November 1998

A number of you have asked about my new job, and I have two highlights that help to explain where I am: The firm's founder invented the rotating police light and the guy who sits diagonally across from me invented the little slidey thing that opens and closes zip-lock bags (although another company takes the credit, not wanting to admit they hired us to do it.)

When stuff like that becomes a product, I provide the words. In the past month, I've written shelf strips for dog foods, named flashlights, and worked on exhibit copy for the Soccer Hall of Fame.

During lunch, the younger designers network on the computers and play games, slaying each other multiple times with increasingly large weapons. One guy rounded a virtual corner the other day and was hit by a virtual round from a virtual tank, which turned his screen bright red. From where I stood, I could see it from both points of view. I am never bored.

Abbie is bearing the brunt of our move to Skaneateles. Classmates wear $3,500 outfits to school, and look down on girls from the city. Her soccer teammates have been playing together since childhood, and are still reserved. Abbie ran afoul of the school bully, but patched that up on her own. Today, she attended her first cheerleading practice; I feel about cheerleading the way I felt about her desire many years ago for a Barbie Doll -- it's not my cup of tea, but if her DNA is screaming for it, I'll be happy if she's happy.

There have been two murders and a suicide in the past month, not exactly what I expected here, but even a lake and wonderful architecture cannot prevent unhappiness. As for the lake, it is never the same from morning to evening, from day to day. I leave a few minutes early every morning so I can just stand and look at it. This morning's sky, wiped clean by strong winds the night before, was like something out of a children's book, with rose colored clouds floating across a clear blue sky; a pirate ship would not have looked out of place on the water.