Swimming in Surveys

Everyone wants my feedback. At least it feels like everyone wants my feedback because nearly every business transaction ends with someone asking me to fill out a survey.

I called AT&T today because I needed someone there to reset my voicemail password. Before I was able to reach a human, a computerized voice asked if I’d be willing to take a short survey once my problem was solved. Why not solve my problem before you ask me to do something for you?

Many restaurants include a survey card with your check, and anytime I call Comcast or DirecTV they try to steer me towards taking a “short” survey. Consumer Reports sends me a few surveys each year, and each of them are several pages long. All for what?

Occasionally, I’ll take a few minutes to fill out a survey card. But usually I want something in return for my time. Sometimes I don’t feel like providing feedback because the transaction wasn’t memorable. But if I receive excellent or very poor service, I’ll fill out a survey card or ask to speak with the manager.

But I don’t like to be badgered or made to feel guilty. This Burger King had no problem bribing their customers with a free Whopper in exchange for top scores.

Last week I noticed a handmade sign near the drive-thru window at Panda Express. To paraphrase the sign:

We’d appreciate if you’d fill out the survey at the link found on the bottom of your receipt, especially if you’re pleased with the service you received today. We are required to have a certain number of surveys returned each month and we’d appreciate you helping us reach our goal.

So, let me see if I understand this. If I received good service, I should fill out a survey in order for you to reach an arbitrary number I could not care less about? I understand the person’s intent in creating such a sign, but it had the opposite effect on me.

Does your company fall into this trap by caring more about the survey return rate than the actual feedback?

I worked for a company a while back that got it right. After each completed project, the CEO would call the client and ask no more than five questions. Each question was phrased in a manner that would elicit feedback that was actionable. All calls were kept to no more than ten minute. Most were shorter.

The clients were impressed to hear from the CEO, and the feedback he received was not always positive, but it was honest and valuable and helped us improve future projects. Clients tend to sugar-coat feedback when it’s routed though the project manager they’ve been working with. Yet, they tend to loosen up and speak their mind when dealing with the CEO.

When the CEO takes the time to call, it sends the message, “We care about you, and we respect and appreciate your feedback”.

Are your clients excited to fill out a survey about the product or service you deliver? If not, maybe they don’t see the value of taking time out of their day to provide you with free feedback.

If the product or service you deliver isn’t memorable then you have a much larger problem.

–Photo by Hashir

Quite Alright

Do you remember where you were when you heard that song? The song that must have been written for you because it grabs you and won’t let you go until it’s ripped through your soul?

I doubt it’s coincidence that music often hits me in this manner during turbulent times. That was the case with the Counting Crows which made the 2.5 hour drive from Ogden to Rock Springs less dreary by taking my mind off my crumbling marriage.

After the chips had fallen and papers signed, I was left with my computer, a cat and a 20-inch television that was wedged up against the wall because the broken stand alone wasn’t enough to keep it off the floor.

The speakers attached to my computer were so weak that I tuned my TV to MTV in order to listen to music while I typed away in the dark. But these were not happy times. I was 900 miles away from my family, I barely earned enough money to afford a one bedroom apartment in Seattle, and I had no idea where life was taking me.

I knew it would take a while to get back back on my feet. I decided to start working out each morning. I’d slip on my running shoes at 6 am and head towards Volunteer Park. It’s not uncommon to run through mist in Seattle, and I didn’t realize how wet my clothes were until I stopped to rest a few blocks from home.

Yellow earphones hung around my neck that were connected to an FM radio. As I was about ready to remove them, I heard a piercing harmonica followed by this woman’s voice that felt like a slap across the face.

But it was this lyric that stopped me in my tracks:

And what it all boils down to
Is that no one’s really got it figured out just yet

When the song finished, the DJ mentioned the name of the song which I didn’t catch. Luckily, he mentioned the track was off the Jagged Little Pill album. On my way to work I walked by Westlake Center and bought the CD.

That’s what good music does. It compels you to buy it now. Not tomorrow, but right now.

That night I slipped the CD into my car’s player and headed east up I90 towards North Bend. I listened to Hand in My Pocket over and over. The lyrics were spot on. Over time, I began to see that I wasn’t as bad off as I’d thought. When I looked around, others were struggling. I wasn’t the only one who was confused. And that gave me hope.

What it all comes down to, my friends
Is that everything’s just fine fine fine

It took a while but I eventually began putting the pieces together, and my life began to take shape again.

When this song comes around today on my iTunes playlist, it takes me back to that misty Seattle morning where a young man stood soaked to bone wondering if his future was as bleak as the weather.

Yet I’m more optimistic today knowing that nobody really has it all figured out.

Nights Like These

“Are we going swimming?”

“Dad?”

“Are we going swimming?”

That’s what I hear as I open the door from the garage and look for a safe area to place my briefcase. But first I must make my way through the obstacle course of crayons, book bags, and rain boots my kids have designed for me.

And in case I didn’t hear him the first three times, Lincoln reminds me that tonight is the night I promised to take him swimming.

Only I don’t remember making that promise.

Then again, I don’t remember much that takes place from the time I come through the door to the time the kids head to bed. It’s one big blur.

The kids want to share what they learned at school. That involves each of them trying to talk over one another until my ears are ringing. Yesterday, Lincoln made me…something. It’s odd shaped, colorful and, according to Lincoln, would look great in my office. At first sight, I thought it was an Indian chief or Aztec art. If coworkers ask, I’ll tell them it’s Lady Gaga.

Eventually we end up at the dinner table where I select someone who isn’t inhaling a dinner roll or guzzling lemonade to give the prayer. On special occasions the food gets blessed. When Anna does the honors we keep our fingers crossed that God has a liberal sense of humor.

There are nights where Kim and I look at each other and wonder how we lost control. There are times when the chaos drives me to retreat to my computer where I drown out the noise with a set of headphones.

And that’s where I found myself tonight.

Just one more ESPN article. Better check Facebook. Where’s my iPhone?

And then silence. I’d better check this out. So I head upstairs to find Kim sitting in the hallway reading a book to the kids who are in bed: Anna and Luca in one room and Lincoln and Kai in another. Nobody is pulling faces or making noises to annoy younger sisters. No shoving, belching or giggling.

As the chaos turns to calm I begin to understand.

Kim continues to read until they’re asleep. The mood is peaceful. Only our dog can be heard walking through the kitchen looking for table scraps.

My head is no longer spinning from the day’s activity. It’s not always apparent on the surface. But I’m certain I will look back on nights like these and proclaim they were the best of my life.

Managing By Manual

During my last quarter of college, I applied for a job as the manager of a large chain of gift stores. As part of the application process I was asked to take a series of written tests. I was told these tests would “quantify my potential” to become a successful manager.

I didn’t question the test at the time. I was tired of living on Ramen Noodles and Campbell’s soup and couldn’t wait to earn a paycheck that would cover more than the bare necessities plus a few games of pinball.

Yet even then, “quantify my potential” didn’t sound right. How could any test quantify what I might become? Sounded like Tony Robbins speak.

There were no materials to help prepare for the test. The only instruction I was given was to answer each question honestly. I had as much time as I needed.

As I made my way through the multiple choice questions, I began to see the same question asked more than once. Some questions were asked four or five times with the only difference being that the answers were tweaked just slightly.

One question I recall went something like this:

If you confirmed that one of your employees was making long distance phone calls on the company’s line, would you:

a) Ask the assistant manager to deal with the problem.

b) Give the employee a verbal warning.

c) Consult the Manager’s Handbook

d) Fire the employee

With a few exceptions, each questions had at least one clearly wrong answer such as A in the above example, followed by two that sounded good and one confusing option, such as C.

About an hour into the test, I decided the whole process was a fraud. Some management consultant had convinced an HR manager with too big of budget that giving this test would weed out poor managers.

In most cases, I selected the answer that required some action and/or common sense. I would probably warn an employee who made long distance phone calls but I’d fire someone who took cash from the register. I finished the test and awaited the results.

A few days before graduation, I was offered the job. My first job out of college would end up challenging me in ways I never thought possible. I’d never been a manager before and wasn’t sure how to act. To showcase my newfound title, I wore a freaking tie on my first day of work which I promptly slammed into the cash register during my first hour of training.

I was shocked to find out that I was responsible for 15 people right out of the gate. I had no idea what I was doing.

So I winged it.

I hired students who loved to work with the public. I found a great assistant manager who enjoyed digging into the details of the business, which was not a strong skill of mine. We had pizza. We had parties. We worked late and supported each other. Basically, we had a lot of fun while selling a lot of cards and gifts.

Not once did I crack open the manager’s handbook. It sat there on my desk gathering dust like an outdated phonebook.

At my first manager retreat, I had dinner with the manager who gave me the employment test. She’d recently been promoted to regional manager and was kind in her words towards me. She complimented the performance of my store and my team. And then she said something that stunned me.

“I’m glad we hired you even though you failed the manager test”.

I didn’t know what to tell her. She went on to explain that my answers did not trend towards the corporate. My decision to select the answer that required action on part of the manager was the wrong strategy. To score high, I needed to select the answers that required the least amount of decision making and common sense. The best answers were of the “advise HR” and “consult the manager handbook” variety.

Since that time, I’ve come to appreciate the backing of a strong HR department when dealing with serious matters. Large companies love to create to large manuals. But manuals don’t make a good manager.

When it comes to managing people, I’ll trust my instincts over any manual.

Anyday.

The Last Kick Of The Night

“If you can touch it, you can catch it”, I yelled across the backyard loud enough that neighbors to both sides could hear.

Lincoln scanned the yard for the ball. As he walked towards the shed where the ball had nestled up against, his bounce was gone.

So was his smile.

Just days before I played the same game with his older sister, Luca.

The game is simple. Find any ball. The softer the better. Today we used a volleyball belonging to our neighbor that found its way over our fence. The kids stand on the grass, and I kick the ball to them from 20 to 30 yard away as they try to catch it.

I know the game sounds boring, and it would be if I was able to kick the ball straight with any consistency. But I am no Lionel Messi. I spray the ball into the trees, neighbors yard and even Kim’s tomato plants.

But the unpredictability is the key to the game because the kids feel special on those rare moments I kick the ball in their vicinity and they are able to catch it.

My two oldest children go about playing the game in entirely different fashions. Luca likes me to challenge her. She likes to hear that I don’t believe she’ll be able to catch the next ball, and she keeps score as if her life depended on it.

Lincoln likes to keep score as well. But he wants to be encouraged instead of challenged. So telling him that he can catch it if he can touch it doesn’t go over well like it might with Luca.

I cherish this time with my son. It reminds of of those hot afternoons spent tossing the baseball around the yard with my father. As much as I enjoyed playing catch with my friends, nothing felt better than earning my father’s praise. But what I remember most are the talks we had. Most had nothing to do with baseball. But he was focused on me during those times. No TV, cell phone or sisters to distract. I learned a lot about my father on those nights where we played until it was dark or the mosquitoes were too thick.

The sun was setting and the shadows were making it difficult for Lincoln to see the ball. But he doesn’t want to stop playing.

He tells me he’s going to miss school but can’t wait to spend time with his grandparents at the beach and pool.

He describes the many friends he made at school this year and the books he’s reading. He asks me dozens of questions such as, “Who pays for the books at the library”.

I begin to understand why my father was willing to play catch with me until the sun went down after a long day at work.

“Last kick of the night”, I say.

Vision is limited and I wonder if I have one good kick left in me. Lincoln stretches out his arm as my best kick of the night bounces off his chest towards the shed. Lincoln pauses, expecting me to tell him that if he can touch it, he can catch it.

“Good try. You’ll catch it next time”, I call out as Lincoln bounds down the stairs towards the shed.

How I Spend My Time At Costco

The Bike Repair

I see traits I share with each of our four children, but especially Luca. The older she gets the more these traits surface. I tell myself that most are good, and only a few (picky eater, moody) will provide challenges.

Luca is reading the Harry Potter series. She made it through the first three books in less than two weeks. In that way, she’s like her mother. I enjoy reading, but am not able to read that rapidly. Both Luca and her mom read five book to my one.

I came home from work a few hours early today. After saying hello to the kids and the dog, I had to get back on email. As I was getting situated at my computer, Luca pulled a chair next to me. As I was about to tell her I needed a few minutes to myself, she told me that she wasn’t there to bother me.

All she wanted to do was sit next to me and read. And that’s what she did for the next 30 minutes while I worked through email.

When I was young I enjoyed watching my dad repair stuff around the house. I’d follow him around the yard from one task to the next. I probably got in his way more than a few times. But I never remember him shooing me away.

I remember one morning I ran outside to find my dad repairing a bike under the carport. He was working on the chain, and he had grease all over his hands, arms and face. I sat on the porch watching my father become ever more frustrated. The bike was not cooperating.

Of course, I had a few questions that quickly turned to suggestions. But my father was patient. He spoke to me in a calm tone while tinkering with the bike. Occasionally he sent me to the storage room where his tools were kept.

To this day, I don’t remember whose bike he was repairing. In fact, I’m not sure he was ever able to repair it. But I enjoyed the time I spent with my father. Seldom were my sisters around. It was just me and my dad.

There are times when I want to keep everyone, especially our children, away from an area while I work. Too often I ask Kim to take them to another part of the house so I can concentrate on the task at hand.

The next time I feel that way, I’m going to remember my father and the bike.

And if I end up with a little grease on my face, I bet my kids will overlook it.
After that nostalgia, I felt the need for a new bike so I asked my kids to find me deals online, they did great, we ended up using this: Best Hybrid Bikes Review 2017 – Top 12 You Can Get Now – BikeTitan

Closing Time

When I turned sixteen I couldn’t wait to find a job. Luckily, a friend of the family owned a carwash/gas station. My job consisted of sending cars through the automated wash and hand drying them as they exited.

For my work, I was paid $3.35 or a dime more than minimum wage. I showed up each Saturday morning at 8 am sharp and helped prepare the station for the day.

I learned a number of skills at that job, some of which I still think back on today. We didn’t have digital cash registers that calculated the change for us so I learned to count change back to customers. I also became comfortable checking and adding oil to various makes of cars. I also learned how to handle customers who expected their Pontiac Fiero to come out of a four dollar carwash looking show floor new.

One learning experience stands out though.

After a warm summer day, my coworker and I were in a hurry to close the station and spend the evening chasing girls or trouble or both. We began cleaning the large brushes with a cleaning solution that’s probably illegal today. My job was to dip two rags into an oily solution, turn the brushes on full speed and then hug the brushes until they were fully covered. Of course, more solution ended up on my clothing and hair than the brushes.

Not smoking probably saved my life.

We followed standard closing procedure by cleaning and preparing areas customers could not see. We were not allowed to lock the gas pumps until the 7 pm closing time.

But business had been light for the past hour and we couldn’t wait to begin our evening. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to lock half the gas pumps 30 minutes early, would it? Locking the pumps was time consuming because a number of readings had to be taken including dipping a 20 foot wooden pole down into the underground fuel containers.

Between cleaning the brushes and dipping that wooden pole into the container, no job since has provided so much excitement and potential danger.

So we locked one island of pumps and waited the last half hour before locking the rest and hopefully getting out a bit earlier than usual.

As I pumped gas for one of our regular customers, the owner of the station pulled up to one of the locked pumps. He didn’t have to get out of his car to notice it was locked.

I finished helping customers, while he waited next to his car. To his credit he didn’t explode or lay into me, although he had every right to. I explained that we hoped to get out as close to 7 pm as possible.

At that point he said, “I’d like you to pump my gas from this pump”.

And that’s when he taught me something I’ve never forgotten. “We close when our last customer drives away.”

What if a customer had pulled up to a locked pump and driven away before I could direct them to the other island? Nobody wants to feel like they are being hurried out of a business they are willing to patronize. He reminded me there were two gas stations located less than block away.

I got the message. The owner gave me a mulligan. I wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

I thought about his words this weekend when we visited Qdoba thirty minutes before closing. All but two smaller tables had been pushed to one side of the business. Chairs were balanced on top of tables, and one man was moping the floors under our feet as we ordered.

I should have walked out at that point, but the kids were hungry and strapping them into the van isn’t a pleasant exercise as they tell us for the 100th time how hungry they are.

To make matters more dangerous, the only way to the soda dispenser was through the wet area he’d already mopped. Of course, it took less than a minute for Kai fall down in that area while running to help his sister.

The woman who took our order was friendly, although I wasn’t happy when she asked, “This is to go, right?” as she cut the kids cheese quesadilla.

I understand the workers at Qdoba probably felt the same way I did as I locked down the gas pumps so many years ago. But last night did not make us fans of Qdoba. And because there’s a Chipotle a block away, we’ll take our business there next time we’re in the mood for quasi-healthy Mexican food.

Photo by Tommy Ironic

Thoughts from the Deck

As I stood off the deck to our home, I thought, “Is this where we should be raising our children?”

It’s hard to believe we’ll have lived in Auburn five year come September. I figured we’d last three and move on. Because that’s what we’ve done in the past. Maybe head north towards Seattle or further east. Maybe back to Woodinville where our first three kids were born.

But each month it becomes more difficult to leave. Our kids have made friends. They love their teachers at school and church.

Whenever I consider moving away, reasons not to flood my mind although they seldom have anything to do with me. How could we find another piano teacher who reaches Luca like Mrs. Bird? What would Kim do without her best friend who lives next door? Lincoln and Anna have already moved around three times in their short lives. How would they handle yet another?

There’s a peacefulness that comes from staring out over the yard from the deck. Rain droplets hit my skin. The misty kind that deceive you into thinking you can’t possibly need a jacket.

Tall slender trees dot our property line. I watch as they sway in unison to the gusts of wind moving through our neighborhood. I notice that one tree is dead. Instead of swaying with the others, it just stands there as each wind gust tosses dead branches to the ground. Kim told me it was dying two summers ago. But I wasn’t in a hurry to remove it. Who knew how long we’d stick around?

This deck is where I come to think. The kids are down for the night and I don’t have to worry about mosquitoes feeding on me quite yet. And I begin to realize something I haven’t given much thought to: this is where we are raising our children. I don’t know if this is where should be long term. But we are here today, and I’d be wise to spend more time with my children than concocting scenarios where we might be happier.

Just like the kids, I too have made many good friends. I’d miss playing basketball and racquetball with them each week. I’d miss the twisty road leading up the hill from the valley. I’d miss Frugals fry sauce. I know I’d miss chasing Kai as he rode his toys around the cul-de-sac.

I’d even miss our neighbor down the street who collect swords, but shares books with my daughter. When Luca told him she’d left her backpack containing the third Harry Potter book at school over the weekend, he delivered his copy to her a few minute later.

I don’t know how long we’ll be here in Auburn. But I’m not going to worry whether it’s another five, fifteen or fifty years. Whatever we do, I’m sure our kids will adapt.

Maybe it’s time to remove that tree.

Pancakes for Dinner

A late afternoon rainstorm made for a sluggish commute home from work a few days ago. As I pulled up the street to our home, I flicked the button to the garage door opener. I couldn’t wait to set down my briefcase and relax on the couch.

But as I stepped foot inside the house it sounded like Kim had started a daycare without my knowledge. I stood just inside the door, staring at the ceiling.

The kids laughter muffled my arrival home. I could stay downstairs until things settled down.

But that didn’t last long.

What was going on upstairs? I was curious.

I heard Kim yell, “Will you guys eat pancakes?” By the time I walked into the kitchen she was on the phone. Her friend (our neighbor) wasn’t feeling well. Kim offered to watch three kids while their mother rested.

Of course, none of this surprises me. Kim has a way of sensing when others need help. It’s a trait she’s exercised for so many years that it comes naturally.

I stood back and watched her flip pancakes, make scrambled eggs, set the table, and round up seven children. All with a phone to her ear. Just one of those activities would give me trouble.

Even then, I considered grabbing a plate of food and bolting downstairs to avoid the chaos. But I thought better of it when Kim mentioned to me that Anna had a difficult afternoon. I decided to sit next to her, but we ran out of chairs.

I picked up the piano bench from the living room and set it next to the dining table. Kim placed a plate stacked full of pancakes on the table. Over the next few minutes I watched the kids interact with each other. There was a lot of laughter and excitement in their voices. It was loud with each child raising his or her voice to be heard over the others.

Except for Anna. She sat next to me with her head down. I asked if she wanted maple syrup on her pancake. She agreed if I’d cut it into pieces for her.

And then someone asked Lincoln to tell us about the worm he peed on that morning.

Anna turned to me and said, “Oh dad, you’ve got to hear this story!”

So I sat there on an uncomfortable piano bench surrounded by kids eating pancakes and scrambled eggs while listening to Lincoln tell us why he peed on a worm.

I don’t know what I signed up when I became a father, but I’m sure it didn’t include this scenario.

But other than adding padding to the bench, I wouldn’t change a thing.