Dead Pool 2006

The Lovely Mrs. G. and I used to have an annual Dead Pool, where you’d bet on which celebrities would still be alive and kicking at the end of next December, and which ones would find themselves as highly Botoxed worm food in Forest Lawn. We gave it up a few years back though, mainly because it was major bad mojo voodoo, mon. You are just asking for bad karma when you wager on who will live and who will die.

Still, it was fun while it lasted. Our contest was fairly simple. You’d make bets in the following four categories:

* Pick 10 celebrities who will kick the bucket.
* Pick 5 celebrities who will go into rehab.
* Pick 5 celebrities who will be arrested.
* Pick 5 celeb couples who will appear in Divorce Court.

See? It really was a bitter and snarky contest, but it was also a lot of fun.

Mrs. G. and I played this game for probably close to 5 years, and most years I came out on top, primarily because I always put rappers “Old Dirty Bastard” and Bobby Brown on my jail/rehab lists, and at the time it was almost certain one or the other would be busted on a daily basis. It was almost like taking candy from a baby with those guys. We also spent most years picking the upcoming demise of the Pope, who did finally pass away, but several years after we'd ended our game. Sometimes I wonder if he just held in there to spite us...

But like I said, we gave up the game, in the hope that our fortune wouldn’t sour as our celebrities fell upon hard times. Oh, sure - celebs will still do stupid things and will find their mug shots on The Smoking Gun, or will find themselves guests of Betty Ford for their quote-unquote "slight problem with prescription pain medication", but they'll have to do it without the Gressels cheering for their downfall.

As far as games go, the Dead Pool really is kind of mean spirited. I mean, I wouldn’t want someone betting on how much longer I’ll be around – the insurance companies already do this; why have someone else do it, too? But it was all done in good fun, and the way I see it, if you make $20 million a movie and can hire 300 people to be your personal best friends, then you deserve to be mocked every now and then when you stumble into a pile of Esctacy and Red Bull.

Still, if I was to make my list today, I can guarantee you that Paris Hilton would be on at least two of my entries, and that a certain Brit ‘n K Fed couple would top my divorce list.

But I’ll be the bigger man, and not wager on other people’s hard times any longer. I’ve moved passed it, and you should, too.

Now, please call off the lightning strikes.

Tommy the Bearded Man

I’ve been growing my beard out for the past week, mainly because I’ve been on vacation, but mostly because I’m bored. It’s coming in nicely now (for the most part), except for that it’s half gray, which is still disturbing. Oh, sure – half of my hair is already gray at age 40, but does my temporary facial hair need to also come in white? Makes me feel old.

Regardless, I’m only going to hang onto my beard for another week or so, then I’ll introduce it to Mr. Norelco. Truth be told, it’s itchy. I’m not sure how people put up with them for years on end. Now I know what dogs scratch all day long - God, I hope I don't have fleas.

But the biggest problem with Sir Thomas the Hairy is that my beard is pokey. It’s like having 7,000 little pointy knives embedded on your face. And as the Lovely Mrs. G. has so eloquently put it, it’s like kissing a porcupine. So to improve my chances of smooching my beautiful bride without causing bodily injury to either one of us, the beard will have to go away.

But first...I have some people to freak out with it. Skippy Whitebread won’t know what to make of it once we all return to work on Tuesday, and I can’t wait to see the reaction from some of my other co-workers. It’ll annoy them silently, and I’m curious to see how many people actually mention it, and how many others just ignore it.

Although, odds are high that they may not even notice it. I had a mustache for almost 10 years that I finally shaved off in 1996 when I went to work for The Mouse (Uncle Walt liked his Cast Members clean shaven), and with the exception of Mrs. G. and Miss Katie, very few people noticed it was gone. Most of the time the reaction was “Oh, you had a mustache?” Okay, it wasn’t the greatest mustache of all time (it was more "Clark Gable" than "Harry Reams"), but it was part of me for a long time. Sheesh, can’t we all mourn the passing of my ‘stache with a little more respect than that?

I know that a beard isn’t part of my personality. But what the heck – every couple of years you have to do *something* to mess with your life, and the way I see it, this is a lot easier to get out of than a tattoo or some really disturbing body piercing.

So I’ll walk around giving the world my best Grizzly Adams impersonation for a few more days, then I’ll go shave it off and go back to being plain old Tommy G., the guy who is rugged on the inside, but smoooooooth on the outside.

Oooooh, yeah.

True-Life Christmas Presents!

You’ve gotta love the Lovely Mrs. G. Every year at Christmas she knows exactly what to get me. And this year is no exception.

Look – my very own Skippy Whitebread doll!

Jack 1, Mrs. G. 0

There’s a battle of wills currently taking place in the Gressel household. But it’s not a “brains vs. brawn” war this time around – nope, it’s a “Mrs. G’s stubbornness. vs. the cat’s patience” assault instead.

Let the games begin!

It all started on Christmas morning, when the Lovely Mrs. G. gave our two cats (Jack & Tasha) a practical-and-useful gift – a new water dish. This is one of those fancy models that you can tip upside down and fill a plastic water reservoir, and then tip back over, giving the felines an ample source of liquid refreshment over a course of days.

Imagine – no having to run down and check the water dish twice a day. With this amazing new miracle breakthrough, the cats will have fresh water any time they wish. No more thirst, no more having to lick the bathtub (or God forbid - the toilet) for needed moisture.

The only problem? Jack refuses to drink from it.

Now, we’re not sure why exactly he’s being so contrary. It’s a beautiful new water dish – it certainly beats his crappy old Tupperware bowl that he’s been using over the last 10 years or so. It’s like moving up to Waterford crystal after years of drinking out of a McDonalds “Grimace” cup.

But for some reason, Mrs. G’s gift is getting the snub nose from our old black cat. And he’s made his displeasure well known.

HOOOOOWWWWWLLL!! MEEEEOOOOOOWWWWWWWW! RRRRROOOOWWLLLLLL!

For hours at a time.

Well, Mrs. G. decided that the Pampered Prince would just have to get over his issue (whatever it may be) and drink out of the dish like millions of other cats do. But no.

HHHHOOOOOOOWWWWWLLL!

He spent the afternoon following us around, practicing his panting, despite the fact that there was a half gallon of fresh, crystal-clear water waiting for him right next to his food dish. He even climbed into the shower and got his feet good and wet, then jumped up on Mrs. G. to show his negative opinion of the water situation.

But the battle of the wills was on. Mrs. G. versus the cat. And neither side looked like it was about to budge.

RRRRROOOOWWWWLLLL!

Finally, last night at around 10:00 Jack was standing in the kitchen, howling in front of the dishwasher, so I picked up a food bowl, put some water in it, and put it down in front of him.

And he drank. And drank. And drank some more. Like he’d been crawling through the desert for the last month, and had miraculously come across an oasis.

Meanwhile, Mrs. G. stood to the side, calling him all sorts of derogatory names. But Jack paid her no attention; he was too busy quenching his little kitty thirst.

But when she finally walked away, Jack lifted his head from the bowl, smacked his lips, and then walked away himself. He’d obviously proven his point; there was no need to continue.

Of course, at this point our other cat Tasha showed up, and she too drank from the food bowl. Never mind that she’d been perfectly content to drink from the new watering system earlier in the day; I guess she figured that if Jack could get away with it, then so could she.

As for Mrs. G., she gave up and went to bed.

As of this morning, the new water dish is still next to their food, still full. Jack is fast asleep in the middle of our bed, and Tasha has claimed her usual spot on the couch.

So remember this, boys and girls – sometimes an animal has a mind of its own. And in Jack’s case, he’s used his to show the world that he really is in charge in his house.

King of the castle, indeed.

My Christmas Wish

Dear Santa;

Tommy here. I’ve been a good boy this year (please – control your laughter!). Let’s see – what do I want for Christmas?

(Aside: Yes, it does seem a little silly for a 40 year old guy to write a letter to Santa, so I’ll just address it to the blog, and hope that the rest of the world doesn’t question my sanity.)

There’s not much in this world I really *need*. Oh, sure – there’s stuff I’d like to have, but overall? I’m a fairly lucky guy. I have a wonderful wife, a great daughter, two old cats that manage to make my life even better, a fairly stable roof over my head, a convertible that’s tons of fun from mid-May until the first of October, a career path that I like doing, a pretty smart head on my shoulders, a taste for adventure, and a wicked sense of humor. What more could I really ask for?

Well, I suppose I could ask for the Powerball numbers for this Saturday’s jackpot, or a million frequent flyer miles, or a platinum card that I mysteriously never am billed for, but that’d just be greedy, now wouldn’t it?

True, I’m not financially rich by any means, but I’m rich in other ways. Money isn’t everything, you know. I’m just your ordinary middle-class guy, getting by the best that I can, hoping to God that the economy doesn’t collapse around him. I’m a hard worker, and I’m willing to go the extra step to have the special amenities (trips, convertibles, etc.) that make life so much fun. I may not have loads of cash stuffed in mattresses or Swiss bank accounts, but that’s okay – it just means I don’t have to worry about protecting it all the time.

I live a pretty good life, with a family that loves me and a (generally) sunny outlook on life. Hopefully one day soon I’ll be basking in the glow of warm weather, enjoying life to its fullest, and wondering what’s next on the horizon.

So with all that being said, here are my Christmas wishes for 2005.

Peace on Earth. Is that really too much to ask? I know I ask for it every year, but c’mon – one of these years, it ought to come through.

Good health. Lord knows I’m trying, but if you can keep the cancer bug away for another year, I’ll be thankful.

Wisdom. I like being the smartest kid on the block, and I could always use some more brains in my head.

Wit. See my request for “Wisdom”, and just change the wording.

Happiness. Basically I’m already pretty happy – I wish everyone else was, too.

Love. All you need is love, love, love is all you need.

Two weeks at Walt Disney World. Everyone needs to ask for something totally superfluous; why not me?

A writing job in Florida. This one you may have to wait one more year to deliver, but I’m willing to wait. Not very patiently of course, but I’ll wait.

Peace on Earth. It was such a good idea, I thought I’d list it twice.

So there you go, Santa. I hope it’s not too much to ask. Take good care of Dasher & Dancer & friends, and make sure you always put one foot in front of the other. Soon you’ll be walking out the door!

Merry Christmas & Happy New Year to everyone.

Your pal,

Thomas J. Gressel

P.S. – If you wouldn’t mind, how about slipping an extra $50 into the stockings of all my faithful blog readers (both of them)? It’s the least I can do for making them slog through this crap for the last 7 months. Ciao!

Ants vs. Grasshoppers

There’s a genuine “mixed air” feeling here today at work. Because we shut down tomorrow for the holidays and won’t be back to work until January 3, half of the people have already adopted a “slacker syndrome” attitude, and are spending their day goofing off, Christmas shopping online, and enjoying one of the many potlucks throughout the building. (Hint: lots and lots of crock pots filled with meatballs.) Not much productive is getting done, to no one's great surprise.

As for the other half of the staff (the Type As, I suppose), they’re busy trying to cram as much work through the pipeline as possible, because by God, this absolutely, positively, come hell or high water has to be done before the end of the year!!! Hurry, hurry, hurry – get this done now, now, NOW!

Of course, most of it is stuff they should’ve had done months ago, and now they’re finally getting around to doing it, at the time when most people’s minds are definitely not on their assigned duties. I mean, how can you concentrate on work when there's a Midwest potluck just brimming with cheese balls and crackers a mere 30 yards away?

As you can guess, it makes for some really interesting viewing from the sidelines.

Take my little department, for example. This AM, my manager Skippy Whitebread was handed an inventory list of all of the products we have checked out from the storeroom, and was told that we need to account for each and every item on the list before the end of business tomorrow. Never mind that he’s been requesting this inventory list since June – today was apparently the magic day.

So instead of doing something productive (and leaving me alone), Skippy is all worked up, running around like the nutball he is, trying to account for every possible product in the department that might possibly have an asset tag on it. He’s currently sitting on the floor behind me, surrounded by piles of hardware and cables, trying to check items off his list. Oh, sure – he’s got plenty of regular “work” to do, if he decided to actually do some – but instead he’s making a huge mess that odds are he’ll leave for one of us poor writer schlubs to clean up.

Now, I’m willing to bet you anything that he’ll spend the rest of his day counting, fretting, checking on, checking off, and dragging all of us into his inventory hell, and then he’ll turn his forms in...and they’ll sit on someone's desk, untouched, until sometime next year. Maybe in February or so someone will pick them up, shove them in a file somewhere, and that’ll be that.

Hurry up and wait?
Feast or famine?
Nutballs – all of them?

Pick your analogy. Any one will do. Or feel free to mix and match.

We’re closing down tomorrow night for a full week, which will be nice, since I don’t have to carry the “emergency pager” this year. Truth be told, last year when I left the office I put the pager in the glove compartment of my car and left it there until I had to return to work on Jan 3. It didn’t go off once, but Skippy was insistent that “someone” have it with them the entire time, just in case a bigshot (who is also off for the week) wakes up at home on December 25 and decides that they need a document written pronto. Yeah, sure -- that’s going to happen. Right after that snowball fight in Hell we’ve all heard rumors about.

As for me, I’m trying to wrap up loose ends before our forced vacation, and I’m trying twice as hard to avoid being dragged into Skippy’s inventory game. 'Cause there aren't any winners there, and besides - I have a potluck to go find.

1...2...3. Three.

Yet Another Holiday

Do you know what special day today is?

Happy Winter Solstice, everyone!

Yes, Winter officially kicks in today, despite the fact that it’s 6 above zero outside and there’s a foot of snow on the ground. We’ll just call that a “sneak preview”, shall we?

The bright spot about all this is that from here on out the days will start getting longer again. It’ll be a while before we actually start seeing the sun after 4:30 or so, but at least we’re now on the upswing.

I used to work with a guy who was a major tree hugger of some sort, and he and his wife used to throw a huge Winter Solstice party every year. I never went, but from what I heard it involved a lot of crystals, hippie dancing, zither music, and hugging. Oooookay. He used to also get majorly excited over the spring and autumnal equinoxes, too. Hey, whatever floats your boat, I suppose.

It’s always amazed me what some people consider to be important holidays. I mean, look at Columbus Day. Big Deal. If ol’ Chris hadn’t eventually landed on those distant shores, someone else would’ve. Does that mean we should have to mark the occasion every year for the next 500+ years? Okay, maybe I’m just jealous, because I don’t work for a bank and/or the Post Office, so I’ve never actually had Columbus Day off. Still, as far as major holidays go, it’s pretty lame.

Back when I worked for the Japanese, we had 6 set holidays throughout the year (the Big 6, as people call them), then there were four “alternate” holidays, which we’d vote on. There were always the standards – Christmas Eve, day after Thanksgiving, President’s Day, M.L. King Day, etc...

But one year I decided to rally the employees around a different holiday, and asked everyone to vote for MY choice for the perfect day to be closed:

Halloween.

You see, I thought it’d be funny to be able to tell people that we would be closed on October 31 in honor of witches and ghouls and the walking dead.

It’d be cool - how many other corporations are closed in celebration of Halloween? I mean, other than perhaps Wiccan candle makers or pentagram engravers, everyone else would still be working.

So I rallied the troops, and asked everyone to waste their fourth vote on Halloween. The last thing I heard, we had enough votes to definitely finish in the top 3.

Alas, the H.R. manager didn’t find it very funny to think that a major international company would be closed in honor of Satan, so she “rigged” the voting so that July 5 would be our fourth official holiday. Boo. hiss. I tried to convince her that we really weren’t honoring Lucifer; instead we were taking the day off to pay respects to the centuries old tradition of trick or treating, carving pumpkins, and dressing up like Frankenstein.

She didn’t buy it.

So that ended my quest to mark October 31 as an official company holiday. And it’s twice as bad to know that we all got laid off before the next year’s voting, because I was going to campaign for April 1.

I mean, who’s got a problem with April Fools?

Merry Christmas vs. Happy Holidays

Does it seem a little odd to anyone else that there seems to be this national uproar this year about people saying “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas”, or vice versa? To quote my Jewish friends (and to bring even more fodder to the fire), Oyvey.

Here in Cowtown U.S.A., the newspaper has been filled with letters to the editor arguing the plusses and minuses of saying one greeting over the other. People are having an absolute tizzy about it, with some mouth breathers even threatening to boycott stores that won’t say “Merry Christmas”.

It’s the great argument of 2005. Not “Is Bush screwing up the world?” or “Is global warming really responsible for disasters like Hurricanes Katrina and Rita?” Nope, the biggest thing we have to discuss is whether or not the snot-nosed kid behind the counter at Mart-Mart (or his equally snot-nosed Mother at the register next to him) have the right to evoke the Good Lord’s name when wishing people well this season.

Next thing you know there will be Congressional hearings into this. Hey, those bozos wasted our time and money chatting up baseball steroids all summer long– why not argue the holidays, too?
Tell me – what’s wrong with people? What’s the big deal with just telling someone “Have a nice holiday” or “Merry Christmas”, and leaving it at that? It’s better than having the cashier say “Up yours” or “Get the hell out.” Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Seasons Greetings, Happy New Year, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Kwanzaa, Happy Festivus – all okay. There. Now relax and enjoy the peaceful season, because it’s FUCKING CHRISTMAS, GODDAMMIT. (Okay, maybe we should try it again without using the Lord’s name in vain.)

The most amazing part is that this controversy is happening at all here in Sioux City – home of Outstanding Customer Service (not). Usually around here you’re lucky if you get a grunt of acknowledgement out of the clerks, provided they’re not too busy chatting with their friends at the next register. So if you get any form of politeness out of the checkers here, be thankful.

Personally, I don’t care one way or another. If someone says “Merry Christmas,” I’ll respond with “Thanks, you too.” Ditto if someone says “Have a happy holiday”. It’s all good. If you say “Happy Groundhogs Day”, I might look at you a little odd, but it’s still better than “Where’s that $20 you owe me, Gressel?”

So with that, let me wish each and every one of you a very _______ _______.

And I really mean it.

Christmas Cookies, Anyone?

I spent all day yesterday baking – banana bread, ginger snaps, cinnamon rolls, powdered sugar walnut cookies, lemon poppyseed pound cake – wow. Add to that the coconut meringue cookies, peanut brittle, and peanut butter cookies I've already made, it’s no wonder I had to take a day off to get it all done.

I still love baking, after all these years. I started baking professionally when I was 16, and it’s just something I still enjoy doing. I ran a bakery for a while, and if the offer came along to do it again, I’d seriously have to consider it. It was lots of hard work, but it was worth it to be in charge – just you and the dough.

Some of my favorite memories from 10 years ago were my early mornings alone in the bakery with the radio blaring, just me and the mixer and rolling pin, fighting the deadline to have stuff out & ready to go when we opened the doors at 6:00 AM. I also remember having the Lovely Mrs. G. come visit me as I baked – she’d pull up a chair, and I’d show off...I mean show her my expert baking skills. I always thought it was cool of her to get up at 4:00 AM and come hang out with me. I really fell in love with her there, during those early mornings of baking and talking.

Baking commercially like that was hectic - and almost break-free. But some mornings I’d stop long enough to watch the sun come up, then it was right back to the croissants or puff pastry or cream cheese danishes. The oven ran for 12 hours a day, nonstop, and burning up the products was highly frowned upon. Yet it was still worth it – when you go look at the full display case, or you’d see someone enjoying the pastries you’d just made, and you’d know that you were responsible for all of it.

So to relive those days – and to satisfy those on my Christmas list who insist on having my baked stuff every year – I worked my tail off yesterday bringing my baking skills back to life. It was great fun, and something I’ll have to do again soon.

One way or another.

The Ghost of Christmas Parties Past

Today is our “unofficial” company Christmas lunch. It’s "unofficial" because the company no longer has official Christmas parties. Around here, the “holiday” spirit has been replaced with the “cost cutting measure” spirit.

It wasn’t always that way. My employer used to be known far and wide for their elaborate holiday parties. People would plan for weeks on attending, and they’d spend big bucks dressing up for a wild night on the town. (You could see every fashion design you could imagine, from tuxedos to Fredericks of Hollywood, and everything in between.) There always was tons of food, decent bands, and a good time all around. They’d rent out the local convention center, and upwards of 15,000 employees & guests would show up for a night of partying.

But that was back in the “good old days”, when there were 9,000 people working here in our location (and a total of 38,000 worldwide). Nowadays most of the party attendees have been pink-slipped and moved on with their lives, while the rest of us? Well, Christmas Past is just a memory.

Here’s how the timeframe went:

In 1998, my first year here, the special musical guest for the Christmas party was “War”. There were also two comedians, a country band, a dance band (“The Gloryholes”, if you can imagine such a name), and a karaoke room. The buffet took up probably close to 40 tables. There were drinks-a-plenty, and the nearby hotels offered special rates for those too wasted to make it home safely (which seemed to be about half the attendees, if I remember right). It was a helluva party, and one you wouldn’t forget for a long time.

In 1999, the musical guest was “Big Head Todd and the Monsters”.

In 2000, the headlining band was “REO Speedwagon”. Three days before the party the company announced lower than expected Q4 earnings, and said that they’d lay off 12% of their staff, in a move they called “right-sizing”. But the party was booked and paid for, so even though it wasn’t as jolly as years before, it still went on. Still, REO rocked that night, and everyone tried (for one night, at least) to put behind them the awful things that were about to happen.

2001? Our staff of 38,000 was now down to about 20,000. They had right-sized, and then some. We had a company wide potluck. No band. Just a boombox playing stale Christmas music, while we were invited to eat all the food we brought ourselves.

In 2002, for Christmas we all got a week of unpaid leave. They practically shut the entire company down for 6 days, which we had to take without pay as a “cost savings measure”. The remaining 20,000 was now about 12,000. No potluck.

We got the same thing in 2003 – a week of unpaid leave. Oh, and I should also mention that 7,500 of my co-workers also got canned on December 3rd of that year, including 5 of the 9 remaining writers in my team. Yeah, Merry Christmas indeed.

In 2004 they didn’t even mention Christmas, other than sponsoring the Salvation Army Angel Tree donations in the front lobby. Our writing team, now down to 3 of us (thanks to yet another round of job cuts in Sept 04), went “dutch” to a local BBQ place for a Christmas lunch. We also had our week off at Christmas again, only this time they let us use vacation time if we had some saved.

So now here we are at Christmas 2005. Skippy Whitebread wants us to all go out for pizza today, which I’m sure means the all-you-can-eat buffet at the nearby Godfather’s. It’s not gourmet, but maybe there will be an REO CD in the jukebox for old times sake.

But despite the way the years have gone up and down, I’ll try to enjoy the time with my small-but-tight crew. We’ve certainly seen the highs and lows that this place has to offer, but we’ll try to loosen up for the afternoon, and say a little prayer for a brighter tomorrow.

And just to be safe, I’d add an extra little prayer that the pizza doesn’t give Skippy gas. Nobody wants that for Christmas.

O Christmas Tree!

The Lovely Mrs. G. and I finally got around to buying a Christmas tree this weekend. Or, I really should say that Mrs. G. did the buying. Personally, I think real trees are kind of a waste of money. Why cut down a perfectly good piece of nature, only to have it sit in your living room for two weeks, slowly shedding needles, then have it end up next to the Christmas boxes and shreds of paper and tinsel on the curb come December 26?

Why, a plastic tree is perfectly fine for me. No mess, no watering, no pine needles to step on in the middle of the night, no disposal worries. And if you decorate it with 10 zillion lights, you can hardly notice the cheapie coat-hanger style branches.

But alas – I married a (wonderful, loving, and practically perfect in every way) Montana girl, who loves her fresh cut Christmas trees, so that’s what we have. And that’s okay – she likes them, and if it makes her happy, then it makes me happy.

Growing up in the land of many, many, pine tress (Washington – The EVERGREEN State), we were one of the first families on the block to have a plastic Christmas tree. My Mother was deathly afraid of fire (she still is), and she was convinced that any moment now our Christmas tree would spontaneously combust and turn us all into little Gressel cinders.

But there were a couple of times back in my “early days” that I can recall having a real Christmas tree. The one that sticks out most in my memory was the one we cut down in our own backyard.

Seattle used to have a hardware chain called “Ernst”, which used to give out free fir trees at their annual Do-It-Yourself Fair. One of my siblings had been given one, which my Dad planted in the backyard a few years earlier, which had now matured and grown into a beautiful 6-foot tall specimen. (Even more amazing, since few things outside of dandelions and moss managed to grow in that lousy Seattle weather.)

Since there was a nice Christmas tree right there – free and at our disposal – we played Paul Bunyan and took the axe to it (not a pretty sight – the tree did not go peacefully, if I remember right), and brought it inside. There, it was attacked with lights, ornaments, garland, and a whole lot of tinsel, courtesy of my younger sister and me.

Our homegrown Christmas tree was perfect. It was heart-warming. It was our newest family member.

It was a dry, brown, thoroughly dead, totally pathetic compilation of stump and branches three days later.

Yes, our perfect backyard tree didn’t like coming indoors, and promptly croaked.

By December 15 the needles were brown.
By December 20 there weren’t any needles.
By Christmas? The poor thing looked more like a tumbleweed than a Christmas tree.

Believe me - Charlie Brown’s tree looked a thousand times better than this wretched thing.

Of course, my poor pyro-phobiac Mother had an absolute conniption about having this dead firetrap in her house, and we weren’t allowed to plug in the lights for more than a couple of minutes, less it heat up too high and become a generous supply of indoor kindling.

And I don’t think I need to tell you that it was out of the house and gone from our memory by December 26.

And that, my tree hugging friends, ended the Gressel family’s adventures with fresh Christmas trees. From then on we lived La Vida Plastica, which also meant no more tinsel for us. Double boo.

But on the “bright side” (no pun intended), we did end up with this snazzy spinning light thing – four different colors that would project on your tree as a color wheel spun and a giant light bulb shone through. What can I say – it was the 70’s. It wasn’t real, but it was really psychedelic.

So here it is 2005 - and we’ve got our real tree – but no spinning colored lights, no tinsel, and with any luck, no Class C flammable Douglas firs.

But just to be on the safe side, I’ll keep the fire extinguisher nearby.

My Mom would be proud.

Scrabble with M Diddy

True confession time: There’s only been one new TV series this fall I’ve been watching faithfully. And I’m not ashamed to admit it.

Yes, your boy Tommy has been watching The Apprentice: Martha Stewart.

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking – what? Why’s he wasting his time on that low-rated reality crap? Geez, Tom – why don’t you just go put on some chamomile tea and watch America’s Next Top Model while you’re at it?

But no – it’s nothing like that. I really do enjoy Ms. Stewart’s show, despite the fact that it’s in the ratings dumpster, and even The Donald has started ripping on it, even though he’s an executive producer.

Martha’s version of The Apprentice has actually been a lot of fun to watch, and it made me see Ms. Martha in a much different light. Oh, sure – I still suspect that she’ll rip your head off and make a lovely bouillabaisse out of your spleen if you dare cross her, but seeing Martha actually smile and show a bit of humility has been good for America – and for me.

I mention my guilty pleasure because last week’s episode included one of those fantastic rewards for the winners that even I really wanted. Usually the winners of Apprentice tasks are shuttled off to dinner with some New York bigwig or sent on some Manhattan sightseeing tour, where they can then reflect on how wonderful they are and try to justify how having a pastrami sandwich while overlooking Central Park can help you win at next week’s task.

But this week’s reward was beyond cool. The three winning finalists got to go up to Martha’s (incredible, outrageous, and somewhat intimidating) estate in Bedford, CT -- where by the way she color-coordinated all of the farm animals to match the farm – and they got to join Martha on a lovely horseback ride around the property, then afterwards...

...here it comes...the good part...

THEY GOT TO JOIN MARTHA IN A GAME OF SCRABBLE!!!

Now, I’m not trying to be facetious here – I’m downright serious. How friggin’ cool would it be to sit down at a table and play a game of Scrabble with Martha Stewart? It wouldn’t be an ordinary weekend of football and naps on the sofa, that’s for sure.

Watching the three finalists play Scabble with M Diddy made me really jealous. I wanted to play, too, dammit! I mean, to just cut loose with the Queen of American Business – a talk show maven, a household name, and a dynasty unto herself - over a lovely game of Scrabble. No work, no worries, just tiles and triple word scores.

I really respect Martha for doing this. You never see The Donald inviting his Apprenti over for Parcheesi, do you? Tyra Banks doesn’t bring the despondent models over a Clue board. Jeff Probst doesn’t offer to challenge the Survivors in a fun round of Candyland. So it’s refreshing to see someone so strong, so powerful, so...Martha... do something so...normal.

Yet as the contestants played, three thoughts went through my mind:

1 – Would you dare let yourself win? Both the Lovely Mrs. G. and I are pretty good wordsmiths, and unless Martha is a member of the National Scrabble Honor Society, odds are pretty high that we’d be able to keep up with her. But it’d be like golfing with the CEO – would you “accidentally” put one into the rough so that the final score was close, but the Big Shot would still win? Or would you say “screw it”, and whip Ms. Stewart’s butt at her own game?

2 – What would the ramifications be if you did happen to win? Would Martha take it well, or would she throw the Scrabble board at you? Would she send you out to her garden to pick some ‘fresh snipes’ for the loft, then ditch you in Connecticut and make you walk back to Manhattan? Or would she just smile and wait until the next time you’re in her conference room, then lean over, light up her #2’s cigar, then put it out in your eye? You just never know what new tricks she picked up in 5 months at Camp Cupcake – she might be able to make a really decent shiv out of the Scrabble tile holder by now.

3 – Where was the snack try? Geez, Martha – you’re a gourmet cook, and the Goddess of Entertaining. I couldn’t help but notice that it was just you and the three nervous Apprenti sitting there playing. Couldn’t you have at least offered up some lemonade? How about some of those wonderful butter thin color-coordinated cookies you like to make? Hell, a bag of Cheetos or some Chex Mix probably would’ve done the trick, that’s all I’m saying.

Yet despite all the things to consider, I’d still love to take Martha on at her own game. Of course, if it were up to me, I’d make her play Disney Trivia instead, and we’d play for cash...

...or maybe a really decent job with MSLO.

The Sounds of Christmas Fill the Air

They’re pumping Christmas music through the halls here today at work – very odd, considering how the company has pretty much ignored Christmas for the past few years. It wasn’t always that way – back in the “happy days” (before they laid off 92% of their staff) Christmas was a big deal in the company. Things soured, and the “spirit of the season” was pretty much a goner for a long, long, time.

But now it’s back, and I for one am glad to see it return. Maybe it’s a sign of brighter days to come? I’m not holding my breath, but I suppose everyone needs a Christmas wish. Or miracle. Your choice.

Regardless, I was inspired today by the Christmas music in the hallway and an article I saw online about the best & worst music that the holiday season has to offer. So put down that copy of “Now That’s What I Call Music Volume 912!”, and check out what your old pal Tommy has on his holiday-filled mind:


Tommy G.’s Five Best Pop Christmas Songs (in no particular order)

“Christmas Wrappin’”, The Waitresses: It’s so cynical that it’s good. And you know what – damn, I forgot cranberries, too!

“Please Come Home For Christmas”, The Eagles: Bells will be ringing, and I’ll be listenin’, every time this one comes on. What can I say? Sometimes I’m a sentimental guy. Sue me, Mr. Scrooge. Sue me.

“Christmas Blues”, Dean Martin. This one is kind of a rarity, but it’s one that I love nonetheless. You may have to look hard and long to find this one, but it’s worth the effort. That Deano, he was a smoothie.

“Blue Christmas”, Elvis. I really don’t like the background singers (“oooh-oooh-OOOH-oooh!”), but The King is The Man. How can you not love Elvis? On a side note, you should see my friend Mike sing this song, especially after he’s had a couple “Christmas spirits”. His impersonation is worth the price of admission alone.

“Christmas in Hollis”, Run DMC: Yes, I’m a white boy in Iowa. But Run DMC’s Christmas in Hollis, Queens is bustin’! True, I’m not about to ask Saint Nick for a pair of Adidas and some pretty gold bling, but still...it’s a classic among them. Yo.

Honorable mention has to go to Nat King Cole’s Christmas Song, The Chipmunk’s entire Christmas album, Bob & Doug McKenzie’s 12 Beers of Christmas, the dogs who bark Jingle Bells, All 3 versions of Adam Sandler’s Chanukah song, and Andy Williams belting out “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” Awww, ain’t that nice?

But being the snarky guy that I am, I must also present the Dark Side...


Tommy G.’s Five Worst Pop Christmas Songs

“12 Days of Christmas:” Could this song go on even longer? Good Lord – nobody gives a crap about 11 lords a-leaping anything. It’s like 20 minutes of musical greed. Nobody needs that many golden rings, and I don’t know what I’d do with a turtle dove if you gave one to me. Maybe a little stuffing, a little gravy, but that’s it. And a partridge in yet another damn pear tree already. Move on.

“Happy Xmas (War is Over):” The regularly played version by John Lennon is okay – but the version with Yoko’s 10-minute rant in the middle? Ugh. If you haven’t heard it, consider yourself lucky. Ears have spontaneously bled from less. Yoko goes off on an audible tangent about something or another, and you’ll find yourself wishing you could take a Sharpie and scribble SHUT UP YOKO across your CD player in order to make it stop.

“Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer:” Yeah, yeah. It was funny the first 9,000 times I heard it as a kid. Nowadays? I can’t turn the radio off fast enough. Amazingly enough, it’s hugely popular on Sioux City radio. Gee, go figure.

“Santa Baby:” I like Eartha Kitt’s original version, but all of the terrible pop singer cover versions over the last few years? Each and every one of them deserve coal in their stockings and laryngitis in their teeny-bopper throats. Besides, isn’t it illegal to sing so trite over the holidays?

“Christmas Shoes:” By far the sappiest holiday song of all time. The poor little waif wants to buy Dying Mama some shoes for her last Christmas on Earth. I’m sympathetic to someone dying and all, especially over the holidays, but c’mon – why bum everyone out? How this tragedy became such a monster hit I’ll never know. Every time I want to hear it I want to go drink hemlock. Merry Christmas, indeed.

So there you have it – my thoughts on the music of the season. Now it’s your chance to post – what are your faves? Most dreaded songs?

Post early, and post often.

And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.

It's S.C. Versus the O.C.!!!

The office is filled with California muckety-mucks today, so it’s time to put on your Sunday best and play Dress Up. Yes, despite the fact that it’s 6 degrees below zero outside, we’re all wearing our fanciest duds, in the million-to-one chance that one of the execs should happen to pass us in the hallway and want to check out our wardrobe. So we may all freeze to death today, but by God we’ll look good if an executive should happen to stumble across our frozen corpses.

Sheesh.

It’s actually been kind of interesting having all these high-level executives from sunny California in town when it’s this blasted cold – some of these people have never even seen snow, much less experienced temperatures a good 70 – 80 degrees colder than it is back home in Orange County. I watched a bunch of them yesterday staring out the window at the blowing snow with a look of awe you’d normally only see on the face of a toddler. I half expected them to go ask Mom if they could go build a snowman or go sledding.

It’s common knowledge around here that the Cali people look down their noses at us here in Iowa. They purposely moved our corporate offices from here to southern Cal because they couldn’t talk professional grade execs into working for a company based in the Midwest. So the company is ran by hundreds of people who have no real idea of what we’re like or what life is like here, and only rely on stereotypes and rumor for their mental images. In their minds we’re all Midwest hicks who would be better suited to bib overalls and an episode of Green Acres if it weren’t for our jobs here. Well, I’ve got news for you, buddies – not everyone around here is a ‘neck. Some of actually have brains, and know how to use them. So it’s time to drop the 'tude and try getting along. Who knows – you may be surprised by who you meet.

Given the choice, I’d rather live here than in Southern California. (Shocking, I know.) I love L.A. and all, and there’s no better place to visit than Disneyland, but overall? Los Angeles is too crowded to live in on a regular basis, it’s a traffic nightmare, and quite frankly, I don’t want to live anywhere where it’s necessary to have bars on your windows. Plus, L.A. is home to O.J, Robert Blake, and Phil Spector, so odds are probably high you’re going to catch a bullet eventually. I'm still a Dodger fan, and I love my Mickey Mouse, but I wouldn't want to be around them all the time.

So for now I’ll continue to be a Midwest boy – temporarily, of course. (Deep down I’m still a Seattleite. Lukewarm rain still runs through these veins, even 10 years after moving away.) Soon, with any luck, I’ll be a Floridian, where smog-free sunshine is available at my beck and call, and the odds of 6 below zero temps are really, really low.

Until then, I’ll be sure to bundle up, and say hi to any execs I happen to see in the hall. I just hope they notice how natty my attire is...

Being Sick or Being Cold - Take Your Pick

The only thing worse than being sick? That’d be being sick when it’s 12 degrees below zero outside. Talk about your salt in the wound...

Regardless, I’m pumped full of Advil® and DayQuil® this morning, plus a sizable dose of Diet Pepsi®. If the high levels of ibuprofen, acetaminophen, and caffeine don’t do the trick, then I’ll probably go buy a Remington®, some Jack Daniels®, and a pack of Marlboros®, and take these nasty germs out one by one.

Okay, I’m actually not that sick, and I’m really not about to go on a drunken shooting rampage against microscopic viruses. I just felt like adding lots of registered trademarks today. It’s apparently a side effect of too much cold medicine on an empty stomach that I was never aware of.

I don’t have time to be sick, but who does? I’ve got accounting class tonight, a midterm this weekend, a zillion Christmas cards to address, a Christmas tree to buy (yes, the Gressel family is the last one on the block to not have their up), shopping to finish, plus I need some time to slip into hibernation until it warms up to at least 20 above. So the germs floating around in my poor stuffy head will just have to wait. I have a week off at Christmas; they can come out and play between Dec 26 – 30. Pencil it in.

That being said, I hope all of you are healthy and warm. Drink your juice like good boys and girls, and promise me you won’t mix the cold tabs with additional Advil®. You’ll pay the price in the end™.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

It’s 2 degrees below zero here this morning. Stupid cold.

As you can probably surmise from my constant bitching and my overwhelming desire to live in sunny Florida, I’m not a huge fan of Old Man Winter. I’m naturally a warm weather creature, despite all my years living in moderately lukewarm Seattle. So when it’s below zero outside, I tend to snivel.

I didn’t even need to look at the thermometer this morning to know that it’s stupid cold outside. Trust me; You’ll know that it’s freezing cold outside when you wake up at 5:20 AM and find two cats sleeping on your head, sucking the heat out of your skull. Not a pleasant experience, especially if their little kitty asses are pointed downwind.

Regardless, the coldest weather I’ve ever experienced was about 4 months after I moved here to Iowa – January 1996. Everyone had told me that winters were harsh here, but December had been relatively mild.

Then January came. With a bone chilling vengeance.

January 2, it was 20 degrees below zero. January 3, it got down to an amazing 31 degrees below zero, with wind chills of 80 below.

Now, for those of you who’ve never been in temperatures that extreme, let me tell you – it’s a feeling you won’t soon forget. At about 5 below zero, your nostrils tend to freeze as you breathe. 10 below? Your lungs ache. But at 31 below zero? That, my friends, is cold you’ll feel to your SOUL.

There were only two things that could be remotely called “fun” about 30 below temps. One, you can throw a cup of boiling water into the air, and it’ll freeze before it hits the ground. Two, you can blow soap bubbles, and they’ll freeze in midair. When they hit the ground, they pop like dropped light bulbs. It’s cool to see, but I wouldn’t recommend sending the kiddies out for a morning of this game. They might come back as tot-cicles.

There’s really no way to adequately describe how miserable those temps are. You can’t spend more than a few minutes outside without risking having your nose, fingers, and/or toes fall off, and there are not enough layers of clothing in this world to keep you toasty. So you’d better hope to God that those cold temps don’t come with a bonus of snow to shovel – otherwise you’ll be in a cold, bad mood when you come inside.

Just as there’s a huge difference in comfort level between 85 degrees (bearable) and 95 degrees (pretty frickin’ hot), there’s a huge difference between 5 above zero and 5 below. When it does warm back up to – oh, let’s say 10 above – it feels like a heatwave.

Sad, isn’t it? Sad and a little bit pathetic.

So here’s to hoping for some warmer temps and a little less of this Arctic Blast crap. Although it’s supposed to be 11 below on Wednesday, so we’ll have to wait and see about that.

In the meantime, keep your cats nearby, because you might need them just as much as they need you. Just be sure to sleep on your stomach; otherwise you might have cat-butt scented dreams all night.

The Joys of the Season

So I spent yesterday pretty much ranting at the world. Then I received a nice message reminding me that Christmas was only 3 ½ weeks away. And so it is. So today I decided to “lighten up, Francis” (TM Stripes) and try to enjoy the season.

So here you go...
















This photo was taken this AM, in my backyard. Ain’t it lovely? Of course, it was 6 degrees outside at the time, and I just about froze a couple of appendages off -- but for you, it’s worth it.

So happy holidays. From your old pal Tommy, who is trying not to be such a grinch today.