"When we were expecting little Lyle, Jr., we registered for baby gifts at Cabelas, Gander Mountain, Smith and Wesson and Guns 'R' Us."
While there's nothing inherently wrong about this real estate photo, there is something wrong with this nursery decor. 'Merica!
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I realize I'm very lucky.
I have my day job, where I've worked for over 3-1/2 years. A record for me. I'm lucky because it's nowhere near being the toxic environment of my previous job. I'm fortunate the commute isn't worse. About 25 minutes in the morning and 40 minutes home. I work on the outskirts of Minneapolis, where there's a fantastic view, a park and the Mississippi River nearby. My coworkers and managers are pleasant, mostly happy and sometimes we have fun at work. I have health insurance, my pay is good and we get bonuses, perks, happy hours and occasional catered lunches. I'm lucky. But I'm tired. Some days the commute is longer. There's weather, an accident or some unexplained circumstances that slows us to a halt. There are crazy drivers - "Minnesota Nice" isn't allowed in some people's vehicles, apparently. There are work politics, cliques, favoritism, questionable practices and an IT infrastructure that is always five steps behind. I still have thirteen years before I can consider retiring. But, do you see that picture above? It was taken last summer. It's a view I want to see more than one week of the year. How do I get there? It's been a while since my previous post critiquing a real estate photo.
Here's another one, below. This one is either something from a nightmare or a hoarder's dream. The realtor who took this photo might have assumed s/he was highlighting the storage capabilities of the basement: "Look, over-sized stuffed animals! A Sesame Street blankie window treatment! A pitcher and wash basin! Metallic wall covering (fireproofing?) and tourist photos liven up this eclectic corner of the home! Bring your own stacks of newspapers from 1975, wicker basket collection and mannequin parts to enhance this trendy space!" I first met my friend, Jade, when I began working as a copywriter at a local company that managed promotions, coupons and rebate programs. Jade was an account executive, tasked with seeking out new customers. I accompanied her and my new manager, the director of marketing, to a site visit at a client's manufacturing plant. I could tell Jade was different than any coworker I've had before, not just because she had bright magenta hair and multiple piercings in her ear. She had a positive energy and was effervescent. She did not seem to possess any shyness, a trait I'm plagued with. When it soon became evident my new place of employment was a toxic environment where the owner/manager would go from being your best friend to a cruel, micromanaging dictator from one day to the next. There was often a dark pall permeating the offices. Whispers of discontent, gossip, bitterness were prevalent. But there was Jade, who not only made lemonade from lemons, but spiked it with rum. She lit up a room with her presence and her laughter eased the tension and made each day fun. There were so many times that I felt trapped in that job. I grew to hate it more every day and was always scared to make a mistake and draw the attention and wrath of the manager. Jade seemed to shake things off, and she spread cheer and showered those of us she liked with food, treats and funny gifts. She once bought me a superhero cape that read "Sooper Copiwrighter" as a joke. Jade was always a glowing warm light in the darkness of a terrible workplace. Then Jade left and I was stuck without a friend, without her laughter, without hope. For six months. I applied for dozens of jobs and interviewed for a handful. There seemed no way out. Always, Jade promised, "I will get you out of there." But my doubt grew. She was busy learning the ropes of her new job and raising her family. She'd forget me. But she didn't forget. A position opened at Jade's new company. She forwarded the job description, recommended me to the hiring manager and gave me tips for what to say during the interview. I was hired. Jade saved me from one of the worst companies I've ever worked. Though Jade moved on to another company, I still have the cape and my friendship with her. I work full time. It's my day job and when I'm not working, like everyone else, I must tend to everyday matters - laundry, grocery shopping, paying bills, making meals and so on.
My second job is writing. I squeeze that in whenever I can and that time is certainly at a premium. My third job is making sure other people do their jobs. No, I don't go up to people working their positions and supervise. But I do have to make sure that people aren't doing their jobs incorrectly in a way that will affect me or my family. This past Sunday we went to the grocery store and I monitored the items being scanned by the cashier. I caught her ringing up two bags of softener salt as an incorrect brand, which would have cost us $1.35 more per bag. She rang up a white onion as jicama, which costs .09 cents more. And after we unloaded our groceries into the car, we realized she rang up one pineapple as 11. ELEVEN. At $2.98 a pineapple. I had to go back into the store, spend 15 minutes waiting at guest services and then I had to show the rep behind the desk how to scan the barcode on the receipt on my phone to process my credit. The only payment I receive for this third job is saving us all the money we'd have lost on that single grocery trip. If I hadn't done this third job, we would have lost $32.50. I shudder to think how much money we've lost over the years we didn't take time to monitor our purchases as they were being scanned. Or when we didn't do a quick count of our change to make sure it was correct. People make mistakes, it's true. I know, I've made plenty of my own. But it's disheartening to know that these mistakes sometimes cost others money and time. I was once in a meeting where a manager presented us with his suggestions for improving some processes. After he was done, he asked for our thoughts. A coworker began explaining how his suggestions were flawed, where the holes were and what the repercussions might be.
Instead of taking consideration of what she said, the manager exploded. He said childish things to my coworker, none of which applied to the processes we were examining. We all knew his processes were flawed and he was wrong. And he knew it, too. But in that moment, when the ideas he thought were flawless were proven weak, he took it personally and handled it poorly. I was once in my coworker's shoes. It was also in a meeting with a manager. The manager wanted our team to come in to work fifteen minutes early to attend a special meeting. But instead of having us clock in when we arrived, he said we could take a longer lunch. When I pointed out this was illegal, because he was trying to avoid paying us any overtime, his face turned red and he shouted at me until I was nearly in tears. But he then said we should punch in when we arrived for the meeting. He knew he was wrong, he didn't like it. And he didn't like being called out on it. Both these situations happened at work and in front of subordinates. Perhaps that is why each manager reacted childishly. It's embarrassing to be wrong, to have our errors pointed out to us. I don't like making mistakes. Who does? But I also would prefer to have things done correctly, preventing future problems. I've developed the mindset to learn from my mistakes. Not make those errors again. I do get a flash of anger when someone points out my mistakes. For a minute, it is aimed at that person, but only in my mind. I've trained myself to automatically thank that person for letting me know. I mull it over, realize they were right and understand the anger I'm feeling is really at myself. Then I take steps to fix it and hopefully never make it again. I'm human, I remind myself. Humans make mistakes. A good human uses their mistakes as learning tools. We are hoping to sell our home and move in the next year so I've become addicted to looking at properties on Zillow. Because we are remodeling our own home and I work in an industry with many interior designers, I understand the importance of staging a home to be aesthetically pleasing to potential buyers.
I've come across so many questionable realtor photos that I've decided to occasionally post them here with commentary and suggestions for improvement. Let's examine the photo below. We'll call it "Rustic Shower." Now, some people appreciate a simple, rustic design. But, before setting up a shower head and curtain in the corner of your basement and calling it a "half-bath," I'd suggest maybe, oh, I don't know, SCRUBBING THE WALLS. Other suggestions:
I meant to grab my laptop earlier to write some thoughts about Minnesotans and living here, but then my husband came home from the Y. He was pale, coughing and blowing his nose.
Icy fear gripped me and I backed away, mentally calculating the number of steps to the Lysol. He made himself some oatmeal as I stripped bed linens to wash in scalding water. Once I had a load running, I sat down and wondered aloud, "How did you catch a cold? You don't go out much and you work from home, so...no sick coworkers." He grumbled, "I don't know. Maybe at the Y. Or grocery shopping. Or from you." Excuse me? I took the bait. "I haven't had a cold in months!" My voice was a little loud, a bit shrill, and I confess, it was because I was on edge imagining what the next 2-28 days would hold. The coughing 1950's style into his fist (instead of the crook of his arm) and then touching every shared surface in the house. The nose-blowing at 2 AM, 3 AM, 6 AM, etc. The death groans, oh the death groans. He didn't like my tone of voice and stormed off to eat his oatmeal in the other room. This man normally possesses a fairly cheerful disposition and is generally laid back. But he turns into a snarling, angry man-beast when he's sick. When I get a cold, I complete whatever tasks and errands I'd planned, get them out of the way. I wipe down every surface I've touched with Clorox wipes, chug some Nyquil and sequester myself in the bedroom with a box of tissues and sleep, sleep, sleep. When I'm hungry, I get up and make some soup or grilled cheese. When I run out of cold meds, I make a Walgreens run. What I don't do is get all dramatic. But, now, a brief reprieve for me. He's headed to his parents' house to help put up drywall, infecting innocent baby boomers in the process. I should probably warn them, but then, what if they turn him away and send him home? No, I need those few hours to mentally prepare for the next battle with the #mancold. Last night at about 8:45 PM I heard the familiar sound of a helicopter flying overhead. Familiar, yes, because nearly every day since we've lived in our home (twenty years), the helicopter flies over between 8:30 and 9 PM.
Several years ago I was at a neighborhood party and I overheard someone talking about a resident of our small town (population 16K) who owns a helicopter and flies it to and from work. I wasn't engaged in that conversation, so I didn't hear the rest of what they said nor did I have the opportunity to ask questions. The subject changed and life moved on. A few years ago after hearing the helicopter fly by, I did a lazy Google search to see if I could determine who the pilot was and any other interesting information. My search terms consisted of "helicopter" and the name of our small town. The results did not provide any information. More recently I performed a more aggressive online search with specific keywords and learned the pilot lives only 4 miles north. He had been involved in a few legal disputes regarding his right to use his property as a heliport. He lives on 1 acre. A heliport. On ONE. ACRE. At least one of the legal disputes began because of neighbor complaints. No Kidding. Imagine relaxing with your family, watching your favorite TV show or lying in bed to read a book at the end of a long day only to be rattled with the CHOP-CHOP-CHOP-CHOP from your neighbor Stanley's Rotorway Exec two-seater coming in for a landing at the "heliport" next door. One acre is not a lot of space. My house sits on just over 1 acre. I can't fathom a helicopter landing on the front lawn, though I suppose in an emergency, it's possible. There are other considerations when landing a helicopter in a semi-rural, residential area, especially at night. Kids, pets or wildlife running around, weather and wind. Power lines. I looked at it on Google Maps and though the pilot's yard is mostly open, there are trees - hardwoods and pines - on the neighbors' properties and along the road. Seeing the satellite map view makes that 1 acre seem oh, so tiny. It would be more appropriate if the pilot's property were, say, around 10+ acres and his heliport was situated smack in the middle. My friends and family know that I'm very particular about neighbor "etiquette" - behavior and common courtesy. I've experienced more than my fair share of crappy neighbor situations, like a Halloween party with 300+ attendees (resulting in multiple stabbings) to having my yard set on fire. (Stories I will share later.) I wouldn't be thrilled to live next to a residential helipad. I'm sure there's more to the story. And maybe through the course of his daily commutes the pilot has stopped to perform search/rescues of lost hikers, a la Harrison Ford. That would be cool. Or maybe he IS Harrison Ford. My husband and I are planning to move soon and we've been meticulously researching neighborhoods in hopes of finding our dream oasis of property; a sanctuary for eventual retirement. In addition to all the other criteria we have in mind, we'll need to add "no residential heliports nearby" to that list. |
About Sally FarleyI'm a typical, hardworking Midwesterner, enduring (and sometimes participating in) the passive-aggressive complexities of life in Minnesota. ArchivesLinksAsk a Manager
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