Line Drive in the Time of Cholera

Last night was the final game of the spring 2009 Little League season. Son #2 was at peak performance again. As I gleaned while reading Outliers a while back, 10K is the magic number at becoming an expert in anything. (Example: the Beatles played ten thousand hours at clubs in Germany before taking the world by storm.) Since Son #2 wakes up ready to play baseball and catch pop flies, line drives and grounders all day long, I'm guessing he should be in the Major League by summer's end. As should we.

Another kid on his team heaved his hands, face and body against the fence while whining to his mom, "I want to go home. Nowwwwwwwwww."

She then turned to us and offhandedly said, "He's just starting to feel better after having the swine flu last week."

SWINE FLU.

Maybe I'm being overly cautious but please, keep him home! Seriously.

Oh, gosh, I hope he's okay. We're just getting over the bubonic plague ourselves.

Love is . . .

Love is going to a party filled with friends and spending the bulk of your time hanging with your kids.

Love is letting a soaking wet child get out of the pool on a chilly summer night and climb directly into your lap for snuggles and warmth.

Love is realizing that you wouldn't prefer it any other way.

We've Got Some Work to Do Now

For a year I did the reverse commute to/from 125th Street and White Plains. That daily train ride had its own subculture. A small group of us got to know each other pretty well. The guys from Starwood. A steel trader. Insurance agents. An IT consultant with whom I split a farm-fresh produce share delivered weekly to a church near our apartment. It was fun.

One day, I sat down next to this guy Jerry and asked, "Did you know that Shaggy was a stoner?" (Obvious to many but the not-to-subtle clues such as constant munchies and lack of intelligence were lost on me as a kid. I had simply never thought about it before.)

He responded, "Where are you when I'm on dates and have nothing to talk about with women?"

The other day, my boss was bemoaning having to go to a family reunion this summer. She thinks she bores people with nothing to talk about but work. And, with her limited scope of the external world, she thinks that I charm our clients with randomness. I think they're just being polite.

Her request, "Can you write a list of topics for me to have in my back pocket that others may find of interest?" Her guidelines: it can't be political or drawn from the pages of People magazine. No Obama. No Jon & Kate.

Sure, I'll get right on that. Do I get a Scooby snack?

Mini-weekend: Day 17

First day of summer break. Sunny, high of 86. And WRUR 88.5 just played a Chinchillas tune. Life is good.

Son #1 brought his third grade writing journal home. It's littered throughout with illustrations of Star Wars gun ships and Separatist battles but it's lacking last year's "I'm bored" that was written on page after page of his notebooks. Some of this year's entries are priceless to me.

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From a first day of school letter: "Dear Miss Kokinda, my letter might not be long enough because my brain doesn't think hard enough . . . "

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From a "brain vomit" exercise in September (complete with spelling errors):

Read this! I don't know what to write! I'm stuck, confused, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh hhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ?.,#': Whops! This 'tis wierd. Water! Fire! Ahhhh. This is funny, I'm laughing in my mind while writing. Ha ha ha ha hhheeee he ha this reminds me of a song by the Police called de dododo de da da da I'll write the chouras of it. Here it goes: de do do do de dad da da that's all I want to say to you. That's it! Hey! I thought of a chouras for a new song! I'll write it: he ho ho ho he ha ha ha that's the funnyest thing I'll say to you. O.K. I'm done. Now what! (draws some musical notes)

A distant shore can not be ignored
I have to go or else I'll bore

Something's not right; I'm in a ffight,
What's going on with this song, because I can hear a gong

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Lone entry:
I feel grateful for how good I am at drawing.

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My fears:
1. black bears
2. sharks

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Stick figure poem:



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And my favorite:

The Book of Random Nonsense

(A boy after my own heart.)

Dasher Dancer Prancer and Vixen

My BFF, Kim, is having a baby this fall so she and I have been talking about girl names a lot recently. With that comes me looking at all names, boy and girl, with a fresh lens.

The lineup on Son #2's Little League team: Casey, Chase, Dante, Emily, Jack, Leo, Mark, Ryan, Simon, Tanner and Whitman.

If this is a representative sample of today's suburban culture, it would appear that kids today have a 25%-35% chance of receiving a traditional name. (My forte: subjective statistics.) And one of the boys I counted as "traditional," Ryan, is Asian so it may or may not be a customary name for his family.

In Whitman's defense, his dad is a talented, local author. I'm guessing they preferred Whitman over Walt or Walter. I can see why; it's a strong name.

The other boy name that keeps popping up lately: Milo. So sweet.

The one name I abhor is Colter. It just reeks of pretentiousness to me. There was a little boy who briefly lived in the house behind us with that name. His family was vegan and his mom had to inspect the box on our popsicles before he was allowed to have one with the other kids. Unfortunately for him, he wasn't given permission. Oh what fun.

Colter's dad, on the other hand, used to sneak out of their house at night and join us at the fire pit. We would hear rustling in the dark and he would magically appear to have a beer or two. I don't blame him -- pretty sure I would sneak out of that house, too. I, however, would forgo the Budweiser and instead shovel cheeseburgers and hotdogs into my mouth.

I just hope that Colter is having fun somewhere reviewing his junior investment portfolio and enjoying the summer with a frosty cold tofudgsicle. Lucky lad.

Lock it Up

After spending much of the weekend distilling a 290 page research report on food trends, just when I thought I was almost finished, my PowerPoint crashed. Since it happens all the time (and I've learned my lesson), I had been saving every few minutes. In this case, I only lost 5-6 slides. Other times, I haven't been so lucky.

Coincidentally, in the office mail I just received the June/July 2009 Dell business catalog with the following headline (in screaming all caps).

IT'S YOUR BUSINESS. LOCK IT UP.

Sheesh. What marketing genius thought of that?! When I think of PCs and locking up, it's never a good thing.

Worse yet, prior to my long-standing issues with Home Depot, I had Dell-related problems and solutions. By problems, I mean a laptop that crashed 6X/day. By solutions, I mean purchasing a new Dell (seriously, what was I thinking?) and, thankfully, Dell not processing the order.

Following is a portion of the letter I wrote to Dell and sent to myriad muckety mucks without a single response. Ever.

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On August 13, 2004, a co-worker ordered a Dell notebook computer on my behalf. It never arrived. In fact, seven weeks later, it still hasn’t arrived. To this date, we have never received any contact from anyone at Dell.

Please take a moment to review the following event log of my co-worker’s actions on my behalf:

• August 13: Notebook ordered online through the Dell.com small business site.
• August 13: Immediately received an “Order Acknowledgement” email.
• August 23: No computer. Called customer service. After much discussion, was told that we needed to deal with our account representative. (As e-commerce “customers,” we did not know that we had a designated account representative.)
• August 23: Was told that our account representative was not in at the moment but would respond within the day.
• August 24: Sent e-mail to the Dell Online Communications Center describing the problem (see attached).
• August 25: Received a short, but prompt, “customer care does not have access to Sales data” response (again, see attached).
• September 24: Still waiting by the phone for our account rep—but not anxiously as I have been using my new IBM ThinkPad since August 27.
  

Is it the customer’s responsibility to know that a SKU presented on your site is not valid? If your e-commerce system rejects an order that has already been acknowledged to the customer, is no one notified either internally or externally? Was no one empowered and/or incented to take action? Is it possible that no one at Dell wanted or needed our order? At the very least, would it have been difficult for someone to acknowledge that a problem had occurred? Conversely, would it be ludicrous to hope that someone might take the initiative to cross functional barriers (from customer care to sales) and proactively meet our needs? Quite simply, is there anything that could have been done to facilitate our transaction?

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So much for my non-complaining. I bring this years-old issue up because earlier this year, after five years of peace and tranquility with my IBM ThinkPad, I got a new Dell laptop that our IT vendor purchased on my behalf (against my better judgment). Well, what do you know? It keeps crashing. I've had our vendor's help desk people looking into the problems, running diagnostics, etc.

IT'S YOUR BUSINESS. LOCK IT UP.

Finally, it's a refreshing change of pace to see a tagline that is brutally honest!

Cracker Soul

Every once in a while you score one of the best nights ever. Last night: Cracker. They played heaps o' hits including Eurotrash Girl, Low, Movie Star, Sweet Thistle Pie, Get Off This, Teen Angst, etc., and a fabulous new tune, "Turn on Tune in Drop out with Me," from their latest CD. If I had the chance, I would have run away with David Lowery right there and then. Shockingly enough, he didn't ask me to.

I, of course, picked up my girlfriend Ellen straight from work so I was wearing a black suit and heels. (Way to rock out.) Yet, at the end of the night, this guy that Priddy Mary thought was hot but looked more like a cuter version of Joey from Z Rock came up to me and said, "I'm not hitting on you but wanted you to know that you're the cutest thing -- dancing in the rain."

Seriously. For someone suffering from chronic low self-esteem, it was such an amazing compliment. Who ever you are and where ever you may be: thanks.

Rain Down on Me

Tonight: Cracker! Too bad we're having torrential downpours at the moment. I'm hoping they can still play in this mess.

This morning I heard Paranoid Android which felt totally perfect for the day.

Rain down, rain down, come on rain down on me
From a great height, from a great height, height . . .



Wow. I can't believe this song/CD is from 1997. Feels like only yesterday?! I suddenly know what it means to be living a still life from a moving vehicle.

Weightlifting

My girlfriend Melanie just posed the following question to her Facebook community: if you're in therapy/counseling, what do you think makes a good therapist?

My answer (assuming quality is a given): shared values/a shared belief system and someone who doesn't put his or her own labels on what you're processing.

I was in counseling a few years ago when I thought my life was falling apart. In retrospect, I believe this woman contributed directly to my rapid decline. On my first visit, I made a comment about how I wasn't sure if I really wanted to engage in counseling. In response, she said "Believe me when I tell you that you need it. If I ran into you as a stranger at Wegman's, I would be able to tell by your body language how depressed you are."

I should have been appalled at her direct hit but instead I was shocked at myself. Really? I must be way worse off than I thought! So I went back.

A few months later, I was describing a watershed moment in my marriage that was a quantum, positive shift in my perspective. Instead of allowing me to claim my breakthrough as my own, she said, "Don't misread that emotion. You're not feeling love; you're feeling guilt." And down I went. Again.

This woman was divorced, "never been happier," and spent session after session extolling the virtues of freedom from baggage. She also weighed at least 250 pounds. Can happiness and freedom co-exist with excessive weight? Isn't that the proverbial cover that people hide beneath? Perhaps I'm reading too much into that.

The final straw came one day when I was sharing with her another turning point in my life. I had read Mark 4:35-40 when Jesus calms the storm and it hit me like a ton of bricks. The disciples were professional fishermen who were on rough seas all the time -- yet this storm was so huge that they were freaking out. They thought they were going to die. Somehow, through all of that, Jesus was sound asleep at the stern. How is that possible? Worse yet, doesn't he care?? When they finally woke him up, he said "Peace, be still" and the water became completely calm.

That rapid shift must have been even more shocking to them because then, as the verses say, they were even more terrified. Dead calm after life-threatening seas. What the . . . ?

For me, it was just the antidote I needed. Yeah, my life was out of control. My work, at the time, was on major overload. But more importantly, if I claim to be a believer, isn't Jesus on my boat? I may feel like he's asleep but I'm not going to capsize. I am not going to capsize.

I felt a huge weight lifting.

When I recounted this life-altering insight with my then-therapist (on what was to be our last session), she responded slowly in a serious tone, "The difference between you and that parable is that you're on your boat alone and no one is helping."

What? Wait . . . what?? So I have no God? And no family that supports me? No friends who love me?

Man, have I been a patsy or what?

Mini-weekend: Day 16

"I don't want to get to the end of my life and find that I lived just the length of it. I want to have lived the width of it as well." --Diane Ackerman

Found that quote in the book Positivity that I read this afternoon while soaking up the sun in my hammock. I agree -- I want to live larger than ever before. Days like today make life worth living. It wasn't all fun and hammock. I even cleaned my room, chatted on the phone and did a few loads of wash. I could break out into some Karen Carpenter right about now. Relaxation + freshly laundered clothes = top of the world. (Doesn't take much, really.)

I also started the book Happy for No Reason which is less scientific than Positivity and has ties to The Secret so I'm prematurely thinking it may be more hogwash than substantive but what the hey? It appears to have more stories and that always bodes well for holding my interest at the very least. And one of the first chapters is called, "Practicing Happiness." As a six month practitioner of the mini-weekend, I'm loving the self-affirmation.

Now to incorporate all the positivity into my 13-hour work days. D'oh! First off: stop complaining!

Yours truly, Pollyanna Pittsford

Fiesta de la Gringa

Had dinner with my boss and a client on Friday night at Richardson's Canal House. We had a glass of wine on the patio and watched the boats go by. Later we went into the pub for Kobe Beef burgers. This is the second time I had one of their burgers and the second time I was sick to my stomach afterward. The fat content must rival that of the entire Friendly's menu -- the only other restaurant that makes me ill with every visit. On the plus side, at least they serve alcohol at Richardson's. Next time: salad.

Saturday was spent at swimming, Little League, buying new camouflage crocs for Son #1 and shopping for red, white and blue gifts to celebrate Juana becoming an American citizen! Nothing says "congratulations" like cheap goods made in China. I heart USA socks. A red t-shirt bedazzled with fireworks. Statue of Liberty sunglasses. And three strands (i.e., red, white and blue) of Mardi Gras-like beads.

On Sunday, we had a picnic for Juana and her family on the beach complete with American food: turkey, chips, hotdogs in baked beans, fruit salad, chocolate chip cookies, cherry pie and frozen custard. I even made potato salad!! Me!!

Juana told us that her husband said he would take her to the movies to celebrate her new citizenship and she replied, "I'm a gringa now. I can take myself to the movies."

Finally, last night Son #2 and I went to Walking with Dinosaurs. He loved it. He pre-empted the announcer with every dinosaur that entered the arena (e.g., "Here comes ankylosaurus" or "That's a brachiosaurus") and knew whatever period we were entering when the last ended (i.e., "This should be the cretaceous period"). So I'm thinking that he didn't actually learn anything about dinosaurs that he didn't already know but seeing 40' high reptiles thunder around and attack each other was pretty darned thrilling. My advice to other parents: save your $100 and put it toward Disney. You can get an entire day in a theme park for the same price -- not just an hour-long show. Oh well. At least he'll remember it for . . . what, a week?

Arch Enemy

Son #1 and I spotted a little boy walking with his father from the baseball field today.

Son #1: There's Gaylon -- my arch enemy.
Me: You have an arch enemy?
Son #1: Yeah, he tried to beat me up on the bus one day.
Me: Oh no! What happened?
Son #1: Well, turns out that I'm stronger.
Me: While I don't approve of fighting, I must admit that I'm glad you won.
Son #1: He challenged me to a rematch after school one day after that.
Me: And?
Son #1: Apparently I'm still stronger.

Sheesh. What else goes on in these kids' lives that we're completely unaware of?

Blind Melon

My girlfriend Sarah had all of us guessing what color she was planning to paint her "great room." (It gets pretty exciting 'round here.) The answer: green sprout.

Me: I won!
Kim: No you didn't, I won.
Me: I said green.
Kim: Yeah, and I said beige.
Me: What part of green sprout sounds beige to you?
Kim: Oh, I thought she said she was painting her room grease brown.

I think it's high time to go back to the Pantone color chart. When it sounds perfectly acceptable to paint your room in a color that typifies the McDonald's waste stream and no one bats an eye, we may have gone too far.

I blame J. Crew.

"Love that shirt! What color is it, warm shell?"

"No, it's flamingo. I had a hard time deciding between it and the desert sky but flamingo goes with everything."

Mini-weekend: Day 15

With the exception of finishing up some member satisfaction research for one client and taking part in a conference call with another to discuss future reporting requirements across eight separate databases (yeah, my sweet spot -- not!), yesterday was another mini-weekend.

Had an early morning massage. Went to Sticky Lips with my bible study girlfriends. Played kickball with Son #2. And signed the paperwork on new windows and siding. Now my new furnace won't be lonely. Who needs beautiful clothes, trips to Europe and botox when you can instead invest those same $ in premium vinyl siding?

Alas, today's Knowledge @ Wharton contains an article aptly entitled, So You Think Owning a Home Will Make You Happy? Don't Be Too Sure. Yep, we're living the dream!

Richie

I just posted a note on the memorial page at Miller Funeral Homes website under the obituary for Richard S. Doser who passed away yesterday at the age of 87.

"Rich was our carrier in Pittsford when I was growing up and I LOVED him. We called him "Richie the mail man." My friend Steve and I (and our dogs Barney and Wendy) followed him as he walked throughout our entire neighborhood every single day. He was the nicest man on the planet and he would let us put the mail in our own mailboxes which was a huge treat. (Seriously! Mind you, it was the early 1970s and I was like six years old.) I've thought about him a lot over the years and now wish I had reached out to say "hello." His memory is very special to me. With ALL of that said, I'm very, very sorry for your loss. Your entire family is in my prayers."

May God bless Richie the mailman. And may he rest in peace.

Much Ado About Nothing

A woman roughly my age recently began renting one of the offices downstairs from mine. A small but high tech space nested beside the elevator shaft. She runs a photo preservation business. Archiving, organizing and digital reconstruction of old photographs. Not necessarily an earth shattering concept in a city that boasts the internationally renowned George Eastman House, Eastman Kodak Company, RIT's famed photography school and long standing, reputable companies such as Lumiere that also preserve images.

Here's the rub: she held an official ribbon cutting ceremony yesterday in the lobby of our building--which is a beautiful old mansion turned into office space. She literally rolled out the red carpet. Music. Food and wine. The local media were here. Film crews. Mayor Duffy. Representatives from the regional economic development organization. People were giving long winded speeches left and right.

I need to take lessons in PR from this woman. Serious fanfare for a small start-up. Well executed from the invitations to the decor.

During her speech, she delivered a few comparisons between the life she left behind in LA and the life she's reportedly enjoying in Rochester. Sunny, mid-80s vs. gray and 40 degrees. Smog and congestion vs. the ability to be anywhere in ten minutes. She then sold us on the architecture, the big city culture and the friendliness of our own city. And the crème de la crème of her thesis on why Rochester trumps LA? We have a hot mayor. Stated aloud! With him standing mere inches behind her.

My hat is off to this woman for pulling off such a great publicity stunt and then having the balls to deliver a somewhat less-than-deferential compliment to our own mayor hottie pants.

She's my new hero!

Blogarrhea

The NYT ran an article yesterday entitled "Blogs Falling in an Empty Forest" which states that roughly 95% of all blogs have essentially been abandoned. People write blogs with the hope of securing a book deal or, at the very least, generating some comments. Others have made themselves more public in smaller increments through Facebook or Twitter and that's sufficient for them.

I write specifically into the empty forest just to purge. Like swimming or dancing, it just feels good. And, unlike work, it doesn't have to be structured or even succinct. There's no deadline. No imposed storyline. I'm not trying to find my voice. Nothing matters. No boss or client expectations. I don't have to be happy. Nor do I have to be perfect. Most importantly, I don't have to talk about market trends, industry forecasts, positioning, value propositions, strategic plans, succession planning, return on assets, top or bottom line growth, organizational modeling, outsourcing, partnering, scenario modeling, voice of customer, operational efficiencies, venture capital, government grants, tax incentives or geographic expansion. (Unless I want to.)

Instead, I can wax poetic about really important things like my kids, my ever increasing lard ass, wrinkles, bodily fluids, the cocktail du jour, girls night out, yeehaw fashion, redunkulous neighborhood gossip, random moments from my so-called-life, etc.

It's liberating.

And it also explains the dearth of comments and nonexistent book deal. Aldous Huxley I'm not.

Me Talk Pretty Today!

Whenever I make a mistake in this blog, my brother seems to find it. Yet according to this quiz, I'm an English Genius.

Go figure. Sure beats being an evil genius (I think).

Effen Demographics

Lately, when driving back to the office from one of my clients, I keep passing a boarded up store on Lyell Avenue that was once called Effen Haute.

On a city street that's known for prostitution and violence, the name smacks of ghetto couture.

Damn girl, that dress is effen haute!

They must have gone out of business because the neighborhood couldn't support as much Jean Paul Gaultier as the owner originally forecast . . .

It's an effen shame.

Mini-washout: haikus

mini-weekend thwart
heaps of data analyzed
workday almost done

eighty-eight worksheets
performance v. importance
gap analysis

revenue decline
profitability down
op costs sloping up

count if cell not blank
vlookup tables galore
i've become a bore

Under Pressure

Love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night

Monday Monday

Sleepovers, fire pits, roasted marshmallows, acupuncture, little league, movie night outside on the neighbor's big screen, wine, sangria and church.

I heart weekends.