Running Teleflora was a dream job. I was in charge of marketing and product development, and, of course, I supervised all my new friends in the sales force, which I gradually shaped to fit my vision. The business was growing, and so were profits. I had reached a point where I could start delegating some of the work – provided I could let go of a certain nagging perfectionism (which today has a fancy name and a medication regime to go along with it).
My job was fulfilling, and my life with my husband Stewart and our kids had hit a stretch of smooth sailing, about as close to domestic bliss as any family gets. For the first time in my life, things seemed comfortable and easy. With everything going so well, there was naturally only one thing left to do: shake it up.
In 1981, I hired a news clipping service to begin tracking a direct-response company called the Franklin Mint. There were similarities between the Mint and Teleflora. The Mint created unique products, just as we did, only without the flowers. In those days, their products were mostly coins and medallions, a few porcelain vases, and some miniature knickknacks worthy of display in a “free with purchase” vitrine. Unlike Teleflora, the Mint sold its collectibles through direct response, with no middleman between the company and its consumers. It was something I longed to do.
I’m pretty ambivalent about the Olympics. I watched the opening ceremonies so that I could hear the announcer say “ceremony” the British way, and because I love a good national spectacle. I was thrilled to hear Branagh recite Shakespeare, I am always teary when I hear the opening strains of “Jerusalem,” and I admired the man-made Tor that acted as centerpiece to Danny Boyle’s history of Great Britain.
I do not know how old you are.
Two weeks ago, I swallowed my shock at spending over six dollars for a newspaper, and bought a Sunday New York Times. It was a revelation, a joy and so completely absorbing that I periodically had to remind myself to stop reading, and do something useful. Comparisons are odious and all, but since I started reading the Times, I am feeling the pain and guilt of finding a new love and leaving the old one with great relief and not much of a parting glance. Our local paper, despite being the only offering in this state’s capital, has lost all of its charm. It was purchased by some national publishing conglomerate which clearly labors under the impression that, because we live in Flyover, even the goings-on under the Capital dome do not require an experienced and intelligent writing staff. Wire service reports are good enough for us, sometimes about events that occur within 50 miles of our circulation area.
I was particularly popular last week. It began with the arrival of our pin up boy president, Barack Obama, just blocks from my house. Since local streets were closed to prevent us local aliens from crashing the political party, and no one was going anywhere, I decided to throw a blocked by Barack block party in my front yard, to celebrate our proximity to all
the action at the Beverly Hilton. I fired up the gas grill and texted the next door neighbors whose kids sent tweets to others to bring sweets and treats, and we all e’d others and
within an hour we drew a crowd. Folks “came as they were” with whatever was in their refrigerators “as it was.” I have no idea what the expiration dates were on most of the U.F.O’s (unidentified frying objects) on my barbecue, but I sauced, smoked and fed about fifteen denizens of my block who flocked with sniffly progeny to my yard for a gangland eating orgy. Partay!