A few weeks ago I had the distinct pleasure of attending the International Window Coverings Expo-Vision10 at the Georgia World Congress Center in Atlanta. For those of you not familiar with the window treatment business, this is a huge trade show/continuing education event for our industry. This is our chance to catch up with friends, see what's new, and learn new techniques for our businesses.
So where were all our vendors?
I attended four classes while I was in Atlanta, ranging from sewing techniques to business management. I also sat in on countless demonstrations in the Custom Home Furnishing Academy's "Construction Zone." I spent hours in the vendor hall, trying to absorb all the new STUFF that's out there, as well as placing quite a few orders for equipment and supplies. I met some great industry professionals as well.
Here's what I DIDN'T do in Atlanta: I didn't talk with a single one of my fabric vendors. That's because they weren't there. I didn't get to see their new collections, put faces with the names of people I talk to regularly via phone and e-mail, or place any orders for new sample books. I didn't stock up on any linings for the workroom.
I didn't buy any new patterns, because only one pattern vendor was there, and I have most of theirs. I didn't purchase any thread or needles--most of those vendors were missing, too.
Now, the next time I order something, who will I think of first? Probably the company whose rep I met at Vision10. The one who showed me some new hardware samples, or the one who demonstrated a new cordless shade product, or the one who showed me how to use trim glue in miraculous ways.
Any marketing expert will tell you that when times are hard, the worst thing you can do is cut back on your marketing to save money. You need to go where your customers are. You need to show them (us) that you're here for the long haul.
Thank you to the hundreds of vendors who made the trip to Atlanta this year. Rest assured we'll remember your names!
Friday, June 11, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Drapery Goddess and the Boy
When my third child was born, my grandmother just looked at me with a self-satisfied smirk and said, "NOW you'll eat some words."
To be perfectly honest, I was a little offended. After all, my two daughters, who were five and two, were sweet, generally well-behaved children. They were not spoiled, they ate their vegetables, and they didn't throw temper tantrums in public. Hadn't I proved myself as a mother?
Ah, but my grandmother knew something that I didn't. After my mother was born, she had two sons. What she had learned, and what I was about to learn, was this: boys are...different.
I grew up with one sister and no brothers. I had no male cousins nearby, and my best friends were sisters who also had no brothers. I knew, in a vague way, that the boys I went to school with were different from us girls: they were gross and dirty, and they thought bodily functions were acceptable subjects of conversation. But I had no idea that they were so alien on such a basic level.
My daughters are polar opposites in personality type. The older is quiet, cautious, and introspective. The younger is vivacious, active, and talkative. I didn't think it was possible that two children could be more different.
That was before their brother.
My son proved to be a handful almost from birth. He stubbornly refused all efforts on my part to implement a feeding and sleeping schedule. He was always hungry, ravenously so. Even the brand of diapers I had used with my girls didn't work for him. In the first year of his life, I nicknamed him Velcro Baby because he was content only when on my hip, his chubby fist pulling my hair. His insistence on having his own way continued into toddlerhood: if I asked him to throw something away in the kitchen, he would take it to the bedroom. If I told him to sit in the chair, he would go to the stool. When he was old enough to talk, he would demand a red bowl for his cereal, only to declare, once breakfast was served, that now he wanted a blue one. And I discovered that if I gave in to this one demand, I would inevitably set myself up for a day full of defiance and tantrums. He literally threw down a challenge every single morning.
I was also unprepared for how inquisitive he was, and how much trouble he could get into in, say, thirty seconds. By the time he was four, I had called poison control after finding him sucking on a tube of hair conditioner; called the dentist after he unsuccessfully tried to eat a staple and got it stuck between his teeth; rushed upstairs to find he had climbed his dresser and pulled it over; and rescued him from beneath a fireplace mantle he had pulled down on top of himself. On one occasion a police officer showed up on my doorstep and gravely asked me, "Ma'am, did you know your little boy was outside?" Of course I didn't--he had just been upstairs with me! Apparently he had slipped down the stairs and outside, walked across the yard and to the edge of the busy street. A passing motorist, concerned that a small child was so close to the road, stopped to ask him where he lived. A neighbor saw this and assumed the gentleman was trying to abduct my son, so she called the police. By the time I realized what had happened, two squad cars had traffic stopped in both directions, and all my neighbors were in their front yards. My son watched the spectacle from my neighbor's arms, unaware of the commotion he had caused.
I have learned that my son's propensity for getting into trouble has less to do with willful disobedience than it does with the way he's wired. His life motto is, "What would happen if...?" He rarely considers the consequences of his actions. He merely wonders if could possibly ride that box down the stairs, or if he could push the top bunk mattress up enough to dump off the person sleeping up there. And he doesn't appear to learn from his experiences: just because biting off the end of a jalapeno was excruciatingly painful yesterday, does that necessarily mean it will be the same today? (Especially if you only take a SMALL bite this time...)
I think my grandmother knew I'd have to change my tune on a few things: things I swore my children would NEVER do, for instance. But she also knew that I would learn to appreciate that hardwiring in my son's head. Stubbornness, properly channeled, becomes persistence. Inquisitiveness leads to creativity. And that annoying clinginess develops into an affectionate nature. More importantly, as I gradually understand my son better, I also gain some insight into my husband's brain. So I have stopped wondering aloud, "What on earth possessed you to do that?!" And I try to stifle my giggle when my boy zooms around the house in a cape and mask, saving the world in his pajamas. After all, the little boy who dresses like a superhero today will grow up someday to be the provider and protector of his family--just like his dad.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Drapery Goddess is a Steel Magnolia
I have always gotten a kick out of movies and T.V. shows depicting Southerners, particularly Southern women. These gals always have big hair and little brains, and they typically speak with a drawl big enough to drive a Mack truck through. They seem to live in a world that more closely resembles a Junior Miss pageant than real life, and they like it that way.
What amuses me about them is that they bear little resemblance to the Southern women I grew up around.
I come from a long line of deep-South, Alabama women. My mother is the quintessential Southern belle. But big hair or not, I would never characterize her as ignorant, shallow, or clueless. She, like her mother and grandmother before her, is every bit the Steel Magnolia: gracious, beautiful,intelligent, resourceful, and hard as nails.
I have discovered in my travels to other parts of the country that there is a certain subtlety to Southern society that is totally lost on our counterparts in other regions. A woman from New York or Seattle or Phoenix is direct in her dealings with others. In the South, directness is often interpreted as rudeness. There are nuances to our conversation that outsiders miss: a raised eyebrow, a slight hesitation in speaking, the choice of a particular word full of unspoken import. A Southern woman can insult you without your even knowing it. And of course, there is also an unwritten code of proper behavior. There are certain topics of conversation that will NEVER be appropriate at a luncheon. And the failure to send a thank-you note can spell your doom in certain circles.
There is a separate language that Southerners speak. I often forget about this until I am in a group of non-Southerners. In the course of conversation, I will invariably make a comment that draws strange looks from my companions. That is when I realize that I have uttered a Southernism. Some place that is far off the beaten path might be referred to as "plumb nearly." A car that is crookedly parked is "all cattywumpus." Someone who is upset might have her "panties in a wad." And my favorite, spoken often by my mother when my sister and I were arguing: "Don't be ugly." As a child, I would sometimes look at myself in the mirror when she said this, wondering if I was indeed making an ugly face.
But being a Southerner is about more than the way we talk. It's about resourcefulness and determination. My great-grandmother raised and butchered her own chickens, grew and canned her own vegetables, and worked in an ammunition plant during World War II. Determined that her children would know how to conduct themselves in public, she got a book on etiquette and taught herself--and her family--proper table manners. She passed that Southern stubbornness on to her daughter, my grandmother. When my mother was in college, she had a car accident and my grandmother was called to the scene. She insisted that my mother, head bleeding, drive herself to the hospital (with my grandmother beside her). "If you don't," she said, "you'll be afraid to ever drive again." It might have seemed unfeeling, but she was probably right. Years later, whenever I would whine that I couldn't do something, my mother would simply say, "Can't never could." I never quite understood what that meant, but I got the message: we do what we set our minds to do.
I believe that my Southern roots are responsible for much of who I am today. My parents always responded to my wild ideas and ambitions with, "Well, of course you can do that!" Try out for All-County Chorus? Go do it! Go out for cheerleader without a gymnastic lesson in your background? Why not? Double major in college, get married your junior year, and still graduate on time with honors? Of course! Start your own business doing what you love? Sure you can!
And now I have the opportunity to pass that along to my own children. I want them to try--it doesn't matter if they succeed. I never want them to look back and wonder if they could have done something. I want to be an example to them. I want to face my fears of what might happen and try anyway, even if I fail. I want to raise my own little Steel Magnolias.
What amuses me about them is that they bear little resemblance to the Southern women I grew up around.
I come from a long line of deep-South, Alabama women. My mother is the quintessential Southern belle. But big hair or not, I would never characterize her as ignorant, shallow, or clueless. She, like her mother and grandmother before her, is every bit the Steel Magnolia: gracious, beautiful,intelligent, resourceful, and hard as nails.
I have discovered in my travels to other parts of the country that there is a certain subtlety to Southern society that is totally lost on our counterparts in other regions. A woman from New York or Seattle or Phoenix is direct in her dealings with others. In the South, directness is often interpreted as rudeness. There are nuances to our conversation that outsiders miss: a raised eyebrow, a slight hesitation in speaking, the choice of a particular word full of unspoken import. A Southern woman can insult you without your even knowing it. And of course, there is also an unwritten code of proper behavior. There are certain topics of conversation that will NEVER be appropriate at a luncheon. And the failure to send a thank-you note can spell your doom in certain circles.
There is a separate language that Southerners speak. I often forget about this until I am in a group of non-Southerners. In the course of conversation, I will invariably make a comment that draws strange looks from my companions. That is when I realize that I have uttered a Southernism. Some place that is far off the beaten path might be referred to as "plumb nearly." A car that is crookedly parked is "all cattywumpus." Someone who is upset might have her "panties in a wad." And my favorite, spoken often by my mother when my sister and I were arguing: "Don't be ugly." As a child, I would sometimes look at myself in the mirror when she said this, wondering if I was indeed making an ugly face.
But being a Southerner is about more than the way we talk. It's about resourcefulness and determination. My great-grandmother raised and butchered her own chickens, grew and canned her own vegetables, and worked in an ammunition plant during World War II. Determined that her children would know how to conduct themselves in public, she got a book on etiquette and taught herself--and her family--proper table manners. She passed that Southern stubbornness on to her daughter, my grandmother. When my mother was in college, she had a car accident and my grandmother was called to the scene. She insisted that my mother, head bleeding, drive herself to the hospital (with my grandmother beside her). "If you don't," she said, "you'll be afraid to ever drive again." It might have seemed unfeeling, but she was probably right. Years later, whenever I would whine that I couldn't do something, my mother would simply say, "Can't never could." I never quite understood what that meant, but I got the message: we do what we set our minds to do.
I believe that my Southern roots are responsible for much of who I am today. My parents always responded to my wild ideas and ambitions with, "Well, of course you can do that!" Try out for All-County Chorus? Go do it! Go out for cheerleader without a gymnastic lesson in your background? Why not? Double major in college, get married your junior year, and still graduate on time with honors? Of course! Start your own business doing what you love? Sure you can!
And now I have the opportunity to pass that along to my own children. I want them to try--it doesn't matter if they succeed. I never want them to look back and wonder if they could have done something. I want to be an example to them. I want to face my fears of what might happen and try anyway, even if I fail. I want to raise my own little Steel Magnolias.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Drapery Goddess Gets a TomTom
For Christmas this year, my parents gave me a TomTom. As I unwrapped the bright blue box, my first thought was, "Is this a comment on my navigational skills?" I have never asked for a GPS, never even hinted at one. MapQuest is good enough for me, thank you. And if I get REALLY lost, well, that's what the cellphone is for, right?
But there it was, and I had to face the fact that I was about to be dragged into the 21st century, kicking and screaming.
When I got home, the box sat on my coffee table, unopened, for about three days. When I finally condescended to open it, I was confident that I could get it to mess up in a big way. But first, I had to choose The Voice of my TomTom. After listening to all the pre-programmed multiple personalities, I finally settled on a girl with a polite, non-accented voice. (I can't imagine that any woman would want a man's voice telling her where to turn.) I tested my new toy on a location close to home. Voila! It had me driving in circles. Literally. Just as I thought--the TomTom had a much worse sense of direction than I did.
Turns out, if I tell her to NAVIGATE to a location instead of plan an itenerary, the TomTom will get me where I need to go. Lesson learned. The next step was to try to make her mad. I deliberately put in the wrong address to see what she would do if I ignored her directions.
Now, this was funny. The TomTom directed me to turn left, and I sailed right on. She didn't lose her temper, didn't get huffy--she just told me to turn left at the next intersection. After a couple of miles of the TomTom trying to save me from myself, she finally advised me to "turn around if possible." But she wasn't rude about it. And when I finished my errand, she didn't even hold a grudge. Now, this I like.
I won't exactly call myself a convert, but I am beginning to see possibilities with this thing. I must admit, she did save me about five minutes by plotting a shorter route to a client's house than the one I would have taken. And it would be nice to know when I was about to run into construction or a major accident. But if I'm going to keep her, I'll have to name her. Kinda reminds me of getting a puppy.
But there it was, and I had to face the fact that I was about to be dragged into the 21st century, kicking and screaming.
When I got home, the box sat on my coffee table, unopened, for about three days. When I finally condescended to open it, I was confident that I could get it to mess up in a big way. But first, I had to choose The Voice of my TomTom. After listening to all the pre-programmed multiple personalities, I finally settled on a girl with a polite, non-accented voice. (I can't imagine that any woman would want a man's voice telling her where to turn.) I tested my new toy on a location close to home. Voila! It had me driving in circles. Literally. Just as I thought--the TomTom had a much worse sense of direction than I did.
Turns out, if I tell her to NAVIGATE to a location instead of plan an itenerary, the TomTom will get me where I need to go. Lesson learned. The next step was to try to make her mad. I deliberately put in the wrong address to see what she would do if I ignored her directions.
Now, this was funny. The TomTom directed me to turn left, and I sailed right on. She didn't lose her temper, didn't get huffy--she just told me to turn left at the next intersection. After a couple of miles of the TomTom trying to save me from myself, she finally advised me to "turn around if possible." But she wasn't rude about it. And when I finished my errand, she didn't even hold a grudge. Now, this I like.
I won't exactly call myself a convert, but I am beginning to see possibilities with this thing. I must admit, she did save me about five minutes by plotting a shorter route to a client's house than the one I would have taken. And it would be nice to know when I was about to run into construction or a major accident. But if I'm going to keep her, I'll have to name her. Kinda reminds me of getting a puppy.
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