Thoughts.com

10 Survival Strategies for Entrepreneurs

1. Always keep six months of expenses in savings to give you a cushion through economic downturns.

2. Keep your contact list current and don't be afraid to call or e-mail them for marketing leads when work slows down.

3. Never overextend your finances. Don't assume money will flow in to pay for expensive items that aren't absolutely necessary.

4. Don't panic when the business slows. Think out of the box. Market harder and smarter. Keep fighting.

5. Develop a contingency plan within your strategic plan to give you a clear vision for how to aggressively pursue new work when you need to.

6. Network every chance you get. The more people who see you, know you and like you, the more likely they will be to send work your way or refer you to others.

7. Don't give in to negative thinking. It will only lead you down a slippery slope. Keep your mind focused on success and strategies to bring work your way.

8. Spend more money on marketing. Whether ads, direct mail, newsletters, brochures, press releases or e-mail, you need to get your name in front of a larger audience.

9. Take care of the customers you have. Don't let your attention to them slack when you're feeling down. Give them your best and they'll stand by you!

10. Don't even think about giving up. You've come this far, keep going. Life is full of ups and downs. Flow with this season and stay the course.

Copyright 2011 - Linda Mastaglio

Okay, I know.  Every reputable etiquette expert will tell you that giving a gift you received from one person to another person is unwise.  The ultimate fear is that you’ll give a gift back to the person who originally gave it to you.  This could offend your friend, have long-term, detrimental impact on your relationship, and even create such angst that your friendship ends altogether.  But this perception is a little extreme.  If we think this through together, I think you’ll see that re-gifting is really a pretty smart idea. 

Here are some reasons why.

Often, we give gifts that we think are fun, without really evaluating whether or not they will be appreciated by the recipient.  Maybe you like to get flowers and I like to give candles, so I send you an expensive vanilla pillar candle when you would’ve preferred some cut daisies.  Okay, maybe I didn’t think it through and really see it from your point of view; but this is a great way for you to make lemons from lemonade.   Perhaps your sister Sally loves candles and would think my vanilla pillar is the best gift she could receive.  So now, you can give her the candle for her birthday and take the money you’d have spent on her gift and buy something for yourself.  In that way, my gift to you, though initially unwanted, gives you an opportunity to get something you do want.

My friend Jessica loves body lotions –  any scent, any brand, she can’t get enough.  She loves having a big selection to choose from.  Sometimes at night she watches her favorite TV sitcoms while indulging in some skin-soothing concoction.  Sometimes she’ll even mix them.  “Vanilla and coconut makes a nice combo,” she says.

On the flip side, Jessica and I have a mutual friend, Kara.  She has only one brand of lotion that she’ll use and she used to get irritated that her sister-in-law always gave her a gift set of off-brand body lotions each Christmas.  “Now I look forward to that gift each Christmas,” Kara says.  “I get a nice gift to give Jessica, my sister-in-law does the shopping, and I go spend the money I saved on myself.  It’s a win-win-win situation.”

Another way to do re-gifting, without fear of returning a gift accidently to an original giver, is to have a re-gifting companion.  This could be a friend, family member, or neighbor.  With a re-gifting companion you make an agreement that, if you got a gift you won’t want or use, you will give it to her for her to give as a gift to someone else.  Ideally, you would have few relatives or friends in common and the chance that anyone would ever know it was re-gifted would be negligible.  This worked great for Patsy when her sister gave her an expensive music box that, while lovely, did not fit with her décor.  She passed it on to her gifting companion, Carole, who then gave it as a birthday present to her sister in another state who collects music boxes.  Her sister was thrilled, Carole was a hero, and Patsy had one less thing sitting around the house.  Another triple-win situation.

In some instances, you may be legitimately concerned that someone might expect to see their gift on display in your home and would be offended if it wasn’t.  Melanie had that problem when her sister bought her a throw pillow in bright, splashy colors that didn’t fit with the subdued hues of her living room furniture.  In this case, she simply put it in the closet and would bring it out when her sister came to visit.  There will always be things we hold onto because the relationship is far more important than the gift; but most of the time, people won’t expect to see their gifts sitting around your home.

The important thing about gifts is the intent behind them and how you respond when you receive them.  It doesn’t really matter what someone gives you.  It matters what the feelings were behind the gift and, in turn, how you made the giver feel when they presented it to you.  When my friend, Carlee, celebrated her 30^thbirthday, her boyfriend, Mark, proudly walked into her home with a massive outdoor barbeque grill.  Carlee had no earthly clue how to use it, nor had she ever hoped to own one.  In fact, she’d dreamed of him bringing her flowers and a soft sweater, not a household appliance.  But, wisely, she recognized the emotion behind the gift.  She knew how much Mark enjoyed cooking for her on Saturday nights and how much fun it was for him to please her in this manner.  As a result, her reaction was to hug him and thank him with genuine appreciation for such a meaningful gift.  When Mark’s employer transferred him to another city, their relationship faded; but true to her creative gift of re-gifting, she presented the grill to her little brother for his 21^stbirthday.  He and two friends had pooled resources to rent a house and an outdoor grill was perfect for their lifestyle.  When friends came over to watch football or play cards, they’d grill burgers and steaks and make the time together that much more entertaining.

In a less dramatic example, Suzie gave her Uncle John a coffee mug with his initial “J” on it. He had a cupboard full of mugs and no need for another, but his reaction responded to the intent.  He turned to Suzie and said, “That is so kind.  You know how much I enjoy my coffee and how much I like to drink it from large mugs like this one.  I so appreciate the thought you put into finding this mug for me.” Suzie smiled with satisfaction, confident that she’s made her uncle happy.  Indeed he was very happy by the effort she expended to find a thoughtful gift; but the fact remained that he really didn’t need it.  However, Uncle John had coffee with his friend Jerry every Saturday and so, when Jerry lost everything in his divorce, Uncle John showed up with a coffee pot, a pound of coffee and the “J” cup.  Jerry turned away to hide his emotion.  Suzie’s gift to John ultimately served as a meaningful emotional marker when it became a gift from John to Jerry.

 If you’re still not convinced that re-gifting is an acceptable practice, think about this:  How many gifts did you give five years ago?  Who did you give them to?  What did you give them?  You’ll likely find that you really don’t remember what you gave most people.  In a few instances you’ll remember what you gave, but more often than not, gifts are temporary memories; opportunities to say “I appreciate you” and then move on.  It would be a very rare person who remembered every gift they ever gave to others.

If you do decide that re-gifting is right for you, there is one important rule to always remember.  Once you receive a gift that you know won’t suit your needs, be sure to tape the name of the giver on the bottom of the item and then remove that label before wrapping it up for someone else.  That way you will never give the gift back to the giver or to someone who would recognize who the original giver was. 

Giving gifts is not about how much it cost, what it is, or where you bought it.  It’s about the intent of the giver and the choices we make to bring joy and pleasure to others by what we share of ourselves, our gifts, and our hearts.

© Linda Mastaglio

Let’s build a wall we don’t need and pay about $750,000 for it…

And let’s import fancy stone from overseas so we take income away from American companies and increase our carbon footprint by having it shipped half way across the world …

And let’s make the wall tall enough so that the adjacent condo loses concierge surveillance into the park, a service that could help keep the park patrons safe.

That’s what the City of Dallas and Belo are doing at Belo Gardens, an urban park now under construction between Main and Commerce in downtown Dallas.

Why are they doing this?

They say …

Pedestrians must be protected from vehicular traffic that uses the private drive in front of the condo.

The truth is:

IF THAT WAS WISE REASONING … they would put a 12.5-ft wall around the entire park, since vehicular traffic on the Main and Commerce sides of the park is many times greater, faster, and more threatening than the intermittent and occasional use of the condo’s front driveway by the mere 300+ residents of the condo building. (Main and Commerce are two of the busiest streets in downtown Dallas.)  Further, protection from vehicular traffic is achieved on most Texas highways through use of a 3-ft divider wall.  Does the city really need a wall over four times that height to protect pedestrians from traffic on one short, narrow driveway?

They say …

The architectural sight lines of the wall are complimented by the condo building as a backdrop. 

The truth is:

IF THAT IS TRUE, then wouldn’t it make sense to have a short wall, compromising less of the building aesthetics?

They say …

The plans have been drafted and it would be cost-prohibitive to alter such plans.

The truth is:

At a cost of over $750,000 to construct the wall, plan changes could be easily offset by the reduction in materials and labor that a smaller wall requires.

This wall issue does not show concern for the real people; those who live and work downtown and those who visit our safe and wonderful downtown. We do not need another alleyway to create a blind spot.  Things that logically happen in urban blind spots are: criminal activity, vandalism, public indecency, and other lascivious behavior.

The park’s plan for downtown has always claimed to be aimed at creating OPEN spaces and fostering a sense of community and urban involvement.  There is no reasoning which both supports open spaces and condones a 12.5-ft wall, spanning a city block.  It simply makes no sense.

A rendering and a schematic drawing can be viewed at http://blogs.dallasobserver.com/unfairpark/2011/02/is_belo_building_a_wall_of_spi.php#more

Persons wishing to express an opinion should contact:

Angela Hunt, Dallas City Council Member

angela.hunt@dallascityhall.com, (214) 670-5415

Morning breaks with a whimper. With a muffled whine that sounds more like a yawn, Taylor knows that I know that she’s asking to be released from her crate. It’s morning, she’s hungry, and she needs to go outside.  Do I want to heed the beck and call of the mastiff/lab pup?  Not really. But I’m awake now, so what the heck.

Before releasing her, I cross the living room and peer out the picture windows, looking down on Dallas’ Main Street, 10 stories below. It’s my ritual. I love to spy on the world from this vantage point; to imagine the lives and legacies of those people passing by. Early in the morning, the streets are quiet, the traffic lethargic, the pedestrians mostly type-A lawyers arriving early or homeless men rustling through the trash cans positioned on the sidewalks near every cross street.

My view this morning surprises me. I had no idea that four inches of snow had drifted down over night, crusting the streets and cars and light posts and buildings with a puffy white coat. Oh boy, I can’t wait to let Taylor out now!  Quickly, I unlatch the crate and pull back the door. This time a true yawn breaks forth, as she rises and stretches and moves quickly to the kitchen, knowing breakfast precedes our morning walk.

Hurriedly, I fill her bowl and rush to dress in long johns, tights, jeans, two sweaters, and wool socks. There’s not much use for snow boots in Texas, so I don the next best thing … tennies. Though not waterproof, they at least have hearty tread.

I finish dressing as she finishes eating. She looks toward me impatiently and parks her large rear quarters against the condo door. She’s ready. She’s waiting. Quickly I run a brush through my hair and a brush through my teeth, and we’re out the door. We’re both excited now

Taylor’s anticipation builds as the elevator descends. When the door opens, she sprints like a race horse out of the gate. The leash in my hand gives way, flying through my fingers and falling to the floor. I step on its end and Taylor has no choice but to stop mid-sprint and wait for me. Good dog.        

In the lobby, the concierge, Darren, smiles. We like each other--a lot. All the concierges in my building are like brothers. I don’t know how the management company finds these guys. Every one of them is kind and good, warm and caring.

“Are schools closed today?” I ask. I want to cancel my meetings in Fort Worth and play in the downtown snow in Dallas. I know if the schools are closed, then it’s legitimate to decide that the roads are too treacherous to travel.

“Yes, Dallas schools announced yesterday that they’d be closed today. They knew this front was coming in.”        

“What about Fort Worth schools.”        

“’Haven’t heard.”       

“I have meetings there today. ‘Don’t really want to drive in this.”      

“No, you shouldn’t go.”       

As I push hard against the exterior glass door, a brisk winter wind hits my face and makes me wince. Taylor pushes past and beats me out the door. She slips on the ice beneath the snow, but catches herself and moves on quickly.

As we round the corner of Main and Akard, a homeless woman stands her post, selling Street Zine newspapers for a dollar each. It’s her job. She doesn’t seem bothered by the wind or the cold. I smile and say a “good morning” as she reaches out to give Taylor a head pat. She asks me if the dog would like a snack. How can I refuse such selflessness? Taylor and I stand quietly as the woman digs deep into her backpack, coming up empty. Right then, a man comes around the corner, more Street Zines in his hands. She mumbles a question to him.

“Yeah, I’ve got ‘em,” he says. “I took ‘em out and put em in my pocket.”

He smiles at Taylor as he pulls a handful of individually wrapped sausage sticks from his coat. He pulls back the plastic from one of the sticks and hands her the gift which she greedily devours.

“Do you like beef jerky?” I ask him.

“Yeah,” he answers with a puzzled look.

“My cousin makes the best jerky,” I answer. “I have some I’ll bring you if you’d like it.”  

“That’d be good.”

Taylor and I continue our journey along the snow covered sidewalks, making brief contact with passers-by. “Nice dog,” says one. “BIG dog,” says another. “’morning,” says one more.     

Last night, I met a man at Charlie Palmers who told me the media that converged on the Dallas Metroplex to cover this weekend’s Super Bowl were holed up at the Sheraton down the road. Being a media soul myself, I got excited. What fun it would be to go sit in the lobby tonight and listen in on conversations about Super Bowl scripts, and sound checks, and to hear back-stories on player interviews. I’m good at being a fly on the wall and gleaning intriguing anecdotes in a stealthy sort of way; but I don’t know where the Sheraton is. The browser on my phone tells me it’s on Olive Street, so Taylor and I are on our way to find its exact location.

As we slog through the snow, more snow is falling; big square-ish flakes melt on my face and feel fresh. Taylor lifts her head toward the sky and breaths in hard. Maybe she likes feeling the snowflakes too.

Along the way, I stop and look into the windows of my optometrist’s office. I double-take. I’m confused. Where are the leather chairs and waiting room tables? Where are the people in white cotton lab coats? Where are the glasses that normally stand in rows and rows like headless faces along the entire western wall? All I see is NFL-embroidered logos on jackets, Super Bowl-emblazoned Nerf balls. It seems that even doctors know how to cash in on the event.

Still chuckling at the irony of this, I turn the corner and know I’ve reached my destination. I don’t need to look at the street sign to see if this is Olive or the front of the building to know it’s the Sheraton. The streets are lined with mobile television production trucks, their satellite dishes heaped with overnight snow and their tires partly hidden by the street slush. I now know where to come tonight. It’s only 14 blocks, I think. It’ll be an adventure.

Taylor and I turn back toward home. We stop at the dog park for a quick romp with Rosco, an overweight bull dog in an oversized red knit sweater. The two dogs jump synchronously into the air, chests and front paws touching. They turn and race down the length of the run, slip-sliding as they go. The condo dogs love this refuge. It’s the one place they can go and be truly free. 

By the time Taylor is worn from the workout with Rosco, I realize that my tennis shoes are heavy with melted snow and my feet are beginning to feel the pain of the cold. I tell Taylor it’s time to leave but she seems intent on ignoring me. The clasp of the leash on her collar tells her I’m still in charge. Reluctantly, she heads for the dog park door. We jog through the snow and back to the condo. As we enter the elevator and I fumble for my keys, Taylor sits down and sighs deeply. Whether she’s tired or content, I do not know. But then, as I open the door to our unit, the answer if clear; Taylor rushes in and climbs into her crate, sighs deeply, and she’s out.

Meanwhile, I’m barely in the door when the phone rings. It’s Darren. “I saw you come in. I checked with Fort Worth. Schools are closed. I don’t want you driving today. It’s too dangerous.”

I smile inside and out as I set down the phone. My concierge brothers. They have my back.

Wrenching off my snow-soaked socks and sneakers, I pick up my last pair of clean wool socks and my short fashion boots and prepare to head out the door again. In my hand is a quart-size, zip lock baggie of jerky. I head down the road. The wind is stronger now and the snow hits harder against my face. It stings slightly.

When I reach the corner of Main and Akard, the homeless woman is gone, but the man who’d treated Taylor stood her post.

“Here you go,” I said smiling as I hand him the bag.  

“Beef or duck,” he replies.

“Beef,” I say.

He nods, unzips the bag, and digs in.

I read a headline on WFAA.com today that said: “The big winner at Super Bowl XLV? The NFL.” No, they’re not the only winner. I came to my condo in Dallas this week for one reason alone – to experience the excitement of the Super Bowl crowd and feel the energy of that momentum. The weather kept crowds away from the downtown restaurants and bars and events. The streets were vacant night after night. But I didn’t lose. I may not have seen the Super Bowl crowd; but I saw real people, felt their kindness and experienced reflected joy.

© 2011 Linda Mastaglio

It's February, 2008. I’m sitting on a concrete bench in Tyler, Texas.  My head and computer are shrouded with my burgundy leather jacket so I can see what I’m writing.  The bright sun obscures the screen.

I am waiting for Bill Clinton. I and hundreds more mingle to pass the time.  It’s two.  He was to be here at 2:45.  That’s changed to four.  Maybe.  It’s a very long line.

I’ve been up since 2:50 am.  I couldn’t sleep, concerned about taking Bones to the pound. Each morning, the Type A, Labrador/greyhound freely wraps his front legs around my neck and nestles his muzzle in my hair.  How can you resist that?  Easily, after he turned my black Miata into a Picasso with deep-scored scratches from hood to trunk.  

So, off to the city’s dog pound he went today.  It was hard, but I took him and they refused him because the contract with the Houston SPCA says he can’t be given away and must be returned to them.  I called my friend, Anna, to see if Bones could stay at her apartment in Tyler while I went to the Clinton thing.  She was working in Canton, but her sister, Tiffany, met me at Jordan’s appliance and electrical and satellite store at the intersections of highways 314 and 64.  She took Bones back home for me.  That gave me time to find a parking space at Tyler Junior College by noon.  And now we wait.

This is a strange situation.  People are standing around bored and so their conversations are less than stimulating, “I think; I like; I believe … blah, blah.” 

The Young’s and I wound up in line together.  A nice situation and good to see them, as we’ve lost touch in the recent past.  Also pleasant to have the company.  It’s just Barbara and the girls; Celeste is 16 and Grace is 12.  Husband/dad Chris is at the dentist.  The Young’s, devout Evangelicals and equally devout Republicans, home school the girls. Barbara’s mission is to give them the most rounded and grounded education she can personally design; so here they wait for Bill.

It’s a cool day, but a clean cool—a nice, soft-winded day with winter clouds.

I had planned to go to Bergfeld Park in Tyler, to capture some thoughts on my new laptop and to see if wi-fi reaches into the park; but now that I’m here, this is just as good a place to write.  And how many times can anyone say they got to see a past-president?  It’s worth the time.

I hope Bones can get a new home.

The line keeps getting wider and longer.  And noisier, too. 

I smell suntan lotion and cigarette smoke. 

We have no knowledge of what could happen tomorrow, but for this moment, this experience is cool.  It has potential to be memorable; we’ll see.

Waiting is getting old; but, finally, an exodus from the courtyard toward the entrance alerts us that it’s time to go inside.  I’m not allowed to bring my umbrella so I hide it in the bushes, scratching the top of my hand on the prickly, stout leaves of the holly bushes.

Men in blue herd us into a small gathering space, room for 600, I hear someone say, if we all stand tightly together.   At the front, left of center, temporary blue curtains on aluminum frames hide from view those who are, I guess, important.  Party people and secret service and name-tagged university folks come out briefly, re-hide, and return again now and then.

We, the Young’s and me, are very short people.  And that is not advantageous in a standing-room-only political rally.  The room quickly becomes stuffy and tepid as more bodies enter and press forward against each other.  We can see chests around us and heads above us, and not much else. As the crowd presses forward, our small size allows us to sidle into cracks and crannies between people. Their weight and momentum eventually stops pushing us once we are deposited in the second row.  Quite an unexpected occurrence when we simply flowed with the herd, not aware of where we would ultimately land.

We can see the whites of the secret service eyes, a man on each side of the podium and one behind.  Their eyes seem to follow a pattern in screening the crowd.  Every 15 minutes or so, they rotate places.  A new view, I guess.

Then an energy develops behind the curtain, like a wind welling up in the shadows, and out pops Bill—tall and angly, aging well, though definitely aging.  His cowboy boots and tailored blue suit are expensive.  The suit stretches tightly across his midriff and chest, but perhaps because a protective vest shields his vitals.

He speaks crisply and smartly. He knows his lines; and he speaks them convincingly.  Perhaps he really would like to be the First Man, or whatever you call the male spouse of the President.  Or perhaps he sees his potential role as the president-behind-the-president, furthering his unfinished business— disrupted and delayed by addressing his oh-so-public, cigar-smacking sins.

The thing that strikes me most, though, is the sincerity in what he says; yet he does not project that sincerity when promoting his wife.  Perhaps he is tired, or distracted, and feeling hand-slapped by the Hillary advisors who call him a liability and tell him to shut up.  Or perhaps he really is just out here, fulfilling his campaign duties like the other candidates’ spouses who smile and say the right things and show up to let people see and touch them, hoping the experience translates into votes.

No, it seems to me he is saying, “Here’s what I stand for, which is also what Hill stands for, so if you like me, then like my wife and then she can get what she wants.”  Maybe I’m reading much too much into this.  But I know passion when I hear it and he doesn’t have it and I am left uninspired.

When he finishes his 15 minute or so soliloquy, he moves to the right corner of the front row crowd and begins grabbing wrists and looking Americans in the eye.  He’s good at that.  A helpful trait; and as he makes his way around the half circle, the crowd pushes in against me for a chance to touch his hand.  I keep my hands to myself.  Touching him is not on my list of 100 things to do before I die.  But, he reaches toward me, so I let him have it, but there is no eye contact; just a firm wrist grasp and on he goes.  As he reaches the end of the line he stands for a moment, then turns with such force and energy and strides briskly across the room and back to the right corner of semi-circled front-row Americans.  The look on his face, the emotion in his decision, the quickness of his stride all say, “I like you; I want to spend another minute with you.”  And that is the legacy of Bill Clinton—the consummate listener and lover of people. The guy you can imagine wouldn’t mind helping you fix your fence or who’d sit awhile and drink coffee with you.  The kind of guy who might take Bones in ‘cause he’s a fine looking dog.  That grasp of reality, that willingness to just be … that may be why so many people so freely forgave so many indiscretions so many times.

©  Linda Mastaglio