I went to hear Dan Pink speak tonight. For those of you who aren't avid geeky business book readers (ahem), Pink is the former chief speechwriter for Al Gore (the vice president version, not the"A Convenient Truth" version) and the author of books such as "Free Agent Nation."
I also used to run with him.
Whaaaaa?, you say?
Back in 1999, I trained with the AIDS Marathon Training Group, where I raised money to fight AIDS and ran the Marine Corps Marathon. We had a very cool training group of 15 or so, one of whom is a very dear friend to this day. But I've lost touch with most, unfortunately, and Dan was one of them.
Dan and I ran together a few times, and we talked about work a bit during those five and six hours, 105 percent humidity in July early Saturday mornings on the trail. I remember thinking what a cool job he had - writing speeches and books.
Even with the subsequent success, he still seems like a normal, interesting guy with smart things to say, the kind you'd talk shop with or who would be good to brainstorm ideas with. He pleasantly endured lots of people wanting to talk with him and/or sign books, me being one of them.
The longer I live in Washington, the more I'm convinced that it really is a small town on steroids. It's a small business world out there.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
Workout Work Over
Anyone who thinks that pyramid schemes have gone the way of the parachute pant hasn't tried to join a gym lately.
A friend recommended a trainer who helped her get back into shape after the birth of her second child. Excellent, I thought. I talked to the trainer, a crazy Australian lady who seems like she could give me the exact ass-kicking I require to get moving again.
Then she realized I wasn't a member of the gym where she trains, and broke the news that I'd have to join. OK, I thought. I'm sure they have some sort of three month membership, even if it's a little more expensive.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
How is it, in this Internet-information-everywhere day and age, that they still don't have published prices and can still fish in new members with teaser rates that only apply to one- or two-year memberships (including the bogus "initiation fee" which is waived if you sign on for a year, but costs you $150 (for nothing!) if you want to pay their higher month-to-month rate), all before even getting to the trainer's fees?
Even in spite of the crazy costs, I'll admit I was tempted to try and figure out how to pay for it all, because I'm totally sucked into the idea that if she helped my friend look as great as she does, then it HAS to work for me, right? (Right?? Sure, there's the little matter of the hard work, and physical endurance, but hey, how hard could it be... ). But for now, it's probably not the best option for the family budget.
Goodbye for now, awesome trainer and swanky gym. Hello, late-night infomercial order of "The Firm."
A friend recommended a trainer who helped her get back into shape after the birth of her second child. Excellent, I thought. I talked to the trainer, a crazy Australian lady who seems like she could give me the exact ass-kicking I require to get moving again.
Then she realized I wasn't a member of the gym where she trains, and broke the news that I'd have to join. OK, I thought. I'm sure they have some sort of three month membership, even if it's a little more expensive.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
How is it, in this Internet-information-everywhere day and age, that they still don't have published prices and can still fish in new members with teaser rates that only apply to one- or two-year memberships (including the bogus "initiation fee" which is waived if you sign on for a year, but costs you $150 (for nothing!) if you want to pay their higher month-to-month rate), all before even getting to the trainer's fees?
Even in spite of the crazy costs, I'll admit I was tempted to try and figure out how to pay for it all, because I'm totally sucked into the idea that if she helped my friend look as great as she does, then it HAS to work for me, right? (Right?? Sure, there's the little matter of the hard work, and physical endurance, but hey, how hard could it be... ). But for now, it's probably not the best option for the family budget.
Goodbye for now, awesome trainer and swanky gym. Hello, late-night infomercial order of "The Firm."
Friday, July 11, 2008
Before I knew you
Baby's moving on up. To a bigger car seat.
Our little tiny baby has neared that line where he's almost outgrown his infant car seat - those buckets o' baby you always see new parents proudly toting around - and is ready for a convertible.
For the uninitiated (you know, those people who aren't sitting on their couches blogging about car seats at 11 p.m. on a Friday night while the post-college group house next door plays beer pong outside your windows), a "convertible" car seat is stage two, the kind that start out rear-facing and then can be swapped around toddlerhood to forward-facing.
What does this mean? Well, a turn once again to the bible of mothers-to-be and new mothers everywhere, that indispensible guide known as "Baby Bargains." Never read it? Just look around the next time you're in Babies 'R' Us buying a shower gift. I'll give you five bucks if you don't spot at least three pregnant women toting them around the store.
In flipping through my very dog-eared, written-all-over copy in the quest for the Ultimate Convertible Car Seat, I happened to be going through the index. There I spotted a listing for Dreft.
Again, for the uninitiated, this is specialty baby-friendly clothes detergent that new parents can't fight the compulsion to use on baby clothes.
But tonight, in seeing the word Dreft, I was suddenly transported to sitting in my living room, just a little more than a year ago, very pregnant. We had just put the final finishing touches on Baby's room, from setting up all his stuffed animals in his crib, to lining up the diapers in the new lined wicker baskets I'd purchased to set on top of his dresser/changing table, to hanging the shelves holding the classic children's books and stuffed versions of their characters that my sister-in-law had purchased for him, from the Cat-in-the-Hat to Babar to Rainbow Fish.
And yes, we had just washed his very first sets of clothes, in Dreft, and I had just folded them and spent time trying to figure out how to best organize these tiny little garments. I was partially caught up in the organizing, but mostly marveling and overwhelmed at the very idea that there would soon be a little person who would be wearing them.
For some reason, the mere mention of the word Dreft tonight sent me back, and had me feeling incredibly nostalgic for those last few weeks of our pregnancy. Standing in that quiet, perfectly neat and pretty little room that seemed so ready to receive its new owner close to a year ago, I remember anticipating all that was to come, and feeling excited, afraid, overwhelmed, terrified, prayerful and hopeful all at the same time. In a way, I still miss that strange and wonderful time. I still cherish those moments of anticipation, of hope of a person I did not yet know.
And I cherish the person I know now even more.
Our little tiny baby has neared that line where he's almost outgrown his infant car seat - those buckets o' baby you always see new parents proudly toting around - and is ready for a convertible.
For the uninitiated (you know, those people who aren't sitting on their couches blogging about car seats at 11 p.m. on a Friday night while the post-college group house next door plays beer pong outside your windows), a "convertible" car seat is stage two, the kind that start out rear-facing and then can be swapped around toddlerhood to forward-facing.
What does this mean? Well, a turn once again to the bible of mothers-to-be and new mothers everywhere, that indispensible guide known as "Baby Bargains." Never read it? Just look around the next time you're in Babies 'R' Us buying a shower gift. I'll give you five bucks if you don't spot at least three pregnant women toting them around the store.
In flipping through my very dog-eared, written-all-over copy in the quest for the Ultimate Convertible Car Seat, I happened to be going through the index. There I spotted a listing for Dreft.
Again, for the uninitiated, this is specialty baby-friendly clothes detergent that new parents can't fight the compulsion to use on baby clothes.
But tonight, in seeing the word Dreft, I was suddenly transported to sitting in my living room, just a little more than a year ago, very pregnant. We had just put the final finishing touches on Baby's room, from setting up all his stuffed animals in his crib, to lining up the diapers in the new lined wicker baskets I'd purchased to set on top of his dresser/changing table, to hanging the shelves holding the classic children's books and stuffed versions of their characters that my sister-in-law had purchased for him, from the Cat-in-the-Hat to Babar to Rainbow Fish.
And yes, we had just washed his very first sets of clothes, in Dreft, and I had just folded them and spent time trying to figure out how to best organize these tiny little garments. I was partially caught up in the organizing, but mostly marveling and overwhelmed at the very idea that there would soon be a little person who would be wearing them.
For some reason, the mere mention of the word Dreft tonight sent me back, and had me feeling incredibly nostalgic for those last few weeks of our pregnancy. Standing in that quiet, perfectly neat and pretty little room that seemed so ready to receive its new owner close to a year ago, I remember anticipating all that was to come, and feeling excited, afraid, overwhelmed, terrified, prayerful and hopeful all at the same time. In a way, I still miss that strange and wonderful time. I still cherish those moments of anticipation, of hope of a person I did not yet know.
And I cherish the person I know now even more.
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