what doing : carly white

The Process of Creating a Print Ad, according to Carly White

Let me share my experience with you. Let’s go through the steps involved to manage the creation and placement of a print ad for a multifamily property. (We’ll assume you don’t choose to have the publisher create the ad because that would be poor strategery).

1. Design. Work with your designer who is most likely not in house and in another state. Go back and forth tweaking images, copy, logo size etc. Overload your inbox with massive files. Fingers crossed you don’t exceed the 4 hours of allotted design time.
2. Approval. Take “final” design to The Head Cheese. Hopefully get approval. The Head Cheese questions the price tag. You’re already invested in the process. You hope it works. You say things like “I really think this will work”. You think. Possibly re-vamp with designer.
3. Placement. Contact your ad rep for the rental guide. Hope you make the deadline. Fret over whether you should upgrade to the inside cover or right read or all the things we’ve been told works. They share with you they “just had something amazing come available!”. This will cost you more. Caution: You might find yourself upgrading your internet at this point for reasons no one can seem to explain to you.
4. Tracking. It’s hot off the presses! Or is it? Where is it? Check multiple locations, hope you find it. You find it! Email the property, “Your print ad is live!” They can’t find it. Check back with the property. Did they get leads? Leases? They are not sure. Check the stats. Where is your username? You got a couple leads. It’s not clear if there were leases. Let’s assume there were 2 leases. Cost per lease = around $1,000.

Caregiver of the Year

During my years in student affairs I always joked with Emily Boling that we could write a book titled “Well What Happened Was…” The book would be the numerous accounts of students who had made a series of bad decisions. Occasionally it was a tale that had the best of intentions but ended up being the worst scenario. This happens to the best of us sometimes. And it’s exactly what happened…

Yesterday, after five days of Grandpa being overly hyper and agitated, I waived a white flag. And by ‘white flag’ I mean Grandma called his doctor who called in a prescription for xanax. The goal: reduce his hyperactivity, reduce his agitation and re-gain our sanity. Spoiler alert! None of these things occurred.

Grandpa endured TWO WARS and RECEIVED TWO PURPLE HEARTS. During one heroic act he jumped on a tank (with a gunshot wound to his arm) and fought off the enemy. I don’t think he even knew how to drive the tank. In the process he hit a landmine but managed to keep fighting. He’s kind of a bad ass. Yesterday Grandpa met his enemy = .5 xanax. It was like he had vertigo or like I was watching that video of the drunk guy in the mini mart. But the challenge was that since he has full Alzheimer’s, he kept forgetting that he could not walk. So basically we had to sit with him for five hours and keep reminding him “NO! Don’t get up!”.

Lesson: Don’t slip Grandpa “special memory pills”.

Hometown Glory

I am willing to guess that most people do not end up living in the house NEXT to the house they grew up in. How that all happened is another story for another day. A quick search on Facebook confirms that of the 528 people “I am friends with” (70 I grew up with) not a single ONE currently resides in this hometown of ours. I suppose nationwide numbers might present some small percentage, but I imagine the amish skew those numbers with their many children who never stray from the buggy. Oh, and communities in Oregon.

This is not to say that I am upset or feeling downtrodden for moving back to my hometown. My life is far from a low-budget Lifetime movie where the lead female character leaves the fancy city life due to a lame relationship plot twist and ops for a ‘simpler life’ rooted back in her roots. But it is strange to be back in a place where so many things occurred that I paid so much money to sit on a couch and ‘unpack’ in sessions of 50 minutes. I almost want to call up my therapist and yell “REMEMBER WHEN YOU TOLD ME TO GO BACK TO THAT PLACE?! I’M F’ING LIVING IN THAT PLACE”. click. ( I kid, I kid, a little therapy humor…)

The dilemma I currently face is determining how to embrace a new environment that seems somewhat familiar. When experiencing the rituals of settling you explore and become familiar by getting totally lost and driving in circles. That hasn’t happened for me. I’ve so far located the most promising late-night martini bar (Nick’s) and the coffee joint within beach cruiser-cruising distance. The barista’s are starting to remember my drink and the woman at the dry cleaners is on to me, the new arrival in a sleepy beach town that for some unknown reason has a black lace dress.

But the good news is that I am a little more rested, living in flip-flops, wearing a little less make up, reading a little more, spending time with my family and there isn’t the local tranny-hooker on my door step. I suppose that’s how I know I am home. 

Bird Watching

I’ve been observing my Grandpa for the last 15 days. He is 92 and has stage 6 Alzheimers. He whistles tunes that don’t make sense, uses the wrong words, and can’t recall tasks he’s done each day for the last 36 years. Despite the Lieutenant Colonel’s inability to give or follow orders, he’s happy in his world of one.

Each day we eat lunch and after we’ve taken our seats with our sandwiches, the same topic comes up a few bites in. “Oh my! The bird is back!” Grandpa points towards the window with delight. “From here I can see it, flapping it’s wings, struggling to stay on the branch”. He is enamored with the daily return of the bird. There isn’t anything each day that he gets more excited about.

Today I discovered there is no bird. It’s the leaves and the branch and the way it all turns when a breeze catches it. But, you can’t kill a bird that was never alive – so I play along. Of the three of us I don’t know who is more cookoo.