Last night, I conducted an interview with a business student at a fancy school. He's asked to remain anonymous, so I will call him BSaaFS for obvious reasons. Also, I conducted this interview at a birthday party at a bar, so my notes are mostly in the form of text messages to myself. My friend Emily, girlfriend of BSaaFS, tells me that a large part of business school appears to be discussing how great business is while drinking, so I tell myself that the questionable state of my notes adds to the verisimilitude of the b-school experience.
While I took the advice of the 1911 Farmer's Business Handbook as justifying my stingy personal financial policy, and maybe even as being a little bit timeless, our future captain of industry, BSaaFS, told me differently. And I believe him, because he is way, way more qualified than I am. (Please bear in mind, I like BSaaFS very much, but that he is, as far as I can tell, extremely good at what he does, and extremely successful. He's getting flown around the world left and right, and is shaping up to be a Big Deal. I have a feeling some of what I cover here is gonna be an Omar Little-style "all in the game" sort of thing, in which we recall that BSaaFS is a delightful person but that his job is somewhat different from yours and mine.)
Upon hearing (and having read) what the Farmer's Business Handbook, our business student responded with what I might call a derisive snort. On the subject of keeping an inventory that is accurate to maintain your own records, he commented "if anything, business today is defined by keeping an inaccurate inventory -- at least for your investors. Financial success often has a lot to do with obfuscation." Yipes. More, please? Because this doesn't sound good. He clarified for me: he's not talking about companies lying to their investors, or even abut companies not being aware of their actual worth, but is specifically addressing the idea that looking profitable is often more important (to investors and to customers) than actually being profitable.
We continued in this vein for a little bit, and ultimately got along to the real core of the issue: BSaaFS is firmly in the camp of the more profitable corporations of the past few decades: that spinning the perfecption of your company is the key, and that the rest will follow. He calls it a culture of "branding and perception" (clearly, he and I are both way fun to have at a party).
Your thoughts? How have we progresses (or not) in the past 99 years? I'm not really sure where to go with this. Sadly (or fortunately) my working life is totally removed from anything of this nature, and I'm something of a babe in the woods when it comes to the inner workings of actual corporations. What am I missing? Tell me more.
Thanks, BSaaFS. You're the best!
***
Oops! I forgot! I promised a friend to post my hummus recipe. I've made 4 batches so far this week.
Ingredients:
1 16 oz can of chickpeas (not drained)
4 Tbsp lemon juice
1-2 Tbsp tahini
2 cloves minced garlic
1/2 tsp kosher salt
2 Tbsp olive oil
2 Tbsp parsley
Drain the chickpeas, reserving 1/4 cup of the liquid. Combine the drained chickpeas, the reserved liquid, and everything else in a food processor. Blend the heck out of it. Done!
Showing posts with label business. Show all posts
Showing posts with label business. Show all posts
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
1911 business
So, for the business badge, I need to explain the basics of sales. And while I considered a lemonade stand, a particularly gross encounter with a drunk dude on the train the other night has reminded me, once again, that I really don't like a lot of strangers. (Also, I'm not clear that I won't get arrested for selling things on the street. So there's that.)
I did, however, manage to turn up a copy of the Farmer's Business Handbook (Isaac Phillips Roberts, 1911), which advises me that it will rectify the gaps in my financial knowledge, which, if I've learned it at school, is "about as workable on a farm as an ox-cart would be on a railway." Let's have at it. (Bear in mind, please, that I went with the more agriculturally-oriented financial book rather than something robber baron-y because of its relevance to the overall tone of the Handbook. As I've said before, the 1911 Handbook was by no means meant for a city boy -- it's meant for the kind of young man who has access to fields in which to grow corn, poultry to raise, and cows to milk.)
Regardless, in 1911, the farmer for whom the "Business Handbook" was meant was hardly making investments, and is warned heartily against credit. He is advised to keep a careful inventory and to value his good honestly ("it is bad to deceive one's neighbor, but infintely more harmful to deceive oneself"). He shouldn't rush to buy property, but ought to consider renting, just like his urban neighbors might, until he's raised some money and, ideally, property values have declined.
There's a simple guide to keeping a 2 column'd paper ledger, with one side for income and one for expenses, and with the option of adding a daybook to keep track of hours worked by field laborers (who, in the days before much in the way of labor laws, seem subjected to some pretty long days). We're encouraged to assign the bookkeeping tasks around the farm to a child as a training device. The only real issue here appears to be the demise of the barter system -- if we're going to be keeping track of things down to the half-cent, it's important to be clear on exactly how many eggs we're swapping for ears of corn, etc. The handbook acknowledges that this is difficult, and I'm sort of interested in the effect an adoption of more careful bookkeeping on this kind of trading around the farms. Sadly, I'm at something of a loss about where to go for more info.
Thinking of shifting priorities around the farm, there's also a lot of emphasis on eliminating sources of error when it comes to animals. Dairy pails are to all have the same weight, and we are advised to measure each cow's food each day. (The sample milk report ledge includes a truly spectacular list of cow names, including, in the M's alone, Mabel, Madge, May, Meda, and Monda, as well as Tilda, Vina, and Belva. I'm not sure who the lowest-producing cow is, but we are reminded harshly to discard her!)
My particular favorite point in the book, though, is a surprisingly forward-thinking bit, advising the farmer to be sure that his wife understands the family's finances. This is put forth not just because the farmer ought to keep his wife on a tight leash, but because, Mr. Roberts recommends, the family can now work together, sharing in both profits and losses. I'm pleased to see this, nine years prior to the 19th amendment. At the end of the book, we see a sample family meeting in which the daughter, Mary, agrees to hold off on buying a new dress for the summer, and Bud, the baby of the family, is contributing money from his berry patch.
Anyway. Ignoring my book report, here's the deal: in 1911, we're living cheaply. All family members contribute, and we keep strict records. Our main knowledge of when to buy or to sell is based, simply, on our own inventory -- what takes place off our farm or in another city is almost irrelevant. We keep our debts low and avoid taking out a mortgage unless we can put down most of the money. Not bad, overall.
(As a final note, the farmer's handbook is maxim-heavy, advising us that "a man always walks more erect when his heart beats against a roll of Uncle Sam's IOU's, be it ever so small, than when he finds only keys, a pocket knife, and unpaid bills when his hand goes down in his pocket." I kind of love this, because it reinforces my pathological cheapness. Thanks.)
Now, here's the deal. We know how to buy and sell in 1911. But today? Not so much. Fortunately, my dear friend Emily (one of half-a-dozen Emilys I was friends with in college, oddly) has a boyfriend in business school. We're gonna chat, and soon. Yay!
I did, however, manage to turn up a copy of the Farmer's Business Handbook (Isaac Phillips Roberts, 1911), which advises me that it will rectify the gaps in my financial knowledge, which, if I've learned it at school, is "about as workable on a farm as an ox-cart would be on a railway." Let's have at it. (Bear in mind, please, that I went with the more agriculturally-oriented financial book rather than something robber baron-y because of its relevance to the overall tone of the Handbook. As I've said before, the 1911 Handbook was by no means meant for a city boy -- it's meant for the kind of young man who has access to fields in which to grow corn, poultry to raise, and cows to milk.)
Regardless, in 1911, the farmer for whom the "Business Handbook" was meant was hardly making investments, and is warned heartily against credit. He is advised to keep a careful inventory and to value his good honestly ("it is bad to deceive one's neighbor, but infintely more harmful to deceive oneself"). He shouldn't rush to buy property, but ought to consider renting, just like his urban neighbors might, until he's raised some money and, ideally, property values have declined.
There's a simple guide to keeping a 2 column'd paper ledger, with one side for income and one for expenses, and with the option of adding a daybook to keep track of hours worked by field laborers (who, in the days before much in the way of labor laws, seem subjected to some pretty long days). We're encouraged to assign the bookkeeping tasks around the farm to a child as a training device. The only real issue here appears to be the demise of the barter system -- if we're going to be keeping track of things down to the half-cent, it's important to be clear on exactly how many eggs we're swapping for ears of corn, etc. The handbook acknowledges that this is difficult, and I'm sort of interested in the effect an adoption of more careful bookkeeping on this kind of trading around the farms. Sadly, I'm at something of a loss about where to go for more info.
Thinking of shifting priorities around the farm, there's also a lot of emphasis on eliminating sources of error when it comes to animals. Dairy pails are to all have the same weight, and we are advised to measure each cow's food each day. (The sample milk report ledge includes a truly spectacular list of cow names, including, in the M's alone, Mabel, Madge, May, Meda, and Monda, as well as Tilda, Vina, and Belva. I'm not sure who the lowest-producing cow is, but we are reminded harshly to discard her!)
My particular favorite point in the book, though, is a surprisingly forward-thinking bit, advising the farmer to be sure that his wife understands the family's finances. This is put forth not just because the farmer ought to keep his wife on a tight leash, but because, Mr. Roberts recommends, the family can now work together, sharing in both profits and losses. I'm pleased to see this, nine years prior to the 19th amendment. At the end of the book, we see a sample family meeting in which the daughter, Mary, agrees to hold off on buying a new dress for the summer, and Bud, the baby of the family, is contributing money from his berry patch.
Anyway. Ignoring my book report, here's the deal: in 1911, we're living cheaply. All family members contribute, and we keep strict records. Our main knowledge of when to buy or to sell is based, simply, on our own inventory -- what takes place off our farm or in another city is almost irrelevant. We keep our debts low and avoid taking out a mortgage unless we can put down most of the money. Not bad, overall.
(As a final note, the farmer's handbook is maxim-heavy, advising us that "a man always walks more erect when his heart beats against a roll of Uncle Sam's IOU's, be it ever so small, than when he finds only keys, a pocket knife, and unpaid bills when his hand goes down in his pocket." I kind of love this, because it reinforces my pathological cheapness. Thanks.)
Now, here's the deal. We know how to buy and sell in 1911. But today? Not so much. Fortunately, my dear friend Emily (one of half-a-dozen Emilys I was friends with in college, oddly) has a boyfriend in business school. We're gonna chat, and soon. Yay!
Monday, February 22, 2010
Keeping tabs
First, apologies for a update delay -- a combination of chest ailments of all sorts (including the peculiar sternum inflammation costochondritis), plus grad school applications have kept me pretty busy for the past few days. I've been telling myself that writing inquiry letters and personal statements have been taking care of my business-letter-writing requirements (which, well, it probably does. For that matter, any ideas about how I prove to you lovely people that I totally know how to write a first-rate letter?).
Meanwhile, though, I've also been continuing to take care of monitoring my personal expenses in much greater detail than I have ever before. I sort of always thought this kind of thing (intense budgeting, specifically) would become automatic as I became an adult, but it never really has. I've managed my not-overdrawing-bank-accounts, etc. thanks largely to a great personal stinginess more than any kind of organization or anything.
I've been noticing two things, as I've been really monitoring my spending. First, and surprisingly, I haven't been cheaping out on things I actually require, or on things I really enjoy. Rather, I'm taking it easy on the impulse buys -- skipping nail polish (because I never wear it anyway) in the Duane Reade where I lost my house keys today, for example. I'm still buying what I need (or what I've planned in advance for -- a delicious raspberry jam French toast breakfast on Sunday, for example), but those things are more thought-through, and that makes me enjoy them even more.
This is probably a healthier way to live, in general -- eliminating the unnecessary -- and it's kind of in line with recent thoughts on fast fashion, as well. More than anything, I'm seeing this as one of the longer-lasting effects of my handbook project. 1911 farm boys were far from conspicuous consumers. Maybe we can learn something from them.
Meanwhile, though, I've also been continuing to take care of monitoring my personal expenses in much greater detail than I have ever before. I sort of always thought this kind of thing (intense budgeting, specifically) would become automatic as I became an adult, but it never really has. I've managed my not-overdrawing-bank-accounts, etc. thanks largely to a great personal stinginess more than any kind of organization or anything.
I've been noticing two things, as I've been really monitoring my spending. First, and surprisingly, I haven't been cheaping out on things I actually require, or on things I really enjoy. Rather, I'm taking it easy on the impulse buys -- skipping nail polish (because I never wear it anyway) in the Duane Reade where I lost my house keys today, for example. I'm still buying what I need (or what I've planned in advance for -- a delicious raspberry jam French toast breakfast on Sunday, for example), but those things are more thought-through, and that makes me enjoy them even more.
This is probably a healthier way to live, in general -- eliminating the unnecessary -- and it's kind of in line with recent thoughts on fast fashion, as well. More than anything, I'm seeing this as one of the longer-lasting effects of my handbook project. 1911 farm boys were far from conspicuous consumers. Maybe we can learn something from them.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Math problem
I know, I know. I am not the mathematician in my household.
However, the business badge requires that I calculate how much money I'd need to invest, at 5% per year, to earn back my weekly allowance. Now, here's the situation: since I am a self-sufficient adult, I don't get an allowance (sadly). And even though you are nice people on the internet, I would prefer not to be 100% open about my paycheck and savings habits. So you'll have to bear with me for a moment.
Instead, I'm going to tell you how much I've spent this week on non-household expenses (since we will assume our 1911 Boy Scout was probably not running exciting errands like purchasing dishwashing soap or canned olives), and we'll assume that that's my "allowance." (I feel really uncomfortable with the allowance term, maybe moreso than I should, because talking about it makes me feel like my money is not my own. But I digress.)
This week:
$3.75 for hot chocolate with Wendy last week
$15 for Greek take-out (spanakopita, mostly) Friday night
$6 for a glass of wine on Saturday night (happy birthday, EFS!) (I know a scout is temperate. But a scout is also under 21.)
$3.50 for a coffee and chocolate croissant yesterday
For a grand total of $28.25, all of it spent on food. Go team.
Okay, if there are 52 weeks in a year, this means I'd need $1,469. Okay. First, allow me to catch my breath because that seems like an alarming amount of money. And I haven't even factored in the times I do things like, you know, buy a book. Or a postage stamp.
(Please note, by the way, that I am doing this calculation without benefit of the internet, just what I remember from high school math. Please note, also, that I am not asking John to check my work, because that seems like it would be cheating. If you find a mistake, though, feel free to make me feel like an idiot.)
I'll use the formula interest = principal * rate * time, with principal and interest switched around to give me the formula 1/P = (RT)/I. For the sake of simplicity, I'll take the inverse of each (is this the correct term? I have no idea!), giving me the final formula P = I/RT
I'm looking for the principal, so I can say P = $1469 (the amount of interest I'll need!)/(0.05). Notice that, since I'm only doing this over a single year, T = 1, so it drops out. I love that. (When I learned this in math class when I was a kid, it was like a magic trick.)
Simplify the whole shebang to come to the ultimate conclusion that, in order to earn out my allowance in interest, I'll need to invest $29,380 at 5% per year. If you can tell me where to put my money at 5%, I'll be pretty satisfied.
Yay!
However, the business badge requires that I calculate how much money I'd need to invest, at 5% per year, to earn back my weekly allowance. Now, here's the situation: since I am a self-sufficient adult, I don't get an allowance (sadly). And even though you are nice people on the internet, I would prefer not to be 100% open about my paycheck and savings habits. So you'll have to bear with me for a moment.
Instead, I'm going to tell you how much I've spent this week on non-household expenses (since we will assume our 1911 Boy Scout was probably not running exciting errands like purchasing dishwashing soap or canned olives), and we'll assume that that's my "allowance." (I feel really uncomfortable with the allowance term, maybe moreso than I should, because talking about it makes me feel like my money is not my own. But I digress.)
This week:
$3.75 for hot chocolate with Wendy last week
$15 for Greek take-out (spanakopita, mostly) Friday night
$6 for a glass of wine on Saturday night (happy birthday, EFS!) (I know a scout is temperate. But a scout is also under 21.)
$3.50 for a coffee and chocolate croissant yesterday
For a grand total of $28.25, all of it spent on food. Go team.
Okay, if there are 52 weeks in a year, this means I'd need $1,469. Okay. First, allow me to catch my breath because that seems like an alarming amount of money. And I haven't even factored in the times I do things like, you know, buy a book. Or a postage stamp.
(Please note, by the way, that I am doing this calculation without benefit of the internet, just what I remember from high school math. Please note, also, that I am not asking John to check my work, because that seems like it would be cheating. If you find a mistake, though, feel free to make me feel like an idiot.)
I'll use the formula interest = principal * rate * time, with principal and interest switched around to give me the formula 1/P = (RT)/I. For the sake of simplicity, I'll take the inverse of each (is this the correct term? I have no idea!), giving me the final formula P = I/RT
I'm looking for the principal, so I can say P = $1469 (the amount of interest I'll need!)/(0.05). Notice that, since I'm only doing this over a single year, T = 1, so it drops out. I love that. (When I learned this in math class when I was a kid, it was like a magic trick.)
Simplify the whole shebang to come to the ultimate conclusion that, in order to earn out my allowance in interest, I'll need to invest $29,380 at 5% per year. If you can tell me where to put my money at 5%, I'll be pretty satisfied.
Yay!
Thursday, February 11, 2010
NYPL and 1941
To begin with, despite reports to the contrary from my GP back in December, I am the picture of health and unlikely to keel over any time soon. (I braved yesterday's not-so-snowpocalypse, headed out to a doctor's appointment, and learned that all is well. Later, I celebrated with a day full of eating, including a modified vegetarian carbonara for lunch, eggrolls and soup for dinner, and brownies for dinner. Go team Emily.)
Therefore, given my recent clean bill of health, I think I'm fully equipped to move on from mooning over waste disposal (though I'm going to keep trying to schedule my terrorist-watch-list-inducing interview, even though making too many phone calls asking to tour waste treatment and processing plants may begin to arouse some suspicions). However, in the meantime, barring future success in that department, I want to pull on your coat a little bit (hah! moments from now, this will be a joke!) about clothing.
So, I spent some time this weekend organizing my closet, and I noticed something. First, I noticed that I have a lot of very similar sweaters -- nearly all black, grey, or green, and nearly all either cabled or hooded. Second, I noticed that I'm kind of woefully unfashionable. Then, though, because I'm of a ruminative nature, and because I've been thinking about waste disposal, I started to wonder: what happens to all this clothing when we're done with it? And how much do we really need?
Recently, the NY Library blog had a feature on the same topic. While things have changed (do they even still make dickies?), I was struck by one thing: I have a damn lot of clothing.
If I were ten years younger and it were 1941, I would be a straight-up clotheshorse. I have more shoes than even the Imelda Marcos-y Vassar girl, who averaged ten pairs, and I may even beat the Smithie's even dozen sweaters. Sure, I have fewer evening dresses than the average Texas coed (7 1/2? Really?), but she also reported having an even seven boyfriends. So, you know.
Here's my thing: This list was for everyday wear. The low end of that means a wardrobe comprised of a dickey, a hat, three evening dresses, three skirts, three pairs of shoes, three and a half blouses, three day dresses, and three sweaters. (Plus one boyfriend.) I'm imagining arriving to work like that for the next little while -- cycling through a total of six tops and three dresses for the remainder of the year. How long until someone commented? Or would they? (Answer: Yes. Yes they would.)
There are a lot of articles, if you pay attention to those things, about the evils of "fast fashion," of H&M and Forever 21 providing cheap, disposable clothing that only winds up in a landfill within a year or two, and I usually scoff and figure, well, I'll ditch the fast fashion when the regular kind is cheaper. But is the solution really to go the 1941 way? How would it work -- switching to fewer, higher-quality items that you can wear into the ground? This is feeling very tempting right now. We'll see.
I know, and I've known for years, that the key environmental solution is to reduce consumption, not just to recycle (or bring to Goodwill, as the case may be). I think it may be time to introduce my principles to my closet.
*Notification: As of today, I'm officially beginning requirement 4 of the Business badge: "Keep a complete and actual account of personal receipts and expenditures for six months." Yeah, this is something I should do all the time, as an actual and competent adult, but I don't. So let me start. Today: $3.75 for coffee with Wendy after work.*
Therefore, given my recent clean bill of health, I think I'm fully equipped to move on from mooning over waste disposal (though I'm going to keep trying to schedule my terrorist-watch-list-inducing interview, even though making too many phone calls asking to tour waste treatment and processing plants may begin to arouse some suspicions). However, in the meantime, barring future success in that department, I want to pull on your coat a little bit (hah! moments from now, this will be a joke!) about clothing.
So, I spent some time this weekend organizing my closet, and I noticed something. First, I noticed that I have a lot of very similar sweaters -- nearly all black, grey, or green, and nearly all either cabled or hooded. Second, I noticed that I'm kind of woefully unfashionable. Then, though, because I'm of a ruminative nature, and because I've been thinking about waste disposal, I started to wonder: what happens to all this clothing when we're done with it? And how much do we really need?
Recently, the NY Library blog had a feature on the same topic. While things have changed (do they even still make dickies?), I was struck by one thing: I have a damn lot of clothing.
If I were ten years younger and it were 1941, I would be a straight-up clotheshorse. I have more shoes than even the Imelda Marcos-y Vassar girl, who averaged ten pairs, and I may even beat the Smithie's even dozen sweaters. Sure, I have fewer evening dresses than the average Texas coed (7 1/2? Really?), but she also reported having an even seven boyfriends. So, you know.
Here's my thing: This list was for everyday wear. The low end of that means a wardrobe comprised of a dickey, a hat, three evening dresses, three skirts, three pairs of shoes, three and a half blouses, three day dresses, and three sweaters. (Plus one boyfriend.) I'm imagining arriving to work like that for the next little while -- cycling through a total of six tops and three dresses for the remainder of the year. How long until someone commented? Or would they? (Answer: Yes. Yes they would.)
There are a lot of articles, if you pay attention to those things, about the evils of "fast fashion," of H&M and Forever 21 providing cheap, disposable clothing that only winds up in a landfill within a year or two, and I usually scoff and figure, well, I'll ditch the fast fashion when the regular kind is cheaper. But is the solution really to go the 1941 way? How would it work -- switching to fewer, higher-quality items that you can wear into the ground? This is feeling very tempting right now. We'll see.
I know, and I've known for years, that the key environmental solution is to reduce consumption, not just to recycle (or bring to Goodwill, as the case may be). I think it may be time to introduce my principles to my closet.
*Notification: As of today, I'm officially beginning requirement 4 of the Business badge: "Keep a complete and actual account of personal receipts and expenditures for six months." Yeah, this is something I should do all the time, as an actual and competent adult, but I don't. So let me start. Today: $3.75 for coffee with Wendy after work.*
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