I’m perched at my desk perusing my electronic calendar. A quick look at the last week of the month leaves me feeling like I’m sitting pretty for the second half of 2009:
- Chicago – 24-hour whirlwind trip for a cocktail party and lavish networking dinner? Check.
- Hilton Head – 3 days at the posh historic beach-side hotel for schoomizing with nationally-renowned therapists? Complete.
- Salt Lake City – quick trip for a meet-and-greet with staffers at the ritzy rehab? Done. (OK, I’ll admit SLC is not so great, but I’d rather lounge around the Crown Room with a seaming mocha than stare at my computer any day.)
I’ve been at my current consulting gig for seven months and it’s beginning to suit me. What is supposed to be a marketing position has turned into a straightforward sales job and I’ve surprised myself with what appears to be my ability to belch up an endless array of vacuous but always entertaining conversation topics. After years of trying to prove worth with ‘substantial contributions’ like bogus Master’s degrees from exclusive universities, tournament wins at Toastmasters and PowerPoint presentations that would turn Garr Reynolds green, seems my greatest natural gift is as a BS-slinging, easy-laughing sales chick.
And I’m proud of it. Thanks Zig Ziglar. (Remember kids, if you can’t get a sale, get a referral.)
So much for substance. Sure wish I could get a big fat tuition refund from the Jesuits. Or a hat like the Pope wears. Or a ride in his Pope-mobile.
Since no one else seems even remotely interesting in any part of my job, I’ve taken the opportunity to anoint myself as Corporate Sales Chick complete with travel budget, two different business cards and tastefully customized thank you notes. With all these accouterments, I’m pretty much licking my chops like the cat who swiped some sushi.
A quick glance at next week piques my interest. I’ve arranged a dog and pony show, complete with tour of the program, for two guys from a nation-wide referral group with enough clients to fill my inventory for the year. Keep these guys happy, I think, and I’m cashing bonus checks in January with enough loot in my ski vacation kitty to chase Heidi Klum and her brood down the slopes in Aspen for week. (I know that Heidi and the hubby lug the kids there after the holidays because I snagged a picture of her traipsing through the ultra expensiv-o shopping district, complete with runny nose, from a site that features glamorous women looking like hell. I keep that photo on my desk right next to the pixilated version of Pam Anderson. Not pretty sights, but those photos have seen me through more than a few bad complexion days.)
So when the phone rang and the caller ID indicates it’s one of them, I hear the happy cha-chinging of cash registers ringing up my new wardrobe purchases including Fall 2009’s must-have accessory, a plum colored shoulder bag.
“Hi Leslie. It’s Arthur with Bottomless Pit of Referrals Corp. How are ya?”
“Hey Arthur. I’m peachy-keen. Can’t wait to see you next week.”
“Yea, next week. We have a blip on the screen.”
Blip? It’s been my experience that blips are not good. Does he not know that blips are not a part of my second half marketing plan designed to have Miss Leslie sitting fat and satisfied, flush with cash? Dude, mine is a blip-free zone.
“So Arthur, I’m all ears. Do explain your blip.”
“Well, we sort of had a difference of opinion.”
“That happens in business. By saying ‘we,’ I assume you mean Greg.” He of the big-time corporate VP title and decision maker for much business that I have decided must come my way.
“Yes.” Arthur sniffs, “We’ve agreed to disagree.”
“You zigged, they zagged, huh?”
“You could put it that way. But I’m taking the high road. I’ve been in this business for ….”
Blah, blah, blahblablah blah. I can’t bear to listen to Arthur’s droning, but I can be summed it up thusly: Someone said something he shouldn’t have said and got his flat, middle-aged hiney fired.
Crap. I’ve been prancing around the office all week bragging about this deal. I’ve had docs and nurses and managers all lined up for this occasion and one grey haired guy shoots his mouth off like some pissy high school sophomore girl and rains in my cash parade. Now all I can hear is a ‘giant sucking sound’ of dollars flying out of my badly-in-need-of-a-manicure’ fist. (Thank you H. Ross Perot for your Nafta-inspired catch phrase.)
“So I guess you won’t be down for the big tour next week, right?” And my plum-colored bag with really great hardware is going by the way side too. Had they been there, my NYC friends would have gasped, “What a pisser.”
“I won’t be there but you can call Greg. He might still find some time.”
“Find some time?” Now them are fighting words. “Hasn’t the tour been on his calendar for a month?” Because that’s how long I’ve waited to swoop-up the aforementioned plum-color ‘must have’ bag.
My tone reaches just short of venomous (but my WASPy demeanor remains untainted. Even when she’s nasty, everyone loves Leslie!) and Arthur backs down.
“I’ve talked you up so much I’m sure he’ll make time to stop by.”
“Stop by? So this trip isn’t on his calendar?”
He begins back peddling like Lance Armstrong after he’s taken a wrong turn in the French Alps. “I can’t comment on what is or isn’t on his calendar, but you’re number one on my referral list.”
Excellent. I’m numero uno on a list with no clients. This is not new territory for me.
I cut my losses and bid Arthur au dieu. Then I ring Greg because I can’t wait to measure how much damage Arthur’s teenaged girl antics have really caused.
I catch Greg on his cell and in quick order figure out that he:
- Never heard of me
- Hadn’t heard of the company for which I work
- Was wholly unaware that he was scheduled to meet moi and tour the place. A business failure trifecta.
So the situation is worse than I thought.
So there I sit, Little Miss Nobody chatting away with the King of Referrals like he’s my best buddy, when he tries to blow me off. Poor decision Your Highness. Time to employ the time-honored and always reliable coercion tactic: guilt. And I commence laying it on thick.
“Well Greg, it’s too bad your PDA was not kept up-to-date. Several senior managers here have time carved-out of their day to spend with you. And you know how difficult it is to coordinate multiple schedules. And the lunch menu has already been approved.” And, by the way you jerk, I bought new mascara to guarantee my lashes wouldn’t be clumpy. Come to think of it, it’s plum colored too. Shows off the whites of my eyes.
“Ah well, I’m sorry you’ll have to cancel the meetings. Arthur and the company decided to part ways abruptly.” This guys starts to sound like his first hot girlfriend dropped due to his lack of equal hotness. “It’s a most unfortunate circumstance that’s resulted from an unforeseen situation.”
“I agree. But I’m sure there are alternatives.” Here’s where I begin slathering on the guilt with a spatula. “Are you planning on attending the convention at the end of the month?”
I hear the smile return to his voice. Sales guys completely live for conventions and I’m slightly disappointed to realize I’ll let my personal standards drag on the ground to shore up my checking account balance. “Yes. I’ll be there all week.”
Here’s where I cash in my chips and get national exposure. I refuse to be overlooked because the regional dufus messed me up. One step back, ten steps forward, right? Besides, Arthur already told me about the possibility of getting invited to the Big Fat Luau this company hosts every year, so I go for the kill.
“Great. We can meet then. Dinner perhaps? With other members of your team?” I know full well that his dance card is filled with bigger fish than moi, but I refuse to take no for an answer.
Greg stammers and I hear the familiar ding, ding, ding of a car door opening. “Ah, sure. In fact, why don’t you join us at our annual dinner? Fifty of our closest friends will be there.”
“Well thank you. I’d love to attend.” Read: mucho business coming my way. This party is legendary for its list of big-shot attendees and their untoward behavior. Sign me up. And thus, the plum-colored bag returns to Leslie’s Fall wardrobe. Score! “So I guess I’m the 50th guest, correct?”
“Well no. You’re the 51st.”
Yes indeed, charm never fails me. Just add a chair. I’ll pretend I’m at the children’s table at Thanksgiving.
Greg and I part as friends and I’m winging my way to Hilton Head in short order, invitation safely tucked into my tastefully monogrammed pad folio.
How I wish these two could have ended their differences in a more spectacular fashion. I image them duking it out like real teenaged girls in a winner-takes-all “Whining-Men-Jello-Wrestling-smack-down” complete with Speedos. (Cover your eyes. These guys aren’t gym rats.)
So I’m off to the convention sans Arthur but ready to chat up The Greg-ster, my best friend for next week. Or for as long as I need him.
After an afternoon on the phone, all I can hear is the echo of two men squealing.
Hysterical! I don’t know anyone who could turn down your charm. Go get ‘em, Tiger!