Wild kingdom

The Hero recently had occasion to observe what a hard-working editor does when we were both home one weekday. I was surrounded by children's picture books, which I was reviewing for one of our publications at work.

"You have a sweet job," he said after some time of observation. "Read about teddy bears, write a little about it...read about trains, write about it....."

"You," I said primly, "are just jealous. And I am not writing about teddy bears. I am writing about serious science things, like the Goliath birdeater tarantula."

I was arranged comfortably on the couch, which is the only way I would ever learn about Goliath birdeater tarantulas. I would be unlikely to encounter any of them while on the couch, which is really the only goal I have concerning tarantulas.

I learned from my reading that the Goliath birdeater tarantula is large enough to eat frogs, lizards, birds, small mammals such as children and petite adults, clowns, tacky furniture, etc. Fortunately, spiders do not have any teeth. Unfortunately, they have plenty of digestive juices, which they drool onto their victims and then "suck them up." So if you see a drooling spider, you might want to make yourself scarce.

Another delightful creature, the giant squid, remains elusive, having recently been photographed for the first time ever in its natural habitat (Las Vegas).* Its elusiveness is in large part due to the creature's dinner-plate-size eyes, which scientists theorize help it detect research subs from long distances so it can raise the alarm for other giant squid: "Humans in vicinity! Scatter!"

Growing to some 50 feet and weighing around a ton, giant squid can probably eat pretty much anything they want down there. Sperm whales have a taste for the squid, and they must also have a taste for danger and adventure, 'cuz the squid are not just rolling over and being eaten willingly. Their tentacles leave huge round scars on the whales. I personally have never been interested in eating anything that I had to fight so much for.

If you are ever walking across some land and hear a giant sucking noise, and you happen to be in a certain part of Australia, you might be walking atop the tunnels belonging to the giant Gippsland earthworm. "Gippy" is three feet long and lives in a complex system of tunnels, where it "eats roots and plant material." We'd better hope it never gets bored with eating roots and plant material.

The Goliath beetle can be up to six inches long, is the world's heaviest insect, and resembles a small battleship. And that is all that really needs to be said about the Goliath beetle.

After all this exciting knowledge gathering, at some point I will return to my assignment, if I can remember what that was...


*However, dead giant squid have been found with cameras** in their stomach contents, so...we will let readers draw their own conclusions. 

**Not really.

Here comes the bride...and all the options

So many options are popping up this year for brides planning the perfect wedding that I am quite happy to not be planning our wedding anymore. So is the Hero, who still has nightmares from his varied and numerous duties for our wedding ("I have to be at the rehearsal dinner, the wedding, AND the reception? Can't we have stand-ins for some of that?").

Brides today, I have learned, are into weddings that express their own unique "they-ness," fun celebrations that represent their lifestyle. Admittedly, some are still a little hesitant to let their grooms express their they-ness, which might be somewhat embarrassing to the brides.

The biggest recent change is that brides are no longer tied to a white wedding dress. Gowns in soft, romantic colors are gaining ground, raising a very important question: What do the the bridesmaids wear?

If the bride wears, say, a mint-colored gown, do the bridesmaids wear white? Black? The same color as the bride, but in a totally unflattering style so there is no mistaking which one is the bride? A different yet complementary color to the bride's dress? No wonder brides are under so much stress!

Brides are also starting to look at "options for sleeves," according to one source. As if it was ever the brides' fault that they hadn't considered them before. There WERE no sleeves before. Sleeves have not been available on bridal gowns since 1972. 

Here are some other wedding trends, according to my source:

Lounges
Couples are providing areas for their guests to relax in, with couches, ottomans, big-screen TVs, bathrobes, etc. Now guests can rest openly, in comfort and style, Instead of napping the old-fashioned way at a celebration, which involved sheepishly looking around to make sure no one was watching, and then crawling under the nearest table covered with a long skirt and remaining there until the cleanup crew came in.

Outdoor? Indoor?
One expert notes that we will soon see more indoor touches at outdoor weddings, and vice versa. The idea, according to this individual, is to "put things where you're not expecting them." This is excellent training for brides, most of whom will later discover, after they have settled with their groom into their abode, that their beloved is continually putting things where they are not expecting them.

Dining options
Guests at receptions may notice another trend: downsized food. Tiny portions of creatively arranged food are considered very chic, at least by wedding planners, who are off enjoying a 12-ounce steak while the actual wedding guests are trying to figure out if the servers were just joking when they said three Brussels sprouts were all the guests were going to get. Tiny portions of foods such as sliders, mini donuts, and ice cream crammed into a shot glass convey to one's guests: You should have eaten before you came!

This helps to explain another trend in wedding dinners: a late-night visit from a food truck or the pizza guy. This came about as a result of many guests, famished after surviving only on their napkins, were fainting on their way home from the reception.

Dessert, front and center
Luckily for guests, there appears to be strong interest on the part of many bridal couples to consider dessert a separate course. Yes. This is due in large part to the fact that wedding cakes, having become outrageously expensive, are now simply cardboard underneath all that lovely frosting, creating an urgent need for other, edible dessert options.

Seating 
More couples are opting out of both head tables and "sweetheart" tables, instead sitting with friends or family. Soon, possibly, they will do away with tables altogether and everyone will cram into the facility's kitchen and eat over the sink. This fad, we predict, will be especially popular with grooms and any bachelors amongst the guests.

Those are just a few of the exciting new traditions we can expect to see in upcoming weddings. And here are some wedding trends that are out, or are on their way out:

Food
As we have seen, any decent-sized portions of food are no longer in. Other food trends to say goodbye to include cupcake towers, colored chocolate, and candy bars. Personally I think the industry is being a little bit hasty in getting rid of the candy bars. Just sayin'.

Birdcages for headwear
I frankly was not aware that these were ever in. Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss.

Happiness is blue or brown

It has been said that happiness is found in unexpected places. What may not be so well known is that "unexpected places" refers to a corner of my eye doctor's office. This is where the eyeglass department is located, run by a man we shall call Franz because I cannot remember his actual name.

During my recent visit, Franz was charged with helping me find a new pair of frames, and was delighted to see that I had "a high prescription." 

"Dat is my speciality," he said. Evidently other clients' prescriptions offered little challenge to a man of Franz's talents, and I was happy that my poor vision could be used to some good purpose. Heaven knows it has not served much purpose up until now.

Franz got right down to business. He took a critical look at my current pair of glasses, which had not come from his collection. We were both in agreement that the mistakes made in choosing the old frames -- including that they had not come from his collection -- should not be repeated.

Off to the side was a revolving rack of frames that Franz explained were fully covered by my insurance -- meaning, I supposed, that as eyeglass frames go, they were not just the bottom of the barrel, they were not even IN the barrel.

"If here" -- he gestured toward the rack -- "you do not find your happiness, we will look elsewhere."

It looked to be a pitifully small collection to bring one happiness, but I was game to try.

One after the other I tried on the frames he selected. He appraised each one with either "Dose are cute," "Dose are fun," or a firm "No. Dose are not for you."

We soon exhausted the insurance-approved selection, and his desk was cluttered with rejects.

"I don't think I've found my happiness yet," I said apologetically.

"Dat is not a problem," he said, his energy not failing in the least. He brought several more frames, encouraging me to make a "possible" pile. Dark colors were out. Multicolors were out, although Franz's own multicolor frames suited him very well.

At last I was left with just one "possible." But I was not willing to concede that I'd found happiness quite so soon. After all, the frame came in three colors. 

"Red?" I said, trying the red pair on.

In unison, we said "no."

"What do you think of the blue?" I said, putting the blue pair on.

He shrugged. "De blue is very fun, but you are not a blue person. You are a brown, perhaps a gray person."

It is not overly inspiring to learn that one's happiness lies in the gray or brown realm.

In the end, I decided on the brown, and Franz was enthusiastic. "Dese are perfect for you," he declared, although I suspect he was merely relieved.

As I went to the counter to pay, Franz moved on to the next customer, who had begun trying on frames while he was waiting. Franz said in mild alarm, "My friend, what are you doing with dese brown frames? No, no -- you are a blue person, or perhaps purple, no?...come, we will find you something more suitable..."

Instructions for males

Parents eventually reach the place where they must send their children out into the world, armed only with the parents' loving instructions on how to meet the challenges life will throw at them. This generally occurs around age five.

After boys grow up and turn into men, and they have been on their own for some time, many marry, at which point the giving of instructions is resumed by a spouse. These instructions, which have the force of law, may oft confuse a man, who is at a loss to understand, for example, the subtleties of "bachelor furniture" vs. "married furniture."  He knows only that on one, he may do pretty much as he pleases, while on the other, woe unto him if one thread of his wife's pillows is harmed by his carelessness.

An acquaintance, whose husband went off unchaperoned to purchase new glasses, gave him strict instructions as to how he should proceed choosing the frames in her absence. He was to seek the opinion of another individual in the store, according to the following hierarchy:

1. A woman
2. A gay man
3. A nongay bachelor

If none of these individuals was available, as a last resort the husband could seek the opinion of 

4. a married man

BUT in this case he would have to obtain a second, corroborating opinion, which is what he eventually did.

"I'm sorry," he said to the married salesman, "I promised my wife I'd get someone else's opinion, too. Apparently she is somewhat neurotic about glasses." There may have been more discussion between them about neurotic wives, but if so, neither has admitted it.

Slightly different rules apply to other fashion decisions a husband might make. Occasionally, for example, the Hero wonders why HE isn't allowed to wear something to work that he sees a coworker wearing.

"Mark wears a windbreaker to work," he said once, with mild accusation. 

"Nothing against Mark," I said," but he's a bachelor. He has no spouse to guide him in these matters. Mark is not a suitable role model."

Mark, unknowingly, became an object of envy. 

"Now John," I said, referring to another coworker, "is a bachelor with good taste. HIM you can use as a role model. I'm sure John never wore a windbreaker to work."

The Hero never cared much for John. 

John is no longer around to model appropriate attire for the Hero and other likeminded husbands at the company, who miss those carefree days when they happily dressed like other bachelors -- sloppy pants, shirttails askew, socks with sandals. Wherever he is today, no doubt the wives of his new coworkers are saying to their husbands, "See how John dresses...?"

O Christmas Tree

The following is brought to you by Procrastinators, Inc., (Holiday Subsidiary), with apologies to everyone who takes down their Christmas decorations by New Year's (also to actual poets and songwriters).

O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree,
You know we like this song.
But Christmas tree, o Christmas tree,
Why do you hang around so long?

Last month we put you up so tall,
To decorate you was a ball.
But Christmas tree, o Christmas tree
Why do you hang around so long?

We'd like to have our family room back,
With you, a lot of space we lack.
O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree,
It's really time for you to go.

We know it's dark in the storage bag,
Without your lights, our spirits will sag.
But Christmas tree, o Christmas tree,
It's really time for you to go.

We promise next year you'll be back,
Of decorations there'll be no lack.
O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree--
The Hero was joking about giving you a whack. 

O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree,
You know we like this song.
But Christmas tree, o Christmas tree,
Next year, please don't hang around so long.

Supersize me

It's that time of year again, when millions of us head back to the gym to resume our long-neglected workouts. It can be an embarrassing experience for some of us. Not only have we gotten out of shape, it has been so long since we have been to the gym that we have forgotten where it is located. (Luckily it does not take the Hero and I long to remember where OUR gym is, because it is not far from a Dunkin Donuts, whose location we ALWAYS remember.)

At the Y, where we (sometimes) work out (for a couple of minutes in January and February), cheerful staff members ask what my goals are. Do I want to be more healthy? Am I looking to stave off muscle loss? Bench press twice my weight?

No, I say. I want to be able to lift my hair spray bottle.

Seriously. The supersizing phenomenon, which has resulted in pretty much everything being gigantical -- food portions, cars, even body parts -- has invaded the hair product industry. "Now 356% MORE FREE!" a can of hair spray screams. This is 832% more than the previous can, which was already heavy enough to cause some serious ligament damage.

Naturally the containers, also, have swelled 356% and 832% larger to accommodate all this extra product. My hair spray bottle now stands about a foot tall, which is why I need to get some serious muscle going here.

Perhaps the industry is simply trying to provide moral support and restore our sense of dignity. After all, we are limited to three ounces of liquid in our airplane carry-ons. This way, we can comfort ourselves with the knowledge that in our checked luggage, or back home, we are rich in Anti-Aging Body Building Amplifying Tamer Spray (Ultra). 

But it can only be a matter of time before this sort of supersizing begins to take its toll. Upper body injuries among women in particular will increase. Gyms will offer classes to help women deal with these realities: "Heavy Aerosol Can Lifting," "Recovery for Torn Upper Adductor Muscles," "What Are Upper Adductor Muscles?" etc.    

In the meantime, I will someday return to my routine of muscle-building activities. Eventually my biceps will come to the attention of others, and when they ask what my secret is, I will smile and say:

Hair spray.

The name police

Apple.

Camera.

Moxie.

Cheez-Whiz.

Your Highness.

This is not just a list of random words. We wish it were. Instead, it is a list of random, actual names that random parents -- some celebrities, some just your average clueless parents -- have named their children. (Somewhere there is probably a Random, too.) 

This situation is, thankfully, entirely preventable in places like Denmark, Germany, and Iceland, where parents must choose a name from a state-approved list. The names must conform with grammar rules of the language, and must not provide occasion to embarrass the child. (Although parents are perfectly free to embarrass their children in other ways.)

This came to our attention through a story about a young woman in Iceland who is suing to use the name given her at birth, although the name is not on the approved list and has been formally rejected by the people in charge of such things. Her name, Blaer, apparently does not conform to Icelandic grammar rules, and moreover takes a masculine article (masculine articles, for speakers of English, refers to such items as ties, bowler hats, galoshes, high-waisted pants, etc.). You can see how confusing that would be.

Blaer, which means "light breeze," is officially referred to as Stulka, which means "girl." You can see how the committee made the choice to reject Blaer -- I mean, being referred to as "Girl" is not nearly as embarrassing as "Light Breeze" would be, right? 

People in Iceland are evidently listed in the phone book by their first name. I don't know how many people are in the Iceland phone book, but if everyone is listed by their first name, and there are only roughly 3500 acceptable first names, I'm envisioning a page that looks like this:

Adalbjorg

Adalbjorg

Adalbjorg

Adalbjorg

Adalbjorg

Adalbjorg

Adalbjorg

Eirikur

Eirikur

Eirikur

Eirikur

Eirikur

Eirikur

Eirikur

Eirikur

Eirikur

Elvis

Yes, Elvis is on the approved list of Icelandic names, due to the little-known fact that Elvis, the person, is actually of Icelandic origin, but his proper name (Gunterfruggbittr) wouldn't fit on his record albums, so Elvis he became. 

Just what are the Icelandic rules of grammar? From a careful study of a handful of Icelandic names, I conclude that the rules are basically these:

1. Since the Icelandic alphabet does not contain the letter c, parents must karefully  and kreatively konsider how to konfer a *herished tag on their *hild.

2. A single consonant within a word is likely to get lonely, so it must be accompanied by at least one other consonant, preferably one of its own kind. Hence, the name Snorri, or Unnar.

3. When doubled, these consonants are going to generate some gossip between them, and they will want to share this gossip with a third party. Hence, tapppnerk.

4. You know, it's cold in Iceland, and when you pronounce a word with several different consonants, sometimes the vowel sounds just aren't worth the trouble. Hence, glbbbbimmmpppplll.  

5. When two vowels go walking, one is definitely going to step on the other one.

Of course we don't have an official name list in the U.S. This is because virtually all names, including Cheez-Whiz, conform to English grammar rules, which really consists of only one rule: There is almost always more than one way to spell any word. This is why we have Katelynns, Kaitlins, Caitlyns, etc. Also Caden, Kaden, Kadyn, and assorted friends. 

And if we instituted a rule about a name not embarrassing a child, well, roughly 22 million individuals would suddenly start being called Boy or Girl. Particularly celebrity children, many of whom quite naturally were so named because their parents wanted something unique, because they are, after all, the child of a celebrity. If a celebrity REALLY wanted to name their child a unique name, it would be something like: David. Of course the child would need a nickname, and if the celebrity were truly outrageous, that would be Dave.

And let's not even get started on last names, many of which are unpronounceable AND embarrassing. Perhaps we should hark back to the days when people did not have last names, and were known instead by their profession, as in William the Carpenter or Molly the Midwife or Sven the Head-Chopper. Only today, we would be Jamilla the Administration Ambassador or Rhianna the Content Catalyst Coordinator or Jayden the Commander in Beef.

In the meantime, please, please don't name your kid Cheez-Whiz.

What lurks behind that sporty exterior...

Some people believe that aliens not only exist, they may even be walking among us. They could be your dentist, or your child's teacher. Possibly Lady Gaga.

I am not among those who believe aliens have invaded Earth, but if I did believe it, and I had to choose what form they had chosen to appear in, my money would be on: modern cars. 

More and more, cars appear to have evolved from someone's belief that humans are becoming too impressed with how smart we are. These cars are among us to remind us that we are, in fact, dummies sapiens. My new car is a perfect example. I have absolutely no hope of ever learning to operate it at full capacity, because to do so would require several more brains crammed into my cranium, and I'm not doing so well with the original one installed at the factory. 

Take the headlights. There is one set of headlights -- I checked -- but 17 settings for them. There are fog lights, headlights, daytime running lights, nighttime running lights, midnight running-for-a-snack lights, etc.

As for the windshield wipers, they do not believe I am capable of operating them myself. "You just concentrate on driving, darlin'," the automatic wipers say. "We've got the windshield covered."

That's the trouble. They have it TOO covered. The tiniest bit of moisture sends the wipers into frenzied overtime, and woe unto the driver who is trying to scrape ice from the windshield. The wipers despise ice. It is their mortal enemy. So you have to time your scraping in between their swishing. Scrape. Swish. Scrape. Swish. 

The car's manual sternly reminds drivers to turn off the automatic wipers before attempting to scrape the windshield. Complying with these directions, however, is equivalent to achieving Grandmaster status in chess. Every move, every twist of the wiper lever must be carefully planned and executed in a certain order, or chaos reigns. The window goes up and down, the right front tire flies off, a message gets sent to other aliens in space -- who knows.

And of course there is the voice. Some buttons, when pressed, cause a faintly robotic, yet confident-sounding woman to ask me something. Unfortunately this something is never "May I offer you a nice hot latte?" Chocolate is not in her vocabulary, either. 

When I speak to it, the voice seems to be a little hard of hearing. Perhaps because deep down, it has alien ears.

Coming soon to a stoplight near you

When I traded my old car in recently, I braced myself for a difficult separation. After 14 years together, it was hard to imagine being without it. Hard to imagine not having to worry about the locks freezing up in the winter and having to crawl in through the hatch in the back. Or not worrying that the engine would decide it was too cold to start, or that the car would express its opinion that playing a CD when I hit Play was optional. Such good times we had!

I missed the car for maybe three and a half seconds. 

And then immediately embraced my new car, which is red. This caused the Hero to worry that I will get in an accident with it, because some studies show that red cars are involved in accidents more frequently.

"But mine is sort of a brick red," I said, to reassure him. "I'm sure they don't get into as many accidents as really red cars."

The car is actually a 3200-pound puppy, craving attention and always wanting to be on the go -- somewhere, anywhere. It's happy just to go to the library. It is a small SUV, but parked in the midst of several cars in our parking lot, it looks like a 10-pound baby in a preemie nursery. 

I thought it would be kind of unique, having a red car. I was wrong. Seemingly overnight, everyone has a red car. Which makes the Hero worry that there are going to be a lot more accidents soon.

"Maybe red cars get into more accidents because their drivers drive more aggressively," he said. "You are driving more aggressively since you got this car."

"It's a sporty car," I say. "You can't drive a sporty car all prim and proper. I'm driving it in a sporty manner."

For his part, the Hero is enthralled with all the technology in the car, which allows it to do pretty much everything except engage in time travel (that option was too expensive, plus you had to sign a waiver in case of "unforeseen technical difficulties," which sounded pretty ominous). 

Now, I admit that I used to pass rather harsh judgment on drivers who would jack up the bass on their car stereo. You know the ones I mean. You are stopped peacefully at a stoplight, perhaps enjoying the strains of Bach, when suddenly your car, and you, feel as if you have been thrust into a giant washing machine. You hurtle from side to side, courtesy of some booming car next to or behind you.

I noticed, in my new car, that I was on the verge of becoming one of these annoying booming cars. "Silver Bells" on the radio was suddenly "Silver BOOM...Silver BOOM...It's Christmas BOOM time in the city BOOM..." I checked the settings, which showed that the bass was set quite high. 

"Did you turn up the bass on my car?" I demanded of the Hero.

He denied it. "But," he said, "it's a sporty car, and you have to listen to the radio in a sporty manner."

So if you've recently had your jaw knocked out of alignment because of a shaking red car next to you at a stoplight, please accept my apologies. I'll try to be a little more prim and proper.

End of an era -- but a new beginning

We said goodbye to a beloved member of the household recently. This member has been a faithful companion throughout the last 14 years, making the transition from our single lives to married, going on trips with us, costing us money, etc. 

It never had a name, but it never complained. At least not about that. It complained plenty about other things, particularly about having to leave behind our garage when I moved to Maryland. 

"What do you mean, I have to stay out in the elements from now on?" my car complained. "I wanna see my contract. Doesn't my contract stipulate I have to have a garage? With heat?" 

"Look," I said. "No one wishes we had a garage more than I do, but that's how it is here. No one has a garage."

"Uncivilized," the car muttered. "I can't believe you've dragged me out to this uncivilized island-of-no-garages."

"At least you don't have the indignity of being pushed out of a garage by a bunch of junk, like lots of other cars."

The car did not seem overly thankful for being spared this. "I wanna move to Florida, then," it said. "My contract says something about Florida, I'm sure."

I was careful to never take it to a warmer state, however, lest it refuse to return to its less hospitable, garage-less home. The car's dream of someday retiring to Florida never died, and I racked up so many miles on it that I began to fear the car itself would die. Finally I decided that to keep it one more winter might do it in for good. Plus, I was beginning to notice that newer cars had a lot of nifty features that mine did not -- doors that opened when you wanted them to, for instance. 

As much as my car wanted to retire, however, I felt guilty for planning its send-off. I took to talking in whispers around the car so as not to arouse its suspicions. "So," I would say casually to the Hero, "when do you want to go look at n-e-w c-a-r-s?"

When we finally took the plunge and took the car to be traded for a new one, I was flooded with guilt. It had been such a faithful companion. It had been with me twice as long as the Hero. It must be feeling abandoned, lonely, worthless --

"Whoo hoo! Florida, here I come!" it yelled from the dealership parking lot.

I guess I needn't have worried. 

"Don't forget to write!" I yelled, but it paid no attention. It was figuring out how to make its way south.

As for me, I don't mind being left behind in garage-less Maryland. I am totally loving my new seat warmers...  

Yes, Virginia (and Maryland), there IS life after a snowstorm!

We have at last returned from our trip to the Great White North. Our plane to central Illinois landed in a blizzard, although in typical, stoic Midwestern fashion, the pilot never mentioned a word about blizzards. He also never mentioned, until after landing, that the plane had hit two birds during the flight. An unfortunate incident, but Midwestern birds are pretty stoic about such things. 

In contrast, landing in a blizzard in Maryland (legal definition: greater than .002 inches of snow) would never have been allowed. Planes would have been diverted to the nearest safe airport, perhaps Los Angeles, and passengers informed that to reach their destination they would have to hoof it back. "No one's getting in by air, rail, or road," officials from Maryland would say. "Not for a couple of months at least." 

We were supposed to meet friends for lunch after we landed, but after inching along in our rental car in the blinding snow and wind for some time, we called to cancel. We were exhausted from our efforts, and we hadn't even left the airport parking lot yet. 

The snow doggedly followed us through Illinois and Michigan. One morning in MI we woke  up to about six inches of snow (equivalent in Maryland snow: 60 inches). We got up, got dressed, got in the car -- and drove down a perfectly clean expressway. This is another situation that does not happen in Maryland. When we get that much snow here, the entire state just sinks into the earth, never to rise again until the following spring. 

We also couldn't help but notice that no matter where we drove in Michigan, the little compass in our rental car pointed in a single direction the entire time we were on one road. If we started out driving north on Road X, we continued to go north until such time as we turned off Road X onto Road Y, at which point we went due east until we turned off Road Y, etc. The same compass here in Maryland would appear to have a personality disorder: "West -- no, wait, north...uh, south-west? Now north-south..." In Michigan, you could turn a few right turns and end up exactly where you started. In Maryland, you could make a few right turns and end up in: Nome, Alaska. 

On the other hand, we only own heavy winter outerwear and boots for our travels to the Midwest. We once visited in January without such gear because it had been 60 degrees at home before we left. Fortunately our relatives treated our foolishness with characteristic gentle humor: "It's January and you're wearing windbreakers. Are you insane?"

Ah, winter. What brings families together. Unless they have to drive on Maryland roads ("East? How did we end up going east? I thought we were going north...").