Halloween in the North

Whoever had the bright idea to celebrate Halloween at the end of October was, I say respectfully, nuts. That individual obviously never tried to trick-or-treat in Michigan, in 60 degrees below zero, dressed as a princess, or a ballerina, leaving you only two choices: a) turn into an Ice Princess, or b) allow your mother to layer on so many sweaters and jackets and scarves and hats -- this is so SHE will be warm while you're out trick-or-treating -- over your pretty costume that people think you have dressed up like the Michelin man.


Actually there is a third option, which is to c) sprint to two or three houses and get your candy, run back inside your own house to get thawed out, sprint to two or three more houses, run back inside, etc. Such behavior is decidedly beneath a princess or a ballerina, but there IS survival to think of.


It's not all roses for the people passing out the candy in cold climates, either. It's not uncommon, in your northern climates, for homeowners to simply set their bowl of Halloween candy on the porch, unattended, with a note instructing trick-or-treaters to please just take one. This is not because northerners are any more likely than people in warmer locations to be out of the house on Halloween. They are home, alright -- safely inside, probably in front of a fire. THEY are not going to open and close the door constantly in 60 degrees below zero.


The only problem with this is that if everyone obeys the limit-one-per-person, the candy will very soon start to freeze, the individual pieces huddling together in an effort to ward off the bitter cold. Luckily, very few trick-or-treaters do obey the limit-one-per-person rule.


Fortunately we are in a somewhat more temperate climate now, and we do not have to worry about our candy freezing. However, we do sometimes run out of candy for the trick-or-treaters, mainly because we have eaten most of it ourselves. We try not to worry about it too much, though.


(Here the Hero would like to insert a disclaimer, namely, that he really does not like candy all that much, and certainly would not go to any great lengths to attain it, but if I'm going to have a big bowl of it just sitting around, staring at him, calling to him -- well, yes, he will dip into it now and then.)


Perhaps we're a little rusty on Halloween practices, having lived for so long in neighborhoods where dogs outnumber kids 267 to 1. It's surprising that so far no one in such neighborhoods has taken advantage of this fact, and of the trend toward putting one's dog into cute little outfits now and then. You see where I am going with this. Why not dress up your dog and teach it to knock on the neighbors' doors and get candy? With a certain tone of voice, "ruff, ruff" could certainly pass for "Trick or treat!" ("Look, Merle, here's one dressed like a schnauzer. My, aren't you convincing." "Yeah, looks just like that schnauzer who attacked our garden hose last summer." "Oh, Merle, don't be silly. That was a dog.")


This Halloween, we again take up our station by the front door, awaiting potential trick or treaters. And when they come, holding out their bags expectantly, we'll say, "Sorry, all out. But look, three doors down -- see? They've got LOTS of candy..."

Our annual pumpkin ritual

Each year in October, to get into the spirit of the fall season, we put out a variety of pumpkins on our patio, arranged in a manner that we hope suggests we have some knowledge of decorating principles. 


We engage in a fairly involved process as we search for the perfect placement that will show off the pumpkins to best advantage. Of course the Hero's opinion is consulted on the ideal situating of the pumpkins, generally in this manner:


"Do you like the pumpkins here?" I'll ask.


"Uh huh," he says.


"Or better over here?"


"Uh huh."


"How about if we sneak into a cemetery in the middle of the night and put them on someone's grave?"


"Uh huh."


The Hero somewhat frowns upon the idea of displaying pumpkins out in the open, believing that this only encourages the local wildlife to practice vandalism. 


Probably this belief has something to do with the fact that every fall I put out the pumpkins, and every fall a certain squirrel, thinking he has died and gone to his own private buffet, does his very best to destroy them. As October progresses into November, the squirrel gets bolder, and the pumpkins start more and more to resemble slasher movie victims. 



"We should just carve a jack-o'-lantern out of it," the Hero says.


"The squirrel pretty much takes care of that for us."



This year the Hero suggested that, if I insist on having the pumpkins, I spray them with something repulsive to the squirrel and other potential marauders.


It might also, I said, be pretty repulsive to find a dead squirrel on the patio, which would probably be the outcome of spraying the pumpkins. Plus we would probably be called up by the homeowner's association, not to mention various groups against cruelty to squirrels and other rodents.


So far this year the squirrel has held off on attacking the pumpkins. No doubt it is waiting to unleash its mischief until I am out of town next week, when the pumpkins will be unguarded. If the squirrel knows what's good for it, it will go about its business quietly, refrain from directing any fierce chattering at the Hero (there is a history of animosity between the two), and, most important, stay out of the way of any spray cans.

A letter to our Y family

Dear Beverly,


We received your kind e-mail letting us know that our extended absence from our local Y has been noticed. It is touching to know that we are missed by the "family." It is true that they have not seen us there for some time, as we do try to keep as low a profile as possible, including ducking down inside the car when we have to drive by the front of your establishment.


You are so right when you say that it is easy to let life get in the way of exercising. We have definitely noticed that our time is taken up by such important things as watching movies, shopping, reading important news sources such as the Onion, "smelling the roses," etc. -- which leaves us, as you can well imagine, very little time for exercising. 


You used several terms in your e-mail that were somewhat concerning to us: doing aerobic exercise, increasing respiration, building endurance, etc. Really, is it completely necessary to alarm your members with images of pain and suffering in this manner? And by using all those action verbs with "ing" on the end, like walking, running, swimming? Wouldn't it be better to entice them with talk of relaxation, yoga, comfy couches, coffee break areas, massage, and so on? Frankly, we think you would have better luck with this method.


You mention that you, and the whole Y family, would like to help us "get more into a routine" and get on track with our health and well-being. That sounds great, Beverly, but we were just wondering, did you have something in mind that would not involve getting all sweaty and tired and risking injury to various parts of our body? If so, by all means, sign us up for that.


We were a little perplexed regarding your observation that when you, personally, are out of the habit of exercising, you find that you do not feel as great as you could be feeling. We highly recommend our own remedies for this, which would include many of those things mentioned in a previous paragraph, plus things like eating ice cream, getting whipped cream and sprinkles on your triple grande Salted Caramel Mocha, putting off 'til tomorrow what you don't want to do today, etc. Beverly, if we can be of any service to you in these matters, we sincerely hope you will contact us. We would be only too glad to help.


You mentioned how beneficial it is to get one's body moving, and urged us to do this. We couldn't agree more, Beverly, and that's why, after we send this e-mail, we are heading right to the kitchen to indulge in some chocolate cake. That ought to get our respiration up! We'll be sure to take the long way there.


Sincerely,
Two Backslidden (but Happy) Members

The Year of Pestilence and Bother

Although this is the Chinese Year of the Rabbit, at our house it has been various other things. It has been the Year of the Yellow Jackets, which not only invaded the outside of the house but also made themselves quite at home on the inside. It has been the Year of the Stink Bugs, which have behaved similarly, and whose only purpose, as far as the Hero can tell, is to drive him to the brink of insanity. 


And now, just as the yellow jackets are a distant memory and even the stink bugs seem to be waning (although the Hero is sure THEY will never be a distant memory), it has become the Year of the Crying Dog Next Door.


The Crying Dog Next Door, a new addition to our neighbor's house, is six years old, female, and miserable when left alone. We are also miserable when she's left alone. She whines. We whine. She cries. We cry. She barks. We -- well, we haven't resorted yet to barking, but that response may not be far behind. Her crying also keeps us from our weekend naps, which is making me, anyway, grumpy.


Even the dog across the street, who has full command of her owner's porch, from which she surveys the comings and goings of the neighbors -- and frequently comments on them with a loud bark -- must be able to hear the Dog Next Door, because she occasionally barks in the direction of that house in a distinctly disapproving manner. 


One evening when the Dog Next Door seemed particularly agitated and had been crying for hours, suddenly above her whining we heard another noise of distress. We listened, trying to figure out where it was coming from.


"I think it's the Cat Next Door," the Hero announced. "He can't take the crying anymore, either."


Whatever it was, it certainly sounded unhappy. And loud. Almost like it was...


"There's a cat on our back porch!" I yelled to the Hero, peering out the door.


He merely shrugged. To him, a seasoned combat fighter, a little fluffy ball of fur -- noise notwithstanding -- was far less threatening than the enemies he'd dealt with all year.


The cat did not seem to want to come in -- not that we gave it that option -- but sat for some time, loudly proclaiming all its woes to the world. Even the Dog Next Door grew quiet for a while, probably admiring the way the cat expressed such a range of emotion. We fretted about what to do, and finally decided that the prudent thing to do was to watch a movie, turned up very loudly, and hope the cat would go away. This proved to be effective, although we have no idea how long it took the cat to leave, because once a movie ended we would immediately start a new one, fearing the cat would take up its lament again if it perceived any silence on our part.


When we finally climbed the stairs and fell into bed, the Dog Next Door commenced whining.


"I think she can hear when we're on the stairs," the Hero said. "She thinks we're THEM." After that we avoided the stairs as much as possible, and when it was unavoidable, climbed as quietly as we could, putting one leg in front of the other in such exaggerated motion that it took quite some time to either ascend or descend.


Eventually the Hero politely brought the Dog Next Door's plight to the attention of her owners, who were suitably horrified. The next several times they went out, they huddled outside the door, hoping to hear what we said we were hearing.


"We don't hear anything," they said. "I think she knows we're still there."


And ten minutes after they really left, the crying would start.


Later they proposed getting her a kennel and a blanket to throw over it. 


"A blanket to throw over sounds good," I said to the Hero. 


"Won't that scare her?" he said.


"I meant a blanket to throw over ME. A soundproof one."


Given all this excitement, the Hero has declared this the Year of Pestilence for us. While we wait for the Dog Next Door situation to get resolved to everyone's satisfaction -- a behavioral specialist has also been called in -- we are already looking forward to next year: the Chinese Year of the Water Dragon. We can hardly wait to find out what this might mean for us.

The curly-hair club

My hair stylist is freshly back from Greece, which is where many years ago she, an Irishwoman, met her husband, who is Arabic, and now where they, who are Americans, wish to retire when the time comes (she feeling that the time to do so is PAST, but that is another subject). She was evidently somewhat reluctant to return home ("kicking and screaming" is I believe how she described her forced entry onto the plane). 


She lamented that she'd brought back some extra pounds in various places on her person, and was now on a low-carb diet trying to shed them. "All I do," she confided, "is fantasize about bread." This was particularly difficult, she said, because there was a bakery very near the salon, and all day while cutting hair she could think only of "The baguettes! The croissants!" at the bakery. And drool over the thought.


She is now sporting short curly hair, which I remarked upon, as it was a distinct departure from her usual look. Her hair, normally, is even straighter and thinner and finer than mine, which is about as straight and thin and fine as you can get and still HAVE hair.


"Oh," she said airily when I mentioned her curls, "my hair is wantin' to go curly now, can you believe it?" She lowered her voice. "I think it's hormones," she said. She described how she had been born with blonde, curly hair, and how as a result she had been very cute as a child. In puberty it had gone completely straight and stayed that way until recently, when it had begun to curl again.


"I see the same thing in some of my clients," she said. "It's got to be hormones."


I noted that something very similar had happened to one of my sisters, whose hair, seemingly overnight, went from straight and fine and thin to Shirley Temple. She now looked so much like our aunt that it was a little unnerving.


I could look forward to no such curling of my own hair, I thought almost wistfully. MY hair had never had an ounce of curl, except for the few times I'd had perms, which had turned out to be unfortunate mistakes and would not be repeated.


At this point in our conversation, the stylist waved to another client who'd come in, and then said to the woman in a surprised voice, "You've got curls! I love your curls!"


The stylist stared at her a minute, then said to me in a slightly lowered voice, "Hmmmm. SHE must have the hormonal thing going on too. Her hair's always been straight." Although she held tightly to the hormone theory, she also mused about whether there was something in the water.


"Obviously not the water I drink," I said.


Left out of the curly-hair club, I encouraged my hair to just be itself. Evidently I was not encouraging enough, as even the stylist had difficulty getting my hair to exhibit any body at all as she styled it. "I tried my best," she said finally, "but..." She shrugged an apology.


My limp, short, straight, fine, thin, noncurly hair and I went home and eventually to bed, where I dreamed happily of baguettes and croissants. And Greece.

Leaf peepers II

As we mentioned in the previous blog post, it is difficult to predict the timing of peak leaf color. To take some of the guesswork out of knowing when and where to find the best colors, many leaf destination areas provide leaf peeping updates. These guides are very handy, or at least they would be, if they were accurate in their predictions. They seem to us, however, to rely a great deal on Mrs. Sweeney's (Tinmouth, Vermont) arthritis condition to help pinpoint where the colors will be the brightest.


My sister and I embarked on a leaf-peeping expedition to West Virginia recently, arming ourselves with up-to-date maps, color reports, visitor brochures, snacks, updates on Mrs. Sweeney, additional snacks, etc. To assuage our guilt over all the snacks we planned to consume, we also took along a good supply of healthy foods. These subsequently returned home with us, untouched.


We followed the maps and reports that showed where we were most likely to find the best color, and found that the actual leaves showed the exact opposite condition predicted by the maps. In the places where the colors were supposed to be at peak, there were hardly any leaves left on the trees. Here we were informed that "oh, you should have been here last week. The trees were beautiful." 


"But our maps say they're supposed to be beautiful THIS week," we insisted, and looked reproachful, as if tourism officials should personally glue all the fallen leaves back on the trees for our benefit.


Nevertheless, we did manage to experience thrilling car rides through the mountains, negotiating the tight, curvy roads that always looked as if they would suddenly end at a precipice. We managed these difficult driving conditions by operating on the two-driver system, whereby the person in the driver's seat drives the car as normal, and the passenger "assists" the driver by, for instance, leaning sharply away from the cliff edge when rounding curves so as to help the car avoid going over the edge. Gripping the door handle tightly also helps in this purpose. The passenger also freely dispenses helpful advice to the driver, such as "Slow down! Slow down! Slow down!" This is repeated until the car is no longer moving and the driver has, in fact, exited the car and vowed never to take such a trip with the passenger again.


In an effort to see more vibrant colors like in the brochures we had, we abandoned the color maps and began to drive in whatever direction we hadn't yet been: Virginia, Tennessee, British Columbia, Disney World, the Solomon Islands, etc. Finally, discouraged at not finding the most beautiful fall colors in the world, we decided to head home. Plus, we were out of snacks and down to the healthy foods.


When we did arrive home, we found that the leaves here were still oblivious to the time of year. Finally -- something was just as we had expected.

Fall is here! (here = somewhere)

October is the traditional time for leaves to turn vibrant colors, at least in some locations. This process occurs by a complex chemical reaction, which is initiated by chambers of commerce in tourist towns all over the Northeast and other popular "leaf-peeping" areas in an effort to attract visitors and -- it is hoped -- their money.


But predicting when the leaves will turn is a tricky process. Peak leaf color is, as you may be aware, determined by various weather conditions, including the amount of rainfall, sunshine, temperature, Mrs. Sweeney's (Tinmouth, Vermont) arthritis, etc.


All of these factors combine in a complex, scientific manner to determine timing and vibrancy of leaf color, and when the interaction between these factors is JUST right, get ready, because just before the leaves turn brilliant red, yellow, and orange, along will come a torrent of wind and rain that tears the leaves from the trees before they have even had time to THINK about turning colors.


At least that seems to be how it works at our house. When I mentioned that the leaves turn vibrant colors in some locations, I did not mean OUR location. Although we are surrounded by many impressive trees, they are all underachievers when it comes to fall color, preferring to simply turn an unimpressive brown before falling to the ground. 


Many other people also suffer from a dearth of color in their areas, which often leads to the fall phenomenon alluded to earlier, known as leaf peeping. Leaf peeping, while not nearly as illegal as it sounds, is nevertheless a pleasant diversion that tourists appreciate mainly because they know they do not have to clean up all those leaves when they fall. 


Due to earlier technical difficulties, and the Princess's bedtime, we must leave off our narrative at this point, but it will be continued.

Back soon! We hope

The Princess has returned from a weekend of "leaf peeping" -- which is not nearly as illegal as it sounds -- and will return to writing just as soon as her body stops acting as if it is still going around and around the mountains of West Virginia...and around...and around...and around...

Three's a charm...sometimes

We regret that the regular third installment of the blog will not appear this week. We regret even more that there exists no real good reason for this, except that the Princess can think of nothing interesting to write about and would be forced to make something up. Which brings us to...


Reader question: And that's different from the way she normally writes this blog...how?


Answer: Oops, we must be experiencing technical difficulties...see you next week!

The Hero teaches the Queen Mum a thing or two

My mother, despite her obvious enjoyment when one of her children calls to talk, possesses a mysterious aversion to picking up the phone and calling one of us herself. In light of this, we have attempted to get her to use e-mail, which, we promised, would cost her nothing (she can use the community computer where she lives) and would be fun for her. This last promise has always been greeted with a cynical "Ha."


Gradually we have stopped bringing it up, except for the Hero, whose pledge it is to bring the miracle of technology to every living soul on earth. He continues to broach the subject with her by making such subtle comments as "So, are you ready to learn how to use e-mail today?" Finally, on our recent visit, she surprised everyone by agreeing. 


We began by showing her the Google icon on the desktop. "Yeah, Google," she said. "What IS a Google, anyway?"


We immediately realized that, like Europeans and Native Americans meeting for the first time to discuss important matters of state -- such as how best to roast a turkey for a crowd -- this might be a little more complicated than we had thought. 


We explained that she could use Google to type in search words, or a question. "Think of a question to ask," the Hero suggested.


"How about 'What color is my car?' " she offered, in an apparent confusion of search engines with the decidedly less technological, yet all-seeing, Magic 8 Ball.


"Maybe we should save search engines for another time," we suggested.


So we had her practice moving the mouse, which presented some difficulty, as there was very little space to move the mouse on the pull-out desk ledge. She approached the mouse gingerly, cupping two fingers around the back edge and moving it very cautiously. The cursor moved slowly on the screen, ever so slowly, all six of our eyes fixed on it, willing it to move faster, faster, PLEASE move faster, and when it finally reached the spot where we had told her to click -- about 45 minutes later -- she very carefully looked for the left click button on the mouse and clicked it, only to find that the cursor had inexplicably moved off her target, rendering her click ineffective. "It WAS in the right spot," she said, and looked accusingly at the mouse. 


Finally we introduced her to Gmail, explaining that she would need to choose a login name and password to get an account -- her name, something that described her, etc.


"How about 'Prettywoman'?" she said.


"I'm pretty sure that one's already taken," the Hero said. "But it was a good one."


Finally, after some careful thought, she settled on her choices. Then came the task of trying to decipher and replicate the randomly generated code of numbers and letters to prove that we were actually humans. These markings look like something Alice might have encountered in Wonderland, and are no doubt some sort of intelligence test, which the Hero and I fail miserably whenever we attempt it ("Is that xjhcopt? Could be rmkbl626..."). 


If you get this code wrong, the computer gives you an even HARDER one, as if that is going to be any help. Finally, evidently taking pity on our obviously low intelligence, the computer gave us an extremely easy code along with this message: "If you can't get this one, you really are morons."


It took my mother a few reminders to not put any spaces in her login name and password, but eventually she seemed to enjoy this freedom of restraint, and when we finally progressed to writing the body of the e-mail her sentences looked like this: "HithisisMom.Areyoutwobehavingyourselves?"


The Hero sent her a test message to practice opening and reading her mail. "When you're done with it, you archive it," he said. She started to click on Archive.


"Whoa," I said.


I personally did not see the need for haste in moving anything out of the inbox. "You could just leave it where it is," I told her.


The Hero strongly disapproved of this, and felt that I was teaching her bad habits right from the start. "This is why you have fifteen thousand messages in your inbox," he said darkly.


She practiced logging in and out a few times and getting the mouse up to a slow cruise. When she had had enough for one day, we congratulated her on her achievements, and said that now we would expect to get some e-mails from her.


"Ha," she said, but it was a little less cynical this time.


Note: This may well be the last posting to mention the Queen Mum, for as soon as she masters e-mail she will no doubt demand to know how to access this blog, and, well, it might be better to find a new topic.

Stuff even a thief couldn't love

Recently there was a robbery not far from our house, which made the Hero and I consider two very important questions: One, if someone were to break into OUR house, what would they most likely take, and two, how could we get them to take all the other stuff that they would most likely not take, and that frankly even WE don't want? 


We imagined a scenario in which thieves came to our house, while we were at home, looking for valuables:


Thieves (in a threatening manner): Give us all your valuables.


Us: Uh, sure...we heard you might be coming, so we got together a few things.


Thieves (looking over the collection of items in several bags): Hey, not bad...some electronics...hey, what's with all these books in here?


Us: Well, we took the liberty of adding a few other things we thought you might be interested in...


Thieves: We don't want no books.


Hero: Well, this math book here is pretty valuable.


Thieves: It is?


Hero (excitedly): Sure. It describes the theory of chaos. 


Thieves: Nah. We don't want nothing like that.


Hero: Look, I'll even throw in this one -- now THIS one you'll like. It's about Fermat's theorem, see, and this guy says that...


Thieves (backing away from the bag): Uh, what else ya got around here?


Us: (pointing to an object of indeterminate function and form) Well, you'd really be helping us out if you took this.


Thieves (dubiously): What is it?


Us (in a shocked tone): You don't KNOW?


Thieves: Nope.


Us: Neither do we. It might have been a chair once. But HERE'S a fantastic kitchen island. It falls apart every time you try to open the drawer, and it's kind of big, but...we'll help you load it into your truck. No trouble at all! And we'll throw in our old paint cans, too. All 26 of them! There might even be some paint left in them...Oh -- and how about this old wooden ladder? It's kinda got some mold on it, but that should come off pretty easy. Now here's a bag of shells we picked up from the beach last summer -- whoo! Didn't realize how much they smelled like the sea! And what about --


Thieves (run away screaming, leaving their truck and our valuables behind) 


Us: Rats. NOW what do we do with all this stuff?


Thieves (at police station, huffing and panting): We want to -- to turn ourselves in.


Cops: Huh?


Thieves: We're begging you. PLEASE take us into custody. We can't take these people anymore.


Cops: What people?


Us (entering station): THERE you guys are! You forgot your stuff!


Thieves: Aaaaggggghhh! Quick! Throw us in the slammer! 


Cops: Uh, mind telling us what's going on here?


Us: Well, these two guys tried to rob our home --


Cops: They did, huh?


Us: Yes, but they weren't very cooperative about it. Some people just don't appreciate what you try to do for them.


Cops: Huh?


Us: They wouldn't take all our stuff. Here, maybe YOU would like some mathematics books...? No? Here's some cookbooks that are a little worn...every other page or so missing...Or how about a slightly used plunger?


Cops (run away screaming)


After this, we would quietly leave our bags of belongings in the station, make our way home, and when the next shift of police came to the house to return our stuff, we would deny that it was ours. "What, that old thing? Never saw it before. We're not bringing THAT in our house."

Start your engines!

Because of the challenging terrain of our neighborhood -- steep hills, sharp bends in the road, narrow streets that, in the wintertime, may have a tough time accommodating two passing chickens -- getting out of the neighborhood in the morning is not unlike playing a video game. Although of course in THIS game the idea is to NOT kill anyone or blow anything up. Despite this, it can be quite a thrilling ride.


The game goes something like this:


Level 1: Is it Tuesday? If so, it is Garbage Pick-up Day, and you must work your car around the garbage truck and several workers who leap onto and off of the truck periodically (such as when you are trying to pass). Although the truck is of normal size when seen on a typical road, on our narrow street it swells to about the size of the larger cruise ships today.


To make things more interesting, the garbage truck freely and without warning moves from one side of the road to the other, so just as you are planning to make your move around it, it will suddenly block your path. Failure to successfully maneuver around the truck will trigger derisive laughter from the men perched on the back. Be aware that, no matter how much you might be tempted to knock them off, you will NOT gain any bonus points by doing so.


You can, however, score bonus points by avoiding the flying garbage cans. The alternative is to risk being crushed by them.


If it is Friday, the same game will be played out with the recycling truck instead.


Level 2: If you successfully negotiate Level 1, you will advance to Level 2. In this level, just as you are about to turn from the parking area onto the street, about 19 racing cyclists will hurtle out of the darkness around the corner toward you, their eerie, piercing blue lights threatening to put out your sight permanently. These cyclists, although fast by two-wheeled standards, are nevertheless, if you are in a car, equivalent to a band of tortoises. You are faced with a difficult choice: Do you follow along behind this band for what will seem like the distance between Oklahoma and Kissimmee, Florida, or pull around them and, because of the limited sight around the curves, risk running into something solid, like the back of the garbage truck? Very advanced players may choose a third alternative: avoid the cyclists altogether by ascending the Hill of Death (see Level 3).


Level 3: In Level 3, you (after signing various waiver forms and making sure your will is up to date) drive up an extremely steep street that SAYS it is two-way, but which was originally intended as a sidewalk, on which it was expected that only one person at a time, on foot, would traverse (sideways). On one side of the street, sitting pretty much in the street itself, are several houses; on the other side is a steep drop-off. If you meet a car coming from the opposite direction, the only way to pass is for one of you to drive off the cliff. The object is to not be this car.


Level 4: If you manage to stay on the track through the first three levels, you will then find your route blocked by a large meat-delivery truck trying to back up to an opening at the meat store. Because the space is tight, the truck will have to back up, pull forward into the street, back up, pull forward, back up, pull -- where was I? -- oh, yes, this can go on for quite some time, so you may be tempted to go around the truck. Theoretically this is possible, as there will be a small space between the truck and the shoulder on the opposite side of the road, but here you face two potential dangers: Being crushed by the truck as it is in the "pull out into the street" phase, or meeting head-on another car coming from the opposite direction. The results could disqualify you from the game, which would be seriously annoying.


At any time during this game, white-tailed deer may randomly run out from the trees onto the road in front of you. If you hit one, you could incur heavy penalties and be forced to spend time in the pit stop while your car is repaired. This could put you severely behind in your commute (like a week or two).


The game is timed, so you must do all this within the allotted time OR risk missing your commuter train, which launches you into a whole new video game (one which we, thankfully, have not yet played).


Also to increase the challenge in this game, you can play it IN THE DARK, which by default occurs from approximately mid-August to mid-April. So, most of the year. 


If you make it past Level 4 and avoid all the deer, AND finish on time, congratulations! You may proceed to work.


(Occasionally there is an initial hurdle set up by the Hero, whose arm acts as a gate across me while in bed, pinning me in place as I am about to get up. The other morning he muttered something about how this keeps me from getting into trouble. I'm not sure what mischief I could be causing when the first number on the clock is still a 4 when I get up, but apparently it is enough of a concern to activate the Hero Arm Guard.)

Old news in a new way

I have been contemplating stopping delivery of our daily newspaper, for good, for several reasons. For one, as has been lamented before in this blog, one can almost find more news, and better reporting, in a second-grade student report on the class gerbil.


Another reason, not unrelated to the first, is that on many days the paper goes directly from the front walk, into the house, and back out to the front walk unread and still neatly folded, to be borne away and given a new life as some other product -- and deservedly so, as it never had a first life in our house. We are contemplating telling the delivery person to just save us a few steps, and put the newspaper right into recycling.


Another reason for wanting to cancel the paper is that these days, of course, there are plenty of other outlets, many free, by which we can get the news. For me, a major outlet is one that I do not even need to subscribe to: strangers on the train who feel compelled to share random bits of information with me.


Last week a gentleman sitting next to me on the train was reading The Washington Post, and I, at the time, was NOT reading The Washington Post. This quickly changed. Suddenly he turned to me and said, "You need to drink more coffee."


The newspaper moved closer to me, and a finger jabbed at a box of text on the page. The box announced, in large type, that a new study showed that women who drink several cups of coffee a day are less likely to experience depression. 


I quickly ran through likely scenarios of why he thought I needed to know this, and came up with:


a) I look tired, and therefore must not be drinking much coffee
b) I look depressed
c) I look tired and depressed


Clearly, having the news delivered this way, by an impartial observer, has some advantages over more traditional news delivery methods. As this example shows, it can cause you to think critically about how the news pertains to you personally. It also offers the opportunity for thoughtful discussion of important topics with other persons, such as "Why do you think I would need to know this? Huh?? Do I look tired? Do I look depressed??" etc.


A co-worker had evidently heard about the same study, although she seems to have come across it on her own, without help from any strangers who thought she might not be getting enough stimulants. The finding did not seem to her to have much practical value for women who were already depressed.


"If you're depressed," she said, "you don't want to get out of bed. If you don't get out of bed, you can't get coffee. How are these depressed women supposed to get their coffee? Is someone supposed to BRING it to them in bed? And then stand there and make them drink it?"


The Hero's reaction upon hearing the study findings was quite different, and yet equally analytical. If I recall correctly, it was something like, "Well, duh."


To him the findings are yet one more proof that coffee is "Humankind's Best Friend" (trademark pending). He firmly believes that it will rank throughout history as one of the world's greatest inventions, right up there with the polio vaccine and Google. As to the concern that already depressed women would not be able to get out of bed to start on their medical regimen of coffee, he says, "Pfft" (loosely paraphrased). "What other reason is there to get out of bed in the morning?"


For some of us, it's to get our news on the train.

Techno-babble on loan

I see that our local library, in an effort to keep pace with technology and to help patrons do the same, is now offering e-readers for loan. The e-readers come with a preloaded, varied selection of books ("What Is an E-Reader?" "How to Use Your E-Reader," "Repairing Damage to Your Wall Where You Threw Your E-Reader at It," etc.). As with any new technology, we imagine that there will be a learning curve for at least some patrons encountering the e-readers...


A hypothetical library patron, here referred to as Clueless Reader,* is gazing at the e-reader display. He is soon joined by a Helpful Librarian.


Helpful Librarian: I see you're looking at our new e-readers. Are you interested in using the Nook? 


Clueless Reader (startled): The what, now?


Librarian (gesturing): The Nook. 


Clueless Reader (suspiciously): Nook...you mean that contraption they put in babies' mouths to keep them quiet? Just what are you suggest --


Librarian (hastily): No, no, sir, I was talking about the e-reader here -- it's called the Nook.


CR: An e-reader, you say?


L: Yes, this is an e-reader. It allows you to read a book.


CR: Come again? I need that thing to read a book?


L: Well, to read electronic books -- actually, it has 34 books already loaded on it that you can read. These Nooks are all 3G/wireless. Would you like to go ahead and check one out?


CR (muttering): What I'd like is someone who speaks English.


L: Perhaps you'd like to borrow the Play-Away version instead, sir.


CR (sternly): Now look here. I want to borrow a BOOK.


L (confused): I -- you want a what, now?...A book? (scratches head) Well, er...


CR (turns to leave): Never mind. I'll just stick with the newspaper.


L (confused): Newspaper...?

________

*Note: Clueless Reader does not resemble anyone living or dead or anyone we know.