Maybe Public Schools Aren't So Bad After All

After all the drama of the general strike, we finally arrived in Sevilla.  The train was on time, the taxi ride from the train station was uneventful, and we arrived at our apartment at exactly the same time as the woman who needed to let us in the building.

Since arriving, we've spent the past 30 hours exploring Sevilla.  It's a wonderful place with winding streets so narrow that even us small-sized Bucci men can stand in the middle and reach out and touch both sides of the buildings on either side.  I didn't know what to expect when we arrived but, so far, I'm loving it here.  How can you not love a place with restaurants that sell fried calamari by weight and wrap it in a paper "cone" so that you can munch on it as you go?

On a completely unexpected note, Sevilla appears to be the capital of clothing stores for little children.  I've seen nearly a dozen of them and the youngsters who live here take full advantage of that.  In some cities you'd sit at a little cafe, sip your wine, and watch the women walk by as you admire their fashions.  Here, it's the little kids who are the most fun to watch.  We saw one young boy walking with his parents early this afternoon as they left what appeared to be a wedding.  He had his hair slicked back and was wearing a navy blue suit with short pants.  He had on knee-high navy socks and shiny black loafers.  In America, he would have looked ridiculous.  Here, I was jealous of him.

Even with all the good food, ambience, and charm, the real highlight has been watching Nick speak Spanish with the natives.  If it weren't for Nick, we'd be pretty lost.  He's gotten us tables at restaurants, settled our bills at the counter, and translated our directions for taxi drivers.  At lunch today, he got engaged in a long conversation with Javier and Rosario, an older couple at the table next to ours who are in town for Holy Week.  Over the course of an hour, Nick, Javier, and Rosario held court on a variety of topics.  In addition to covering the basis (where we were from, when we'd arrived, where we were staying, how we got here), Nick, Javier, and Rosario took us through topics including:

• Whether or not it was legal for Nick to be drinking the beer he'd ordered for lunch.  We had just assumed that it was but it turns out he's supposed to be 18.  Oh, well.
• What it means to be Catalonian.  Javier is from Barcelona and was very proud to let us know that he was Catalonian.  He also pointed out that Rosario was not, although he seemed OK with that.
• Why Americans eat such large meals and why Sevillans don't really eat fruits and vegetables.

It was great fun to watch how capable Nick was of carrying on such a long and winding conversation in Spanish.  In fact, I may have to beg forgiveness for all the grief Mrs. Machado has received at our dinner table over the years.

All Together Now: Huelga! Huelga! Huelga General!

As the last passenger boarded our flight to Madrid late Wednesday afternoon, our pilot got on the intercom to give his customary welcome message.  After thanking us for choosing Aer Lingus, he gave us the estimated flight time to Madrid and updated us on the current local weather.  Before signing off, he had one more message for us: “A general strike has been called for Madrid tomorrow so, when we arrive at 7:30AM Madrid time, you should expect to find at least 80% of public services out of commission.  That includes the metro system, taxis, and trains.  Other unions will join the strike in solidarity so please bear with us as we arrive as service at the airport will be significantly diminished.”

Living in my little cocoon, I hadn’t been paying any real attention to what was going on in Spain.  I knew that, along with Portugal, Ireland, Italy, and Greece, Spain is one of the European Union’s PIIGS.  I knew that the Spanish government had been pushing austerity measures as they looked to get their debt under control.  But, what did that really mean to me?  Our stock market is up, I’ve got a job, and all seems well in our little world in Dayton, MD.  How could that European malaise really impact me and, more specifically, my perfectly planned vacation?

We got to Madrid on time.  As soon as we landed, though, you could tell something was up.  It took over 5 minutes at the gate before the ground crew came through the jetway to open the door.  There was absolutely no movement on the tarmac, with no baggage attendants anywhere in sight.  We congratulated ourselves on having only carry-on baggage and headed through customs.  That, too, was a breeze.  We had a bit of a debate about whether to take the metro or a taxi.  Seeing a long line of taxis at the arrival zone, we opted for a cab.  Once again, that worked out perfectly.  Nick handled the translation services for us and, in no time at all, we were within sight of Atocha Rail Station.

That’s when the fun began.  There’s a huge traffic circle just outside the station entrance.  Traffic was at a standstill.  The circle had been taken over by hundreds of protesters on bikes.  Round and round the circle they rode, blowing whistles, humming on kazoos, and chanting “Huelga!  Huelga!  Huelga!”  If you don’t know what that means, check your Spanish-English dictionary.

After a few minutes, the local police stepped in to break up the bicyclists.  Our cabbie darted through a gap in the traffic and deposited us at the train station.  We found it nearly deserted.  The strike had shut down all high-speed train traffic throughout Spain.  There would be no trains to Seville for us today.

It was 8:45AM.  We were 4,000 miles away from home, operating on no sleep, in a strange city, with nowhere to go.  It was going to be a banner day.

Over 9 hours later, I’m sitting in a 70 Euro a night dorm-style hotel room in Madrid typing this.  We got lucky and found two rooms only a 10-minute walk from the train station.  They’re a bit scary but it beats the street or the train station.  We’ve managed to get tickets to Seville on a 6:25AM train tomorrow morning (the woman at the customer service desk who helped us this afternoon had the patience of a saint; I would have bolted my position in minutes).  That’s an early departure time but I’m not complaining.

Right now, literally thousands of people are streaming by our window, chanting, shouting, blowing whistles, playing trumpets, and banging drums.  I see Che Guevara t-shirts and signs that read "I Am A Marxist."  They're all on their way to the government complex to stage a mass protest.  Police sirens are screaming continuously.  It’s quite a scene.

I can only imagine what the boys are thinking.  It’s either “Wow, Spain is pretty cool” or “Wow, please don’t ever take me to Spain again.”  I’m sure it’s not something in the middle.

Cruel & Unusual Punishment

We leave for Spain tomorrow.  That means that, tonight, we have to pack our suitcases.  I hate to pack so it's not a fun night for me.  The boys also hate to pack so they're not having any fun either.  I don't think Kim minds packing her own suitcase.  However, I always manage to suck her into helping me pack so the whole thing can't be much fun for her either.

No matter how much we all hate to pack, none of us have it as bad as poor old Wally and Ginger.

Ginger is a strange, strange dog. The poor thing lives in constant fear, flinching at shadows, sudden movements, and any noise at all.  Packing brings out the worst in her.  As soon as we begin, Ginger goes into a tailspin.  She hops up out of her bed, a panicked look in her eyes.  She takes a few anxious steps, looking back over her shoulder the whole time.  She knows that those suitcases mean one of two things.  She's either headed off to the kennel, where she'll be surrounded by a bunch of strange, constantly barking dogs, or she's going to be left to fend for herself at home, under the (hopefully) watchful eye of a sitter.  Either way, she knows it's not going to be pleasant.  You can see the understanding of what's about to happen sinking in as you look at her.  Finally, she can't take it any more and tears out of the room.  She'll hide (probably on the living room couch) until we begin to turn out the lights.  Only then will she accept her cruel fate and climb back up the stairs for one last night in her crate before her "vacation" begins.

Wally, on the other hand, sticks with you through all the activity.  While you pack, he does his best to look cute, sticking his nose into your pile of clothes, and fixing you with a look that says "So, when do we leave?"  As many times as we've left him behind, he seems absolutely convinced that this time it's finally going to be different.  "Come on," he seems to be saying.  "Just two days ago, I learned how to fetch a ball.  Remember how much fun that was?  After all that hard work, you're still going to leave me?"  Good old Wally.  He has such confidence.  I guarantee you that, as he lays on his bed, snoring away while I type this, he is certain that he'll be leaving with us tomorrow.  Not quite, Wally.  He may be cute but he is not the smartest dog in the world.

Just a Hypothetical For You to Consider

Let's say you go to the doctor for a regularly scheduled check-up.  And, let's say you only go because, if you don't, you know that when you really do need care, the doctor's office will treat you like a new patient all over again and make you fill out all that horrible paperwork that the medical system just can't seem to do without.

So, you go to the doctor and you spend all of 15 minutes with him.  He asks you a bunch of questions (the same ones, of course, that his assistant just asked you).  He performs no tests and orders no lab work.  He tells you everything's great.  You leave.

Then you get the illustrative billing statement from the doctor's office.  This is the one where the doctor tells you how much he's charging for the visit and that you don't need to worry because he's submitting the charge to your insurance company.  You're a little bit surprised when you see the bill.  It's for $2,300.  It says "Chemotherapy / IV" on it.

You call the number on the billing statement.  The billing guy who answers the phone looks in his system and says "Yes, it says right here you got chemotherapy."  You say "I know that.  That's why I'm calling you.  I didn't get chemotherapy."  He responds by asking if you're sure that you didn't get chemotherapy.  You stifle a laugh and say "Yes, I'm pretty darn sure."  He tells you that they'll research things and get back to you.  He promises to do so within a month and seems pleased with himself.  You stifle another laugh and hang up the phone.

Then you get the real bill.  Your insurance company has paid its 80% share and you're now on the hook for your 20%.  You ignore the bill -- for now.  But, you decide to do the insurance company a favor .  You call them to tell them that they should reverse payment on the check they sent to the doctor while it's investigated.  You call up the number on the back of your health plan ID card and immediately enter the IVR system.  You've been through this drill before so, feeling all smart and pleased with yourself, you immediately say "Speak to a representative" as soon as the nice IVR lady comes on the line.  The nice IVR lady politely ignores you and says she needs "a little information" first before she can transfer you to a representative.  About one dozen "little" questions later, she tells you that she actually can't transfer you to a representative because it's after regular office hours.

What do you do?  Do you curse?  Do you wonder why you even bothered in the first place to try and make this thing right?  Do you wonder if anyone even cares that you're paying attention to your bill?  Or do you write a blog post?  Hmmm.

Killing Time

I finally finished the mulch today -- in the rain.  All told, it took 24 hours over parts of 4 days.  For most of today, I worried that I didn't have quite enough mulch to finish the job.  The last thing I wanted was to run out and have to order another delivery.  So, I tried my hardest to stretch out the last few yards.  Of course, I ended up going a bit too light around the back patio and had plenty left over.  So, I ended up putting down "two coats" around back.

Twenty-fours of mulching meant I had a lot of time alone my thoughts.  In all that time, I covered a slew of topics, several of them more than once.  One of the more frequent topics was work or, more specifically, all the things that I wish I was doing with my team, customers, and prospects to generate better results.  I know I came up with a ton of good ideas but, as I sit here typing this, I can't remember any of them.  A lot of good all that thinking did me, right?  What a waste.

So, I can't remember any of the work-related ideas that would have helped me accomplish great things professionally.  But, that doesn't mean I can't remember anything from all my time mulching.  I can recall all sorts of completely meaningless internal discussions I had, including:

• All the reasons why Syracuse will still win the NCAA basketball championship even though they're without Fab Melo.  I spent lots of time on this one but, ultimately, I wasn't able to convince myself.  We'll see.  Right now, it's 29-29 at halftime with Ohio State.
• How many more miles Kim can put on the Sienna before I finally break down and say "Let's get you a new car."  I ultimately concluded that the answer is another 25,000 miles.
• Whether or not it's good that I don't insist that Jay and Nick help me out with all the mulching.  In case you're wondering, I decided that it's good.  I'm pretty sure it wouldn't end well as I'd probably just hover over them and tell them that they're not doing it right.
• The pros and cons of finally taking down all the scrap pines in the front yard, pulling out all the landscaping beds, and starting over completely from scratch.  Final verdict -- it's tempting but I feel like it would be declaring that I surrender.  So, I can't do it.
• A thorough review of why dogs eat poop.  Having never eaten poop myself, this was a particularly hard one to figure out.  Is it because it tastes good?  Is it because they're hungry?  Or, do they just not want to step in it?  I don't think I'll ever know.  Maybe I'll figure it out next year when another 28 yards of mulch arrives.

Most! Awesomest! Movie! Ever!

It's 2:58AM but I have to post.  "The Hunger Games" was great!  Awesome, awesome, awesome.  Even sitting in the theater for one hour and forty minutes waiting for it to start wasn't that bad (except for the "Twilight" trailer).  Jennifer Lawrence was fantastic.  She was the perfect Katniss.  I may have to order a poster and put it over my bed.  Perhaps I'll ask for that for my birthday.

By the way, I was easily the oldest male in the theater.  The audience was 80% female and 90% under the age of 20.  Now I know how Jay and Nick must have felt at the NKOTBSB concert.

You Call That a Bake Sale?

Whenever I see kids operating a lemonade stand, I stop.  I'm a sucker for little kids displaying the entrepreneurial spirit.  I'm the same way with bake sales.  I can't pass up a fundraiser that capitalizes on my sweet tooth.  It's kind of the American way.

Yesterday, there was a sign at my office saying that some members of the staff were having a bake sale, with proceeds benefiting a local charity.  The older I get, the more I like sweets.  So, I made note of that sign and told myself that I would be having dessert with lunch today.

Sure enough, after lunch, I headed into the break room to get myself something good to eat.  I was looking forward to some homemade goodies.  I've never been to a bake sale where I didn't find something amazing to sample.  Not today.

Have you ever heard of a bake sale where every single item was purchased at a food store?  You have now.  Cupcakes loaded with preservatives.  Cookies sitting in molded plastic containers.  Candies straight out of the bulk food aisle.  What a joke!  Of course, now that I'd walked into the break room, I had to buy something.  So, I pulled out my wallet, forked over $3, and found myself the proud owner of 6 "white cupcakes with icing."  The ingredient list on the container was literally 44 lines long.  Here are some excerpts from the list:

• Propylene glycol monoesters of fats & fatty acids
• Sodium stearoyl lactylate
• Maltodextrin
• Partially hydroxenated cottonseed soy oil.

Appetizing, right?

By the way, Nick just walked in the house.  He's home early from work.  I offered him one of my bake sale cupcakes.  His response?  "No way I'm having cupcakes from Wal-Mart."  I hear you, brother.

75 Hours and 28 Minutes to Go

On Saturday, I did something I've never done before.  I went online and ordered movie tickets.  For a midnight show.  On opening night.  What movie, you ask?  "The Hunger Games," of course.

Yes, at 12:01AM on Friday morning, I will be in my seat, eyes glued to the screen, waiting for my first glimpse of Katniss Everdeen.  I can't wait.  It's going to be awesome, except for the fact that movie seats always scare me.  The older I get, the more I find myself wondering who sat there before and how clean they were when they sat down.  Seriously, when I sit in movie seats, I try as hard as I can to keep my head from touching the seat back.  I'm worried that I'm going to get lice or something.  Airplane seats don't bother me that way -- at least, not yet.

Other than my fear of movie seats, the only other problem is figuring out exactly what time to get to the theater.  If I have to sit in one of those rows way up front, with my head tilted back uncomfortably and the images much too close, I'll not be happy.

I'm guessing that the theater will let us in around 11:15PM.  But, I imagine that there will be a line to get inside.  And, that line will probably be made up mostly of teen-age girls.  Who knows when those teen-age girls will start to form the line?  I'm a 44-year old man.  I have no idea what goes on in the mind of a teen-age girl.  All I know is that, like them, I'm going to see the midnight screening of "The Hunger Games."  Like I said before, I can't wait.  I may even have to miss Syracuse's Sweet 16 game to hold my place in line.  I'd complain about that but my right to complain expired right about the time I turned in my Man Card to purchase those movie tickets.

 

The Best Part of the Day

The first weekend of the NCAA tournament means one thing around our house -- it's mulch time.

I like to spread my mulch early, to set off the color of all the early spring flowers.  Unfortunately, spring arrived extremely early this year.  My daffodils have already bloomed.  My lilies have all begun to grow.  The forsythia is awash in color.  Even the bleeding hearts have already emerged.

While everything looks nice, all that early growth meant it was going to take an extra long time to get the mulch down.  With 28 yards of mulch to spread, the last thing I needed was something to slow me down.

I got through about 4 yards late yesterday after work.  That was a nice head start.  I headed out this morning bright and early at 7:30AM to pick up where I'd left off.  Ten hours later, I called it a day.  I estimate I made it through another 12 yards or so.

It was a long day.  But, there were a couple of things that helped to get me through it:

• The outdoor bathroom.  We have two of these.  One is just over our property line through the path to the left of the patio.  The other is directly behind the shed.  I gave both of them a try.
• Nick.  At about 9:45AM, Nick came out and gave me a hand for an hour. I happily turned over the pitchfork and wheelbarrow and grabbed the iron rake.  It was a very nice break.
• Ginger.  While Wally was also outside all day with me, Ginger was a hoot to watch.  She just loves the nice weather.  All day long, she was busy as can be, trotting along with her nose to the ground, almost never stopping.  She's going to sleep well tonight.
• Beer.  There's nothing better at the end of a long day of hard labor than drinking a cold beer in the shower.  All day long, whenever I started to droop, I told myself to remember that beer waiting for me.  It worked every time.

I think at least two of those things will help to get me through the rest of the pile tomorrow.

Marriage, Trust, and Bank of America

Does having a joint checking account mean that both parties are equally entitled to the money in that account?  Apparently not, according to our wonderful bankers at Bank of America.

We ordered Euros through Bank of America for our upcoming trip to Spain.  Yesterday, we got a call from Bank of America telling us that our Euros were in and could be picked up at the local branch in Clarksville.  So, this morning, Kim headed over there.  Much to her surprise, the friendly tellers and branch manager informed her that they weren't allowed to give her the Euros.  Since I had set up our online banking (years ago), all of these sorts of transactions are automatically made in my name when they're handled online.  That meant that only I could be given the Euros.

Now, Kim's a patient person.  If you know her, you know it's very rare for her to get upset, particularly in public.  But, she returned home, stormed into the basement, and told me that she needed to punch someone.  She relayed the entire episode to me, telling me how Bank of America wouldn't let her have her money.  She said she was repeatedly told that both of us should have our own online banking ID.  Their primary reason appeared to be "security" in the event that we got separated or divorced.

I didn't understand that logic at all.  If we each had our own online banking ID's governing a single joint account, how exactly would that stop one of us from taking out money without the other one knowing about it?  Also, if it's so gosh-darned important to Bank of America that each of us be eternally aware of what the other is doing with our money, why are we each allowed to write checks on the account?

In any event, Kim and I decided to head over there together on my lunch "hour" to pick up our money.  I had to hear for myself why we both didn't have equal access to our joint account.  On the way over, we came up with several creative ways to demonstrate to them that we were, in fact, a couple.  You can figure that out on your own.

Sure enough, I got the same speech about how important it was for Bank of America to protect separated and divorced couples who still have joint accounts.  I still didn't get it.  Finally, I handed over my license to the teller so that we could get our Euros.  When the teller at the next station decided to chime in about how "most people have separate online banking ID's for security," I lost it.  I didn't feel the least bit guilty about letting her have it.

Our we the last couple in the world (or, at least, in Clarksville) to have a joint checking account?  Even if we are, why is the bank's primary concern given to people with failing relationships?  Something's not right with our world.

Leadership - The Penn State Way

Today, the Penn State Board of Trustees decided that -- for at least the fourth time by my count -- it needed to explain why Joe Paterno was fired.  The reason -- he failed to demonstrate appropriate leadership.  I won't argue with that. The Board members are entitled to their opinion.  My question now becomes, if lack of leadership is a firable offense, why didn't the Board members fire themselves, as well?

I've fired people before.  In each instance, I've chosen to then tell other impacted team members what just happened and why I came to that decision.  I've had exactly one chance to explain myself.  Knowing that I only had that one chance, I've prepared for that moment.  I've thought through what I was going to say and how.  I've practiced.  I've practiced again.  Then, I've delivered the news.  After doing so, I've never felt that I needed another opportunity to explain myself.  And, I've never had anyone come up to me and say "Can you tell me again why you decided to fire so-and-so?"

What are the responsibilities of the Penn State Board of Trustees?  I wondered that myself.  Here's an excerpt from the Penn State web site regarding their specific responsibilities:

The authority for day-to-day management and control of the University, and the establishment of policies and procedures for the educational program and other operations of the University, shall be delegated to the President, and by him/her, either by delegation to or consultation with the faculty and the student body in accordance with a general directive of the Board.

This delegation of authority requires that the Board rely on the judgment and decisions of those who operate under its authority. However, this reliance of the Board must be based upon its continuing awareness of the operations of the University. Therefore, the Board shall receive and consider thorough and forthright reports on the affairs of the University by the President or those designated by the President. It has a continuing obligation to require information or answers on any University matter with which it is concerned.

Read that last sentence again.  This Board of Trustees has serious credibility problems. They were aware of the Sandusky investigation. They can say that Spanier was at fault for not fully divulging what he knew about the investigation to them. They can say that Paterno was at fault for failing to notify anyone other than his boss.  But, it was the Board's responsibility to do more, as well.

I wish they would all just go away.

P.S. If you haven't read the Board's statement from today, you should.  Their characterization of the phone call with Paterno fully demonstrates the Board's level of incompetence.  You'll remember that, rather than fire Joe Paterno in person, the Board chose to send a messenger to him, telling him to call a phone number at a pre-ordeained time.  Take a look at the Board's explanation of what happened next:

When the coach called, the Board member who received the call planned to tell him that (1) the Board had decided unanimously to remove him as coach; (2) the Board regretted having to deliver the message over the telephone; and (3) his employment contract would continue, including all financial benefits and his continued status as a tenured faculty member. However, after this Board member communicated the first message, Coach Paterno ended the call, so the second and third messages could not be delivered.

Are you kidding me?  Are they surprised he hung up on them?  What was he supposed to do, stay on and say "Before I go to bed, what else have you got for me this evening?"  How about re-ordering the sequence so that you start with #2, follow that with #3, and then end with #1?  Could they really not figure that out?  These people need help. 

One - Nil

I got to see an exciting soccer game today as Jay's Thunder Rockets team beat their fierce rival Annandale by the very typical soccer score of 1-0.  The Rockets worked hard and got the result they deserved.

Watching Jay's game meant I missed the epic battle between Swansea City and Manchester City.  Manchester City came into the game sitting in first place in the Premier League.  But, my Swans pulled the major upset, also winning 1-0.  I definitely picked the right team to call my own.

In case you missed the game, too, here's a clip of the winning goal.  While your view of the goal isn't that great, the video does give you a clear shot of one of the Jacks celebrating the game-winner (at the one minute mark) with a swig from his flask.  Oh, to have been there with him.





Table Manners

We ate a lot of chicken in my house when I was young.  I don't remember my mother ever buying a package of thighs or serving boneless chicken breasts.  Instead, she'd buy the package that came with 8 pieces of chicken -- 2 breasts, 2 thighs, 2 legs, and 2 wings.  The only problem with that is that there were 9 people in our family.

I remember always getting a whole breast piece.  I guess that was the advantage of being the oldest son in an Italian family.  Looking back now, I don't know who got the other breast piece.  I don't think it was my dad.  I also can't remember how my mother made 8 pieces go 9 ways.  I imagine that she skipped out on the chicken when it was passed around and that my father probably limited himself to a wing.  It's kind of amazing that I never even realized in those years that almost everyone at the dinner table was getting a lot less chicken than me and that someone was probably getting none at all.

I think that growing up on one piece of chicken for dinner is what led to my chicken-eating habits.  Simply said, I like to pick up my chicken with my hands.  Breast, thigh, leg, or wing, I do not like to use a fork and knife. I like to pull the meat off the bones with my fingers, snap bones apart at the joint, and nibble on the gristle.  Eating chicken for me is a kind of game -- how can I get every last shred of meat off of the bones in front of me?  Trust me, I win at this game.

I realize that it can't be very pretty to watch me eat chicken.  So, with the exception of wings, I try to never order a piece of chicken with the bone in when I'm out for dinner.  I know that, if I do, I'll have to use a fork and knife, I won't be able to get all the meat off the bone, and I'll have to sit there in dismay as I watch my plate get taken away with all those little scraps still clinging to the bone.

Thursday night, I was at a dinner where we had three choices -- strip steak, salmon, and chicken -- and no menu to describe them.  Mass-produced salmon dinners are always a bit dicey and mass-produced strip steak dinners are always too big.  So, I went for the chicken, expecting a simple boneless breast.  Imagine my surprise, then, when my plate came out.  Sitting on it was a cut of chicken that I'd never seen before.  It almost looked like they'd fused some of the breast portion to a section of the wing.  There was a clear and distinct piece of bone attached to my chicken.

Immediately, I became preoccupied with that bone.  I politely used my fork and knife to get at the white meat.  As dinner went on, I got closer and closer to the bone.  Soon, I'd finished the white meat, all my vegetables, and my potatoes.  All that was left was the bone.  I looked at it.  There was definitely meat still attached.  How could I just leave it there?  I looked around at my dinner companions.  Would they notice if I picked up the bone?  Of course they would.  This was ridiculous.  I had had enough to eat and the meat that was still attached to the bone amounted to no more than two small fork fulls.  It was killing me, though, to just leave it there.  But, I controlled myself and I did leave it there.  I set down my fork and knife and willed my hands to stay in my lap.  As the waitress came and removed my plate, I silently said a sad good-bye to the chicken bone.

Now, here I sit on Saturday morning, still thinking about the one that got away.  I wish I could have spent just a little bit more quality time with it. 

Father of the Year

As you know, Hannah, Nick, and I are Tiger Woods fans.  In our warped little world, that means we have to root against Phil Mickelson just as much as we root for Tiger.  Of course, there's no rational reason for that.  It's just in our DNA.  When it comes to the world of golf, we have made it our mission to "hate" Phil.

Poor Phil.  We rag on him endlessly whenever we see him.  He's fat.  He doesn't pump his fist like a real man.  That goofy grin makes him look like he's always a half-beat behind the rest of the world.  Did I mention that he's fat?

Jay has never been a part of our "We Hate Phil" fan club.  Jay really has no time for televised sports.  He believes you should play sports, not watch them.  He openly mocks Nick and me, in particular, for the amount of time we spend watching sports on TV.  My failure to indoctrinate him into my sports-watching ways is one of my major parenting disappointments. 

Imagine my surprise then when, just a moment ago, a commercial came on the TV.  There he was -- Phil Mickelson.  America's hero.  Before I could say anything, Jay, from his perch on the couch, immediately shouted out "Ewwww."  That's right -- Jay was taunting Phil!

"Success," I thought.  "Jay really has learned from me.  I am the best father ever."  Or am I?

My Spring Break Adventure

I never went on Spring Break when I was in college.  I'm not sure if I really missed out on anything by not going.  To be honest, going on a Spring Break adventure is not something that I ever really wanted to do.  It just seemed like too many people trying too hard to have too good of a time.  That's not me.

So, you can probably imagine my great surprise when I found myself heading off to Spring Break yesterday afternoon.  I'm actually back already so I can report on how it went.

Shortly before 5PM, I threw some clothes into my backpack and tossed the backpack into the minivan.  That's right -- I took a minivan on my Spring Break trip.  Laugh all you want.  I don't mind.  After a final home-cooked dinner, my traveling companion and I headed off for our big adventure.  We were out the door and on the road at 5:57PM, a full 3 minutes ahead of schedule.

We headed north up I-95 to our first stop -- 30th Street Station in Philadelphia.  Yes, you read that right.  We headed north on Spring Break.  At 30th Street Station, I successfully parallel parked the minivan on the street while we waited for the third member of our traveling party to arrive by bus from New York City.  While parked on the street, we entertained ourselves by playing one of my new favorite games, "Man or Woman."  That's when you watch a pedestrian approach and guess if it's a man or a woman.  I know that should seem easy but, in Philadelphia, after 8:30PM at night, near 30th Street Station, it's actually kind of difficult.

Shortly after 9PM, the bus arrived and our companion joined us in the minivan.  Next stop, the suburban retirement community of Waverly Heights.  Yes, we had reservations for Spring Break in a retirement community.  We arrived at Waverly Heights promptly at 9:30PM.  We kind of snuck onto the property since I was afraid that there might be an alarm letting security know that the average age of the residents had just dropped precipitously when we arrived.  Luckily, we didn't trigger any alarms.  The three of us got out and brought our bags into the house.  Shortly thereafter, the six other members of our party arrived for the night.  Again, no alarm bells!  What a relief.  Our group of ten had all arrived safely.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, my traveling companions consisted of Hannah and eight of her sorority sisters.  They were all off to the Dominican Republic for a week of fun in the sun.  My job was simply to "chaperone" them for one night and then,with one other lucky dad from the Philadelphia area, drop them off at the Philadelphia airport for their flight.

Before going to bed, I told the girls that we were leaving promptly at 7AM the next morning.  As I fell asleep, I told myself there was no chance of that happening.  Imagine my surprise, then, when I found every single one of them dressed and ready to go by 6:45AM.  Those girls were highly-focused on getting to Punta Cana.  If you're down there reading this, watch out.

Another thing that was scary was the amount of luggage these girls had.  They were going away for 6 nights.  I guarantee you that, for the entire time they are in the Dominican Republic, they'll be wearing either tiny bikinis or short shorts and t-shirts.  Yet, almost all of them had a big bag they were going to check.  As I loaded those bags into the minivan, I can personally attest to the fact that most of them weighed at least 30 pounds.  What could they have possibly had in those bags?  I'm guessing it was 10 pounds of hair products and make-up, 5 pounds of sun screen and lotion, and 10 pounds of shoes.  The remainder was the skimpy clothing.

By 8AM, I'd dropped the girls off at the airport.  I said a quick prayer for them as they headed inside the terminal.  My Spring Break trip was officially over, just 14 hours after it began.  Now the real fun starts -- waiting anxiously for them to return in one piece. 

Confusion

My routine in the shower has been the same forever: shampoo the hair, wash the face, wash the body.  Pretty simple, right?  Why, then, has it recently become so confusing?

It happened again this morning.  I turned on the water, counted to 30, and stepped into the shower.  I stood under the water and got my hair wet (which, quite honestly, doesn't take that long anymore) and then started to shampoo my hair.  The whole hair-washing thing doesn't take too long, perhaps no more than a minute of scrubbing and then another minute of rinsing.

As soon as I finished with the hair, I squeezed a little dollop of face wash into my hand and started washing my face.  I scrubbed away for a short while, turned to face the shower head, and rinsed away the suds.  Or did I?

That's right.  I found myself standing there in the shower, asking myself where I was in the process.  I knew I had done my hair but I really couldn't remember if I'd washed my face.  I thought I had but I just wasn't sure.  "You've got to be kidding," I said to myself.  "How can you not remember what you were just doing 30 seconds ago?  Were you rinsing your hair or rinsing your face?"  I literally had no idea.  So, just to be safe, I decided to wash my face.

The really scary thing is that this isn't the first time this has happened.  In the past few months, I think it's happened at least 5 times.  I find myself standing there in the shower asking myself the same question -- "Where am I in the routine?"  It's an incredibly basic routine but, obviously, I need to start focusing on it a bit more.

If this is what I have to look forward to in life, it's going to be a long road.

I Am So Awesome ... And So Are You

I love that I'm able to track how many views I get each day on this blog.  It's also fun to see where all the people who read it live.  The first thing I do every time I sit down to write something is to first check how many views I got that day.  I get just a little bit depressed if the number I see is small.  After all, I started this thing because I'm so gosh-darn interesting and my every thought needs to be captured for posterity (I mean that).  So, if no one's reading, what's the point?

Right now, I'm feeling pretty awesome.  The past few months have been great ones for views.  I wonder if that's because I stopped posting about "Selling New York?"  I hope not.  By the way, I saw it last night.  It had been a while but I was quickly reminded exactly why I love Sabrina, Samantha, and Michelle.  I want them to come over to my house for a glass of wine so badly, particularly Michelle.  She's so cute with that make-up, that voice, and those heels. 

Anyway, back to viewership.  I'll admit that I'm thoroughly confused as to why people from Malaysia, Ukraine, and Singapore are reading this thing.  I appreciate the attention.  Thank you.  But, seriously, what the hell are you doing here?