Intimacy

Walking into Denver's downtown this morning to do some errands it occurred to me that a possible way of looking at the cause of the financial crisis is through the lens of intimacy or, in this case, the lack thereof. As I strolled in the sunshine I was thinking of intimacy as meaning detailed knowledge of and deep familiarity with a thing or a person. That is simply what arose in my head.

Lenders were not intimate with their borrowers' financial condition. Borrowers, in many cases, were not intimate with the terms of their loans or with their own financial positions. Both borrowers and lenders may not have been intimate with themselves, ignoring their doubts or misgivings about what they were doing. Heads of banks and financial institutions were not intimate with what their organizations were doing.

In other words, maybe it all boils down to an entire culture not paying attention to details, glossing over unpleasant facts, realities and twinges of inner discomfort in the quest for monetary success.

I wonder if this crisis will help some people wake up and start tuning in and, in an intimacy-building way, turning inward.

Installed, Invested

I have lived in many different apartments. Even in the ones I owned I did not invest much time, effort or money in trying to optimize the lighting. Somehow, the decisions involved in choosing floor lamps and hanging light fixtures seemed overwhelming, not to mention permanent. Especially with lighting that would require installation on a wall or a ceiling, selecting a particular fixture for a given room and hiring an electrician to hook it up seemed akin to making an irrevocable commitment. Table lamps, however, didn't stir up as much angst - they could be moved from place to place or sold - so I would buy those instead. As a result, I suffered with sub-par lighting in most of my living spaces and even in my Boston area art studio rather than install the "wrong" lights and then feel compelled to live with the mistake.

But the bigger blunder and spiritual error was not committing to my comfort and not meeting the needs I had at various times, even if these needs were to change and would therefore require an adjustment in how I addressed them and perhaps an additional cost. Part of the reason for moving myself and my stuff 2,000 miles away was to remind myself that I am starting over, hitting the reset button on many areas of my life, that I am not going to keep doing the same thing over and over again.

On Monday I spent a good chunk of the afternoon at Home Depot in the lighting department, choosing track lights, connectors, and dimmer switches. Add to that some shelving components and a refridgerator, and I also spent a good chunk of change. But the person who wrote "spent a good chunk of change" was listening to the voice of scarcity, e.g. my inner cheapskate, which views every dime spent as a depletion of fixed and limited amount of resources. If I switch hats, to that of the voice of abundance, I could instead write that I made a large investment in my new space and in myself, in that I committed to creating a functional work environment to which I'll attract buyers of my art.

On Tuesday morning the handyman showed up at 9:30 a.m. sharp to install the shelves and the track lights. When he removed the existing fluorescent fixture from the ceiling we noticed a short metal pipe protruding, a relic of the era when this room was lit by a gas lamp. In order to cover it up he needed additional materials, plus he needed some components that the Home Depot staff hadn't been able to show me, so off he went to spend yet another chunk of change. To distract my inner cheapskate from counting the minutes that he was gone, time which she was paying for, I primed and painted the shelves that the Home Depot staff had cut for me out of a large sheet of fiberboard.

Still, the cheapskate has been obsessing about the total cost - umm...investment - that my higher self had made in my well-being and in my mosaic art, which deserves to be properly illuminated. My inner cheapskate keeps yammering that I should have looked for a less expensive handyman (this guy had a reasonable rate, came recommended and had worked in this building), shopped around for cheaper lights (well, I did get the most basic kind) and is still coming up with ways that I could have done it for less. But, I knew that if I had spent too much time trying to tweak it to get the best price possible, my cheapskate might have talked me out of it altogether.

Now, at least, the tracks and lamps are installed. The investment in a supportive and functional work space has been made. The only thing left to negotiate with my inner cheapskate is how much we'll spend on - I mean invest in! - full-spectrum 50-watt bulbs.

Interview, of sorts

Last night I lost my "focus group virginity" at a bland office park in Waltham, MA. Lured by the promise of an honorarium and some snacks, I spent a few hours in a focus group for Constant Contact, the e-mail marketing company whose software I've been using for years. The snacks were pathetic - half-sandwiches of pale coldcuts and tired tunafish with shreds of iceberg lettuce slumped over the sides. I passed on the food and had a soda, and before long a few of us were chatting and commiserating over some of our technical difficulties with the product while waiting for the focus group to officially begin.

We were escorted into a bland but heavily miked conference room with a one-way mirror. There were nearly a dozen of us users, including academics, event planners, a church board member, and retailers. Several of us naively thought that Constant Contact was paying us each $125 so that they could get our input on how to improve their basic product, which allows one to create customized electronic newsletters, announcements invitations. But it quickly became clear that we had been invited for another reason, which was to give feedback on a proposed change in the user interface and other add-ons. The game then became how to respond to the questions in such a way that would also allow us to deliver feedback on the current product which has more features - and bugs - than its predecessor. The facilitator, an independent marketing professional with bleached highlights, pink nails and a poker face, did her best to keep the conversation on track. And a few of us in the room did our best to reiterate our basic concerns and suggestions, hoping that one of the many microphones would record our comments.

As a fan of Constant Contact and someone who has been monitoring their stock price ever since they went public a few months ago, I was a bit disappointed that the company is considering making mostly cosmetic changes to the user experience, rather than enhancing and deepening the functionality of its current product to keep pace with the increasingly sophisticated needs of its long-time customers. At the end of the evening, I was happy to receive my pink envelope of cash and decided to invest it in something other than their stock. At least for now.

Indulgence or Investment?

A few years ago I wandered into a high-ceilinged boutique in SoHo, called Pastec, that was filled with boldly colorful clothing, accessories and housewares. Tightly knit striped scarves and socks were arrayed along a large wood table as if they were food at a banquet. They certainly looked good enough to eat. The yarn and the craftmanship screamed quality and the color combinations - inspired by Morocco and imagined by designer Valerie Barkowski - practically had me gasping in excitement. I kept browsing, touching the sweaters and blouses that hung on racks around the room. Peeking at the price tags, I nearly fainted.

But it was too late. I was smitten by this shop's exotic yet contemporary clothing and I was going to buy something.

I returned to the table and picked out a pair of cotton socks with stripes of pink, yellow, orange, blue and brown against a brick red background. They were $20, about four or five times what I typically pay for socks. The clerk behaved as if I had bought a high ticket item. He ceremoniously wrapped the socks in tissue and put the packet into a handsewn bag made of specialty paper embossed with Pastec's logo. I was delighted by my purchase, which felt like a huge indulgence at the time.

Last week, I wore these same socks when I traveled to New York. Notwithstanding dozens of washings and wearings, they had outlasted several pairs of socks from Target and other such places and had not even developed any thin spots or holes. My fashion indulgence had proved to be a wise investment.

Returning to Pastec last Wednesday, I thought I might up the ante and purchase something other than socks. But the prices of the scarves gave me pause, as did the triple digit tags on the sweaters. I decided to invest in two more pairs of socks. Despite inflation, they were still $20 a pair, a reasonable price indeed.