Playing with paper

I've set a personal low in blog neglect by several weeks recently. Here's the short version - got hit by a hurricane of challenge and bad news, survived it, moving forward.
The good thing about this kind of personal sandblasting is that it leaves a real shine on the things still standing... family, friends, and, to a much lesser extent, professional accomplishments.
From furtive fourth grade journals to the library books I consumed in rapid succession hidden among the upper branches of the poplars on the edge of my parents' rural property line, words have always been my primary refuge.
Not this time.
My hands have been covered from ink, but not from my consistently inconsistent fountain pens but from papercrafting, The challenge of staring at the blank page starts the same, but twists in many directions. I never outline my words, I don't sketch my creations. Like words they find their own form and sometimes astound me with occasional ingenuity. (And the trash can is the ready delete key when the new direction is simply misdirection).
Even it it's superficial and fleeting, writing requires a level of contemplation that has not been possible for my personal or professional self. Work is busy. Life is crazy.
Maybe I'll write about it later.

Rethinking Genius

I'm in marketing. I get the fact that you can't call a product "Random Inconsistent Tease" and get consumers excited, but "Genius" may be stretching it beyond even the excessively flexible bounds of marketing-speak.
For the uninitiated, "Genius" is a feature on the last few generations of iTunes which examines your library and selects for you songs that go together. On my current iPod I can just press one button if I want to hear more songs like the one I am listening to at the moment. Depending on my presets, it will deliver within seconds a list of 25, 50, 75 or 100 allegedly similar songs.
I have more then 15,000 songs on my iPod, yet it seems convinced that "Alison" by Elvis Costello goes with everything. It really likes Bruce Springsteen too. The decisions are not being made by a "Genius" but John Cusack's character in High Fidelity.
If he doesn't (and I use the masculine pronoun, because only a man could be this obstinate) agree with my taste, he vetoes or diminishes it. This morning I asked for 100 songs to go with a cut from jazz guitarist John Pizzarelli's lastest. I have John's entire catalogue, as well as that of his father Bucky, Curtis Stiger, Elaine Elias, Peter Cincotti, Diana Krall and at least a dozen classic jazz discs.
Yet, it gave me only 28 songs including B.J. Thomas' "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head" from the Forest Gump soundtrack and of course, my old pal Alison.
I get it, Genius. He isn't Radiohead. But I like Pizzarelli and I own the iPod.
If I give him "Train in Vain" by the Clash, he's brilliant. He plays well when I'm willing to play by his rules.
Perhaps I confuse him by being complex. I buy music for my own enjoyment as well as for parties and mixes for friends. I admit "90s Music" is right up their with "Ancient Dynasties" in my worst Jeopardy! categories. It is an eclectic mix. But I thought that was the point.
Like the guy who still wears his varsity jacket to class reunions, he is really good at pulling out the top 40 sound of the 70s, but gets lost with Nick Lowe's recent stuff.
I understand that Apple has not created him for my amusement. By opening the door to my library I am giving them psychographic data with which an FBI profiler could have a field day. They expect to get me to buy more by pushing forward music similar to what I have bought in the past. Previously it could only do this with my iTunes store purchases, now it has my entire library (and likely my shoe size and why I feed the dog from the table when I'm not supposed to).
Yet here it is Spring, and Genius still keeps requesting I purchase more Christmas music. It thinks I need to buy more of the disco and rap I bought last summer for dancing the weekend of Jessica's wedding. It will not tell me when an artist I have "bought deep" has a new release.
For that I have to click on Music, then the "Just Released" line and scroll through an agate type list of esoterica every Tuesday.
Genius wants me to think like it does. If it actually had any smarts at all it would have figured out by now that I am no Genius.

The Bills, Barbie and me

All my milestone birthdays have been shared with two anchors of my childhood, the Bills and Barbie.
This year we'll be 50 - and as usual she is holding up much better than I am physically (not to be catty, but she has had some work over the years -- we're talking major P-L-A-S-T-I-C-S).
She's also the only one I know who has had more jobs than me and my cousin Bernie combined. There was period in the post-NOW days when she was popping out with a new career (with a full line of related accessories ) every month or so.
There never was a Barbie the reporter. I'm guessing the powers that be recognized the minimal opportunities in that role for ball gowns and Dream Cars. When I started my career at the Buffalo News ,the miasma of stale cigarette smoke and strong coffee hung over the urgent clattering of typewriters, wire service bells, deadlines and barking editors. I loved it, but she was never that kind of gal.
She didn't do the PR or marketing thing either. The wardrobe is a little better and a lot of folks in my field do drive their own dream cars - but it's got to be damn near impossible to think on your feet with those impossibly spiked arches.
Still you have to give the girl credit. She stayed with Ken for all those years in spite of his obvious physical shortcomings and still doesn't look a day over 25.
From the day in fourth grade where they took the boys and girls into separate assemblies and explained the mysteries of life with gender specific, detail deficient film strips with an accompanying scratchy record -- I woke up every morning hoping the Breast Fairy had indeed brought me a Barbie shelf with the accompanying wisp of a waist. Let's just say the Tooth Fairy was much more dependable.
The Bills and I have had a much more similar trajectory. We've made it to the big game a couple of times and had a great time getting there. Not everything always turns out the way we'd like in the end, but we've gone places others doubted were possible. Most importantly, even when we really screw up, we've got a loyal fan base who will complain up and down about us at times, but kick the collective butts of any outsider who utters a disparging word.
We're real. We're from Buffalo. And more than once we've painfully convinced smug mega-city folks that it's a serious error in judgement to discount us.
My relationship with Barbie lasted only a brief prepubscence. There was an abbrieviated second round in the 80s when my daughter went through her even shorter fascination with Barbie the Astronaut-Veteranarian-Actress-Archeologist.
But the Bills and I bonded at the Rockpile and through the preschool shades of fuzzy grey on our black and white TV on game day. I went with my father to a game the year the new stadium opened and was so cold, I left my seat for the huddled warmth of the people in the concession lines. My teeth were chattering when a man asked if I wanted to come into their room and warm up. In the days before Stranger Danger, this seemed like a really good idea. And it was.
I gladly accepted a mug of hot chocolate, but only stared in awe at a glorious buffet with little firepots burning under each silver dish. I'd never seen anything like it. I accepted a large chocolate chip cookie which remains to this day the best tasting cookie any one even consumed at any time. As soon as I drained the mug I was deliciously warm, said thank you and returned to my seat.
After the next play was completed, my father asked where I had been. I told him of the wonderous land behind the glass wall at the top of our section. He asked if I had seen Ralph Wilson in there. I thought he was referring to Mr. Wilson from the Dennis the Menace cartoon and knew no one in the room looked anything like that. These days I like to think RW was there. Sometimes when I tell the story he handed me the cookie.
When I lived in Houston and on St. Simons Island, some of my most enduring friendships came from the connections with Bills fans too far from our shared stadium Mecca.
I was blessedly out of town for the Zooba pants era, but have had an ensemble or two of red, white, and blue logo gear in my closet from the time I started buying my own clothes. The closest I've even come to a ball gown were a couple of frou-frou polyester prom dresses.
Barbie, the Bills and me -- we've had some adventures. They'll have bigger 50th parties than I will, but I don't mind.
I'm just looking forward to seeing what the second half (century) will bring us.

These are the climes that try men's souls

I have been known to be downright obnoxious in my defense of my hometown.
During my 24 years away, I'd get so frustrated with the narrow-minded fools who thought of us as nothing but a dot on bad weather map.
I blamed the Weather Channel with for it's attention-grabbing , alarmist rant -- carrying you through yet another pharmaceutical commercial with the promise of dire spectacle on the other side.
Their correspondent would be at the same lakeside , southtowns location every time in the midst of a whirling winds whiteout and crashing waves... failing to mention that a few miles up the highway people were enjoying a crystal night and bonfire.
We have micro-climates, I would insist. We have more sunny days that the majority of American cities. We have four glorious seasons. We don't fear our snow and ice - we embrace it with tubing, skiing, skating, ice fishing. Woe to one who has never made a snow angel or put the carrot in the nose of a snow man.
For the first four winters I was home, my conviction was unblemished.
Today I say to all who scoffed and ridiculed our weather - you're right.
January dragged without a full thaw of the pre-Christmas dump. Our front sidewalk is a topless tunnel and the snow blown against the brick walls on either side of my driveway is a frigid canyon.
Several blogs back I talked about Charlie's new, unused snow blower. It's now his constant first-morning companion, before the coffee, before the newspaper. Charlie is not particularly companionable before his coffee and newspaper.
Lily the Lab is setting land speed records running out the back door, making two quick circles in the snow to pack down an area to squat, taking care of business and sprinting back in the door in seconds.
This is crazy-making weather -white knuckle driving, cancelled plans and cold, wet feet that never seem to warm.
A Buffalo Police Officer is facing charges for beating a man in a parking space dispute. It is a horrible thing for anyone to do, especially one pledged to serve and defend -- but do you know how hard it is to park with half the spots covered with plowed snow mountains?
I had several commutes this week watching the ABS light on my dashboard remind me ... in case I didn't already notice... that I actually had little control of what was happening.
Yesterday morning the roads were creep-along bad, but the visibility was good... until I eased onto the curving ramp from the Expressway to the Thruway. As I entered the two- lane canyon with snow piled on each side, the wind cut across -- blanking my view. I saw hints of tail lights in front of me, discovering quickly the car in front of me had stopped.
I did not wonder if he or she was incapacitated and what I could do to help. I worried that a semi would roll over both of our small cars before the driver noticed that two idiots were stopped on a ramp. I laid on the horn and the car started to creep. The squall stopped as we reached the open highway and I realized it was a scared, small old woman in the car.
A better person would have felt very bad about the horn and evil thoughts I harbored against someone's grandmother. I'm not that good.
We're supposed to see high 30s tomorrow.
For the sake and safety of little old ladies throughout Western New York, I hope so.

Small, simple gifts

January weekend is an oxymoron. It is a month of consecutive Mondays. Each time someone on my street takes down their holiday lights, things get just a little more grey.
I'm going to a funeral later this morning and find myself missing the days when such events were uncomfortable social obligations of respect to another generation.
Father Jim was only a few years older than me. His fire and dedication burned considerably brighter than mine, or anyone else in the room, when we worked together on a project just last year.
While the occasion is surely sad, it will celebrate a life lived generously. I'm not sure there is a greater endowment anyone might create.
Not everyone has the skills or funds for grand gestures, but I am appreciating more the value of small, simple gifts.
There is a waitress, for example, who unknowingly pokes me in the negativity every time I see her.
My youngest brother, Michael, is profoundly autistic. He is a powerful and, at times, uncontrollable force at 6'3." At 33, he is still quite attached to a large stuffed Elmo and a tattered baby blanket. Most times it is not worth the negotiation of trying to get him to leave them in the car.
Michael lives in a group home. My middle brother and I share responsibility for weekend visits. If this is where you're expecting the triumph of family love over adversity or the magical-undiscovered-skills -of-the-handicapped angle, you're going to be disappointed. This isn't Rainman.
I've lived enough of this experience to neither judge those who do not cope at all with family members in this situation nor deify those who sacrifice all. You do what you can.
Michael does not react to me, but the schedule he has ordained for our visits and how these visits fit into a larger, unbending cycle of holidays and family birthday parties that mark his years.
Michael's grey January differs from glorious July only by the pre-assigned occasion. February is Kaityln's birthday. March is Jim's. April, we go to the zoo. May is Karen's birthday. June is Father's Day (at the cottage now, not an annual carnival -- a change made four years ago that still ticks him off). July is Michael's birthday and Taste of Buffalo. August is Lauren's... you get the picture.
My alternating Sunday afternoon assignment is pick him up by 1 p.m. (late is a serious problem) , put CSN&Y on the car stereo and go directly to Duffs on Sheridan for exactly the same menu built around massive quantities for chicken wings.
The first time I took him there was my first Sunday in our new family order following my mother's death this spring. I was on high alert to the dual looming disasters of what Michael might do and how others might react.
Michael is echolaliac and can be loud if agitated. On his best days, the sight of him tearing into a plate of wings is not attractive. If he is too disruptive to others I can always leave cash on the table and herd him to the door.
That's what is in my mind when I bring Michael into a new situation. What's the quickest way to get him to the door and settled in a less public place?
Michael loves public bathrooms. It's his first stop in any restaurant or store and there WILL be additional trips. He goes for the traditional reasons, nothing unsavory, he just loves bathrooms. Having him out of my sight makes me very nervous. I have been known to lie about the availability of facilities.
On the first Duff's trip we were seated way in the back (too far from the front door for my comfort) and next to the men's room (to Michael's delight). It promised to be a long afternoon.
A pretty, dark-haired waitress with a comfortable smile came to our table. She didn't stare or look past Michael's rocking and took his order for "the Akron bus" in stride.
She spotted him looking hungrily at other tables and made sure our order of wings took quick flight. Her easy manner had a calming effect on Michael and I actually tasted my own food. She checked back with us frequently and never stopped smiling.
Yes, she got a good tip. But she didn't know that was a possibility when she first went out of her way. I was not surprised when Michael insisted we return on our next Sunday and every one after that.
She's there most times. We always sit at her table. She knows when I order a pitcher of Pepsi, it's the diet, decaffeinated type that works better for Michael's meds. There is no point in saying it out loud and upsetting him. Michael is more patient in her presence, and, frankly, so am I.
Time with Michael is necessarily focused on Michael. I don't know her name, we've never had an actual conversation. But I'm always so glad to see her there. Her easy kindness tips the balance from nerve-wracking obligation to time with my brother.
The routine has been that I take Michael to Duff's while my other brother takes him to another restaurant. Michael never volunteers to change a routine. Two weeks ago he told my brother to take him to Duff's. You've probably figured out why.
She may not even understand the impact of her kindness and calm.
I do.

Slow going snow going

Folks in Buffalo like to puff our barrel chests and talk about how badly others handle snow driving.
"They close down the entire city of Atlanta for four and a half flakes."
"They tell people to use their salt shakers to remove ice in Dallas."
"One little flurry and a palm tree is shot."
The fact is, that while we do get plenty of practice, we're no where as good at snow as we think.
Having been gone for 24 years, I had to relearn my snow driving skills. Whether it's age or common sense, I approach things much more cautiously than most full time natives.
I gauge my speed by road conditions and visibility. My Prius refuses to be cowered by SUVs with tires as tall as sixth graders racing up in the rear view mirror. She and I have worked things out. We know we'll get home. If they can't pass us easily, we're glad to make room.
For those of you in boring , sunny climes, the barometer of winter driving is how many cars are off the road on a given trip.
My trip to the office involves 13 miles each way, most on major arteries. No ditched or crunched cars means it's just snowing. One or two gets your attention. Three to five is an issue. Over five makes your heart beat a little faster. The record, thus far this year, is 13... but that includes a seven-car domino effect. That was a black ice day with perfect visibility.
Five of my cousins and I meet monthly to eat, drink and scrapbook. I'm the token city mouse. Two come from the snowtorious Southtowns, one from an eastern suburb, one from the eastern sticks and last night's hostess lives in the Northtown suburbs. A few inches of snow will not dissuade us from our shared obligation to preserve memories, tell stories and laugh so hard our faces hurt. Attendance was 100 percent as usual.
My 3 p.m. trip there was easy with a "zero" off road / accident score.
There were a few inches to brush off the car when I left at 11. Traffic was light, visibility was generally good with flurry patches, but the plows hadn't kept up with the snow pack. I spotted the first fender bender as I eased on to Transit Road within a few hundred yards of my cousin's driveway.
I plodded along between 20-30 m.p.h. in the slow lane. More than a few people passed me in the other lanes, especially as I turned from the airport to the 33 (a.k.a. Kensington Expressway). This is a controlled access highway with numerous overpasses. There are three lanes, so I figured that others had all the space they needed to do what they wanted... occasionally my rear view mirror would reveal in my lane a small caravan of well-spaced wimps like myself in no particular hurry. There was no one in front of me, I followed the right lane ruts.
Just after I crested a hill, I saw high headlights coming up fast on my left. With no one behind me I instinctively slowed a little more, just in time to see those lights skid sideways in front of me and end up in the ditch on my right facing traffic.
I saw the door open and a young man get out from behind his airbags. He appeared to be fine (other than likely needing a tow truck to get his car home tonight). When the adrenaline stopped coursing, I realized I was OK too.
I respect and obey snow and ice.
It's bigger and badder than I am.
Call me a wimpy old broad if you will.
I was home and in bed by midnight.

Best (?) Buy

The story you are about to read is true. No names have been changed to protect the innocent. There are no innocent parties (and likely no real names) involved.
Let's just call this a possible alternative explanation as to why holiday sales tanked this year.
There was a winter storm warning up when I left the office on the Friday before Christmas. We were leaving for Texas in a matter of days and I needed to pick up the primary gift for Jessica and Michael... a Flip Video on sale at Best Buy.
I stopped at the bank... and got stuck in the drivethrough. It took 20 minutes to get out of the fast refilling ruts, but it was on to the nearly deserted Best Buy store on Niagara Falls Blvd. The one clerk anywhere near the cameras was telling a customer EVERYTHING he thought he knew about cameras. He thought he knew a lot about cameras.
I waited for almost five minutes before I went up to the register and asked a bored teenager reading a magazine if there was someone else who could help me. She picked up the phone in spite of her exagerated annoyance with my interuption and told me to go back to the department, where the Cliff Clavin of videography assured me he would be with me as soon as he finished with his (same) customer.
"Can you just pull out a Flip for me?" I asked.
"We're all out."
"Do the other stores have any?"
"I'll be with you when I finish with this customer."
I had to assume that in a store that large in the week before Christmas there would be more than two people working. I roamed the largely empty aisles until I found the other one.
He was actually quite nice and checked the computer. They "had a ton" at the McKinley and Galleria stores, but he couldn't reserve one by company policy.
My best bet, he said, was to order it online for instore pickup. That way I would be SURE I had one when I got there.
I brushed off my car and skidded twice in the parking lot, letting the storm decide for me that the purchase could wait until morning. It took two neighbors and Charlie to help me get into the driveway from our unplowed, but fast piling, street.
The plows still hadn't come the next morning, but I had a gift to get. I followed all the instructions precisely at bestbuy.com . It warned NOT to leave the house until a second confirming email arrived. The first email came confirming the order for two Flip cameras, one for Jess and one for me to record the fast approaching trip. Charlie fired up the snowblower.
Twenty minutes later the confirmation email came. Just to make sure, I checked my account and discovered I had already been charged for both cameras. We plodded from our unplowed to the plowed streets and headed directly to the Walden Galleria store.
We weren't the only ones. There was a lot of pent up shopping demand and no where near enough parking spaces to address it. We crawled through the parking lot for nearly a half an hour before Charlie dropped me off and we promised to reconnect by cell phone.
This is where the real fun starts.
The clerk took my printed confirmation and ID and returned one camera. I explained I had ordered and paid for two. She went in back.
"We sent you an email saying we didn't have the other one," she said. I checked my PDA, the third email had been sent during one of the parking lot circles , long after the "confirmation.
I asked to see a manager.
The "manager" had no name tag or obvious interpersonal skills. She would give me only the first name "Nicole" and the option of taking or leaving the one camera on the counter. Yes, if I demanded, she could call another store.
And since I continued to demand, she made the call. Yes, they had one in Clarence, but she couldn't guarentee it would be saved. I looked at the reciept they asked me to sign for the one camera and saw it showed I recieved and paid for both cameras.
"I'll have to process a return," the nameless and annoyed manager stated.
I was still trying to figure out how I could return something I never had, when I recalled my debit card had already been hit for the $200 for the camera that never materialized.
"Will the credit come through as fast as the charge?"
"There's nothing we can do about that, it's entirely up to your bank."
So I'm down a camera and $200 and am perilously close to managericide . I make the survival judgement not to drive to a third store to fnd yet another camera mysteriously disappear.
The problem was clearly with the local store (or stores), right?
A national chain has policies to correct and deal with such bizarre incidents, right?
If I were to call their customer service, I bet they would apologize and get a camera sent to Jessica's for me, right?
After 20 minutes on hold, my call was dropped.
So I sent an email outlining the shorter version of the above... and bought the second camera without incident at Target.
The credit did not return to my account for five days.
Finally, on Christmas Day there was indeed a miracle in my inbox.
I assure the following is a direct cut and paste response from a "professional" customer service person. The only thing I've changed is the reference number....
"Wow Judi,I am appalled at way you were treated when you went to pick up your order but I will try to straighten out some things for you. My name is Jo Ann with the Bestbuy Customer Care team and let me start by saying I truly truly sorry for the experience you had in our store with the parking, trying to pick up your order and the poor customer service. I must say that ticks me off the most because we at Bestbuy strive for the BEST CUSTOMER SERVICE our valued customer's such as yourself should have with us making your shopping experience one of the most unique you can have. I guess we dropped the ball on that with you. Again I am truly sorry for that. For the understanding of the Camcorder being in stock or not what happens when you place your order is that we send it to the store you want to pick up at in the hopes that they have the item in back in their stock so that they can pull it for you and sometimes they don't which is what happened with you. Then you get a e-mail saying that we are sorry buy this store does not have that item and ask you to call us and let us know if you want us to ship it to you or find another store for you. Since you was gone already to get the order thinking that it was there you had missed that e-mail, so what should have happened that associate in the store should have said Ms. Giggs I am sorry that we don?t have your Camcorder but let me check the floor and see if I got one and if not since the weather is so bad rather than have you try and get to another store maybe you would like to look at what we do have and see if you see something else you like. As for getting your credit back it should have been explained that your bank has set guidelines that we must follow, and they tell us that with a Mastercard that if its a bank or debit card that it will update in 24 to 72 hours, if it is a regular charge card then it can take up to 7 days for it to update but there again that is up to your back. I hope this explains some of the things that was going on with what was happening at the store. As for the poor customer service there is no reason for that, it is total unacceptable. I would like to offer you a 50.00 Digital Coupon that will come to your e-mail in 24 to 72 hours and you can use it online at our Bestbuy.com for you next order. I will expire in 2 weeks and you can use it online for any order you choose during that time. Should you have more comment or concerns please e-mail us again and reference number xxxxxxx.Have a Happy Holiday'sJo Ann"

Apparently she did indeed expire in two weeks, because that amount of time has passed and there has been no coupon, digital or otherwise. I email them every few days as a matter of principle and they tell me again how really busy they are from the holidays, but how important my request is to them.
I'm starting to doubt their sincerity just a little bit.
Can you imagine what the service is like at Second Best Buy?

In and out

If you wait around long enough, eventually you'll be relevant.
The Washington Post has declared that "twittering" is out, "slow blogging" is in. Yes, the morning show commentator explained, it was no longer necessary to tell the world when you're going into the shower - instead the trendy are to post essays at an easier frequency, maybe even once a month.
There I am- way ahead of the curve in blog neglect.
I'm not saying I'm clairvoyant, but you just might want to keep an eye on my personal trends in the coming year.
Out - Scrubbing bathtubs
In- Lower wattage lighting
Out - "Cute" jeans, crop tops, camisoles
In- Functional clothing with size tags cut out immediately after purchase
Out - Going to big parties because you have to
In- Making small parties because you want to
Out- Sushi
In- Soup
Out- Celebrities
In- Cousins
Out- Associates
In- Friends
Out- Clubbing
In- Reading
Out- Pious self denial
In- Occasionally relishing the smell, taste and texture of warm crusty bread with real butter
Out- Collecting art
In- Collecting memories
Out- Botox
In- Candlelight
Out - Reality TV
In- Reality
Any you'd like to add?

Canine indulgence

I am one of those pathetic empty-nesters who lavishes absurd and excessive attention on my pets as a bizarre substitute for the birds who have flown.

I'm married to another one.

And thus it made perfect sense to us to take Lily the Lab on a 3,000 mile car trip over seven days. The only question was how she would get on with Scoot - the equally indulged pup of pre- nesters Jessica and Michael -- for the middle days of the trip.

Jessica and Michael have been married since May, but shared custody of Scoot for nearly two years in advance of the big day. He IS their child and they are both fully involved in every aspect of his life.

When Charlie and I started dating seriously, it meant bringing together two very protective, headstrong, only children together in our two daughters. That worked out just fine, but we had the advantage of being able to retreat to neutral corners in the event of snarling or biting.

No such luck in this matchmaking. All four adults and both dogs would share Jessica and Michael's house for three nights. (I had a list of nearby pet friendly hotels with availability just in case.)

We learned quickly that there would be no sharing of toys or food bowls, but everything else fell into the rollicking rhythm of two rambunctious 60+ pound adolescents who both wanted to be boss. Neutered Scoot was regardless entranced with Lily's "feminity"- and she responded alternately as a pious noviate and teasing temptress. I decided within minutes of arrival that we could call it a win if the dogs didn't knock over the Christmas tree in their non-stop romp.

Scoot is taller, thinner and much more active. He's an outdoor guy -- king of the yard. Lily is a city girl who prefers watching cable in the winter months. She still has the broad muscles from her summer swimming and is not at all shy about flipping Scoot on his back every now and then.

I brought Scoot's gifts unwrapped. When Jessica insisted that Scoot likes to unwrap presents I indulged her by picking up some more paper for the doggie gifts. Lily wasn't nearly as impressed as I was as Scoot carefully ripped the paper, piece by piece, off each of his gifts regardless of the content.

I would never dream of having our wonderful dog compete with my daughter's equally fantastic pup. But don't be surprised if by next Christmas Lily actually wraps our gifts.

Road warriors

My proud little Prius sits just a few feet outside of the room of this hotel room, crusted in a crazy crystallized pattern of road salt and resting from the absurd exertion of the last two days.
It's 1500 miles from our doorstep to Jessica and Michael's. We had planned to leave on Monday.
We hadn't even started packing early Sunday when I heard our neighborhood weatherman's car wheels spinning in the snow as he left to do the morning show.
I made myself a cup of tea and tuned in the show. We were socked on Friday. We would be socked again. The afternoon looked miserable... and wasn't going to let up until Monday morning. It took 28 hours for the plows to get to our street after the Friday blast. This wasn't good.
I started getting my things together. Once it became a reasonable hour to talk to other people , I cancelled our plans to see my youngest brother that afternoon and told my sleepy spouse that the storm was coming from the north and we were heading south... so it was time to run.
Clothes that were in the wash would have to stay there. Hasty checklists were scrawled and quick piles formed in the kitchen by the back door. Jessica and Michael's gifts look like they were wrapped by a careless chimpanzee.
Lily danced back and forth between us once her travel harness was in place. She was delighted. We kept looking out the window and loading the car in silence and apphrension. Charlie ran the snowblower one more time, and we piled in the car making it out of the driveway and on to the ruts in the street in only a few tries. We stopped at the ATM and filled the tank within a few blocks of home as the winds whipped up. By the time we were ready to head to the Thruway, it was a complete whiteout downtown.
For several blocks the only way we knew where we were was the navigation system. A brief clear patch would occassionally tease, but not enough to get bearings. The streets were drifting.
This marriage has made it 12 years because I've learned to shut up when my head is in overdrive with fear and alternative plans. Charlie kept the car crawling in silence through the stark , whirling white, calmly working through the ruts and hoping we were still on a street. If there were other cars or people out, we could not see them.
I'd have to walk the Santa suit to the Post Office the next morning to overnight it to Texas. I would cancel my vacation days and we'd deliver the presents in the spring. Our cell phones were working. If we had to leave the car where it was, we could be rescued. In a lifetime first, Lily sat perfectly still and silent with no mischief in her eyes. Charlie just kept the car moving how and where it could go.
It took a half a hour to travel a little more than a mile, but we found the Thruway ramp and the car went more forward than backward as we scaled the icy slope. There were other cars crawling along and within a few miles, the massive grey cloud was in our rearview mirror.
We travelled along Lake Erie, so the winds didn't let up until well south of Cleveland. The temperature was 1 when I took Lily out at 4 a.m. in the hotel in Columbus. Traveling only 350 miles the first day would have been a disaster under regular circumstances. This was a victory.
We were rolling through Memphis yesterday evening when the temperature topped freezing for the first time. Our Saltmobile drew a curious crowd while we ate dinner in Little Rock last night.
Charlie and Lily are still sleeping. No point in waking them yet. It will be an easy run across the rest of Arkansas and on to see the kids.
Yes, there are more than a few things we forgot to pack in The Great Escape, but nothing that really matters. We're almost there.
And that's what counts.

White (wine) Christmas

My personal Pandora's box was opened with a cork screw.

I drank Lambrusco and Canei Rose in collegiate plastic cups and thought this wine thing was something I could take or leave.

Through my 20s reasonable quantities of wine occasionally made me sick. That was enough to make a a gin and tonic drinker for many years.

My eyes opened when I was in my late 30s doing the media prep work for the Food and Wine Classic hosted by the resort where I worked. There was a preliminary tasting for staff that made my tastebuds dance. Then a friend/vinophile established a series of Wednesday night marathon classes to drink our way through all the major varietals. God bless St. Peggy of Chaines des Rotisseurs who led us patiently out of the wilderness.

I learned quickly that oaked Chardonnay - or any heavily oaked wine - were the culprits which made me ill. Heavy tannins turned my face bright red and most sweet wines left me flat. But oh, the luxury of a wonderful dry white. Sauvignon Blanc, Pinot Grigio, White Burgundy, Dry Reisling or Gewurztraminer, my new friends tantalize me.

I learned that many expensive wines are worth every penny, but there were value wines that are surprisingly great. Charlie and I bought a 230-bottle dual zone wine chiller that year and have been trying hard to make more deposits than withdrawals ever since.

There have been a couple of wine trips to California, but the pleasure of sorting though and finding small regional wineries has been one of the advantages of coming home to New York. A passion for wine is so much sweeter when it's shared.

Just a few days ago, my cousins and I did our annual "Deck the Halls" Seneca Lake wine trail weekend. The majority of the group is pictured above. There are a LOT of sweet wines made in the Finger Lakes and some of our group loved them. I am not a wine snob, but just writing about them makes my mouth twist. I found some wonderful choices in "my" whites, Charlie loaded up on some of his favorite reds. Most of all, we laughed a lot and shared the adventure with a dozen or so of my very favorite people. It was hardly a tradition any one us would have imagined we would treasure when we were younger, but age brings so much richness to wine ... and cousins.

This weekend my friend Carol is coming from London via St. Simons. The weather looks good for a Niagara-on-the-Lake tasting day. Some might suggest that two wine trips in seven days are excessive.

I think it's just about right.

In the wee small hours

No matter the level of exhaustion or Tylenol PM, 3 a.m. lays in wait the minute my head hits the pillow.
It ridicules the clock set to wake me four hours later. It's jarring and resolute. It wins every argument.
No, I insist. I will not worry about work. Or my younger daughter. Or things that need to get done for the holidays. I will clear my mind. I will reclaim stolen slumber.
I will not watch TV. I will not read. I will not look at the clock to see how much time I've invested in this absurd and insistent ordeal.
Then maybe after about 57 minutes (I only look at the clock a few times and it's almost an hour by that point so it's not like the going back to sleep thing is working) I get up to go to the bathroom and check on the pets.
But I'll go right back to bed.
But my office/ craft room is right across the hall. Anyone who knows me knows the peace and release I find in paper crafts. That would be almost as good as sleep.
But who can layout scrapbook pages or make cards with all the work I didn't get done yesterday. I'll just check my email before I turn to the craft desk. This way I'll get a little start on the day and it won't end as backed up and undone as the day before. It will help me sleep tomorrow.
I mean, face it, this night is shot. But getting a little ahead, maybe a memo or two, will make this new day that much easier.
Every morning around this time I hear the alarm go off in the other room. Charlie paws at it like a hibernating bear , makes the sound stop and settles back to stillness. His slumber is sacrosanct. At 7:01 each morning, I wish that I too was retired. I imagine that I could make 4,5,and 6 a.m. strangers to me.
But 3 a.m. is an stubborn bitch. I'm not sure she'd let go under any circumstance.

Got Mario Lanzo?

The Hi-Fi in my parents living room sat next to the console TV with a channel knob on the side bigger than my hand . The TV could get all three stations in shades of grey if you jiggled the rabbit ears just right. I didn't much care to bother.
Grainy home movies exist to prove that, as now, I couldn't dance (it's just a lot cuter at 2' than 5'9"). But I loved the Hi-Fi.
Dad's album collection was stacked upright under the HiFi in a repurposed piece of furniture which likely once had doors. About 20 sleeves with frayed cardboard edges told me on some basic level that we were rich.
Excepting the Tom Jones and and then Neil Diamond albums which arrived later in the 1960s, Dad's collection was split almost equally between show tunes (non-cast albums in a series produced by Ed Sullivan) and Christmas music.
In spite of (or perhaps because of) my mother's protests, the holiday LPs started stacking on the turntable in September. She begged to get him to surrender by February.
The music came from the front panel of the Hi-Fi and a single speaker with nubby fabric that was about the size of my Etch-a-Sketch (and likely had similar sound quality). I would spread my blanket on the living room linoleum and camp in the scratchy songs.
By the time my brother Jim could ride a tricycle, it was with 45s on the handlebars and his "Close and Play" record player strapped to the back with one of my father's old belts. At three, he was the original mobile DJ.
Today, his poker room has two walls lined floor-to-ceiling with CDs. He and I escaped to that room Thursday. While his wife and daughters prepared dessert, Dad and Charlie watched football, Jim and I were in our element. I had my lap top and a few select CDs for him. He had data sticks full of music to share. It was a feast beyond any T-Day banquet.
I'd spent the past two evenings scouring iTunes for the definitive versions of the Christmas songs Dad played over and over. I didn't know the Harry Simone Chorale was the absolute "Little Drummer Boy" until I sampled it. Judy Garland's "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" was a slamdunk - but it took several listenings to determine whether the right "Christmas Song" was Johnny Mathis, Mel Torme or Nat King Cole. It wasn't a question of just the best cut, it was Dad's best cut. The end result was 30 tunes sure to make the old man smile.
The last CD I made for him excavating obscure novelty tunes from the 40s and 50s delighted Dad , this one would be huge.
I ran through the tracks and artists of about half the tunes as I gave it to him.
"Do you have Feliz Navidad?" he asked.
"I sure do,"I beamed with pride.
"The one by Jose Feliciano?" he said cautiously.
"Of course,"I answered as if I had just put a school test with a 100 grade on the refrigerator with a magnet.
"Marshmallow World?"
"By Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra."
"No Place Like Home for the Holidays?"
"Perry Como"
"Santa Claus is Coming to Town"
"Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters"
"Silent Night?"
"Bing Crosby's 1947 single version."
I was on a roll. It doesn't matter what your age. It's a basic truth that all girls want to make their father's happy.
"O Holy Night?"
I had struggled with this one. The Pavarotti version was flawless and always brings a tear of beauty to my eye, but it was not part of the original collection. I spent a good two hours sampling the top tracks in iTunes before coming down to Como or Sinatra. In the end, I knew the Como version was on his LPs.
"Perry Como," I stated triumphantly.
His face fell.
"Did you get any other Mario Lanza?" he asked meekly.
Here sat a one-armed man beset by the tremors of Parkinson's who had lost his wife of 49 years last spring... the man responsible for half my genetics and likely a larger portion of who I am... and I couldn't deliver his favorite tenor. How could I have forgotten that damn Mario Lanza album? How could iTunes not have offered it up as an option? The only thing to do at this point was lie.
"I got a whole disk of his Christmas album for you, Dad. I forgot to bring it. Charlie will bring it out to your house later this week."
Dad began listing the tracks of that long ago album in order and the paint was very wet all around the corner I now sat.
I didn't even take my coat off when I got home. There were results for "Mario Lanza Christmas." When the screen finished loading, I recognized the cover art immediately. Within seconds, Dad's disk was burning.
I called him yesterday to check in. Toward the end of the conversation he asked about his old pal Mario.
"Of course, Dad . I have it right here. Let's see how the weather is this week and decide on a day for Charlie to bring it out."
I have more than 10,000 songs on my iPod. My brother has even more. But for Dad, it's still the same tried and true tunes that take him back to that very good place.
When I tested the Mario Lanza CD, I discovered his version of O Holy Night was hampered by the production technology of the time. It didn't have the richness of the others.
But it made me cry just the same.

Let it snow?

There are two phrases Buffalonians HATE to hear: "wide right" and"looks like it's going to be a mild winter this year."
If you don't know about the first, I'll have to just leave it at that. The second is a surefire way to guarantee a storm.
The Lake Effect Gremlins have a cruel sense of just who is entitled to their largess. I respect them and have full faith in their ability to do what they want when they want (just in case Lake Effect Gremlins read blogs).
I believe I know the reason that the area immediately south of here is enjoying an early ski season and Cleveland (west) and Utica (east) have been socked while we have had but a dusting -- we finally bought a snow blower.
Charlie, who received a lifetime achievement award from the Guy Hall of Fame for the Man Most Adroit at Avoiding Outdoor Chores, is looking forward to firing up the shiny new contraption with it's multi-directional shoot and 18" scoop. Our sidewalk will be showing concrete all winter.
At least it has been so far... and the snow blower is still in the box.
We have a variety of micro climates in Western New York which make it possible to grow wonderful grapes and apples... and, in the winter, can make you feel like you've passed through three different states in a 30 mile drive.
My office is in the Northtowns and, until recently, the winter commute could pretty much guarantee at least a few harrowing days. But we have a satellite office now , just a few blocks from my house. I've been walking to work on the days I have to be there. My commute is storm proof.
(Like all locals I am a hearty on-foot traveler thanks to our very clear memories of having to burrow through 30 foot snow drifts and 60 m.p.h. winds in subzero temperatures on the way home from school. I also distinctly recall that my kindergarten teacher was 32 feet tall, but a very nice lady).
So we're ready for winter, but I would not dare say it will be a mild one.
But I may be willing to talk about it in April.