The Green Paper Lessons http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapers Debbie Fierst, an entrepreneur, shares valuable lessons for life, business and technology. en-us Mon, 12 May 2008 03:23:37 GMT Thu, 28 Dec 2006 21:13:03 GMT CF Blogger by DayDream Inc http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss debbie@logicalimagination.com debbie@logicalimagination.com The Making of a Resourceful Young Woman http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=3C0F8645-BCD4-2240-D40FF429A464DE4A

Soon I was offered a babysitting job in a nearby town -- forty hours per week for $2.00/hour to watch two young children. During the first week I established an easy, monotonous routine of diapers, naps, lunch, soap operas, walks around the block, and more naps. I was thrilled to be earning money, but I was incredibly miserable.


The following Monday, my mother called. "A woman just called about your ad," she said. "She owns a trucking company, and she wants you to call her about a summer job." My heart was pounding as I wrote down the number. Should I return the call? I wavered between my commitment to this family and my desire for an opportunity that wouldn't involve a rocking chair and Young and the Restless.


I returned the call. "Your ad leads me to believe that you're a resourceful young woman. Is that correct?" I had no idea what she meant. "Yes," I said. "Good. Then why don't you come in for an interview tomorrow?" My mind was racing. I didn't want to risk losing my babysitting job. "Well, I can't come until after 5:00. Is that OK?" She agreed, and we made an appointment for the next day.


The following day I had my first encounter with Pearl Barkman, owner of a trucking firm that hauled gravel in Grand Blanc, Michigan. I have no idea how old she was exactly, but I do know that she had grey hair and was old enough to collect social security checks. I once questioned why she always obscured her Cadillac behind the trucks on the lot, and a woman in the office told me that, technically, Mrs. Barkman wasn't supposed to be working while collecting her social security, so she needed to hide the car.


Anyway, Mrs. Barkman hired me to work as her Office Assistant for $2.50/hour, which I later realized was illegal since it was below minimum wage; however, it was far more than babysitting wages, so I was thrilled. Mr. Barkman, who seemed a good bit younger than Mrs. Barkman, handled the truckers, the hauling operations and the bidding, while Mrs. Barkman handled -- well, everything else.


Mrs. Barkman intimidated me. She had a sweet smile, but she had the personality of a bull fighter. Once, while completing a multi-part form using the typewriter, I made a mistake. I rolled up the form, used my liquid white-out to correct the error, and rolled the form back into position. Mrs. Barkman appeared out of nowhere, slammed her hands on the table and snarled, "When completing a multi-part form in a typewriter, do not EVER -- I repeat, EVER -- use white-out." She rolled the form out of the typewriter, flipped over the top copy and said, "See! Your top copy looks correct, but the error still exists on the other copies, which equates to legal problems!" She dramatically tore the form into tiny pieces. "Now do it correctly."


Mrs. Barkman scared me. She had the appearance of a frail, old Grandmother, but she had the presence of a heavyweight boxer. Once, a big, burly trucker came upstairs from the garage to argue about his paycheck. He didn't understand semi-monthly pay and believed his check was short by a few days. I listened as Mrs. Barkman explained it to him, but he wasn't satisfied. He started to yell and shake his fist. I watched as Mrs. Barkman went nose-to-nose with this man, backing him slowly against the wall as she explained it to him again with so much intensity that, even if the man still didn't understand, he was forced to yield. When he retreated to the garage, she turned around, pointed at me and said, "Sometimes explanations aren't enough."


Mrs. Barkman frustrated me. She wanted things to be perfect, yet she asked me to do things I had never done before. Once, she asked me to calculate the daily load tickets. Systematically, I removed a load ticket from the tall stack, entered the numbers into the large desk calculator, and hit the plus sign. I thought I was making great progress when -- WHAMO! Mrs. Barkman swooped down like a vulture, grabbed the stack and said, "You will not do this until you can use a ten-key by touch. Here is a list of numbers. When you can add them correctly without looking at that calculator, come and get me." I spent the next three days calculating numbers, cursing her name under my breath. "Mrs. Barkman," I finally said. "I think I've got it." I glared into her eyes, never diverting them as I calculated the entire list and then turned the calculator to show her the correct total. She handed me the stack of load tickets and said, "Now maybe you can do what you're supposed to do."


Mrs. Barkman pressured me. The first time the dispatcher was out sick, she sat me down in front of the radio. "There you go," she said. And then she walked away. This was the one task in the office that I never wanted to tackle. The truckers were mean and impatient. "874 to base," I heard. I was paralyzed with fear. "Dammit all, 874 to base! Cathy?" My hand was shaking as I pushed the button. "Ummmm. Cathy's out today," I whimpered. "Speak the fuck up!" he shouted. "Listen, I'm blocked on 69 with a 10-ton and no route." What the heck? My head was spinning. I ran into the other room. "Mrs. Barkman, I need your help." "No, you don't," she said, without looking up from her paper. "Truck 874 has run into a detour on I-69 on his way to Lansing. He has a 10-ton load, which means he wants to avoid weigh stations, and he needs you to get him there. The map is on the wall. Now go do it." I did it. And, by the end of my third summer with Mrs. Barkman, I cussed instructions into that radio without hesitation.


Mrs. Barkman mentored me. I didn't recognize it at the time. I didn't think I needed it at the time. I didn't appreciate it at the time. But now, as a small business owner, I realize that, in her own unique way, she was teaching me the myriad of critical skills that I would need to be successful in both life and business. Am I a resourceful young woman? Yes...thanks to you, Mrs. Barkman.]]>

Soon I was offered a babysitting job in a nearby town -- forty hours per week for $2.00/hour to watch two young children. During the first week I established an easy, monotonous routine of diapers, naps, lunch, soap operas, walks around the block, and more naps. I was thrilled to be earning money, but I was incredibly miserable.


The following Monday, my mother called. "A woman just called about your ad," she said. "She owns a trucking company, and she wants you to call her about a summer job." My heart was pounding as I wrote down the number. Should I return the call? I wavered between my commitment to this family and my desire for an opportunity that wouldn't involve a rocking chair and Young and the Restless.


I returned the call. "Your ad leads me to believe that you're a resourceful young woman. Is that correct?" I had no idea what she meant. "Yes," I said. "Good. Then why don't you come in for an interview tomorrow?" My mind was racing. I didn't want to risk losing my babysitting job. "Well, I can't come until after 5:00. Is that OK?" She agreed, and we made an appointment for the next day.


The following day I had my first encounter with Pearl Barkman, owner of a trucking firm that hauled gravel in Grand Blanc, Michigan. I have no idea how old she was exactly, but I do know that she had grey hair and was old enough to collect social security checks. I once questioned why she always obscured her Cadillac behind the trucks on the lot, and a woman in the office told me that, technically, Mrs. Barkman wasn't supposed to be working while collecting her social security, so she needed to hide the car.


Anyway, Mrs. Barkman hired me to work as her Office Assistant for $2.50/hour, which I later realized was illegal since it was below minimum wage; however, it was far more than babysitting wages, so I was thrilled. Mr. Barkman, who seemed a good bit younger than Mrs. Barkman, handled the truckers, the hauling operations and the bidding, while Mrs. Barkman handled -- well, everything else.


Mrs. Barkman intimidated me. She had a sweet smile, but she had the personality of a bull fighter. Once, while completing a multi-part form using the typewriter, I made a mistake. I rolled up the form, used my liquid white-out to correct the error, and rolled the form back into position. Mrs. Barkman appeared out of nowhere, slammed her hands on the table and snarled, "When completing a multi-part form in a typewriter, do not EVER -- I repeat, EVER -- use white-out." She rolled the form out of the typewriter, flipped over the top copy and said, "See! Your top copy looks correct, but the error still exists on the other copies, which equates to legal problems!" She dramatically tore the form into tiny pieces. "Now do it correctly."


Mrs. Barkman scared me. She had the appearance of a frail, old Grandmother, but she had the presence of a heavyweight boxer. Once, a big, burly trucker came upstairs from the garage to argue about his paycheck. He didn't understand semi-monthly pay and believed his check was short by a few days. I listened as Mrs. Barkman explained it to him, but he wasn't satisfied. He started to yell and shake his fist. I watched as Mrs. Barkman went nose-to-nose with this man, backing him slowly against the wall as she explained it to him again with so much intensity that, even if the man still didn't understand, he was forced to yield. When he retreated to the garage, she turned around, pointed at me and said, "Sometimes explanations aren't enough."


Mrs. Barkman frustrated me. She wanted things to be perfect, yet she asked me to do things I had never done before. Once, she asked me to calculate the daily load tickets. Systematically, I removed a load ticket from the tall stack, entered the numbers into the large desk calculator, and hit the plus sign. I thought I was making great progress when -- WHAMO! Mrs. Barkman swooped down like a vulture, grabbed the stack and said, "You will not do this until you can use a ten-key by touch. Here is a list of numbers. When you can add them correctly without looking at that calculator, come and get me." I spent the next three days calculating numbers, cursing her name under my breath. "Mrs. Barkman," I finally said. "I think I've got it." I glared into her eyes, never diverting them as I calculated the entire list and then turned the calculator to show her the correct total. She handed me the stack of load tickets and said, "Now maybe you can do what you're supposed to do."


Mrs. Barkman pressured me. The first time the dispatcher was out sick, she sat me down in front of the radio. "There you go," she said. And then she walked away. This was the one task in the office that I never wanted to tackle. The truckers were mean and impatient. "874 to base," I heard. I was paralyzed with fear. "Dammit all, 874 to base! Cathy?" My hand was shaking as I pushed the button. "Ummmm. Cathy's out today," I whimpered. "Speak the fuck up!" he shouted. "Listen, I'm blocked on 69 with a 10-ton and no route." What the heck? My head was spinning. I ran into the other room. "Mrs. Barkman, I need your help." "No, you don't," she said, without looking up from her paper. "Truck 874 has run into a detour on I-69 on his way to Lansing. He has a 10-ton load, which means he wants to avoid weigh stations, and he needs you to get him there. The map is on the wall. Now go do it." I did it. And, by the end of my third summer with Mrs. Barkman, I cussed instructions into that radio without hesitation.


Mrs. Barkman mentored me. I didn't recognize it at the time. I didn't think I needed it at the time. I didn't appreciate it at the time. But now, as a small business owner, I realize that, in her own unique way, she was teaching me the myriad of critical skills that I would need to be successful in both life and business. Am I a resourceful young woman? Yes...thanks to you, Mrs. Barkman. ]]> Business Thu, 28 Dec 2006 21:13:03 GMT http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=3C0F8645-BCD4-2240-D40FF429A464DE4A Just Some Minavelins http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=F5562D4B-BCD4-2240-DE6A1854FAB8185F

When I am concentrating, I can eliminate most of the slang, idiosyncratic phrases and regional accents out of my speech; however, when I am tired or relaxed or simply do not care what anyone around me thinks, I naturally produce the most mixed-up potion of verbal patter on the planet. Is it recognizable? Yes. But my veritable melting pot of jargon raises more than one eyebrow when I am speaking in a group.


A few months ago, I was standing in line at a bakery in Savannah, Georgia. I noticed a huge cinnamon roll in the case, so I turned to my colleague and said, "Jeeminy Christmas, will you look at the size of that thing?" The woman behind me grabbed my shoulders, spun me around, hugged me and said, "You're from the north! Oh, please say that again!" I was stunned. "Uh, say what?" I asked. "Jeeminy Christmas! I haven't heard that in so long, and it made me feel like I was back up north again."


As a fifteen-year-old I argued with people over minor language differences. I vehemently insisted that pop was a far superior reference to carbonated beverages than Coke, since Coke is a specific brand. "Pop," I insisted, "is non-specific and more inclusive." But, as an adult, I accept these quirky differences as part of the fabric of life. So, when a waitress in Atlanta asks for my drink order, and I say Coke, I now accept the fact that she will follow with the nonsensical question, "What kind?"


But, of all the crazy terms and references I have picked up like lint and incorporated into my vocabulary over the years, one word seems to baffle everyone: minavelins. In my childhood household, this word was used to reference the leftovers, or little pieces, of anything, but it was used most consistently to refer to food. For example, when all of the whole potato chips were eaten, only the minavelins remained in the bottom of the bag.


However, the word minavelins was not merely a reference to food. After cutting shapes out of paper and leaving the paper scraps on the table, my mother might say, "Clean up your minavelins." This is a very handy word to add to the arsenal of nouns because it encompasses so much. Why say "Clean up those little scraps of paper" or "Eat those tiny bits of potato chips left in the bottom of the bag" when, instead, you can summarize the subject of your statement with one simple word?


Unfortunately, nobody beyond my immediate family recognizes this word! The first time I used the term with my husband, I had just finished making chocolate chip cookies. I scraped the bulk of the dough out of the bowl, turned to him and asked, "Do you want to eat the minavelins?" He hesitated, examined the bowl and then said, "Huh?" I repeated, "Do you want to eat the minavelins?" He said, "I have no idea what you're talking about."


I explained the history of the word in my own life, and he simply said, "I'm sorry, but I really don't think that's a word." I insisted that it was, indeed, a word and countered with, "Isn't it possible, my dear, that this term never traveled into the frigid countryside of Minnesota where you were raised?" He challenged me to a dictionary duel. And, after much Googling and Webstering, I was forced to concede that the word minavelins (and every spelling variation thereof) was nowhere to be found. Yikes!


Official or not, minavelins remains a staple in my vocabulary. I mean, Jeeminy Christmas, do y'all think I'm gonna abandon such a convenient word just cause yer rantin' and ravin' about its authenticity? Not fer nothin', eh? I'd be up a creek without it, I'm tellin' ya!]]>

When I am concentrating, I can eliminate most of the slang, idiosyncratic phrases and regional accents out of my speech; however, when I am tired or relaxed or simply do not care what anyone around me thinks, I naturally produce the most mixed-up potion of verbal patter on the planet. Is it recognizable? Yes. But my veritable melting pot of jargon raises more than one eyebrow when I am speaking in a group.


A few months ago, I was standing in line at a bakery in Savannah, Georgia. I noticed a huge cinnamon roll in the case, so I turned to my colleague and said, "Jeeminy Christmas, will you look at the size of that thing?" The woman behind me grabbed my shoulders, spun me around, hugged me and said, "You're from the north! Oh, please say that again!" I was stunned. "Uh, say what?" I asked. "Jeeminy Christmas! I haven't heard that in so long, and it made me feel like I was back up north again."


As a fifteen-year-old I argued with people over minor language differences. I vehemently insisted that pop was a far superior reference to carbonated beverages than Coke, since Coke is a specific brand. "Pop," I insisted, "is non-specific and more inclusive." But, as an adult, I accept these quirky differences as part of the fabric of life. So, when a waitress in Atlanta asks for my drink order, and I say Coke, I now accept the fact that she will follow with the nonsensical question, "What kind?"


But, of all the crazy terms and references I have picked up like lint and incorporated into my vocabulary over the years, one word seems to baffle everyone: minavelins. In my childhood household, this word was used to reference the leftovers, or little pieces, of anything, but it was used most consistently to refer to food. For example, when all of the whole potato chips were eaten, only the minavelins remained in the bottom of the bag.


However, the word minavelins was not merely a reference to food. After cutting shapes out of paper and leaving the paper scraps on the table, my mother might say, "Clean up your minavelins." This is a very handy word to add to the arsenal of nouns because it encompasses so much. Why say "Clean up those little scraps of paper" or "Eat those tiny bits of potato chips left in the bottom of the bag" when, instead, you can summarize the subject of your statement with one simple word?


Unfortunately, nobody beyond my immediate family recognizes this word! The first time I used the term with my husband, I had just finished making chocolate chip cookies. I scraped the bulk of the dough out of the bowl, turned to him and asked, "Do you want to eat the minavelins?" He hesitated, examined the bowl and then said, "Huh?" I repeated, "Do you want to eat the minavelins?" He said, "I have no idea what you're talking about."


I explained the history of the word in my own life, and he simply said, "I'm sorry, but I really don't think that's a word." I insisted that it was, indeed, a word and countered with, "Isn't it possible, my dear, that this term never traveled into the frigid countryside of Minnesota where you were raised?" He challenged me to a dictionary duel. And, after much Googling and Webstering, I was forced to concede that the word minavelins (and every spelling variation thereof) was nowhere to be found. Yikes!


Official or not, minavelins remains a staple in my vocabulary. I mean, Jeeminy Christmas, do y'all think I'm gonna abandon such a convenient word just cause yer rantin' and ravin' about its authenticity? Not fer nothin', eh? I'd be up a creek without it, I'm tellin' ya! ]]> Life Sat, 23 Dec 2006 03:37:11 GMT http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=F5562D4B-BCD4-2240-DE6A1854FAB8185F The Golden Rule http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=413004CC-BCD4-2240-D2A910FF760D807E

This valuable principle first came to life for me on a felt board in a church basement. The Sunday school teacher pressed the cutout of Jesus into interactions with a Samaritan woman, a man with leprosy and then with Zacchaeus. She then challenged us to follow the Golden Rule for one week. As we closed the lesson with a rousing rendition of "Zacchaeus was a Wee Little Man", my head was swimming. I intended to return the following Sunday with an arsenal of impressive Golden Rule success stories.


Of course, times have changed, but in the 1970's, there were limited opportunities for six-year-olds to interact with Samaritan women or people with leprosy. And, by Thursday of that week, I hadn't found any short, distressed men in trees either. I began to panic. What would I tell my Sunday school teacher?


Lying in bed that evening, I prayed that Jesus would give me a way to use the Golden Rule. Suddenly, it hit me! If I am supposed to treat other people the way that I would like to be treated, then THEY should be treating ME the way THEY would like to be treated.


In those days, my parents ended the evenings by watching The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, and I always wanted to stay up late enough to watch it with them. In later years, my bedtime wasn't so rigid; however, at age six, I was supposed to be in bed and sleeping as Johnny swung his phantom golf club toward the band. But this particular Thursday night, I slid out of bed, sauntered down the hall in my long, yellow nightgown, and sat down on the couch in the living room.


"What are you doing out of bed?" my mom asked. I calmly explained that I wanted to watch Johnny Carson, too. My dad told me to go back to bed. I asked them if THEY wanted to watch Johnny Carson, and the response was, "It doesn't matter what we want to do. You need to be in bed." I persisted. "But if you want to watch The Tonight Show, then I should be allowed to watch it, too." They looked at me with furrowed brows. "If you do not go back to bed right now," my dad threatened, "then you're going to get spanked." Off I went. Clearly, my parents had no concept of the Golden Rule.


Over the years, my understanding of the Golden Rule matured, and I realized that opportunities to exercise this powerful principle are plentiful. While I now realize that it can be employed in nearly every human interaction, I still consider it one of the most complex and bewildering rules of life. Often, it raises more questions than it does answers.


How many times have I exercised the Golden Rule only to be met with contempt by the recipient? Apparently, they did not want done unto them what I would want done unto me! And how should I treat someone in those rare situations when I have no idea what I would want if the tables were turned? Furthermore, if the Golden Rule is so fantastic, why is it that the most valuable lessons in my life stem from moments when someone refuses to do unto me what they would have wanted me to do unto them? And what about tough love?


Just as life isn't as simple as the depictions on a felt board, the Golden Rule isn't as simple to implement as it is to quote. In reality, if you read the religious texts surrounding this maxim, no result is ever promised. It doesn't say, "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, and all will be well with the world" or "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, and your life will be easy." Apparently, we're supposed to learn from the process, not the result.]]>

This valuable principle first came to life for me on a felt board in a church basement. The Sunday school teacher pressed the cutout of Jesus into interactions with a Samaritan woman, a man with leprosy and then with Zacchaeus. She then challenged us to follow the Golden Rule for one week. As we closed the lesson with a rousing rendition of "Zacchaeus was a Wee Little Man", my head was swimming. I intended to return the following Sunday with an arsenal of impressive Golden Rule success stories.


Of course, times have changed, but in the 1970's, there were limited opportunities for six-year-olds to interact with Samaritan women or people with leprosy. And, by Thursday of that week, I hadn't found any short, distressed men in trees either. I began to panic. What would I tell my Sunday school teacher?


Lying in bed that evening, I prayed that Jesus would give me a way to use the Golden Rule. Suddenly, it hit me! If I am supposed to treat other people the way that I would like to be treated, then THEY should be treating ME the way THEY would like to be treated.


In those days, my parents ended the evenings by watching The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, and I always wanted to stay up late enough to watch it with them. In later years, my bedtime wasn't so rigid; however, at age six, I was supposed to be in bed and sleeping as Johnny swung his phantom golf club toward the band. But this particular Thursday night, I slid out of bed, sauntered down the hall in my long, yellow nightgown, and sat down on the couch in the living room.


"What are you doing out of bed?" my mom asked. I calmly explained that I wanted to watch Johnny Carson, too. My dad told me to go back to bed. I asked them if THEY wanted to watch Johnny Carson, and the response was, "It doesn't matter what we want to do. You need to be in bed." I persisted. "But if you want to watch The Tonight Show, then I should be allowed to watch it, too." They looked at me with furrowed brows. "If you do not go back to bed right now," my dad threatened, "then you're going to get spanked." Off I went. Clearly, my parents had no concept of the Golden Rule.


Over the years, my understanding of the Golden Rule matured, and I realized that opportunities to exercise this powerful principle are plentiful. While I now realize that it can be employed in nearly every human interaction, I still consider it one of the most complex and bewildering rules of life. Often, it raises more questions than it does answers.


How many times have I exercised the Golden Rule only to be met with contempt by the recipient? Apparently, they did not want done unto them what I would want done unto me! And how should I treat someone in those rare situations when I have no idea what I would want if the tables were turned? Furthermore, if the Golden Rule is so fantastic, why is it that the most valuable lessons in my life stem from moments when someone refuses to do unto me what they would have wanted me to do unto them? And what about tough love?


Just as life isn't as simple as the depictions on a felt board, the Golden Rule isn't as simple to implement as it is to quote. In reality, if you read the religious texts surrounding this maxim, no result is ever promised. It doesn't say, "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, and all will be well with the world" or "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, and your life will be easy." Apparently, we're supposed to learn from the process, not the result. ]]> Life Tue, 19 Dec 2006 04:03:52 GMT http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=413004CC-BCD4-2240-D2A910FF760D807E And the Award goes to . . . http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=12A72886-BCD4-2240-D0E957F47F092864

Periodically, I pass through an area of the country that reminds me of eastern Michigan. A strange combination of comfortable familiarity, mental paralysis and deep depression washes over me like an insidious poison, and I want to withdraw into a fetal position.


You have a nagging desire to experience this sensation?
On a cold, snowy night when you don't want to be outside, put on your most comfortable pair of sweat pants and fuzzy slippers along with a heavy wool sweater. Run three laps around your house. Then, as you itch uncomfortably in that wool sweater, fix your favorite meal, sink into a comfortable chair and pop in a DVD of the 1989 sensation Roger & Me. As the drama unfolds, drink just enough alcohol to make Michael Moore appear thin. That should do it.


At the conclusion of the film, the wool sweater will be driving you insane. Yank it over your head and throw it across the room. Run outside and let the cool air comfort your irritated skin. At that point, my friend, you will experience the incredible sense of relief I felt the day that I stripped eastern Michigan from my life.


During one scene of Roger and Me, Michael Moore attempts to interview executives through the window of one of the plants scheduled to close. The GM representative comes to the window, refuses to talk to him and has him escorted to the sidewalk. That exact plant was the exciting destination of multiple field trips in my early school years.


What a treat! We had the special opportunity to "tour" one of the automotive shops. Don't recognize that term? In eastern Michigan they are called shops, not factories or plants. In fact, when my first grade teacher asked the class what each of us wanted to do when we grew up, the stock answer was "I'm gonna work in the shop with my dad."


When I dramatically gestured as if I were running in place and said, "I'm gonna be a world famous writer and die while jogging in Central Park at age 99," I was met with blank stares. The first time it happened, I sat down, slouched in my chair, and vowed to never share myself with these people again. But, the more I sat and stewed, the more I wanted to show them that I was different.


Anyway, on the first field trip to a shop, I hated it. The fumes and noise made me physically sick, so the teacher had me sit in the bus with the driver. He sat quietly, his forehead vibrating against the large steering wheel as the engine idled. He seemed so sad, but my young mind didn't know what to do. Having been raised in an Assembly of God church, I was certain that I had a moral responsibility to interject myself into his life.


I tapped him on the shoulder. He sat up with a start. "You and me are the lucky ones today, did you know that?" I announced. He raised his eyebrows and asked, "Is that right?" "Yep," I said. "We don't have to be in THERE." I pointed to the plant. Then, in true charismatic fashion, I stood on the bus seat, raised my hands in the air and shouted "Yeeeeeeaaaah Us!" The driver laughed and laughed; in fact, he was still laughing when I waved good-bye and exited the bus at the school.


Over the years I learned how to cope with everything from emotionally bankrupt adults to classmates with blank stares. My self-cheering, self-applauding and self-encouraging skills increased, and, to this day, if I need some encouragement, I often clap for myself. Sometimes, I cup my hands around my mouth and make crowd noises. But, if I really need to feel better, I remember that I no longer live in eastern Michigan. I stand on a chair, raise my hands in the air and shout "Yeeeeeeaaaah Me!"]]>

Periodically, I pass through an area of the country that reminds me of eastern Michigan. A strange combination of comfortable familiarity, mental paralysis and deep depression washes over me like an insidious poison, and I want to withdraw into a fetal position.


You have a nagging desire to experience this sensation?
On a cold, snowy night when you don't want to be outside, put on your most comfortable pair of sweat pants and fuzzy slippers along with a heavy wool sweater. Run three laps around your house. Then, as you itch uncomfortably in that wool sweater, fix your favorite meal, sink into a comfortable chair and pop in a DVD of the 1989 sensation Roger & Me. As the drama unfolds, drink just enough alcohol to make Michael Moore appear thin. That should do it.


At the conclusion of the film, the wool sweater will be driving you insane. Yank it over your head and throw it across the room. Run outside and let the cool air comfort your irritated skin. At that point, my friend, you will experience the incredible sense of relief I felt the day that I stripped eastern Michigan from my life.


During one scene of Roger and Me, Michael Moore attempts to interview executives through the window of one of the plants scheduled to close. The GM representative comes to the window, refuses to talk to him and has him escorted to the sidewalk. That exact plant was the exciting destination of multiple field trips in my early school years.


What a treat! We had the special opportunity to "tour" one of the automotive shops. Don't recognize that term? In eastern Michigan they are called shops, not factories or plants. In fact, when my first grade teacher asked the class what each of us wanted to do when we grew up, the stock answer was "I'm gonna work in the shop with my dad."


When I dramatically gestured as if I were running in place and said, "I'm gonna be a world famous writer and die while jogging in Central Park at age 99," I was met with blank stares. The first time it happened, I sat down, slouched in my chair, and vowed to never share myself with these people again. But, the more I sat and stewed, the more I wanted to show them that I was different.


Anyway, on the first field trip to a shop, I hated it. The fumes and noise made me physically sick, so the teacher had me sit in the bus with the driver. He sat quietly, his forehead vibrating against the large steering wheel as the engine idled. He seemed so sad, but my young mind didn't know what to do. Having been raised in an Assembly of God church, I was certain that I had a moral responsibility to interject myself into his life.


I tapped him on the shoulder. He sat up with a start. "You and me are the lucky ones today, did you know that?" I announced. He raised his eyebrows and asked, "Is that right?" "Yep," I said. "We don't have to be in THERE." I pointed to the plant. Then, in true charismatic fashion, I stood on the bus seat, raised my hands in the air and shouted "Yeeeeeeaaaah Us!" The driver laughed and laughed; in fact, he was still laughing when I waved good-bye and exited the bus at the school.


Over the years I learned how to cope with everything from emotionally bankrupt adults to classmates with blank stares. My self-cheering, self-applauding and self-encouraging skills increased, and, to this day, if I need some encouragement, I often clap for myself. Sometimes, I cup my hands around my mouth and make crowd noises. But, if I really need to feel better, I remember that I no longer live in eastern Michigan. I stand on a chair, raise my hands in the air and shout "Yeeeeeeaaaah Me!" ]]> Life Sun, 10 Dec 2006 03:11:50 GMT http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=12A72886-BCD4-2240-D0E957F47F092864 The Midas Touch http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=D9E27C67-BCD4-2240-D10D4D243AA0E30B

The biggest mystery by far is how children born to the same parents and raised in the same household can be so incredibly dissimilar. I watched several sets of brothers and sisters, all under the age of thirteen, interact over the holiday, and they were already distinctly different. After listening to them and watching them play, I can predict their various futures with a certain level of confidence. Of course, many factors will influence them as they age, but their core qualities are fixed forever.


I thought back to my own childhood. Have I changed significantly over the years? Not really. Sure, I have softened some of my sharp edges, trimmed back undesirable behavior, and expanded my comfort zone -- all of the things that allow me to function within the acceptable norms of society. My basic personality traits and natural tendencies, however, haven't changed much since I was born.


I am convinced that all of us pass through three stages in life. In the first stage we are purely and wonderfully ourselves, and the people around us love and accept our individuality. My niece is in this stage right now. While sitting on my lap, she reached out, touched my upper lip and said, "You have too much hair on your lip, Aunt Debbie. You look like you have a moustache." At age five, such observations are considered precocious, perceptive and cute.


During the second stage of life, we learn, sometimes painfully, that people around us will not tolerate such vivid and honest observations. The average woman won't like to hear about her hairy upper lip, and there are consequences for saying out loud the thoughts that pass through our heads. Thus, we install special mufflers that filter out our offensive observations and give us an acceptable "sound" to the rest of the world.


Amazingly, during the third stage of life, the mufflers that were so carefully installed during the second stage appear to get rusty; in some cases, they fall off completely. My grandmother, who is ninety-three, just had bypass surgery, a heart valve replacement and a pacemaker. She is recovering nicely, but she doesn't have much energy. She sat in her chair over the holiday and listened as the rest of us discussed everything from the price of gasoline to the best way to cure diarrhea.


Occasionally, she would interject with a comment. She informed us, bluntly and boldly, that the spaghetti was horrible. She pointed out which of the children needed to be "cracked" for not showing respect to their elders. She even compared her recent stay in a nursing home to being in prison. And, for those of you needing to prepare, she confirmed that the world would be coming to an end next September. Her muffler is long gone, but we still love her.
]]>

The biggest mystery by far is how children born to the same parents and raised in the same household can be so incredibly dissimilar. I watched several sets of brothers and sisters, all under the age of thirteen, interact over the holiday, and they were already distinctly different. After listening to them and watching them play, I can predict their various futures with a certain level of confidence. Of course, many factors will influence them as they age, but their core qualities are fixed forever.


I thought back to my own childhood. Have I changed significantly over the years? Not really. Sure, I have softened some of my sharp edges, trimmed back undesirable behavior, and expanded my comfort zone -- all of the things that allow me to function within the acceptable norms of society. My basic personality traits and natural tendencies, however, haven't changed much since I was born.


I am convinced that all of us pass through three stages in life. In the first stage we are purely and wonderfully ourselves, and the people around us love and accept our individuality. My niece is in this stage right now. While sitting on my lap, she reached out, touched my upper lip and said, "You have too much hair on your lip, Aunt Debbie. You look like you have a moustache." At age five, such observations are considered precocious, perceptive and cute.


During the second stage of life, we learn, sometimes painfully, that people around us will not tolerate such vivid and honest observations. The average woman won't like to hear about her hairy upper lip, and there are consequences for saying out loud the thoughts that pass through our heads. Thus, we install special mufflers that filter out our offensive observations and give us an acceptable "sound" to the rest of the world.


Amazingly, during the third stage of life, the mufflers that were so carefully installed during the second stage appear to get rusty; in some cases, they fall off completely. My grandmother, who is ninety-three, just had bypass surgery, a heart valve replacement and a pacemaker. She is recovering nicely, but she doesn't have much energy. She sat in her chair over the holiday and listened as the rest of us discussed everything from the price of gasoline to the best way to cure diarrhea.


Occasionally, she would interject with a comment. She informed us, bluntly and boldly, that the spaghetti was horrible. She pointed out which of the children needed to be "cracked" for not showing respect to their elders. She even compared her recent stay in a nursing home to being in prison. And, for those of you needing to prepare, she confirmed that the world would be coming to an end next September. Her muffler is long gone, but we still love her.
]]> Life Wed, 29 Nov 2006 02:38:17 GMT http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=D9E27C67-BCD4-2240-D10D4D243AA0E30B Life with Copy and Paste http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=C3E2A37D-BCD4-2240-D4C9A20F0C579D13

Life with copy and paste? As soon as my neighbor mows his yard, I would copy his manicured grass and paste it over my own yard. Why should all of us sweat on a hot summer day? And, after Paula Deen prepares a fabulous meal on television, I would copy the delectable spread and paste it onto my plate. Dinner is served! And, finally, I would shave one area of my legs, copy the silky skin and paste it in all the right places. I could even paste it on my husband's face, making it instantly smooth!


Life with cut and paste? After my dog finishes with her "business", I would cut the pile from its current location and paste it into the trash. No mess, no fuss. Trash needs to go out? Easily done! I will cut it from the various cans around the house and paste it into the large collection bin at the curb. Better yet, I will simply paste it into the dump. No need for garbage collectors anymore.


I realized that the possibilities were endless as my mind experimented with the concept of cutting and pasting. The next time I have to speak or teach in another city, I will simply cut myself from my home and paste myself on the job. No more airports, no more traffic. The feature would be purely functional, not as exciting as the transporter on Star Trek, but it could be sold in a two-pack along with Undo.


And then it struck me. Pasting is not a requirement in the cut and paste process! So, the next time I say something I regret, I would simply cut it. No need to paste that kind of error. I would go back to each of the big mistakes that I have made in the past, systematically cutting them out of my life and pasting them nowhere.


Can you imagine it? Our lives could be like the finished copy of a word processing document. There would be no visual indication that we rearranged it fifty times, cut out entire segments, or copied and edited dozens of key areas. We could ensure absolute perfection!


The car lurched as my husband pulled into the bumpy parking lot of our destination, jolting me into reality. He turned off the car, leaned over, and kissed me. As his scratchy whiskers brushed against my face, I smiled. Life without copy and paste is already perfect.
]]>

Life with copy and paste? As soon as my neighbor mows his yard, I would copy his manicured grass and paste it over my own yard. Why should all of us sweat on a hot summer day? And, after Paula Deen prepares a fabulous meal on television, I would copy the delectable spread and paste it onto my plate. Dinner is served! And, finally, I would shave one area of my legs, copy the silky skin and paste it in all the right places. I could even paste it on my husband's face, making it instantly smooth!


Life with cut and paste? After my dog finishes with her "business", I would cut the pile from its current location and paste it into the trash. No mess, no fuss. Trash needs to go out? Easily done! I will cut it from the various cans around the house and paste it into the large collection bin at the curb. Better yet, I will simply paste it into the dump. No need for garbage collectors anymore.


I realized that the possibilities were endless as my mind experimented with the concept of cutting and pasting. The next time I have to speak or teach in another city, I will simply cut myself from my home and paste myself on the job. No more airports, no more traffic. The feature would be purely functional, not as exciting as the transporter on Star Trek, but it could be sold in a two-pack along with Undo.


And then it struck me. Pasting is not a requirement in the cut and paste process! So, the next time I say something I regret, I would simply cut it. No need to paste that kind of error. I would go back to each of the big mistakes that I have made in the past, systematically cutting them out of my life and pasting them nowhere.


Can you imagine it? Our lives could be like the finished copy of a word processing document. There would be no visual indication that we rearranged it fifty times, cut out entire segments, or copied and edited dozens of key areas. We could ensure absolute perfection!


The car lurched as my husband pulled into the bumpy parking lot of our destination, jolting me into reality. He turned off the car, leaned over, and kissed me. As his scratchy whiskers brushed against my face, I smiled. Life without copy and paste is already perfect.
]]> Technology Fri, 24 Nov 2006 20:06:48 GMT http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=C3E2A37D-BCD4-2240-D4C9A20F0C579D13 On Half-Yards and Sloths http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=B03A9EE9-BCD4-2240-DC2FF8D150FFCA3A

In the late 90's, the technology training industry was still booming, and I needed another full-time instructor. I placed an ad in several local papers, and I received dozens of resumes. One of the most intriguing candidates, a woman who worked for a competitor, lived nearly two hours away but expressed a willingness to relocate. After an impressive phone interview, I arranged to meet her at a restaurant for a face-to-face interview.


The dinner interview was scheduled for 5:30pm, so I arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early. At 5:45pm, the candidate arrived. Late. Strike one. She apologized for being late and explained that she had to pick up her baby from the babysitter. "No problem," I said. "Good", she replied. "I'm just going to run out to the car and bring her in." She flew out the door, returning a few moments later carrying her young baby in a carrier.


The hostess seated us, and the candidate set the baby carrier on the table next to us. As the baby slept, we chatted cordially and surveyed the menus. Initially, I was impressed with her demeanor and communication skills, and when the waitress asked for our orders, I deferred to the candidate. She proceeded to order an appetizer, a meal -- and a half-yard of beer! I chuckled as she said it, thinking she would turn and say, "Just kidding. Give me a lemonade." Nope. Strike two.


I proceeded to interview the candidate, who answered my questions with ease as she sipped her half-yard. Unfortunately, after the meals arrived, the baby began to whimper and fuss. As quickly as she had whisked the baby into the restaurant, the candidate whisked her out of the carrier. She then opened her suit jacket and began to breastfeed the infant. Waiters dropped entire trays of food as they caught sight of this woman with no blanket and no privacy, breastfeeding her infant while drinking her half-yard of beer and interviewing for a new job. Strike three. You're out.


Amazingly, another candidate stands out in my mind even more vividly. I was hiring a new graphic artist, and I had received a resume from a young man who worked behind the bar at a nearby restaurant. He always seemed amiable, and I heard from several people in town that he was talented. So, I scheduled an interview in my office.


When the young man appeared for the interview, he was dressed in nice clothing, but everything was sloppy. The shirt was only partially tucked, the tie was loosened, and his shoes were dirty and scuffed. None of these issues were deal breakers, but they were worthy of noting. Duly noted. I sat down at my desk and offered him a seat across from me. He proceeded to sit down, slouching down in the chair as if he were about to nap. Not impressive. Strike one.


I asked to see his portfolio, which included samples of his original artwork. He displayed some impressive projects, and he was clearly an artist with potential. Unlike my breastfeeding candidate, he was not conversational. I had to work to get his thoughts on life, work and the position at hand, so I presented him with some open-ended questions. "What do you like the most about your current job?" I asked. He offered a bland, automated response. I said, "Well, what do you like least?"


The young man's eyes got big, and he sat upright in the chair. "I'll tell you what I don't like," he said passionately. "I'm supposed to get the bar setup by 11:30, right? So, the entire time I'm trying to work, people keep calling on the phone, asking what the lunch special is for the day. It drives me crazy. Sometimes I just leave the phone off the hook so that I can get my job done." Ummm. Strike two. But at least he was sitting upright now.


I asked him one more question. "If I were to ask your friends to compare you to an animal, what animal would they tell me most represents your personality?" He slouched back down into the chair. Obviously, this was his optimal thinking position. He scratched his head, rubbed his chin, and squinted his eyes. A few minutes passed before he sat back up, pointed at me and said, "A sloth." I pondered this answer for a moment. "A sloth?" I questioned. "Yep. Overall, I'm pretty lazy. Given my choice, I'd prefer to sleep all day. So, yes, they would say I'm most like a sloth." Strike three. You're out.


We sometimes see a fool possessed of talent, but never of judgment.
-- Francois Duc de la Rochefoucauld


]]>

In the late 90's, the technology training industry was still booming, and I needed another full-time instructor. I placed an ad in several local papers, and I received dozens of resumes. One of the most intriguing candidates, a woman who worked for a competitor, lived nearly two hours away but expressed a willingness to relocate. After an impressive phone interview, I arranged to meet her at a restaurant for a face-to-face interview.


The dinner interview was scheduled for 5:30pm, so I arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early. At 5:45pm, the candidate arrived. Late. Strike one. She apologized for being late and explained that she had to pick up her baby from the babysitter. "No problem," I said. "Good", she replied. "I'm just going to run out to the car and bring her in." She flew out the door, returning a few moments later carrying her young baby in a carrier.


The hostess seated us, and the candidate set the baby carrier on the table next to us. As the baby slept, we chatted cordially and surveyed the menus. Initially, I was impressed with her demeanor and communication skills, and when the waitress asked for our orders, I deferred to the candidate. She proceeded to order an appetizer, a meal -- and a half-yard of beer! I chuckled as she said it, thinking she would turn and say, "Just kidding. Give me a lemonade." Nope. Strike two.


I proceeded to interview the candidate, who answered my questions with ease as she sipped her half-yard. Unfortunately, after the meals arrived, the baby began to whimper and fuss. As quickly as she had whisked the baby into the restaurant, the candidate whisked her out of the carrier. She then opened her suit jacket and began to breastfeed the infant. Waiters dropped entire trays of food as they caught sight of this woman with no blanket and no privacy, breastfeeding her infant while drinking her half-yard of beer and interviewing for a new job. Strike three. You're out.


Amazingly, another candidate stands out in my mind even more vividly. I was hiring a new graphic artist, and I had received a resume from a young man who worked behind the bar at a nearby restaurant. He always seemed amiable, and I heard from several people in town that he was talented. So, I scheduled an interview in my office.


When the young man appeared for the interview, he was dressed in nice clothing, but everything was sloppy. The shirt was only partially tucked, the tie was loosened, and his shoes were dirty and scuffed. None of these issues were deal breakers, but they were worthy of noting. Duly noted. I sat down at my desk and offered him a seat across from me. He proceeded to sit down, slouching down in the chair as if he were about to nap. Not impressive. Strike one.


I asked to see his portfolio, which included samples of his original artwork. He displayed some impressive projects, and he was clearly an artist with potential. Unlike my breastfeeding candidate, he was not conversational. I had to work to get his thoughts on life, work and the position at hand, so I presented him with some open-ended questions. "What do you like the most about your current job?" I asked. He offered a bland, automated response. I said, "Well, what do you like least?"


The young man's eyes got big, and he sat upright in the chair. "I'll tell you what I don't like," he said passionately. "I'm supposed to get the bar setup by 11:30, right? So, the entire time I'm trying to work, people keep calling on the phone, asking what the lunch special is for the day. It drives me crazy. Sometimes I just leave the phone off the hook so that I can get my job done." Ummm. Strike two. But at least he was sitting upright now.


I asked him one more question. "If I were to ask your friends to compare you to an animal, what animal would they tell me most represents your personality?" He slouched back down into the chair. Obviously, this was his optimal thinking position. He scratched his head, rubbed his chin, and squinted his eyes. A few minutes passed before he sat back up, pointed at me and said, "A sloth." I pondered this answer for a moment. "A sloth?" I questioned. "Yep. Overall, I'm pretty lazy. Given my choice, I'd prefer to sleep all day. So, yes, they would say I'm most like a sloth." Strike three. You're out.


We sometimes see a fool possessed of talent, but never of judgment.
-- Francois Duc de la Rochefoucauld


]]> Business Tue, 21 Nov 2006 00:30:30 GMT http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=B03A9EE9-BCD4-2240-DC2FF8D150FFCA3A As the Pendulum Swings http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=80348A21-BCD4-2240-DF4C1ED484CAD9BE

I offered my clients valuable advice, too. "Trust me. You don't want to upgrade to Windows. We aren't sure whether or not it's going to make it in the market, and DOS isn't going anywhere." And I made important assurances. "Absolutely. You'll never need more than 4MB of RAM on any of your systems." I am thankful that the World Wide Web was a mere twinkle in Al Gore's eye at that point, or my foolish guidance would still live in infamy in articles and discussion forums!


As the years passed, I was fortunate enough to experience the Dot Com boom. My training facilities were filled with students who had never used a mouse, and my staff trained thousands of users to utilize Windows. I watched as the world transitioned from WordPerfect to Word, from VisiCalc to Lotus, from Lotus to Excel, from standalone PC's to networks. And, of course, the Internet transformed everything.


The price for technology services during the mid to late 1990's was inflated beyond reason. Money was flowing, and the demand for anything related to technology was incredibly high, so technology firms could garner elevated rates for everything from training to software development. Admittedly, the price pendulum needed to swing back to a reasonable point. But what is reasonable?


We might learn the answer to this question by examining the dozens of websites on which potential customers post their technology projects in order to accept bids from programmers, developers, and artists -- virtually anyone willing to compete for the work. Here is an example of one recent project (posted here in its entirety, with no editing) for which the maximum bid that will be accepted is $500:


Accounting Software 99.9% like Peachtree

"Me and other programmers are developing a insurance software and well we need an acounting package to be part of it, it needs to be on VB 6.0 and use ms access to inplement Crystal reports. The thing is that I need someone to know Accounting very well and well know a little of insurace. It has to be very very close of Peachtree Acounting, I have the digns or the style of how I want it to be, which fonts, with colors etc, but the funcionability I want it basically like that. The programmer most be serious and need to know very very well accounting please. Other works will be posting soon. If you dont have peachtree acounting well I think it can be donloaded over the inteet a full demo or anything."


Luckily for those of us needing a good accounting package, there are currently five legitimate bidders! And, surely we can rest in the knowledge that the winner of this bid will be a dynamic, experienced VB programmer, highly knowledgeable about the accounting, tax and reporting needs of today's insurance industry. The winner will, no doubt, be a solitary programmer. Who needs the distractions of a team for such a small development project? And, to be truly competitive, he or she will offer a firm quote of $485, sealing the deal with a willingness to say good-bye to that extra $15.


Should I alert the folks over at Sage Software that the product they've been perfecting for years, Peachtree Accounting, is in danger of extinction? Or should I safely assume that the price pendulum in the technology industry hasn't swung back that far yet?]]>

I offered my clients valuable advice, too. "Trust me. You don't want to upgrade to Windows. We aren't sure whether or not it's going to make it in the market, and DOS isn't going anywhere." And I made important assurances. "Absolutely. You'll never need more than 4MB of RAM on any of your systems." I am thankful that the World Wide Web was a mere twinkle in Al Gore's eye at that point, or my foolish guidance would still live in infamy in articles and discussion forums!


As the years passed, I was fortunate enough to experience the Dot Com boom. My training facilities were filled with students who had never used a mouse, and my staff trained thousands of users to utilize Windows. I watched as the world transitioned from WordPerfect to Word, from VisiCalc to Lotus, from Lotus to Excel, from standalone PC's to networks. And, of course, the Internet transformed everything.


The price for technology services during the mid to late 1990's was inflated beyond reason. Money was flowing, and the demand for anything related to technology was incredibly high, so technology firms could garner elevated rates for everything from training to software development. Admittedly, the price pendulum needed to swing back to a reasonable point. But what is reasonable?


We might learn the answer to this question by examining the dozens of websites on which potential customers post their technology projects in order to accept bids from programmers, developers, and artists -- virtually anyone willing to compete for the work. Here is an example of one recent project (posted here in its entirety, with no editing) for which the maximum bid that will be accepted is $500:


Accounting Software 99.9% like Peachtree

"Me and other programmers are developing a insurance software and well we need an acounting package to be part of it, it needs to be on VB 6.0 and use ms access to inplement Crystal reports. The thing is that I need someone to know Accounting very well and well know a little of insurace. It has to be very very close of Peachtree Acounting, I have the digns or the style of how I want it to be, which fonts, with colors etc, but the funcionability I want it basically like that. The programmer most be serious and need to know very very well accounting please. Other works will be posting soon. If you dont have peachtree acounting well I think it can be donloaded over the inteet a full demo or anything."


Luckily for those of us needing a good accounting package, there are currently five legitimate bidders! And, surely we can rest in the knowledge that the winner of this bid will be a dynamic, experienced VB programmer, highly knowledgeable about the accounting, tax and reporting needs of today's insurance industry. The winner will, no doubt, be a solitary programmer. Who needs the distractions of a team for such a small development project? And, to be truly competitive, he or she will offer a firm quote of $485, sealing the deal with a willingness to say good-bye to that extra $15.


Should I alert the folks over at Sage Software that the product they've been perfecting for years, Peachtree Accounting, is in danger of extinction? Or should I safely assume that the price pendulum in the technology industry hasn't swung back that far yet? ]]> Technology Sat, 11 Nov 2006 16:42:05 GMT http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=80348A21-BCD4-2240-DF4C1ED484CAD9BE The Long, Black Gloves http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=6D3B26D1-BCD4-2240-DA0E403A41BE5DAC

At Macy's I worked in one of the slowest, least trafficked areas of the store: women's accessories. In my short evening shifts I made a few sales of scarves or gloves, but most of the time I merely stood behind the counter, watching the video on "50 Ways to Tie a Scarf" as it looped over and over and over again. I was bored. And did I mention that I was tired most of the time?


Macy's had a policy that retail clerks were not supposed to begin balancing their registers until the store closed at 9pm. This was a good business policy for a retail store. If a customer wanted to purchase an item at 8:59pm, I was not only supposed to be thrilled to ring them up, but I was supposed to be smiling and chatting with them as I completed the transaction.


I ignored this policy. In my world, with my hectic schedule, every minute was critical. If I could have my drawer balanced when the clock turned 9pm, it meant that I could simply grab my bag of money, deliver it to the customer service counter, and exit the building. I could be in bed by 9:15pm. If any customer dared to disrupt this pattern, purchasing an item during the last 15 minutes of my shift, I usually smirked as I assisted them, openly displaying my disgust. How dare they inconvenience me?


One Friday evening the accessories counter had been particularly slow. Only a few customers had crossed into my department. I was bored, tired and anxious to go home. At 8:45, I began to count the change in my drawer. Of course, this activity had to be handled as a covert operation, quietly and cautiously, to avoid attracting the attention of a manager. Since my register hadn't seen much action that evening, it was balanced within minutes. With one hand on my money bag and both eyes on the clock, I waited.


And then it happened. An older woman appeared in my department. "No! You can't buy anything!" I shouted inside my head. She wandered aimlessly around a big table of scarves, running her hand over each of them as her eyes slowly scanned everything in the department -- belts, purses, and wraps. Then she walked over to the counter. I wasn't sure what to do. Would it be better to ignore her so that she would go away or push her into a sale so that I could still rebalance the drawer before 9pm?


"May I help you?" I asked in a hurried voice. "We close in five minutes." She didn't respond. Her empty gaze fell on an item in the case below me, and she leaned down. I could feel the minutes slipping away, and I was irritated. "Ma'am, is there something that I can do for you, or are you just waiting for someone?" When I got no response again, I pulled out my cattiest 19-year-old tone of voice and said, "Hellooooo!! Anybody hoooome?"


She stood up, slowly raising her eyes to meet mine. Big, heavy tears were streaming down her cheeks, and her forehead was wrinkled with pain. "My husband died yesterday," she said softly. "His funeral is tomorrow." She paused, choking back more tears. "He was in the military, so they . . . they want me to wear . . . long, black gloves." She wiped her eyes, trying to compose herself. "Can you help me?"


I released my hand from my insignificant bag of money and opened the case below. Together, we examined her options for long, black gloves, and I rang up her purchase. I wasn't smiling. I wasn't chatting. But I was helping a hurting woman who happened to be a customer in need of gloves at 8:59pm on a Friday evening.


After she walked away, I turned back toward my register, crying as I counted the money for a second time. I never closed my drawer before 9pm again. More importantly, I learned that everything in life isn't always about me.
]]>

At Macy's I worked in one of the slowest, least trafficked areas of the store: women's accessories. In my short evening shifts I made a few sales of scarves or gloves, but most of the time I merely stood behind the counter, watching the video on "50 Ways to Tie a Scarf" as it looped over and over and over again. I was bored. And did I mention that I was tired most of the time?


Macy's had a policy that retail clerks were not supposed to begin balancing their registers until the store closed at 9pm. This was a good business policy for a retail store. If a customer wanted to purchase an item at 8:59pm, I was not only supposed to be thrilled to ring them up, but I was supposed to be smiling and chatting with them as I completed the transaction.


I ignored this policy. In my world, with my hectic schedule, every minute was critical. If I could have my drawer balanced when the clock turned 9pm, it meant that I could simply grab my bag of money, deliver it to the customer service counter, and exit the building. I could be in bed by 9:15pm. If any customer dared to disrupt this pattern, purchasing an item during the last 15 minutes of my shift, I usually smirked as I assisted them, openly displaying my disgust. How dare they inconvenience me?


One Friday evening the accessories counter had been particularly slow. Only a few customers had crossed into my department. I was bored, tired and anxious to go home. At 8:45, I began to count the change in my drawer. Of course, this activity had to be handled as a covert operation, quietly and cautiously, to avoid attracting the attention of a manager. Since my register hadn't seen much action that evening, it was balanced within minutes. With one hand on my money bag and both eyes on the clock, I waited.


And then it happened. An older woman appeared in my department. "No! You can't buy anything!" I shouted inside my head. She wandered aimlessly around a big table of scarves, running her hand over each of them as her eyes slowly scanned everything in the department -- belts, purses, and wraps. Then she walked over to the counter. I wasn't sure what to do. Would it be better to ignore her so that she would go away or push her into a sale so that I could still rebalance the drawer before 9pm?


"May I help you?" I asked in a hurried voice. "We close in five minutes." She didn't respond. Her empty gaze fell on an item in the case below me, and she leaned down. I could feel the minutes slipping away, and I was irritated. "Ma'am, is there something that I can do for you, or are you just waiting for someone?" When I got no response again, I pulled out my cattiest 19-year-old tone of voice and said, "Hellooooo!! Anybody hoooome?"


She stood up, slowly raising her eyes to meet mine. Big, heavy tears were streaming down her cheeks, and her forehead was wrinkled with pain. "My husband died yesterday," she said softly. "His funeral is tomorrow." She paused, choking back more tears. "He was in the military, so they . . . they want me to wear . . . long, black gloves." She wiped her eyes, trying to compose herself. "Can you help me?"


I released my hand from my insignificant bag of money and opened the case below. Together, we examined her options for long, black gloves, and I rang up her purchase. I wasn't smiling. I wasn't chatting. But I was helping a hurting woman who happened to be a customer in need of gloves at 8:59pm on a Friday evening.


After she walked away, I turned back toward my register, crying as I counted the money for a second time. I never closed my drawer before 9pm again. More importantly, I learned that everything in life isn't always about me.
]]> Business Wed, 08 Nov 2006 00:16:31 GMT http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=6D3B26D1-BCD4-2240-DA0E403A41BE5DAC You can do anything. Just ask Wonder Woman. http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=5B601430-BCD4-2240-D6976BCFD3896313

I probably need to concoct a good, old-fashioned lie as a response, but shouldn't one be totally honest about something this important (unless, of course, one's biggest influence in life is Will Ritson)? So, I tell them that the biggest influence on my life, without a doubt, was the entire array of female television characters from the 1970's: Wonder Woman, Bionic Woman, Charlie's Angels, Pinky Tuscadero, Maude -- even Laverne & Shirley!


If you were an adult during that era of television, then you remember these characters. And, you may or may not have fond memories of them. But, if you were a precocious 8-year-old girl during that era of television, then you actually were these characters! And therein lies their true influence on my life. While being them, I learned about me.


I spent several years as an Angel. And I wasn't just any Angel. I was the smart Angel, Sabrina Duncan (Kate Jackson's character). She was adventurous, so I was adventurous. She was tough and intelligent. During my years as Sabrina, I solved various neighborhood crimes. Missing dogs, stolen bicycles and bullies were all dealt with handily during my stint as an Angel, and I learned how to face problems without fear.


Michigan was never the same after my summer as Pinky Tuscadero. I bet you didn't know that a yellow, banana-seat bicycle could win a demolition derby. With my dad's old, red bandana as my scarf, I trained two neighborhood girls to respond to my snap and point maneuver; unfortunately, they quickly realized that Pinky was the only winner in that game. I learned important lessons about leadership and loyalty during my reign as Pinky.


During my short time as Bionic Woman, I gained the knowledge that I could do the same things the boys were doing. In fact, I learned that I could run faster than all of the boys in my grade. I may have been naturally faster than the boys I challenged to races, but I prefer to think that the bionic "Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch" noises I made as I ran gave me the extra power to win.


And, finally, whenever life got me down, I would simply spin in circles, round and round and round, transforming myself into Wonder Woman. I could handle anything as Wonder Woman, including serious matters like the death of my cat, the loss of my best pearly marble in an unfair shootout, and the move to a new school after the second grade. Wonder Woman didn't let minor setbacks deter her in any way. Of course, I also had to master a lasso during my Wonder Woman days, a skill that came in handy when earning a Girl Scout badge years later.


The bottom line: I watched a wealth of strong women on television during my first ten years of life, and I tried my best to emulate the strengths of every one of them. I was a kid who loved role-playing, and these characters gave me more material than I could ever incorporate into my young life. Real or not, because of them I entered adulthood believing that I could do anything.]]>

I probably need to concoct a good, old-fashioned lie as a response, but shouldn't one be totally honest about something this important (unless, of course, one's biggest influence in life is Will Ritson)? So, I tell them that the biggest influence on my life, without a doubt, was the entire array of female television characters from the 1970's: Wonder Woman, Bionic Woman, Charlie's Angels, Pinky Tuscadero, Maude -- even Laverne & Shirley!


If you were an adult during that era of television, then you remember these characters. And, you may or may not have fond memories of them. But, if you were a precocious 8-year-old girl during that era of television, then you actually were these characters! And therein lies their true influence on my life. While being them, I learned about me.


I spent several years as an Angel. And I wasn't just any Angel. I was the smart Angel, Sabrina Duncan (Kate Jackson's character). She was adventurous, so I was adventurous. She was tough and intelligent. During my years as Sabrina, I solved various neighborhood crimes. Missing dogs, stolen bicycles and bullies were all dealt with handily during my stint as an Angel, and I learned how to face problems without fear.


Michigan was never the same after my summer as Pinky Tuscadero. I bet you didn't know that a yellow, banana-seat bicycle could win a demolition derby. With my dad's old, red bandana as my scarf, I trained two neighborhood girls to respond to my snap and point maneuver; unfortunately, they quickly realized that Pinky was the only winner in that game. I learned important lessons about leadership and loyalty during my reign as Pinky.


During my short time as Bionic Woman, I gained the knowledge that I could do the same things the boys were doing. In fact, I learned that I could run faster than all of the boys in my grade. I may have been naturally faster than the boys I challenged to races, but I prefer to think that the bionic "Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch" noises I made as I ran gave me the extra power to win.


And, finally, whenever life got me down, I would simply spin in circles, round and round and round, transforming myself into Wonder Woman. I could handle anything as Wonder Woman, including serious matters like the death of my cat, the loss of my best pearly marble in an unfair shootout, and the move to a new school after the second grade. Wonder Woman didn't let minor setbacks deter her in any way. Of course, I also had to master a lasso during my Wonder Woman days, a skill that came in handy when earning a Girl Scout badge years later.


The bottom line: I watched a wealth of strong women on television during my first ten years of life, and I tried my best to emulate the strengths of every one of them. I was a kid who loved role-playing, and these characters gave me more material than I could ever incorporate into my young life. Real or not, because of them I entered adulthood believing that I could do anything. ]]> Life Sat, 04 Nov 2006 13:03:42 GMT http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=5B601430-BCD4-2240-D6976BCFD3896313 Have the guts to go alone. http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=56059558-AFB4-FF4C-4C1604205C89EB3B

In the fifth grade, I had the opportunity to participate in a skate-a-thon to raise money for a local charity. The top prize was a color television, and I wanted it. My family had a large, broken console television that sat on the living room floor and served as a tabletop for knick-knacks and dust, and we had a tiny black and white portable with an antenna that detected only a few stations (even with the addition of aluminum foil!).


I had no doubt that I could raise the money to win. Unfortunately, when it actually came time to go door-to-door asking for donations, I wasn't so confident. I remember lying on my bed, daydreaming about the color television and devising a scheme for attacking my area neighborhoods one house at a time. But I simply couldn't envision doing it alone. So, I called Cathy.


Cathy was a fun girl, and she liked the idea of an all-night skate-a-thon. I explained that it would require some fundraising, and a discussion of prizes ensued. Cathy was hooked. On Saturday she and I rode our bikes from neighborhood to neighborhood, knocking on doors and collecting donations. Now, if two cute kids came to your door, zealously requesting financial support in hopes that they will win prizes, what would you do? If you have four dollars, each girl will get two of them! If you have fifty cents, each girl will get a quarter! Thus, at the end of our fundraising day, we each had a lot of money, but our totals were exactly the same.


At dinner my dad asked how much money I raised, and he was thrilled to hear the amount. "How much has Cathy raised?" he asked. I told him. I could tell he was disappointed. He lectured me about the foolishness of involving Cathy. If I really wanted to succeed and win the television set, I would have to do it alone.


Each morning that next week I planned to embark on a solo fundraising mission after school. Each afternoon I simply returned home and watched Brady Bunch re-runs on the black and white television. Isn't it amazing how bright things look in the morning and how dreary they look in the afternoon? My dad would come home from work, ask me if I had gone out, and I would simply answer, "No."


The next Saturday I called Cathy about taking another fundraising jaunt on our bicycles, and I learned some startling news. Cathy had gone out alone in her own neighborhood all week, and she now had twice the amount in her big white envelope than I had! How dare she go alone, especially when she knew that I wanted the color television. But even with the knowledge that Cathy was winning --- even with the irrational feelings of betrayal -- I never budged.


On Sunday evening my dad told me that I would not be going to school the next day. I would be going to work with him. The ride to Flint took twenty minutes, and it was a quiet ride. As we approached the city, dad turned into a winding subdivision and stopped the car. "This is your stop," he said. He informed me that he would be going to work while I did fundraising in the neighborhood. "I'll pick you up at 5:00 at this same exact spot."


What!? I was angry. I don't remember fearing for my safety, but the familiar pangs of insecurity throbbed through my body as I grabbed my white envelope and stepped out of the car. I sat on the curb for a long time and contemplated my plight. I could sit there all day long and, when he returns, tell him that my envelope had been stolen or that nobody offered me a single donation during the entire eight-hour workday. But I knew what I had to do.


I approached the first door ... then the second ... then the third. With each attempt, the process was less painful. Of course, some people live to slam a door in the face of well-intentioned eleven-year-old girls, while other people live to donate the largest bill in the white envelope. When my dad picked me up that evening, I was elated. I had surpassed all financial expectations, and I had overcome my fear of going door-to-door alone. At the skate-a-thon, I won the color television.


Don't misunderstand the problem. The problem had nothing to do with being alone. I loved to be alone. I spent hours riding my bike around the schoolyard, shooting baskets, and reading books in my bedroom. Being alone was one of my favorite hobbies.


The problem was not a lack of desire. Many people say, "If you want something badly enough, you will make it happen!" Baloney! If that were true, there would be nobody living in poverty, smoking cigarettes or paying off credit cards. By their sheer desire to be rich, kick the habit, or alleviate debt, these people would make all of the necessary adjustments to succeed. I had the desire, and so do thousands of other people in the world.


The problem was fear, though not the fear of being kidnapped or fear of the unknown. My fear was less concrete, a strange concoction of fear of failure and fear of looking foolish. And, I had the strange idea that two or more people would somehow "legitimize" any venture and, somehow, cut down on the possibility of failure.


When fear is greater than desire, you find yourself at a personal impasse, and involving other people is a typical approach to the problem. You want to start a business, but you're afraid, so you enter into a partnership. You want to go on a trip, but you're afraid, so you invite a friend or relative. You want to ask someone for a date, but you're afraid, so you ask someone else to approach the person on your behalf. The results are toxic. You never really know why the business succeeds. You never really experience the trip through your own eyes. You never really know if the date would have worked without the generosity of your friend.


And, on more than one occasion, you involve someone else in your plans only to find that they are more than willing to take the white envelope door to door without you. Before you know it, you are the loser in your own game.]]>

In the fifth grade, I had the opportunity to participate in a skate-a-thon to raise money for a local charity. The top prize was a color television, and I wanted it. My family had a large, broken console television that sat on the living room floor and served as a tabletop for knick-knacks and dust, and we had a tiny black and white portable with an antenna that detected only a few stations (even with the addition of aluminum foil!).


I had no doubt that I could raise the money to win. Unfortunately, when it actually came time to go door-to-door asking for donations, I wasn't so confident. I remember lying on my bed, daydreaming about the color television and devising a scheme for attacking my area neighborhoods one house at a time. But I simply couldn't envision doing it alone. So, I called Cathy.


Cathy was a fun girl, and she liked the idea of an all-night skate-a-thon. I explained that it would require some fundraising, and a discussion of prizes ensued. Cathy was hooked. On Saturday she and I rode our bikes from neighborhood to neighborhood, knocking on doors and collecting donations. Now, if two cute kids came to your door, zealously requesting financial support in hopes that they will win prizes, what would you do? If you have four dollars, each girl will get two of them! If you have fifty cents, each girl will get a quarter! Thus, at the end of our fundraising day, we each had a lot of money, but our totals were exactly the same.


At dinner my dad asked how much money I raised, and he was thrilled to hear the amount. "How much has Cathy raised?" he asked. I told him. I could tell he was disappointed. He lectured me about the foolishness of involving Cathy. If I really wanted to succeed and win the television set, I would have to do it alone.


Each morning that next week I planned to embark on a solo fundraising mission after school. Each afternoon I simply returned home and watched Brady Bunch re-runs on the black and white television. Isn't it amazing how bright things look in the morning and how dreary they look in the afternoon? My dad would come home from work, ask me if I had gone out, and I would simply answer, "No."


The next Saturday I called Cathy about taking another fundraising jaunt on our bicycles, and I learned some startling news. Cathy had gone out alone in her own neighborhood all week, and she now had twice the amount in her big white envelope than I had! How dare she go alone, especially when she knew that I wanted the color television. But even with the knowledge that Cathy was winning --- even with the irrational feelings of betrayal -- I never budged.


On Sunday evening my dad told me that I would not be going to school the next day. I would be going to work with him. The ride to Flint took twenty minutes, and it was a quiet ride. As we approached the city, dad turned into a winding subdivision and stopped the car. "This is your stop," he said. He informed me that he would be going to work while I did fundraising in the neighborhood. "I'll pick you up at 5:00 at this same exact spot."


What!? I was angry. I don't remember fearing for my safety, but the familiar pangs of insecurity throbbed through my body as I grabbed my white envelope and stepped out of the car. I sat on the curb for a long time and contemplated my plight. I could sit there all day long and, when he returns, tell him that my envelope had been stolen or that nobody offered me a single donation during the entire eight-hour workday. But I knew what I had to do.


I approached the first door ... then the second ... then the third. With each attempt, the process was less painful. Of course, some people live to slam a door in the face of well-intentioned eleven-year-old girls, while other people live to donate the largest bill in the white envelope. When my dad picked me up that evening, I was elated. I had surpassed all financial expectations, and I had overcome my fear of going door-to-door alone. At the skate-a-thon, I won the color television.


Don't misunderstand the problem. The problem had nothing to do with being alone. I loved to be alone. I spent hours riding my bike around the schoolyard, shooting baskets, and reading books in my bedroom. Being alone was one of my favorite hobbies.


The problem was not a lack of desire. Many people say, "If you want something badly enough, you will make it happen!" Baloney! If that were true, there would be nobody living in poverty, smoking cigarettes or paying off credit cards. By their sheer desire to be rich, kick the habit, or alleviate debt, these people would make all of the necessary adjustments to succeed. I had the desire, and so do thousands of other people in the world.


The problem was fear, though not the fear of being kidnapped or fear of the unknown. My fear was less concrete, a strange concoction of fear of failure and fear of looking foolish. And, I had the strange idea that two or more people would somehow "legitimize" any venture and, somehow, cut down on the possibility of failure.


When fear is greater than desire, you find yourself at a personal impasse, and involving other people is a typical approach to the problem. You want to start a business, but you're afraid, so you enter into a partnership. You want to go on a trip, but you're afraid, so you invite a friend or relative. You want to ask someone for a date, but you're afraid, so you ask someone else to approach the person on your behalf. The results are toxic. You never really know why the business succeeds. You never really experience the trip through your own eyes. You never really know if the date would have worked without the generosity of your friend.


And, on more than one occasion, you involve someone else in your plans only to find that they are more than willing to take the white envelope door to door without you. Before you know it, you are the loser in your own game. ]]> Life Thu, 02 Nov 2006 12:06:45 GMT http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=56059558-AFB4-FF4C-4C1604205C89EB3B The Green Paper Fiasco http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=49630C90-CF84-C5F9-0310EAFB0695BC08

The eyeglass store in the mall had just closed, and he had purchased their customer list. He had all of the data on a disk, and he wanted to create a personalized letter to each customer, explaining how he could meet his or her eyeglass needs in the future. This was the early 90's, so the average person was still struggling to operate a mouse. More complex computer operations were out of the question. "Is that something you can do for me?" he asked.


Of course we could do it. It required nothing more than a simple mail merge in Microsoft Word. But the task didn't stop there. He wanted us to print the letters as well -- 2500 of them. Such services were not part of my "core business". I owned a training firm, not a Kinko's. But I needed cash, so I agreed. Because I had limited funds on hand, I quoted him the labor and a reasonable printing charge if he would provide the paper. He agreed.


The next day the doctor dropped off the 3.5" floppy disk of customer data and five reams of thick, light green paper -- exactly 2500 sheets. We quickly created his form letter and performed the mail merge, producing 2500 personalized letters ready to print. At the time, I owned the average printer of the day for a small business. The Hewlett-Packard inkjet printer could feed about fifty sheets of paper at once, but, as I soon discovered, it could not feed the thick, light green paper provided by the doctor. Oops.


If I had been smart, I would have surrendered right then. I would have called the doctor and explained that I assumed he would supply standard, white copier paper and that my printer simply could not handle the task. But I was young, unwilling to admit my mistakes and afraid to fail. So, with the little money that I had, I bought a more powerful laser printer. At that point, I would not even break even on the project. Ouch.


The first 500 letters printed beautifully, albeit slowly, on the new laser printer, and the second 500 letters were humming along nicely when the printer ran out of ink. I soon discovered that ink cartridges for the laser printer were much more expensive than inkjet cartridges, and it didn't take a mathematician to figure out that I would need at least three more cartridges to print the remaining letters. Now I was spending money I didn't even have on supplies for the project. Ouch again.


The next day I had to be out of town. I charged one of my employees with the task of printing the remaining letters. When I returned to the office that evening, a note was sitting on my desk. "Debbie, I'm sorry, but I accidentally printed the same batch of 500 letters twice, and quite a few sheets were lost because of printer jams. We have about 525 letters to print, so we'll need two more reams of paper." I did what any good entrepreneur would do in this situation. I threw my stapler against the wall. Ouch, ouch, ouch.


Again, I plowed forward. I drove to every store in my small Indiana town in search of thick, light green paper only to discover that it wasn't a stock item. After a few desperate phone calls, I located the paper fifty miles away. The next morning, I drove 100 miles roundtrip to spend more money that I didn't have in order for us to complete this dreaded green paper project.


By the time it was over, I lost more than $500 dollars on the project, and I was left with more than 400 sheets of that thick, light green paper to remind me of my foolishness for many years to come.


I learned more lessons from the green paper fiasco than I could ever list, including the important economic principles of "opportunity cost" and "sunk cost". I should have remained true to my core business; in other words, it would have been better for me to sit and do nothing than to churn endlessly on a foolish project, wasting time and money.


Now, whenever I learn another valuable, painful lesson, I simply smile and say to myself, "That's another green paper lesson."]]>

The eyeglass store in the mall had just closed, and he had purchased their customer list. He had all of the data on a disk, and he wanted to create a personalized letter to each customer, explaining how he could meet his or her eyeglass needs in the future. This was the early 90's, so the average person was still struggling to operate a mouse. More complex computer operations were out of the question. "Is that something you can do for me?" he asked.


Of course we could do it. It required nothing more than a simple mail merge in Microsoft Word. But the task didn't stop there. He wanted us to print the letters as well -- 2500 of them. Such services were not part of my "core business". I owned a training firm, not a Kinko's. But I needed cash, so I agreed. Because I had limited funds on hand, I quoted him the labor and a reasonable printing charge if he would provide the paper. He agreed.


The next day the doctor dropped off the 3.5" floppy disk of customer data and five reams of thick, light green paper -- exactly 2500 sheets. We quickly created his form letter and performed the mail merge, producing 2500 personalized letters ready to print. At the time, I owned the average printer of the day for a small business. The Hewlett-Packard inkjet printer could feed about fifty sheets of paper at once, but, as I soon discovered, it could not feed the thick, light green paper provided by the doctor. Oops.


If I had been smart, I would have surrendered right then. I would have called the doctor and explained that I assumed he would supply standard, white copier paper and that my printer simply could not handle the task. But I was young, unwilling to admit my mistakes and afraid to fail. So, with the little money that I had, I bought a more powerful laser printer. At that point, I would not even break even on the project. Ouch.


The first 500 letters printed beautifully, albeit slowly, on the new laser printer, and the second 500 letters were humming along nicely when the printer ran out of ink. I soon discovered that ink cartridges for the laser printer were much more expensive than inkjet cartridges, and it didn't take a mathematician to figure out that I would need at least three more cartridges to print the remaining letters. Now I was spending money I didn't even have on supplies for the project. Ouch again.


The next day I had to be out of town. I charged one of my employees with the task of printing the remaining letters. When I returned to the office that evening, a note was sitting on my desk. "Debbie, I'm sorry, but I accidentally printed the same batch of 500 letters twice, and quite a few sheets were lost because of printer jams. We have about 525 letters to print, so we'll need two more reams of paper." I did what any good entrepreneur would do in this situation. I threw my stapler against the wall. Ouch, ouch, ouch.


Again, I plowed forward. I drove to every store in my small Indiana town in search of thick, light green paper only to discover that it wasn't a stock item. After a few desperate phone calls, I located the paper fifty miles away. The next morning, I drove 100 miles roundtrip to spend more money that I didn't have in order for us to complete this dreaded green paper project.


By the time it was over, I lost more than $500 dollars on the project, and I was left with more than 400 sheets of that thick, light green paper to remind me of my foolishness for many years to come.


I learned more lessons from the green paper fiasco than I could ever list, including the important economic principles of "opportunity cost" and "sunk cost". I should have remained true to my core business; in other words, it would have been better for me to sit and do nothing than to churn endlessly on a foolish project, wasting time and money.


Now, whenever I learn another valuable, painful lesson, I simply smile and say to myself, "That's another green paper lesson." ]]> Business Wed, 01 Nov 2006 01:13:46 GMT http://www.logicalimagination.com/greenpapersdisplay_blog.cfm?bid=49630C90-CF84-C5F9-0310EAFB0695BC08