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It’s Spring, and there’s lots to celebrate!  (I’ll spare you the seizure, but consider that one exclamation point an entire row.)

Besides the fact that I’ll be returning to Philly for the summer (I’ve been in Chile the past 7 months) right in time to catch Cole Hamels’ ass in a pair of baseball pants–holla–I also get to attend my best friend Christina’s wedding, return to shop the aisles of my beloved Target (l’ll squeal when the bullseye comes into view), and–AND!–the biggest announcement of all:

THE MIDDLE FINGER PROJECT WEBSITE IS BEING………….REDESIGNED.

(Oh, oh, shake what cha mama gave ya!)

That’s right, hold onto your hats. It’s about to get AMAZEBALLS up in here. Yes, that’s a word. Look it up. Or….don’t.

If you have any suggestions as to how you think the site should look, (or, alternatively, how to give a really good lap dance), please leave a comment!

I know that both myself and the FANTASTIC, WONDERFUL, SASSY, CREATIVE GENIUS THAT IS AMANDA FAROUGH, the brilliant designer on the project–no pun intended–would love your input. On the site or the lapdance, to be honest.

(What’s that Farough? You didn’t know that in working with me you automatically get spoken for when it comes to stripper-like behaviors? Let’s be honest–YOU SO KNEW.)

So, there’s that.

But you didn’t think I was done, did you?

Are you ready for the second most fun announcement of the day?

This past month was my most profitable month to date as a digital entrepreneur, clocking in at $10,137.62.

Eat that, last year, you bastard.

So I’m happy to report that my goal of earning $97,000 in 2011 is right on track (read more about that here); to reach the goal, I’ll need to pull an average of $9,462.03 each month for the remainder of the year. So far in May, with only four days in, I’m at $4,500. So, that’s fun. And it’s also nice not to have to sleep in my car and subsist on McDonald’s snack wraps anymore, either. That shit makes for a seriously bad hair day.

SO. With that said, I’m feeling good. Things are going well, spring is coming, and I finally discovered the beauty that is Tapatillo.  What could be better?

Therefore, I’ve decided it’s time that I do something nice for YOU.

I want to help you make $10,137.62 in one month, because it feels gooooood. And your credit card companies will be pretty pleased with it, too.

BUT.

In order to do that, I need to know exactly HOW I can help you, because you guys are sometimes all shy about your issues.

What problems do you need solved? Where are you struggling? What challenges are you facing? What frustrates the shit out of you?

With that, I invite urge you to take THE SURVEY. If you’re looking for a good reason why you should give me two minutes of your time, it’s because:

1) Based on your responses, I’m going to create an amazing and free resource to address your problems that will both make you smile and produce a series of “Ah ha!” moments, guaranteed. (Cuz like I said, it’s spring. I’m in a good mood. Do not take it for granted.)

2) If you don’t respond, then your issues might not get addressed.

3) If your issues aren’t addressed, you will have trouble being profitable.

4) If you have trouble being profitable, no one will like you.

Okay, so I’m just kidding about the part about no one liking you, but it was funny, so I had to put it. You understand.

I’m going to shut up now.

I’d be honored if you’d take a second to help me help you, so we can all get our kumbaya on and shake our money makers together. Many thanks in advance for your extremely valuable time and input, and a Happy Spring to you, as well!  Yeah, 2011!

CLICK HERE TO MAKE ME HAPPY + TAKE THE SURVEY.

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Dear You,

Hi.

It’s Monday.

Typically on Mondays, you get to hang with a sassy new segment of Fear, Exposed.

But because I’m semi-evil.

And because I take pleasure in mystery. (Be glad you’re not dating me.)

I’m suspending the series.

Stay tuned to find out WHY.

(Or don’t, but I must warn you that you’ll miss out on my bad jokes, frequent F-bombs, and overuse of the word “baby.”  Not like child baby, but like, “Oh hell yeah, baby!”  kind of baby. And really? Who could resist?)

Hugs, kisses and a slap on the ass,

Ash

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I was pissed.

It was 1998. I was 14. I had just put the finishing touches on my 90′s style bangs, sculpting and spraying them into the perfect 360 degree fan – you remember the kind where the top half curls backward, and the bottom half forward, right? (If you say no, that means you’re younger than me. First of all, fuck you, and second of all, stop driving behind me while looking at your crotch while texting the guy that’s just not that into you on your rhinestone pink “bling bling” iphone. He totally slept with your roommate, so you should probably gather some self-respect and take the wheel, princess, before you rear end me and see what chicks from Scranton are really made of.)

I’m a nice girl. Really. (Says she with the blog titled, The Middle Finger Project.)

Anyway. My bangs. And the work of art that they were.

Enter: My mother.

I see her out of the corner of my eye, as she props her elbow up in the door frame of my bedroom, and hits me with the news–the same bad news she had delivered two other mornings earlier that month.

“Ash,” she would start, hesitantly and with a softness to her voice, as if she were whispering, almost scared to say it.

“Mmmmhmmm?”

“The pipes. They’re frozen again.”

I drop my brush.  Shit.

Like, really mother nature? Are you purposely trying to fuck up my life? You must be, because if you weren’t, you’d keep the temps in a semi-normal range suitable for those silly little creatures called HUMAN BEINGS, and while we’re on the topic, you wouldn’t have been so kind as to “bless” me with these “big bones” of mine, either. Yeah, thanks for that.

So there I am. All dressed up and with someplace to go–school–but alas, the pipes are frozen again. And when the pipes froze, it could only mean one deep, dark fate: The blow dryer.

I take a deep breath, sigh, and immediately take off all the clothes I had just put on – the new purple jeans I bought over the weekend at JC Penney (shut up), and my creme-colored tee shirt, replacing them with yellow-gold sweatpants and a sweatshirt that bore the record of my middle school track team in red. I know the drill. I march into the bathroom to retrieve the blow dryer, grab the flashlight, and proceed outside, sinking into a foot and a half of snow with each carefully calculated step I take.

I loop around to the hydrangea tree out front, and drop to my hands and knees in front of it. I know the path well, and slowly but surely, me and my big ass bones manage to crawl through the snow, underneath the hydrangea tree, using my elbows to propel me forward.

I reach the underskirting of our 1977 mobile home – the white piece of vinyl that lines the bottom of most trailers you see. (If you’ve never seen a trailer, fuck you, too.)

I find the seam in the vinyl, and pry it open enough to wedge my body through the gap, and hoist myself underneath the trailer onto the cold, hard dirt floor. I turn the flashlight on, and freak out a little bit about all of the spider webs I see, and the fact that there could be a daddy long leg weaseling its way onto my perfectly primped 360 degree hair pouf without me even knowing it. *shudders* But hey, the pipes are frozen, and someone’s got to handle it.

I drag my body a little further with my elbows, trying not to drop the flashlight or the blow dryer, which I had managed to plug in outside. Finally, I spot the pipes I’m looking for – the ones directly underneath our bathroom. I painstakingly make my way over to them, still deathly afraid that a spider will find its way up my pant leg, and then crank the blow dryer on full blast.

And I wait.

And I wait.

And I wait some more.

I suddenly hear a group of classmates giggling to themselves as they walk past my front yard, on their way to the bus stop. On their way to my bus stop–the same one I normally would have been at by now.

I tell myself that they aren’t giggling at me; that they can’t possibly know that I’m wedged underneath our trailer, lying on my stomach, blowing hot air onto our frozen pipes so my mom could cook and flush the toilet that day. But I equally have to wonder if maybe they did see me–a flush of embarrassment and anger rushes to my face at the mere thought of it.

I suppose their pipes were insulated; they lived in two-story houses with basements and attics and staircases. For years, I marveled at the staircases in my friends’ homes–some wood, some carpeted, some with a little bit of both. Most 14 year old girls wanted CD players, or their first tube of lipstick, or a subscription to Teen Magazine. I secretly longed for a staircase.

After about 20 minutes had passed, my mom would yell back at me that the water was flowing again, meaning that my job there was done. I’d sigh with relief, trudge my way back out to daylight, make my way through the snow, get inside and hurriedly change back into my school clothes. My bangs were no longer perfect, but I didn’t have time to fix them, so I’d throw my hot pink and teal pick into my schoolbag, and hope I’d have time before first period.

Ah, those were the days.

At the time, I cursed my mother for making me be the adult; for making me handle such responsibilities, for making me do things that my dad would have done, if he hadn’t gotten cancer and passed away the month prior.  Yet, fast forward thirteen years later, and here I sit, snuggled warmly in my bed in my fancy apartment here in Santiago, Chile, nearly 27 years old and having accomplished so much, likely to never have to crawl underneath a trailer ever again.

But I assure you, if I could bring either one of them back, for just one hour, to be able to sit and talk with them, and tell them how much I loved them, and have the chance to hug them one last time, you bet your ass I’d crawl underneath every goddamn trailer in all of The United States of America, heating every single goddamn pipe that there is to be heated, with so much as a lighter if I had to.

Tomorrow, Friday, April 29th, my mom would have turned 67 years old. Happy birthday, Momla. I’ll be buying a gift card for Lowe’s in your honor, since I know how much you loved it there. (Even though I’d always curse you for putting 10 bags of mulch in the car, and then making me clean it afterward. Ha.)

In addition, for all of you that may have forgotten, Mother’s Day is fast approaching.

With both of those things in mind, today’s post has nothing to do with your business, but rather, is dedicated to helping you remember when it’s time to be without it.

There are people in your life–your friends, your family, your significant other–who YOU ARE PAINFULLY, PAINFULLY TAKING FOR GRANTED.

You assume they’ll always be there, and you can make it up to them once you’re done writing yet another blog post, or done working another 16 hour day at the office.

But motherfuckinggoddammit….one day that’s not going to be the case. And that’s not an assumption–that’s a guarantee.

So the next time they ask you to get out the blow dryer and crawl underneath the trailer, or help them with something, or answer a question, or listen to a story they want to tell, or ask to hear one of yours…I suggest you shut your fucking Macbook, turn around, look them in the eyes, and tell them you’d be absolutely delighted to.

Because you should be.

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There’s this amazing poem by Rumi, a 13th century Sufi poet, about taking a pick-axe and tearing up the foundations of your house.

He says:

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“Tear down this house. A hundred thousand new houses 
can be built from the transparent yellow carnelian 
buried beneath it, and the only way to get to that 
is to do the work of demolishing and then 
digging under the foundations….

Quick! Take the pickaxe and pry the foundation.
You’ve got to quit this seamstress work…

Rip up one board from the shop floor and look into
 the basement. You’ll see two glints in the dirt.”

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Man, do I know that feeling. The pick-axe? Fear, loss, change. The house? My self-image. The two glints in the dirt? All of the treasure that I have rediscovered since.

Simply put, 2010 kicked my ass.

The things I experienced last year were things I never imagined I would. Things like, getting laid off two months before my wedding day, breaking off an engagement to a person I had been with for 3 years and known for 17, holding 3 different jobs in 2 different states (yes, in between wedding planning, I also managed to move), those sorts of things.

“What will they think?”

2010 was the year when I came face to face with long-held fears and assumptions, basically rules, which I had assumed I had to live by. I’m not entirely over all of my fears – but I’ve named them. And that’s the toughest part. As a result of the tumult and change, I no longer think with “society’s” mind, but with my own.

I was raised by strict, though loving, immigrant parents (i.e., a ‘no dating until you’re married’ kind of parenting). “This is the land of opportunity” they would always say. I had perfect attendance in school from 1st grade until my senior year, when I missed one day… to attend my sister’s graduation from medical school. And then I went to Princeton.

I always seemed to have it “together” and I clung to this image. Of perfection and success and playing by the rules.

Then, at the age of 23, I had my first serious relationship. He was a friend I’d known since childhood and because I believed we knew each other so well, we moved in together a few months after we started dating. Things were fine at first. Until, they really, really weren’t. But I wanted it to work. This was the perfect age to start dating someone seriously. So perfect that I allowed myself to become delusional – pretending not to see red flag behaviors and unhealthy dynamics between us. I pretended not to see it so that I could be married by age 27 and follow the path I was meant to follow.

I would get that white picket fence if it killed me, which arguably, it nearly did.

As these things tend to go, things in our relationship got worse, not better. Yet still, I refused to give up, even accepting a marriage proposal two and half years later that I should not have accepted. I posted the news on my Facebook page, started planning furiously for our wedding, thinking that I could trick myself by just moving forward. Career-wise, I was working in consulting, writing and blogging about careers for Forbes.com and I was interviewing women leaders at the UN for a book project with a friend and UN staff member.

It all looked so good from the outside. I kept it up, I kept it going…until July of 2010.

Crack in the foundation

In July of 2010 – the pick-axe found me. I got laid off.

Suddenly, I found myself unemployed and engaged in a bad relationship. The wedding was planned for early September. This was not the life I had planned. Something about this jolt from the outside gave me courage to accept rather than resist the pick-axe. At this point, I was conspiring with that pick-axe – kind of a “bring it on” mentality. I no longer cared what anyone thought. The venue was booked, my dress was bought, extended family from abroad had been invited. I felt so bad for my parents. I knew it was going to be tough on them. I even debated just going through with the wedding and then quietly getting a divorce immediately afterwards just to spare them the shame. But I also knew that I couldn’t do it anymore. I called off my wedding. And with that, the foundation was broken.

This was not a “perfect, follow the rules” move. I was free.

The foundation is that your life generally is what others tell you it should be. Break up the foundation, and find those glints that were buried in the dirt. The invaluable treasure – your heart, your soul, your feelings – your GPS system for your life. Who you are without the rules. Who you always were.

With my newfound freedom, I focused on a book about UN women leaders that I had put on the backburner in the midst of wedding planning. As I wrote the stories, I found that the women we interviewed became an inspiration for my own life. Their stories contained elements of career defeat and then triumph, of tragically losing or divorcing a spouse and then finding new love. We planned to self-publish the book on March 8, 2011, in honor of International Women’s Day.

Think What They Will

What will they think, what will they think, what will they think? – when this voice becomes so loud that you can no longer hear your own, it’s time to lean into the pick-axe. Welcome the destruction, because in that destruction is where you find transformation.

At some point, you have to say, screw it. Turn it around until “What will they think” becomes let them “Think what they will”.

I will be an old maid. Why didn’t you go the traditional route? Suck it up and just get married? How could you do that to your family? Plenty of people stay in bad relationships. It’s better than being alone, right?

NO. Because I can no longer pretend my feelings don’t exist now that they are no longer buried. I trust them.

I will not be taken seriously. Why didn’t you go the traditional route? Find one job and stick with it…until retirement? Why do you move around so much?

NO. Because I have to follow what interests me. Because I love to write and travel and dance and I care about the environment, and the arts, and education and I’m fascinated by innovation. I am not one thing. I write, I dance, I coach, I inspire. And I love that.

I will be laughed at. Why didn’t you go the traditional route, find a real publisher? Self-published books never do well.

NO. Because we believe in our book and the stories it contains. Because we have our own creative plan and our own deadline and we’re going to make it happen. On our own terms.

The Hidden Treasure

A month after losing my job and zeroing in on my book as a result, I found a new job…at a better firm, with more pay. Funny how that pick-axe works. There always seems to be hidden treasure once you’re willing to break up the foundation.

And, I’m dating again. And rediscovering the fullness of life – of family and dear friends – no white-picket fence, no cookie cutter life here. I reconnected with the fullness of my life. Instead of that one (narrow) path – I now see and value many paths.

So let go of the seamstress work – and find that pick-axe.

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Avril David is the author of Women in Power at the UN:  Stories to Inspire, a book featuring stories of resilience and reinvention in the face of adversity, the courage to speak and act in the name of what one believes in, and the complexities of balancing the myriad roles of being a woman, based on exclusive interviews with a diverse group of women in positions of senior leadership at the UN. To learn more about Avril, visit her over at her website.

To read other entries from the Fear, Exposed series, click here.

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When I say the words, “Grey Goose,” what automatically comes to mind?

a) Purple fairies

b) Your high school prom date

c) Roseanne Barr

d) Vodka

As much as I’d love it if the answer were C, you probably picked D, vodka.

Congratulations, you are correct.

Whether prompted or not, most everyone who sees the words “Grey Goose,” will automatically think, “vodka.” Unless they’re twelve. Or Amish.

The reason for that is pretty obvious.  You ready?

It’s because GREY GOOSE = VODKA.

Not rum. Not whiskey. Not gin. Not cognac. And certainly not the spring line of Victoria’s Secret panties.

IT’S VODKA.

But you knew that already, right?

Perhaps what you didn’t know, however, is WHY.  It isn’t that the company couldn’t make rum, whiskey, gin, cognac, and/or a limited edition series of pink panties with a pack of white geese flying across the ass.

It’s that they deliberately and strategically choose not to. And for good reason, m’ lord.

Imagine, for a moment, that they did make all of those things, in addition to vodka. And then imagine if I asked you what automatically comes to mind when you hear, “Grey Goose.”

How would you ever know how to respond?

And that’s the thing:  You wouldn’t.

And that’s precisely why Grey Goose only makes vodka, because they’re known for it. And that’s the same reason why they can charge top dollar for it. And that’s the same reason why you’ll actually pay it.

And that’s also the one little tiny diamond-in-the-ruff concept that can either make or break your business. Becoming known for something. Most business owners understand this concept, and sure, they want to become known for what it is that they’re doing. The problem is that many go about it the wrong way, unknowingly doing everything they can to sabotage their own goals.

You see, in order to become known for something, you cannot attempt to become known for many things. That comes off as overly simplistic, but it’s really not.

How many of you are out there, taking whatever freelance photography jobs you can get? You’ve done weddings, family portraits, senior pictures, professional headshots, boudoir, and your cousin Mikey playing the guitar. You call yourself a photographer, and have a list of services that spans from here to Antarctica. You know, just in case someone’s looking for that, so you don’t ‘miss an opportunity.’ Tell me, what will you become known for?

How many of you are out there, taking whatever freelance writing jobs you can get?  You’ve done web copy, sales copy, blog content, SEO article writing, direct response mailers, newsletters, and your sister’s maid of honor speech. You call yourself a copywriter, and have a list of services that spans from here to China. You know, just in case someone’s looking for that, so you don’t ‘miss an opportunity.’ Tell me, what will you become known for?

Not to worry–you aren’t the only one.

Both small businesses and big businesses alike are guilty of this. Small businesses are desperate to make any profit at all, so they take what they can get, and try to appeal to as many people as possible.  The rationale is that the more people you appeal to, the more clients you’ll have. Unfortunately, that’s not the way it works.

Big businesses, on the other hand, are always trying to increase profits, so in order to do that, they assume the best way is by increasing their market share.  So they start launching new products, new off-shoots of the same brand, and as a result, instead of strengthening their brand, they dilute it, because now their brand doesn’t stand for one thing, it stands for a big blur of things. And then their market share ends up going down–the exact opposite of what they were going for. Sucks, huh?

In both cases, the businesses act against their own best interests, because they’ve got their eye on quick profits, rather than long-term ones. So they expand. But instead of expanding their brands to meet other needs, they should perhaps focus on expanding within their own category. And then OWN THE SHIT OUT OF IT.

Become known for something–rather than trying to become known for everything. Because frankly, that’s impossible.

Another great example of how this can work in your favor is Stephen King.

What words came to mind there? Most likely, “horror,” “suspense,” or “holy-fucking-freak-show.” (I really hope it was the latter.)

Do you know how significant it is that we can instantly identify him like that? First of all, he’s known for it. What that means is that there are loads of people who don’t even read the jacket of his latest book before buying it; they just do, because they know he’s the best at what he does. (How’s that for a marketing technique?) Second of all, anytime anyone is looking to read a book in the horror/suspense genre, who do you think they’ll be referred to first? That’s right, Stephen King. Lastly, because he’s known for it, and because there’s a demand as a result, how much do you think he’s able to command from publishers, every time he works on a new book? That’s right–a whole hell of a lot more than you or I, my friend.

Translate this into the role of a freelancer. Let’s say you take a route like I have, and become known solely for witty, personality-filled web copy. I make a point of only working with cool, hip companies who have a sense of humor and need that translated into cool, hip web copy. I don’t do dry. I don’t do corporate. There are plenty of people out there who are good at that, and who enjoy that–I’m not one of them. So I don’t. And I refuse to.

As a result, I’ve become known especially for this particular style of web copy. So let’s liken this to our Stephen King example; just like there are loads of people who buy his latest book before they even know what it’s about, I typically get clients who hire me before ever seeing so much as a sample. And just like anyone looking for terror/suspense will automatically get referred to Stephen King, any companies who are looking for lively, fun web copy that jumps off the page and keeps readers interested in their message, automatically get referred to me. And just like Stephen King is able to command top advances for his books, I’m able to command top rates for my writing. Because I’m known for it. And when you become known for something, it’s assumed you’re the best. And people want the best. So they pay for the best.

See how that works?

Specialization = summoning money. Generalization = groveling for it.

Which equation do you want to be a part of?

Grey Goose, baby. Grey Goose.

Those are the only two words you need to remember. And maybe Ashley Ambirge, too–I hear she’s pretty hot.

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