Be aware of your image

On Monday last week I set about the task of obtaining quotes for a set of updates to my company's web site. Although I already have quotes from two agencies that have a history with either me or the company itself, I wanted to obtain at least one or two more.

Google is my friend. I am a champion googler and so, of course, I set about my task looking for additional advertising and/or interactive marketing firms by running a few searches on such agencies in my state.

Talk about an aggravating experience.

Let me give you a little free marketing advice. If you're going to sell web marketing services (web site design included) do yourself a favor and actually design yourself a web site that looks like a professional did it.

Ok. I'll leave it at that. I was prepared to wax poetically on the topic some more - providing elaborate detail as what these people did wrong (lackluster, text heavy, 'canned template' looking sites) and what they didn't do right (provide easy to navigate, fun to read sites that were overly in love with flash animations and "cute" gimics because the overkill is just as bad as the opposite end of the spectrum.) I'm sure, however, that my day of eye-rolling and seeking a brick wall to bang my head on is not nearly as fascinating to anyone else.

Another Perspective

I don't even remember how the conversation began. I do, however, remember very clearly how it went.

Logan said, "Some day I will grow up and be a man like Daddy."

I said "Yup" because I know that if you fail to give Logan at least some sort of verbal nod at minimum he will repeat himself until he's convinced you heard him.

He added, "A big man. Tall."

I changed subject slightly, "And when you're a big grown-up man, what will you do? What kind of job?"

He thought a moment and I expected his usual litany of career options to begin it's march from his aspiring lips. Instead he smiled big and said, "I'm going to sit at my desk all day until it's time to eat. Then I'll get up."

And to think, he's not actually *seen* Daddy at his desk job in at least two years. I figured I'd press a little, "Ok, but what will do at that desk?"

"Work," Logan said in that familiar tone that speaks volumes. As in: Geez, Mom!

He nodded. "Yup, I'm going to do work at my desk until it's time to eat. But before that I'm going to be a Daddy."

"Oh, well, honey, it might be easier if you get your job at the desk first and THEN become a Daddy. That way you can buy food for the baby and live some place that's not my house," I told him for all the obvious reasons.

"Why?" he asked.

"It is just better that way," I told him, wondering when it was time to give him the "Honey, girls prefer employed men" speech. He's 4. I figured it wasn't time yet.

"Why?" he asked.

"It just is," I told him.

--
And yet another work-related laugh:

I'm related to a chef. Not one that ever cooks for us, mind you, but a real, honest to goodness, trained at one of the top culinary schools in the world chef. One with a job as a head chef/general manager.

He's getting married and ends up dragged along to a lot of bridal shows. (And as a good big sister I laugh at him much for going. I've been to those - loaded with grooms they are not.) His favorite thing to do at these shows is sample the food and fill out all those little slips you're supposed to fill out if you wish to win things.

Last one he went to he won.

A personal chef is coming over tomorrow night to cook him and his future wife a dinner.

I know. It's sick.

So this is what a workaholic feels like. . .

I'm tired.

And yet I'm wired.

Last week I got a call. There I was innocently trying to get some lunch at my most favorite supermarket in the entire world (hey, if you were where I was you'd understand the obession) and my mobile phone starts ringing. Although when it first rang I did not hear it. I climb in the van and turn in the direction to return to the office where sane people work.

The phone rings again. This time I hear it.

It's the old office. They have been desperately trying to track me down. They need help. Fast.

And so I, in the interest of generating some extra cash for a 10th annivsary weekend away in late spring, heard them out. Then I accepted the very labor intensive job within it's unbelievably short deadline.

Let me first say that even now, nearly 5 months to the day of bidding bossman adieu, I still tense up when I hear his voice. Is that warped or what?

But on to the good stuff. I work sporadically over the weekend. I work at the real job today, come home to a snowball fight with the remaining vestiages of the itty-bitty snowfall we got last night, watch brainless TV and then settle back in to working for oldplace. I finished just a short-time ago. Still flush with the heaps of thanks and praise from bossman. I know it's a fleeting thing - it always is - and yet it never stops to make me gloat a little when he's laying it on thick.

Soon I will settle to sleep. I will confirm there are no edits needed from me tomorrow and then I will produce the nice invoice that will subsidize my trip to a truly romantic little getaway an hour from here. And then I will be thankful that this is not my norm - this workaholic stuff sucks.

Cough. Hack. Sneeze.

The girl is sick - her nose runneth and runneth....and runneth.

The boy is getting sick. He coughs at night and occasionally races his sister to the tissue box.

The husband is sick. Sore throat he says. Tired.

The mom is sick. Mack truck ran her over. Lack of sleep compounds the problem. Did I mention the girl spent most of last night either awake and complaining or asleep and complaining?

Send chicken soup. Send much caffeine. Send lovely little videos that mesmerise children for hours. Send Grandma.

Ahh, yes. Grandma is coming. She is taking the children. Mom is going to work. Some how I think work will be more restful. Hey, I'm not new here.