Smack dab in the middle of the first holiday season without my dad, I find I need to write, to vomit out some words that could possibly describe what this human being meant to me.

My dad, “my bub,” was my hero in so many ways. A lifeguard, soldier, fireman, rescue squad worker, cop, security guard, coach – see a pattern? Yes, he was someone who fully believed in protecting and giving back to his community. And to his friends and family.

He had an incredible knack for making every one of us feel special, respected, treasured and loved. As a parent, I realize how challenging that is, and I pray my two boys will grow up to feel as cherished as I did. The self esteem that gives a child can be a strong and protective shield throughout life.

Never one to lecture, he would often manage to slip little life lessons into a conversation. “Everyone puts their pants on one leg at a time,” “You are who you walk with,” “Deep breaths,” …. words that flash through my mind in random situations nearly every day.

Dad was simply always… “there,” usually with a twinkle in his eye. And now… he’s not. And it sucks. So badly.

He was 80. He was in pain. He died in his sleep. He warned us and tried to prepare us so many times. He was ready. But it still cuts like a knife, or a machete. I have never been a big crier, yet the tears keep flowing. They are flowing as I write this. They will flow tomorrow.

So many people shared with my sisters and me that the first holiday season is most painful. When in pain or turmoil, I suppose I should write. Maybe it will help…

I love and miss you bub. I always will. Thank you for being so special. Thank you for being my dad.

Diane

“How long it took you to catch them?” The American asked.

“Only a little while.” The Mexican replied.

“Why don’t you stay out longer and catch more fish?” The American then asked.

“I have enough to support my family’s immediate needs.” The Mexican said.

“But,” The American then asked, “What do you do with the rest of your time?”

The Mexican fisherman said, “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take a siesta with my wife, Maria, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos, I have a full and busy life, senor.”

The American scoffed, “I am a Harvard MBA and could help you. You should spend more time fishing and with the proceeds you buy a bigger boat, and with the proceeds from the bigger boat you could buy several boats, eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats.”

“Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the consumers, eventually opening your own can factory. You would control the product, processing and distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then LA and eventually NYC where you will run your expanding enterprise.”

The Mexican fisherman asked, “But senor, how long will this all take?”

To which the American replied, “15-20 years.”

“But what then, senor?”

The American laughed and said, “That’s the best part. When the time is right you would announce an IPO (Initial Public Offering) and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich, you would make millions.”

“Millions, senor? Then what?”

The American said slowly, “Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take a siesta with your wife, stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos…”

As I sit comfortably in my family room and watch the capsule descend and ascend on TV — my mind flooding with thoughts, my heart with emotion — a few things strike me. One is how seemingly simple the final solution proved to be. Not flashy. Not done with tons of new age technology. And, in this age of immediate gratification, not even speedy. The work was the painstaking, roll-up-your-sleeves sort. Would the same rescue method have been deployed or accepted in our society?

I recall how after the Gulf Oil gusher (we truly can’t call that a “spill” can we?), one of my first uneducated ideas was to take a huge, heavy unused battleship and sink it directly over the gushing pipe. It seemed too simplistic, and I was sure that there were dozens of reasons it wouldn’t work. So I didn’t share it with many people. Months later, however, I admit to some self-congratulation when I read that an Admiral in the Navy had seriously suggested the very same thing! Too simple of an idea? Perhaps. Would it have helped? It was ultimately rejected, so we’ll never really know. Buy sometimes we overlook obvious, simple things for the flashy.

It also strikes me how the hearts and souls of so many people – family, friends, rescuers and strangers all over this madly tempestuous world – are at this moment united and focused on the safety of these survivors. Seasoned, cynical newscasters appear visibly moved and shaken. And each of us are surely wondering if we could have sanely survived. Just imagine our anger and anxiety when we encounter rush hour traffic or an extended airport delay when we are hungry and eager to go home to our families. Can you imagine a nearly two and a half month delay? In the dark? In a desert? More than 2,000 feet underground? Knowing that 700,000 tons of rock had fallen around you? With dozens of sweaty men?

Only time will tell what the long term effects of this ordeal will be on these strong souls. But, we can all learn a lot from it — and from them. Perseverance, teamwork, patience, good communications, having back up plans in place (a first attempt failed), and the powers of hope and faith. Uplifting indeed!

http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=hN8CKwdosjE

n truly be stressed while blowing bubbles.”

These are the words of my wise and intuitive sister, who manages two busy physical therapy offices. She recently gifted her office staff with a bottle of bubbles for each desk. She prominently displays a bottle on her own desk as well. Whenever employees get stressed, they are encouraged to open the bubbles, pull out the wand and blow to their hearts’ content. It has proven to be a fun, bonding experience and, on certain days, her office looks like a bubble machine is blowing on high!

As the weather becomes more glorious, my two-year-old son and I are having great fun playing in our backyard. Besides an assortment of cars and balls, a bottle of bubbles is usually close at hand.

There is something so magical about what is basic water and soap. Exhaling in a focused, purposeful way and seeing something so simple, yet beautiful, created with such slight effort is certainly stress relieving. There is something inherently peaceful about watching bubbles of all sizes cascade from the wand, gently rise and fall with the breeze, and then randomly pop mid-air. For those with a competitive streak, trying to blow a perfect large bubble or stream of bubbles keeps things interesting. When a precious toddler’s giggles and squeals of delight join the mix, the wonder multiplies exponentially.

Perhaps bubbles are a perfect reminder to be purposeful, yet relaxed. To keep things simple, yet focused. To look for beauty in the little things. And to gracefully and peacefully follow the wind where it takes us.

The London 2012 logo

Wow. I realize that art and design can be subjective. I’ve seen many eye opening and hilarious examples of that fact up close and personal during my years in communications. (I even have an amusing story about my personal experience with a logo depicting a specific “vermin” that friends regularly urge me to repeat.) But, to avoid digressing, I will tell that tale/tail in a future post … What I wish to focus and get feedback on now is the design of the logo for the 2012 Olympic games in London…

I try to keep a positive spirit and am not prone to criticizing others to make myself feel large. (At 6’2”, I’m tall enough already, thank you very much.) However … what the heck?! I have looked at this logo over and over again. It is beginning to haunt my thoughts. I need to write about it. I need to see if I’m missing something, anything …

Apparently, I’m a few years behind the backlash boat. The London 2012 logo was ceremoniously unveiled in 2007, and 80 percent of the British public surveyed promptly gave it the lowest possible mark. Since a designer friend shared it with me this week, I have discovered that the animated version of it actually caused epileptic seizures and illness in dozens of people, and that there are thousands of names on petitions to scrap it and start all over again (echoes of our Beltway).

Among other things, it has been described as looking like “scrunched up garbage on the sidewalk,” “Lisa Simpson performing a certain oral act” (people are twisted), and a modernly distorted Swastika.  An online critic mentioned that the logo made her “want to put on some leg warmers and purple eye shadow, crimp my hair and get on VH1 in the 80’s.” One clever loather transformed the numbers into letters spelling a certain sh** word.

A critic's rendering

The firm hired to strategize and design this logo garnered a reported £400,000, or about $800,000. Now I wholeheartedly support artists and creative types being well paid and well fed. In fact it’s a pet peeve that people who have jobs that sometimes amount to being glorified paper pushers can too often make more money in a single annual bonus than a creative genius can in a lifetime. But, come on now … I would love to get my fingers on the creative brief that successfully sold this design approach and would wager it includes a healthy dose of psychobabble.

One thing I’ll give the logo credit for is its boldness. The bold colors, as well as the bold departure from what one would expect of an Olympic logo – an eye-pleasing reflection of the city’s cultural heritage, national soul and/or famous landmarks combined with the primary color pallet of the official Olympic logo.

The London 2012 Committee (Helpful advice: Bewaaare design by committee!) has made the claim that this “is not a logo, it’s a brand” (hee hee) and that it is one of the most iconic Olympic symbols ever created. Trying (too hard) to be hip, it says its aim is to engage young people. If you count the numerous contests held throughout British schools to “redesign the 2012 monstrosity,” it may have hit the mark.

Or perhaps that is rubbish – especially considering the Committee has already slightly revamped the logo since its unpopular debut — and that, per a very recent article in The New York Times, it has hired a new firm to handle the event’s future marketing and design.

A penny-pincher like me just wonders, “At what cost?”

Fun links for those who share an interest in logos:

Recent article in The New York Times:

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/29/arts/design/29iht-Design29.html

BBC website of alternate logo submissions:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/em/fr/-/2/hi/in_pictures/6722205.stm

I suppose I’ve been blessed that I haven’t had to think about it much until now. Growing up, I earned good grades, set school records in sports, made friends easily, earned a college scholarship and married one of the first great guys I dated. I also got hired for nearly every job I applied for. Once hired, I worked with wonderfully talented people, and we earned respect, accolades, awards, promotions and (when times were good) bonuses.

When I had my two boys, my employer trusted and valued me enough to let me create a flexible schedule to better juggle work, home and working mom angst. To me, that was all the validation of my worth that I needed. I would have likely been a loyal employee forever.

Years later, the company faced increased pressures and weaker management, and things changed. As morale plummeted, it seemed coworkers, even friends, were no longer as supportive of one another’s efforts and successes. Good work alone no longer spoke for itself, and visible successes sometimes led to jealousy.

When I became a departmental manager in my 30s, I was gently pressured to proactively cultivate and befriend the “higher ups” who could “have my back.” It seemed the individuals I was closest to just didn’t have enough clout. The manager giving me the advice was wise, seasoned and likely meant well. And I was savvy enough to realize that having more formal agendas as one “rose in the ranks” was rather common. But it honestly felt ugly and very unnatural to me.

I didn’t want to become the type of person who asked someone to lunch or over to my home on a weekend because it would position me. I wanted to ask them because I thought we’d enjoy each other’s company. I didn’t want to plot and plan whom to sit next to at interdepartmental meetings or to alter my path into the office or to the coffee machine so I’d be more “visible.” I wanted my work, and my department’s work, to continue to speak for itself.

In hindsight, that was naïve — and a mistake I’m unlikely to make again. But, on some level, it’s a naivety I’m proud of.

Fast forward several years and certainly not all, but many, of the people who survived the more than 30 percent downsizing of my former company are individuals who did have such agendas, who knew whom to schmooze, who feigned personal interest in higher ups’ lives and who, without hesitation, stepped on others to make themselves appear more vital and visible. It still feels ugly to me, but I supposed I’m now seasoned enough myself to no longer be totally surprised or revolted by it, especially in this increasingly competitive economic environment.

My work always has and will continue to speak for itself.  My accomplishments, past and present, do as well. And my advice to my 12-year-old son when he brags just a bit too much about his athletic prowess continues to be, “Don’t tell people how good you are, honey. Just show them.”

However, in reality, I and the millions of Americans now seeking work must learn to proactively promote and brag about ourselves so we can first get the work. Then we can show people how good we are. We need to diligently research and identify strong opportunities and people with clout who may help us and “have our backs.” We need to overcome any personal modesty and reluctance to self promote; painstakingly rehearse and recite clever lines to say; carefully select past work and awards to exhibit; plan and plot where and how to best network….  I guess some of us are being forced to lose some innocence and grow up.

In the process will we become disingenuous and artificial? I certainly hope not. But I suppose, if that ever happens, this specific blog entry will “speak for itself” as to why.

(In the spirit of self promotion, feel free to check out my LinkedIn profile at http://www.linkedin.com/in/dianeblaszka)

Me and my dad at the Legion, December 2009

I returned to my hometown today with my husband and two sons in tow. It’s not like we live across the country — we’re less than 90 minutes away. But, since my sister and mother moved out of town, we don’t go back to good old South River nearly enough.

The little town looks different each time we drive through. Were there always that many boarded up buildings? What happened to my favorite sub shop? And the Polish bakery? Well, I suppose the crusty baker, who was probably in his 80s when I was a teen, is long gone now…

And there’s the brick building where my dad was a rescue squad worker, and a fireman, and a police captain… and the old library where my mom took me to get my first library card… and the pub where I toasted many birthdays… and the house my great-grandfather lived in when he was the town’s mayor… and my friend Barbara’s house… and the Middle School that used to be the High School and later became an Islamic School. I could go on and on…

Appearances may be different, but somehow the feeling never is. I guess the best word for it is “warmth.” The Top 40 song “Who Says You Can’t Go Home?” was written by Jon Bon Jovi, coincidentally a native of Sayreville, a small town bordering South River. Like Bruce Springsteen, Bon Jovi has journeyed around the world and still hangs his hat in Jersey.

As we pulled our minivan into the parking lot of the South River American Legion, memories of New Year’s parties, Christenings, memorial services and my own wedding reception (20 years ago!) flooded back. We were ostensibly there for our boys to see Santa, but really we were there to see family. My dad, stepmom, sister, nieces and nephews who joined us at our table — plus the countless friends and neighbors whose smiles we recognized the instant we entered.

Several times, I caught my dad looking around wistfully. It was then that I realized the magnitude of what he must feel. If I’m flooded with memories each time I come back, how intense must they be for him? He’s retired and also living in another section of the State now, but this dear little town was his home, his police beat, his heart for so long.

And, from the look in his Irish eyes, it still is.

1) A get well card from her entire family

2) A red apple (with a handwritten note that read, “an apple a day…”)

3) A small sandwich bag filled with green tea

4) Two garlic cloves (their purpose should be the topic of a future blog…)

5) and a DVD of a movie she was certain would “make me laugh”

This last item, and its intention, prompted me to think about the medical and spiritual power of laughter … and to admit to myself and my readers that I don’t laugh enough anymore.

Sure, I grin, chuckle, shake my head in amusement regularly. But laugh loud and gutturally? Until my sides hurt? Rarely. Studies have shown that children laugh an average of 300 times a day. Adults 17.  That is stunning. And sad. And I’m disheartened to realize I’m not even sure I hit that pathetic mark.

What happens to us as we age? Does the tedium and responsibilities of “adulthood” wear most of us down that badly? And how dare we try to stifle children when they act silly. Perhaps on some level it’s because we’re jealous that they can do it so easily. I have a toddler and a preteen. Plenty of silliness in the house. Which also means plenty of opportunities to laugh and get silly along with them. And I do sometimes. But not nearly enough.

This coming month, amid all the holiday craziness and love, I am going to make it my focus to laugh. With my children, with my husband, with my friends. And I am going to watch that DVD. Who knows, it may help my immunity. I know it has already helped my spirit. Thanks friend!

Simply put, differentiators are what set you apart from the crowd. They are the unique and special attributes that separate you (or your company) from peers and competitors. Take a few minutes to list them and, to the right, describe their value and benefit. For example: Reliable means that people can count on you; Award winning means that industry associations and experts have recognized you; The youngest of 10 children may mean you can deftly deal with a variety of situations and personalities.

Know your differentiators. It’s the difference that makes the difference!