The little train that could.........

Do you remember that story from years of yore??   Some little locomotive, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of it's tasks sets out to fulfil those tasks....and with the innocence only children and derainged fantasy choo choos can possess, up the side of mt. krimpet (oops, wrong story) up the hill he went, whilst all along sing songing to himself as only maniacle choo choos can "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can....." When he finally reached the precipice, or just a whisp of steam away, he changed his tune to "I know I can, I know I can".  Naturally, everyone lives happily ever after; at least until Choo Choo Charlie came along and forced him back up that track for nothing more than a few measly licorice bits.
The point of this tale??    That's how I feel this christmas on a few levels.   Not being possessed of pointy ears, curly shoes or overly diminutive stature, I have found the cookie baking a bit on the daunting side this year.  No darling daughter to assist with the cutting, rolling, sprinkling.  No suave son to come in stealing the lovelies instead of the uglies.  Just moi and endless reels of Nat King Cole's Christmas Song..   I am happy and pleased to report that all 13 varieties of cookie are present and accounted for.
The tree is a work of art this year.  I leave it each day, taking a mental photograph in the event of the recently acquired possibility that I discover it in a glistening heap on the floor upon my arrival.  Max-i cat, a frightened shitless scairdy cat if ever there was one, had finally agreed the tree means her no harm, nor will it attempt to vacuum the living room while she's taking number 45 of 98 catnaps.  This acceptance of the alien thing that smells like outside means she's quite content to get up close and personl with it.  Last night I was disturbed from yet another inane evening in front of the television by the tinkling and jingling of glass ornaments doing the hustle....Max-i, in all her big belly glory was gently batting at the glass baker snowmen.  Eventually, she tired of that sport and returned to dead mother-in-law's favourite chair (now festooned with a bright pink blanket) to sleep it off.  Exhausting work, this being a cat. 
Here it is, Tuesday evening, 5:30 or so.  I"m still dressed from work, yet all I want is a cup of tea and warm fuzzy pajamas.  I'll get to present wrapping in about an hour.  I'll watch the season finale of Dexter, because serial killers who also work for the blood splatter crime lab are precisely what most people won't be watching as they wrap presents.   I've already watched It's a Wonderful Life (and getting that goddam DVR thing to work is truly going to be the undoing of my sanity, I kid you not), I've seen Miracle on 34th Street.  We watched Elf just the other night.  I'd like to watch A Christmas Story but, as I said, I don't know how to make my DVR work without crying in front of it while it silently mocks my inability to know which button to press or which lever to lift.  Fucker.  So, serial killer it is, all the while I'll be using my very own scissor to make lovely ribbon curls.
As the magi said to the star.....see you soon.

Here Come's Santa Claus

Once again, mea culpa for being so lax with the quill.  I am beginning to realize the only way I'm going to write anything after work is if I parachute to the roof outside the computer room, climb in the window, sit my ass down and start typing.  This way, I'll complete bypass the siren song of the sofa.  Either that, or borrow wax from Ulysses for my ears. 
Thanksgiving has passed without overmuch stress.  Once again, I have enough stuffing and sweet potatoes left over to choke a horse.  All in all, I was just happy the event got off at all.  See, I overindulged at the Gomorrah family reunion party the night before.   To top it off, I returned home famished.  I'd squirreled away half a sandwich from Clemente, figuring to eat it when I got home.   In a state of maternal love I offered it to Coco, feeling bad she was staying home alone.  I also knew she had squirreled away her own half from her sandwich, so I really didn't think she'd take me up on the offer.  Fast forward to my drunken return to the homestead at 1:45am.  There sits Coco, looking like she just ate the canary from the cage.  I inquired after my sandwich to discover she'd indulged her hunger.  I then inquired after her half.  Seems that half went to a strip club with her.   Who the hell takes half an italian hero to a strip club on the night before thanksgiving????  Sadly, with a refrigerator full of food for the holiday, all there was to eat at that hour was bologna and swiss on rye bread.  Drunken women do not make pretty sandwiches.  I remember slapping the meat and cheese onto the bread and squirting mustard (no one should ever type those two words in the same sentence, by the way) on one of the slices of bread.  I had purchased a bag of kettle chips flavoured with jalepeno and aged cheddar.  As a drunk, they were delicious.  Crisp and crunchy, the perfect accompanimenet to the bologna.  Reading this now, my stomach is churning.  I have to say, on the entire planet, there really isn't a perfect accompaniment to bologna, and the least likely winner of that award is jalepeno and aged cheddar chips.  I proceeded to eat 1/3 of the bag.
I got upstairs, got the cinilon off, got most of the jewelery off, and crawled between the sheets.   At 6am my head was pounding and Max was nudging me for something to eat.  I got some tylenol into my system, fed the cat and contemplated how difficult it would be to put off thanksgiving for a day.  With barely enough time to form an answer to that question I was up the stairs and giving bourbon drenched jalepeno cheddar chips to the toilet bowl.    And then I gave the bowl some more.   Before I managed to find a few more remnants clinging to my stomach lining I found my sneakers and hit the road.  Usually, when I'm in that kind of condition, a walk does me good.  I walked for close to 2 and 1/2 miles.  Returning home, I still had a turkey to get into the oven.  Get it into the oven??  I couldn't even get it out of the fridge without serious help.  But, with that help, I got it stuffed to the gills (do turkeys have gills?), slathered with olive oil and mrs. dash, and into the oven before the parade started. 
It just so happens that sitting down to watch that parade was possibly the biggest mistake since eating jalepeno cheddar chips along with a bologna sandwich.   Head clearing and parade watching don't mix.  I felt like one of the giant balloons, careening from one side of the street to the other.  Back up the stairs, only this time I seriously had nothing to give the toilet, though not for lack of trying.  Again, thoughts of just how I was going to postpone this holiday for a day or two are banging around in my head.  Clearly, there was no way to pull that caper off, so into the shower I went.  40 gallons of hot water later, I emerged feeling none the worse for wear, and actually feeling a bit better.  There would be no hanging my head upside down to towel dry my long hair, but so what..?  What's a wet head in comparison to pushing back a nationally recognized holiday for a day?
And so, by the time Santa, oh how I do love Santa, passed Herald Square for his obligatory laying of the finger aside of his nose I was back in the saddle.  I was going a very slow gait, but I was going, nevertheless.
Some time in the afternoon I spied that bag of kettle jalepeno cheddar chips and insisted they be given to the garbage pail.  I haven't seen the bag since, so I'm assuming Coco obliged.  Either that or she ate them sometime when she was eating chocolate in bed, soiling the linens...but that's a whole other chapter.

And now, on to christmas, with thoughts of the feast of the seven fishes, christmas cookies, holiday festivities, and inevitable weight gain.  It's my plan not to have to consider moving christmas to the 27 of december.  Let's see if I can stick to that particular plan.

It's Challenge Garlic

Yeah, I'm still here.   You try working nothing but numbers in a P&L account and watch said numbers go down in flames and still find something witty and charming to write about.  I come home at the end of the day and immediately proceed to the confines of flannel for solace.  It's disturbing on so many levels.

While we all seem to be running ourselves ragged at work, the sales numbers, particularly the cateing sales numbers are simply not producing themselves.  Ways to increase actual sales at the stations but catering sales is a whole different animal.  No way to force people to cater their breakfast meeting.  Those days of continental breakfast ordered in for 4 people to discuss what side of the campus should have the first speed bump are over.  Now it's 'grab a coffee on the way in if you want'.  So, when I hear people asking me for a deal on the price of a bagel I tend to curl my toes and smile and mention how much I never did mind about the little things.

And speaking of shooting daggers from my eyes.....apparently spanikopita is a casserole.   It must be so...a culinary student said it.  Chef was serving a spinach pie - a very large spanikopita when you really get down to business (which is phyllo dough, spinach, feta cheese and enough butter to tan a full sized body) when a very large in a Baby Hewey sort of way student commented on how much he loved casseroles.  Chef and I looked at each other and I asked if he just called the spanikopita a casserole.  He proceeded to explain to me that since it has a crust it's a casserole.  Since I was willing to agree that some things with crusts could be considered casseroles that happen to have crusts, he took it to mean that I was bowing to his genius.  Flummoxed, I was silented by his girth and stupidity, and finally, by his boorishness.   "you can take my word for it", he stated...."I'm a culinary student".  Oh, then, in that case, let me get the hell out of my position right now, a culinary student clearly knows more about the business that I do.  Both Chef and I  were of a same mind - this kid is in for a rude awakening.  I'd pay more than the average dollar to be there when he goes for his first professional interview, or better yet, his first day on the job.  Oh, to have to watch him peel 50 pounds of red onions just for shits and giggles..   What a dope.

As for tonight, it's Battle Garlic.  I'm making roasted garlic gnocchi with pork short ribs.  I'll tell you all about it over there on that facebook place.   That's where the pictures will end up, anyway.

Is it cocktail time yet?

Where did September go???

It's Saturday, 3 October and I'm actually awake enough to pen a few words here.   Exhaustion is a weak word to describe the level of energy I've had lately.  September in all it's apple picking glory was a horrid month and I say good riddance to bad rubbish.  I finally put the Period 13 (september) work book on the shelf yesterday.  I took a deep breath and shook that monkey off my back.
I've always been fond of October, even more so since 1985.  My son was born in that month that year, followed three years later by my daughter, same month.  Nice time to be born, I say.  The landscape is a riot of warm colours.   If you can't have the cool blues of water, I say go for the heat of the fire colours.  Besides, it's also officially bourbon and scotch season. 

Got that party for 200 under our collective belts.  Kinda fucked up a bit on the OT projection, though.  Blew that budget big time.  Thought I'd spend $800 bucks in OT..spent $1500.  Yeah, Lucy had some 'splainin' to do on that one.  Overall, the client was as pleased as pie though, and at the end of the day, that's the hill you want to win.

I also survived the visit with my parents.  Marianne is quite the trip.  I don't think I ever even saw a  strange toothbrush in the bathroom.   She clearly wanted to make it seem like I had church mice visiting.  The toaster shines like new, the coffee pot is crystal clear and the refrigerator has achieved a level of sanitation heretofore only present in the showroom.  Thank you Jim.

And now, for the new dilemma....how to ask my sister not to stay at my house for a week between Christmas and New Year.  I love her...and would love a visit...but that time of year is like a soothing balm for my overworked body.  Once the christmas decorations are up, this shoebox size house I live in becomes even tinier....to have three guests using the one bathroom and postage stamp sized kitchen may be more than I can handle.  By the time christmas comes I'll be wounder tighter than a Slinky.  The idea of being 'on' for company for a whole week makes me want to steal some of Deb's towels, for wringing purposes only...
I have got to do some fancy footwork here to extricate myself from this.  I'm considering offering to pay for a hotel for a few days just so I have some air...   Lou has said that if I can pull this off without creating a rift that I may be able to find work over in Tudor City NYC - (where the UN is).

Wish me luck.

Oh yeah, one more thing...I missed writing here.  I don't like being so tired at the end of the day that all I can manage is to lay on the sofa all night.  Not good for business at all, if you ask me.

Wake up and go to sleep!

If you looked up exhaustion in the dictionary, you'd, sadly, see a picture of me, and probably the majority of my staff huddled close by, as well.  At the moment, we're so tired we are keeping ourselves awake at night.  Between surviving bouts of broncitis masquarading as faux pneumonia, outrunning cops while driving on suspended licenses, pretending not to have a hacking cough, the ufortunate illness of a dear friend, and the pinnacle of fatigue.....a visit from Marianne and Jim.    If you can remember Lili Von Shtupp from Blazing Saddles...."let's face it, I'm tired".  We're all tired and the light at the end of tunnel comes full blast at 10pm, Saturday night.  At that point, I have a feeling that anything that comes later will be a piece of cake.

Big dinner, and all of the supporting cast, with the exception of your favourite author, have yet to experience something on this large a scale.  Actually, that's not completely true...the bonbon candy did survive the June picnic.  So, she's got the second most experience.....   I'm not overly concerned, just midly cautious.  I expect to make it seem to everyone who'll be getting drunk on shitty wine and even shittier beer that the entire affair was effortless.  To those of us behind the lines, all we want is a bunch of pills, lots of booze, some excellent foot massages, the occasional hot breathy kiss on our throats, and some sleep....sleep that is not interupted by a towerlike pile of towels that requires folding and surely not interupted by sole that needs breading or brisket that needs braising or napkins, all 225 of them, that need tieing into need folds.

I'm ready for my close up Mr. DeMille......

and this is why vorizon sucks....

I don't know whether to talk about Gettysburg or the fact that vorizon sucks the biggest pile of horseshit this side of the Rockies.
First Gettysburg - inspirational, educational, breathtaking and heartbreaking.  The south sucked.  I'd lean toward the fact that they still suck, but, there are some people below the mason dixon line that I'd toss a glass of water at if they were on fire....
However, being in Gettysburg, which resides smack dab in the middle of Pennsylvania could have been out in the middle of the great plains states for all it has in common with the rest of the megaglopolis of the east coast.  These people even talk with an accent.  And the clothes of the locals...well, the only word to describe it is tragic.  And, everyone smokes.  I saw one guy riding a motorcycle with his rifle strapped to the side.  Am I to believe he's hunting...???  on his motorcycle?????
Most of the wine from PA vineyards is pure swill.  We were hard pressed (haha, like the grapes, oh, I crack myself up sometimes) to find anything that wasn't cloyingly sweet.  Most of the merlots, pinots and cabs all tasted like they wanted to be ports when they grow up.  And the mead??!!!   Don't drink the mead!  No wonder the vikings were pissed and trying to leave norway all the time.  Mead, made from fermented honey tastes like honey with everclear in it.    With macerated bee wings tossed in for good measure.
End of the day, Gettysburg was magnificent.  It breaks my heart and dampens my soul to know that after 150 years, that battle still seems like it may have been in vain.  Too many people either still fighting that war, still angry they lost, or not prepared to accept the responsibility of teaching others what the victory was supposed to mean.

And then there's vorizon.  Devil's spawn.  I have that whole verizon triple screw you package - phone, internet and television.  I wanted to have one of the tv boxes moved from one room to another.  I wanted to schedule an appointment but they are ill prepared to actually schedule appointments.  What a racket.  You need them....they'll come when they are damn good and ready.  Set the appointment in the agreed upon 4 hour window of opportunity.  They can land the damn shuttle with a smaller window of opportunity than a fios dude can make a house call.  What bullshit....  At 4:45, 15 minutes before that window slammed shut, I called to ascertain where my shuttle...ah...service technician was.  I got the first human at 5:10pm.  I was then passed to several other departments.  Each department has a copy of the same script...'oh, I don't know how or why you were transferred to this department, this isn't the fuck you up the ass department at all, that's what you want, I'll connect you'.  Marianne (my mother, visiting from florida, a whole other story..) asked me where the vorizon office was located.  "Mars", was my response.

Apparently, the service ticket was written incorrectly.  You'd think they'd phone.  After all, when I scheduled the appointment, no less than 3 different people asked my phone number.  With all the technology they profess to have at their fingertips, isn't it amazing that they have to ask your phone number when you call...that it doesn't appear on the work screen in front of them.   I'm little more than joe blow from windy city and even I have caller ID.

At 5:45 it was clear to all players involved that no one was coming to hook me up today.  An hour to agree that I wasn't going to get a visit between 1-5pm.  Geniuses, the lot of them.  Fine...lost time from work, blah blah blah...set me up again, this time I want a scheduled appointment for tomorrow, 8am.  More interminable hold.  Only this time, I've finally got a superivsor dealing with me, so the hold is of a better quality.  I don't have to be subjected to elevator music on crack.

What I do get is this:  I can have a technician tomorrow between the hours of 8am and 5pm....and get this...because they are doing me a favour by squeezing me in.  Oh yes, indeed...they were going to do me a big favour.  Thanks for the lube, vorizon, that's a big favour, all right.  Not only did I waste the 4 hours waiting for a monkey with a wrench, but add on the almost 2 spent on the phone with the monkey with the keyboard, now they wanted to add another 9 hours of 'wait and see' .  I wonder if I can say, the next time a vorizon bill comes 'sorry, the bill arrived upside down in my mailbox, so it will be deleted from my records, try again next month'....I wonder how that would go.
"Doing me a favour??"  I was incredulous, and that incredulty bore repeating, several times.  The whole squeezing me in was really the undoing.  I am fully prepared to unplug everythign that has a vorizon tag on it and send it back.  If I have to stand on my roof top sending smoke signals to communicate with people I'd do it, if just to get the vorizon monkey off my back.
Don't do me any favours, put me in for thursday, 8-12.  I better be first or you're going to find your boxes hanging from the chimney.

You cannot make this shit up.