Another one bites

We had Jake’s final Little League game of the season this morning. I have to say it is a bittersweet ending. I mean, on the one hand I will miss helping the coaches out at practice, sometimes even catching during the game. It’s coach-pitch and thus, coach-catch. Or in my case – coach-like father catching. I think I’ve played more baseball as the father of a Little Leaguer this season than I ever did as a kid, as an actual Little Leaguer myself.

On the other hand, I no longer have to agonize through weekly practices begging Jake to concentrate and pay attention. No more yelling like one of those maniacs who thinks their kid is going to be the next Derek Jeter. I mean, Jeter this kid is not. I yell at him to stop picking daisies or playing in the dirt. Or to stop squealing like a stuck pig in the dugout waiting for his turn at bat.

Who would have thought that I – quite possibly the least athletic kid ever – would grow up to be a sports Dad. Or just look like one.

Then again, my attempts to keep my kid focused are hopefully far less annoying one of those mega-chunker Wal-Mart Moms who yell at their kids like they’re on the couch in their double wide. You can see her now: One hand is dipping into the bag of Cool Ranch Doritos while the other is dutifully popping ephedra diet pills into her chubbed-up mouth. Despite the chill morning air she is sweating profusely in her floral print bloomer shorts featuring every tropical color but the lime green of her a-shirt.

By the way – when the diameter of your upper arm is closer to 2-liter bottle than 1-liter bottle (or, heaven forbid, a 3-liter) you should really consider wearing sleeves. Just a friendly suggestion.

But maybe it’s not fair to mock the size of these Moms when their real offense is the whining. The whining arguments they have with their children. Awful.

“What are you doing over there. Get on a helmet. You’re up to bat.”

“Nobody told me.”

“Yes they did, you’re not paying attention.”

“Yes I am.”

“No your not.”

“Keep it up and we’re not going to McDonalds after.”

“You promised.”

“I don’t care. Get your bat. It’s your turn to hit.”

“I’m going I’m going.”

“Go faster. Everybody’s waiting for you.”

“I’m GO-ing.”

“Then GO!”

“Errrrrr!”

“Chomp!”

If it’s worth the going, it’s worth the ride

We are so close to having a whole house again…it’s pretty amazing.

The sheet rock is up and the guys have started taping. The first coat is up, two to go before they start priming and painting. We may start seeing color on the walls as early as Saturday. It’s really pretty amazing.

Joe and Bob do just about everything (except the plumbing and electrical) and I think that’s one of the reasons the work is so sound. It’s like the McDonald’s theory of management – you have to work every job before you can be a manager. You have to know how to do everything. And that’s why a reasonable Mickey D’s manager won’t be yelling at the fry cook to get the fries out to the chunky lady in the sagging minivan. When you’ve done your time over the oil, you have an understanding of how long it takes. “Make them faster” is a ridiculous and, frankly, stupid statement.

I see it all the time where I work, and in just about every place I’ve ever worked. There are good managers who understand the realities of the work being done. They may not know how to do it all, but they have an understanding of what is involved. They properly manage their people and their people’s time. and they keep the wolves and clients at bay in the process. They run rings around the majority of managers out there…and that’s too bad.

Most managers, supervisors and yes, even executives with MBAs, have little understanding of the work at hand. In fact, they have little understanding of the business they are in. In the last 12 or so years I have worked for a number of companies in a variety of media outlets and I have had literally hundreds of clients from all ends of the spectrum – higher ed, fortune 500 corporate, banking and financial services, retail from mega giants to mom and pop stores. What I have found, across the board, is that the vast majorities of managers excel at few things more than underestimating their work force and failing to grasp what really motivates their employees.

Guys like Bob and Joe understand the whole gig, literally from the ground up, so they can do it all if need be. But they also know when to pass on a task and to whom the job should go. And they know when to bring in extra hands to get certain things done efficiently.

I’m not saying every managers needs to know how to do every specific task, nor am I suggesting that management need to take on more of the grunt work. On the contrary, managers serve an important purpose. But that purpose is not to simply yell at their people to work harder or figure out a way to get everything done with too little time (resulting in shoddy output) because that manager has a poor understanding of the realities of the job at hand.

I have actually been pretty lucky. I have never really had one of these schmucks directly over me. But I have had a lot of clients that fit this description, and I have had plenty of coworkers who do, too. And, of course, I have often been only a tier or two away from such people on the corporate food chain, so my work life has definitely been impacted.

Look America, we need to figure this stuff out. We need to lose our sense of entitlement. Our young people need to stop lusting after BMWs and start lusting after each other again. In other words, forget about the fancy car you schmucks – buy a beater and move out of your parents house!. Seriously, there are way too many managers out there and way too few people who can actually do shit. Can we please get that fixed?

Welcome Home Girl!

She’s here. Little Laura came in to the world yesterday (Wednesday) morning at 6 pounds, 3 ounces. 6/3, that’s her birthday. Gives me a clue to remembering birthday/birth weight. I need all the help I can get. I can’t remember any of the details with the boys. There was a 9 something and an 8 something. So, that’s a start.

This one is tiny tiny tiny. Smallest baby we ever made. But like the others she is cute cute cute. And no, that is not parental bias – it is an all out fact. Ask anybody who sees her.

And her room is almost ready. The Brothers are sheetrocking, her window is in. Any day now we’ll be picking colors. We got a nice ceiling fan with a light while picking fixtures and carpet. We’ve been picking all kinds of cool things – I mean, no vessel sinks or skylights, but to me, paint, carpet and ceiling fans are pretty cool.

A couple more days and Laura will be home, and when she’s ready for a night on her own, her room will be ready to go!

There’s a hole in the wall

It has been a good week. The Brothers Cipriano, general contractors extraordinaire are tearing our upstairs apart…and I couldn’t be happier. We are in the process of adding a shed dormer to the back side of our steep pitched Cape Cod style house. We’re turning two large bedrooms and a more or less useless, but sizable top-of-the-stairs landing into a space with one large master bedroom (with big closets!) and three smaller bedrooms for the three kids (well, two kids and soon to be born number three). And don’t forget the linen closet. Oh yeah baby, we’re getting a linen closet.

How did this happen? Well…funny story. Actually, not so funny, but it’s interesting nonetheless. We have always talked about maybe someday adding a dormer. I had even done some measuring and messing around with floor plans to see if we could reasonably get three little rooms upstairs. But I don’t think either of us thought we’d do it any time soon. But home equity line rates are low, and even though Chase screwed us, we went to the glorious local Rondout Savings Bank and scored a sweet line.

Hey, money is pretty damn cheap these days, and people need work. So, check it out. We’re stimulating the economy people. Props for stimulation! Plus, we’re going to have more space and more storage.

And now we have a big hole in the wall. It’s the hole that will soon hold one of the windows in Noah’s future room. Right now, though, it is the opening through which the brothers hurl ripped out drywall and 2x4s. It is also the opening through which I coerce my wife to take pictures of me because I think it looks really cool to be standing and looking out a big hole in the side of the house.

Still, how did this come to pass? Well, simple. Carol writes for a local paper. She has done stories on several local businesses. She actually did two stories about the Cipriano family. One about Mom, who does interior design and similar stuff. The second was about the brothers, who are experienced local contractors who do jobs of all sizes, including custom home builds. They started out with their Dad and have been on their own for many years.

When I knew Carol was going to do a piece on a couple contractors, I suggested she mention our little potential job just to see what they might say. Right away they started talking about possibilities and she just got a good feeling. So I called them a few days later and they stopped by. We walked the house and talked about possibilities, and it just took flight from there. Yeah, I know they always say background check your contractors and get multiple estimates and such, but, well hell. We both got a good vibe, and let’s face it…Carol met their Mom. And Mom clearly liked her. Isn’t that enough. 

Oh, and did I mention they’re awesome. They’re nice guys who do great work. And they work hard. and check this – because they know we have a little one coming in a couple of weeks, and because they want to minimize the difficulties of having a house with big holes in it, they are going to be working this weekend. Yup, they’ll be here at 7:30 tomorrow (Saturday!) morning to meet the materials delivery and start framing the upstairs (which is now fully stripped and ready to rock).

Dude, I’m psyched. More to come…

PJ-ed off

I don’t expect much when I go out these days. I really don’t. But when I’m in the store, I really don’t need to see people in their pajamas. I mean, I don’t expect tuxedo shirts, high heels, gabardine or leather. But velour and spandex…not so much.

Seriously, if the word pink is written on your ass, I don’t want to see it. Especially if your rear is so wide that I get confused and think it says “in k.” What the hell is in k? Oh wait, there’s a p sneaking around the right bank. It says pink. Of course.

And those peach and lime plaid flannel bottoms? Think they look cute in your dorm room? Think the other freshmen are impressed? Maybe they are. But the thirty-something parents wrestling with two toddlers and a car cat have seen it before. Seriously. Put on a pair of jeans and stop drawing attention to yourself.

I had one of those conversations recently about how people used to get all dressed up to travel by airplane in the 70s. No, I don’t remember that, but I would prefer that to what I’ve been seeing lately. I have actually seen adults in pajamas on flights. Not to mention the sweatpants and crushed velvet jogging suits and bathing suits. Yes, I have seen bathing suits on planes.

Please people, is a pair of jeans and a t-shirt too much to ask?

Maggie’s Better

We had an awful experience with a vet and our cat, Maggie a few years ago. It involved a bladder infection, a guy who liked wearing polo shirts and chatting like a suburban yuppie far more than actually providing pet care, nervous Ecuadoran “orderlies,” and a loading dock cage pickup. I won’t go into details, because remembering the whole experience really riles me up, but the end result is that our anxiety-prone kitty does not make regular trips to the vet these days.

Nevertheless, approaching 11 years old, Maggie is pretty spry and healthy. She’s got the same massive cat-itude that she’s had since kitty-hood, and overall, she is doing well. That is, until a couple weeks ago when she climbed into bed with us and started acting weird. At first I panicked, sure that it was another bladder infection since her litter box appeared unused. I went crazy trying to find pet supplements or other meds that might help with the problem.

What I’ve come to realize, however, is that her real problem was some sort of leg injury or ailment. After a day of laying on my keyboard, I got her to walk around a bit, and saw that she was limping. I’m not sure if she took a tumble or got sat on, or what, but it looked like she was just trying to stay off one of her back legs. Improvement was obvious over the next couple days, and well within the confines of a week she was all better. Now, a couple weeks beyond, she is back to normal. Hissing and biting when she doesn’t get her way, purring and rubbing up against me when she does.

It makes me think I need to find one of those travelling vets in my area, though. If she does get sick, I am afraid to make it even worse by shoving her into a pet carrier and dragging her to an animal clinic. But I have heard there are vets that make house calls. I want one of those. You got one of those?

Playing the Field

We’ve now made it through 3 baseball games. Phew. Only 728 to go. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration…but not by much. At least, not in how it feels. I have to say, though, Jake is showing tremendous improvement. I mean, for a kid who has never watched a baseball game, even on TV, a kid whose Dad is me – as unathletic as they come – he is doing pretty well. We’ve invested in a decent bat and half a dozen balls, and he’s actually hitting the ball. Sweet.

The beauty is that he is still young enough not to care that there are kids who actually do watch baseball games on TV, kids who actually do know the fundamentals and actually can hit an overhand pitch and who actually can catch a pop fly. But this is what they are interested in more than anything else, and like I said, Jake really doesn’t care. He has plenty of fun squealing girlishly and running around like a maniac, and he’s totally cool with that. 

The thing is, there is this family. There’s Robbie the superstar and his parents the jag-offs from Long Island or Manhattan or wherever who have a weekend house in Northern Dutchess. The father is kind of meek and passive aggressive, but the mother is a loud, obnoxious douche nozzle who just doesn’t get it. She yells at her kid and contradicts the coaches. She argues about fouls and where the play is. At this time let me remind you that this is coach-pitch baseball for 5 to 7 years olds – every kid hits and runs one base no matter what. The standard rule in the field is for the kids to get the ball and throw it to first.

Still, psycho douche pony Mom starts berating her kid for throwing it to first, arguing in shouts with her husband when he tries to explain that in this league, the kids are just supposed to throw it to first in this fashion: “What do you mean throw it to first? The kid’s on first already. The play was to second. What are you, stupid?”

Let me mention at this point that there is a 5 year old girl on the team who is barely 3 feet tall. She is exceedingly cute and brings her own 13 ounce composite bat. After 3 weeks of practice she hits the ball at every at bat, and occasionally hits it right to the coach on the pitchers mound. It’s awesome. She’s tiny and she is kicking ass with progress.

Then these assholes weekenders show up with their over achieving bull, a well-drilled 7 year old who never attends practices but is supposed to be the team all star (on a team in a league with no winners) and act like it’s major league ball. The coaches are pissed because this father just walks out in the field and stands behind his kid like a coach. Fathers are pissed because the coaches on the field are supposed to be back ground checked and, let’s face it, if this guy is on the field, we don’t get to go out. And mothers are pissed because this woman is a basket case.

Did I mention that she has a 2 year old daughter she brings to the games that she plays catch with? The mother throws overhand to the two year old and wears a glove. And when the 2 years old drops the ball or throws it back weakly, the mother actually chews her out.

Carol and I call people like this leafers – a nod to an episode of the Family Guy about similar types. A wife of one of the coaches calls them City-ots, as in idiots from the city. It’s funny, because these jerks act like this is Green Acres or something, even though half of the parents are from Westchester, Long Island, or Manhattan. I mean, it’s not like I’m Farmer Fred up here.

But this area, particularly around Millbrook and Rhinebeck, are big weekend sites for city peeps. And you can tell on the weekend. On Saturdays in the Summer I see more vehicles with Manhattan Jeep license plates than when I worked in NYC a couple blocks away from the Manhattan Jeep dealership. Seriously. But when you have wineries and historic hotels and pick-your-own farms and low taxes, it’s hard to keep those trust fund graduates away.

At least this past Saturday Robbie and his psychotic entourage didn’t show. I hope that it’s permanent thing. I mean, maybe the over achievers will look for some more competition for their clearly unhappy little almost-all-star and let all the rest of us mediocre fun-seekers start our weekends off right. And I got to catch. It was probably the most baseball I’ve played in, well, ever. But it was fun. The kids were hitting great, I got to cheer for my son’s teammates, and I just felt like everyone was smiling just a little bit more.

And today my knees are a little achy because, well, I’ve always had problems with my knees. But who cares. Put me in coach!