Love Street - Cassie and Team Bella Vista

 by Liz Zuercher

To see the whole Love Street picture you need to know my side of things, too, my world in the Bella Vista sales office.  It’s not just about the homebuyers.  It's not just Eddie Petrocelli’s story, or John and Kristin Weber’s or Emily’s or Marcy’s or Mitchell’s or Marla’s or Little Chad Grissom’s.  What happened then touched all our lives in one way or another, so I’d like to introduce the people of Monterey Homes – the ones I work with and the ones who are the boss of me.  

Team Bella Vista – The Ones I Work With

Sarah Bryson

First and foremost there is Sarah.  Sarah has worked for Monterey Homes for fifteen years.  We’ve been sales partners for ten years.  She’s ten years older than I am and has been married to David, a landscape architect, for twenty-five years.  They have three great kids, Mark, 22 and entering med school at UCLA, Julie, 18, a freshman at Northwestern’s drama school and Justin, 17, quarterback of the high school football team.  

Sarah’s more of a sister to me than my real sister, more friend than any friend I’ve ever had and more family than co-worker.  She’s my rock, the one who keeps me from going stark-raving mad.  She knows me better than I know myself, and I don’t know how I could do this job without her.  We are both precise about our paperwork and have perfected our methods to the point of being a well-oiled machine.  We are a great team at work, but we don’t see each other much outside of the office.  Sarah’s days off are Thursday and Friday, while mine are Tuesday and Wednesday.  We both work every Saturday and Sunday and are way too tired after work to socialize.  Plus, she has a family to take care of.

Sarah’s tall and elegant, but not particularly slender - not fat, but not skinny either.  Just right, I think, but she’s always worrying about her weight.  She wears classic tailored clothes that make her always look put-together.  She’s a natural down to the fact that she doesn’t even color her hair, letting beautiful pearly gray strands weave their way into the dark brown.  She wears it in a neat chin-length bob that frames her face.

Sarah’s always calm and professional, except where it comes to our boss, Skinny Bitch, who can really light a fire in Sarah’s belly.  Sarah hates incompetence and rudeness, so it stands to reason she wouldn’t get along with Skinny Bitch.  In fact, it is Sarah who started calling Tina Skinny Bitch, which surprised everyone.  The fact that Sarah, who never has an unkind word about anyone, would dream up this name gave it instant credibility.  Now everyone calls Tina that. 

That’s the power Sarah has, even if she doesn’t realize it.  She commands respect just by who she is and how she carries herself.  But she’s always questioning herself and her abilities.  I don’t understand that.  She’s a beautiful, intelligent woman with an infectious smile who makes people feel at ease, yet she’s always putting herself down.  I guess that’s one reason she has never wanted the responsibility of a sales manager’s position.  I for one am glad she hasn’t had that ambition, because then I’d have lost her as a partner. No one would be able to replace Sarah.

Judy Williams

Judy’s our temp.  That’s someone with a real estate license who really works for a temp agency, not the builder, and doesn’t have any say in how the office is run or who we sell to or any of the important stuff.  The temp does whatever the sales manager (me at Bella Vista) asks her to do.  That usually means greeting the customers, handing out brochures, making copies of price sheets, answering the phone, baking cookies, filing, etc.  You want someone who is cheerful and malleable, who doesn’t balk at instruction or question why you’re asking them to do something a particular way.  It takes a while to break in a temp and along the way they will screw some things up that you’ll have to redo.  So, it’s a happy day when you’ve gotten your temp trained, they settle into the routine and you don’t have to keep telling them what to do. 

Judy’s at that point now, but it took a while.  She’s a bubbly twenty-three year old, newly married to her high school sweetheart who works for a mortgage banker.  Sometimes she’s a little too perky, but she’s smart and knows when to back off if she sees I’m stressed out.  She respects the boundaries Sarah and I have set for her.  Most important, she gets our jokes and likes the Krackels in the Hershey’s miniature assortment, which is good because Sarah and I don’t like those and they would go to waste.  Plus it means she won’t be going after my Mr. Goodbars or Sarah’s Special Darks.  Chocolate is important in our workplace – chocolate and laughter - because the tension can get pretty thick.  If you can’t laugh and eat chocolate, you’ll end up in the panic room screaming.

Judy wants to get hired on permanently with Monterey Homes, so she works hard to do what Sarah and I expect of her.  Most of the temps want to get hired, but many of them are really aggressive about it, in your face all the time about recommending them.  Oh, the stories I could tell about conniving temps, as well as just plain obnoxious ones, offensive, clueless, undependable ones.  You never know what you’re going to get when a new temp is scheduled.   Judy’s a good one, a gem really, but she’s still got a lot to learn about this business.  I like her spirit, though, and she makes me feel young.  I hope she stays around awhile.

Doug Prince (AKA Satan)

I’d do almost anything to change the fact that Doug Prince is the Bella Vista construction manager.  It was a sad day when he showed up to replace the superintendent we started out with – Marty Simms, a real prince of a guy who threw a monkey wrench into the whole works when he quit and moved to Texas one month into construction.  We loved Marty.  We had a great team then.

Doug got off on the wrong foot the first day when he swaggered into the sales office to introduce himself.  His reputation as arrogant and difficult to work with arrived long before he did, but Sarah and I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.  Neither of us had ever worked with Doug, but we figured he couldn’t throw anything at us that we couldn’t handle.  After years of happy cooperative relationships with Construction, we were confident Doug would not pose a problem.  Boy, were we wrong!

The first thing he said when he came through the sales office door was, “I’m your new Construction Manager and I’m here to get this place back on track.”  Like we were way off track.

Not, hello, I’m Doug Prince, your new CM, and I’m looking forward to working with you.  Or, how can I help things run smoothly between us?  Or let’s all order some pizza and get acquainted.  Or even, call me whenever you need anything.  Well, actually he did say that last one, but not exactly with a nice guy spin on it.  What he said was, “Don’t ever talk to my assistants.  They report only to me and only do what I tell them to.  So, don’t ask them to do anything for you.  You can only ask me.  Clear?”

Well!  At that he stared hard at me, then at Sarah and when we were too dumbfounded to respond, he said again, this time louder, “Are we clear?”  When we nodded, he gave us a smarmy smile and said, “Follow my rules and we’ll get along fine.”  Then he turned his back on us and strutted out to the parking lot.

“A real charmer,” Sarah said.

“Boy are we in for a rough couple of years,” I said.

Here’s the thing, in new home sales you always want to be on good terms with your construction crew, especially the superintendent.  It’s the only way you can make it through all the ups and downs of a two or three year project and deliver well-built homes to happy customers and keep your sanity in the process. 

We salespeople are on the front lines, the only ones who are supposed to communicate with the buyers.  If we don’t have good lines of communication and cooperation with the guys in the field, we can’t keep the buyers updated.  If the buyers feel like they’re in the dark about the new home they’re spending huge chunks of money on, they aren’t happy campers.  They get skittish and angry and they blame the sales girl, even if the sales girl is just as angry because she can’t get any information from Construction because the superintendent will only let her talk to him and he either doesn’t answer her calls or he flat out lies to her about what’s going on.  She unwittingly passes the lie on to the buyer who then finds out what she told them was going to be done, isn’t at all what happens.  The buyer’s then really upset that they weren’t told the truth and thinks the sales girl is a liar when really it’s that scumbag of a CM who’s the liar.  So when the buyer moves in and gets his satisfaction survey to fill out, he gives Sales a 1 out of 10 on the question, “The sales representative was honest and trustworthy”.  Since the only time the buyer met the CM was months before on the Construction Manager’s tour, and the CM was all smiles and reassuring and made them feel like he knew what he was doing, when they get to the question about whether the CM did a good job, they fill in the 10 box.

Okay, I guess you can tell that I don’t like Doug Prince.  He has made my life miserable from the first day he darkened my door, so I started calling him Prince of Darkness, which eventually evolved into Satan.  We are locked in mortal battle – good versus evil - until one of us gets handed our walking papers.  It doesn’t make for the best possible working environment.  We’re supposed to be TEAM Bella Vista, after all, and he’s not a team player.

I could put up with his abrasive personality if he did his job well, but not only is he a liar, he’s incompetent.  And, as is often the way with such people, he has pulled the wool over the eyes of his immediate boss, Phil, and the VP of Construction, George, who both think he’s a star and I am the one who is causing all the friction on Team Bella Vista.  When we face off on an issue, Satan always ends the battle the same way.  He grins at me and says, “I’m gonna tell Phil about this.”  Sure enough, the minute he’s out the door he whips out his phone.  Within the hour I’m getting a call from the Project Manager telling me to shape up and start getting along with Doug.  My only hope is that one of these days they all start seeing through his smoke screen, but that’s going to take some big screw-up on Satan’s part.  I hope I last that long.

Manny Perez

Every project needs someone who keeps people laughing.  That guy for us is Manny Perez, our customer service representative.  I’ve never met a person with a better disposition.  Manny is the light of our lives here at Bella Vista.  He’s a little bit roly-poly, and he isn’t always the picture of sartorial splendor with his Monterey Homes polo shirt untucked and his jeans sagging.  But he has the smile of an angel and a can-do attitude, which he regularly needs to employ with our buyers.

I could take lessons from Manny on how to deal with Satan.  No one handles Satan better than Manny does.  He can gracefully deflect the worst of Satan’s rage with one of his jokes, leaving Satan flummoxed and at a loss for words.  I just love that.  I think Manny learned this trait from being the father of eight, four of whom are troubled kids he and his wife, Juana, adopted as pre-teens.  Manny is a saint.

Manny is also a wizard at fixing things.  He’s been with the company for twenty-four years.  I know that because he keeps ticking off the days until he gets his award for twenty-five years of service at the Christmas party this year.  He’s had his chances for promotion to the main office, but he likes the freedom of being in the field, and he loves getting to know the families we sell homes to.  My homeowners, he calls them all, even the ones like Eddie Petrocelli, who would try anyone’s patience.

On the down side, Manny’s kind of old school and hasn’t taken well to all the new technology the company’s using.  Computers are a mystery to him, and he has struggled with all the electronic reports the company’s requiring.  Give him a hammer, wrench or screwdriver and he’ll run circles around you.  But hand him a laptop and he’s lost.  I’ve been giving him lessons after hours to help him get up to speed, but I’m afraid he might be hopeless at it.  It would be a crying shame to lose a guy like Manny just because he has trouble sending an email.  But Manny’s boss, Art Baker, loves the computer and comes up with a new Excel spreadsheet every week that his guys in the field have to use.  That’s why I’m worried about Manny.  I’m afraid the ones who can’t keep up will be sent packing, even if they’re the best customer service rep ever.  

Mike, Jimmy and Karl

These are the guys Sarah and I aren’t allowed to talk to, because they work for Satan.  Mike is the assistant construction manager.  Jimmy and Karl are a rung below Mike on the ladder.  In a normal neighborhood we would all be part of the team and all be able to talk to each other, help each other out.  But Satan has put the kibosh on that, so I don’t know these guys all that well.  I get in trouble if I even wave at them from my golf cart as I take prospective buyers to look at the homes.  They aren’t allowed to come into the sales office to say hello or get a cookie, unless Satan has invited them to attend the Monday afternoon team meeting.  I think they’re probably good guys, but I don’t really know.

Brenda Myles

Brenda is our team’s designer.  She coordinates all the buyer options at the Design Studio, makes sure all the selections are made by the cut-off dates and that the proper materials go in each home.  She works at the Design Studio, but she comes to our Monday afternoon team meetings to represent the design and options side of things.  If we haven’t sold a home as the cut-off date approaches, Brenda and I have to make option selections we think most buyers would like.  I tend toward neutrals, as I’ve found that’s what works best.  Brenda, though, always wants to show her designer chops by choosing unusual colors or unique tiles that would have a limited appeal.  They might be lovely selections, but they’re not for everyone.  That makes me a little crazy, because I’m the one who then has to find a buyer who likes that orange tile.  Oops, I’m letting my frustration show.

I shouldn’t speak ill of Brenda.  She’s new at this game and hasn’t learned yet what works and what doesn’t.  I do like her.  She’s an attractive, pleasant gal, who reminds me of Julia Roberts in her looks, although she dresses for a design studio and not a construction site.  She’s always worried about her expensive spike heeled sandals when we have to visit a home site, and I’ve mentioned more than once that flat, closed toe shoes work better where there are random nails, mud puddles and blobs of stucco overspray to navigate.  Time will tell if she can fit into the scheme.  The other thing is that her paperwork is sloppy, and that makes me crazy, too.  Okay, I guess my jury’s still out on Brenda.

So that’s our team, if you can call it that.  Since Satan came on board, the team spirit has been sagging to say the least – not the best condition for weathering an economic storm of biblical proportions.

Next time:  The Ones Who are the Boss of Me. 

The Lady Business

Another scene from my ongoing coming-of-age novel called The Lady Business.

 by Susan Matthewson     

Since I started my period last month, mama’s project of turning me from a tomboy into a young lady has intensified. She’s always scanning me like radar, alert for unladylike behaviors—like biting my nails, screeching at the top of my lungs, slumping when I walk, laughing too loud, and sitting on the couch with my legs spread eagled (somehow that one really gets her going).\

Mama never raises her voice or loses her temper, but you can always tell when she’s mad or serious because her soft Southern accent that sounds like honey puddling over hot biscuits takes on a flat, harsh edge like dried up brown sugar. I’ve been hearing that dried up tone too often, most recently this morning when she was annoyed because I wasn’t wearing the starter bra she just bought. Mama says my bosoms are blooming and I need to wear a bra. Mama always refers to breasts as bosoms. She says it’s more polite. But my daily inspections in the mirror reveal a chest flat as a board. I see no signs of bloom. I don’t even see a bud. I cannot be bothered by all the extra equipment and aggravating body processes involved with this lady business.  Considering menstrual periods, sanitary belts and napkins, shaving legs and underarms, cleaning fingernails—well, it just seems an unfair burden.

Hoping to avoid putting on that bra, I slipped out the back door into the alley and out of mama’s sight. That’s how I met Indy Jo Della Rippa.

The Della Rippas are new to our neighborhood and a hot topic of conversation. Mama never gossips, but I’ve heard other neighbors refer to Indy Jo as “cheap,” “flashy,” “fast.” Most women on our block don’t work, except for Mrs. Clarke, a music teacher, and Mrs. Harmon, the school nurse. Indy Jo works and it’s what she does that has everyone in a tizzy because she’s a cocktail waitress at the Airport Lounge. I don’t understand the uproar about this, although I guess it could catch you off guard to see Indy Jo prancing out her front door on the way to work in our sedate little neighborhood wearing high heels and black fishnet stockings with white ruffled panties peeking out from under the short satin skirt of a French maid’s costume   . Still, I think she’s kind of interesting. She’s definitely different.

                

So I was surprised when I passed the Della Rippas backyard to hear another Southern accent calling out, “Hey, sugar, what y’all up to today?”

                

A flash of bright color caught the corner of my eye and I turned to see Indy Jo strutting toward me wearing hot pink short shorts and a halter bra. She had a pink silk scarf tied around her platinum blond, shoulder-length hair that was all puffed up on the top and sides and turned up on the ends like a country western singer. She had on sparkly silver sandals and wore hot pink lipstick with rose-colored eye shadow.    

                

I couldn’t help but notice she had the biggest bosoms I’d ever seen in my life. Watching her jiggle around, I finally saw how a bra, which seemed so extraneous to me, could be of major significance to someone like Indy Jo. When she invited me in to have a soda pop with her, I knew right away that Indy Jo, different like me, just might be a kindred spirit.

                

To Tree or Not to Tree

by Liz Zuercher

We just moved into a smaller home and I can’t figure out where to put the Christmas tree.  I asked Gary what he thought about one spot in the living room and he nixed it.

“It would block traffic,” he said. “We’d knock it over every time we walked into the room.  Don’t bother with a tree.  Just put a wreath above the fireplace.”

“Wouldn’t Eric be sad not to have a tree for Christmas?” I said.  Gary shrugged.  Obviously, it doesn’t make any difference to him, but I feel a duty to make a nice Christmas for everyone.  Shouldn’t that include a tree?

I get that from my mother.  She worked hard to make Christmas special for her family, something I never appreciated until I became a mother.  What used to be a fun holiday became a stressful task with a firm deadline.  There were little people with great expectations, and I couldn’t let them down.  But it was always worth the effort - the kids putting their special ornaments on the tree, seeing their faces on Christmas morning when they saw their presents under the tree, the whole family sitting around the tree unwrapping gifts, the kids playing with their new toys next to the tree.  See?  It all revolves around the tree.  How could we not have a tree?

I admit that in recent years, our Christmases have been out of the ordinary.  Our boys are now thirtysomething men.  Greg lives two thousand miles away and rarely gets back for Christmas.  There are no grandchildren whose eyes light up on Christmas morning.  It’s become a low-key adult affair unbound by tradition except for the crab dip, sandbars, almond roca and lottery scratchers in our stockings.  We have a nice meal, then Gary naps while Eric and I tackle a puzzle and watch something on TV.  One year we watched a whole season of “Dexter”.   I call it the Christmas of Murder and Mayhem.

So, yes, we buck tradition – we are the ones who have Chicago deep-dish pizza for Thanksgiving dinner after all - but to go without a Christmas tree?  Really?

I long ago ditched the real trees in favor of pre-lighted artificial ones.  The last real tree we had was twenty years ago when my sister and her family came from Colorado to spend the holidays with us and to surprise my mother for her 75^th birthday.  That was one magnificent tree, made most memorable by the fact that our whole family gathered around it.

That’s the key, isn’t it?  It isn’t really about the trappings of Christmas.  It’s about the experiences shared with loved ones.  Gary would nod in agreement and tell me to eighty-six the tree.  But wouldn’t Eric be disappointed?

On Thanksgiving I asked Eric where he thought the tree should go.  Without hesitation, he said, “Just forget the tree.”

Gary threw both arms up over his head in victory.  “Yes!  See?” he said.

I felt defeated.  Had all my Christmas efforts been in vain?  Didn’t they care about any of it?

Then Eric said, “But, Mom, there’s no mantle on this fireplace.  Where will we hang the stockings?”

Ah, Christmas lives, with or without a tree.  But I’d sure better find a way to hang those stockings, the ones with the lottery scratchers.   

            

Unpredictable

by Susan Cameron

Unpredictable, that's what life is. We do the best we can with our plans and projections, but there we are -- driving along on our usual route on an ordinary day, when an incoming meteor blasts through the clouds, a hurtling fireball screaming through a previously untroubled sky, and it explodes and sends shock waves that shatter our windows and send us reeling. We like to imagine we're in control, but -- meteors happen.

How about the friends who blow hot and cold, or the spouse who does the same? A career that rolls along, predictable as the tides, until a tsunami of layoffs comes crashing onto the beach? The shadow on the X-ray? The money invested with Bernie Madoff? The Enron pension?

I read the news, check the bank balances, get the latest news on my stock holdings, go three times a year to www.annualcreditreport.com, fix all the problems that I can see or anticipate; but despite all my proactivity, there isn't one damn thing I can do about life's meteors.

Susan Cameron
copyright 2013