Grandma performance review

As a former employee and supervisor, I’ve received and given many a performance review in my day. Because I’m no longer employed in a full-time job, I’ve done neither in quite a while.

Time for that to change.

Today I work both ends of the review process — giving and receiving a review for myself in the highly coveted position of Grandma, using the performance evaluation document of a former employer as my guide.

Performance Recognition and Planning Guide

Name: Lisa

Position: Gramma to Bubby

Date of hire: 6/2008

Date of this review: 2/2011

Rating Scale:

5Exceptional

4Exceeds Standards

3Meets Standards

2Needs Improvement

1Unsatisfactory

Achievements — Lisa is efficient in the position, regularly researching ways to forge a strong relationship with Bubby despite the miles between them. She’s arranged many visits to the desert, even in light of a dwindling bank account. She’s also learned to Skype, use Picasa, blog with abandon, use USPS and UPS to her advantage. In addition, she depends on regular telephone communication with her daughter and grandson despite hating the telephone. Rating: 4

Ownership — Lisa takes full ownership of her position as Gramma, never shirking the name or duties involved. She takes pride in the position, sometimes to the extreme, not wanting to share the title with others. Rating: 4

Results — Bubby has no doubt who Gramma is and delights in his time with her. During Skype sessions, Bubby most wants to view toys, cars, and trucks PawDad shares with him instead of the picture books Lisa shares, making it clear more enjoyable books need to be chosen or Lisa needs to steal the cars and truck from PawDad and show them to Bubby herself. Rating: 3

Teamwork — Lisa works well with PawDad, her partner in grandparenting. Excepting, of course, her desire to steal Matchbox emergency vehicles during Skype sessions. Rating: 3

Communication — See “Achievements.” Rating: 4

Initiative — Lisa is proactive in problem solving when it comes to finding new ways to engage Bubby, in person or long-distance. Rating: 4

Skills — Lisa demonstrates a high-level of long-distance ability, regularly making use of ideas and activities offered up by fellow grandparent bloggers. She needs (and desires) more face time with Bubby in order to improve her skills and efficiency in one-on-one situations with the grandchild. Rating: 4

Dependability — Regardless of day, distance or dollars involved, Lisa will do anything and everything for Bubby. Rating: 4

Overall Rating = 3.75 Meets/Nearly Exceeds Standards

A supervisor once told me that although I was doing an excellent job, corporate policy prevented her from granting me a 5 on the scale as that would mean I’m as good as can be, leaving no room to strive for improvement. At the time, I considered it a bunch of hooey from tight-fisted executives who didn’t want to pay the higher salary due those rating at the top in reviews.

Now in my position as Grandma, I understand the policy of not earning a 5. I’m not as good as it gets and I surely want to continue to improve. Not in hopes of earning a bigger paycheck but with the goal of improving my performance in one of the most important positions I’ve held yet — Gramma to Bubby ... plus soon to be Birdy and countless other grandchildren to come.

Today’s question:

Using the numbered Ratings Scale above, how do you rate your performance in one of your current positions, personal or professional?

Stupid is as stupid does

I recently received a few compliments from readers about my technical ability and Internet know-how. I was pretty surprised, as I feel rather in the dark about all things HTML related, the language that makes blogging possible. I do know a bit about the Internet and I am pretty darn good at researching this and that online. But I wouldn't say I'm savvy.

I used to think I was pretty darn savvy with the Internet. Heck, I hopped online back in the early 90s -- and had the Prodigy account to prove it! But I now keep my pride and puffery about all things online in check by remembering my biggest online faux pas ever. It involved e-mail. And a few Grandma's Briefs readers know about the horror of which I speak.

Several years ago -- during my pseudo-savvy period -- I was the manager/editor of a small editorial department at the newspaper. At the time of which I write, I was in charge of three writers and one photographer. Because our "office" was just a set of open cubicles in a sea of other open cubicles, privacy was at a minimum. So we used e-mail for many a conversation.

The e-mailed conversations were usually between myself and the three women writers; our male photographer rarely, if ever, joined our e-mailed bitching and complaining. (The IT Department, on the other hand, probably saw each and every pixel we parsed out.) Of the three women with whom I corresponded, one, whom I'll call T, was a rather young gal ... actually so young that years and years earlier, she had been in my Daisy Girl Scout troop. I was her leader, the one who taught her about honor, kindness, how to "Be Prepared" and how to make homemade fortune cookies. T was engaged to a real numbskull of a ninny posing as a man, and as the young gal was younger than my daughters, I felt rather maternal toward her -- and more than a little irritated that her parents hadn't stepped in to put the kibbutz on the relationship with the ninny.

Well, T didn't last long working at the newspaper, but once she left, she still e-mailed us all often and was occasionally privy to the daily e-mail exchange among office mates. One day T sent an e-mail to us three older and wiser former coworkers talking about plans she and her now husband had. I can't remember the details, just that it was a rather naive plan, yet T thought it proved her maturity. I was appalled at her stupidity, her misguidededness, and I immediately e-mailed a reply to the other two older/wiser women in the group to air my bewilderment at T's plan and her penchant for the dumb ass she called her husband.

Only, I didn't hit "Reply" to just the two older/wiser women; I hit "Reply All." Which meant T got my the message ... quickly. She got the message that I wasn't the nice Daisy leader she once called Miss Lisa. Instead, I was a mean and bitter old woman who said mean and bitter things to someone to whom I once served as a mentor, someone who was just young and naive and trying to make her way in the world.

I was horrified that someone as e-mail and Internet savvy as myself could commit such a basic error of online correspondence (and judgement!). What a dunce was I.

I immediately (after freaking out to my coworkers) e-mailed T, privately, to apologize for the things I said. She graciously accepted my apology ... and never e-mailed me again. Which I deserved.

The young gal whom I once taught about manners then later interview techniques taught me even greater lessons. Not only did she teach me to always, always, ALWAYS check to see which reply option I've chosen when sending an e-mail, she also taught me that I should never, ever, EVER be snippy, snotty and snarky.

Especially not in writing.*

That, my dear readers, is why I will never consider myelf savvy -- online or otherwise.

*I'm embarrassed to admit that, unfortunately, I occasionally need refresher courses in those lessons. But I'm working on it.

Today's question:

With whom did you most memorably stick your foot in your mouth ... or send an e-mail that should not have been sent?

The sweet sounds of unemployment

This week has been a rough one because of the time change. It's made me pretty darn thankful that I don't have a full-time job to get up and ready for first thing each morning.

I've also been thankful for no full-time job this week because if I were working, I couldn't spend full-time hours playing grandma while Bubby and Megan are here. Sure, grandmas everywhere work and manage to get time off for hugging and loving on their grandbabies, but if I had recently found a new job, it's doubtful I'd have been allowed to take four vacation days this early on in my tenure.

So yes, I'm saying that I'm thankful I have no real job, no boss telling me what to do, no office gossip to listen to.

Instead, I've gotten to listen to the sweetest little voice ever. And here are some of my favorite things my little Bubby has said again and again, the things that just melt my heart each time he says them:

  • "Kitty mow" (pronounced like "chow" not "meow")
  • "Big stair," uttered each time he's confronted with a staircase he has to go either up or down. Yes, they're big stairs and yes, he's actually going up and down them -- holding on to someone's hand, of course -- despite my freakout post about stairs.
  • "Big truck"
  • "Big keeze," aka a big squeeze/hug
  • "Big clock" upon hearing the grandather clock dong
  • "Big slide" (Yep, everything's big to Bubby!)
  • "Tired baby" when he's worn out
  • "Whoa baby" when something's awesome
  • "Hi Baby" when greeting his mommy
  • "Oh my!"
  • "Nonny Bunny" (his name for the bunny from his Great Grandma/Nonny Ann)
  • "Oh no!"
  • "Okay, okay," to let one and all know he survived a tumble
  • And best of all, Bubby says very emphatically, "I ... love ... MOMMY!"

There's much more that Bubby says, and even more that he understands. Which is oh-so cool to grandma, who's trying to capture as much of it as possible on video. And who's very thankful she got to hear each and every word he said while visiting, instead of sitting at a desk and hearing yet another recap from coworkers on what happened on "Biggest Loser!"

Today's question:

Other than music, what is one of your favorite sounds?

My answer: Other than the voices of my loved ones, I love the song of the mourning dove ... and small, tinkly windchimes (not the big ones) as they're softly blown by a gentle breeze ... and the purring of a cat.

Finding balance

As many of you know, I've had a beef with a particular company with whom I did a bit of freelancing last year. Thirty days ago I filed a complaint with the small claims court in hopes of resolving that beef.

Thirty days ago, my day in court was scheduled for yesterday.

Thirty days ago, I didn't think about the fact that Megan and Bubby would be here on the day I was to go to court.

Well, I didn't think about it until the very moment after I agreed to the scheduled date.

Then I thought about it and dreaded it for the past thirty days.

I didn't want to go to court in the first place, but I really didn't want to go to court during the precious few hours I got to spend with Megan and Bubby.

Meeting Auntie B's kitty.More play time!Turns out having them here was exactly what I needed. They balanced out the stress, worry and soul-sucking of a morning in court* with the smiles, giggles and soul-strengthening of an afternoon with some of my favorite people in the whole wide world.

Sometimes not thinking things through pays off.

This was definitely one of those times.

*In case you wondered, I did come out ahead after my day in court. Case closed.

Today's question:

If you could have a servant (well paid, by someone else) come to your house for one hour every day, what would you have them do?

My answer: I'd have him/her do something different every day, but usually along the lines of dusting, vacuuming, and grocery shopping. Definitely the grocery shopping -- my least favorite chore!

One woman's pleasure is another's worst job ever

I've been thinking a lot about jobs lately. I'm sure it has something to do with my friend Debbie's retirement, my bloggy friend Tammy's job search, and the quest of my former coworkers/current friends as they seek out freelance writing gigs to replace those drying up.

Or it could have everything to do with the fact that my savings account is coming perilously close to the empty mark.

Whatever the reasons, I'm thinking about jobs and how I really need one and how I don't want to settle on one until it's the best job I've ever had. Crazy, I know, especially in this insane economic climate we're all learning to live in. But the clock is ticking on my time here and I want to have the best job ever -- and plenty of years doing it and enjoying it -- before my time is up.

I recently had a pretty good job, but it was far from what I'd classify as the best job ever. I've also had mediocre gigs, plus a few horrid ones that I hated but they helped pay the bills.

I've also worked in a position that downright made me cringe, literally. It's the one I'll not hesitate to share when I become rich and famous and am asked by some reporter "What's the worst job you've ever had?"

Heck. I'll probably never get that rich and famous, so I'll just answer that question here.

When I was about 25, I worked in a beauty salon. I was a "nail tech," applying the biggest, longest, stupidest-looking fake nails on women with lots of money. In addition to doing nails, I occasionally did "wraps." The weight-loss kind of wraps (that really were a bunch of bunk!) and the mother wrap of them all, the highest gig in the salon: the seaweed wrap.

The seaweed wrap was billed as a fabulously relaxing way to pull toxins from the body -- the whole body -- and soften the skin. It was also the smelliest. Rich ladies with too much time and money on their hands Customers would pay about $200 (and this was nearly 25 years ago!) to be painted with reconstituted dehydrated seaweed and lay there in the stinking mess for upwards of an hour.

And who painted the seaweed on their bodies? Me. I was responsible for all the steps it took to make their skin toxin-free and baby-butt soft. For my work, I made $125 -- an unthinkable amount for two hours of work ... at least unthinkable for a 25-year-old with three babies and a husband already  working two jobs to support the family.

So I mentally tallied up how many diapers I could buy with $125 and went through the steps.

Step 1: Show the ladies the restroom, where they could remove their clothes, throw on a robe and return to the wrap room, where they were to remove the robe and settle in on a massage-like table -- in the buff. (It was always ladies. Men requested the service, but that was too freakin' weird for me and I refused to take those customers. Luckily the salon owner understood ... and wrapped the males herself.)

Step 2: Exfoliate the skin -- of the entire naked body -- with a soft-bristled brush. The entire front side ... and I mean entire. All as I held my breath as much as possible because I have a thing about smells -- and these women often didn't smell so great. Then flip for the other side.

Step 3: (After brushing all the gunky dead skin off the table and myself!) Go over the entire naked body with a little rubber massager thingee to stimulate the deeper tissues. Continue holding my breath. Flip for the other side.

(Do note here that I'm kind of a prude. I never was one of those liberated gals who "experimented in college" or any other place and was not used to brushing or massaging or doing anything else to another woman's naked body. The ladies never seemed to notice, as their eyes stayed closed and they appeared asleep through the entire process, but it was the height of discomfort for me. Well, not the "height," as the next step was even worse.)

Step 4: Mix up a batch of seaweed paint using the dried seaweed and warm water, while holding my breath and refraining from gagging; seaweed stinks! Using a paintbrush the size of those found in hair highlighting kits, paint the stinky seaweed slime all over ... no, ALL OVER the already stinky bodies of the women. Flip for the other side.

Step 5: Wrap the stinky seaweed slimy woman in a plastic sheet, put a warm towel over her eyes, turn down the lights, turn on the soft and stupid new-age crap music, and let the woman stew in her juices for 45 minutes.

This is where I would go in the bathroom, scrub my hands nearly raw and try not to cry. I hated this more than anything in the world. If there were cell phones back in the day, I would have then gone out to my car, called Jim and cried. But there were no cell phones so I held back the tears and kept myself busy with other beauty-salon-like chores until the timer went off and my customer was done.

Step 6: Direct the wrap lady to the shower, where she could wash the stinky slimy mess and the toxins sucked from her pores right down the drain. Instruct her to gently towel dry and return to the table -- still in the buff.

Step 7: Lotion up the newly toxin-free and soft-as-a-baby's-butt woman, from neck to toe. Flip for the other side. Tell her to take her time relaxing then get dressed and meet me at the front counter.

This is where I'd again scrub my hands raw, hold back the tears, and practice a fake smile for the final step of the process: collecting payment.

Step 8: Smile, speak in soft new-agey "Wasn't that refreshing and wonderful" terms and take the money from the satisfied customer.

Then, because I always made sure I had no other customers scheduled after a wrap, I pocketed my $125 and drove home. In tears the entire way. Feeling like a prostitute because I took money for doing something I would never ever in my wildest dreams do if I didn't need the money so badly. Then I'd wipe my tears, go in the house and hug my girls. All the while swearing I'd never do it again.

Until the next seaweed wrap showed up on my schedule and I couldn't refuse it. I had three babies at home and a husband who already worked two jobs and we needed the money.

All these years later, I can still smell the stink of that seaweed. Maybe that's the reason I can't stomach sushi.

I think the time has come for me to add "The Best Job Ever" to my resume. I've clearly already had the worst!

Today's question:

What's the worst job YOU have ever had?

Trash talk

I've found that since being laid off, there's far less garbage in my life.

I'm not talking about office politics, primadonna designers, "other duties as assigned" or all the other garbage associated with the working world. I mean that literally, there's less garbage in my life.

It used to be that the garbage service we pay for allowed for three big garbage cans. And we often filled those three big garbage cans ... to the brim ... and then some. (The service also allowed for two additional garbage bags along with the cans, so that's where the "then some" went; we didn't leave it scattered around the cans for the friendly garbage man to pick up.)

But then December 2008 came. And I was outsourced from my position. And I now only work a part-time position (which really is okay with me).

And about five months ago, I saw the need to change our garbage pickup to be for just one measly can.

I admit that I changed the service to include one can and one recycle bin (I am trying to do that green thing that's so popular of late). But what ends up in the recycle bin isn't enough to fill a garbage can. Which means we're generating about half the trash we did while I was fully employed.

Even the day after Christmas -- a day that in the past meant that three full cans were surrounded by three additional lawn-and-leaf-size bags plus a pile of the boxes from the gifts and goodies -- saw only one full can ... and one full recycle bin.

The diminished garbage pile can't be just because my kids have grown older and the gifts come in smaller packages. We were in the same boat last year and still had piles of Christmas garbage.

And the smaller daily accumulation of garbage certainly isn't because any of us are on diets around here.

No, I honestly believe there's less garbage because I make less money. Because I make less money, I buy less stuff. And because I buy less stuff, there's less garbage. (Which clearly speaks volumes on the trap of consumerism I'd fallen into!)

I bet garbage collectors all across the country are emptying lighter cans -- fewer cans -- into their trucks each day. They probably get through their rounds faster and get home earlier.

So forget all the predictions and prognostications of the economists and financial gurus, it's the garbage men who can give us the real scoop. They'll be the ones to tell us when the economy is looking up, when we can all breathe a sigh of relief that the worst truly is over. They'll be the ones to see the bigger piles on the horizon. And bigger piles will mean bigger smiles ... for all of us.

There you have it: The truth is in the garbage!

Today's question from "If...(Questions for the Game of Life)":

If you could change one thing to make life easier for your own gender, what would you change?

I would get rid of that whole menstruation thing and all that goes along with it!