Improving Communications.

Last week a person very close to me said that he sometimes feels that I treat him like an employee. My first reaction was to apologize because it sounded like such an awful thing to say to something with whom you are in a personal relationship. And I did apologize, but then I got to thinking – how did I manage my employees and was that really a negative statement? Since I’m on a break from corporate employment, I decided to give this attention and review my management communication style so I can be better and smarter when I return to the office. So – how do I communicate as a manager?

Are my expectations high? Absolutely. Right off in initial interviews, I tell my prospective employees that I ask nothing from them that I wouldn’t do myself – and that’s the best possible job. This means being smart about everything, using your resources and always striving to do better so you can finish a job with pride. In marketing and communications, it’s also always about staying a step ahead of what is going on in the market and making the right decisions.

Do I communicate with my employees? I do so on a daily basis, and when I have a busy travel schedule, sometimes it doesn’t always happen but I am otherwise consistent. For those who in remote locations, they may receive a bit less attention than those down the hall from me, but I make every effort to make sure I know what’s going on in their world, and to keep them informed on what’s going on in mine.

Do I trust my employees? I will always stand by and defend them, with the expectation they are doing the right thing. I had a boss who treated me like this, and it was the best feeling in the world, knowing that he unconditionally supported and defended me, no matter the situation. Of course, this commitment stands only until the employee has breached that trust or done something amiss. Then, a continuous shadow of doubt will linger until the trust is established again, but the trust can be renewed.

Do I give enough positive feedback? Here I know I do not do a good enough job. I get wrapped up in making sure everything is being done, and getting done better and smarter than before, that I often fail to provide that positive acknowledgement. That’s definitely an area I’m going to work on for future assignments.

Interestingly enough, this introspective ties in to the communication assignments I give my students in my Advanced Writing Course. We’re reviewing and analyzing our communication styles – how we communicate with others and how others perceive our communication style.  I’ll have to report in next class that I also have areas for improvement – because another sign of a good leader is to demonstrate growth and change in order to set a good example.

Cassette Tape. Rewind.

Driving east along I-43 last week, the morning light reflected off a tangle of brown, shiny magnetic material wound into the branches of a hibernating bush. Drawn to it, I saw it was the remnants of an audio cassette tape. That was a sight I hadn’t seen in years. What possible situation could have led up to that tape being tossed/thrown/dropped out of a moving vehicle where it crashed on the pavement and exploded into hundreds of bits, setting the tape free to flap in the breeze?

When I purchased my vehicle nearly 10 years ago, a musician friend of mine noticed the sound system with its built in cassette tape player (along with a 6 CD-changer). He did a lot of oral note taking when composing music, and thought it was exceptionally cool that in a new vehicle you could still listen to cassettes.  Fast forward to present day and another friend laughed upon seeing it, wondering who would listen to cassette tapes anymore since CDs, ipods and other digital music devices are so prevalent. [1]

Audio cassettes – like vinyl records and even 8-tracks – evoke so many memories for me. I heard NWA and Jane’s Addiction on the same day for the first time (my boyfriend had eclectic tastes). I’ve listened to motivational and inspirational speeches. I’ve answered thousands of practice interview questions. I’ve listened to a tarot card reader lay out my future. I’ve logged thousands of hours (and hundreds of batteries) while working out and listening to my walkman.

I don’t know how that one cassette made it so long into this technology age only to be tossed along the side of a highway on a freezing Thursday morning. But it sure makes me nostalgic for a good mix tape.

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[1] For those unfamiliar with the ancient music-carrying device, a compact cassette consists of two miniature spools, between which a magnetically coated plastic tape is passed and wound. These spools and their attendant parts are held inside a protective plastic shell. Two stereo pairs of tracks (four total) or two monaural analog audio tracks are available on the tape; one stereo pair or one monophonic track is played or recorded when the tape is moving in one direction and the second pair when moving in the other direction. This reversal is achieved either by manually flipping the cassette or by having the machine itself change the direction of tape movement – my vehicle has the auto-reverse

Two Olives

“You’re just so bon ton!” he gushed, nearly tripping over himself to give her a hug. He looked striking in a well-cut dark blue linen suit, white shirt and leather loafers.  The cut of the suit accentuated his wide shoulders and narrow hips, his hair was dark and sleekly styled and his cologne distinctive.

As he wrapped his long, lean arms around her and held tightly for several moments, she laughed and responded, “Bon ton . . . only you.  And you’re the only one in this place who could get away with saying that.”  They stood inside the entrance to a luxuriant soiree.

He kissed her cheek, quick and hard, before releasing her.  “But honey, anyone who sees you in this outfit, with what you’ve done with your hair, and how you hold yourself as such a G.D. lady, would know that.”  He glanced around quickly, and leaned in conspiratorially, “Anyone with any sense of style, that is.”

She gently touched her coiffure, newly updated and colored, before pressing her hands down along the sides of her expensive black silk shift.  “And again, I say you’re the only one to know it.”  Her cheeks glowed with excitement.  She held onto to one of his hands with both of hers, and walking backwards for a few steps led him deep into the room.  “Come, come have a martini with me.  I am in desperate need of a civilized drink.”

They moved through the throngs of people to the far wall where a bartender stood attentive behind the portable bar.  “Two vodka martinis.  One with a twist, the other with two olives,” she instructed with complete spirits authority.  She swung back around to face him.  “So tell me all about your new home.  Your new friends.  Your new existence!”

He put his arms around her again and hugged her tight. “Oh, honey, you have no idea how wonderful and how awful it is all at the same time.   Everything is right, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s all so wrong.”

She pulled back, looking up at him deeply concerned.  “But I thought it was all going brilliantly.  I had no idea you were unhappy.” The bartender set their drinks down and turned away.

He waved her off and handed her a martini.  “Oh, of course it all is fine.  But I’m there, and all of this,” he gestured around, “all of this is here.” He took a sip of the martini and sighed happily.  “I am so much more happier here.  And with you.”  He lifted the olives out of the drink and popped them into his mouth.

She batted her eyelids and looked demurely at him as she sipped her drink.  “Will you be able to manage?  You won’t stay sad for long, will you? I couldn’t stand it if I knew you were so unhappy away from all this.”

He cupped her chin in his hand and lifted her face up toward his.  “I will stay sane as long as I know all is bon ton here.”  And then he brushed his lips against hers before finishing his martini.

Roman Holiday for Sister Alphaloretta

Hail Mary, Full of grace.

Sister Alphaloretta shuffled along the cobblestone sidewalk, her crepe soled sandals soundless against the bricks while her black garments brushed against her bare legs.  It was late summer in Rome, and the sun bore down with merciless heat on her black wimple. She murmured prayers while dabbing at her chin with a used tissue.  Next to her, Sister Joseph’s lips were also moving, and behind her she was certain Sister Elenata and Sister Joselda were doing the same.  The nuns found that prayer served as meditation as they let their minds focus elsewhere, and it often times relieved their physical bodies of burdens, such as the unforgiving hardness of kneelers or the heat of the afternoon.

The Lord is with thee.

The crowds were thick along the piazza as the nuns made their way at a leisurely pace. Shops had recently reopened after the afternoon siesta, and the tourists were reviving themselves after languishing alongside fountains at umbrellad tables in the square while enjoying bottles of vino.  A young man in his late twenties dressed in loose khaki shorts and a white t-shirt, his arm draped casually across the shoulders of a girl wearing more little more than a swath of fabric misidentified as a sundress, bumped his hip against Sister Alphaloretta’s arm.  He looked over, startled, mortified to have come in contact with this holy woman.  Sister Alphaloretta, peering up at him over her wire rim glasses smiled serenely, and the boy and his partner hurried ahead of them.

Blessed are thou among women.

It was Sister Alphaloretta’s first trip toRome, the first time in her 73 years that she had traveled outside of North America.  Twice before she had attended pilgrimages to Mexico, but this was her first trip abroad.  And to come to Rome to the center of Catholic worship!  She was in the service of the Lord for nearly sixty years and felt as if she was finally reaching a pinnacle. She had been so delighted when she heard the news that the Blessed Trinity of the Holy Spirit Church was going to sponsor her trip to the holy land and was packed three weeks before their flight departed.

And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

It was the fifth day of her trip, and Sister Alphaloretta had yet to tire of her surroundings. They had been able to sightsee much more than she had anticipated and was constantly thrilled and amazed by the sights, sounds, people and food she encountered.  She was fascinated by the frescoes and tapestry work of the halls leading to the Sistine Chapel.  She had stood for hours, speechless as she studied the ceiling of the most famous chapel in the world and attempted to retain each and every detail without the aid of a camera or a sketchpad.  She had knelt in solemn prayer inside St. Peter’s Cathedral, fascinated by the mosaics that even from a short distance appeared to be exquisite paintings. And she had been in awe of the famous Pieta, the extraordinary stone sculpture of the holiest mother holding her son across her lap, now safely tucked behind bulletproof glass.

Holy Mary, mother of God.

Sister Alphaloretta and the others made their way through the city to the Spanish steps, where in her mind she would recreate the Roman Holiday scene that she had watched so many times during the years. It was the scene between Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn, and she would dream she herself was the young girl in the movie.  Sister Alphaloretta didn’t let the fact that she was in God’s service prevent her from dreaming about a different life.  It was the reason she was such a movie buff, and continued to enforce the Friday night movie nights throughout the year (except during Lent, of course) in the house.

Pray for us sinners.

Sister believed there was something magical about the movies that in a peculiar way kept her faith in God strong. She believed that as long as God was allowing mankind to make wonderful, magical, sensitive and fantastical movies, that he was still pleased with his people. And Sister Alphaloretta reasoned that if God was allowing the movies to be made, then it was her responsibility to watch as many of them as she could.

Now and at the hour of death.

The sisters entered the Piazza di Spagna Roma and Sister Alphaloretta beamed as she looked up to see the impressive staircase leading up to the Trinita dei Monti church, filled with resident and tourists talking and taking photographs while becoming the scenery.  Sister Joselda would certainly insist that they enter the church and recite a quick novena and Sister Alphaloretta would oblige, but part of her heart would be out on the steps with Gregory Peck, deeply breathing in the Italian air, tasting the Italian red vino, and embracing the life and energy of such a modernly ancient city.

Amen.

A Weekend is A Beautiful Thing to Waste

I’ve become enthralled, fascinated and quite entertained by the series Downton Abbey, playing on PBS’ Masterpiece Theater. The upstairs/downstairs British period drama was created by Julian Fellows, who has expertly woven an intricate story fabric of love, deception, intrigue and history starting in 1914 with the sinking of the Titanic and continuing through 1918. With my love of English literature, how could I not enjoy these period pieces (why do the English do such a good job with these miniseries anyway?)? It’s a lovely era of which I would not to live, but I do enjoy the visual feasts.

Downton Abbey, in particular, is a glimpse into a fictional world where many of my real friends have developed a fondness for the characters. I know someone who has a major crush on Mr. Bates – should it be wrong for her to find him sexy?

I recently had the opportunity to take an extended sabbatical where I thoroughly enjoyed not knowing exactly the day or the date for more than a year. Tuesday? Why not! Saturday? That only means more of my friends are available to shop or nosh!

I wasn’t sure anyone could properly express how wonderful that feeling of unadulterated freedom was until I heard my favorite character, Lady Grantham, the Duchess Dowager (proficiently played by Maggie Smith) casually respond to an unfamiliar concept, “What  . . . is a weekend?” with no hint of sarcasm or understanding.

It is wonderful to not know that defining line between the days of the week, but instead enjoy every day with ease and aplomb. Why cram a full week of living into two days? We should undertake that quality of life where all seven days is a luxurious advantage, and we should all be able to ask, “What is a Weekend?” because we’re enjoying each day without boundaries or parameters.

NY Magazine has a page attributing the best Maggie Smith/Duchess quotes. I find them fantastic – on any day of the week.

http://nymag.com/daily/entertainment/2011/01/downton_abbey_maggie_smith_quo.html