We Retired DINKs Owe A lot to Steve Jobs

A few years ago I was attending a management-training course, back in the days when banks had enough money to think those courses were useful. During one session I was asked to name the three people I admired most in history. My choices were Alexander Hamilton, Abraham Lincoln and Steve Jobs. While the first two would not come as a surprise to people who know me, the choice of Steve Jobs probably needs some explaining. Since the main goal of management courses was to sound cleverer than your colleagues, I marveled at how Steve revolutionized whole industries - he is most well known for desktop computing, music and today mobile phones. But for a person who opted to have children a little later than many, Steve Jobs’ impact on me was deeper and more personal. I just wasn't at liberty to say why to my hard-charging, mostly male investment banking colleagues.

To understand, we need to rewind 20 years. Dina and I met in university, when she was a freshman and I was a sophomore. By the time we left school, we were pretty sure that we would get married. We were less sure on when we would have children. You have to remember I grew up in Scranton and boarded my first airplane at the ripe young age of 22. I had a world to see. As for Dina, the lack of any experience around children meant she was happy to go with my plan. So we graduated from university, got married and began a near 15-year period of our lives as DINKS (dual income, no kids).

It was a great time. Sundays were a late brunch, with the New York Times in one hand, a Bloody Mary in the other. Sundays began late of course, because Saturday nights were spent in Greenwich Village pubs with our large web of friends. The rest of our weekend was spent in pursuit of movies and music. For those of you who appreciate 70s punk and 90s grunge, two fond memories I have from my early 20s were getting stuck in a mosh pit as Joey Ramone (RIP; www.youtube.com/watch?v=agzIcrmg5mY) jumped on stage in a club in Trenton and listening to pre-fame Smashing Pumpkins in a club in Hoboken with a capacity of around 75, including the bar staff.

Of course, a few times each year we would travel as only DINKs can. In Botswana, we sat on top of our safari jeep sipping beers and watching the sun set over the plains. In Thailand, we scaled the 309 steps to reach Wat Doi Suthep (a monastery) and receive a blessing from a Buddhist monk. After a full's day hike in the Andes, we walked through the Puerta Del Sol to look 1500 feet below at the lost ancient city of Machu Picchu (since found by a herd of tourists and trekkers). We only had two travel rules: we never went to the same place twice (Paris and Rome were exceptions) and travel budgets were for wimps.

Then on March 29th 2004, on the eve of Ranen's arrival into our lives, we realized our days as DINKs had come to an end. Don't get me wrong, we were very eager to become parents. Its just that after 20 years of doing whatever you wanted whenever you wanted to, having kids came as a bit of a shock. Gone were the days of dining out 4-5 times per week. Babies needed to be in bed by 7pm (apart from Gideon, who never goes to sleep). My IPod suddenly had a section for kids filled with English nursery rhymes. We gave up on movies all together, since we only go out one night each week and it seems a little silly to spend it staring at a screen for two hours. As for travel, the days of exotic, manic trips around the world have made way for unexotic, especially manic ones. No more driving the Garden Route in South Africa staying in different inns every night. These days it’s a 2-hour drive to the Dorset Coast to a place with a nice kitchen and access to a local pharmacy. And while we still think budget travel is for wimps, our money is spent making the travel a little easier, like an occasional purchase of Virgin Upper Class seats (with some help from my infinite amount of air miles) on our visits to the US (the pictures show the boys enjoying their seats!)

This is where Steve Jobs comes in. In 1986, after losing a power struggle with Apple, Jobs acquired the computer graphics division of LucasFillm, Ltd for $10 million. Shortly afterward the company was renamed Pixar. In 1995, Pixar went public for $140 million and released its first full-length animated feature, Toy Story. Pixar probably had no idea it was about to revolutionize the animated film business and along the way make the transition to parenthood for film, music and travel-loving DINKs like me a little easier. Back in 1995, animated film was nearly dead – accounting for less than 1% of US film revenues. By 2008, that share had jumped to 10%. Pixar was the undisputed leader and main driver of the rise. (Pixar sold itself to Disney for $7.4 billion in 2006).

While the amazing computer graphics played a part in Pixar’s success, their real "secret" is the movies are incredibly appealing to parents and kids alike. The stories are funny and complex – in ways 5-year old don’t always understand, nor does it matter. Pixar was also the first to attract big actors to star in animated films. Tom Hanks played the lead role in Toy Story. And Paul Newman’s last acting role was as Doc, a retired racing car in Cars. These days, Hollywood stars fight over animated film roles. Pixar even recognized the power of the soundtrack. Indeed, I am happy to admit I have most of the songs from Cars on my IPod. I told Ranen I bought them for him, but I was fibbing.

So while Steve Jobs will be remembered by most for the way he revolutionized media industries, those early-in-life DINKS and later-in-life parents like me owe him a special thanks. Sure I no longer spend my weekends in search of music and movies or travel to exotic places. But the IPod has allowed me to rekindle my love of music – and create a budding interest in music in the boys. As for movies, I can't think of a better past time on a rainy London day than sitting on the sofa with Dina and the kids and reciting almost every line of a Pixar movie (check out the video below as Gideon gives his best impression of Tom Hanks as Woody). And when we do travel, I have our Pixar library ready to pop into the portable DVD player to keep the kids occupied while Dina and I sip a glass of Virgin Upper Class champagne!

Am I nostalgic for my days as a DINK? Sure, sometimes I am. But I wouldn’t give up my current life with Dina and the boys for anything - especially when you have guys like Steve Jobs around to make it a little easier.


A Scranton Boy In Chelsea

P.S. I haven’t totally given up my DINK life. I wrote most of this story on a 3-day trip to Vienna with Dina ohne kinder (without children, for the Scrantonians). Even better, this is the first blog written on my new MacBook Pro - my conversion to Apple is nearly complete!

Anger Management, the Abe Lincoln Way

"My dream is of a place and a time where America will once again be seen as the last best hope on earth," Abraham Lincoln, 16th President of the United States

Like the rest of the banking industry, I have watched recent events in America with quiet resignation. My industry deserves to be punished for the greed, irresponsibility and poor judgement that marked the years leading up to this financial crisis. To be sure, I can name a few co-conspirators. But never mind that. This crisis needs its dastardly villian and the banker is a worthy choice. But in America's rush to punish the bad guys, mob rule is taking hold. As is often the case with mobs, the urge to punish, and to do so harshly, is overwhelming society's responsibility to set criteria for deciding who the bad guy is. In the America I know and love, even the bad guy gets a chance to tell his story. So while I never intended this blog to be a forum for rants, I feel I can no longer sit by passively as the mob takes over. I want to tell my story, even if most people reading it already know it.

I grew up in Scranton, the quintissential small US town. It is middle to lower income. It is a region poplulated with 3rd and 4th generation immigrants - mainly catholic and European, especially Irish and Italian (I have a little of both in me, along with a dash of Polish). While Scrantonians are under-represented at US universities, I am pretty sure there are many who served in Iraq and Afghanistan. It has always been that way. My father served in the army and my uncle died a marine, on his way home from Vietnam. I never met him. American flags have always been proudly raised outside of Scranton homes - even more so after September 11, 2001.

When you visit Scranton, you get the sense that time has passed it by. Its "boom" days were many years ago, when the region supplied the country with the coal to power its industry. My grandfathers both worked with the mining companies. As they died young, I never met them either. In recent years, Scranton has tried to reinvent itself, with only modest success. First it attempted a period as a defense contractor. But the cuts to the defense industry during the Clinton years put an end to that. Then it had a go at call centers. But it is much cheaper to set up those centers in India. These days, Scranton is having its 15 minutes of fame, as the setting for the US version of The Office. The show originated here in England, in a town called Slough - not too different from Scranton, actually.

I grew up in one of those lower-middle class, flag-flying homes. Neither of my parents went to college, but three of their four children did. I paid my way through my undergraduate degree on scholarship grants, student loans and nearly full-time work. The loans I proudly paid off on time. I remember beginning my working life by driving my new Honda Civic (another loan taken and paid) to New Jersey carrying everything I owned. I had $6000 to my name. I worked my way up the corporate ladder the hard way. I wasn't part of a graduate program. I began at the bottom - doing menial jobs, putting in twelve hour days and earning a graduate degree at night. With a little luck and a lot of patience, I landed a job beyond my boyhood dreams: world travel; manic, unpredictable days on a buzzing trading floor; and the chance to play a pivotal role in growing, multi-million dollar business.

As part of my job, I moved to London with Dina in January 2003. It was a difficult time to be an American overseas. The goodwill the world had extended the US after September 11, an event I witnessed from across the street in my New York City office, was fading fast. The Bush Administration was about the launch its ill-fated, highly unpopular war in Iraq. One of our first memories in London was walking out of our home and into a sea of muslim humanity. Not 100 yards from our front door we were witnessing our first war protest. Soon after, we visited Belgium and had to resort to pretending to be Spanish. Thankfully, Dina partially speaks the language (I just stared and tried to look stupid, which has never been hard for me). And while we sympathized with many of the frustrations that Europeans had with George Bush and his policies, throughout those trying days, we remained proud Americans.

I often say that my story is what the small-town American dream is all about. With a lot of hard work, a little luck and a set of strong values, you can accomplish nearly anything. And I did. It just so happens that my dream was built around the business of banking. And while many in America will have me hold my head down, that is one thing I will not do. To this day I remain proud of everything I have acheived. Yes, I am a banker. But I don't run a ponzi scheme, or sell mortgages to households that can't afford them. And I can't price a complex derivative to save my life. I simply look at market prices and economic trends and advise clients on whether currencies will go up or down. Yes, I have made a decent living at it. But I have always performed my job with honesty and integrity - just as I was taught to do as a boy in Scranton.

So while I am not asking for sympathy, I do want to be heard. My warning to the mob is beware of the law of unintended consequences. Congress is set to vote on a bill that will tax most Wall Street bonuses at 90%. While this will make the mob feel better, the bill does come with consequences. For one thing, most of those dastardly villians the public wants to punish are in jail, on their way to jail, retired or looking for jobs in parts of the industry that no longer exist. Many that are left are like me: hard-working Americans whose luck is running out. Many of them have paid dearly for this crisis already. Barney Frank has suggested that Wall Street executives do not lose anything when their firms fail. I wonder whether he ever read the details of Lehman Brother's employee stock ownership program.

Meanwhile, part of the bill up for vote is a retroactive tax on money already paid to bankers. While this is not technically an unravelling of one of America's great strengths - respect for the binding contract -it is pretty damn close. Do we really want to go down that slippery slope in an effort to recoup $165 million from AIG employees? I sure don't, at least not for the equivalent of 1/1000th of annual American GDP. The payments of bonuses to AIG employees is an outrage. But they are based on contracts written before this crisis took hold. Unless the government is willing to let AIG fail, it should pay the contracts or hope the money is returned by choice.

Most importantly, if we are ever going to get out of this mess, main street needs to come to terms with the fact that it needs a healthy Wall Street. Watching last week's circus in Washington, I couldn't help thinking the country was snatching defeat from the arms of victory. An unprecedented amount of policies have been put in place to fix the American economy. And believe it or not, there are some signs the economy is finding a bottom. But there are two consequences of this bill, perhaps unintended, but almost certainly assured. First, Wall Street will focus far more on paying back the government money than it will lending to credit-worthy Americans. Second, the pool of talented bankers that remains will seek the relative saftey of foreign banks. I suspect the stock market realized this when it reversed course and started falling again at the end of this week.

As an avid reader of history, one of my true heros is Abraham Lincoln. A little story about him comes to mind. In a fit of anger, Lincoln wrote a letter to his young, impetuous and incompetent general, George B. McClellan. He then sealed the letter in an envelope and placed it in his desk drawer. He opened it a few days later when his anger had receded, to read it one last time. That letter was never sent. On the eve of the Senate vote, my hope is this bill - drafted in a fit of anger - is put in a desk drawer to be opened on another day. There is plenty of time to punish the arsonists. Right now, we need to put out the fire.

A Scranton Boy in Chelsea

P.S. For my dozen or so loyal readers, I want to thank you for your patience and understanding. I promise the next blog will get back to the most important things in my life: Dina, the boys and our lives in London.

Learning to Love the Beautiful Game

"Some people believe football is a matter of life and death. I'm very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that." Bill Shankly, English football manager

As a boy in Scranton, I was brought up to believe in three sacred things - god, mom and football. And while you never liked to admit it, god and mom usually finished a distant second and third to the game with an oval ball, lots of padding and little use of your feet. The Scranton social circuit revolved around the high school football calendar - for parents and kids alike. A typlical Sunday barbeque topic was which 6-year-old showed the most quarterbacking promise. The height of political intrigue tended to be your family's level of connection with the local coaching staff. And it was not the least bit uncommon for a parent to get into a fist fight with a referee at a little league game (meaning 7-12 year olds). Just ask Dina, who witnessed this first-hand at my 7-year-old brother's game on her inaugural visit to Scranton (my parents were thankfully not involved, although mom was known around town for the occasional verbal assualt).

I was indoctrinated into the football religion early. By age four I was attending practice with my dad, who coached the little league team. By seven I was a starting player - yours truly had the right connections. By thirteen I had already broken four bones. By sixteen I was a starting halfback on one of those high school teams they make American movies about: year-round practices, a case in the school full of trophies and expectations from the local fan base which could be overwhelming for a teenager (you can rent "All the Right Moves", "Varsity Blues" or "Friday Night Lights" to get an idea what I am talking about). My senior year, we started the season ranked amongst the top twenty high school teams in America- only to finish with a mediocre 6-5 record. To this day, that disappointing 1986 season remains another topic of Sunday barbeques. By eighteen, my bruised, beaten and diminutive body forced me to hang up my helmet and retire to a role of football spectator. I spent the next sixteen years as a loyal fan - hosting barbeques on our New York City rooftop always with a spalsh of football talk.

As you might imagine, when it came time to move to London, I was a little anxious about how I'd fill the football void. In preparation, an English friend suggested I read a book titled, "Fever Pitch" by Nick Hornby. The book is an autobiographical account of his life-long addiction to Arsenal, a North London football team. Following my modest research, I anticipated an easy transition from football to... well...football. If salaries are anything to go by, English football is the most popular sport in the world. It is also steeped in history - the "beautiful game" was invented here in 1863. And fans are normally just shy of lunatic. Trust me, when Hollywood did a remake of Fever Pitch with the plot revolving around a Boston Red Sox fan, it just didn't work - you can't replicate the insanity of the true English football fan. Sadly, no other sport in the world has a fan base responsible for quite a large body count: http://www.liverpooldailypost.co.uk/liverpool-life-features/capital-of-culture/2007/07/09/two-tragedies-that-changed-football-64375-19426077/

But the English football game is different from its American cousin. For a start, you actually use your feet. And forget about the pads and crushing violence - a mere trip of an opponent could have you sent off for the entire match. To an American football fan, the English version seems all constant flow, with no obvious strategy. Even worse, you almost never score and draws are allowed, meaning nil-nil (0-0) finishes are all too common. Despite the fact that many of the best footballers in the world play in England, many of them aren't actually English. Indeed, one of the cruel ironies of English sport is the realization that although most modern games have their origins on this island, the English aren't very good at playing them anymore. The one and only time England won the football World Cup was in 1966. That victory over Germany is a favorite topic at many English barbeques today.

So for my first five years in England I watched the occasional football match on television. But the passion wasn't there. That changed this season - and I have my 4-year-old son to thank. Two of Ranen's signature qualities are his mild obsessions and amazing attention to detail -a perfect mix for a budding sports fan. His football obesssion began at last summer's European Cup. It was here he watched Spain's version of David Beckham, Fernando Torres, win the cup with a goal against Germany (the picture shows Ranen next to Torres after that goal). The attention to detail kicked in a few weeks later - he memorized the entire English football squad - names, positions and the teams they played for in the regular season. When he learned that Torres played for Liverpool, he insisted I subscribe to the pay sports channel, something I had failed to do in my five years here. By late autumn, our own social calendar was now filled with football - watching games on TV, playing our own version of matches at St. Lukes Park and talking football at Pizza Express while Ranen played make-believe games with his hands. As Ranen's obsession with football gathered pace, I realized my own passion was keeping up.

So as Ranen and I headed to our first live professional football match in February - Chelsea against Hull City - our excitement was palpable. Of course, the game ended nil-nil (0-0). Both of us were initially disappointed. But as I walked home with Ranen on my shoulders, I realized the match had everything that I had learned to love about English football. For one thing, English football is a very local affair. A quick google search revealed 117 teams in this small country. All have their local, and remarkably loyal fan base. Admittedly, our neighborhood hosts one of the biggest football teams in the world - Chelsea has a payroll of $200 million per year! But that was not always so. In a difficult period in the early 1990s, the team was in tatters. The local fans purchased the rights to Stamford Bridge - Chelesa's stadium - from the bankrupt property-developer owner. They still own it today. Many of those owners walked with Ranen and me down Fulham Road to and from the game (it is a 10-minute walk for us).

There is also the concept of promotion and relegation. Each season, the three teams that finish on the bottom of a league are "relegated" to the league below. The top three in the league below are "promoted" to the league above. Hull City was promoted to the top league - the Premiership - at the end of last season. It was the first time the team has played in the top league of English football in the club's 105-year history. So while a 0-0 draw was a disappointment for Chelsea fans, for the few thousand Hull City supporters drawing against one of the best teams in the world at Stamford Bridge was sheer ectasy. Ranen and I could hear Hull City fans singing for most of our walk home.

But perhaps the best part of English football is the point when you realize and relish just how precious a goal really is. Although in the end no team managed to get the ball into the net, you could practically taste the tension in every attack, every cross (a pass across the goal) and every corner kick - Ranen never once took his eye off the pitch (field, for the Scrantonians). In a scoreless draw, this stadium of 42,000 people nearly shook with the singing of club songs by loyal fans. One of my favorites was Chelsea's eloquent rant to all visiting fans - "Oh.. your shit, your shit, your shit". All of this happened, by the way, without a single commercial break and no time outs - neither are allowed to interrupt the constant flow of English football.

So my void is filled; my football passion returned. And while I will never be able to relate to English football in the way I did as a starting halfback in the American version, I am already looking forward to the next stage of my sporting passion - watching my sons play. And while I promise not to get into fights with referees, I can't committ to holding my tongue about Ranen and Gideon's forward attacking promise at our sunday BBQs.

A Scranton Boy (and Football fan) in Chelsea

P.S. I came out of retirement to face Ranen in the goal at his 5th birthday party. He scored, of course, and I woke up with a torn hamstring (see video below). Oh well.. back to being a spectator. By the way, we have first row tickets to see Liverpool and Torres play at Fulham Stadium in a few weeks... can't wait.

Lessons from those skinny-dipping Swedes

Winston Churchill once said "there is no sphere of human influence in which it is easier to show superficial cleverness and the appearance of superior wisdom as in matters of currency and exchange". All the same, I have made a good living providing wisdom with respect to currency and exchange to clients around the world. As one can imagine, these client encounters are usually a little unstimulating and typically forgettable. In the old days, Japanese customers would fall asleep. I originally thought I was just boring them, but have since learned it is customary for the most senior Japanese manager to exercise his seniority by snooring during a meeting. Many hedge fund managers like to tell me I'm stupid. But after their record losses last year, I can at least tell them I am in good company. And French customers just pretend they don't know what I am saying, which I suppose is fair since half the time I'm not sure either.

Every now and then, however, I have one of those client experiences that leaves a lasting impression on me. One such "meeting" occurred in Stockholm a few years ago. (Before you Scrantonians google it, Stockholm is the capital of Sweden). It was originally meant to be the usual fare - a research dinner where I spoke and everyone else ate. Normally, I liked to invite junior members of my team to attend client events. This time I chose a young, female, traditional Indian analyst (YFTIA for short). This was her first client trip.

As it was a beautiful sunny July day, the lead salesperson made a last minute change. Rather than dining in the city we took a boat a few hours up the archipelago for a simple meal on a tiny island. It all started out well: Some nice food, followed by shots of schnapps and then singing of traditional Swedish drinking tunes. I must admit I had no idea what I was singing, but it seemed close enough to what I used to hear at 2am at any Scranton pub. Let's just say, things turned a little peculiar following the dessert course. The manager of the hedge fund arose from the table, removed all his clothes and dove into the water. The males on his firm's team followed suit. Every sales person from my bank dutifully jumped in too (all males, in case you were wondering). Yours truly was left at the table with the one woman from the hedge fund and my YFTIA - all looking out the window at a bunch of naked men sitting on a set of rocks. Being an American businessman, I quickly recovered from my schnapps-induced haze and began wondering how I'd explain to human resources the lawsuit my YFTIA was about to file.

In the end, it all turned out fine. The woman from the hedge fund assured me that skinny dipping Swedes were as customary as snooring Japanese managers. The hedge fund manager - who, for the record, doesn't think I am stupid, nor I he - offered me a swimsuit, allowing me to experience the July, still ice-cold waters of Stockholm. And in the end, my YFTIA found the entire experience amusing. Although she did moveback to Delhi not long after.

Upon returning to Stockholm this past January, I thought back upon this experience with a realization that we Americans have much to learn from the Swedes. For one, Americans are way too serious about their work. In Sweden, minimum cumpulsary vacation is five weeks per year. Parents are given a combined 480 days of parental leave - yes dads too. I am ashamed to admit that by the age of two, Ranen termed airplanes "Dadda", while Gideon does the same now to the telephone. He also has a habit of pushing other kids off their dads so he can sit on a dad's lap. And yes, in Sweden, sometimes in the course of doing business, you drink, sing and shed those pin-striped suits for an innocent dip in the water. Can you ever imagine skinny dipping with clients in the Hudson river for the sake of good fun and client relationship building?

We should also remember in the early 1990s Sweden experienced one of the worst banking crises in modern history. The root cause was similar to the crisis in America today. So too, I fear will be the aftermath - a huge government bailout, a surge in unemployment, rising tax burdens and a permanent fall in living standards. What struck me most about my latest visit to Stockholm, however, was the high sense of nostalgia and low sense of angst amongst my Swedish clients. They have been through their own banking crisis and have come out of it. They all feel a little less rich, but also seem more balanced than most Americans I know.

I honestly don't know how America will look in a few years time, when this crisis finally begins to settle. What I do know is America and I will be forever changed. And while I too will look back with some nostalgia on life before (and during) this banking crisis, I am happy to say my experiences in Sweden remind me that no matter what, it is likely to be ok. And when it feels like it isn't, maybe just maybe, I will take a day off, strip off my clothes and take a dip in the Thames.

A Scranton Boy in Chelsea

P.S. The picture up top was taken during a trip Dina and I took to Stockholm. It was far too cold for skinny dipping, but we did enjoy a schnapps or two.

Lee Jeans on Ice

As I watched London's storm of the century from the comfort of my home the other day, I realized this city has made me a little soft. Scranton is the land of the alpha male, where snow storms and biting cold weather are an opportunity to prove your toughness. When I was a kid, a snow day meant a quick breakfast then dawn to dusk outside, regardless of temperature. By high school, January ushered in Pennsylvania's annual three-week ski season. It was a time to use those rented skis to slide for 60-odd seconds down a hill of ice.. topped off by standing in line to brave those uncovered lifts- all in six degree farenheit temperature while sporting a pair of Lee jeans. After all, cool guys from Scranton didn't wear those girlie ski pants.

Even when I began working in New York City, those wintry days offered opportunities to prove my manliness. During the blizzard of 1996 I dutifully prepared to brave the 26 inches of snow to get to Manhattan from Hoboken and perform my menial research job. Dina watched from a distance in comic despair. Technically I only made it a few blocks before giving up and grabbing some food at the local diner - with Dina still laughing at me. Nonetheless, I was comforted in knowing I had given it the old Scranton try.

As the storm hit London late Sunday evening, however, my old Scranton instincts abandoned me. I arose at my usual 5:15 am, took one look outside, and like at least 20% of Britain, decided to call it a day. I convinced myself I had good excuses. Thanks to broadband, I can do my job from home. And the city of London can be pretty testing, even for the steeliest of Scranton males. You must remember, this storm of the century amounted to about seven inches of snow (the century thing is technically correct, as it was the biggest snowfall since 1991). It was also predicted by the crack BBC weather squad well in advance. Even so, the entire city of London shut down. No buses, no trains, no taxis, no planes. Businesses were running at 50% capacity. As the British press seized the moment, Mayor Boris Johnson first blamed the type (wet), then the quantity (a lot) of snow to rationalize London's inability to cope with an every day affair in many parts of Europe. It is a good thing that London opted to host the summer Olympics!

But even if good technology and crap London transport services made my decision to stay home perfectly sensible, I still feel a little wimpy. I suppose that I realized a part of me didn't want to scuff up my Cole Hahns and D&G overcoat. It also makes me wonder whether nearly 20 years of urban life has left me ill-equipped to turn my two little boys into the alpha males they deserve to be. The evidence thus far is not reassuring. Ranen is tough for a 4-year old. But he does have a thing for matching clothes (my fault) and an obession with germs (Dina's fault). On Christmas morning he showed up in his matching White Company cotton jammies and stopped me from eating the remainder of Santa's cookie for fear of my catching his germs. As for Gideon, London's storm of the century left a lasting scar. His natural curiosity got him outside. But after taking his first few steps in snow, he retreated to the house for the next two days. During that time he repeated the pharse "dark outside, snow, wet" and refused to go back out (check out the video below, which shows his chat with mom about snow).

So I am making a storm of the century resolution. It is time to regain my alpha Scranton self and toughen up the boys. I've decided to cancel the Ski Chalet in Chamonix France, buy myself and the boys matching Lee jeans and get three full-day lift tickets for Pennsylvania's Elk Mountain Ski "resort".................. Just kidding.

-

A Scranton Boy in Chelsea

P.S. By the time I published this, Britain was experiencing its second major snow storm in less than a week. It mainly missed London, but somehow didn't stop the transport system from having massive delays. I should have stayed home - now I need my shoes polished.