player.

Breda is smart, sexy, a kickass shooter and-- if I'm totally honest-- gives me girl wood.

Here's hoping the coming year is your best so far, honey!

I almost hesitate to write a post on this topic in part because it seems so obvious, but also because I'm amazed anyone would be incredulous of this subject. It seems some folks in Eunice Louisiana were amazed to find local fast food workers were spitting in the product they served to customers.

Am I a hardened cynic?
Am I irrational for believing that a whole lot of us have consumed additional, non-listed ingredients in fast food fare?

I honestly am careful not to complain about food in a restaurant until AFTER it's been served, and I never treat food service workers in a condescending manner-- I harbour no delusions about who is really in control of the transaction. Of course, I naturally tend to err on the side of politeness anyway, so I hope I haven't evoked the wrath of a vengeful, tubercular milkshake maven at Braum's, but who knows?

When I was about 9 or so, I remember seeing a scene from The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman on television. Now, this was the mid-70s, and in my household, I WAS the remote control, so that meant I noticed some crap on telly that would otherwise not have registered a whit with me. Flipping channels once, we watched a scene at the end of this movie. Miss JP is a freed former slave living in a mean hut, when a rich white lady happens by in her carriage one day and asks for a glass of water. Miss JP recognizes white lady as the young woman with whom she played as a child and who was also her friend through adolescence. Now the old white lady is condescending and just like all the rest of 'em, so as Miss JP turns to bring the glass of water to former friend, she hocks a loogie into it, and then savours the sight of white lady drinking it down.

I really wonder about people. There are a couple people whose drink I would be happy to spit in, pro bono, baby. People like Hitler, Pol Pot and such as that-- yeah, I might make that extra effort to make the experience special, but generally? To just regular folks? I really wonder what inspires people to be so very nasty?

Whatever is wrong with people who would do such a thing, that's one bug I'm glad I never caught.

Twiddling the knob on the radio Wednesday, I heard a commercial that sort of stuck in my craw.



I'd flipped onto a talk radio station, and there was a commercial for some sort of insurance which stated that apartment renters were something like 10 times more likely to have their homes burgled than single-family dwellings, and that insuring their possessions through the advertised company was a way to even the odds on this "unfair statistic."



Um, since when is it fair for anyone's home to be burgled? I mean, it's not as though there's some US recommended lifetime requirement that one's home be burgled 1.3 times. Misery loves company, I s'pose, and people like to know that if they have to endure horrid things, that at least these horrid things will happen to other people, too. *much eye-rolling here* This trucking with the notion of fairness in how the smackdown is meted out reeks of schoolyard-levels of reason and maturity, i.e., not very.



Come to that, the whole notion of insurance (and we can't live without it, can we?) is ridiculous, in fact. The idea that trading x hours' salary a month will protect you in case something crappy happens seems tremendously wrong-headed, to me.



I love Terry Pratchett's version of the in sewer ants polly sea in Discworld novels. It's treated with the very incredulity it deserves. If only we could shift gears and adopt so sensible an approach, but we never will-- we're besotted with the misleading vision of lala land and the need for impossibilities like fairness. And there will be a never-ending string of takers who will whisper pretty words and assurances of security in exchange for filthy lucre, and still, there will be no guarantees of positive outcome. How is that insurance?

Bad things will happen, no matter what. Grow up, already.

MSN.com headlines B.O. (stinky!) as exhibiting "Calm in the Swirl of History"

Quite.

A couple interior designer residents happened by my loft a week ago and said "no! no! no! no! no!" about where I had this bookcase. They told me it belonged on the landing of the staircase. Actually, the place I'd stuck it was just the default place, because it wouldn't fit upstairs in my bedroom, alas, and I didn't really give it a lot of thought after just sticking it one convenient place in a fit of disappointment.

I don't know what it is about certain musicians, but I adore Thom Yorke and I just can't peel into a new cd of his right away. Have to save it. Anyway, was feeling down and in the depths of crapitude Tuesday night so that became the moment to crack into In Rainbows, the new Radiohead cd. Great stuff for moments of industriousness, it turns out.

Buoyed by good music, I cleared out the little display case I had on the landing and emptied the bookshelf of books, and then went out and found two strapping young residents to shift the bookcase for me. It's not terribly heavy and I'm strong, so I could have lifted half of it, but I'm short enough that leverage can be an issue. Anyway, newly tidied, framed by the building's support structure and against the robin's egg blue wall, I think it's never looked better. Sometime when everything looks decent, I'll post photos taken with a better camera and at a better time of day for lighting.

Have a lovely Wednesday. I will. Tonight, shooty goodness with Holly, where I'll get to practice a bunch more with the Ruger Mark II, as well as a couple other .22 pistols. I'm planning to try to shoot in the steel plate matches the rest of the summer at my gun club.

*pow!* *pow!*

Doglet has a sheepskin in her basket. It'll do in a pinch, when a basket of dirty laundry is not available.

I've become convinced my dog is senile.
Anyone have any experience with old-age senility in a dog, and if so, have any of you had success treating your pet with anipryl? On Halloween, she'll be 17, and this from a breed with a life expectancy of 15. I just don't know what to expect, but if a medicine will help her be a little less loopy, that'd be nice. I miss her personality. :(

Doglet doesn't recognize people--even me. She sometimes gets confused and just stands and barks at a blank wall. And she seems spacey and disoriented a lot of the time. The good news is that she doesn't seem to be in any pain, but I'd like to see a glimmer of recognition again, and maybe just one little tail wag.

SALES 101
by Phlegmmy

One reason I think I'm excellent at sales is that I'm not a salesperson.

Yes, I know the product I'm offering and when prospective residents come to the property and I highlight what I think are the best features of the community and of the available spaces, but only up to a point. My strong inclination is that an intelligent prospect will of course recognize the inherent benefits of my property versus other possibilities on the market. If what is on offer is a thing of quality and as advertised, my feeling is no manipulation need be part of the process. Since I first happened into this business, I've had many people tell me I was the pivotal factor in their decision making process--that they felt my property was well and conscientiously managed, and I take this as a challenge and strive to excel that expectation. On that score, I think I do a damned good job. In fact, the higher standard to me is that I try to run my property the way I try to live my life: as it should be.

There is a lot of competition in the marketplace, and this is definitely a buyer's market. However, my community is small and there is only one like it, and my turnover is small and such limited availability is a very model of supply-and-demand economics.

Working in this industry has been a crash course in human behaviour. Some people are chatty and telegraph what they are thinking or simply blurt. Others still are more reticent and soak in the information, playing their thoughts close to their vest. Occasionally, I sense the instant a person decides my property is not what they are looking for. I always am cordial and politely yet efficiently wrap up the encounter, offering my best wishes in their search, and thanking them for considering my community.

Obviously, every person who happens to look at my property is not necessarily someone with whom I would want to deal with on a regular basis. One of the most vile people I know gave great lip service to "Customer for Life," a book by a much-ballyhooed luxury car sales magnate. I admit I own this book, and I disagree with some fundamental aspects of their sales philosophy. They seem to believe that one should make every sale at any cost and exhaust all resources to meet the most exacting demands of a client. I, however, believe that a sale which compromises my staff, the property owners and/or my other residents is not a sale worth making. No one says this publicly, but the fact is there are some folks so supremely unpleasant and inherently dishonest that you actually want them to take their business elsewhere. Life is too short to brook the foolishness of someone whose cap is bent on irrational demands and all taking and no giving.

I've had a space on the market for a bit, and it's really an adorable space. There's been a lot of buzz about this space, and several people seemed very interested. Last week a man came by and I could tell he knew this was the right space for him. He sized the rooms up, and mentally arranged his furniture. He asked politely about availability and if my make-ready schedule would work with his. He asked if anyone else had expressed interest, and I said honestly that I had two more appointments to show it later in the day. A person intent on sales at any cost would have chosen that moment to say "if you give me a check for your deposit, I'll hold this for you until you make up your mind." Instead, I said warmly "I think this is a great apartment and I hope you will keep us in mind as you make your final decision." He left and I was certain he'd be back, that he'd found his next home. I knew instinctively he would be a good resident, an asset to any community he chose, and I looked forward to seeing him again.

A full week passed and one morning I heard an eager, fresh voice on the phone of someone I'd shown the apartment to the day before. They excitedly stated they'd submitted their application online, had I reviewed it yet and did I require further information. I pulled the credit report immediately, processed their app fee and contacted their references. Everything went smoothly and this person was a shoo-in with impeccable credit and excellent rental history. I thought wistfully for a brief moment of the earlier guy who seemed perfect, and assumed I'd misread his interest, or that he'd decided not to move. There are thousands of reasons a person's prospects might change, so I dismissed him from my mind. About an hour after I called to congratulate the new tenant, the earlier guy called and announced that he'd finally made up his mind, that he would take the space-- he knew it was perfect for him and that he'd take it as soon as I could have it ready. I then had the odious task of telling him that his ideal, perfect space was no longer available, that he was mere hours too late.

Of course, I could have told him this when we first spoke. I could have said "this space may be available for two more months, or someone could rent it in five minutes." We are dealing with the unknown quantities of may, might and can. However, I know with absolute certainty that sooner or later, the space will rent, and it's important to me that the renter knows he made up his own mind, and that he was not pushed to make a hasty decision. If I managed a community with hundreds of cookie-cutter apartments rather than scores of unique units, then my approach might be different. My property, however, is singular - there is no other like it to be had.

I wonder about people who opt to live with forever salving the sting of missed opportunities. I believe in a marketplace rife with a dazzling array of artifice and shabbiness, one shouldn't have to trumpet the blindingly obvious. I believe if you offer something of quality and rarity, you shouldn't have to make a hard sell, and I simply refuse play such games. If this property is right for someone, it's right. If it's not, we can all be grownups and walk on. Telling people what’s best for them is not my job in life. Far be it from me to club a man over the head and drag him back to his own cave.

Imogen Heap works her magic on Holding Out For A Hero. Her new album is set for late this year. *YAYS*

****************
Nice weekend. Nary a one work-related phone call. *whew*

MISSION: POSSUMBLE

Consistency being the hobgoblin of small minds and all that, I retract what I said about possums in general to allow for my possum being the exception, and that perhaps there are one or two other adorable possums on the planet. My possum is cute. My possum came around after midnight and peered curiously at the light filtering through the blinds from my apartment. I pulled them back and it didn't ooch away or seem afraid, so I grabbed my phone and snapped a couple pics. I'd say this one's 2, mebbe 2.5 pounds. Ya know: fryer size. Anyhoo.

I leaned closer, my face a mere 8 or 10 inches from its head, and wondered why that chunk of dirt wouldn't fall off its nose. It seems to enjoy hanging around the pot with the pencil plant. More reports later, probably.

Aw, jeez.

At moments I have questioned the wisdom of living where I work and none more so than now. I just walked my dog late Saturday night, only to see a resident running out to his car sporting only a shirt, y-fronts and a sheepish grin.

There are some things of which I'd prefer to remain blissfully unaware.

Oh well.