Tonight was a good night. My wife had plans with a girlfriend and I was on solo duty with the kids. Our son's been a bit challenging of late, and he's not had a good night's sleep for a few days. So he's been 'in a mood', as it were.

Before coming home my wife sent me a brief reminder to take his lack of sleep into account and roll with the punches. Not engage. Not react. Not play into power struggles.

I kept that in mind, we had a simple little bike ride, ate dinner, they showered and I read to them. They went to bed, each got up shortly after for one reason or another, and then they fell asleep. Along the way there were a few moments in which I could have reacted negatively, or been pulled into some sort of control related conflict. But I stayed mindful, conscious and on task. It was a success.

What I to find most effective for me, in my own endeavors and efforts related to staying conscious, my personal growth, work ethics, parenting, marriage, weight loss, and any other goal or action/reaction related efforts, is that I have to fully own "cause and effect".

What I mean is that I can't put the blame for my actions on anybody but myself. External sources are beyond my control. How I react to them, that is where the success can be found. That is what I can control. And when I do, good things happen.

When The Sheen Wore Off

A coule of months ago, I hit a personal high, pace and outlook that was revolutionary for me. At about that same time, Charlie Sheen was hitting the news for being a complete whack-job. Yet I slightly idolized his perspective, and felt a kinship with the optimistic, aggressively positive outlook he was espousing.

I don't have access to quite the same mood altering resources he has available at his disposal, so I've found it a difficult to consistently maintain that perspective. At my peak, during that short run of euphoric outlook, I had a clear, concise and optimistic view of life. I had a strong and firm grasp on what was important. Family. Love. Self-esteem. Focus. Commitment. Discipline.

Then I slipped.

I don't recall exactly what it was that threw me off track, but I do know that I stop being patient, I stop being optimistic, I stop thinking about all of the good things and opportunities. Instead, fell into old habits, finding frustration with situations I could not rationally expect to control, and resentment over my inability to do so.

What a waste.

But there's no reason I could not easily regain my footing, and position atop that mental hill. In fact, there's every reason I should. I'm already 3/4 there. I lost some mindfulness, some "reality-check" perspective that so easily lifted me to that high of highs.

It's simply a matter of remembering how lucky I am to have all the things I do have, to wake up every day able to do the things I do, living in the place I live and having the opportunities I have. And then remembering that it's a limited time offer so I'd damn well better enjoy it.

I'll Never Turn to the Dark Side

There's something amazing about sitting beside your 7 year old son as he watches "The Empire Strikes Back" for the first time, during the Darth Vader death scene. Especially when your son looks at you with a hopeful gaze and asks if Luke is going to save his dad. The obvious answer being "He already has." It's such a powerful moment of redemption and such an idilic father/son moment. And I got to experience just that this weekend. I believe my son heard my response but my voice might have been cracking and trembling a bit at the time.

I've set my iPhone "lock screen" image to be that of Luke, looking at his mechanical right hand with his light saber gripped in the left. To the average person observing my phone ringing or my unlocking it, I will appear to be just some über geek Star Wars fan. For myself, the image represents something grander. A goal. An objective. A mindset and a way I want to look at everything I do at home, work, and in the world.

It need not be the "Star Wars" image. It could be Oskar Schindler watching the body of the girl in the red dress from Schindler's list, or Timothy Hutton and Donald Sutherland sitting on the back porch of their home in the final scene of Ordinary People. What the image represents to me is the decision point and retaining my conscious desire to be a specific type of person, and live to a specific set of ideals.

When I see this image of Luke looking at his hand, I am reminded that I have an opportunity, if not the incredible gift, of being able to choose my path. I am prone to some level of irritation on a daily basis. I am tested at home, at work, on my commute, in conversation with my wife, in my own internal dialog, to either stay focused on effecting a change for the better, or to going down a knee-jerk reactive path of being defensive or frustrated or annoyed. All by circumstances that my defensiveness, frustration or annoyance will do nothing to improve, and everything to exacerbate.

When I get delayed at a light and miss my train, when I get interrupted at work every time I start trying to recover from the last interruption, or when I find that all three of my hammers at home have been used and misplaced by my son, I can get red-faced, mutter profanity, storm about in a rage,... or I can take it in stride. Because it happens. Daily. To all of us.

Instead of being upset about missing a train I should enjoy the chance I have to take a moment and relax until the next one. Instead of being bothered by being in demand throughout a workday I should recognize that's part of my role. And instead of being bothered by my son's use of and lose of my hammers I should teach him responsibility while being thrilled that he has the interest to build, and more often then not, something he's building out of a desire to impress me and receive my approval.

I don't want to spend time being or teaching negativity. It's everywhere and easily fallen into. But when I step back and look at the path to the Dark Side, it's a far less rewarding and far more difficult path to walk than is the path of being positive, calm, and accepting of the things we have control over.

With the Time Remaining

I turned 50 this month. That's a full half of a century (and it's not easy to find a use for the term "full half", so I have to milk it). Based on statistics, more than half of my life is behind me and less than half lies ahead. What have I done with it and where do I go from here?

I know one thing: I don't have much time left. Even if I have another 50 ahead of me, with hopefully 25 being ones of reasonable health and full control over my mental and biological functions, that's not much time. Not in the big scheme of things. Not when you step back a few generations and look at how minor the blip of our individual lives are when taken on the whole. My span is nothing in the scope of known civilization. The mark I leave feels as insignificant as a tear hitting the pavement during a monsoon.

I never used to dwell on or think about life, death, and the time between the two. I was relatively carefree, confident, and unconcerned with the eventuality of my own demise. Then I got married, and then I had kids, and then I got old. Or perhaps I just got old. Or did I get wise, which I hear comes with age. However it happened, though, I started looking ahead down a road stretching over the horizon with a much stronger awareness of the fact that the pavement will only go so far. And either at a snails pace or out of nowhere, I'll find myself at a dead end. Literally.

One of the things that has started to happen for me and that I am quite grateful about has been an increasing appreciation of life, friends, my family and my circumstances. When I think about history and all of the horrific circumstances and times I could have been born, or when i think about the geographic or political/sociological climates into which I might have been raised, I'm stunned to be able to have the opportunities I have. Including the opportunity to sit and write about something as self-absorbed as turning 50, when so many other situations might have prevented me from even making it past 5.

I have made some significant changes this past year, mentally and physically, that have helped me get into what I think is a "better place" for entering the later half of my years. I have new ideas, priorities, and intentions for the years that lie ahead. And I have more confidence in my potential to turn these into realities, and to shape my life, and the lives of my loved ones, family and friends, in ways that help promote their happiness and success as well.

I just have to turn intent into action. I have to focus, stay conscious, stay thoughtful and stay on track.

I have a challenge before me.

No Time Like The Present - A Return In Full Force

I am, deep down and at heart, a writer. I'm not saying I'm a good one, but I think I'm an adequate one, and I certainly have a yearning to do so. I have so many thoughts to share, so many statements to make, so many observations to... uh... observe.

I was on a tear awhile ago. I was writing like a mad dog, but with better dexterity on the keyboard and less foaming at the mouth. There was foaming, though. Look back. There was foaming.

Then things changed. I wrote some deeply personal things and discovered through both my wife and my friends that on occasion, It felt weird and awkward. I would rant about how difficult a day of juggling workload was to be cautioned by my wife (a former HR rep) that it might not be good to do so. I'd write about some deep personal issues related to parenting or fatherhood only to be approached by a colleague who'd read it, had some thoughts, but wasn't a truly close friend, yet now knew something about my personal life I might not have otherwise shared.

It was a time of change, too. I lost my job. We'll, I didn't lose my job, I mean, I know where it is and everything, it's just if I go there, there's this other guy doing it*. I got laid off. It was a tough time. My focus was not on writing, but on surviving.

I shut down the blog and in it's down state, I methodically removed all references to myself. I didn't want to encounter another co-worker who wanted to debate my political observations as I was standing in line for lunch. Being let go helped avoid that specific issue playing out, but you get the idea.

Life continued. I went off, did my business, established a new career path, and I've since thrived. I've climbed, grown personally and professionally, and gotten in the best shape I've been in since I was in about 25 years old. Oh, and I doubled that number this year, too. I hit 50. Or as the kids today call it, "fitty".

Meanwhile, the thoughts, rants, humor and observations have been building up inside of me like a latex balloon attached to a high pressure fire hose. The time has come to release this backlog and pop that sucker. My parenting has been up and down, my outlook has been up and down, my self esteme has been up and down. Yet my blog and my writing, the cathartic process wherein I worked out and focused on all the things that make or break my success, has just been down.

It's back up. And I'm setting an aggressive goal. I want to try and write once a day for a full year. I was doing that before, it's not unachievable, but it will require a significant effort on my part to do so.

I decided to do this last night and I started thinking this morning about what I needed to do to get the ball rolling. What steps I needed to take to get the right tools, images, formatting, style, and all that other crap that would have otherwise gotten in the way, had I not just decided that none of that mattered over the writing.

So here I go.

No pre-thought, no strategy, no established plan of action, just writing.

Turning 50, Every Day

I was discussing turning 50 with a friend recently, and I mentioned making plans to mark the event and efforts I’d made to reach some personal goals and milestones. Out of the blue he asked the pointed and direct question “Are you having trouble with turning 50?”. It took me off guard. I answered “no” and quickly tossed out a few generalized justifications and disclaimers as to the focus I’ve put on it of late.

The truth is that I am. That bastard. I hate it when somebody calls me on something I’ve not called myself on already. And he nailed it.

It was only after the question was raised that I started thinking it through, and coming to that very conclusion. I am having a hard time turning 50.

I’m putting significant energy into marking the occasion as the milestone it is, a half century, but it does have an impact on me at a deeper level. I honestly think it should, and I think that it’s good that it is, because how I face and approach the years ahead can only be positively influenced by a little introspection, no matter how unwelcome it might feel.

I have been alive for 50 years now. Fifty. And unlike reaching 40, or even 45 with an aggressive degree of optimism, I’ve effectively lived over half my life. I’m over the hump. I’m on the ‘downside’. In all reality, the statical probability that I’ll see 100 is thin. I’ll try, though, for sure. In fact I’ll likely die trying. And that’s where it gets uncomfortable. Acknowledging that there’s less road ahead then that which has been travelled on so far. Consciously realizing that it’s all going to end at some point and knowing that you can’t prevent that.

Looking at photos of my childhood this week, of my youth and of life until now, one thing really keeps coming to mind. “My life”, as far as that which I had significant control in, really kicked in around 20. Before then, I certainly had my family, my friends, numerous experiences and a few traumas, but until I became an independent adult, I was not really in the driver’s seat. When I look back, I see my time until my 20’s as the time I spent “ramping up” for the life I’d live as an adult. The life I’ve lived until now. The past 30 years.

These have been the years during which I took the wheel. Although I can’t make course corrections in hindsight I can see clearly through the rear view mirror. I made some wrong turns, hit road bumps, and had a fender-bender or two along the way. If I’d been given a better map, driven slower, or spent more time planning out my journey, things might have worked out differently, and who knows where I’d be today. But like most young men I was not a fan of stopping and asking for directions, and there was definitely a thrill to speeding and taking sharp corners. And as I’ve aged, perspective, experience and responsibility have helped me become a far more responsible driver.

I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect that the next 30, provided I stay healthy in both body and spirit, can and will be years spent continuing on a journey down a road who’s surface I’ve become familiar with. I know more now than ever before about routes I want to steer clear of, about where I want to be, and the ways I can get there. I also know that there will be a wide range of things to ahead: wonderful and fulfilling adventures and discoveries, as well as painful and challenging things to contend with.

Taking time to consider this reminds me stay conscious of the opportunities I have to embrace all of the joy and happiness available to me. And there is so much. With my wife, my children, and my own and extended family members. My friends who’ve known me for 30+ years as well as those who’ve known me for less than one. People I’ve lost contact with and friends I have daily interactions with.

I’m reminded to stay conscious of the opportunities I have to be a source of positive and good as well. The way I interact with my wife and kids clearly makes all the difference in their lives as well as in my own. The approach I take to colleagues or direct reports in my work day. The time I take to just reach out and acknowledge a friend as such. The way I interact with somebody merging onto the road along side me.

Turning 50 feels like the appropriate point to reflect on what’s important to me so I can stay on course.

Maybe I should start turning 50 every day.

Fathers Day Memories

Last year I found myself camping on Fathers Day. The opportunity for the trip arose as a chance to join my brother-in-law and his family on a camping trip that coincidentally fell on Fathers Day weekend. My wife was unsure as to whether I would be open to the idea or not when she raised it a few months earlier. But I loved the thought of doing so, and in so many ways, having the chance to share with my kids an experience I shared with my own father sounded fitting and fulfilling for that weekend.

Admittedly, it was not a full blown purist camping experience. We stayed at Pinecrest Resort, in cabins of sorts, with reasonable comforts, and a minute or two walk from the true campsites adjacent to us on this large park, where tents, campfires, family members and smores were all within reach. As well as everything from bike rentals to an open air amphitheater where at night they play "Movies under the Stars". And where we went as a family that night to see Toy Story 3, on opening night.

I have fond memories of camping, including going to ranger-hosted camp fires, cooking hot-dogs, singing songs, roasting marshmallows, and wearily returning to our campsite at the end of the night. And although it was s a big leap from attending a ranger lead sing-a-long to watching a Pixar film, the experiencing of sitting with my children, chatting with my daughter and having my son sit in my lap to stay warm, well, it was something that can and should be treasured as one of the rare and precious, as well as fleeting, moments that make up the reflections and memories that will be stored away until I am in a position of reflecting back on all the years gone by and all the moments that mattered. Be it the day they leave home or between my final breaths, those will be the clips that pass in rapid sequence before my eyes.

As did Andy in the movie we watched, by the time I was about 7 or 8 years old myself, I had amassed a large collection of toys, and I had reached a point of having outgrown many of them, or at least believing I should. I did not want to be associated with baby and child toys. In an effort to show my maturity I said I was done with them and did not want them any more. My father suggested we take those I no longer played with to a Salvation Army bin where we could pass them along to younger kids who would still have the interest in them that I had lost. As I gathered them up, reservation and doubt started to swell in my gut, but I pushed it down, and continued to gather the toys including some I was sincerely not ready to part with, including a stuffed blue bear I had for as long as I could remember.

I was a big boy. I was too old for kids toys. Especially a stuffed blue bear.

We drove to a nearby shopping center, where a large blue metal bin stood placed against the cinder block side wall of a department store building. it was a large rectangular container with a mail-box style deposit chute, through which donations could be submitted, but not removed. It was a one way ticket of abandonment for discarded possessions regardless of any emotional meanings attached to them or not.

I spent the drive relatively silent, focused on the bags at my feet and specifically, the blue bear partially visible blue bear therein. I recall having one or two grocery bags filled, the majority of contents were items I was actually quite ready and quite willing to part with. But the blue bear, not so much. However, I had committed to this act verbally and in my actions. I had made dramatic claims to breaking from my infancy. So I had to follow through, even if it meant discarding a treasured object before I was completely ready to do so.

When we arrived, as my father held the bin door open, I hoisted and released the first bag. I was likely pale and trembling as I did the same with the next, and with a heavy heart, watched as the glass eyes of the blue bear stared blankly back at me while sliding into the dark abyss of the donation container. As my father released the handle, the sharp striking sound of the steel door slamming shut send a startled shudder of finality through my body.

As I entered the car I held my head down, focused on my feet, while my father entered from the drivers side. I sat motionless, hating that I had done what I had just done on my own accord, and feeling completely helpless and incapable of doing anything at this point beyond just keeping my composure until we made it home. The deed was done. The bear was gone. My childhood was concluding.

We sat there for what seemed to be forever while I maintained a steady downward gaze and focused on the containment of my tears. And then the patient, empathetic and understanding voice of my father broke the silence with a single sentence that I have never forgotten to this day. "Do you want to get your blue bear back?". With that, I glanced in his direction and I broke down crying. He knew, likely from the outset and during my selection and bagging of my toys, that this one was more significant to me then I was willing to admit in order to maintain a posture of bravado and independence.

Without making me feel bad in any way whatsoever, he placed his hand on my shoulder and assured me that we would get him back. I believed the deed had been done, the die had been cast and the door had figuratively and literally just closed between that bear and I. But I believed my father more. And we did. By his holding the door open, hoisting me up and lowering me through the small chute and into the bin, I was on a reconnaissance mission. Find and retrieve that bear. At any cost. (And as a side note, my entry must have appeared incredibly bizzare to any bypasser who likely assumed my father had grown tired of me and wanted to pass me along to a younger father who would want to play with me more then he did anymore.)

It was hot, dark and quite uncomfortable in the bin, but my bags, and my bear, were within immediate reach. In the dimmest light that streamed in through the narrow slit of the open chute door, I found and clutched the outstretched hand of the stuffed animal I had so regretted discarding, and my father then reached in for my own outstretched hand, lifting me back up and out, and onto the pavement again. HQ? Mission completed. The bear is in hand. Repeat: the bear is in hand.

When we got back into the car, I was filled with a sense of relief, and more so, great love and support from my father. I'd tried so hard to be strong, to be the grown up boy, yet still had an emotional attachment to something from my infancy. And that was acceptable and OK. It was not only OK, it was fought for. Because it mattered to me, it mattered to him. And is that not one of the greatest gift a parent could ever bestow upon a child?

I don't think about that moment or my heartfelt desire to live that example nearly as much as I would like. Watching Toy Story 3 brought it all back to me, so dramatically and intensely that I returned again the following night to watch it once more.

I find myself routinely swept into the raging current of a day's demands, impatient while getting them into the car for school or wanting time to focus on my own interests or projects over their interest in engaging me in theirs. Yet without fail, when I stop and think it through, I realized that in every exchange, I have the opportunity, and the honor, of giving them the same feeling I had in that moment and still carry with me to this day. Recognizing that what matters to them, matters to me. And realizing that in the near future, just as Buzz and Woody found themselves in new surroundings as Andy drove away, my own children will go their own ways as they grow into teenagers, adults, and strike out on their own. The time I have to be an influence is fleeting, and I don't want to miss the chance to help my child build an airplane, paint a ceramic cup or rescue a discarded toy from a donation bin.

My Thin Excuse Is An Honest One

I'm on a mission. Having dropped 32lbs and being aggressively on task to continue towards a personal goal, I'm on task and focused like a laser on accomplishing my goal. I'm thrilled to find clothes not worn in at least 4+ years fitting again. Being able to glance down at the scale and see the numbers below 200, let alone simply being able to see the numbers while glancing down without sucking my gut in... it's invigorating.

I've been trying to return to my fighting weight for years, and losing that fight every time. After reaching an all time high, I saw it as an all time low, and committed to focus for just one week, and one week alone, on an aggressive diet change. I stopped riding the bus from Caltrain to work and walked instead. I stopped eating candy and soda. I stopped eating after 7pm. And I stopped ordering lunch (with the self-imposed "carrot on a string" that I'd do so until I broken the 200lb mark). I opted to eat healthier, and in much smaller portions.

It has worked wonderfully, and in that first week I dropped just enough weight to feel traction in the right direction. I've stayed on course. As they say, nothing succeeds like success, and I've been successful in maintaining a daily consciousness about what I eat and what I want to achieve.

What's not great, however, is learning that some of my wife's friends have raised eyebrows and mutter words of caution to her about what might be motivating me when she's conveyed the fact that I'm losing this girth. Contrary to popular belief, loosing weight after starting a new job does not equate to having an affair and going through a mid-life crisis.

It's funny when I think about the concept of a mid-life crisis. I see that as something that somebody who never had time of their own to grow and experience life might have. If I'd gotten married in my early 20's and gone from being a child to a student to a husband to a parent in my relative youth, I might understand the reasoning behind wanting to abandon the minivan for a sports car, getting hair plugs, and taking extra time to chat up the cute girl working the counter at the coffee shop.

But that's not me, not my history, and not in my character. Fortunately for me, my wife knows that. In addition, in the realm of mid-life crisis, i've pretty much worked that out pre-marriage; I chatted up the coffee girl, travelled extensively, drove a convertible, stayed out late, and pretty much tackled it all before truly settling down.

Except for the hair plugs. Those just aren't in the cards for me.

Meeting an Old Good Friend For The First Time

It's a 3-day weekend. My wife and I agreed to split the day up so that she could have the morning to herself and be kid-free, and I got the same opportunity for my afternoon. I thought I'd dust off the digital SLR and go hike around a nearby open space/estate named Villa Montalvo. I used to go walking there with a camera over 25 years ago and doing so again holds found memories.

But as I walked about, I found myself wanting to be somewhere else, doing something else. I wanted to be writing, and I wanted to be somewhere there were people, somewhere there was "life". I guess I'm getting old, because as much as I love nature and solitude, I'm finding myself wanting to be around and just observing "life" in motion. I'm increasingly intrigued in what each personal story might be, and I want to return to writing my own thought and observations on life, while I still can, and while I still remember them all.

I also found myself missing the family this very time was meant to give me a break from, but that's another story.

My plan was to drive home, grab my laptop (or maybe even the iPad if I could stand the keyboard), get a cup of coffee in downtown Los Gatos and start writing. But the path home, down Saratoga/Sunnyvale road (or as us long-timers call it, Highway 9), lead me past a right hand turn, the last before town, on which resides a street wherein there lives a retired doctor who, through several years, I've built up a friendship with as I've helped him come to terms with the technology of modern day computers.

So on a whim, having the time and inclination, I thought i'd stop by and say hello.

It was in the year 2000 than a co-founder of my startup business contacted me with a simple request. His friend's father, a retired physician living in Monte Sereno (a small stretch of elegant homes located between saratoga and Los Gatos) had a Macintosh, and was having difficulties with it. Could I help? I agreed to, and he gave me the name and phone number of Dr. Roger Goodfriend. As I wrote it down, I remember feeling oddly like I recognized the name, and as I later discovered, I did.

I called and arranged to help him out, and over the course of several initial visits, not only did I work to setup his system in such a way as to ensure the smoothest user experience accessing the Internet and getting online, but I also got to know the man, listen to his stories, and develop a strong respect and appreciation for his character.

I would hear from him every year or two, and i'd stop by for a few hours when I did, to remedy the computer issues and enjoy a visit with somebody I had developed a sort of friendship with. His wife, Sally, would always be the kind and gentle host, insisting on bringing me a drink or food, always pleasantly conveying her appreciation for my help and how they a both enjoyed my visits. When I'd flat out refuse the repeated offer of cash for the work, she'd do something like force a bottle of wine on me, only for me to later find that she'd slipped cash into the bag with the wine. On one occasion I took her up on the invitation to bring my kids by to see the bunnies that inhabited their garden. Although no bunnies were sighted, we observed the rabbit-fur lined openings to their burrows, they enjoyed a walk amongst their garden and the kind gesture of some light sandwiches and juice as they sat in the backyard and dangled their feet in their pool, giggling every once in a while as the automatic pool cleaner came up along the side of the pool and gently sprayed them. To this day, when we drive past that street, they recall that visit and the lady with the bunnies.

Roger clung to dialup for his Internet connection, as his needs were minor, although it was the primary cause for his occasional struggles. He covered his monitor with stickies and post-it-notes as reminders of things we discussed, and would laugh when I would convey to him that the illegible scribble on them, the same cryptic scrawl that only another dr. or a pharmacist would decipher, was clear proof that he was indeed a physician.

But he was no ordinary physician. He was an innovator in his field, and as he related the path and success of his discovery and showed me the numerous newspaper and medical journal articles regarding his achievement, it left me with an even greater appreciation for the man. I've never needed this particular area of medical expertise, but if or when I find myself suffering with a kidney stone and the process to eradicate it involves using ultrasound to break it up, well, I'm going to thank this guy. Back in the early 70's he discovered and pioneered the use of sound waves to break up and thereby remove a calcification (kidney stone) in the urinary tract that would otherwise require (gulp) surgery to remove. He is every mans hero.

As the sporadic visits have occurred over the years, the number of stickies on his screen increased, as did the number of times I would need to repeat the steps and instructions while we would write them down again and again. On one of my last visits Sally gently pointed out the obvious fact that his memory was fading. I remember conveying this to my wife and that both of us felt sad for the situation, recognizing in that moment and that situation how fragile life, and even the memories of a life, can be.

I hesitated to stop today. It's been at least a year, possibly two since I last saw him or Sally, and I've often wondered if and when I might read something in the paper about the passing of local pioneer in the medical field. Even as I drove down the street, I hesitated stopping, and opted at the last moment to not, but instead, to turn around and continue on my way home.

As I sat in my car at the stop sign heading away, the song shuffling on my iphone through the car speakers was all it took for me to realize that I indeed had to stop. The song has long been a personal favorite, a story of a old soldier taking time in a small bar to reach out to another old solider. They engage in a conversation that captures the same things I feel about the exchanges I have had with this man over the years: that the pace of life does not always honor or respect the value of human connection. So as I recognized the song, I turned the car around, parked and started towards the driveway. Just as the garage door began to roll upwards and a man I did not know began walking out.

This gentleman greeted me and I asked if Roger was home. "Yes," he replied, putting to rest the lingering subconscious fear that he'd have passed away and I'd have been too late. "....but he has Alzheimer's" he continued, confirming for me that other lingering fear, and taking away the wind that had only a moment before billowed my sail.

I gave my name, he walked in, and a moment later Sally emerged, a warm and inviting smile of recognition on her face, beckoning me to the house. As I approached she said that Roger had just returned home a few minutes prior and quietly repeated the news of the condition he was in.

I entered the house and was met by a friend of his that had been with him that day, and has been a friend for decades. Roger was seated in a chair, and when Sally introduced me to him and asked if he remembered me, he said "of course I do", which lifted my spirits as I shook his hand and sat with the three of them in the family room. True to form, I was offered a choice of numerous beverages which I in turn, true to form, declined. As I talked to this kind man that I had established a friendship with over the years, it was evident that his recollection of me was indeed minimal and limited at best. He asked my name, who I was, and politely listened to my replies and the conversation between myself, Sally and his friend. As I left, I spoke privately with Sally about his condition, gave her a hug and told here to contact me if there is ever anything I can do to help.

As I sit here in downtown Los Gatos, drinking coffee at a seat by the window while surrounded by "life", I realize that, when it comes to my old good friend, I was indeed too late. Yet at the same time, having the opportunity to say hello and chat awhile, even as a stranger being met for the first time, was a rewarding moment.

Once back in the car, I had stared that song again, got my iPad and drove here, immersed in the bittersweet feelings that come with recognizing the delicate nature of our own existence and the opportunities we all have, without fully knowing the details of the limitations and timelines they come bundled with.

"Well it's time I moved off, but it's been great just listening to you.
And I might even see you next time I'm passing through.
You're right, there's so much going on. No one seems to want to know.
So keep well, keep well old friend, and have another drink on me.
Just ignore all the others... you've got your memories.
You've got your memories."
- Bernie Taupin

Sleeping with the Fishes

Earlier this evening, after first arriving home and realizing that the clock on the oven had not been reset following the power outage of the day before, I set it, using the time on linda's iPhone, to 6:34.

Then I discarded the bodies of the two goldfish that were found dead in their tank due to the same power outage and the fact that the return of power failed somehow to restarted the filter on their tank. A tank already badly in need of cleaning and now far more so, what with the two dead fish and all.

A short while ago, while in a relatively deep sleep, the light in our bedroom was turned on by my wife, who was awoken by the sound of the timer in the kitchen going off, and that the doors I had earlier assured her I had locked were instead, unlocked.

After arriving home, setting the clock and reading to the kids, I asked Tommy what time it was. From the kitchen he read off "5-something-something" and I challenged him that was not possible, checking instead the nearby TiVo to learn it was 7:26.

Now, at 1.30am, I understand what happened. I didn't set the oven clock.... I started the timer to count down and go off after 6 hours and 34 minutes.

(The doors, well I thought they were locked but I don't fret that stuff. I was wise enough though to not blame the mystery on the spirits of the two dead fish.)

The View From Here Is Spectacular

I imagine that everybody, at one time or another, encounters difficulties or challenges in life. I've had my ups and downs throughout my life, but on a global scale, I don't really know what real adversity is. People working diamond mines in Africa or struggling through droughts and famine.... they know fear and pain I have never even come close to. So when life throws something unexpected at me, such as an issue I've been facing recently that a few friend know the details of, perspective is a good thing. That, and the pride of making a choice. In situations such as one I'm in right now, some people might throw their arms up in defeat, resolve to bear grudges or even retaliate in negative ways, and some people embrace the opportunity to step up to the plate, accept a challenge, put their best foot forward and take the high road. That's what I'm doing. And even though I may not know what awaits me on the other side, it feels good to have chosen this path.

Electoral Dysfunction

Do you understand how the Electoral College system works? I never understood it myself, and recently started researching it. Now that I've taken the time to do so, in depth, and attempted to put it into perspective how it was intended to function, and how it works in today's political process, I'm all the more befuddled. Does anybody understand this, and if so, can they explain A: How it's supposed to be fair and just, and B: How it bears any relevance in our modern world? Because it's idiotic, as I see it, and the poorly translated instructions for the assembly of a multi-part christmas present for a child are easier to understand then this bassakwards system.

Ultimately, as we've seen a few times in history, the 'popular' vote does not win the election. So even if 60% of the country says we want Candidate A, Candidate B can still 'win'. WTF? There have been numerous efforts to reform this process and make it based on the popular vote. Every attempt fails to pass Senate or Congressional approval.

The purpose as I understand it is, in the simplest of forms, intended to ensure that every state has a balanced vote amongst the other states. That would make sense in a situation where, for example, a vote was related to something that effects states on the whole, as an independent entity in a collection of states. Let's say that the government wanted to mandate that every state had to contribute a 5% sales tax towards the repair of the New Jersey Turnpike. That would be something rolled up to the 'state' level, so that the population of New York and New Jersey combined would not override the individual votes of the far less populated Wyoming and Iowa.

But somehow, way back when, it became important that voting for the leadership of the country was somehow to be 'balanced' by each state, which makes absolutely no sense to me whatsoever. Because leading the country means representing the country and the occupants on the whole, not by state.

This stuff was drafted and put into place 200 years ago, in the early 1800's, And it's still firmly in place, although it's relevance or purpose seems completely out dated. Let's stop and think about what's still in place and has not evolved along with the rest of things.... There's more than the original 13 colonies being represented. Slavery is long gone and those who regret that are pretty much gone or on their last leg. Women are voting and working along side men. I've got indoor plumbing and don't need a chamber pot or a detached wooden shack outside the house as a toilet. We've advanced medical practices well beyond the dark ages. We're driving cars these days not riding horses. We have instant, mass, national and global communication at our hands, not the pony express or hand-carried notes sent overseas on slow moving clipper ships. We're no longer burning witches at the stake, Hell, even religion has evolved more in the last 200 years then our election system, and that's a pretty bold statement coming from me.

So when will our political process catch up?

Pulling Strings In Order To Win By A Nose

I should know better than to plant myself in front of the TV and watch yet another effort on the part of the political candidates to catch, wrestle, twist and bend truths simply to sway voters in their directions. And last night's (yawn) stirring and rousing second debate was filled with snide pokes and prods at each other's integrity and honesty with one hand, while the other rested behind their back, fingers tightly crossed, as they made references to numbers, historical actions or plans on their part or that of their opponents. Once again I would recommend readers visit the non-partisan factcheck.org, or google "presidential debate fact check" and read at least three takes and reviews of the facts, one for each party and one you believe to be neutral, such as this summary from the associated press. The bottom line here is that statements are clearly being made that merit follow up evaluation and analysis. Not everything being said is completely accurate and some things are outright lies and intentional mis-characterizations.

Don't you just love our political process and system? Isn't it just great how one can't accept statements being presented as fact, and instead, must dig into them in order to find out who's the biggest liar or lacking the ethics that, uh, should kinda be a part of the office itself?

An Age Old Driving Observation

This morning, while dropping off the kids on the way to work, I watched a elderly lady slowly drive her car into, onto, and over the curb and down the wide walkway of the church next to my kids preschool. It was both comical and scary all at the same time. I stopped long enough to see that she'd realized her mistake and started working her way out, but it does raise that age old (pun intended) question about what it takes to get a license to drive, and if/when the tests need to be a bit harder and focused not only on vision and road rules, but also on alertness and attention span.

But then again, if they start testing for attention span, I'm screwed.

Lies And The Lying Liars

To start this out, I want to direct you to my good friend Jess' weblog, where he posted an email exchange with a family member and pretty much nailed down many of my own thoughts and observations about Palin. I could not have said it better. Slower, perhaps. But not better. And off he seems to be, with a few other political posts as he takes his place in the election-race starting blocks, awaiting the starting gun (and the confirmation that it wasn't aimed at Obama from a passing pickup truck) and racing towards a hopefully safe and sane outcome.

Meanwhile, I've been perusing web resources for election related information that's not partisan and actually tells the straight story. Something balanced, neutral and objective. Something that'll give me facts, not conjecture, and allow me to make an educated instead of an emotional decision. Scanning through Fox, CNN, NPR, MSNBC and other sources is completely futile. Anybody that actually believes that the major networks and publications, both conservative and liberal, don't have a bias and provide honest, neutral stories without an agenda needs to think again. Really hard.

There is a website that I am pretty comfortable recommending as a very neutral site. FactCheck.org. I've dug around for some time and looked for any ties or indications that they're other than neutral. Beyond the occasional irate blogger's nit-picky disagreement, I find no reason to think otherwise. These guys tear down both sides, and point out the fallacies, lies and manipulations of both parties.

And it's stunning, absolutely stunning, to step outside the 'receptor' role of seeing a political ad, speech or statement, and instead, peel back the layers of the onion and see just how manipulative both parties can and are being in their efforts to sway votes.

It's also sad, really, when you realize that the political process and who ends up in office is all about who 'sells themselves' while discrediting the other, and less about people making well informed, intelligent decisions based on more than just what they heard in a 15 second slam campaign TV spot, blindly following their supposed 'party affiliation', or apathetically doing what their local church or news organization spoon feeds them as the right choice.

When you look at things in that context, regardless of how McCain/Palin seems like such a wrong, weak and damaging choice to make in my opinion, I can't say I'm not scared that they actually have a chance as succeeding. When you look a the map on Jess's post, there's an awful lot of red. It seems inconceivable, but then so does Bush having served 2 terms. I find this all terribly discouraging. Putting a slight spin on a Woody Allen line from Hannah and Her Sisters, "If our founding fathers were alive today and saw our political system they could not stop throwing up."

I'm The Poster Boy For Holiday Misgivings

Mentioning "Wings of Desire" in a prior post reminded me of a funny story. The movie has been a personal favorite from the day I first saw it during it's initial theatrical release. It was an "art house" film that was playing at the Camera Cinema's in downtown San Jose. I was so impressed with it, when i first saw it, that I subsequently gathered my mom, brother, niece, and several family friends and took them all, collectively, to see it the following week. I was and remain very inspired by the life-affirming message it has. In hindsight, I don't quite know how deeply it moved those I took for that showing, because it is not a typical film and had some chaotic elements to it as well. But I did so, as sharing it was really important to me at the time.

Later that same year, during the Christmas season, while I had my good friend Matt living as a roommate in a rental house in Los Gatos, I was scrambling to wrap a present and went searching the house for wrapping paper. I found a roll, got ready to wrap one of the gifts, and was disappointed to find that there was just enough paper on the tube to wrap around it once and once only. Even more bizarre was the discovery that instead of leaving it loose, or putting a rubber band around to hold the remanent in place, my roommate had used a piece of tape to hold it in place. That just seemed crazy to me, as it made getting the paper off the tube all the more difficult. Yet there was enough paper to just wrap the gift, so i completed the task at hand and went about my business.

A few days later was Christmas and we exchanged a couple of token gifts, likely a Gary Larson daily calendar in both directions, which was pretty much a standard routine, and a CD or who knows what. Then he started to relay that he had another gift for me but for the life of him, he could not find it. He'd searched high and low but to no avail. He didn't know where it was but somewhere in the house was the movie poster for "Wings of Desire".

I was thrilled at the prospect of the poster, as it was something I really wanted to have, but equally disappointed to hear of it's disappearance. As he continued to explain what little he could about it's sudden absence, he said "I had it all wrapped in a tube and everything". And right then the little bulb above my head got a sudden jolt of electricity. My eyes widened, jaw dropped, and instead of saying a word, I raise a single index finger as to say "hold that thought" while I ran out to the garbage cans on the outside of the house, which had not yet gone out for their weekly pickup the following day.

After I'd used that last remanent of wrapping paper on the roll I found, the one that was just long enough to cover the tube itself, the one that was taped into place, I folded the tube in half and stuck it into the trash. Because, you know, it was just an empty tube. Or was it?

I found and removed the folded cardboard tube from deep inside the trash can, took it into the house, unfolded it, and gently removed the creased "Wings of Desire" poster from within. I'd mistaken a wrapped gift, one in a tube, to be the final bit of available wrapping paper in the house. Fortunately for me the damage to the poster was not too extensive, and once it was put into a frame the crinkles were barely detectable without looking for them. I still have it, framed and stored in the attic at the current moment. I am now thinking of bringing it to work to serve as a daily reminder of the message within of the film. I came across the image of the poster the other day while drafting the aforementioned post, and it's hard to ever see an image of it without remembering how close I came to never getting the gift I would have unknowingly thrown away.

It's Quiet. It's Too Quiet...

We just wrapped up our portion of a massive project. I'm exhausted. I've been on edge and on guard 24x7 for the last month or two. I've had to be in 'attack mode' for much of it, trying to anticipate every little possible issue, circumventing it, yet never seeing the ones that'd come up instead. So now the scrambling chaos turns to sudden silence. I spent yesterday waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it never did. Now I'm standing on the sidelines, having the opportunity for the much needed break from the chaos. But there's a part of me that's feeling out of place, suddenly, and a bit off balance. I spent so much time leaning forward that I don't remember how to stand still. And I suddenly understand, in the most abstract and trivial way, of course, how war veterans struggle with returning home to the 'normal pace' of daily life, away from the front lines, where they'd become accustomed to the adrenaline.

Who Cares What I Think?

"When the child was a child,
It was the time for these questions:
Why am I me, and why not you?
Why am I here, and why not there?
When did time begin, and where does space end?"


So begins one of my favorite films of all time: "Wings of Desire". The poem, like the majority of the film, is spoken in German, but the subtitles lay out a thread of thoughts regarding the innocence and questions of childhood in comparison with those of an adult. It also serves to illustrate the joy that can and should be found in the simplest daily things, such as the unique tastes of food, the warmth of a cup of coffee held on a cold winter's morning, or the recognition one finds when looking into the eyes of a loved one.

I posted an entry a short while back that related my having thoughts about this site, it's purpose and it's content. One of the two thoughts, apologizing for unintentional offense, was discussed in that post. The other was tabled at the moment, but I'm now getting back around to it, and it's good that I did delay, as recent events have given this second topic greater meaning and purpose.

In looking at what I do here and why I do it, combined with some comments and observations from family and friends, I've had to look back at some of my posts, trends, recurring themes and general tone. in some ways, it's embarrassing, while in other ways, I'm quite proud of what I've amassed in what is really a short time.

When I step back and review this site, the praise, criticism, and impacts, I have to ask if there's a return on investment to be found here. What do I want from this in the first place?

And frankly, who cares what I think?

I wanted to be a writer in one of my "nine lives". You might not understand the "nine lives" reference, so allow me to explain. It's a game my wife came up with that is intended to be a conversation starter, and to give party goers and new acquaintances an opportunity to become a bit more familiar with each other. The premise is simple; if you could do anything with your life, and you had nine lives to live, what would you do or be? The answers can range from being an actress, a teacher, an astronaut, a musician, or anything else..... and for me one of mine would be a writer. Hell, I even used to fantasize that I'd really do it. My first book already had it's title, "Is It Me?", which would be my own rambling observations on the multitude of oddities and abstract aspects of our lives and society. "Things that make you go hmmmm", but without Arsino.

Obviously, that never got written, but some of if not most of it has gradually found (or is finding) it's way onto this website. Interspersed of course with odd tales, random thoughts and updates on my life and times.

As to why: this is my one chance and my one opportunity to leave something behind. Some day, hopefully at least not until my kids have grown to adulthood and started out on lives of their own, I'll take my last breath, and when I do, I want there to be something around that captures who I was, what I thought, why I thought it and what mattered to me. I want it to be something that my children, friends, and extended family have.

I have nothing to help me understand or learn about my own father. I suspect my mother's kept a diary and a journal of some sort, and has likely written down many of her thoughts, feelings, joys and disappointments, for myself and my brother and family to have and read long after her time here is over.

In my own way I'm doing the same sort of thing, but on a billboard.

These efforts goes out to the world, so in many ways and on several occasions, I've hit the publish button with a moderate degree of reticence, simply because some of the things I put out there are pretty personal. Things that I do want to leave behind, do want to reflect on, and do want to declare for posterity. But this website will not only be read by the few close friends I have and my immediate family. It might be read by any number of people. Keep in mind that I don't have very many close and intimate relationships wherein I'd openly declare that the deaths of innocent children in a school shooting brought me to a point of sobbing, that I have such a strong position against religion, or that I wrestle with being so in awe of the joy of having kids at one moment while I might easily hit the rewind button at another. I disclose a good deal here, openly, and i've received both compliments and admonishment.

I've had to walk a fine line and use judgement about what I write here. Yes, skimming through, one can find numerous occurances of my complaining about this, that, or everything all at once. But conversely, one can find me talking about the love I have for my wife and kids, about the joys of some of the work I do, and frequently about the treasure and wonder that is the life we each have, and how precious and valuable it is to recognize. And of course a fart joke here and there to lighten up the mood.

My wife's stepfather passed away from cancer shortly after our wedding. He was, by all accounts, a wonderful man, and from the brief interactions we had, I completely agree. I've often felt cheated that I did not get to know him better, and I also have looked back on the time leading up to his final days and I've felt like a complete chicken-shit for not having made more efforts to get to know him better while I could. Yet one thing really puzzled me; I could not understand why, when he knew that he was dying, he was not making every effort to journal or chronicle his life and thoughts. Perhaps that's not something most people think about, but I sure do, and I would expect most people would given the opportunity to see what a difference it would make for those left behind.

So when I ask myself who might care what I think, well, I do. Obviously. Enough so that I want to at least make an concerted and continued effort to capture the larger thoughts, along with more reflections back on my own life, so when I'm not there to tell the story, it'll be here to tell itself. And when I'm not around to reflect on the love I have for family and friends, or to share an insight I had about priorities with a co-worker who's letting the little frustrations get to them, it'll be here and perhaps will touch them, or an unsuspecting by passer, and it'll do them some good. And for my children, to know that someday, when they're adults, they'll have an opportunity to have a deeper glimpse into the man that is their father, means a good deal to me now and will hopefully mean as much if not more to them down the line.

I know I might attack faiths that are held dear by many, I might go on a rant about social or political situation that is completely against the grain for a reader, or that my sense of humor might be a bit farther off kilter then one might appreciate without calling it sick. I know that a co-worker might stumble across this some day and it could change the way they look at me, not necessarily in a positive way. I have to admit that the idea has occurred to me that a prospective employer, for example, might be offended by something they find here while casually looking at my website after realizing I have my own domain, and it could be such that they'd formulate an adverse opinion of me. All these things have crossed my mind, especially when I post something that I might not freely mention in a casual conversation.

But I feel compelled to do so, and will continue to do so, with the intent of asking the questions that continue to come to mind, answering those I discover along the way, and describing the view from here as best as I can. And yes, I'll likely slip in an occasional toilet joke, too.

Brown Nosing

Early this morning, after stopping in the cafe and filling my large commuter coffee cup with an ample supply of coffee, a co-coworker stopped me between buildings, and commented that they'd been thinking that I had some bad skin condition, but they'd figured out what it was.

"OK" I replied as as continued to enjoy my fresh cup 'o joe.

They proceeded to explain that they had noticed a brown path on my nose a week or two back, and they had been wondering if there was something medical behind it, but over the course of the past two weeks they had observed it's presence, absence, presence again, and finally, it's origin.

They sit in daily morning meetings with me and noticed that, after drinking from the cup, the brown spot would appear. Sometimes I'd be conscious of it and wipe it away, and other times I'd be oblivious and walk through the rest of my day with a small coffee marking discoloring the tip of my nose.

Sadly, I'd been made aware of this awhile back by another co-worker that simply pointed it out the moment it occured. I have tried to adopt a habit of sipping differently but this particular coffee cup has a flip-back seal that retains just enough coffee splash and it's position when drinking is to rest directly on the tip of my nose. Leaving the coffee residue behind. Resulting in the opportunity for others to refer to me as a brown noser with valid reason to do so.

Time for a new commuter mug.

Waffling

We have frozen waffles in the freezer. Whole grain ones, but still, 'processed'. It's pretty much what I resort to when the kids breakfast menu needs to deviate from the standard daily grind of cereal, or what they like to call 'Grown Up Toast', which is just a huge frickin' piece of sliced sourdough coated with almond butter or jelly.

When I got up this morning I did so in the mood to 'make' waffles. Not just pull them out of a box and toss 'em into the toaster, but to break out the waffle iron and pancake mix. I wanted a few moments of 'control' over something in the daily routine, and I wanted to mentally pause and have the calming 'retro' experience of mixing up some batter, pouring it onto the hot iron, smelling the cooking dough and waiting for the steam to subside, indicating that they were ready to eat.

This ties into my own experiences as a kid. I have strong sentimental memories of waffles occasionally being made in our home. It was not a routine thing, making it special, and to this day there's something about the smell of a warm waffle, melted butter and a paint-bucket sized container of maple syrup that just screams 'childhood'.

Of course, the presence of blueberries in the fridge added to the event, so with the help of the kids, the batter was mixed up, blueberries folded in, and the 'waffling' ensued. It took just a moderate amount of time over the frozen approach but the therapeutic benefits were worth doing so. It made me feel a tad calmer, which is something I've been trying to integrate into my daily life. I'm trying to walk slower, take on less, and just not let things seem so serious all the time.

Making blueberry waffles by hand falls into that theme quite nicely.

Healthcareless

I've been trying to schedule an MRI all week without success. And I don't mean that I have been trying to get the actual MRI this week, just to get it scheduled. Why is another story, but right now, I need to vent. I went to Stanford for an initial appointment and they said I'd have to get an urgent MRI done. I wanted to get it done at a nearby location instead of going all the way back up to Stanford. I thought it'd make it easier, and expedite things. What a joke on me that has turned out to be.

To start things off, Stanford tells me I have to call the local facility and schedule it, and that they'll get insurance authorization. I do. The local facility says no, they don't do the authorization, Stanford does. So I call Stanford back and they say they'll do it but they need all this detail about the local facility. Phone nbrs, contacts, address, stuff like that. So I call the local facility, get all that info, call Stanford and leave the details on a voicemail. I do the same the next day. I hear nothing. So a couple of days later I call and they say they didn't get all the info, even though I left it all. So I give it to them yet again. They in turn fax the paperwork to the local facility. I then have to contact the local facility to schedule an appointment. Of course during all this, I have a real job, things to do at home, and only a set of hours in a day that I can also get this scheduled. So a couple days later I finally do call the local facility. The person there first says they can't find my paperwork. Had I not pressed they'd have stopped there. THEN they tell me it's not authorized and needs authorization. Wasn't that the whole point of this exercise in the first place? So I then call Stanford, and they tell me that they did contact insurance, authorization is not required because that facility is within their coverage, and there should be no issue. The person at the facility should know that.

Oh, BTW, remember that this whole thing has been an "URGENT" request for an MRI.

Why the HELL am I supposed to be the middle man here? Wouldn't a great deal more have been accomplished by Stanford talking directly to the local facility? Ultimately that's what they did do, conveying the fact that no approval is required, but the dolt I talked to was as clueless about the approval as they were about finding my paperwork.

I ended up throwing my arms up in disgust and discouragement. I hate this crap. I need to walk away from this for awhile. This is arcane and idiotic. What's the point of trying? Why should it take this much intervention and pursuit to schedule a frickin' "URGENT" MRI to begin with?

Where's the "care" in "healthcare", anyway?

Running On Empty

My wife and I have an ongoing "joke" about the fact that every time she drives my car, it's on empty. It's not true. In fact, every time I put in gas, with only the rarest of exceptions, I fill it up. Then I drive it until the warning light turns on and do it again. So it's either pure random coincidence that the majority of time she drives it falls at a point where it's getting to the bottom of the tank. In any event, it's with great trepidation that I give her the keys, on both of our parts.

The important word in this post's title is not "empty", it's "running". Because that is what I seem to be doing every time I get in my car. I'm running. Running late. Running to work with only a moment to spare, if even that. Running directly home because I've yet again been side tracked by a late meeting or hallway inquiry that prevents me from making it home at the 'usual' time. In fact, every time I ever do stop for gas, I do so when I'm already late for wherever I was heading.

I'm tired of running. I'm tired of having to work every morning, aggressively throughout the day and into the evening again at home. I'm tired of not sleeping, which only makes me all the more exhausted and irritable. I'm tired of demands on my time that are violently colliding with each other. I've even been recently challenged by my management about the work on my plate and the focus I put into completing it. If only they knew how full my plate really is.

I'd like to be everything to everybody. I'd like to be the friend that helps fix computers, gets iPod deals, shares movies, or just replies to personal emails in a timely fashion. I'd like to be the father that does not get irritated when my kids wake up and come into our room for the 3rd time in the middle of the night and interrupt the limited sleep I do get. I'd like to be able to have taken a summer vacation and spend time relaxing with my family instead of having to battle with work about my rights and need for a break or to have to face the disappointment at home when vacation has been denied. I'd like to be the husband that takes time to curl up with my wife to watch a romantic movie or just stare lovingly into her eyes without feeling a panic about the fact that the rushing waters are moving me further down the river from the rapids I'm trying to swim over. I'd like to find time to follow up on medical appointments that are becoming essential for my heath and well being. I'd like to feel that everybody isn't standing around, tapping their foot, glancing repeatedly at their watch and wondering what I'm doing instead of being where they expect me and doing what they expected, and I'd like to have the patience and fortitude to start saying 'no' to requests or needs without feeling bad because, ultimately, if I just try harder, I could probably say 'yes'.

I'd also like to understand how other's appear to easily manage while I continually struggle.

Oh, and I'd like world peace.

Summer Break

I watched and listened to the kids in the back yard Sunday morning. And they were playing quite harmoniously. It's not typically the case and it was a very welcome change. I thought to myself that, perhaps, they were maturing a bit and getting beyong the usual fighting and control struggles that come from being strong willed. I also briefly thought to myself that as nice as it was, someday there will be some situation where a scream is followed by one of the two if them running in to say that the other was hurt, and then there'd be some bloody face or twisted limb awaiting me.

I just didn't think today would be that day. I thought wrong.

I was just out of view of them from within the house when I heard my daughter start to scream. And it was one of those screams that signify real injury. As a parent, you learn the difference between a cry due to not getting something they want, struggling over possession of a toy or being honestly hurt. And this was an 'honestly hurt' scream. I came to find her lying face down on the pavement next to a kid-size picnic bench. I approached, fearful that a tooth of two would be dangling from her bleeding gums. She was intact and not cut, but she was still struggling to get up while crying hysterically that her brother had hurt her arm.

It turns out that as they were playing and she was atop the table holding the stringy branches of a Magnolia tree as vines and pretending to be a monkey, he thought it would be fun to pick up the large inflatable "sit and bounce on" handled ball and swing it about. He accidentally knocked her to the pavement. He knew immediately that he had hurt her and was immediately apologetic. But I needed to focus on her, so I told him to go inside.

I held her on my lap and got her to stop sobbing so heavily and tell me what had happened and what was hurting. It was her arm that hurt, and although she was able to move her fingers it was evident that there was something wrong because touching or slightly moving it, however so gently, caused her to cry out in pain.

I took her to the emergency room and she was a real trooper, but quite overwhelmed and pensive. After a few x-rays including one that caused her to wince and tear up in pain, they informed us there was a fracture on the inside of the elbow, and it'd need a cast. They put a temporary splint on, and the following day, she was sporting a pink cast from her wrist to above her elbow. She'll be wearing it for the next 4 weeks. Fortunately, it's waterproof, so the upcoming plans for a water slide at her 5th birthday party are not completely ruined.

As for the boy... well, he was incredibly sad and sorry about the whole thing. He's been caring and sympathetic and saying he's sorry repeatedly. There's no doubt that he's learned a valuable lesson here. So hopefully I can check this off the 'parent experience' list and move on.

When you see me next and notice the grey in the beard, factor this into the overall cause.

You've Gotta Keep On Your Toes

I did some spray painting last Sunday, cleaned up afterwards, and continued on my merry way. Today, 3 days later, expecting the temperatures to be in the 80's, I wore shorts and sandals to work. It's Apple. No big whoop. Except that, while sitting in an executive review just now, surrounded by lots of upper management, I glanced down to see a clearly painted toe-nail protruding beneath me. My own. Flaked, but painted nonetheless.

I'm just glad the color I painted that door was white and not red.

Passing Thoughts : Bad Idea #265

A co-worker forwarded a funny commercial and it lead me down a dangerous path. Lesson learned: NEVER watch funny commercials on a laptop while drinking coffee. Especially when the funny ending comes up.