What to Pack?

There are lots of bad things about travel.  Security lines, delays, unfamiliar roads, and sleeping in a strange bed are a few of them.  But, the worst thing about taking a trip is packing for it.

I have a hard enough time picking out what to wear each morning on a regular day.  Having to pick clothes for several days in a row all in one fell swoop is almost too much to handle.  So, it was no suprise that, at 4AM this morning, I found myself wide awake in bed.  I was wondering what to pack for our trip tomorrow to Los Angeles.  Over and over, I went through each day in my head, thinking about what we're going to be doing while we're there.  The questions kept coming:

• Should I bring shorts or zipper pants?  I know everyone in the family hates my zipper pants but, come on, they're shorts and pants all in one.  Will they let me hang out with them in public if I decide to wear them as shorts?
• Will anyone really notice if I wear the same t-shirt 3 days in a row?  I've done it before and gotten away with it (I think).
• What if we find somewhere "nice" we want to eat?  Should I bring something other than jeans just in case?  If I do, doesn't that mean I also need to bring a button down shirt?  And nice shoes?  And a belt?  This is ridiculous.
• What running clothes should I bring?  It's supposed to get down to the mid-40's at night.  Will I need a sweatshirt?  I'm not going to need a hat, am I?
• The weather forecast is good for Monday but what if it rains?  Should I bring rain gear for the Rose Bowl?  Should I at least throw in a poncho?
• How am I going to fit everything into my carry-on?  I've already laid down the law with everyone else in the family about no checked bags and no unnecessary items in their carry-ons.  The fearless leader of the family can't be a hypocrite, can he?

I've got 12 hours til it's time to actually pack my bag.  Right now, I'm no closer to any decisions.  Maybe Kim will help me figure all this out tonight.  If past experience is any indication, I know she'll be thrilled when I ask for her help.

A Christmas Present From Wally

Last Christmas, we were in the throes of Wally's medical mystery tour.  In the two weeks leading up to Christmas, Wally had been back and forth to the vet a half-dozen times and had spent several nights at the emergency vet.  No one could tell us what was wrong with him.  All we knew was that he was listless, wasn't eating, and had dangerously low protein levels.  During one visit to the emergency vet, we'd even been told to prepare to put him down.  Just before Christmas, however, Wally seemed to bounce back.  By Christmas day, he was almost back to normal.

That normalcy lasted until about 1PM Christmas day.  All of a sudden, Wally was on the ground, crying and unable to move.  Not knowing what else to do, Kim bundled him into the car and took him off to the 24-hour urgent care center in Gaithersburg.  We were certain that was it for him.

While Kim was off with Wally, the kids and I struggled to make it through the rest of Christmas day, pretending like everything was fine.  I ended up doing battle with Christmas dinner, preparing a fancy salad, twice-baked potatoes, and a beef brisket while wondering if Kim would make it home in time to sit down with us -- and if she'd do so with Wally in tow.

As it turned out, Wally was fine.  After spending the vast majority of our 2011 vacation budget on his care, it turned out that he had doggy IBD!  All he needed was a change of diet.  An earlier diagnosis would have been nice.  But, we're glad to have him healthy and back to normal.

That brings us to this Christmas.  I never go for a run on Christmas morning so I was still in bed shortly after 7AM.  Normally, Wally waits patiently for Kim to get out of bed before getting up for his breakfast.  Not today.  He hopped up off his bed and trotted over to the door to the hall.  There, he stopped and turned around as if to say "Are you going to get up and feed me, or what?"  Since I was already awake, I climbed out of bed, let Ginger out of her crate, and set off downstairs to feed them.

After feeding the dogs and letting them outside, I sat down in the kitchen to wait for them to do their business and come back to the back door.  I silently prayed that Wally would take the morning off from barking so that our neighbors could have some peace and quiet on Christmas morning.  It was not to be.  Wally was out there acting like the "King of the Yard," barking noisily to ward off all who might challenge his authority.  "This is ridiculous," I thought.  "I'm going to have to go out there and shut him up."

Since Wally was now in the front yard, I headed to the front door.  I unlocked it and stepped out onto the porch.  "Wally," I hissed.  "Stop barking."  Wally paid me no mind but Ginger, of course, trotted right up to me.  I opened the door to let her inside.  That's when I saw my Christmas present from Wally.

Just inside the front door, on the corner of the hall rug, was a pile of Wally's poop.  From the look of it, I guessed it was about 2 or 3 hours old.  How do I know it was Wally's?  Well, Ginger sleeps in a crate.  I'd say that pretty much rules her out.  Wally must have taken an early morning stroll through the house.  I'd left all the Christmas lights on when I went to bed on Christmas Eve so he probably thought someone was waiting for him downstairs.  After checking out the gifts under the tree and finding no one else awake, I guess he decided to leave his own gift for me before heading back to bed.

So, that was how Christmas morning started for me this year.  As I picked up Wally's mess and deposited it outside, I thought about being upset with him.  But, after our adventures last Christmas, and in the spirit of the season, I decided to give him a pass.  Merry Christmas, Wally.  And, thanks for my present. 

Christmas Cookies: A Love Story

Growing up, Christmas cookies were a very big part of the holidays.  In the midst of the general chaos that accompanied Christmas preparation in a house with seven children, my mother and sisters spent countless hours making cookies.  There were sugar cookies, gingerbread cookies, peanut butter balls, fudge bars, snickerdoodles, pumpkin cookies, peanut butter kiss cookies, and peppermint twists.  And that's only some of the types of cookies that they'd make.  It seemed like the baking never stopped: make the dough; assemble the cookies; place them on a cookie sheet; pop them in the oven; let them cool; stick them in a box; repeat.  It seemed to go on and on without stop.

In the midst of all this, a package would arrive from my dad's mom.  It was a box of her cookies.  She made all the traditional Italian cookies (pizzelles, biscotti, and others whose names I don't even know).  I remember how different they seemed from the cookies my mom and sisters would make.  I also remember how good they were.

Anyway, we had a lot of cookies.  The way my mom stored them was interesting.  Cookies went into gift boxes, the type that would hold a new shirt or sweater.  Then, the boxes went out to the entry room that led from the garage to our house.  That room wasn't insulated so it stayed pretty cold.  My mom must have learned that trick from her mom.  It kept the cookies fresh and tasting like they'd just come out of the oven.

For me, it's just not Christmas without a cookie tray loaded up with all different kinds of cookies.  The cookie tray needs to sit out all day during the holiday season.  When it starts to empty, you're supposed to quickly reload it and start nibbling again.  That's Christmas, right?

When Kim and I got married, I realized that the importance we Bucci's had placed on Christmas cookies wasn't shared equally by all.  Kim's been a good sport, though.  Each year, we take out the Bucci Family Christmas Cookie Recipe Book (yes, there really is one) and make a couple batches of our favorites.

Today was the day we did the bulk of the work.  While Kim was busy making sugar cookies, chocolate and peanut butter cookies, and chocolate crinkles, I chipped in by making Spritz cookies (another old favorite of mine).

As usually happens when I try to cook, it was an adventure.  I failed to follow the recipe correctly and neglected to cream the butter and sugar together before dumping all the other ingredients in the bowl.  That caused the dough to be too thick to push through the Spritz machine.  What do do?  Kim suggested that I roll the dough into small logs and slice it into cookies.  That worked out just fine.  While slicing the cookie dough, I practiced my impressions of Martha Stewart, Rachael Ray, Ina Garten, and Paula Deen.  In case you're wondering, I'm pretty sure I'm the best at Ina Garten.

After getting a compliment from Kim on my impressions, I turned to decorating.  After a false start when I put cinnamon sugar (yuck) onto a cookie or two, I got through that part pretty easily.  Then, it was time to put the cookies into the oven.  The first two trays came out fine.  But, I'm impatient. Rather than waiting for one of the trays to cool, I grabbed another one out of the cupboard.  Who knew that a dark cookie tray would cook faster than a light cookie tray?  Sure enough, the third tray burned.  So, I made a quick snack out of the worst of the lot.

All in all, it was a good day.  We've got a full tray of cookies sitting in front of me on the kitchen island.  We've got gift boxes full of reinforcements sitting out in our garage.  Now we just need someone to come over and help us eat our way through them.

The Job Offer from Hell

Have you ever shopped at Hollister?  I tried once.  Here's how it went:

• I walked into the store.  I'm no prude but I had to avert my eyes as I walked past the oversized posters at the entrance showing half-dressed young men and women.  I moved as fast as I could to get past those pictures and, once I was past them, let out a sigh of relief.
• The relief didn't last long.  Within seconds, my eyes started to water.  I don't know what fragrance they were pumping through the ventilation system but, if it had a name, it was probably "Too Much."  That's sure what it smelled like.  I blinked several times, shook my head, and kept moving forward.
• That's when I noticed the overly non-chalant beautiful people who were masquerading as Hollister employees.  They didn't appear to be working.  I watched them for a bit.  They kind of walked around aimlessly, stopping at times to talk to each other.  I felt like I'd stumbled into a Tier One social at Penn State (at least, the way I imagine them to be after listening to Hannah's stories about the social scene at State College).  I missed my old Kappa Sig basement.
• Have I mentioned the loud music yet?  It was pumping from speakers hidden throughout the store.  I hate clubs with loud music.  I hate shopping.  I hate beautiful people parties.  That's when I realized the truth.  Hollister was hell.

It's been a while since that trip to Hollister.  To remind me of what it's like, I just visited the Hollister web site.  On the front page of the site, I was greeted by the following message: "Tonight!  Party with hot lifeguards at every store!"  I'm not making this stuff up.

So, why the Hollister story tonight?  Because, when I got home from work, Hannah told me that, while shopping there today, two Hollister employees came up to her and told her they'd like her to work there.  Oh, my God.  My little girl was recruited by Satan's little helpers.

Sounds of the Season

I love Christmas carols.  I'm talking about songs that reference the true meaning of Christmas -- songs like "We Three Kings," "Hark, The Herald Angels Sing," "O Little Town of Bethlehem," and "Away in a Manger."  There's lots of Christmas music played on the radio this time of year but it's still pretty unusual to hear non-secular Christmas songs.

That's why I was so happy tonight when, over dinner at Bistro Blanc, I realized that they were playing non-stop religious Christmas carols.  At first, I thought I must be mistaken when I heard "It Came Upon A Midnight Clear."  But, when that was quickly followed by "Silent Night" and then "What Child Is This?," I started to smile.  They were really playing old-time Christmas carols.  It was awesome.

My guess is that no one else in the restaurant even noticed what was being played.  I know that no one with whom I was sitting said anything.  But, it was so nice to hear all the songs that I grew up loving to hear at Christmas time.  I'm going to bed happy tonight.

The Art of Wrapping Presents

I just finished up wrapping this year's Christmas presents.  My sister, Lisa, would be very proud to see how nice they look.

When we were growing up, each of us kids used to get a Christmas gift for each of our siblings and something for our Mom and Dad.  With five sisters and one brother, that was a lot of presents and a lot of wrapping.  All the years I lived at home, I managed to convince Lisa to wrap my presents for me (except my gift to her, of course).  I think she did this for me both because she was nice and because it meant she got to see what I was giving to everyone else.  Each year, I'd sit and watch her and marvel at how quickly she could get the job done.  All that measuring, cutting, and taping just seemed like too much work to me.

Once I left home, I was on my own.  I quickly found out that wrapping presents really isn't that hard.  After all these years, I've got it down to a system.  First, I spread everything out on the floor: the paper, the scissors, the tape, the labels, and the pen.  Then, I put my purchased gifts in a pile and size them up before getting started.  My primary goal is to use the least amount of wrapping paper possible.  I hate to end up with those little sections that are too small to wrap anything and have to be thrown away.  I just don't like throwing away wrapping paper.  I think that stems from all those Christmas mornings where my father would scavenge through the flotsam and jetsam on the floor, finding paper that could be used again the next year.  I don't think my parents bought wrapping paper any more frequently than once every five years.

This year, the gift wrapping didn't go too badly:

• Twice, I ripped the paper while cutting it.  I blame the paper quality.
• One gift required about 20 pieces of tape.  The gift is an odd shape, so I think I did OK.  And, Kim, if you're reading this, it's not a tennis racquet no matter what it looks like.
• In my quest to use the least amount of paper possible, I managed to cut out one square that was too small to completely cover the package.  To make things right, I cut a couple random strips of paper and used them to fill in the gaps.  I don't think anyone will notice.
• And, yes, I had to throw away a couple small pieces of paper.  I made sure to tell each of them I was sorry while dumping them in the trash.

Choices

Throughout life, we are faced with choices.  Some are simple.  Some are more difficult.  Our choices have consequences.  Today, I had to make a choice.  I'm pretty sure I made the wrong one.

After my meeting, I headed back to Trenton to take the train home.  I'd never been to Trenton before and, based on what I saw as I drove through town and during my brief time at the train station, I'm not sure I want to go back.  But, enough about Trenton.  When I boarded the train, I mistakenly got on the Quiet Car.  I didn't realize I was on the Quiet Car until I was settled into my seat with my laptop open, busily catching up on e-mails.  I didn't think much of it as I didn't have any calls planned.  I rode peacefully down to Philadelphia and through Wilmington without incident.

At about 2:10PM, I got an e-mail asking if I could join a call at 2:30PM.  Hmmm, I thought.  I'm not going to get into BWI Rail Station until about 2:45PM.  I needed to be on the call.  But, I was sitting on the Quiet Car.  No cell phone use is allowed.  No problem, I thought.  I can move to another car.  So, I shot a note back saying "Yes, I'll be on the call."

As soon as I hit the 'send' button, the questions started.  Do I really need to move?  I'm a quiet talker.  I'll only be on the phone for 15 minutes before getting off the train.  It's not like the train is really all that quiet anyway, what with the constant clammering of the rail car over the tracks.  Is anyone really going to notice?  The Quiet Car was only about one-half full.  I'm sure they'd all be fine.  What would Alec Baldwin do?  That did it for me.  I knew exactly what Alec Baldwin would do.  He'd stay put, I'm sure of it.

So, I choose to stay on the Quiet Car and rebelliously take my 2:30PM call.  When the call started, I quietly (yes, quietly) told the others on the call that I was on the Quiet Car and was going to stay on mute most of the time.  But, soon, I had to ask a question.  I bit my tongue.  I silently hoped that someone else would ask the question for me.  Eventually, I lost my patience and asked away.  As soon as I was done, I looked around to see if anyone had noticed.  It didn't seem that they had so I soon asked another question.  After another minute or two, I volunteered an opinion.  Damn the Quiet Car!  I was on a roll.  I went straight ahead with another comment.

That's when it happened.  The nice lady in front of me turned around and said "This is the Quiet Car."  I smiled meekly and gave her a thumbs up.  I have no idea why I gave her a thumbs up.  I don't think she did, either.  She just shook her head in disgust and turned back around.  At that moment, the conductor saved me.  He announced that we were pulling into BWI Rail Station. Thank God!

I stood up (still on the phone, of course, but back on mute), gathered my things, and slithered off the train.  I'd made a choice.  Unfortunately, it was the wrong one.  I'm sorry, nice lady on the train.  Please forgive me.

Monitoring The In-Box

I've done most of my Christmas shopping this year on www.Amazon.com.  Up until this year, I thought Amazon just sold books.  How wrong I was.  They sell everything.  While that should have made things easy for me, it's actually complicated things.  In fact, I think Amazon may actually be ruining my Christmas.

Kim's had an Amazon account for years.  So, when I started making purchases last week, I simply entered her login and password.  That pre-populated our mailing address and billing information.  All I had to do was check on the items I wanted, send them to the "shopping cart," and press the check-out button.  How simple.  In went item #1, quickly followed by items #2, #3, #4, and #5.  This was awesome.   In no time at all, I was pretty much done with shopping.  Or, so I thought.

You see, what I failed to realize was that Amazon also has Kim's e-mail address.  And, Amazon loves to send you e-mails.

• First, there's the e-mail confirming your order.
• Then there's the e-mail telling you that your credit card's been charged.
• Next, you get the e-mail telling you that your order has shipped.

Amazon sends you one of these e-mails for each item you purchased.  Even better, they reference the actual item in the subject line of the e-mail.

What a mess this has become.  I spent all day yesterday running to Kim's computer, checking her e-mail, and hurriedly moving items out of her in-box.  Even that wasn't enough.  Once or twice, while she was sitting at her desk doing e-mails, she yelled out "You got another one."  I'm sure she knows everything she's getting.

I've now added another item to my Christmas wish list for this year -- my very own Amazon account.  I think that would make two people very happy.

Notes From the Road

Monday, I worked from home.  Tuesday, I drove to Charlottesville for a meeting and then headed back north to spend the night at a hotel near Dulles so I could get an early flight on Wednesday morning to Atlanta.  After two nights in Atlanta, I'm back home to sleep in my own bed.  Thank God.

Here are highlights from the trip.

• Arrive at meeting location in Charlottesville.  Get out of car.  Walk across parking lot.  Step in puddle.  Sit through 90-minute meeting with one soaking wet foot.  Try to concentrate on meeting.  Succeed only intermittently.
• Park at hotel in Ashburn, VA.  Go up to room.  Read and respond to e-mails.  Start to get hungry.  Decide against ordering room service in a continued one-man protest against the ridiculous tax and service charge that is applied to any room service order.  Keep doing e-mails.  Finally must eat.  Refuse to get back in car to find take-out food.  Remember that there was an APlus mini-mart attached to the Shell station across from the hotel.  Walk to APlus mini-mart.  Realize that APlus mini-marts have a pretty disgusting food selection.  Accept defeat.  Dejectedly walk back to hotel.  Order room service.
• Get up early and drive to Dulles.  Cruise through security and straight to gate.  Begin to contentedly mind own business.  Notice the young mother who shows up with the toddler at the gate.  Listen to the mom loudly tell her child over and over that he needs to be quiet and that he's disturbing everyone else.  Exercise great self-restraint by not telling the mom that it's her, not the kid, who's making all the noise.  Wonder why she isn't smart enough to realize that.
• Board plane.  Arrive at seat.  Notice that seat is located directly in front of loud talking mom.  Notice that loud talking mom is still talking.  Take seat.  Put on seatbelt.  Begin to weep.
• Go to meeting.  At end of long day, go to hotel to check in.  Get room key.  Take elevator.  Get off elevator.  Find that room is located as far from the elevator as humanly possible.  Curse.  Walk.  Walk.  Curse.  Walk.  Finally find room.  Pause for breath.  Put key in door.  Open door.  Walk into foyer with powder room.  See separate living room with wet bar.  Walk into spacious bedroom with sitting area.  Tour spacious full bath that is bigger than living room at home.  Resolve to never leave room.
• Wake up the next day.  Must leave room and go to more meetings.  At end of day, board bus to go to group function.  Realize that, once on bus, there is no chance of return until end of function.  Too late.  Bus is leaving.  Trapped.  Spend time at function daydreaming of return to spacious room.
• Arrive back at spacious room.  Realize that you've done nothing but sleep and shower in it.  Vow to return again some other time.
• Wake up.  Shower.  Pack suitcase.  Go to airport.  Get on plane.  Arrive safely back at Dulles.  Walk to parking garage.  Load suitcase in car.  Get in.  Turn car on.  Back up.  Begin to pull away.  Warning bells begin.  Message flashes on dashboard -- "Low Tire Pressure."  Roll eyes.  Think how good it is to be home.

Cutting Down the Christmas Tree, Elmira Style

Yesterday, we went to the tree farm and cut down the tree.  Thank God I've got two teenage boys to help me because each year it seems like our tree gets bigger -- or I get weaker.  It's one or the other.  In any event, it was very nice to have two more sets of capable hands help me carry the tree back to the car.

As usual, while I tied the tree to the car, I had to field questions from the peanut gallery.  They're all variations on a theme:

• "Are you sure the tree is going to stay on the car?"
• "Is it tied tightly enough?"
• "Shouldn't it be centered on the roof?"

I patiently (for me, at least) assured them that everything was going to be fine.  Then, as we drove home, more questions came:

• "Are you sure it's still there?" 
• "Is it moving?"
• "What would you do if it fell off?"

The last question is my favorite.  I like how it's what would you do, not what would we do.

Every time I go through this, I think back to growing up in Elmira and the tree cutting adventures we had when I was young.  We used to cut down our tree at Mt. Saviour Monastery out in Pine City.  All the kids would pile into the car with my dad.  My mother was either too smart to make the trip or my father was too smart to let her.  It was about a 20 minute drive from our house.  We headed over the Chemung River, out through Golden Glow, and then up the big hill on Monastery Drive.

Mt. Saviour Monastery was a 250 acre tract of land on which some Benedictine monks raised sheep and got closer to God.  My parents had a knack for making friends with monks and nuns (don't ask).  Somehow, they got permission to have us go up each year and cut down a tree.  Mt. Savior was not a tree farm.  When you went up there to cut down a tree, you were simply parking the car, heading off into the woods and looking for a pine tree.

The first year or two we went up there, there might have been a decent looking tree.  But, after we took those down, we were pretty much out of luck.  You have to remember -- these were the woods.  You'd hike around looking for pines.  There were quite a few 2 - 4 foot trees.  There were plenty of 20 foot trees.  The trick was to find a good 10-12 footer that didn't mind having the top cut off.  That's what we'd usually end up doing.

After we got the tree down, the real fun started.  First, we had to get the tree back to the car, which was usually a station wagon.  We never had a roof rack.  But, we had to tie the tree down.  My dad would get the tree on top of the car, stick some of the kids back inside the car, have them roll the windows down, and then tie the tree down, running twine right through the car.  After the tree was suitably tied down, the kids in the middle row would roll up the window, the rest of the kids would pile into the way back of the car, and home we would go, anxiously hoping that the tree wouldn't slide off the car (or that the car, itself, wouldn't break down which always seemed to be a distinct possibility in those days).

As I've gotten older, I've often wondered what was going through my father's head on these trips.  None of it could have been pleasant.  Most of it probably couldn't have been printed.  But, somehow he got through it.  My guess is he'll never forget those trips.  I know I haven't.

Taking A Stand

It's been an interesting week at the new job, one filled with a healthy mix of chaos, confusion, and excitement.  I've quickly realized just how uneventful the past 19 months really were.  That was the problem, ultimately.  Things were just too boring.  It's good to be back in an environment where's there's uncertainty, risk, and opportunity.

I've come to realize that, as much as I can complain about it, I like work.  I like making a contribution.  I like belonging to a group that's focused on a common objective.  I have a hard time imagining a life without work.  It's where I get a lot of my personal fulfillment.  That's why I was so struck today by the news story I saw while eating my breakfast this morning.  The story was about Occupy Wall Street.  The reporter was at one of the camps (I'm not even sure which city it was) interviewing a scruffy young guy who appeared to be about 20-25 years old.  The young guy defiantly looked into the camera and announced that he refused to get a job until the government institutes a livable minimum wage.  I almost choked on my Cheerios.

Can someone out there explain this guy's rationale to me?  I've spent all day trying to figure it out and I just can't do it.  I get that the minimum wage is not sufficient to achieve a reasonable standard of living.  I get that this guy is upset about that.  But, deciding to refuse to work -- at any job -- until it's raised?  Really?  That's the answer?  What about obtaining a skill that allows you to get a job that pays more than the minimum wage and then spending your "protest" time teaching that skill to others?  How about aspiring to start a business in an industry that typically hires employees at the minimum wage but committing to pay your employees at above-market wages?  What's the matter?  Do you think it would be too hard to develop a consumer market for that?

Anyway, I've got to go.  I'm organizing Nick and Jay to join me on a hunger strike.  We're refusing to eat until we start getting served filet mignon every night.  I wonder how long that will last?