A Question of Ethics
Even though I loathe what he's doing to Major League Baseball salaries, is it wrong to want Boras's help negotiating my upcoming contract renewal at the 'factory?'
Congratulations Zito, I hope you'll be happy on the other side of the Bay. Oh, and could ya have Scott give me a call? I'm pretty sure he'll want to hitch a rope to my star and get some of that pocket change I'll bring in.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Lesson Learned
Okay Universe, I get it.
Life is what you make it.
Energy makes energy.
Cross your t's and dot your i's, your life is rich and full.
Fail to fill in the details and you can't help but notice that nagging feeling that something is missing. Put energy into your efforts and you will reap rewards twofold. Fail to exert energy and you will fail to have energy.
See? I get it.
What's true for life is true for anything, right?
Raising children? Friendships? Relationships? Work?
And ... Christmas?
That's why I couldn't find my Christmas Spirit.
I just didn't put enough effort into it.
Most years, I go all Martha on the family.
I make sure the lights go up Thanksgiving weekend.
I get my family out to our favorite tree farm and watch in awe as my men chop down a tree right before my eyes. And even though he resists every time, I insist Mr. bon take us for hot chocolate on the way home.
Once the tree is up, out come the twelve boxes containing our tree decorations, charming knick-knacks (some new, some even passed down from my grandma) and of course, the special, used only once a year, Christmas linens.
After the house is decorated to the nines, we start wrapping the gifts that were purchased with thought and care and place them just so, under the tree. We don't use just any gift wrap. It's usually brown craft paper festooned with bright ribbons and handmade bows, then adorned with tags handmade by the bon-lets.
If you look closely, you'll notice that everything ties together to fit the charm of our little cottage of a house. The bon's don't mess around with Christmas, people. We do it right. T's crossed, i's dotted.
This year was different.
Although the lights did go up a day or so after Thanksgiving, the tree was purchased at Chubby and Tubby on Aurora. Eegads!
The boxes came out, but only the tree decorations were used. Every other little doo-dad never even left its container and all were hauled back out to the shed. It should have been a clue, no make that a big red flag, that something was up when I told him, "I'm just not that into it," as he patiently made his way back to the shed toting the twelve oversized boxes.
Nobody seemed to notice that the gifts were wrapped differently this year. Nor did they comment on the fact that in some cases we used a "sharpie" for a tag!
In fact, if it weren't for me and my oversharing tendencies, I'm not sure others would have noticed that Christmas was different this year. The bon-lets were cool; they seemed to have a rewarding and warming holiday season in which they both gave generously and received handsomely. In some, probably many, instances, Mr bon was no doubt relieved to simplify things a bit. In my case, all those materialistic details are an indication that the forces are swirling and a certain manifestation of the spirit of the season, and of life.
Looking back, I see that I did put some out some effort. Quite a bit of effort, actually. I did fill in the details, I did charge the air with energy and I did reap rewards twofold ... I just did all that at work.
That, Dear Universe, won't happen again.
From here on out, the lesson becomes one of balance.
Life is what you make it.
Energy makes energy.
Cross your t's and dot your i's, your life is rich and full.
Fail to fill in the details and you can't help but notice that nagging feeling that something is missing. Put energy into your efforts and you will reap rewards twofold. Fail to exert energy and you will fail to have energy.
See? I get it.
What's true for life is true for anything, right?
Raising children? Friendships? Relationships? Work?
And ... Christmas?
That's why I couldn't find my Christmas Spirit.
I just didn't put enough effort into it.
Most years, I go all Martha on the family.
I make sure the lights go up Thanksgiving weekend.
I get my family out to our favorite tree farm and watch in awe as my men chop down a tree right before my eyes. And even though he resists every time, I insist Mr. bon take us for hot chocolate on the way home.
Once the tree is up, out come the twelve boxes containing our tree decorations, charming knick-knacks (some new, some even passed down from my grandma) and of course, the special, used only once a year, Christmas linens.
After the house is decorated to the nines, we start wrapping the gifts that were purchased with thought and care and place them just so, under the tree. We don't use just any gift wrap. It's usually brown craft paper festooned with bright ribbons and handmade bows, then adorned with tags handmade by the bon-lets.
If you look closely, you'll notice that everything ties together to fit the charm of our little cottage of a house. The bon's don't mess around with Christmas, people. We do it right. T's crossed, i's dotted.
This year was different.
Although the lights did go up a day or so after Thanksgiving, the tree was purchased at Chubby and Tubby on Aurora. Eegads!
The boxes came out, but only the tree decorations were used. Every other little doo-dad never even left its container and all were hauled back out to the shed. It should have been a clue, no make that a big red flag, that something was up when I told him, "I'm just not that into it," as he patiently made his way back to the shed toting the twelve oversized boxes.
Nobody seemed to notice that the gifts were wrapped differently this year. Nor did they comment on the fact that in some cases we used a "sharpie" for a tag!
In fact, if it weren't for me and my oversharing tendencies, I'm not sure others would have noticed that Christmas was different this year. The bon-lets were cool; they seemed to have a rewarding and warming holiday season in which they both gave generously and received handsomely. In some, probably many, instances, Mr bon was no doubt relieved to simplify things a bit. In my case, all those materialistic details are an indication that the forces are swirling and a certain manifestation of the spirit of the season, and of life.
Looking back, I see that I did put some out some effort. Quite a bit of effort, actually. I did fill in the details, I did charge the air with energy and I did reap rewards twofold ... I just did all that at work.
That, Dear Universe, won't happen again.
From here on out, the lesson becomes one of balance.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Dear Universe,
Yoo Hoo ... Need a little help here.
Will the entity that burgled my Christmas Spirit kindly return it?
Promptly.
Time is running out and I do have children, ya know.
If this is some kind of joke, I consider it cruel and not funny.
Get my drift?
Now bring back my spirit, dammit.
Will the entity that burgled my Christmas Spirit kindly return it?
Promptly.
Time is running out and I do have children, ya know.
If this is some kind of joke, I consider it cruel and not funny.
Get my drift?
Now bring back my spirit, dammit.
Saturday, December 9, 2006
Zeroing on Zito?
I wonder.
Occasionally, my evening commute takes me past the Mariners' front offices above Safeco Field. On dark, winter evenings I can peer into the fourth floor windows and see the dapperly dressed execs working away on... something.
When passing those windows at 6:30 on a Friday night in early December, as I did last night, I wonder, "what are they doing up there?"
Could they be receiving faxes and other important office-type communique from Bavasi who is struggling through the winter meetings down in Florida? Is he asking them to calculate how many hot dogs they'd need to sell in order to bring a big-league pitcher to the Safe?
Please oh please, Bill, give us fans a ray of hope in these dark winter months.
I'll buy a hot dog, maybe two.
Just give me a competitive team to watch while I'm eating it.
Occasionally, my evening commute takes me past the Mariners' front offices above Safeco Field. On dark, winter evenings I can peer into the fourth floor windows and see the dapperly dressed execs working away on... something.
When passing those windows at 6:30 on a Friday night in early December, as I did last night, I wonder, "what are they doing up there?"
Could they be receiving faxes and other important office-type communique from Bavasi who is struggling through the winter meetings down in Florida? Is he asking them to calculate how many hot dogs they'd need to sell in order to bring a big-league pitcher to the Safe?
Please oh please, Bill, give us fans a ray of hope in these dark winter months.
I'll buy a hot dog, maybe two.
Just give me a competitive team to watch while I'm eating it.
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
Close One
In what I can only describe as a dangerously close brush with parenting, Mr. bon and I were put to the test this week. No need to fear, I am delirious to report that we escaped unharmed. This time.
The child in question was the eldest of the two bon-lets; the boy.
Said boy was invited to this Thursday's winter blow-out concert, Deck the Hall Ball put on by the local rad radio station. Call me conservative, call me overprotective, call me what you will, but when the headliners are Gnarles Barkley and My Chemical Romance and the gig is going down at the semi-massive Key Arena, I'm going to think twice before I allow my 14-year-old -boy to get jiggy with it amongst a gazillion chemically enhanced strangers -especially on a school night.
I won't go in to all the details except to admit that the deal was pretty well thought-out by the instigator's parents and involved door-to-arena-to-door transportation. I was assured that, "security these days (since 911)" is very tight. To which I responded with, "no, I don't live under a rock" and, "yes, I have ventured beyond Lyle Lovett and gone to a hard core rock concert in the past 2 years."
And I will admit to you I did go through a full range of emotions. Which I believe it started with, though not uttered audibly, "No freaking (er, something like that) way!"
Then a sharp turn at "I don't care if I'm the nerdiest mom on the block, my kid is not staying up til one freaking (yes again) a.m. on a school night for a, yes you guessed it, freaking, concert. That definitely is not good parenting."
With a long pause at, "well maybe, if he wants to go though he better not choose this week to retreat into teen silence and shrug his shoulders when I ask the important questions such as 'what interests you about this concert?' 'who is playing?' 'is this really something you're willing to spend your hard-earned money on?' and the all important, 'is this a special girl?' "
Then finally, after a consultation with the hippest mom I know, and a fair bit of perspective and persuasion from Mr. bon, I came to, "well if he can make a case for it and show me some enthusiasm I guess it's time to make this leap and let him go."
But the kid is cool.
Way cool. Cool as a cucumber.
Cooler than ice water.
Cooler than I'll ever hope to be.
When we found a quiet moment to have the talk; you know, the one in which he would convince me that there was no freakin' way he was missing the concert? he flat out shocked me.
"I changed my mind. I don't want to go."
He went on to tell me that he wanted to be "pumped for Friday, because it's well, Friday" and that "I can stay up late listening to my own choice of music any night I want."
In a moment of rare parenting brilliance, I bit my tongue, closed my mouth, and smiled. Then I told the boy how impressed I was with his intelligent decision.
Silently, I thanked him for letting us off easy. This time.
The child in question was the eldest of the two bon-lets; the boy.
Said boy was invited to this Thursday's winter blow-out concert, Deck the Hall Ball put on by the local rad radio station. Call me conservative, call me overprotective, call me what you will, but when the headliners are Gnarles Barkley and My Chemical Romance and the gig is going down at the semi-massive Key Arena, I'm going to think twice before I allow my 14-year-old -boy to get jiggy with it amongst a gazillion chemically enhanced strangers -especially on a school night.
I won't go in to all the details except to admit that the deal was pretty well thought-out by the instigator's parents and involved door-to-arena-to-door transportation. I was assured that, "security these days (since 911)" is very tight. To which I responded with, "no, I don't live under a rock" and, "yes, I have ventured beyond Lyle Lovett and gone to a hard core rock concert in the past 2 years."
And I will admit to you I did go through a full range of emotions. Which I believe it started with, though not uttered audibly, "No freaking (er, something like that) way!"
Then a sharp turn at "I don't care if I'm the nerdiest mom on the block, my kid is not staying up til one freaking (yes again) a.m. on a school night for a, yes you guessed it, freaking, concert. That definitely is not good parenting."
With a long pause at, "well maybe, if he wants to go though he better not choose this week to retreat into teen silence and shrug his shoulders when I ask the important questions such as 'what interests you about this concert?' 'who is playing?' 'is this really something you're willing to spend your hard-earned money on?' and the all important, 'is this a special girl?' "
Then finally, after a consultation with the hippest mom I know, and a fair bit of perspective and persuasion from Mr. bon, I came to, "well if he can make a case for it and show me some enthusiasm I guess it's time to make this leap and let him go."
But the kid is cool.
Way cool. Cool as a cucumber.
Cooler than ice water.
Cooler than I'll ever hope to be.
When we found a quiet moment to have the talk; you know, the one in which he would convince me that there was no freakin' way he was missing the concert? he flat out shocked me.
"I changed my mind. I don't want to go."
He went on to tell me that he wanted to be "pumped for Friday, because it's well, Friday" and that "I can stay up late listening to my own choice of music any night I want."
In a moment of rare parenting brilliance, I bit my tongue, closed my mouth, and smiled. Then I told the boy how impressed I was with his intelligent decision.
Silently, I thanked him for letting us off easy. This time.
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