The AV-1.insider

The Art of Tipping: The True Cost of Poor Service

Tybee Island. Spring Break at The College typically marks the rough and tumble race to the end of our fiscal year. For starters, my guys get a week-long, all-access pass to spruce up classrooms too heavily booked to do more than sneak in a lamp replacement between regular classes. Filters get cleaned. Dust bunnies get vacuumed.

Meanwhile, I have budget proposals (and their obligatory revisions) to attend to.

In years past, we have often been the beneficiary of end-of-year spending dollars doled out from our parental unit engaged in the organizational equivalent of checking between the sofa cushions for spare change.

No such luck this year (and things are looking fairly doleful next year as well).

With the execution (in a good way, sorta) of my fiscal homework and the safe return of our sunburned students (bleary-eyed and somewhat wiser to the ways of tequila) I spied my window of opportunity to cash in some accumulated vacation-time and pull a "Don Draper" and disappear for two weeks.

Adventures in Service: Sweet Victory in Dallas

[Editor's note: Although most of what we do appears to be tech-related -- all cables and components -- the reality is that we are part of a person-to-person business, built on understanding, communication, collaboration and trust. That's service. This week, contributor Anita Vidwell shares her Thanksgiving adventures in service.]

Dallas, TX. Thanksgiving with my parents was a resounding success, despite all forecasts. Previous family gatherings subjected my boyfriend, Chance, to Daddy's political insights regarding the unmanliness of ponytails punctuated by lectures on how it has been scientifically proven that liberals are the source of all things evil in the world.

This holiday, perhaps as an olive branch, Daddy invited us down and put us up in the Anatole. The flight was pleasantly uneventful (thank-you Southwest!). I convinced Chance to leave his man-bag at the hotel and the big day itself passed with nary a peep out of Daddy, save for one sniffling crack directed toward Chance about how patchouli is really just cheap perfume for women of questionable repute (eliciting a threatening, "Carl!" barked from Momma in the kitchen).