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Dad & Big Brother

My husband knocks on the car window and our son turns as he’s walking toward the school. My husband waves, my son waves back, then turns toward the school again. He takes a couple steps and my husband knocks on the car window again. Our son stops, turns to look at his dad waving again and shakes his head. Then a smile spreads across his face and he wriggles his fingers at him and turns back toward the school.

“What was that for?” I ask. If our son was six, and on his way into elementary school, it would have been cute, but he’s fourteen and in middle school.

“I’m building up his immunity,” he says.

“To what?” My brows pinch together in puzzlement.

“Being embarrassed so easily. If I embarrass him enough then he won’t take it so seriously when other embarrassing things happen in his life,” he reasoned.

I’m not sure how sound his theory is, but I do know that I love him for it. I love how he knows when to be dad to our son - an only child - and when to be big brother, and that he does it so well. He’s an amazing dad in so many ways, but I think his ability to play both roles and understand the importance of both in our son’s life is really ingenious. I also think it’s remarkable that our son learned so quickly to tell the difference between the two roles and responds appropriately.

Those of us who have had older brothers or sisters remember well the lessons we learned from them. They toughened us up, taught us to not cry so easily, showed us how stupid we look when we threw tantrums, modeled how to talk trash and banter in way that is funny, but not cruel. They often pushed us farther than we wanted them too, but they always seemed to know when to stop. As much as we may have disliked older siblings as a child, they played an important role that many of us would not appreciate until we are older.

My husband has used his role as father for all the traditional reasons: to teach our son about life, to protect him, to mentor him, and to raise him to become a good man. His role as big brother has proved just as important and he uses it for a different set of lessons: to teach our son how to interact with friends, how to be competitive without being a sore loser, how to banter with the guys without being a jerk, and how to be a good man who shows compassion as well as strength.

When my husband is big brother, our son can talk trash with him, try to best him in games and pranks, poke fun at him and wrestle with him. When he’s dad, our son knows that he has to be respectful, listen to the advice he is being given, and follow his instructions. There is a shift in both of them as they move between the roles of father/son and big brother/little brother. The shift is subtle, but both of them are so tuned into it now and rarely misread the other.

I love watching this dynamic, and smile to myself as husband taps on the car window again to get our son to turn around. I know he’s trying to annoy him, just like a big brother would, and our son knows it too. That’s why he rolls his eyes at him as he turns away, a reaction that would get him a reprimand in other situations, but is completely appropriate in this one. My husband smirks back at our son as he walks away and I marvel that a man who mostly raised himself knows so well how to be a great dad, and the importance of being a big brother, too.  

Philadelphia From The Outside

Philadelphia is brimming with sounds, smells, and sights that are so different from the west coast. Sirens blare constantly, people yell prophesies on the street, painted murals adorn many a wall, and the aromas of every food imaginable fill the air. People seem as leery of me as I am of them, until a smile is exchanged, and then they warm quickly.

At night, the streets remind me of Gotham City. Tall stone buildings with pillars and towers and carvings are lit, glowing eerily in the fog. Steam rises from the grates on the sidewalk, but through the windows, the interiors of the restaurants look cozy and inviting with tables crowded with couples and friends.

I spent an afternoon in Reading Terminal Market, overwhelmed by the choices and the assault on the senses. The farmers markets on the west coast is a lovely outdoor experience with fresh air, vegetable and fruit stands, a handful of hot food vendors, and people meandering from booth to booth. The east coast version of a farmers market is so very different, but just as wonderful. The market is indoors, the smells are inescapable, the food vendors far outnumber the fruit, vegetable, spice, coffee, and tea stands, and a sea of people move quickly through, intent on their destinations. Only a few of us brave souls dared wander slowly through the crowd looking at the array of baked goods, fresh fish, and ethnic foods displayed behind glass cases.

Each person I motioned to go ahead of me in line looked vastly relieved to not have to wait for the lost tourist to make up her mind. Most smiled quickly then rattled off their order as I eavesdropped. One woman followed that same pattern, but then turned to look at me again as she waited for her food. "Is this your first time here?" she asked, softening the 'r' on here and extending the last vowel (which most of the country assumes is a silent 'e'). I nodded and she proceeded to tell me the best places to eat in the market and what to order.

She inquired and I told her I was in town for an education conference. As luck would have it, she was a teacher for many years and had just as many opinions and suggestions on how to fix the education system that she was more than willing to share with no encouragement from me. I found it amusing that she had  no qualms about airing her bold opinions with someone she knew nothing about, and had I not been a person who happened to agree with much of what she said, I may have found her offensive. I didn't, so I smiled and nodded. In retrospect, she probably would have appreciated a little dissension and a good discussion.

I took her advice and tried some of her suggestions, and thoroughly enjoyed being an outsider looking in for a while. I saw her again as she sat with her husband, eating huge slices of pizza (the kind you really can only find on the east coast). She waved and pointed me out to her husband as I held up the bag of sweet potato fries (the best I've ever tasted!) to show her I did take her advice.

It was such a brief encounter, standing in line while she waited for her pizza slices and I browsed, but it made the whole experience better. Her forwardness was refreshing in this case. Maybe I would have found her annoying if I had to sit next to her for five hours on an airplane, but for the five minutes we conversed in line, she made me feel a little less like an outsider.

As I left the market, a man held the door for me and smiled. "You are destined to know each other," he said at the coincidence as his wife--my new, opinionated friend with the warm face and intent eyes--passed through the door behind me. I sincerely agreed. I contemplated asking her name as we wished each other a good day, waved, and went opposite directions on the sidewalk, but decided against it. In my mind, her name will always just be Philly.

Re-Energize Your Soul In Idyllwild

Idyllwild, CA

Small towns get in a person's blood and stay there. It's the way people in small towns treat you like their neighbor and have conversations with you like it isn't the first time you've met. The shops and restaurants have as much character as the people who live there and nothing is unoriginal.

Red Kettle in Idyllwild

I feel like my soul gets rejuvenated when I spend time in a small town, and Idyllwild did not disappoint. We started the day with lunch on the patio of the Red Kettle. The place was packed and the server referred to everyone as Sweetie and Honey. The sun was warm, the breeze refreshing, and the diner homey. 

Merkaba tea shop in Idyllwild

Some shops carried trinkets and t-shirts, as expected, but many of the stores catered to specialty items and local artistry. The aroma of the tea shop wafted though the open windows and onto the street, beckoning. Front porches on stores were as cozy as any on a home, with potted plants and benches to sit on. 

Mountain Paws encouraged dogs to come in and enjoy the treats and browse through the store with their owners. Dogs were every where in town, strolling the streets with their humans and leaning out of open windows in cars, enjoying the day as much as anyone. 

A one mile drive out of town brought us to a great hiking spot with trails climbing into the mountains. The crisp scent of the pine trees and fresh mountain air kept us hiking ever higher, looking for the next view of the beautiful valleys below. 

As a final stop, we went to the ice cream shop before we left town, for thick shakes (too thick for the straw and almost too heavy for the plastic spoon) and chocolate dipped cheesecake. We meandered back through town to our car, wanting to enjoy the late afternoon. 

Everything slows down in the afternoon in a small town, just the way I like it. 

6 Reasons I Love My Stand Up Desk

My job is killing me! And making me feel like a hippopotamus. At least that's what all the recent research is showing. Article after article keep appearing on the major news sites saying that sitting is the new smoking, too much sitting is killing us, and that even if we run every day after work, it doesn't undo the damage done from being sedate all day.

I can focus on a project and work on it until it's completed without breaking for much more than a quick lunch at my desk. It's great for my employer but terrible for my ever-broadening rear and rising blood pressure. I know I should take breaks, go for a walk, set a timer to remind me to move around, but I just don't. It's a lame excuse, but it breaks my concentration.

Despite the lame excuses, I am not one to give up easily on finding solutions. If taking a break from my desk wasn't going to happen, then I had to make working at my desk better for my health. Fortunately, my employer was willing to discuss the options to change my situation, and just last month installed a standing desk option into my work space. Now I spend four to six hours of the work day on my feet at my desk.

So far, I love my stand up desk, but I was surprised to discover the benefits that go beyond safeguarding my health.

1. I move around my office more. Instead of being lazy and waiting until later to grab a file or look up a bit of information, I move around my office as needed, retrieving and putting away files instead of letting them pile up on my desk.

2. It's easier to stay focused on the job. My mind wanders more often when I am seated at my desk, but while I'm standing, and the blood is flowing, I feel more alert. I get projects finished even faster than before and I feel more creative, resulting in a better end product.

3. I work faster. There's just something about being on your feet that makes you hustle a bit more. It reminds me of doing chores around my home, intent on getting the tasks done and everything put in its place as quickly as possible so I can move on to better things. Maybe it's just habit, but I set the same brisk pace at work when I'm on my feet.

4. I can dance while I work. Fortunately for me, my office is a bit secluded and the view through my windows is obscured, so I can sway and shimmy to Pandora like it's 1987 again and no one is the wiser!

5. Napping is not my number one priority when I get home. I don't get so drowsy while I'm standing and I feel more energized at the end of the day, so the commute home isn't a battle to stay awake. Once I'm home, I'm more likely to take the dogs for a walk or go for a run than sit on the couch and watch TV.

6. I've lost a ton of weight and I'm in better shape! Okay, so this isn't exactly true, but it's only been a month. I'm hoping that after a year with my new desk, I will be able to report that this is true.

Soccer Mom or Kidnapper?

One of the really fun things about being a writer is having a great imagination. As with so many things, the great thing is also a terrible thing, and that holds true for having a great imagination as well. I can vividly imagine what it will be like when I sell my first book, or the places I will travel as a writer, or what the life would have been like 800 years ago when I sit on a hillside in England.
I can also imagine, in vivid detail, what might happen when the client that I've never met, and whose house I am on the way to, turns out to be a kook.

For 15 years, I worked as a small business consultant in northern Minnesota, going into people's homes or remote businesses located on gravel roads winding deep into the woods. I didn't worry, though, because we lived in a small town and I could always find someone who knew the new client to give me a reference.

Now I live in an area that has a population of over 200,000 (a bit more than the town of 3,000 that I was used to), and though I know people here, I don't know enough to be able to ask about someone who lives on the other side of the city and have any hope that my friends know that person.

So when I got my first consulting client here (southern California), I felt some trepidation about going to the person's house. I suggested we meet in a public place, a Starbuck's perhaps, but of course, the client's business information was on the desktop computer at her home, not on a laptop, and she had kids who would be home during the day, so she really preferred I come to her house. The fact that she had kids was a good sign, but I was still nervous to walk into a stranger's home.

I did my research on line, and found out what I could about the person and the business, which was a bit reassuring, but when the day came to go the house to do the consulting, my imagination started taking over. It began as I was choosing the necklace to wear with my outfit. As I was reaching for the one that usually goes with the sweater I had on, I started thinking about how thick the chain was and whether or not I could break it if someone tried to strangle me with it. Then I started thinking about what I would do if I got hit over the head the moment I walked in the door and locked into some dungeon of a room. I thought of the things in my purse that could be used as tools, but then realized that my purse would probably not be put in the room with me. The only solution, I decided, was to carry something on me in case my purse was taken away (which I did, just to be on the safe side, imagination be damned).

Every scenario possible went through my head of what could happen, ranging from being strangled by my own necklace, to being locked in a room in the basement and sold into the sex-slave industry, to being forced to strap explosives to my body and walk into a crowded store. All of it is really rather stupid. For one, who wants a middle-aged bookkeeping expert as a sex-slave? And why would terrorists be targeting our city to find suicide bombers when Los Angeles and San Diego are crawling with much better candidates than a place with an inordinate amount of housewives and soccer moms?

When I finally arrived at the client's house, I was relieved to find that she truly did have her kids at home with her, she looked like every other soccer mom in town, and she didn't appear to have any ulterior motives than to be sure her books were correct before she sent them to her accountant. Once again, my imagination was my own worst enemy, and there was nothing to worry about at all!

Then again,sometimes I completely agree with the person who said "You can't tell me worrying doesn't work. Most of the things I worry about never happen!"

Netflix Is Interfering With My Writing Life!

Netflix, and currently Orange is the New Black, is interfering with my writing life.

A couple months ago, we decided to get rid of our TV service. We had hundreds of channels, but only a handful of them were worth anything, and we watched more movies than TV shows. After getting rid of the TV service and adding in a subscription to Hulu and Amazon Prime, we'll save the equivalent of two plane tickets to almost anywhere in the U.S. over the next year.

But the best part was going to be that it would change how we watch TV.  No more endless hours of the TV being on just because one show follows another and it's easier to keep it on. Now, we would have to be deliberate in our TV watching and the rest of our time could be spent doing more productive activities, like reading or writing. The problem is I didn't anticipate Netflix's ability to make a person want to binge watch whatever current series the watcher is hooked on! Most shows have several seasons of each show available - that's hours of watching to get to the end! And I always have to know how it ends….

I have a greater appreciation for old fashioned TV channels that show one episode a week. It sucks to have to wait a week to find out what's in store for your favorite characters, and what's going to happen next, but it gives you a whole week to do something else, something useful. When the next episode is just a click away, it's much too easy to just...click.

Not only is the next episode at the tip of your fingertips, but the titles of all the episodes are there, enticing you to jump to conclusions about what they mean. Last night, I was going to only watch one episode, maybe two at the most, but that plan went out the window as soon as I went to the list of episodes to start the next one (Episode 11: Tall Men With Feelings) and I read the titles of the episodes coming up. Episode 13 was titled "Can't Fix Crazy" and I got worried! Crazy-Eyes has grown on me and I don't want anything to happen to her, but the title of Episode 13 sounded very ominous. They couldn't hurt Crazy-Eyes! So I had to watch all the way through Episode 13 before I went to bed to be sure she was okay. Fortunately, the title was just referring to Crazy-Eyes not being able to change who she was and actually sing in front of the rest of the inmates at the Christmas pageant, so I was able to go to bed, finally, after that episode.

Willpower has never been one of my strengths, but I do have determination (you'd think the two would go hand in hand, but they don't) and I am determined to spend more time writing and getting through my to-be-read pile. Not that I'm giving up OITNB, but I will practice restraint. There are thirteen more episodes I've yet to see and my goal is to NOT watch all of them by the end of the weekend.

And if that doesn't work, I'll may have to cancel my Netflix subscription...

New Name, New Look

New name and new look to go with a new phase of life. More to come...