Cross Your Fingers

Deepest apologies for not posting in a million years.

I've had nothing but deadlines and the occasional lunch with friends and have simply not had anything fun or entertaining to tell you. Either of you.

But! Now I do.

Last Thursday, it was announced that a decades old call centre (for a major international retailer that may start with an "S" and end with an "Ears"), would be shutting it's doors to the Regina centre come September, thus putting 250 employees out of work.

(Thank you, J. for being a loyal and attentive News Talk Radio Listener and alerting me to this development.)

Because my mantra is "Wait Not", I immediately set to work using my highly sophistocated research techniques (read: Google) to find out exactly who I could contact at the major international retailer to help with outplacement services on a local level. Well. Turns out, Sears isn't so forthcoming in offering this information to the public.

But that's ok. Because I started out my career as a receptionist, and later as an EA, I know exactly how to get through the tangle of switchboard operators, receptionists and Executive Assistants whose JOB IT IS to keep people like me from getting through to the Importants. (Importants: Important People Who Are Much Too Busy With Terribly Important Things To Be Bothered With Little Companies Like Mine.)

The first thing you have to have when calling is a NAME. You can't just ask for "the Director of So and So" or they KNOW you're soliciting. The only name I could find was the person quoted in the press release announcing the call centre closure. So, I called the main number. Got the switchboard. Switchboard put me through to an EA in the Executive Office. And she? Seemed none too pleased that I had the nerve to cause her telephone to ring. Wanted to know why I was calling HER. Ummm, because the switchboard put me through to you? That seemed to placate her. She asked WHY I was calling. I told her it was pertaining to the announcement earlier in the day regarding the mass layoffs in Regina, and also Bellville Ontario. What Layoffs? She said. There has not been an annoucement, and there has not been any layoffs.

Uh oh.

(Because EA's are famously proud of knowing the intricate ins and outs of their place of work, there's nothing an EA hates more than to learn of major company goings on through a random chick who had the nerve to cause their telephones to ring.)

Indeed, the announcement was made this morning. Would you like me to send the link?

(At this point, I am internally shrieking "Get her to transfer you! She's about to BLOW!)

Listen, if you wouldn't mind, I really need to get in touch with Mr. National Director of Communications, and if I could get his contact info from you, I'll be out of your hair and you can go investigate this further...

Heh. Did I not say I was a pro at getting through the rotweillers?

I dial the number she gave me, not knowing if it's the number to the office of the National Director of Communications, or his direct line - and as I am readying myself for another rotweiller, I get the PERSONAL VOICE MAIL FOR THE NATIONAL DIRECTOR OF COMMUNICATIONS FOR SEARS CANADA.

Perfect!

I left him a message. A really nice message. How do I know it was nice? Because HE TOLD ME SO when he returned my call not 15 minutes later.

The man came from retail. He knows customer service.

The National Director of Communications couldn't have been a) more polite, b) more accommodating, or c) more lovely to talk to.

He said he appreciated my call. But he probably wasn't the exact right person to talk to. He then proceeded to give me the contact information for the NATIONAL DIRECTOR OF HUMAN RESOURCES.

I could hardly believe my good fortune. I thanked him (and meant it) for returning my call.

So now, after leaving a message from the National Director of Human Resources at Sears Canada, and him returning my call (I missed it. It was at 6am. Damned Time Zones!) and leaving another message on his voice mail, I am now waiting to hear back from HIM.

In his message to me, he said "although we do have something lined up in terms of outplacement services, I would still like to talk to you about what you do"

HOLY SHIT.

If there's one thing I've learned, it's that: Life loves nothing more than when you grab it by the lapels and say "Let's do it!"

Cross your fingers for me, would you?

Lise Merle
Intertwine Design + Communications
hello@intertwine.ca

Growing Up Small in Pense, Saskatchewan - Part 1

Last week, on my way to somewhere else, I stopped in and visited the town I grew up in.

I once heard Pense, Saskatchewan described as a place that was a long way to go to be nowhere when you got there.

So to save you the time and expense, Welcome to Pense.

I, for one, want to know who picked the font for the Welcome sign. Only horror movies from the 50's and carnival freak shows use that font. Oh, and the Town of Pense. Welcome! Enter if you Dare....

The house with the red tile roof in the background is a house I am intimately familiar with. My babysitter, Maria Whaley and her family lived in it my whole growing up life. This house was one of only a handful of houses located South of the Railroad Tracks. The rest of the town was on the North side of the Railroad Tracks. Maria was an artist and said "Get Outta My Road!" at least a hundred times every day. The window at right (between the branches of the trees) belonged to Maria's daughter, Marissa. Marissa was exactly my age (she was born on the exact day Elvis Presley died), had the longest flaxen colored hair, and had a canopy bed that made me sick with want. Her window faced south (and also the Transcanada Highway) and was the perfect vantage point for watching for my mom to come home from work. The Highway was just over a km south, and I could just make out the colors of the cars. Pense was so exceedingly small that if I saw a spot of a red car, blinker on, slowing down, any time between 5:45 and 6:15, I knew to get my shoes on. My mom was comin' to get me.

This is the last remaining grain elevator at Pense. When I was small, they knocked down the old brown wooden one, and the Menfolk stood around and shot at the rats that had taken up residence inside.

This is also the location that the kids of Pense, with very little to do, entertainment wise - flew their kites.

From the top of the elevator.

This practice came to a screaming halt when another little friend, Sherri Kohut, lost her footing and fell down the ladder and landed right on her bottom. Her dad was summoned and as he was loading her into his truck, gave me the WORST stink eye I had yet received in my life.

Hey, Mister, I thought. I didn't PUSH her or anything. Although after that look you just gave me, I now wish I HAD.

Here is the field on the North side of the tracks. When I was small, there wasn't anything here. No little path, and certainly no cut grass. Just a long, narrow ditch where spring run off collected in big, freezing cold. muddy colored puddles. It's also the place I almost died under tragic circumstances.

I mentioned that the babysitter's house was on the South side of the tracks? And the school (and everything else) was on the North side of the tracks? Yes, I did.

Well, to get to school, we would short cut. Over the tracks. Sometimes, there would be actual trains in the way. No matter. We would go under them. EVEN IF THEY WERE MOVING.

The thought of crawling under moving trains today makes my stomach sick. Because one day, when we were about 7, Marissa Whaley and I BOTH got a walkman. And because the field above was flooded with spring run off, and the entire surface of the huge puddle was covered in a thin layer of ice, we decided, after crawling under a train, to walk down the tracks to circumvent the puddle. So there we were, two little girls, one in cowboy boots (Marissa), and one with hair that looked like a big old hair alarm was going off (Me), walking down the tracks, listening to our brand new shiny walkmans...rushing to school because we were almost always late.

Something moving on the left caught my eye. Big Old Bill McNabb, who owned a garage and gas station directly across from the tracks, was full out RUNNING towards us...breaking through the ice, water splashing up around him, mouth open and twisted. The look of him without any accompanying noise was comical. I backhanded Marissa (who also had her headphones on) in the stomach and pointed at Bill. She looked over at him (still running) and waved politely. He pointed. VIOLENTLY POINTED. Still running. SCREAMING. Face red. POINTED. LOOK BEHIND YOU.

And there, behind us, less than 5 railroad cars behind us, was a monster train, barrelling down the tracks.

Bill McNabb, on account of being a mechanic, had the upper body of a gorilla, and hands the size of toilet seats. Seconds after we lept from the tracks, Bill finally made it to us and with the upper body strength of a gorilla, spanked us. HARD.

You stupid, (SPANK) stupid (SPANK) little (SPANK) children! Don't (SPANK) you (SPANK) know you (SPANK) coulda (SPANK) been (SPANK) killed (SPANK SPANK SPANK)????

After that, with our bottoms stinging after school, there was huge outcry. Stupid little children were no longer permitted to go near trains, under trains, or anywhere there could be trains. And rightly so.

Tune in next time for a tour of the North side of town. Complete with a barn, a dug out, the school and our house.

Lise Merle

Intertwine Design + Communications

Dear Universe

Please let RL have a kick ass interview tomorrow.

Kindest Regards,

Lise Merle

Fare Thee Well, Love

In some First Nations languages, the word "Auntie" is the same as the word "Mother".

Indeed.

On May 29th, 2009, the classiest, and most dignified woman I have ever had the pleasure of knowing (and, being related to), grew her wings and danced her way into the spirit world.

After my own Mom died, in October of 2007, Auntie Anne Marie, along with her husband, my Uncle Charlie, (who will be lovingly referred to from this point on as AAM & UC) stepped in and made the most wonderful effort to care for me like parents would.

They attended our wedding in Las Vegas, and with their daughter (my beautiful and thoughtful cousin), Kirsten, made sure I had something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. AAM seamlessly took over the role of "Mom", called me "My Girl" and made sure we had somewhere to go for Christmas and other holidays, and was generally exactly what I needed, when I needed it.

She sent our kids fun things in the mail, and, because she was the most thoughtful person ever to live, made photo collages for us of all of the travelling we did together.

This last January, we were able to holiday with AAM & UC in Las Vegas for a week. How happy and lucky we all were to have made all of those memories before we knew of her illness, and prior to her illness setting in.

The memory that is front and formost in my mind at this very moment was with AAM when we were in the Paris Resort and Casino.

I literally dragged AAM into the washroom (which was empty, except for us) and told her to pick a stall, sit down, and listen.

I had discovered, minutes previously, that in the washrooms, over the sound system, in Paris Resort and Casino in Las Vegas, they teach you how to say dirty things in French while you are...um....sitting...in the washroom.

When AAM realized what it was she was listening to, she opened the stall and hung onto the door for support, she was laughing THAT HARD.

She fell into my arms and we had a hug, in the washroom, and just laughed together.

How I miss her already.

Safe journies, AAM. My lovely, most cherished Aunt.