Coming of Age

Tomorrow, I am going on my first ever "business trip" that didn't involve a Chinese train station. I'm going to State College, Pennsylvania with my boss to visit one of our customers, a scientific products distributor, and hopefully get some deals made.

According to some very reliable sources,

State College evolved from village to town to serve the needs of the fledgling Pennsylvania State College, founded as the Farmers' High School of Pennsylvania in 1855. Since then, the school has grown into a major university, renamed in 1953 The Pennsylvania State University. State College was incorporated as a borough on August 29, 1896 and has since grown with the university, sharing a symbiotic relationship. In 1973 State College adopted a home rule charter which took effect in 1976. The areas outside of State College are filled with historic towns and villages, immense tracts of farmland, and an expanse of mountains and forests.

The university has a post office address of University Park, Pennsylvania, which is sometimes a cause for confusion. When Penn State changed its name from College to University in 1953, its president, Milton S. Eisenhower, sought to persuade the town to change its name as well. A referendum failed to yield a majority for any of the choices for a new name, and so the town remains State College. After this, Penn State requested a new name for its on-campus post office in the Hetzel Union Building from the U.S. Post Office Department. The post office, which has since moved across a street to the McAllister Building, is the official home of zip code 16802 (University Park).

I doubt I'll get to see much of that historic tree-filled mountain farmland, or that zip-code hogging McAllister Building (does it rival Friley Hall?). I am realizing that this blackberry-business-card American coming of age thing doesn't lead to inspirational walks through real places with real people, but only to continental breakfast in business hotels and over-air-conditioned conference rooms. And I am starting to think I prefer my Chinese coming of age, where paying the phone bill meant a twenty minute walk and getting my electricity ration sometimes meant arguing with a man twice my age in a language I don't quite speak. Not only have I successfully completed that coming of age, I think I enjoyed the picking peanuts from the roots on a wooden bench with an old lady more than I will enjoy tomorrow night's steak and seafood dinner.

SPIN Selling

I've been reading a book called SPIN Selling by a guy named Neil Rackham. It's about major sales (think several thousand dollars as opposed to a couple hundred...) and what strategies are most successful. The book was first published in 1988 and it tore down a lot of traditional ideas about how to be a good salesperson.

But here's the thing. It says things like: don't be pushy, to try to close too much, don't assume things, don't bore the customer with stupid questions, be respectful, build relationships, be reasonable, help them solve their problems.

Granted, it's a little more scientific than that, based on research of lots and lots of sales calls, and lays out a very specific, very practical method. But I can't help but feel a little like the key to being a good sales person is to not be a jerk. And I wonder why it took until 1988 for people to start saying, "Oh, maybe we shouldn't be jerks" and why it 2010 and people are still jerks.

Neil Rackham tells a story about a guy (a purchasing agent at a company) had a strategy for dealing with jerky sales people. He'd gone through sales textbooks and written on index cards all the different tricks sales people use. And when some punk sales guy would come in and feed him some line, he'd put the corresponding index card on the table. Then he'd say, "You get three chances. When you get to three index cards, I'm throwing you out of my office." Needless to say, people stopped trying to sell him crap he didn't want or didn't need.

It's a good book, though. I've enjoyed reading it, and even though I don't often buy things valued in the thousands of dollars, I feel a little bit better equipped to go into a buying situation. If I ever am in a place where I have to make big purchases for a company or I have to sell several thousand dollars worth of things to make a living, I feel like it's not as scary a thing to do.

America Runs on Dunkin

I have been sitting in Dunkin' Donuts for the last hour watching people come in and out, ordering donuts and breakfast sandwiches and coffee with cream or milk or Splenda. And I have made a great realization about Dunkin' Donuts.

I should first perhaps confess that I have a great love for Dunkin' Donuts. The midwest, or atleast the regions of Iowa in which I resided, were greatly lacking in Dunkin' Donuts. The greater love, it seems, for the residents of those areas is Krispie Kreme Donuts. But to me, Dunkin' is the mark of superior donut-making, of artisan-ship and quality. I can't remember when I first started this passionate love-affair but I can tell you that there were three things I missed most during my time in Iowa: the ocean, the boardwalk, and Dunkin' Donuts.

Sometime while I was departed from this great, Dunkin' Donuts-filled land, Dunkin' began a advertising campaign hinged on the slogan, "America runs on Dunkin'." And I have thought, since returning, "Now, Dunkin' is great, but can we really claim that America runs on Dunkin'? The good people of Ames, Iowa certainly don't."

Today, I have come to believe that this is a perfectly legitimate claim.

You're probably thinking, "Elena, seriously, sitting in Dunkin' for over an hour on a Thursday morning? Why aren't you home sleeping like usual, or doing laundry or scrubbing the tub or baking a three layer banana-peanut butter cake"--I do tend to do these things at strange hours of the day (or night)--"like usual? Out? At Dunkin' Donuts? Your love must be great..."

My love is indeed great. But that's now why I've chosen to be here now. I drove Michael to work today, and rather than driving an hour back home to Vineland and then and hour back to his office and another hour back home, I packed up my bag with lots of reading (and my laptop) and have made myself comfortable in the all-American haven that is Dunkin' Donuts of Northfield, NJ.

See, America does run on Dunkin'. I, being somewhat stranded in this strange, new town have found a safe place to be. And I have watched everything from BMWs, Acuras, and Lexus...es? all the way to dingy AC Repair vans and pick-up trucks pull in to order their morning fix. Through these doors have walked business men in suit and tie, retired folk, moms and summer camp bound kids, secretaries, plumbers, and high-power career women. Dunkin' Donuts is the great equalizer, the place we all come to, regardless of of walk of life, to get geared up for the epic journey that lies ahead of us each day.

Yes, America, we run on Dunkin'. (But what does this say about us that, unlike the Chinese who love a good workout routine in the morning, we all love a good donut?)

By the way

I got a new job.

For the last couple weeks I have been thinking to myself, there was something I was going to post about...I need to write a blog...what was I going to blog about? Just now, I remembered. I was going to blog about my new job.

I'll be working at a place called Worldwide Glass Resources. My title will be Associate Chromatography Product Manager. My actual day-to-day job is somewhat amorphous, but I've been telling people that it's marketing and sales. In the first year I'm going to learn all about glass, glass manufacturing, sales, marketing, and customer relations. Plus I'll get to do lots of writing, including revamping the web content and the product catalog. I am very excited about all these things.

I know a great number of you are thinking, "But Elena? What about California? And Linguistics? And life overseas?" Those are all very valid questions. And the only answer I can think to give you is that the good Lord does things in the fullness of time. And right now, it seems, my time will be full of Chromatography products.

We're thinking a lot right now about Michael going back to school, which my single self had not fully taken into account and my transitioning-into-one-flesh-with-a-complete-other-person self was trying to compromise priorities with. We still want California--and I definitely still want Linguistics--and an eventual life overseas, but I am realizing that even a month ago, I wasn't thinking "what's best for my family?" only, "what would I want to do with my life?" And that's not really a good place to be.

So I'm glad God does things in his fullness of time. Because he's giving me some time to learn some good things.

Amongst other things, perhaps not as blog-worthy, I have been learning to speak up for myself, to be realistically ambitious, to take risks, and to let people believe in me. These are also good lessons.

Today was my last day at the diner. I hugged the girls goodbye and waved to all the cooks and clocked out for the last time. I came home feeling a certain lightness I haven't felt in a long time. Yeah, God does things in the fullness of time.

This Poet does a little Painting

Yesterday marked the end of my Painting with Words poetry class. I was sad to see them disperse, but encourage by all the parents who thanked me so enthusiastically for investing into their children. One little girl gave me a jar of strawberry preserves from their garden and I was delighted to receive it. I watched her each week as she carefully arranged inside her folder all the post-it note reviews I would write for her poems. She took the writing process seriously, thought long and hard about her words and assembled them neatly on paper. She was truly a delight and I will remember her sweetness with each bite of strawberry preserves. (Okay, so I'm gushing a little...)

Lacking my students poems to share, I've decided to post a couple of my own that I wrote during the class.

"Color"
There's something about orange that borders on obnoxious
But that I find attractive all the same.
That bright, almost glaring quality that boldly forces itself
Into one's line of sight.
Maybe I admire orange
For being so willing to declare its presence,
While I timidly wait on the outskirts of conversation.


"Movement"
I often find myself plunging into things
Before I know exactly what I'm getting into.
It's as if all I know to do is charge
and catapult
and stampede.
I had once hoped that I, with age,
would learn grace;
That I could learn to glide, maybe,
or meander
or pad
or step.
But, no, it seems that age has not tempered me
Only flung me into the next misadventure.
But I suppose I am not made for those gentle journeys,
Too antsy and fidgety for anything less than the roller coaster ride I'm on.

An Update on My Painting Poets

The first class was a disaster. I didn't prepare interactive enough activities, I didn't set up "poetry" and what it means in an accessible way, and the age gap between my kids (ranging from an 8-year-old girl through to a 14-year-old boy) was too great for the kids to form a connection.

But things since then have gotten much better. Kids love words, and they know how to stretch them and manipulate them and couple them. They even know how to keep from using them. As we've gone through the weeks, the kids have written for me amazing poems about the feeling colors produce, the movement of animals, the sounds of cars and crowded classrooms. I wish I still had them so I could recite them to you, but I've given them back to their authors. What I find most fascinating is how each child has his or her own style. One girl, age 9, is extremely lyrical, long lines draw out shy feelings wrapped in detailed descriptions. Another girl is punchy, with vivid imagery couplets that take you by surprise. The boys show meticulousness, choosing their words carefully in short lines that leave the reader wanting to solve the mystery of their descriptions. One boy, paints vignettes with his words, little word-pictures you see clearly as they flash through your mind in his economy of language.

Kenneth Koch was right. Kids are perfectly able to write mature modern poetry. I am glad I believed him enough to take on seven kids, between the ages of eight and fourteen, even though my experience was severely lacking and my self-esteem through the basement floor.

I'd do it all over again. Heck, I just might.

The Night the Bat Reigned

Some of you may have seen from our Facebook statuses that we had a bit of an incident this week. For the sake of recording personal histories...

I (Elena) came home from working at the diner at about 3pm on Tuesday. I came in, glad to be home, took off my work shirt, went to the bathroom, left my buckle undone as I made my way back to the bedroom to change into civilian clothes. BUT as I came into the kitchen from the bathroom a BAT came swooping through and hung itself by its claws on the curtain rail. I, naturally started screaming, and ran from to the bedroom (doing up my pants--why I was worried about my the bat in pants, I don't know. I wasn't logical at that point). I called Michael--aware that he was completely powerless to help me from his office in Northfield--but not knowing what else to do. He told me to find the phone book and call Animal Control, and I searched for the phone book only to encounter the bat again, flying circles through all the rooms. Since I was screaming again, we decided to call my uncle instead. That conversation went like this:

Ring Ring
Tio: Alo?
Me: Hola, Tio.
Tio: Hey you. What's going on, what's new?
Me: (trying to keep calm) Uh...well, I have a problem I was hoping you could help me with.
Tio: Yeah, what's up?
Me: There's a bat in my house and I need help getting out.
Tio: Well, can't you get it?
Me: (trying not to cry) Uh...well, I'm scared and it's gross.
Tio: Well...okay, we're coming. We're coming.

Then I realized that I had locked the door and that unless I made my way out, they we're going to be able to come in. So while the bat is circling, I grab the standing mirror (it's plastic and not attached to the wall like it's supposed to be) and use it like a shield to get outside.

I make it to the door, I unlock it, I go outside and breathe deeply for the first time. Feeling a little bit more in control of the situation, I decide to go back inside and look for the broom. I'm tip-toeing like a teenager trying to sneak out the house through my own house, hoping to see the bat but not rouse the bat. I get the broom and go back outside without sighting the bat.

My uncle, my aunt, and my cousin show up and bang on all the furniture and shake all the curtains, but no bat ever appears. He convinces me that the bat must have flown out while I was getting the broom. I give up and let them go, but still feel paranoid, so I change into some shorts, gather up my laptop and some books and go to dunkin donuts for a while. I go back to my uncle's house and hang out with my cousin until Michael gets off work.

When Michael gets home, he searches the house to no avail. We leave to do some shopping and return fairly late. We go to bed exhausted, turn of the light, and start talking through some loose ends from the day. Suddenly,

scratch scratch scratch

Michael and I stop short, look at each other. I duck under the covers, he puts his glasses back on and turns on the light. No bat. I dash outside in my night clothes (little shorts and a tank top) and Michael gets the flashlight and broom. He searches behind the dresser but can't find anything. We go back to sleep, this time Michael on the dresser side and with the light on. "The bat won't come out if the light is on," we say.

At about 3:00am, I wake up and roll over. Michael wakes up, too. The light keeps us from getting into deep sleep. At the exact moment that Michael looks at me...

scratch scratch scratch

I look over at the dresser and see the bat crawling out from behind the mirror. I scream. Michael can't see anything and his glasses are next to the bat. I dash outside and Michael runs to put his contacts in. He comes back to the room--no bat.

He starts poking around with the broom again and suddenly the bat comes flying out of nowhere. Now, Michael gets entrenched in a battle that lasts forty minutes to catch the bat inside a box and free it to the outside world.

When that moment came, Michael was so pumped full of adrenaline and so covered in his own sweat that going back to sleep--to wake up an hour later for work--was quite impossible. Needless to say Wednesday was not one of our most productive days.

But that's the story of the Night the Bat Reigned.