Holiday Cheer & A Little More Work Shit Talkin'

First of all, whoever sent me this oven mitt here, is a genius. Could this be more perfect? I love it. When I opened it, I stared at it for a long time because 1). I have been on this girl's website before and I nearly bought something from her. In fact I had to think long and hard whether I had actually bought the mitt, like, a month or so ago and I was just receiving it? But I knew I hadn't. 2). It's so me. Thanks so much, Friend Sender. Reveal thyself!

Let's talk bikes for a second. I've been getting acquainted with Whitey Heidi. We're getting more and more comfortable with each other though it has certainly been a transition. That bike wants to fly. For all my friends who know that I'm old school, hell yes I'm wearing a helmet on Whitey. In fact, I get all geared up for her in fancy padded pants and snug long-sleeve jerseys. Oh and the clipped shoes. Every time I leave the house in my get-up I ask Husband, "Do I look like a total douche bag or just a little like one?" He says he thinks it's hot, but saying such things is in his marriage contract. Good on him. I've reported before that I don't feel vulnerable on Loops, my commute bike, but it's another story on Whitey. Cars notice you much less on a bike that cooks. You're more of a surprise, like, surprise! I'm going 20mph too! Also, the bike is so slight. That feels very vulnerable to me. I've been on the tentative side around a lot of cars, but in less busy areas I try to open her up and my heart rockets to my throat at what she can do. I realized I could climb a hill all day long, but I don't know how to go fast. I grew up commuting on bikes in cities my whole life and I've watched for doors, I've watched for eye contact with drivers, I've watched for cars backing up, pulling out, turning left, and I've watched my speed. Learning how to go fast on a quality bike will be my biggest learning curve.

I've been hit on a bike by cars twice in my life; once in junior high, once in high school. In junior high I was actually doored when a guy was peeping out a garage sale that he had parked for and he swung his door wide open right as I came by. The strain -- I let out a long, wind-sucking grunt -- kept me from flying over the door. I told the guy I was fine and shakily I went on my way as my front wheel wobbled around lopsidedly. In high school, a woman turned left into me as I rolled through the intersection. She braked pretty good almost in time and I was only knocked down. She was a mess. She threw my bike in the back of her convertible and frantically lectured me about how I needed to be aware for myself AND for drivers. She drove me the half mile more to school. I didn't tell her that she hadn't given me enough time to be aware for the both of us. I couldn't wait to get out of her car. My mother was pissed that I didn't get any money from her. So, yea, I'm more tentative on Whitey than I thought I'd be, but she and I are working that out.

The other thing I've learned on my rides is that the seat that came standard with Whitey is a motherfucker. Wow. I've unaffectionately named it the Pooty Killer. It ain't killing my booty. No. I think I've had bike booty for a long time, but the aggressive positioning of the road bike coupled with the steal rod they call a seat kills the pooty, y'all. Whoa. I just ordered the saddle pictured. The below photo will give you more indication why this should ease what ails me. Hello Female-Friendly Friend:

So, about work: Mitch and I do all the buying and selling for a huge account in Arizona. He works in-house at the client's office in AZ and I work the magic from Cali. Every year our Big Client holds a Holiday Cookie Off, and every year Mitch volunteers me to bake for it. He tells them, "Oh yea, we got this. We'll represent and kick all y'all's cookies' asses." And then he'll IM me on the side and say, "Right? Is that cool?" Hell yea, Mitch. We got this. This year I made some Rose Water Pistachio joints from Veganomicon and my own Gingerbread Creams. I tried to recreate a vegan oreo filling and sandwiched it with gingerbread cookies. To Die! I fed ex'ed them out on Tuesday and the Big Client's warehouse promptly lost the box on Wednesday. Sigh. I have visited the Big Client's warehouse before. It's 100,000 square feet. I'm not joking. They have programmed robot/tractor things to retrieve product from rows, off pallets. So, I guess cookies could get lost in there. I think the "ATTN: MITCH" part threw them off. Ooo, Mitch was hot over it. The running joke for the last few months has been the Big Client's warehouse. They lose our product all the time. They'll say, Nope, didn't get that order. And we'll say, Isn't that your signature on the fed ex website? Pissing match then ensues. But when they lost the cookies, that sent Mitch over the edge. It's one thing to lose the cables and screws and credit card swipers and other stupid shit we sell to them, but not the cookies. Come on, not the cookies, guys.

Out here in Cali, we had the company holiday lunch yesterday. The lunch was in lieu of the killer parties we've had in past years. It was still fun and a little wild. We just can't help ourselves because though the event was scaled down dramatically, they still opened the bar unlimitedly. That's all brokers need; a little gas for the tank. In fact, the filling up started at the office when one of the top sales guys gave the owners and other big shots each a bottle of Patron. After a couple shots at 10:30 in the morning, you couldn't keep one of the owners off the intercom. That's always fun. He sang a little, talked to individuals over the speakers, said some personal stuff about himself. Then called us all into the conference room. Lindz, Rob and I groaned. When we schlepped into the conference room, thirty paper cups were filled with two inches of Patron. The Intercom Owner handed me a cup and said, "Oh just drink up." I said, "Hell no." He laughed and gave me the smirk he always does. He loves my spunk, he's always telling me. I said, "Yea, spunk this." He laughed harder.

Margaritas were pounded at a record pace at the restaurant. Rob and I bet the over-under on how many drinks certain people would have at lunch. I bet over four, but four was the most consumed in the hour and a half. I hate losing a bet! One guy ordered a rum & coke and he was immediately interrogated as to why he didn't get a high-end Margarita. He said, "I'm just keeping it real," which is a ridiculous thing to hear from a 30 year old guy. Another broker yelled across the room, "Yea, real high school!" Oh we're a funny bunch. One sales guy asked a buyer what the word "arroz" was on the menu. He said, "What's this 'aarrr-zz'?" Oh my man, we fell over on that one. I said, "Hey, what do Spanish Pirates eat? AARRRR-zzz.!"

The drinks loosened the lips of many. The most damaging thing that was tossed out there like a moldy brick was the fact that one of the owner's hair-brained ideas was costing the company tons of money. One guy slurred to another, "Just take a guess at how much money we lost in this deal so far?" He was tapping the back of his hand on the other guy's arm, "JUST GUESS!" he yelled. I bet you didn't guess $800k. Because I surely didn't. Rob and I eyeballed each other from across the table and our lips curled up. "I didn't need to hear that," he said quietly. I said loud enough, "Well, that's where our party and bonus went. Great, thanks!" One of the guys involved in the deal yelled over, "Next year, we'll be taking you guys to Hawaii for Christmas! As soon as everything hits." "I've heard that before," I said. "Until then, you'll be riding on all of our backs as usual. Awesome!" They laughed. Oh, they love my spunk.

Then a flying napkin fight commenced which evolved into an intra-table sugar packet war. Good thing there was no music pumping over the speakers or table surfaces would've been cleared, and god knows what would've happened.

Sigh. I told Mitch this morning, as I tell Rob and Lindz all the time, I appreciate him and our partnership. The three of them are some of the finest folks I've ever worked with so that keeps me going. I also told Mitch that I've got nothing else on the horizon so I should just shut my damn mouth and remain thankful for what I have.

Happy Holidays almost!

Sales Meeting In the Conference Room, Guys

That's what my boss said to me and my co-sales people yesterday afternoon: "Yea, come on. Quick sales meeting. Impromptu." I looked at his hands. I said, "I don't see any pink slips, so I guess I'll be there." He smiled and turned on his heels.

We all shuffled around in our cubes for a minute, pushing our chairs in and out; looking for the lingering email. We contemplated aloud about bringing a pad and pencil. One guy said, "You always bring a pad and pen to a meeting, duh." Another guy said, "Whatever." I whispered to my girl Lindz, "Take paper so we can pass notes if we have to." All of this, the shuffling, the pushing, the asking, the procrastinating was fueled by a nervous energy. What'd we do, we were thinking. It's all coming to an end, isn't it, we worried. You pendejos have made one too many lame broker risks, haven't you? HAVEN'T YOU? I hadn't thought of any of this until the second he called for an impromptu sales meeting.

The conference room was a chill 65 degrees. We nervously complained about it the second we entered the room. We can't help ourselves. After we were settled into cush conference chairs that remind me of gorilla palms, the main boss started to blahblahblah about seizing business opportunities and yadiyadi this and yadiyadi that, and we patiently, dozily waded through the sales-speak waiting for the meat, waiting for the hammer. We fumbled with our pens and fingered the corners of our blank pads of paper. Some people scribbled on their pads, making no effort to hide a non-business related doodle. What'd we do, we thought.

Then, all of the sudden, he moseyed up to the meat. It turns out, we're kicking ass. We did our best month of the year in September. Our margins are fat, more crazy brokeriness is on the horizon. I realized then his voice was amped, which I hadn't noticed before. He was slapping flat fingers on the table, and pointing and fidgeting. He hadn't even brought his Blackberry to the meeting. He told us how scrappy and nose-to-the-grindstone we were. I flushed a little.

He told us that our company was safe. And this is when his monologue formed clarity and slowed down for me though he still spoke with earnest, rip-roaring excitement. He said financially we were strong, cash was good, credit was golden, references stellar. "It's scary in the world right now, but we are safe." I didn't know how important that was to hear until then. In that second, it became all important. I was pumped. I had heard two things you can't ever expect to hear because if you wait to hear them you slow down, you wallow, you're waiting on the wrong things. But when you do hear it, unexpectedly, when you hear that you're awesome and that you're safe, a surprising wind billows the sails. I felt an instant affection for my company and my boss and my coworkers, my own performance. This affection does come on suddenly and periodically for my job, my company, like a spike in hormones. This is certainly not the first time I've felt it.

My boss then went on to explain what he's got lined up in the far reaches of his business dream world. He's a straight creative hustler; he's an entrepreneurial eccentric. He's trying to pull business deals together that not in my wildest dreams would I think to do. The majority of this kind of stuff falls flat on its face, but he had already got me giddy so I was thinking, "Oh you so crazy. Go on with your bad self, you nutty broker you!" In my swirling appreciative fog, I believed he could achieve all outlandish shit.

We brokers play things cool. I have no clue if anyone else in the meeting was as gushy and pumped as I after the meeting. Usually we're mad cynical too, and though we look cool doing that -- cynically downplaying and snickering every deal but the one that actually sticks -- that cynicism is our excuse, our crutch. If the shit that we're flinging against the wall doesn't hold, we just KNEW our customer's higher ups wouldn't approve it, or that our vendors are greedy jerk offs screwing us out of our piece of the pie . . . That keeps us buoyant too, I have to admit. Keeps us dumping the last waste of energy and on to the next meaty deal. Keeps us rooting for truffles.

But today, I'm hopeful about my cubicle job, which I haven't been in a long while. I'm thankful, and I'm even willing to head up some of my boss’s substantial wild-hair projects. But he better land one of those quick before my whole mood goes broker-sideways. I got other shit on my plate too, doesn't he know?

My Friends Ask Me What I Do For a Living

During the heyday of my cubicle career, I was a dynamic semiconductor broker. Oh, I was a superstar. We BOUGHT, SOLD, BOUGHT, SOLD with wild abandoned. We squeezed every last drop of profit out of a deal until it looked vacuum-sealed. We begged for business, told customers we'd show up the last schlocky broker/cheat, then acted like all schlocky brokers by charging as much as we could and expected them to kiss our feet for doing so. We did get the customer chips when no one else could. Usually on time. When their trusty factories failed them, we brokers, no matter how slithering or beady-eyed, delivered product insuring that their manufacturing wouldn't screech to a halt. Most of the time we delivered, at least. Ok, sometimes we delivered unapproved replacements and counterfeits, but can't you use that Mr. Customer? Don't those work still? We strutted around like the best of the fat-cat brokers because we preached that semiconductors were golden. We were convinced that the progressive world was built with electronic chips, and we believed brokers would always be in high demand because of it.

That was eight years ago. We don't strut around so much any more. We slither still, but more humbly; those of us that are still around that is, those who didn't self destructed in a rock-star's pile of drugs or drink, or who didn't blow every cent of the lion's share made years ago. Well, we ALL squandered our money away. That's a broker's MO. We earn it with a fast, good hustle, and then spend it furiously like we'll win more prizes for the speed with which we spend. Most brokers don't lament all the material wealth lost -- boats and houses and bullshit -- because we always believe the next up-swing is just around the corner. In reality, my industry's success graph, during the 15 years I've been in it, looks like this: peak, down, peak, down, PEAK OF ALL MOTHERFUCKING PEAKS, down . . .and freeeeeeeeee ffaaaallllllll. The semiconductor market has been relatively dead since 2000.

I'm still a broker -- I think -- though I haven't slung a chip in a good two years. Need chips in this day and age? Even the sleaziest brokers now tip their hats to the humming counterfeiting operation going on in China. Some old-time brokers whine and complain about having our lucrative niche taken from us. But most of us are impressed by the ambitious and frankly better hustle achieved by counterfeiters. We're just mad we didn't think to invest our money into actual factories that produce near-exact replicas of chips. (DAMNIT!) Well played, China. Bravo.

So what do I broker then? I say that I sell computer equipment now. But that's so broad it's like saying I sell shells from the ocean. To be honest, I don't know what I'm selling. When the semiconductor market plummeted, the company I work for was smart enough to roll with the punches and shift to other types of product: Cables, screws, display screens, software licenses -- whatever a customer was willing to buy. In the beginning of the shift, I'd say things indignantly like, "You want me to find a thousand fasteners and washers?" I would try to tell the story of how I bought a couple million tantalum capacitors below market off a truck in Belgium just a few short years ago, but nobody wants to hear it anymore. No time to reminisce. We still have to turn a trick.

Now -- my last semiconductor buy a distant memory -- I'm not surprised by anything I'm asked to buy and sell anymore. We simply cater to what our big customers ask for and we humbly accept. We are so far removed from the fat-cat, big-shot days. We tap dance and say, "Yes, ma'am. I'd love to find you a cabinet to hold your server." "Oh? Mouse pads with scenic ocean scenes on them? You only want five units? Sure, sir."

I was pretty good at sourcing projector lamp bulbs a few months back. I've become known as a little bit of a scanner expert. I've sold a few Samsonite cases and quoted many lap top bags. Need 500 touchscreen styluses? I might have a good place. Batteries? Sure. Left-handed keyboards? Oh yea.


I bought a couple of these the other day. Cube doors. Is this really useful to somebody? I told a coworker that I was selling a cube door and he said, "What, so it can be enclosed like a rubik's cube?" I said, "Not a cube lid, just a door." He said, "That's stupid. Ok, gotta go sell a case of Magic Bullets right now." "The hand blender? You gotta be kidding?" He said, "Naw, I think I can make five points on the deal." Well, go get them then, Partner.

One of the guys at work brought in ten refurbished motorized scooters to sell. We were driving them around the halls of the office. Accounting bought a couple, the shipping department one. Three of his regular customers bought the rest. The salesguy changed the price to whatever he felt he could get from whomever was asking. We just can't help ourselves.





This product to the left, the steering wheel computer mount, I felt was morally irresponsible to quote. But then I found some that cost fifteen percent lower than what the customer wanted to pay. They would be sold into Wisconsin so I made a note to never drive there, and took the order. I suck.




The biggest irony of my broker prowess is that if you asked me to quote you the price of a homemade vegan cake, I'd stutter and fumble. Ask me how many of my completed stories I've submitted to literary magazines for publication and I'd blank out, intimidated by the business side of writing. A famous friend of Husband's asked me if I'd paint him a painting for his house -- for money -- and I shut down and avoided the request. I treat artistic endeavors so preciously that an exchange of money for them seems demeaning to the art. I want my creative things to sell themselves without me noticing; funds magically appearing in my account, rent paid. I know how to callously whore computer chips and equipment all day long, but that's the last thing I want to feel with the endeavors that mean the most. I suppose with that kind of thinking I'll be brokering any and all kinds of shit for the next 100 years. Magic Bullet anyone?