Happy New Year

It's always nice when you can end the year on a positive note. There have been some years when I couldn't wait to close the door on one year and move to a new one. Thankfully, this isn't one of them. 2007 was pretty good overall. It feels good to be able to say that.

In 2007, we moved, which can be a really good thing. It gives you a chance to purge yourself of "stuff" that you really don't need. It feels good to get rid of clutter and start fresh.

In 2007 I had a chance to visit with just about everyone I'm related to -- in person. That's pretty unusual and it was really, really nice. The occasion was my grandmother's 95th birthday celebration -- a week spent on Lake Maxincuckee in Northern Indiana. I know how very lucky I am to still have my grandmother. So many people my age do not have any grandparents left. It's amazing how smart the elderly are. After all, they have lived far, far longer than the rest of us. If you take the time to listen to them you can learn a whole awful lot.

In 2007 my youngest son became a teenager and for the first time in years I found myself with kids that really truly could take care of themselves. That made my business trips easier and my weekends more enjoyable. I no longer dreaded Friday nights as the start of a long weekend of "taking care of kids." Now I just drive kids, and feed kids, and pay for things. It's easier, and as I get older and my patience wanes, it's nice to have more time to myself. I think that's good for everyone around me.

2007 was a year when gas prices went through the roof and I started thinking more seriously before every trip I took -- whether it was just to town or to some far-flung locale. I don't want to think of the thousands of dollars that went into my gas tank, and it is a little annoying to hear my oil business friends talking of their tremendous profits. (Their new homes, the cars their kids drive, and the vacations they take tell those stories easily enough.)

But other than the gas prices (and the cost of milk and groceries in general), this was a pretty good year. And I'm hopeful that 2008 will be even better. Maybe the economy will continue to improve and gas won't seem so unpalatable.

So here's wishing everyone a fantastic 2008 and one of the best years ever. Happy New Year!

Holiday-isms

I have two sons, so for most of their lives I've handled any and all shopping requirements (other than when they've had birthday money to spend or some other "special" occasion). So the other day as my oldest (now 15) and I were leaving Wal-Mart after a quick trip for essentials and a couple small presents, I asked him if he wanted to give his dad something I had bought.

"No, Mom. Giving someone something someone else bought is like putting your name on somebody else's homework. You just don't do it." I thought that was a great analogy, and I'm glad to know he's finally growing up.

When he's going shopping and what he'll get his dad instead remains to be seen. But I'm glad I don't have to worry about that. (We'll see...)

Deck the halls...

I just came from church, and at the risk of alienating someone, I wanted to share something here.

Jesus is the reason for the season.

I probably should end this post right now, but because I’m a writer and this is my blog, I won’t.

Here are a few random thoughts. Feel free to add your own in a reply to this post. I really think Christmas has gotten to the point where it has to be nearly unaffordable for a whole lot of people. We’re bombarded by TV ads showing perfect, beautiful people who are exceedingly joyful in their holiday cashmere sweater. We think we need cashmere or diamonds or SALES to make us happy and to ‘bring in the holiday season.’

You saw them on TV on Black Friday (or sadly a lot of you – us—did do at least some shopping that day). I know from a close relative who does get up at 4 a.m., that to get the things that they feel everyone else has at a price they can afford, they have to get up and go to the store at 4 a.m. I think that’s pretty sad. On a whole lot of levels.

Spending money can make you happy. I’ve been there, done that, have the shoes, purses, dishes, knick knacks and collectibles to prove it. But the spending happy high goes away, and the stuff (unless, of course it’s something really special) never quite delivers what the TV ads promised or what we thought we were getting. It’s all just stuff.

The Circle of Life

Last Wednesday night I had one of those experiences that somehow changed my life. Or if it didn't change it, it made me look at it and appreciate it in a very different way.

I went to Denver Wed. to meet a client and visit some friends. While there I also drove past the first house I ever owned. That was an interesting experience. The fence was falling down, and everything seemed really, really small. But it had been our first house back in 1986. At the time, I loved it. Today I wanted to get out of that neighborhood before it got dark. Funny how life changes your perspective a bit. Anyway, that's not the point of this post....

I had arranged to spend the night in Denver at the home of my incredibly beautiful and wonderful friend. We had worked together back in the 80s and early 90s, had lost touch a bit during our "young baby and little kid" years, particularly after I moved to Boulder and later Texas. We did the Christmas card thing for a while, but neither of us is great at that. We both tend to slack off on the contact when things are going bad, and between the two of us we've dealt with our share of cancer, death, bad marriages, the ups and downs of self employment, and divorce. But Jill's one of those kind of friends that you pick up with right where you left off. There is no pretense. It's an honest, caring relationship. Anyway, that's also not the story I want to share either.

What was so incredible about this particular visit, and what I felt was another one of those "rights of passage" that I'm having more and more as I get older, was listening to Jill's 14-year old daughter play the guitar and sing. This young girl is a very talented human being. It was so weird to realize that she had been created by my friend. So weird to realize that, back when we were running around together in our 20s we never could have imagined this young lady or the talent that she has. She sang, or really performed, not like a 14-year old kid, but like a famous artist. Her confidence was engaging, and her voice and skillful use of the guitar delivered a soulful performance full of emotion and, dare I say, angst.

Now this daughter of my friend has some reason for angst, I suppose. Her parents have been through a bitter divorce that continues, despite their best efforts, as a contentious ongoing relationship. My friend says her daughter pours her emotion into her guitar. It was obvious. Beautiful and sad all at once.

When marriages end, there are different outcomes for different situations. The sadness about this marriage ending was that it was a relationship full of love. I distinctly remember my friend being absolutely gaga in love with her husband, who was one of the best looking young guys I'd ever seen at the time. The two of them L-O-V-E-D each other. That love evolved into a family with two gorgeous little girls and more than its share of love. We're talking tons of love. Problems, sure. But love, no doubt. That's what makes it all so sad. That marriage carried a lot of hope and patience, relationship counseling and understanding, but then finally efforts were exhausted, there was a relational explosion, followed by implosion and eventually disintegration.
It's all really powerful material for an artist. And Jill's daughter is the benefactor. This young lady has talent and focus and drive and commitment, and she will be a major star. She is a young Jewel, carrying the pain of her experiences. From the outside looking in, you wouldn't expect so much pain in an upper middle class neighborhood and a house on a cul-de-sac. But it's been there, despite everyone's best efforts.

In this case, the pain has been transformed in different ways. For one little girl it's been transformed into musical talent. It seems like a healthy repository.

Last week I realized by looking in on this family that our lives and the decisions we make day to day really do have meaning. Even if what we're doing at a particular moment seems like it won't have an impact somewhere, everything we do impacts something else.

My friend has a beautiful daughter who just might be a famous singer. It's a result of the decisions and actions that her parents have made -- from buying her a guitar to divorcing. Everything has an impact.

I'm not sure if this young lady would sing with such emotion or talent if she hadn't experienced so much in her young life. It makes me realize that the decisions we make on a daily basis make a difference to more than just us. I have kids, and this has me thinking.

We're all participating in the circle of life. Everything we do has a consequence. Making the best of every situation is our obligation.

Who's to say that this young lady wouldn't be singing with the same emotion if her mom and dad were still married and things were "easier." She may have been just as talented and just as dedicated to her guitar. But maybe not.

I'm looking at every decision I make differently now. I'm watching my own kids a little closer now. And I'm appreciating this circle of life for all it's goods and bads. Life is important. Everything we do today impacts the future. That is the circle of life.

Just another day in the office

I meet a lot of people, and people always say, "Oh, you're a writer, that's interesting. What do you write." When I tell them, or usually when I start to tell them, their eyes tend to gloss over and they quickly lose interest. It's not that my clients aren't interesting, but if you say a writer people expect you to be a more interesting person. I guess.

But I like what I do and I do what I like. Sounds like a Jimmy Buffet song or a Dr. Seuss book, but thankfully, it's my life.

I'm starting to realize that I'm pretty lucky like that. I get to work on things I find interesting and help people improve their business and make money. That's pretty satisfying work. It may not make for interesting cocktail chatter or keep someone from zoning out, but it does keep the lights at my house on and keeps the kids fed. There's a whole lot to be said for that.

Writing isn't very exciting though. If you've ever tried to watch someone write, it's boring. In fact, people (well, my family members and patrons at some of the public wifi spots I visit) are always coming up behind me when I'm writing and they start talking to me, perhaps because they don't see me doing anything. At least I look like I'm not doing anything because I'm staring at the screen, reading, maybe thinking, maybe typing, but not necessarily doing anything active.

These same people have been a little slow to learn that they can come upon me like that and talk to me, even complete entire conversations on their end, and I won't hear a word they've said. Sometimes I don't even know they were there. I usually have a sense that something happened that I missed, but not always. My point is that writing is not a spectator sport, and even if someone looks like they aren't doing anything, if they are a writer, they are working -- sometimes in a faraway place on the right side of their creative brain.

People who come over to my office or who "drop by because they were in the neighborhood" usually find me looking like I'm not working. I guess since a lot of people use their computers and the internet primarily for entertainment, they see me in front of mine and assume I'm on ebay or something.

"What are you doing?" "Writing this release (or story or web page)." "Oh," they say. "I'll just wait." But they never wait quietly. They see I'm not doing anything, or I don't look like I"m doing anything, or I'm just typing something up...so they start talking. I can't work when someone is talking to me, which also explains why (my clients have learned) I don't like to talk on the phone much during the day -- during my productive writing time.

As a writer, I'm never done and never off work. I've got lots of stuff going on all the time -- ideally a dozen clients who are relying on me to help them do something cool with their business. I also have a screenplay and 12 episodes of a sitcom to write, two web businesses I want to create, and I need to do my billing.

I choose not to work sometimes, quite often in fact, but I'm never DONE with my work. Which doesn't mean I don't know when to quit. I know when things aren't going anywhere or when I'm just wasting time, or when I'm avoiding real work I should be doing. Like now. So when I'm rambling, or things aren't gelling, it's time to get off work and do something else -- laundry or exercise or a phone call -- or in the case of me sitting here writing this blog, it's time for me to get to work, make some phone calls, do some billing.

One way or another, I'll crank out some copy today or write a funny scene or name some new product something cool. I'll put out a news release and pitch a story. I'll prepare a report, send some billing, call a client. It's another day in the office. Just a regular day. Cuz I'm a writer, and it's not that exciting. I don't burn a lot of calories doing it. And my hands and eyes get a little sore. But other than that, it's just a regular day in the office doing what I do for people I like. I have no complaints. I'm lucky like that. I hope you are too.

Perfection

The older I get the less I care about being perfect.

Now that doesn't apply to typos. I still cringe at the thought of typos and bad grammar, so I'm a stickler for that. But otherwise I'm now old enough to readily admit that I make mistakes. I miss the boat. I sometimes really screw up. Not often, but sometimes.

I used to sweat it when I messed up. "Oh, man, I'm a consultant with a lot of experience and I should have known better." But the reality is that in my business there really is no right or wrong "for sure" answer. Every situation deserves individualized evaluation to ensure that the right path is taken. Most times we figure it out. Sometimes we don't.

Most of the time when things go awry it's because we didn't take the time to think everything through early on. It's that think time that, more often than not, makes the difference between a successful and wildly successful campaign.

Dialing in that precious think time can be hard. In my business it involves research (of media, competitive products, industry leaders), conversations, and then just "think time." Sometimes it's easy, like when I pray about it and the answers just come -- divinely. Sometimes it's hard. But when the time is taken, it helps -- a lot.

Now I'm also not perfect in my personal life. I lose my temper, I say things without thinking them through first, I raise my voice and sometimes slam doors. I'm a bit moody and sometimes demanding. My highs are high and my lows are ...scary. Medication would probably be recommended, but I take pride in not using drugs to alter my moods. Meditation instead of medication is my mantra. It works when I use it.

So it's interesting to write this, sort of stream of consciousness and then realize that the two best tactics I've listed here for getting ideas and improving mood involve similar activities -- praying and meditating. Both can provide the same result -- clarity on the path of action we need to take.

Interesting. Something to think about.

Self Promo Phobia, i.e. Help Wanted

The whole reason a job like mine exists is because people want and need promotion and they don't want to do it themselves.

And that is the subject of this post. I am looking for a publicist to promote my business. What do I do? I'm a publicist. It sounds pretty stupid, but at the same time I think it validates what I do. I recognize that I need a professional -- someone other than myself -- to promote me.

Now please don't get me wrong. I'm not an ego-maniac. I don't crave the spotlight or need attention to feel self worth. It's about business. It's about making sure that people who might want to hire a publicist (because they need self promotion or business promotion or product promotion) feel good about hiring me because I'm noted somewhere somehow as being a good publicist.

A good publicist will make you do things you wouldn't do on your own. They'll force you to go to places you don't want to go and smile like you want to be there and say just the right things, because they'll do their homework and know who's there and know what they want to hear and tell you all the right things to say. A good publicist handles everything so you don't have to. That's what I want.

It only gets weird if you think about it too hard (and I obviously have), in that I want to have this publicist tell somebody somewhere that I'm a really good publicist. It's not that I couldn't do it myself, it's just that I don't find that sort of work all that interesting.

So, if you know of a good publicist (not some hack or wanna be, but someone with real clients and real experience), let me know. I need someone forceful enough to boss me around yet diplomatic enough that I don't realize it. I'm not cheap, but I want value. I expect results -- I'm not sure what kind or why, but I expect them. I need someone who makes me a priority like I make my clients priorities.

That's what I need -- soon! I've been putting this off far too long. Applicants can respond to this blog with their qualifications. Please no more than 50 words, and if you don't know how to blog, this is your chance to learn. No whiners. I'm a stickler for perfection, but by no means am I perfect, that's why I need you. No typos, don't pester me, we'll talk dress code if needed, but just get me results. I'll be relying on you for ink -- lots of it, and interviews with editors and writers. Yes, I'll get a new headshot, and yes I'm willing to travel or spend a little money for some design or conferences or whatever...but just don't try to suck me dry. I know your business and I'll have my eyes peeled.

There. It feels great to be taking this off my plate. Well worth every dime. (And I know you're out there.) Good luck. May the best candidate win!

A Fresh Start

The best part about the week after Labor Day is that it's like everything is new.

I've always thought of this first week of September as the start of the year. It's when people are ready to get back to work. By now we're a little tired of summer, and we're ready to find people at work instead of on vacation. The kids are back in school, it's time to get busy.

This year I moved over Labor Day weekend, so it's even more of a fresh start for me. I'm in a new office, a new house. I have new drives to school and the store. I'm closer to my clients. It's pretty cool.

Life is full of opportunities to clear the air and start anew. It's a real gift that things do change and we have the chance to move on to new neighborhoods and new friends.

I'm doubly blessed that I have the opportunity to start new relationships with clients and with work. I thank God that I have the opportunity to approach each day with an appreciation for the beauty that it offers. I'm thankful for my family and my clients and our friends.

Most of all I'm really thankful that I'm down to less than 20 boxes that need to be opened and dealt with. I'm thankful that my refrigerator arrives today and that my DSL works. And I'm particularly thankful for my friends and family who worked so hard in 100 degree Texas heat to help us move. In particular thanks to Mark,Elian, Bob and Tanner who offered their muscle. Thanks to Robin and Fred for finding us John and Riley for the heavy lifting -- they were life savers when the rest of us were exhausted.

Anyway, it's a fresh start, and with only 120 days or so until Christmas it's time to work for a while. So let's get busy!

Damned if you do, damned if you don't

P.T. Barnum once said there is no such thing as bad publicity. After 20 years in the PR business I know that's not the case.

In the 1990s the utility company I worked for needed to trim some trees in Boulder, particularly around an always contentious and incredibly ugly monstrosity known as the Grape Street Line. The Grape Street Line was part of the original infrastructure in Boulder and it was a huge, ugly power line that ran up Grape Street and on up the mountain to service Nederland, Eldora, and other mountain communities. I'm 99% sure it's still there today.

The neighbors on Grape Street hated the line. Every few years they'd organize in an uproar to request the utility company bury it. The cost of burying the Grape Street Line was phenomenal, and the utility had responded on numerous occasions that they'd be happy to bury it if the residents wanted to join together to pay for it. Stale mate.

So here we were after a particularly glorious spring in the Rockies and the forestry crews were preparing to go samurai on the tress that hid the Grape Street Line. Our quandry was whether to just show up with chain saws (the company's usual modus operandi, always causing a stir) or inform the citizens first.

We decided we wanted to be the kindler, gentler power company, so in addition to a carefully crafted letter "from" our forester, we enlisted his help and his movie star good looks to educate the community (a very tree hugging, berk wearing activist community) about the environmental benefit of this particular form of cutting. The Shigone method, or something like that, which leaves the tree with a giant hole (shaped like a "V") in the middle. It's bizarre, ugly, and supposedly the healthiest thing for trees that live around power lines.

Anyway, the plan sounded good, I personally handled Forest Boy's media training, and booked him on TV shows and with the editorial board at the Daily Camera. With the Dear Resident letters off in the mail and a fresh shirt for the himbo (who in all fairness really knew his stuff when it came to trees), we set off to Boulder, feeling good about what we were about to do -- for the good of the trees in Boulder.

Our campaign was wildly successful from a shear "impressions" standpoint. We made the front page not only in Boulder, but as the story grew we made both dailies in Denver. Then it went national -- Today Show, USA Today -- and foresters nationwide debated with activists in San Francisco and Bend and Vermont on CNN. Thankfully the internet did not yet exist.

But I've blocked out most of the rest of the details at this point, except for the team wide face-to-face with the CEO, who demanded to know whose idea it had been to be proactive about the whole tree cutting thing. I took the blame and learned a valuable lesson which was "never take the blame."

No matter what happened the results were the same. The company got its trees trimmed and the local paper got photos of college kids chained to the trees while bucket trucks loomed in. It was awful, horrible, but it was wildly received "publicity," talked about in every coffee shop in town. People knew about it, and they knew who was behind it. The company's name was on every tongue. There were opinions on it on talk radio and letters to the editor for nearly a week.

It was all packaged up neatly with a bow -- the biggest story ever until the Douglas County sheriff shot somebody's dog because the meter reader couldn't get in the back yard.

In hindsight, it was pretty dumb. Today I would insist on a different path. But I was pretty young back then, and we liked the idea of being open and forthright so much better than the idea of just showing up with chainsaws.

But every year since, residents along Grape Street (and Elm, and Walnut, and, and, and...) are awakened by the sound of chainsaws. No warning. No education. Just Cut and Run. It's the only way to do it. Quick and painless. No newspapers, no TV crews, no neighborhood uproar. No publicity.

Sometimes you can wag the dog, and other times the dog wags you. P.T. Barnum was wrong. There is such a thing as bad publicity.

The girlfriend

Last night a bubbly, giggly, pretty teenage girl was in our house. She was also in our pool, with our son, in the dark, alone. Since it was the first time we'd had a visitor of that nature, it was a bit of a milestone, a right of passage, and a little bit of an "oh no" moment.

I always knew the girls would come. I guess that time has come. And I'm okay with it. From my perspective, at the age of 15, you should be interested in girls. By the time I was 15 I'd probably had half a dozen boyfriends -- some 17 and even 18. I know what I was doing. I like that my son is willing to bring a girl here.

My husband, on the other hand, was a bit more concerned. "They're getting a little huggy huggy out there," he had warned me from his recon post near the kitchen window. "You'd better get out there," he had said, pacing nervously in front of my view of the TV.

But I was horizontal on the couch and couldn't come up with a reason why I needed to move at that moment. I've talked to my son. He's talked to me. He told me about a senior football player at his school whose girlfriend got pregnant and so he wasn't going to college on the scholarship he'd received. "It can ruin your life," he had said. "It will at least change it," I had replied.

We've talked about what boys are feeling and how girls can be, and how it's best to wait for the girl that he really really likes and to date a girl for quite a while before deciding anything about getting really close. I've also more blatantly told him I don't want to be raising grandchildren. We've had our talks.

So as my husband paced nervously next to me and I patted myself silently on the back for my open communication style, the girl came in the house. Her high pitched, peppy entrance made sure we all knew she was there. "Which switch is the light?" she had asked at the door of the bathroom. "I don't know," I had said from my couch, "Try one." "Thanks!" she had said in a cheery squeak, as if my advice on how to solve the dilemma had improved her night, perhaps even her life -- forever!

As I heard the door slide closed, I looked at Mark who had somehow fallen into his chair, perhaps stunned, and laughed. Then I jumped up and walked (okay, I ran -- really fast)through the house to the back door, opened it,and found my son flexing in the pool.

"Hey, what's up?" I had said. "Nothin'" he had said backinng out of the light. "You be careful out here," I said sternly. "I will," he said, then "I'm not..." he said. "I know," I said.

About that time our visitor, who I noticed as she stepped into the moonlight had an ever-so-tiny nose ring, bopped out the door. "Are you coming swimming with us?" she had asked with a huge smile, as if it would make her truly happy if I would. For a split second I considered, then reconsidered. Looking at my son, I said, "Not right now, maybe later." Then I turned, did a quick scan for visible tatoos, seeing none, smiled and said, "When it's time, we'll drive you home," and I walked back in the house.

I knew it was just a matter of time before the girls showed up. That's why I talk to my sons. This one may be the first to be alone in the dark in my pool with my son, but she certainly won't be the last. And I have another son who loves girls, and soon they'll be coming to my house to see him too. I'm okay with all that. But tonight when you lay down to sleep, please, say a prayer for me. I'm the mother of two teenage boys.

Vacation time

It's the time of year when everyone is going on vacation. Elian is in Holland, she's on her second week there. Ana just got back from Toronto and she's going to Vegas Friday. Jeanette and Randy are planning their August cruise in Alaska, which her BOSS gave them, I might add. I need to get on the stick, or we'll be going no where.


It's always hard to fit in a vacation, even when you're self employed. Most of my clients took the whole week of the fourth off. It rained, so I worked. My husband and I did go to Houston for a wedding last weekend. It was the first time we'd been away together in a couple years. It was enough like a vacation -- great hotel, room service, shopping, a fabuolous wedding party, Sunday brunch with bottomless Bloody Marys...it will get me through for a few more weeks.


But my kids are another story. Some might argue that every day at our house is a vacation. There's the pool, an infinite number of video systems and games, four televisions, kids to play with. The lake. But after six weeks of that the kids are getting bored and they're starting to ask about going on a vacation.

But with our vacations so much depends on work and sports schedules that it's hard to fit anything of any length at all in. That leaves us with trying to schedule shorter trips that usually end up costing twice as much, and since there's no real downtime, you come home more tired than when you left. I've suggested a weekend in Dallas, maybe a trip to Six Flags or Hurricane Harbor, but my son said, "That's not a vacation, that's a field trip." I suppose that's true. The way I look at it, it's at least a day off.

Now we've been to a couple Rangers day games and we went to the mall once. None of that counts, I guess. While we were in Houston my sister came to stay. She took the boys to Chilis for lunch and then bowling. They went to the music store and Blockbuster. "That was sort of a vacation," I told them. They agreed that it was fun, but vacation it was not. "We didn't leave town," Dill said.

So in addition to the umpteen things I have on my to do list, I now have to plan a vacation. I've been saying that for a few weeks. But now that we're nearly mid-July, I need to get going on it.


A couple weeks ago when my son asked, "Where are we going on vacation this year?" I suggested he take care of it. "Let's go to the X Games in LA," I said. "Get on and find out what events you want to see and find some flights. We can stay where we stayed last year. Best Western Hollywood. August 2 -5. Thanks!"


"Huh?" I heard him say as I flew out the door.


Needless to say he didn't get that vacation planned. If we're going to go, I need to do that.

We are also going to my grandmother's 95th birthday party in Indiana the second weekend of August. I've been stalling on planning that until I figure out what I'm going to be working on and how much time I'm going to have. If we have time, I'd like to take a week and drive -- leave right after we get back from LA. I've even toyed with the idea of swinging through Iowa. The boys and I like road trips. But I think hockey is going to get in the way for one kid. That means we need to fly and plans need to be made, money spent, etc. It gets so complicated and expensive!

It's a wonder anyone goes anywhere at all.

So until I can get going on it I'll just revel in my friends' stories about their trips. I'll keep plugging away on my to do list and hopefully sooner rather than later the item that says 'plan vacation' will rise to the top.

At least I hope it does before I miss mine.

Play Ball

Before I had kids I would spend a Friday night doing things I thought were really fun. We'd go to the 16th Street Mall in Denver and have oysters at the Paramount. We'd barbeque with friends or go to concerts. It was, seriously, a really good time in my life.

Now that I have kids, when I'm not working what I do usually revolves around the kids. Everyone with kids can relate.

I think my kids have been really fortunate to grow up with the same kids since they were little. New ones move in -- great new ones, in fact, but a lot of people we know now have been here the whole time we've been here. We've known some of these kids through 8 seasons of baseball. And I'm getting to know their parents.

It sounds weird to think about it, but it is true that I am just getting to know some of the people that have been here and in and around my existence for eight years. We don't spend lots of time together or even in the same proximity. We're not what you would call "friends." But two hours at a time 15 times a year, we are united as a baseball family. Now we haven't always had kids on the same teams, but the same people have been in the league and we've watched each others' kids. Over eight years, that becomes ...a lot of time.

On any given Friday night (or Tuesday or Thursday), and during that two hours I might actually talk for a few seconds, maybe a minute to most people. But now that I've been around these people awhile, we talk for longer. Four, ten, 15 minutes. I chatted with one trio of moms throughout a 2 inning blow-out last weekend. Particularly brutal - beat by 12 in two innings, game over. Our kids got creamed.

Last night was a different story. We won by a lot and so we have a game again at noon today. I had to get up early to launder the uniform and coach's shirt so my guys are ready. I realized too that I should go get drinks and ice for the kids for the game. And coffee for the base coach and his wife, cuz we're out.

All this got me thinking about the kids...they are all my kids. I've known some of these kids "baseball-wise" for eight years. And since it is a small town, the kids also go to school together, play in the same band, played soccer with each other, are in the same science fairs...the moms and dads are all at the same activities we are, and its been that way for years. We really sort of know everybody. I kind of like that. There is strength in numbers.

As parents, we feel the pressure when our kids get up to bat. We can share in their glory when they hit the ball. It is somehow my fault when they strike out, or drop a fly ball, or get caught spacing out at first. But after all these years, I feel that way for 13 different kids. I think the other parents do too. Watching all this can be very painful as a parent. Or exhilarating. Or both!

We all live and breathe by the kids' glories and defeats. At least for 15 or 20 evenings and 2 to 2-1/2 hours each time, which is a lot of time. For that time, we are united together as a family. A baseball family. One for all and all for one. It's far more painful because we feel for each other's kids strike-outs or errors, but it's even more glorious when any one of them drives some runners home. Win or lose there's lots of love and respect and comraderie and good will going round. It's a pretty cool thing.

The Smells of Summer

This weekend I officially began the war (or at least a major frontal assault) on an evil force that has taken a stronghold in my home. It is one I've been aware of for some time. It has appeared in various forms through the years, and periodically I have taken major offensives toward it. But this time it's no holds barred. I am ready to fight.

I am at war with stink.

Now stink is a word with a lot of definitions, and its usage has become quite diverse. So in the interest of clarity, let's make sure we're clear what this war is about.

"Stink" can be used to describe things we don't like, as in "I can't have a second Dove bar, that stinks." Stink can be used effectively, albeit a bit awkwardly and redundantly, in a sentence like, "They are filthy rich and literally stink with money."

In my case, in my life, the stink I am waging war agaist is the dictionary definition as in "stink (stingk): 1. To emit a strong foul odor."

"Strong" and "foul" are two words that add up to "enemy" in my book. And in the case of my enemy, it is persistent, and fairly aggressive, particularly when it's got hot, humid weather on its side.

So as June 21 marked the start of summer and the longest day of the year came and went, I decided it was time to attack, or at least get serious about this battle I need to wage. The worst part is that I'm fighting this alone. The enemy has allies. And they deny their alliance. They also are prone to taunting and mimic. They wage psychological warfare, telling me "it's all in your head," and "your nose is way too sensitive."

But I know it's not me. There is stink among us. I've tried to hide it. I've covered it up. I've used "Powder Fresh" sprays that smell like old people, and even specially formulated sprays for killing bacteria and odor. But it seems the more I try to cover it up, the more it stinks.

A major warlord for the opposition took up residence in "my space" a year ago. I'm not talking about the internet "my space." This is the real world. MY SPACE, which is a 30 foot long, 15 fooot wide breezeway/sunroom where my laundry room and office reside. (Now any work at home person with a family understands the ingenuity of the office/laundry combo...and you can obviously understand my desire to protect it.)


The enemy moved in over a year ago. I didn't give it much thought. But through the months it has become ever-present and based on epirical evidence, it's not going anywhere.

So this weekend on a 90 degree day when the air conditioner in the breezeway had been off all day, with the enemy lounging comfortably on the floor, I walked in and was nearly knocked back with a direct attack. Unable to even scream because of the air quality, I called an immediate summit.

My demands were clear, and to my surprise, the "evil" alliance agreed to my demands quickly and without complaint.

I've reclaimed my space. The first steps are done. The enemy is lying empty a few yards away and I can't smell it. It's contents -- all six jerseys and six sweater socks and under armor and under garments, all clean and fresh, folded and fluffed on the laundry table. The equipment -- padded shorts, shoulder pads, elbow pads, knee pads, gloves and skates are lying somewhat dejected in a pile. They are prisoners of war, in need of some rehab before I'll release them and call this battle done.



Yes, this weekend I started and won a battle against stink. I'm not naive enough to think the war is over or that we'll always have peace. That equipment will go back in that bag, as will the folded fluffy jerseys and socks. The bag will go to the rink and the kid will wear the contents, and when he's done he will put it all back in the bag to comingle and consort, and the battle will begin again. Yes, I know, this enemy is not going away. It will be back. Soon.



But at least for a few days -- maybe even a few weeks here between camps and practices and seasons, I'm taking back My Space. For a few short days, I'm going to enjoy the smells of summer. A little. I still have to figure out how to get the smell out of my car...

Remembering Dad

Father's Day came and went again this year with that hurtful stab I have felt every year for the last eight years since my dad passed away. Even after all that time, just thinking about my dad, even just writing these words, brings tears to my eyes.

I was one of those lucky kids who had a fairly idylic childhood. My parents were married for 40 years and seemed to get along just fine. We lived in a nice house in a nice town. We kids played sports and were cheerleaders, and Dad never missed a game or event. It was a great time in my life.

As a kid I was definitely a Daddy's Girl. I remember crawling up in his lap to snuggle whenever he played "Ramblin' Rose" by Nat King Cole. That was "our song." I also remember when he brought home a kitten when I was five. It had been born at the factory he managed, and he brought it home under his suit jacket. I remember him bending down in the living room trying to get it to come out of his coat. We squealed and giggled in delight, and we loved that kitten for the next 17 years. I think Scamper finally died about the time I graduated from college. Dad was the one who told me -- long distance on the phone. I think we even cried together over it.

My dad was really good looking. He had jet black hair and soft blue eyes. He was tall and handsome with a deep voice. He was serious in his younger years while he was building his career and raising kids. I remember my friends, particularly boy friends, being afraid of him. I'd always tell them, "He's really nice," and he was, but he could definitely be intimidating.

When I was in junior high and started to date, I gave my dad a lot of heartburn. I remember one boy I met at the community swimming pool one afternoon who was brave enough to come to my house and ring the bell that night. He brought a friend, but when my dad answered the door and asked them gruffly what they wanted, they both ran away. They came back, eventually, but they were not the last boys to be scared of my dad.

In high school I started hanging around with a pretty wild crowd. It was, after all, the 1970s, before Nancy Reagan's "Just Say No," and we were living in Iowa where there wasn't much to do but hang out with friends and party a little. My dad and mom always gave us pretty strict curfews, and since I was younger than most of my friends and was just about the last one to get my driver's license, I often couldn't get home on time. I got grounded a lot, but I usually was able to sweet talk my way out of it when the next "outing" came along. In hindsight, my dad was strict, but soft at the same time.

I remember learning not to talk to my dad when he was balancing the checkbook, but I also learned that if I asked for $10, he'd give me $15. He was generous that way. I always had new outfits for the school dances from the best stores, and we played golf as a family at the country club on Sunday afternoons. Dad didn't like that I flirted with the grounds keepers at the Club. I think he would have preferred if I dated the members, not the lawn crew. But, you know how teenagers can be.

When the time came for me to go away to college, my parent's fairly insisted that I join a sorority. Dad had been a fraternity man at Purdue and all his sisters and sister-in-laws had been in sororities. I obliged and became a Zeta. I have many fond memories of Dad coming to Mizzou for Father's Weekends and going to football games with me. I even remember him playing quarters with my friends and I. By then he had softened a lot, and he liked to tease my friends. I remember one time during my senior year of college when Dad came up to visit during a football weekend. We went out and partied pretty hard at the Deja Vu Disco with my friends. My girlfriends were telling me, "Your dad is really handsome." I remember being a little creeped out by that, but also very proud.

After I graduated from college I moved to Colorado -- 1000 miles away from my parents. I'd see Mom and Dad a couple times a year. We'd visit them in Texas and take houseboat vacations with the whole family at Lake Powell in Utah. When I gave birth to their first grandchild, Mom and Dad were there within a week. Dad always had a warm place in his heart for that first grandson, but he made room for the rest of the grandkids that followed shortly on his heels.

By the time my dad was diagnosed with cancer, he had seven grandkids and he was called both Grandpa by mine and "Daddy Bob" by others. When we'd all gather at the lake it was quite a brood, and I remember Dad working up the energy even when he didn't feel well to play with all the kids.

During the 18 months of his illness I managed to spend a lot of time with him. I'd fly to Texas as often as I could, and we spent a wonderful week together in Taos learning how to paint. My dad and I watched my beloved Broncos win their first superbowl together, and although he was very weak by then, I remember the tear he got in his eye when John Elway won the MVP. A couple weeks later, he passed away, and every day since then I've missed him dearly.

For those who read this who still are blessed enough to have their dads, I hope you know how very lucky you are. I've learned over the last eight years that no one -- not your husband, not your kids, not your mom -- no one can love you like your dad. And on the flip side, there's no one a little girl loves more than her daddy. That relationship can never be replaced.

Moving On

Perhaps the biggest regret I have working as a consultant is it often means saying goodbye to people I like before I'm really ready.

The nature of my work is that I accept projects, work on short-term contracts, and always work with budgets that eventually -- sometimes sooner rather than later -- come to an end. What that means is that oftentimes, just as I start to enjoy working on a particular project or with a particular person, it's time to move along.

The good news is that I am fortunate enough to have a guardian angel that watches over me. I know this is the case because nearly every time I begin the final phase of a project or a relationship -- sometimes even before I know that is the case, something new and thankfully even more exciting, more interesting, or more aligned with my particular skill set comes along.

It happened again last week. A contract looked to be coming to an end, or at least not growing as I'd hoped. Sometimes I can't wait to see clients go away. And sometimes, like this time, it was work I really enjoyed for a client I really like.

But my guardian angel was watching out for me. He/she always seems to come through. Before I even had a chance to worry about what would fill the hole in my schedule next month, or to languish too much in that "nobody loves me" place, I got a call from a new company that needed my help. At the risk of jinxing my good fortune, I really have to marvel at how this works. And the fact is, it always has.

As an adult who lived through adolescence without the "benefit" of medication, I will freely admit that if I were growing up today, I would probably be diagnosed as having ADD. The fact that people come and go in my work life, and that my projects change daily, and that I have a variety of different types of things to work on, are all really good things for me.

Now I will admit that in a way, the uncertainty of my career is a bit unsettling. In fact, the constant change or worry would be enough to drive some people insane -- or at least push them toward a more stable career. But for me, what I do and how it all works is a huge blessing in my life. I know I get bored easily, and sometimes the people I like the best this week annoy the heck out of me next. It's really good that as one door closes, even if not all the way, another --or two or three-- always opens up. I know it's my guardian angel, the answer to my daily prayers, and a true gift from God.

My husband has always said that he worries twice as much about everything because I don't worry at all. It's not true. I have a regular worry schedule that wakes me up often around 3 a.m. But, in my business, even when you do your best, the job ends. That's sort of the goal. And even though the timing isn't always on my schedule and sometimes it hurts or I feel for a moment unwanted or unloved or unappreciated, I know that doing something new and moving on is for the best for someone. And it's not about me.

So once again, for the umpteenth time this year, and the bajillionth time in my career, I'm preparing to move on to new things -- exciting new projects, interesting new clients, and thanks to my guardian angel, some as yet unseen adventures that someday sooner or later I'll be really sad to let go.

Aging Gracefully

We live in a world where a whole lot of attention is focused on how we look. That never bothered me much when I was young. Probably because I looked okay. But now that I'm officially mid 40s, and my friends are mid 40s (and older!), looking good is starting to require work. Lots of work.

It starts as soon as I get to work, which for me is pretty early, so it's an early reminder of my daily aging process. First reminder: I can't read anything without glasses. My eyesight went downhill about the time I turned 40. Sometime between then and now it fell off the hill into a deep, dark well. Now I'm having to face the fact that a more permanent solution might be a good idea. Maybe Lasik. But I hate doctors, I don't do elective surgery like most people seem to do. But I probably have at least a dozen pair of "readers," and I can never find a pair when I need them.

As we get older, our conversations with our friends shift too. We still talk about kids, but now some of my friends have kids who are graduating college or getting married. That is making all of us feel old. And of course if your friends are getting old, your conversations with them change. We talk about the health issues of our parents. We talk about losing weight and working out.

I live in Texas -- where you can't spit without hitting a plastic surgeon, and it seems like my friends are all getting "work" done. Botox. Face Lifts. Eye Lifts. Permanent Make-up. I knew about college funds, but I had no idea I'd get to this age and have to worry about coming up with thousands of dollars for these types of things. At least, that is, if I want to "keep up."

The one I'm most intrigued with now is the permanent make-up. It's pretty interesting. And considering I've never been very good with make-up, it seems like a good idea. I know it's not new, but they weren't doing it in my universe until last month. It's wild. Two of my closest friends have the permanent eyeliner top and bottom. It's really cool. I never thought aboout the fact that it's a tatoo. Who would have thought you'd ever come to a point where you could get your eyelids tatooed at a nail salon in a small town in Texas. I'm amazed.

But I've decided that for now at least I'm going to just try to age naturally and gracefully. My best friend is there with me too. She's very au naturale, and we'll get through this aging thing together.

My uncle, who is probably the coolest person in the world -- a product of the 1960s and my dad's youngest brother, is turning 60 this year. He writes books and reads philosophy and consults with government and industry. He's really, really smart. This week he sent me a one line e-mail. It simply said, "Every step we take is toward perfection."

"Every step I take is toward pefection."

Wow. What a great way to think about life, and for me it fits with all this thinking about aging. I'm going to do what I can to age gracefully. I'm trying to exercise more and eat less. I'm on my way to being perfect, and although it's still going to be a lot of work, being perfect is not going to be based on how I look.

The Value of Air

A good friend of mine from Boulder called last night, and she mentioned at one point in the conversation that Texas had been in the news a lot in a "bad way." "Something to do with really bad air quality and environmental performance," she said.

It was refreshing talking to Carol and having the topic of environmentalism come up in conversation. It's a subject I'm passionate about. But it is easy to ignore it living here in Texas. After all, this is the land that brother oil built.

I live and work out in the country an hour from the city partly because, since moving to Texas, I've developed both allergies and asthma. When you can't breathe, it's a problem. A few years ago I worked at an ad agency three days a week in the heart of Dallas -- trendy uptown, right on McKinney. The cable car went by all day long full of mostly tourists going to the Hard Rock. Anyway, once in a while, we would walk to lunch somewhere more than a few blocks away. On 100 degree days, that usually triggered an afternoon asthma attack.

My doctor told me that going back and forth between the smog-filled air of Dallas and the intense forests and lushness of east Texas was troubling my lungs, which, she said, had become a tighter mesh from living at altitude for more than 15 years. Basically in east Texas you have three seasons, she had said, "Fall, Winter, and Allergy Season." Couple that with Dallas' putrid air quality, and you have a recipe for disaster.

So for the last several years I have mostly avoided Dallas on high pollution days, working from home more. At really bad allergy times, like the last four days for me, I either try to travel out of town (Vegas is always a good escape from blooming things) or stay pretty doped up on over-the-counter allergy meds. This means I'm only able to work in brief spurts of clarity, and I have to surrounder to the couch (on Sunday I did for the entire day).

More than once this week my kids has asked, "Mom, are you going to be okay?" "I'm fine," I tell them in my whispy, nasally voice, even though I do not feel fine. I'm on medication, and I feel like I'm walking around in a fuzzy bubble.

Yesterday I had been walking all over the Fort Worth Club trying to find an elevator that would take me to my car, and just as I found my car my phone rang. "Hello," I had answered. "Are you okay? You're breathing heavy!" My friend said, alarmed. "I'm fine," I had wheezed.

But I'm not fine. A few weeks out of the year I suffer a lot with breathing troubles. It really puts my focus on air quality. What if everyone in the world had the trouble I have, not just a few weeks a year, but all the time? Could it get that bad? Are we heading in that direction?

I have to listen to what my friend said about "bad news on the environmental front" in Texas. Our air quality everywhere is really important, because air doesn't stop at state boundaries. If we're screwing up our air here in Texas, we're screwing up the air in Oklahoma and Arkansas, and New Mexico, and Mexico...we're screwing it up for everyone. It doesn't matter if Coloradans do what they can do if we're going to send our stinky Texas air up toward the Rockies. If I lived in Colorado, I'd be pissed.

On an individual front, we have to do what we can do. This summer I'm not going to drive un-necessarily. My next car will be a hybrid. And I'm going to raise my kids to respect the environment and conserve. I know there's lots more that I can do and I'm going to give this a lot more thought... I hope that you will too.

Balancing Work and Life

I started my own business 11 years ago for one simple reason: I had two toddlers who needed me more than they were getting me because I had a job that had me more than it deserved me. So I quit the job, started my own business, and for the last decade I've practiced the gentle art of attempting to balance my work and my family.

Sure, it's easier when you're your own boss to take an hour or two off to attend an awards ceremony or party during the day at school. And sure, it's easier when you're self-employed to rearrange your schedule in the summer to accommodate the needs of kids who are all of a sudden under foot.

But when you work out of your home like I do, summer comes and work is a little harder to do. Parents who have to leave the house for work -- like most people do -- face their own set of summer challenges. I realize those are probably far worse than my own, but then again, they get to leave home.

At my house the scales pretty quickly shifted to the "life" side of the equation as early as two hours into "summertime." In fact, by 3 p.m. Friday (the kids got out at 1), I had four boys in the pool, which happens to be directly outside my office windows. Because of their ages, I no longer feel the need to supervise swimming, but it's a little hard to ignore the splashing and noise of four teenagers in a pool who are wound up from the last day of school.

Thankfully, as an independent business person I learned a long time ago about the value of technology. Quickly on Friday, with noodle smacking and jumping and splashing going on right outside my windows, I grabbed on to what just might be the best technological advance the independent, work-from-home professional ever had -- it's the gadget that is going to help me survive the summer of 2007: my new ipod.

My ipod was a gift for Mother's Day. It is not a fancy one, but it is the one I wanted -- the hot pink shuffle. I can only remember how to load music on it about every other time, so my play lists are still a little thin. But I really like it. Best of all, I discovered on Friday that when those buds are in my ears I am oblivious to everyone and everything outside of myself. It's me and Celine or Sarah or Barry, sitting at my computer, writing articles about outdoor lighting and pitching media via the internet.

Not only will I not hear the splashing this summer, but I also won't hear the front door and refrigerator door slamming every few minutes, and I won't hear the door bell or the beeping from the arrival of non-stop text messages. I won't hear the roar of the video games or the fights --- or even the laughter.

Yep, productivity is going to go through the roof for me this summer. I'm going to be in the zone! So if you've got some work to do, give me a call. Hopefully you won't mind the slight inconvenience of leaving a message. I no longer can hear the phone ring.

It's all that matters

There have been a few instances in the past week or so that have brought me back to a basic discussion I had in 1986 while working at the College for Financial Planning in Denver as a writer. Back during the "ME Generation" I was having this discussion with an editor, who had taken it upon herself not only to correct my copy, but give me a lesson in grammar to boot.

At the ripe old age of --- let's just say REALLY young, I was annoyed by this woman's insistance that she not only reprimand me for causing her to (in my opinion) do her job and "fix my stuff," but she also felt the need to teach me about dangling participles, split infinitives and run on sentences.

"I never really did learn my grammar real well. It's a creative process for me. I write naturally by putting a comma in where it sounds like you need a pause. 90 percent of the time it works," I had said with a classic "I'm 22 and you can't tell me anything, ya old hag," attitude.

My editor had looked at me with a mixture of amazement and pure hatred. "A world without grammar is a world without order. It's essential to the very foundation of our language. In a sense, it's the only thing that's really important," she had said, before waddling back into her cubicle and her collection of grammar books.

"Whatever," I had replied before retreating to my office to begin work on draft 12 of my current project, which I recall had started to be really annoying.

Flash forward 20 plus years and I find myself in a similar situation. I've written a 600 word article for national distribution, constructed a hypothesis, researched the topic, crafted a nice story that was actually interesting to read, and when my client reviews it his only comment was, "Please upper case the VP's title."

Now the title had been down-cased by the editor at the wire service, so to have the VP ask, via the marketing kid, to change it back cracked me up.

"So I swiveled in my chair and pulled my Associated Press Style Book off the shelf. I don't have to use it often, but it's always comforting to know it's there. I opened the AP Style Book and looked up TITLES.

"Lower case unless it's the Pope or President and it comes before their name." AP had spoken.

So I picked up the phone, called the marketing kid, and told him we couldn't upper case his title.

"It's the rule. It's the way it has to be," I had said.

"Rules are meant to be broken," he had snapped back.

"Grammar is the very foundation of our language, you can't break the rules. In some ways its the only thing that really matters," I heard someone who looks like a more wrinkled version of me say.

"What are you talking about?" my young client had asked with a bit of a snivel and "here she goes again" attitude in his voice.

"I'm talking about rules that you can't break. Grammar. AP Style. It's like the law in my business. You just can't mess with it."

"That's a drag," he had said, before adding, "I always just stick the comma where it sounds like it belongs."

I felt a chill run up my spine. The call ended and suddenly week-kneed I half limped half waddled back to my desk, put my AP Style Book in its revered spot on the crowded shelf, sat down, and said a little prayer for the next generation. Hopefully it will all work out.

Funny Like That

I live in a small town, and I've been here eight years. When I first arrived, I cried every day for six months, deciding it was the biggest mistake I'd ever made. I missed my friends -- people that I'd known for years. A small town is a hard place to meet people. They're funny like that.

But I've grown to love it here. It's a great place to live. The town has grown a lot too. There's a Blockbuster where the flea market used to be, and a Radio Shack and half a dozen new restaurants. We now have Lowes and Chilis. We have a movie theatre, a couple health clubs, several spas, and even a hospital. It's really neat how fast it's grown. This town has become a pretty nice place. I love knowing the people I see each day. In a small town, you can always find people when you want them. It's funny like that.

I love my coffee shop. When I don't stop for a few days there's always lots to catch up on. (And if you stay gone too long, you're sure to be the topic of conversation.) I love my UPS Store. The people who work there are a part of my team. They see my faxes before I do and call to congratulate me when signed agreements arrive. I even get calls when I get checks in the mail. I like that. People in a small town want to know everything about you, and if you tell anything, you better be willing for everyone to know. It's funny like that.

I love that I can do my banking by phone with a live human, and I like that they know me at the cleaners. I'm part of a village raising all our kids, with small town car pools and neighbors to call when I get stuck in traffic or my kid needs a ride. I love that my kids have known their friends since they were small. I like waving at people in their cars and having them wave back. I even like it that I get an e-mail from my pastor checking up on me if I miss church. It's funny like that.

I love my pilates class and my fabulous friends who are just as wonderful or even more so than the friends I cried over when I left Colorado. It's interesting how things change. Now I'd only cry if I had to leave this place. Life is definitely funny like that.

Friends Wanted

The older I get the more time I seem to spend helping my friends with their marketing and PR. I don't mind. My friends have interesting businesses like coffee shops and patio stores. They design houses and are interior decorators and photographers and fitness instructors and realtors. One friend (and most of the people she and I collectively know) sells Mary Kay.

My friends are also do-gooders, and I usually get to help. They host fundraisers and weekend retreats. They run for school board and city council. Inevitably, once new friends find out what I do, they come up with a project for me. The discussion usually goes like this:

"So what do you do exactly?" I usually answer with whatever I did that day. For example today I would say, "I help clients with their communications, write brochures, manage print jobs, help with client presentations, design ads, and talk to the press." "Oh," they say, "I wonder if you could help me with..." and that's how it starts.

I'm not complaining. I like being busy, and I like helping friends build their businesses or do their good deeds. I like helping people do something "professional" when they had no idea that they could. I love making my friends look good, helping them get a little publicity for themselves or their events, get their picture in the local paper, get elected.

And in truth, this work is never done for free. In exchange, I've been paid in dozens of creative ways. I have an enclosed breezeway in my house for helping launch a new business. I have energy efficient solar screens on both the front and back of my house from various efforts managing publicity, and writing stories, and designing stuff. I get free coffee, probably for life. I have friends willing to "pose" as my associates and accompany me on business trips or to meetings where showing up alone could be detrimental.

Today I got a "free" skirt and blouse for just saying I'd help with a presentation. And I'll get paid foundation, mascara and lipstick for ideas and assistance with a special promotion and some PR. The list goes on and on. I've had free months of pilates and "friends discounts" on professional services. It's great to live in a society where this is possible. It's good to have successful friends.

So that leads me to the point of this post. I'm looking for a few new friends. I'd love to have a friend who is a plastic surgeon or aesthestician. I could also use a friend in the dry cleaning business. If you meet these qualifications, let's get together soon! And I look forward to working -- I mean being friends -- with you!

Turn the channel

Believe it or not, I'm in PR and I don't watch the news. Once in a great while, I have a client with a story and we use the news to spread the word. Most days, that's not the case. So I don't watch the news. I turned off my television to the six and ten o'clock news programs eight years ago. It was after a gradual phasing out and flipping away that eventually led me to turn it off for good.

My kids were little when Bill Clinton was president. I didn't need them hearing about Monica Lewinsky and cigars. "Turn the channel." Around the same time Jon Bonet was killed. We lived in Boulder. She had been one of "our" kids. "Turn the channel." Then on April 20, 1999, just a few months after my dad died, the Columbine massacre happened just an hour down the road. That was the end of television news for me. "Turn the channel."

Not watching the news hasn't curtailed my awareness too much. I listen to the radio and I read the headlines on the internet. I watch BBC on PBS, and sometimes the McNeil News Hour. But mostly I stay informed through my mother -- a TV junkie whose television never gets a rest.

My mom's the one who told me about Virginia Tech. It was Monday around 3:15. I had arrived early to get my son from school, I had a few minutes to kill, so I called my personal anchor. "What's going on?" I asked. Without skipping a beat, she told me about the horrific events in Blacksburg. "Turn the channel," I said. Not a chance.

Now I'll admit that Monday night around 8 p.m. I turned on CNN. I needed to be informed. I wanted to know. But the sadness was unbelievable. And in the middle of it all, there was Paula Zahn -- practically jumping up and down in excitement over the big story she was hosting that night. She didn't look sad. She looked downright elated. Perhaps it was her over-done botox that wouldn't let her scowl. Or maybe it was her cleavage that seemed a bit inappropriate for the occasion. Maybe it was just her enthusiasm for what she was doing -- holding court over a team of reporters who themselves didn't seem so spry. Paula's excitement seemed somehow out of place and inappropriate. Once again, I couldn't watch. As much as I wanted to be informed, as much as I felt an obligation to know what was going on in my country, I couldn't watch TV personalities getting so much enjoyment and so much air time out of others' pain.

"Turn the channel."

Sure, when it comes to news impacting my clients, I'm up to speed. But most of them have businesses that are not affected by Dannilynn's paternity, or murders, or other horrible, sensational, really, really bad news. My life isn't affected by those things. Yours probably isn't either.

"Turn the channel."

The importance of planning ahead

Last week a really good guy -- a green builder and environmentally friendly real estate developer in Houston -- ran into a bit of a communication problem.

There was a street demonstration complete with protest signs and television cameras in front of a high profile corner property he owns and is redeveloping in inner Loop Houston. The protest wasn't really about him or his company or the townhomes he plans to build. It was about the development process in general and the fact that some residents of the area feel they don't have enough of a say in the development of property in their neighborhood.

As a result, this good guy developer became the poster boy for "bad" development. My new client, who cleaned up the neighborhood by demolishing a burned out crack house and desolate service station on a blighted corner, was only getting started with construction when the protesters showed up in force to cry foul that the development had been "rushed," insinuating to the television reporters and their giant audiences that this developer had somehow avoided the usual public hearings or city processes.

The truth is that my new client did only one thing wrong. He dotted all his "I"s and crossed all his "T"s when it comes to the building process, but where he erred was in the commmunication process. No, there is not a public hearing requirement for the plat of land he purchased. No, there's nothing to require him to tell anyone -- even his closest neighbors -- that he's going to build townhomes. Yes the zoning was for multi-family housing, and No he was not taking away any green space but planned to actually add a little back.

But none-the-less, his property came under the microscope because of a failure to communicate.

Now I can't take the blame, because I didn't know him BEFORE this problem and only met him after it occurred. But we're communicating now: to city council officials and homeowner's boards, nearby neighbors and the media. Although placed in a position of defensiveness, we're not being defensive. We're communicating our concern about the neighbors' concern, and we're moving forward with a strategy that would have been a good one to put in place before the demolition or redevelopment ever began.

The lesson here: proactive is better than reactive, but when it's time to react, do it quickly and get the help you need. This new client was lucky to have a good friend who has my number and knew I would help -- even on Easter weekend. By Monday morning, we were alerting those that were alerted by the protesters that we were concerned for the protesters' concerns and ready to disclose everything anyone wanted to know about our plans for our property AND help them figure out a better way to tap into the city process.

So far it seems to be working, and this developer now believes in the value of plugging in a little planning and preparation time for the communications surrounding his developments. Before he moves an inch of dirt.

Building a business

For the last several years OutreachPR has had a heavy focus in the construction industry. I've written about great architects and high rise condos. I've promoted custom home developments and helped launch new building products ranging from structural sheathing to steel roofing to decorative fence and deck products.

But perhaps the most satisfying work I've been involved in -- and remain involved in -- is the kind that "makes a difference."

For a long time my clients have furthered energy efficiency and renewable energy initiatives and been part of developing incredible therapies or cures. I've enjoyed promoting solar technologies and green building systems. I have the privilege of working with a professor who helps schools cut down on bullying and a business man who employs widows in Africa whose families might otherwise starve. A new client sells a product that helps cops bust meth labs.

I've worked for companies that make sports equipment for people in wheelchairs, and utilities that turn garbage piles or wind into electricity. That's the kind of work I like to do.

The best part about these companies is that they are run by people who aren't in it solely for the money or the fame. These inspirational people do what they do to improve some aspect of some segment of somebody's life, and they do it without polluting the earth or exploiting foreign nations.

I made the decision a few years ago to be selective about the types of assignments I accept. It's not just the subject matter of the product or service. Other factors come into play.

As an asthmatic, I've been known to avoid work that forces me to drive too often to smog or traffic-choked locations in Dallas, while building long-term client relationships with businesses in New Hampshire, Seattle, L.A. and Denver.

I've also been forced to walk away from great companies with good products and decent people because their corporate polices and uncontrollable accounting log jams made my life financially difficult.

But I also won't turn down the chance to work for free for months or even years on end to help a the right business launch an important initiative or spread the word about a life-saving cure or life-changing set of values.

The result of this business policy of mine is that, although I remain gainfully employed and happily busy most of the time, I'm certainly not building a PR empire.

What I am doing is building my legacy by joining with clients that do the type of things mentioned here -- people who embody and subscribe to the values of helping their fellow man. By working with good people to get good products and services to more people, I'm a part, albeit very small part, of making a whole lot of great things happen in the world.

That feels good.

Spring Fever

Spring is the one season that makes me realize how much I like Texas. It's the only time of year when it isn't blistering hot or incredibly dry and ugly. The grass is an almost neon green, the fields are full of baby cows, and the lake outside my office window is nearly full again and swarming with ducks and pelicans and lots of "bird" activity.

Spring is also that time of year when I really feel the need to start some new projects, find some new clients, and break all those bad habits that I developed over the winter (like eating too much, exercising too little, and stockpiling far too many magazines and journals in my "read later" pile).

But the real mystery of spring is that, despite all this newness and vitality surrounding me and my desire to start anew, I'm still sitting in the middle of files and piles of the "old" stuff that really needs to get done. Finding the motivation to deal with the "same old/same old" is particularly difficult this time of year. There are so many other things to do -- like paint the window boxes in front of the house or fill the borders of my yard with fresh flowering annuals. Who has time for work when it's 70 degrees out and the birds are singing?

The real mark of a professional, I guess, is the ability to ignore all the excitement of spring, ignore the chirping birds and the outdoors that is beckoning me to pick up a tennis racket or garden hoe or paintbrush and instead proofread this 20-page brochure that's been on my desk since Friday (and in the hopper for longer than I care to admit). The true mark of a professional is knowing that, when all the work is done and all the clients are happy, I can go outside and play.

Welcome to my blog

I consider myself old school, so a blog is something that is a bit foreign to me. However, I have lots of opinions, a bit of professional experience to draw upon, and a little time on my hands, so I'll start this exercise and see where it goes.

My field of expertise -- if there is one -- is PR. For those who don't know, that's P for public and R for relations or Public Relations. Most people think about PR and think it means "media relations," and dealing with the media is a big part of PR, but that's not the whole deal. Public Relations means the relations a company or entity or individual has with the various "publics" it works with. That might mean the media, but it also means investors or employees or general community members. You'll hear terms like investor relations, employee relations and community relations. It's all a part of PR.

So that's post number one. If you're reading this because you're looking for someone with experience managing the messages you need to communicate to a variety of different audiences, I can probably help. If you came to this site looking for public speaking assistance or a public defender, I can't help you there, although I'm the type of know-it-all who just might try. Again, welcome to my blog.