The Fixer…

People have business advisors for all sorts of reasons. They may use an advisor to increase sales, scout new customers, image control or to help solve a particular problem within the business. Me? I have one to insult me.

You’ve met her before–Advisor Girl. She is “The Fixer” of Phoenix–no lie. Like Olivia Pope, she hones in on problems and puts her minions to work solving all manner of shit you’ve let back up into the system to keep success at bay. She is highly successful, difficult to get to and her results are of the highest order. I tell her I want to be that successful. And I want to be a witch like her.

She is a witch. She knows things; deep things without you telling her. She percepts secrets buried deep, roots them out and hurls them on the table for you to look at the ugly mess. Then she claps her hands and tells you how to fix it. Witch, right? Combine the insight, wild hair flying hither and yon and a laissez-faire attitude as to what you think of her and she’s everything a kickass bitch strives to be, all wrapped up in one hot-headed foreigner. She nearly shouts at me to never, ever get on my knees (metaphorically) again when I suggest compromise. The little white cat crosses the room and purrs for Advisor Girl. See? Witch.

“If you want to be a witch like me, you have to learn to stir the pot,” she deadpans. She tells me I have difficulties because I do not let people in. I argue. She replies, “Just because they talk to you does not mean you are letting them in.” She imitates me–flipping her hair. I say, “I do not flip my hair.” She says, “You do in your mind.” She says it’s okay to call her a bitch.

I don’t but I think it. She says I will not like her through this process. Check. She says she will tell me things I do not want to hear. Check. She says I need to break down and face reality. Whaaa? Reality and I are not particularly close. I prefer a nice little fantasy that includes heels, a dirty martini and few worries.

“You have to learn it’s hard to work with a duchess crown on your head. You have to lose that or work in a way that serves you; but that means get on the scary side of life.” She labels me Duchess, the little cat from The Aristocats, a film I must view for homework. Yes, the child’s cartoon. Evidently Duchess never loses herself, regardless of predicament.


People, her clients, tell her they want to make money, make a name for themselves and make a difference in the world. What they don’t see is that it is the other way around. Make a difference to other people and you will make a name for yourself and then you will make money. It is backward.

Since my focus has been on money worry instead of make a difference worry, I’m backwards. Hurting myself in creating my dream career. Why was I successful at it before, when I had a live husband?

“Because you did not have to. You could work if you wanted to or not work. You came from a place of strength. Now you are in a place of weakness. People can see that.” She believes in evening the scale. Her advice is to take every step in business observing the Universal Law of Economy, “True service deserves true rewards.” Kind of like a flower and a bee. Imagine all of business working that way.

She also points out that I do not answer texts or my phone promptly enough. Eeek. Like I haven’t heard that from anyone with my phone number.

She tells me to get out in the world. Go for coffee by myself. Strike up a conversation with a stranger. Evidently I am friendly enough with a pal nearby but not nearly so much when skulking about on my own.

So tomorrow morning, I will sit in my Starbucks, alone, and strike up a conversation with a stranger. Perhaps I’ll bring a flask.

PS: I get a late night email: “Do you have a tiara?” Oh good god, what now?


3 thoughts on “The Fixer…”

  1. Ha! Ha! Ha! Linda you describe her to a T! That is too funny…i can still see our facial expressions when we first met her in Starbucks. She really is something….it was a brief encounter, but she will never know how much of an impact she had on me 🙂 I love this post.


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