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!
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Thursday, September 6, 2007
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!
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!
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, June 25, 2007
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...
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...
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