*Clive Owen’s phone number is exempt from this rule.

As a consultant in the world of all things digital, I was pretty excited when Klout came on the scene. Finally — a tangible metric to help determine social influence! Whom should you listen to? Why? What fields did they influence?

And today, I’ll tell ya — it’s all a bunch of noise.

I’ve been award K+ in the areas of Writing, Bacon, Blogging, and Social Media. Even Marketing. What the hell does that even mean? That’s like saying Imelda Marcos is influential in shopping or Hitler in the realm of black, white, and red logos. Klout is entirely too general and too easily gamed to have any import to anyone. Unless you’re a person who lives and dies by numbers.

Here’s what a Klout score of 63 (my latest ranking) means:

• I get to test drive a Chevy Volt for 3 days without providing a credit card nor without any validation that I would, indeed, be able to purchase a $45,000 car. Or that anyone I know would. Or would want to. I’m sent a post-test drive survey I don’t complete because my inbox looks like the DMZ and I have more compelling, revenue-generating activities that demand my attention.
• People can see I’m influential in writing, which is super useful. Which prompts most of the new business inquiry emails in my inbox from people who said they saw I was influential in writing and they’d love for me to write for them. Also, this doesn’t happen.

Ummm…yeah. That’s it.

So I’m leaving the schoolyard political arena and ditching Klout, because it’s time to focus on something important that’s unable to be quantified with a number on a scale of 1 to 100 — what’s important to me. Some examples:

• Solutions that get my clients from where they are to where they need to go. While data is a component of measuring progress, I can’t remember the last time I had a client say, “Hey Erika — that’s really a 86 effort.”
• My interests. Everything from cycling to literature to kinky pictures of pygmy marmosets and bananas. This is shit I dig and none of it comes with numbers.
• My worth as a professional and a human. I can’t wait until the day someone asks me, “Why can’t I see your Klout score?” If you need a number to determine whether I’m worth having as a part of your community or handling your business, then I’m definitely not the person you need. Because if YOU can tell me the precise criteria that go into determining a Klout score, I’ll happily share with you where I buried The Lost Ark (and the exact location where I gave Harrison Ford a blow job after I made him say that precious line about snakes for my own amusement). My worth is defined by the people in my life and what we share — clients and friends included. It’s not based on a number. How much of an asshole would I be if I didn’t deign to entertain anyone who wasn’t at least a 42?

There are two numbers constant in my life: 64 and 8.5. One is my height in inches and the other, my shoe size. They’re really they only numbers to which I give any credence. Everything else is ethereal and constantly in flux. And there’s more to the human condition and what drives us to do what we do and love the things we love.

Last night, a friend shared with me an MP3 of William Faulkner’s Nobel Prize for Literature acceptance speech — a much-needed reminder of why I do what I do for a living and am graced with the ability to continue.

Because I make people feel.

Numbers don’t make people feel anything material. And while a weird segue, maybe Faulkner’s words will strike a chord with you as well. I’m going back to paying attention to the things that make a difference — and if you feel the same way after kicking it with Willie, you can delete your Klout profile using this link.

I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work – a life’s work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand here where I am standing.

Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.

He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed – love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.

Until he relearns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last dingdong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking.

I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet’s, the writer’s, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet’s voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.

Source: NobelPrize.org

I artfully inserted myself into Beatrice Olivia the Mini Cooper, donned a sizable pair of sunglasses, adjusted the rack around the seatbelt and pointed myself towards downtown. I thought it was quite fitting that the cheesy keyboard intro to Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again” began pouring through my speakers as I turned onto the main road.

I always feel a bit trashy when I put on a strapless top or dress and the Whitesnake serenade only amplified my wardrobe decisions. But fuck it. I have no problem admitting that I, like so many other women, have longed for our Tawny Kitaen moment. There is absolutely nothing remarkable or life-changing about writhing around on the hood of a pair of Jaguars, but there IS  a certain gratuitous satisfaction in knowing that it is possible. But let’s face it — it is undeniably sexy in the vernacular of the late 80s and early 90s. And — Tawny is hot. Though I can’t support the obvious safety implications involved in making out behind the wheel of a moving car (shame on you, David Coverdale), the video has offered motivation for many a kleenex-and-lotion moment for men of all ages.

But I digress.

It’s fun to have memory triggers that take you somewhere else, especially when your Now isn’t a place you’re particularly fond of being. I’ve been in a place cordoned off by writer’s block and it’s a Whitesnake moment that’s brought me here on a Friday to tell you that it fucking sucks immortal moose balls. To have things to say but have nothing at the same time. I sit in front of a keyboard and with all that’s going on in life and business, I show up to you not with some Bitch Slap about how women and public restrooms disgust me (a bit on this in a moment) or a come-to-Jesus-the-Dishwasher, life-changing rant about the business world.

I show up with a blog post featuring 4:34 song about a (have you ever listened to the lyrics?) guy dooming himself to doing the same thing he’s always done — yet again — featuring a redheaded femme throwing herself at him like a goddamn frisbee.

A bit on the ladies and the public restrooms — are you fucking serious?

I’ve ranted about this before, but do you walk into the restroom in your house, piss all over the seat, not flush, and then wait for someone else to come and clean that shit up? No? Well quit doing it in public. I’m tired of playing Bathroom Stall Bingo, which is a curious game of What’s Behind Door Numbers 1, 2, and 3 (sometimes 4 AND 5), just to find a toilet to use that hasn’t been polluted. The Exxon Valdez cleanup was an easier feat than some of the messes you women leave behind. So quit acting like some magic piss-mopping bunny is going to come hopping along behind you when you’re out in public and do these two things:

Pee IN the toilet, not ON it.

Flush it (twice, if need be) when you’re done.

For. Fuck’s. Sake.

I guess the moral of the story is this: there’s no telling what will break you out of your reverie. I drove for a good five minutes last night writhing around on the hood of a pair of Jaguars. In my head. And it brought me to a good place. When this video came out in 1987, I was a freshman in high school and the most complicated thing in my life was possibly figuring out how to get more than a 4.0 GPA and if there were chemicals that would allow me to bleach my hair to a brighter shade of blonde without turning it orange. Ah, the challenges of youth! But maybe we need to go back to simpler times on occasion — when we didn’t have all of the context we have now. A change in perspective is always good to break us out of whatever rut we find ourselves in and this Tawny Kitaen moment was, perhaps mine.

So that’s it. I’ve manufactured 750+ words today on nothing of raging import, but in the process, reminded myself that I should probably find more time in my life for writhing around on hoods of Jaguars — if only in my head. Have a fantastic fucking Friday. I’m going mountain biking tomorrow and will probably run an off-the-couch half marathon on Sunday. Tune in Monday, as it’s likely that the only thing on my body that will be working are my fingers.

Also — have you downloaded a FREE sneak peek of The Power of Unpopular? I’m super excited to announce that sales are going VERY well. Enter your email address on the bottom right of this page and git you sum.

Have you read The Shattering? I recently had a guest “manifesto” featured on 800CEOread’s ChangeThis. People seem to like it. Perhaps you will as well. You can download it on the page linked. (click “download” in orange)

Here is a picture of a pygmy hippopotamus. Because you’re fucking awesome, that’s why.

I had my hometown book signing event and, in a flurry of shitty scheduling on my part, left every single note I had at home and felt completely ungrounded all evening. The place where I’m usually most comfortable — sharing — was the one where I was the least.

(Ever feel like you’re part of a, “So, a redhead, a priest and a hedgehog walk into a bar” joke?)

It was, without a doubt, A Shattering.

I was recently given the opportunity by ChangeThis to offer a “manifesto” on a subject of my choosing. The only criteria for subject selection? That is was one that inspires change. Doing. Action.

So one day about a month ago, I woke up one morning and wrote The Shattering – How We Get From Where We Are to What and Who We Need to Be (aka A Non-Illustrated Guide to Becoming Honest) (holy shit – that’s a long title). It’s a story — a guide, rather — that I didn’t know I had in me. It was the path I’d been walking for roughly seventeen months.

My journey, and the journey I took my clients on every day, from being Glass Walkers to reveling in the pieces.

When I sat down to review the proof I’d been sent (seriously — the layout is gorgeous and entirely more than I deserve) yesterday, I cried.

Because what Shattered me is that I’d found the story behind my story — my lifelong journey towards becoming honest and every iota of bullshit that comes along with it — completely by accident.

So today, I’m kicking you off the blog. I’m sending you elsewhere. I’m inviting you to The Shattering. It’s available beginning today on ChangeThis, and all you have to do is click a little button that says “download.” You’ll have a gorgeous PDF land on your desktop.

And a disclaimer: This is free. There are no strings, affiliate commissions, or kickbacks I get from you downloading and reading the piece. If you’ve never been introduced to ChangeThis’ manifestos before, you’re missing out (and I’m not saying that because — fuck me — they invited me to write one, which I remain to be a gesture of which I am entirely unworthy but enough about that). Every month, they publish pieces from writers you know. Some you might already love. Others, you’ve never heard of. And we all write for one reason — change.

So once again, fuck off (which I say with the greatest level of affection) and go change something. And lemme know what you think about The Shattering. Turns out that it’s why I wrote that Unpopular book. Why this brand is possible. And why the naysayers have no bandwidth in my days.

Click here to download

PS: A ginormous load of thanks to Dylan Schleicher over at ChangeThis for inviting me to write this (gulp) manifesto and to his brother, Aaron, one of the masterminds at 800CEORead, for mentioning to him that I should. Upon you, I lavish fertile hedgehogs of joy. Joy, I say.

<abandons talk of fingers in fear of conversation turning south…and fast>

Sit down, shut your organic lettuce-eating, soy latte-drinking hole, and look around you. THAT is what you have.

If you’re not seeing what you WANT to see, change it.

If you don’t LIKE what you see, do something about it.

If you DON’T see what you’re looking for — IT ISN’T THERE!

Quit being a bitchy little princess. <insert accusatory finger AGAIN>

If I waste one more moment of my life pissing and moaning about everything I don’t have, it will be one moment too much. I’m going to make a list, right here and motherfucking now, about all of the things that don’t matter and that will never (ever) get in the way of anything that I want:

• My age
• The size of my tits
• The saucy nature of the language that comes out of my mouth and keyboard
• My financial status
• My cash flow
• My friends
• My family
• My clients
• My LACKING
• My excuses
• What anything I own costs
• Who I know
• Who knows me

Every single one of those things is mutable. Except for possibly family. Which makes 92% of those things completely mutable.

So quit bitching about everything you don’t have. *wags finger at self in a menacing manner* Because when you spend your time bitching about everything you don’t have, what you’re really doing is giving every ounce of energy to one assholian little thing:

excuses.

So shut it already. Don’t bitch to me about what you don’t have. You’re not entitled to anything and if you look around and don’t see it, go get it.

Because…I dunno. Maybe doing is a hella more inspiring than sitting on your sofa watching pornos and eating Cheetos all day. When the bag is empty, you still don’t have anything more than you had when you started the nom-nom fest — save about 2000 calories you now have to burn on the elliptical machine. And you probably have fake cheese powder in embarrassing places.

Now fuck off. Go do something about everything you don’t have. And I’ll do the same.

Have a beautiful day.

Holy Lindsay Lohans with Masters Degrees, Batman.

I pay a very reasonable $1250/month for a 1400 square foot 2 bedroom/1 bath house with full basement (partially finished), two car garage and a massive 12,000 square foot yard (which is, in and of itself, another fine fucking reason to move). For $1250/month in Boulder, I’m looking at a veritable shithole.

In fact, I’m looking at a shithole for anything under $1500/month. Boulder is a college town and college kids will live anywhere so long as there is beer in the fridge and a place to fuck. I get it — believe me. But that doesn’t give anyone the right to treat people like me — professionals with cash to spend, a potential customer — like unadulterated ass.

I’d found a fantastic sublet at a great value in a primo part of downtown and had everything dialed in to meet the landlord yesterday when I got a call over the weekend that, in spite of tenants in the building already having pets, the landlord was choosing to make the building a no-pets zone. Fuck me. It’s a tight market. They can do it. *waves by to that opportunity* So I kept looking.

I walked into a place on Saturday for a showing. It was a 2 bedroom garden-level duplex (the “garden level” aspect was artfully omitted from the ad as they generally command a lower rate for their subterrainian nature) listed at $1450/month. $200/month increase? I could deal. It was Boulder. Until I walked in, that is.

The carpet looked like something out of one of Axl Rose’s hotel room destruction days and the current tenants were (oh, what’s the word) slobs. Shit everywhere. And yes, the property was pet-friendly. So friendly, in fact, that the open litter box sitting on the floor next to one of the beds continued the theme of shit everywhere. I have no idea whether the kitchen had counters or not, what with all the crap piled on them. I bid the real estate agent goodbye, not even promising to be in touch.

The rest of the rental scene? Supremely shitty. See, vacancy rates in Boulder are astronomically low (under 1%) so people with properties listed on Craigslist and other sites can charge a metric shit ton for a hovel and get away with it. They can also let email inquiries fester for days and weeks on end without even the dignity of a reply. As someone whose inbox sometimes gets the better of me, it never gets the better of me when people are looking to hire me (unless I’ve recently changed mail programs…yeah, that happened recently).

So this? This is where you’re getting Bitch Slapped, because your customer service model sucks incomparable amounts of ass.

“Where the Fuck Else Are You Going to Go?” Isn’t a Sustainable Business Model

I have a full comprehension of the laws of supply and demand. While I’ll never quite understand the airline ticket pricing model, I know that scarcity will command a higher price. But fucking seriously? If you think that “Where the fuck else are you going to go?” is a sustainable business model, you need to think again. It is one thing to charge a fair price based on value. It is another to have absolutely zero respect for your customer’s time and say, “Yeah, this sucks. Want it? You won’t find anything better.”

If you find yourself operating in an industry where your service or product has a premium attached to it due to supply, a couple of things better goddamn well happen:

• You’d better be worth it - As business people, we have a neverending obligation to our customers to deliver. And just because demand is high doesn’t mean you can deliver a product that is anything less than a fair value. Murder scene carpet and kitty shitter surprises when you’re asking me for $1450 for a place to call my home is not offering a requisite level of value in any market.
• You’d better respect your customers – You know what was the most precious thing about Saturday’s hovel showing incident? The real estate agent had the unmitigated nerve to pitch me when I mentioned I was moving to Boulder with the ultimate goal of buying. Seriously – if this lady thought it was acceptable to show me a shithole and laud it for location, location, location when I was only renting, what on earth would she consider to be an appropriate level of service should I ever be her client to buy a home? Two things happened here: she disrespected the property owner AND a prospective dream tenant with excellent references and a checkbook in hand for a deposit. Imagine my surprise when I got an email on Monday morning saying they were lowering the price on the unit to $1450 from $1500 (when I had an email saying the rate was $1450 all along) as the owner was anxious to get a tenant in there. Really. Maybe you should have thought about that before showing me the set for Zombieland.
• You’d better know your market - Here’s the bitch of the $1450 hovel: the property around the corner. I walked into a gorgeous 2 bed/1 bath duplex with a yard and 2 car garage on Sunday for $1600 that was half a block away. If you’re going to have the audacity to make the argument to your customer that your product is worth the price in a competitive market, you’d better fucking know what the competition looks like. Arrogance is saying you’re worth it without truly knowing that you are…or not caring to find out.
• You’d better remember that everyone is a potential referral – If I ever see this real estate agent’s name on anything again, you can bet your skinny ass that I will run screaming and share with anyone who asks The Holy Shit Hovel Incident of 2012. Never give anyone a reason to say less than fantastic things about your ethics and work product. personalities don’t always mix, and that’s okay, but the quality of work and ethics involved in a business transaction should never surface as a sticking point. I continuously refer business to numerous individuals who do nothing but produce supremely brilliant work at fair prices for clients who can’t stop raving about them — even if they weren’t a fit for something that my business needed at one point. That’s because they’re great people with great products. This real estate agent’s product and attitude about it? Sucked.

After a mere week in the Boulder rental market, I picked up the phone and called a mortgage broker (do not pitch me that you have a great one — I thank you in advance) and am now looking to buy. In essence, I’m disgusted with the lackadaisical attitude of the Boulder rental market and have now decided to go around it. Ultimately, it’s a better decision, albeit one with another unpleasant process attached to it for a self-employed individual (The Mortgage Olympics).

But the events that led up to this Bitch Slap? Simply beautiful.

An entire real estate market demonstrated to me in merely a week how much it valued me (a qualified, cash-flush, ready-to-buy gal with 3.5 years of supreme landlord references) as a prospective customer. As a result, I will not ever become a customer. It’s also made me think about how I can step up my business’ game. How can I consistently assure that I’m delivering the best value for my rate? What needs improving? Who needs attention and how can I put systems in place to assure that it is delivered — and with enthusiasm?

We’ve all run into tight markets and maybe some of you are fortunate to operate in them. But “Where the fuck else are you going to go?” isn’t a sustainable business model. And if you think it is and choose to participate in one, you’re the asshole, not me. There are always ways to get around a jackass who has something that you need.

Me? I’m now buying a house when the right person could have had my $1500-some-odd-dollars locked into a lease for 12 months. A mortgage broker whom I’ve known for over a year now has a new client because he never acted like a dick who had more business than he could handle. Multiple real estate brokerages and property managers now have a gal who knows how she was treated when she was searching for a home — like an afterthought instead of a potential asset.

So thanks — it created the perfect storm for me to take the first step back into homeownership and avoid an industry that would have appreciated my business yet did nothing to earn it. And my landlord of 3.5 years is also a real estate agent. She’ll be earning a nice commission from a tenant who has appreciated her for valuing me as a tenant for the past 3.5 years.

I’m excited about moving this year and it’s everything I can do to wait and let the mortgage process take its course. But I’m quite grateful that an entire region came together with some supremely assholian business behavior and inspired one of the better decisions I’ve made.

Now — pull your head out of your ass and start offering an appropriate level of value for your rate. Value should exist (and persist) regardless of market conditions. Never forget that the email inquiries and phone calls could stop coming at any time. And if that happens, you are probably the reason.

You’ve been slapped.

That stuff.

Having recently headed out on book tour dates for The Power of Unpopular, I’ve been due to be on the receiving end of one of my own Bitch Slaps for quite some time. So today, the Arm of Change is cocked and ready to fly in my direction (and you’re welcome to join in if you want a bit of the sting). Because as the purveyor of “unpopular thoughts and blunt advice,” I know full well here on the blog that not everyone’s going to pick up what I’m putting down. And apparently here, that’s fine. But guess what, Erika?

Not everyone’s going to like it and you need to put on your Big Girl Panties and cowgirl the hell up if you’re ever going to get to the next stage in this thing called business. So let’s dish about Kansas, Jesus the Dishwasher, and Choosing Our Underthings.

Leaving Kansas

I’ve got a bubble. You’ve got a bubble. For all that’s holy, when we build brands the right way, we create bubbles. Our job as branders and marketers is to build insular communities where folks can come in and fling ideas around like lube in Charlie Sheen’s bedroom. We build permissible environments for our audiences to be who they want to be, because it’s okay here.

But what the hell happens when you leave your bubble?

President Obama has a bubble.

Stephen King has a bubble.

I have a bubble (I have inserted myself into some lofty company, no?).

In order to grow your brand, business, and brain, you’re going to have to leave Kansas, Dorothy. And what’s outside of the bubble isn’t necessarily what you’re used to dealing with inside the bubble. The critics are (even more) harsh, there’s no protective white chocolate outer coating on your Twinkie-on-a-stick (not that I would have eaten one of those in Las Vegas this past weekend or anything), and while Toto might look the same and still lift his leg on the nearest tree, odds are a whole helluva lot higher that he’s going to lift his leg on you when you step outside this fantastic insular community you’ve built.*

*Acknowledging length of sentence is excessive. Four lines. WOW.

Which brings us to Jesus the Dishwasher.

Your Come-to-Jesus-the-Dishwasher Moment

You know the phrase There’s one in every crowd? Yeah. Well, sometimes there’s more than one. And when you leave Kansas, they crawl out of the woodwork. It’s not a bad thing — it’s just inevitable. Having been on book tour and a speaking circuit pretty much nonstop for the past two weeks, dear sweet Jesus the Dishwasher…they DO come out of the woodwork.

Here on the blog and in my Entrepreneur Magazine column, my audience knows what they’re getting. But for every event I’ve spoken and/or signed books at in the past two weeks, there’s been the “You were a complete waste of my time” responses. While the minority (I’ll take 3 in 100 or even 1 in 20 odds any day of the week), they still hit you in the gut.

Because I stand there having to drink my own brand of cough syrup (and I fucking hate cough syrup). Guess what, Erika? Not everyone is going to like what you have to say. Not everyone is going to like your brand. You’re going to put some people off.

I could be giving away free kittens and someone would want puppies.

I could be donating $1,000 to charity — and in someone’s eyes, it wouldn’t be the best charity in their eyes.

I could be helping a company embrace what they truly want to become to their audience — and someone who would benefit will still never do business with them.

So I need to listen to my Come-to-Jesus-the-Dishwasher moments, take the gut checks, and realize that the book I wrote and what I live regarding not seeking to please everyone is the better truth. Because for every 3 who walk away who couldn’t care less if they ever heard from me again, there are always the 97 who took away something positive (and even laughed once or twice).

Choosing Your Underthings

What comes along with accepting the better truth — how you choose to run your business and honor your chosen audience — is an episode involving underthings.

Boy shorts, thongs, boxers, or briefs — doesn’t really matter. What matters is that you put on your Big People Britches and pull them the hell up. And if you’re one of those freaky go commmando people (I don’t get you…that shit is drafty), find something to put on and pull up. Because this journey you’re making outside of Kansas sure as hell isn’t going to get any easier and you’re going to need some support.

I am completely exhausted with the internet cult of personality where certain online personalities think that anyone and everyone should know who they are. Because they don’t! And who really fucking cares?! There is still, to this day, nothing more surprising to me when I meet someone who reads my stuff or even knows my name. I feel like a colossal tool every time I sign a book — because I really should have the person standing in front of me signing something for me. And the day I feel any way other than this way, dear lord — will somebody please show up on my doorstep and hand me another Come-to-Jesus-the-Dishwasher moment?

When we leave these echo chambers we’ve built with such commitment and artistry, we’ll find ourselves in one of two scenarios:

Standing on the front porch IN our underwear, wondering why we got left out in the cold (waaaaah! people don’t like me!)

or

Pulling up our britches and inviting an entire new audience to have a conversation — heaven knows what we might be able to learn…

Get over yourself and grab a six pack of humility the next time you’re at the store. Throw it in the cart next to that multipack of Big People Britches. It takes humility to pull your britches up…and not run and hide once you do.

So, I’ve Got a Question for You…

I’m having the love affair of my life with humility these days, and can I say — it’s a really uncomfortable (but welcomed) experience. And surely I can’t be the only one out there who’s found themselves leaving Kansas, having a conversation with Jesus-the-Dishwasher, and discovering that putting on and pulling up my Big People Britches to be what’s for dinner.

So I ask: What’s been your most humbling business moment?

That’s a link to a forum for my book. There’s nothing fancy required to participate (you can sign in using Twitter, Facebook, or create an account if you really want another account). But I really want to know. I’m working on a pitch for an article and while I can blog till I’m blue in the face about my experiences, yours are the ones that will tell a better story.

Someone will always say that our baby is ugly — especially when we leave the comfort, protection, and support of the ones who have come to love us. And while this is something I’ve known and lived all along, it bears a reminder. I’ve never aspired to be popular, as people with unpopular thoughts are the ones who start the conversations that makes things happen.

But unpopular requires humility, because not everyone is going to like you, what you do, or what you love. And nor should they (which is the hardest part to remember).

And now, I’m oddly excited about doing some shopping at Victoria’s Secret for new panties to pull up.

I’ve been slapped (and does this handprint on my face make my ass look big?).

I spent Monday last week through Monday this week on the road. Two book tour events, a speaking engagement, and a business meeting finished off by a weekend in Las Vegas for one dear friend’s 40th birthday and another’s wedding. As little time possible was spent on The Strip, as having lived in Vegas, I have no love lost for the city as a destination. I affectionately refer to it as “where culture goes to die.” You can’t change my opinion on the matter.

When I wasn’t visiting and celebrating with friends, I was outdoors (see image to the right). Some ill-informed voice in my head thought that I was still in my mid-30s and advised me that hiking/trail running for 10 miles on Saturday followed by another 6 miles on Sunday was a fan-fucking-tastic idea. To give you an idea of the damage I did to myself, I was offered a wheelchair upon arriving in Denver (fuck you) which I politely declined.

But there’s another kind of damage that came from this weekend. Or damage uncovered, rather.

It was the realization that I’d buried a part of myself for the past 3.5 years since moving to Denver.

When I lived in Las Vegas, I had this completely amazeballz group of friends. We climbed, camped, hiked, cooked at one another’s houses, played water volleyball on inflatable animals in one another’s pools…I spent half my time outdoors and strangely enough, moved to an outdoor mecca where I take advantage of very little this beautiful state has to offer. Sure, I have a herd of bikes and take the twice-a-year hike when I haul my ass to the mountains. I downhill mountain bike in the summer on select weekends.

But my lifestyle? This weekend I was startled when I realized why I haven’t been completely happy since moving to Denver.

I’d left my lifestyle behind.

It’s startling to be startled. It’s rude. It doesn’t care whether you like it or not, it’s comin’ for ya anywhoo and you’re due for a pretty sizable fuck you when it lands on your doorstep. Or your sofa, for that matter.

After being on the road for 8 days nonstop, I came home last night from my book signing event in Boulder at the iconic Boulder Book Store. Great folks, great event, people bought books, I continued to feel like a colossal tool for signing them (really? me?), and I walked in my door around 9:30-10pm last night exhausted and ready to collapse onto the sofa…

except for the fact that there was a DEAD FUCKING SQUIRREL ON IT. Case in point.

Small Dog was sitting next to it doing this subversive little grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr and Hippopotamus was being a total spaz, circling the thing as if to say GOT IT I GOT THE SQUIRREL OH YES SQUIRREL I’M SO GLAD TO SEE YOU LADY I GOT IT.

And this was also startling. I may or may not have shrieked. You might also notice that the squirrel is on the Unauthorized Blanket, which is my favorite blanket on the entire fucking planet which makes the situation suck even more. (Note: dogs were escorted outside, Unfortunate Squirrel was wrapped in a sacrificial bath towel and escorted to its final resting place without incident. Unauthorized Blanket was chucked in the wash along with a tad of bleach on the HOT AS A MOTHERFUCKER wash cycle.)

So…startling.

Kinda lands in your life like a dead squirrel on your sofa at 10pm.

Change is afoot. I’m moving my life (and self). Physically and emotionally. And I’ll tell you — dead squirrel and all, I slept straight through the night last night for the first time in what seems to be ages. It’s a busy time — reclaiming the things I thought I could do without (but can’t), granting myself permission to trade convenience for access, and doing yet another ushering of people who give me grief right out the door.

And there’s a business shift afoot, too. It will be launching on Monday, July  16. If you want to stay in the loop on what it might be, use this snazzy opt-in form. Gimme your email address. That’s it. Tell me to fuck off anytime.

Cabana Boy wants to send you an email…see what’s under his towel on July 16, 2012! (Guys — just pretend this is a hot chick)

 

Email:

We respect your email privacy

We will not sell your email address to gnomes… 

Enjoy the day. Hope yours is filled with fewer fucking squirrels than mine. Actually, copulating squirrels wouldn’t be so bad.

How much of a fuckwad do you have to be to steal from people? Yes, I know I could have called the cops and he would have been gone faster than a sitcom starring Jeff Foxworthy. But if he’s willing to steal from me under the guise of business, I have to assume he needs my $10 for cancer treatment. So I wish him well with the cancer treatment and will advise that you avoid Rapid Taxi in Atlanta, GA (most notably taxi #0604). I can’t wait unti their SEO service checks this backlink. Guess what? I KNOW SEO, TOO!

But let’s get back to me and this AWESOME FUCKING BUS I’M RIDING ON.

That picture? Yup. I took it on the Megabus. In fact, I am currently on the Megabus. I’m writing this post on a Megabus. I’m blogging from a bus. And on the bus, I cuss. Yes, I must. This, you can trust. </seuss sequence>

Apologies — I’m sleep deprived because I cursed myself yesterday afternoon by tweeting my hope that the couple in the room next door didn’t decide to have sex given the rice paper nature of the walls. Which turned out to be an aphrodisiac. At 2am. When I had to get up at 4am and my internal clock is already straight hosed from the vortex that is west-to-east travel. Speaking of vortexes, I ate at one last night.

Holy shit – can you say tater tots? My friend Kevin is my official guide every time I come to Atlanta and said — beyatch, we are goin’ IN for some tater tots! He scooped me up at the Hotel California and shuttled me off to The Vortex in Midtown. Check out the website (most notable, The Policies, which should be policies in every single business everywhere). The entire environment can only be described as a unexpected clash of Kat Von D learning to cook — with a side of ranch dressing (hell yes, ranch goes on everything in the South). And talk about a business that GETS the power of unpopular (shameless plug alert). I’ll be contacting them shortly to see if they’ll participate in an online case study for the book because the experience was epically badass, not to mention the tater tots came with a GIANT CUP OF CHEESE DIPPING SAUCE.

OMG my arteries are sooooo hard right now.

I’m all over the place. Sorry.

So, I’m going to Birmingham to speak today for the Alabama Social Media Association. My pal Stacey made it all happen, so a huge thanks to him in advance. Also of interest, Stacey and I have been connected through social media for nearly 3 years now, introduced by the force of nature that is Shelly Kramer. rumor has it that I might get to see Dave Griner while I’m in Bham, too. Which is also ossum. This is simply the best part of what I get to do for a living — putting faces to the Twitter avatars because this?

Folks, this is how business gets done.

It doesn’t matter where you are or who you know. What matters is what you do with the relationships in your life. If you’re going to handle things in a Tom Cruise/Demi Moore-clash-type fashion, something’s going to get missed*.

*I searched for 10 minutes for a movie clip of this scene. Seriously — 83 people can pirate you can’t handle the truth but no one can pirate one of the best lines in that movie? Humanity sucks.

Social media isn’t even remotely close to being social anymore. It’s turned into something most people and businesses will only witness. They’ll never jump. They’ll never know what it feels like to have invested the time and emotion into building digital relationships that can be concrete. It’s a shitty, way too slick world of broadcast, broadcast, broadcast when what you really need to do is it down and have some goddamned tater tots with someone you met via Twitter who happened to come through Denver on a business trip and you’ve been friends going on two years all on account of taking a chance on the human race. We think we’re plugging in, but what we’re really doing is doing everything we can to distance ourselves from the one thing that can make a real difference in how we live, breathe, and grow from day to day: people.

So that’s the other reason I’m on a bus. Aside from the fact that it was $187 for a rental car for 3 days versus $13 for a round-trip ticket on the Megabus (whaaaaaaaaaaat?!), I’m here with people. Also of note, I am the only cracker-like white girl on this bus, and that saddens me. Because the bus? Shit. I’m not too good for the bus. I wish the Megabus was in my neck of the woods out Denver way — I’d do a lot more traveling if it were for $13 round trip. Check out the bus. Leave the rental car at the airport. Let someone else drive (and not a Town Car). Because I’ve got free wifi, electrical outlets, and a front-of-bus double decker view of some Southern landscape and it’s balls-out awesome. Doesn’t matter what color your skin is. Get. On. The Bus.

And to wrap this up with a total non sequitur, here’s a little something I typed in an email last night. In retrospect, I’m amazed at how well it came together. The entire conversation stemmed from having sent someone a picture of a pygmy hippopotamus (see photo) and him calling bullshit on the image. He elevated the argument to the Supreme Court (as one often does when it comes to issues surrounding pygmy breeds of wildlife). My response:

Vermillion practitioner does the Snoopy dance, tells Scalia to SUCK IT, and runs through the Halls of Justice yelling, “I AM BATMAN!” waving a gavel.

I don’t know if the words Scalia, “suck it” and Batman have ever been spoken in a single sentence before, but I’m going to stick a flag in that like it’s the goddamned moon.

I’m pretty sure the Halls of Justice are something out of a comic book (maybe that’s the League of Justice), but welcome to my mind.

There. I said it. And you know what? I simply adore telling you that you’re wrong. It gets me giddy like an Apple fan boy on the eve of a new iWhatever release. I salivate as if a waitress is walking towards me with a plate full of grilled cheese sammiches. My heart palpitates in a fashion much like I imagine it would if Clive Owen would get his shit together and propose marriage.

I love telling you that YOU’RE WRONG.

Having recently wrote a book about how, as a society, we have a distorted view of the true meaning and inherent power in the word “unpopular,” I’ll concede that nary the soul wakes up each morning excited about the prospect of being wrong.

But you should — because you’re thinking about the word in the wrong way. It’s time to flip that bitch right round, so today — we slap. Because the reason we’re collectively sucking and shying away from every piece of awesome pie is because we’re afraid of being wrong…and all for the wrong reasons.

Let’s start with the a-holes

You know her (or him). She’s at the ready with a smug I told you so with even the hint of a not-so-stiff breeze. She knows exactly what you did wrong and can’t wait to hold it over your head because, quite frankly, she knows everything. What’s best for you, what’s not, where you should buy your groceries, why you simply must eat organic tomatoes, why you’re not finding the man of your dreams, exactly which car you should buy next — I told you. She knows everything.

But she’s an asshole about it. And she makes you feel like an asshole if you deign to make a decision that doesn’t agree 103.7% with her mystical source of expertise. She speaks as if her life itself were ordained and blessed by a veritable cornucopia of unicorns, wood sprites, unicorns, and gnomes (along with a few beings of ethereal power).

These people are assholes and I’ll venture to guess that they want to impale you on their pointy fingers as a source of offense. If they tell you you’re wrong (all the %^*&ing time), then how much energy do you have left to point a finger back at them or even tell them to put a muzzle on it? The assholes beat us down and take a strange sense of joy in our defeat. And they’ll always be assholes. File them away. Because the reason I love telling you that you’re wrong isn’t because I’m an asshole.

It’s because I see, plain as day, the opportunity for you to kick ass.

It’s not about failure or risk

I could run down a list of situations in my life where I hit the *abort* key before starting anything, purely because I was afraid to be wrong. And it wasn’t about my tolerance for failure or risk.

I just didn’t want that pointy finger (from wherever) wagging in my face.

Risk is about ups and downs – what we concede in order to get to the other side and the chance of losing something in our pursuit of advancement.

Failure is about…well, failing. Hitting a wall because we were wrong. About something.

But what we’re missing is so very simple (so simple that I didn’t figure it out 17 years ago, right?) — the realization that something we’ve done or believe is wrong is an instant ticket to kicking ass.

So let’s get to the ass kicking!

I don’t enjoy seeing people hurt or in pain. I hate seeing businesses struggle when they could be soaring. So no, I’m not an asshole and I don’t just get off on being the definitive source for All Things Right.

I like telling you that you’re wrong because it’s a hot ass piece of opportunity, standing naked in front of you screaming, “RAVAGE ME!”

That’s why I simply adore telling you that you’re wrong. Wait – no, not because of the whole naked/ravaging thing.

It’s the opportunity thing.

You can only kick ass when you take yourself out from under the fear of being wrong. Wrong is a window. You can either stare through it and let it get dirty and cloud over, allowing it to keep you from the wildflower-drenched meadow of awesome on the other side.

Or you can open it. Or make it a door. Whatever you do, you need to crawl/walk/hang glide through the fucker and get to the other side.

Were you wrong about the person you went into business with? Fan-fucking-tastic. YOU TRIED. And now you can try something even better.

Were you wrong about taking a left about 3 miles back? Fan-fucking-tastic. Turn around. Pull up Google Maps. Get there.

Were you wrong about the person you fell in love or mad, crazy like with? Fan-fucking-tastic. Now that person will no longer waste your time or your heart and you can find someone worthy…someone who makes you giggle. You deserve someone who makes you giggle, goddammit.

Don’t be afraid of wrong. I see it as a gift I can give my clients every day when I see the chance to tell them that something they’ve tried turned out to be wrong. I get to place opportunity on the table, neatly wrapped in a box with some bitchin’ wrapping paper and a bow and say, “Hey! I got you something! OPEN IT!”

And inside, they find the chance to leave things behind that don’t serve them and embrace being kickass.

And it’s super hard to be kickass when a pile of shit is weighing your foot down

The assholes and your fear of being wrong both pile the shit on your shoe equally. How are you going to get the knee action required to hit it out of the park when you can’t even lift your leg? Scrape the shit off your shoes. Kick. Tell me how good that feels.

Discovering the art of telling others that they’re wrong

Believe me – I’ve had my moments of less-than-stellar fingerpointing technique. I’ve been one of the assholes. But here’s what I’ve found works wonderfully when the need arises to tell someone — friend or client — that they are in no uncertain terms dead bloody wrong.

• Laugh – Is this life so heavy that we can’t laugh about a mistake? We make them every day. You. The person sitting across from you. The guy or gal sitting next to you. Laugh, for fuck’s sake.
• Pick up the pieces – There is always a piece of awesome in every wrong decision, without fail. Find what’s worth saving and treat it with reverence. The pieces worth saving are discoveries. Gems. Jalapeno poppers –whatever your definition of platinum might be.
• Look forward to being wrong again – Yeah, I said it. Because every time (you included) someone helps you discover that you were wrong, something beautiful happens — you have the chance to get back to where you need to be. Turn left at Albuquerque. Right at Pismo Beach. Park your ass in a mall lot in Peoria, Illinois. Call That Guy. Send an email to That Girl. Pay your fine and move on.

Do you love it?

People who are superb at telling you that you’re wrong aren’t assholes. In fact, they’re anything but. They’re incredible people in our lives who help us get to where we want to be instead of where we are.

Sometimes they tell us what we did wrong.

Others, they’re beacons, showing us what we’ve done right…and just happen to say nothing at all about us having been wrong.

But in both cases, we were all still wrong. We’ll be wrong again. So ask yourself — are you afraid of being wrong and why? Are you afraid of making a decision and finding out what’s on the other side or does the prospect excite you?

There are few decisions in life that have finite consequences, which is why I love having a career where I can tell businesses that they’re wrong. With life being short, why not endeavor to live one that lets you thrive instead of wallow. One that opens windows instead of forces you to stand behind them, separated from the opportunity on the other side.

This morning, I’m thinking about a decision my parents made many years ago — divorce. How they each were wrong in their ability to create a life and family together that would stand the test of time. And yes, they were both wrong. But last night, my father bid farewell to his wife of nearly 16 years and companion for closer to 20. In the past 16 years, I’d never seen my father happier. Coincidentally, I’ve also never seen my mother happier with the life she’s discovered since their divorce.

So being wrong? It’s nothing to fear. It gave Dad the gift of love and happiness — one he never would have known if he and Mom had trudged along. Mom and Dad told one another that they were wrong.

And now, my father’s heart breaks because he made a choice — one to love. I can’t thank Agnes, his wife, enough for making the choice to go along with him for the ride. Because the only thing wrong about any of this is that I’m ending this blog post to pick up the phone to call my Dad and find words where none, as I well know, suffice. Word that would have inevitably come one day, but aren’t the ones I should be searching for with Dad today.

Wrong is good. See it as a gift. Because when you open up the neatly gift-wrapped box, opportunity is inside. My Dad found it. My Mom found it. I’m still finding it every day and helping others find it. That’s why I love telling you that you’re wrong.

You’ve been slapped. And believe me — so have I.

This is for Dad and Agnes, just outside of Austin, Texas.

click here to see the video

Who are you and what is it that you do?

Today’s business landscape is crawling with consultants. Whatever — it’s also crawling with words like “landscape” and I use them because sometimes I just get lazy and don’t want to say “business world.” Don’t be judgy. Or judgey. Or however that made-up word is spelled. Maybe we should just set semantics aside and think about it this way.

If you’re going to be the almond in the jar of M&Ms, how do you (1) stand out, and (2) help people understand why the hell you landed in the jar of M&Ms in the first place, and (3) why they shouldn’t just either eat you alive or chuck you in the bin because you

Just. Don’t. Make. Sense.

*insert question mark*

Sure, it’s crystal freakin’ clear. TO YOU.

Every day, I work with teams to help client answer this question. But when’s the last time I asked it of myself? Yesterday, in fact. But it had been awhile.

And that’s because it’s crystal freakin’ clear what I do and for whom I do it. TO ME.

Which matters ZILCH.

I was reminded in pretty short order that we all walk around with this list of assumptions that have pitched tents and decided to camp out in our heads. We’re the only ones who know that those assumptions exist and those assumptions alone are the single greatest obstacle we have to growing our businesses in the direction we want them to grow.

We assume people get what it is we do, when the opposite is most likely the truth.

So here’s a process I went through last night that’s designed to help me take the ass out of my assumptions and get some messaging straight for myself. It’s the only way I’m going to help other see me straight and get some building for my business done in the right direction.

Uncover your otterness

Let’s just pretend for a moment that these otters aren’t in some bizarre National geographic-style 69. You know what you’re good at. What you love doing. What makes your heart sing like an otter with a fish-flavored prize. That’s your otterness — your innate ability to score. It’s why you get paid. Your bargaining chip.

The bitch of it all is that you have to be able to help people understand why they should care and what your otterness means to their business.

So first, you have to have in your head — in plain English — who you are, what you do, and why these people should care.

These is the most important part of that equation.

Because it’s only then that you can get to the how — as in how you’re going to help them get from where they are to where they want to be.

Think about your audiences. Plural. You don’t have just one. Not even a Chia Pet has just one audience. There isn’t a single successful brand that has only one audience so first, focus on you and your otterness.

Next, focus on the different whos that you enjoy working with most — or would like to begin working with (ah hah!).

And now, you’re ready to focus on expressing your otterness specifically for that audience, because one size doesn’t fit all. At all.

The Message: Deliver the fish

You’ve got who you are and what you do on lockdown, you aquatic mammal, you. And shit howdy, you’ve identified who needs your fish-flavored prize! Now it’s time to deliver the fish.

In the most rudimentary of terms, it sounds like this: “I am X (OTTER) and I help companies like yours do Y (OTTERNESS) so that you can Z (FISH: DELIVERED).”

Mmmmmmm…fish.

Small print disclaimer: Verbiage in the X/Y/Z format as above is only appropriate in the company of colleagues or in the company of no one at all in your bathroom. Start simple (it keeps the bullshit buzzspeak out) and then sass it up as need be. Messaging that works (aka “delivering the fish”) is simple and makes the target audience do one of a three things:

• SHITBALLS! I need that and where can I get it.
• REALLY? You have my attention…go on.
• BOLLOCKS! I think what you do is nonsense.

Either way, your otterness is clearly expressed. And I know the “bollocks” option above scares the shit out of some of you. But your target audience isn’t everyone. You’re not the slutty girl, so don’t start thinking like one.

Otter. Otterness. Deliver the fish.

Yesterday was a wakeup call for me, asked to explain my target demographics in an instant and how what I do makes them rockstars. Given my propensity for cute animals, it was only appropriate that I turned to the otter as a metaphor for working out what needs work.

Wherever you are in your business, you could be doing better. Yesterday, I reached out to someone in an effort to do better and got blindsided by a question that I answer for clients daily. So if we’re going to do better, the path of otterness is a pretty good path to get there, methinks. Not only are they adorable and not nearly as annoying as a rat dog nor angry as a honey badger, they know (as we should) that there is one goal:

Deliver the fish.

And the one thing that maddens me incessantly is when I don’t get what a company or vendor can do for me and why I should care.

Seems that since I can do this for other companies, the time has come to do it for myself — and make it an ongoing process. We have an onus to make it easy for our customers to understand what it is that we do.

It’s respectful of their time.

It’s attentive, as the customer always comes first and is the reason we’re allowed to be in business from day to day.

And honestly, it’s just smart.

Because when you make it easy for your audience to understand what it is you do for THEM, it’s a boatload easier for them to tell other THEMS why they should be working with you, too.

PS: I happened to find this via UnsharedTV last night on Pinterest — otters have to uncover their otterness just like we do.

can’t see the video? click here.