A random news story, with more story than actual news...
Deacon, a German shepherd with, one assumes, a fine residence and loving family in Virginia, abandoned everything to embark on a road trip in December. He was recently found in Florida, far from his home, and was seen cavorting in traffic with another dog.
There are numerous speculations about his disappearance, but I personally suspect that Deacon met this dog online and decided to make the long trip to Florida to see if this could turn into something permanent. And perhaps it would have, had it not been for Deacon's microchip.
He was gone so long the family thought he was dead, and a call saying he had been found probably prompted a flurry of conversation among family members:
"Who was on the phone?"
"Animal control. They found Deacon in Florida."
(pause) "Quick, hide the new puppy!"
Suddenly all of Deacon's odd behavior prior to his disappearance would make sense. His lack of appetite, his inability to concentrate on his favorite TV programs, the drool on the keyboard.
Deacon does not know what happened to his beloved after they were both taken to a kennel in Florida, but he vows to return someday to look for her. At last report he was Googling microchip removal.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The Snow Race
There was the Space Race. There was the Arms Race. And now there is the Snow Race.
People in Moscow, perhaps a teeny, tiny bit jealous over all the publicity the eastern part of the U.S. has gotten lately because of record snows, set out to break some snow records of their own. We will show those Americans how to do snow, they probably huffed into their beards. (Editorial note: Here it was my intention to use the Russian word for beard, but several online translation services less than helpfully provided only the Russian spelling of the word, which pretty much looks like "We have no idea what this is and cannot guarantee that it is even a word.")
So, in the Russian style of doing things big, Muscovites ordered up a big snowstorm. A 4-day blizzard. Wind. And in 4 days they got...a whopping 26 inches of snow.
Really, that's the best they can do? 4 days, and they could only come up with 26 inches of snow? The Muscovites are really slacking. Here in Baltimore, we only took 2 days to accumulate 32 inches. And we went one better. In the next storm, only a few days later, we got 20 more inches. In the Snow Race, we have whipped the Russians' popkas.
Meanwhile Michigan, though technically not in the Snow Race, has been investigating innovative ways for the application of snow to political and economic problems. Several snowmen recently showed up on the lawn of the state Capitol to protest an increase in taxes, bearing signs that said, "Don't raise our taxes!" and "I'm mad and I vote." Lawmakers have taken a brief break from thinking about raising taxes and are currently investigating whether, through some obscure loophole in state law, snowmen can, indeed, vote.
The snowmen are also reportedly protesting the outsourcing of snow to Moscow.
People in Moscow, perhaps a teeny, tiny bit jealous over all the publicity the eastern part of the U.S. has gotten lately because of record snows, set out to break some snow records of their own. We will show those Americans how to do snow, they probably huffed into their beards. (Editorial note: Here it was my intention to use the Russian word for beard, but several online translation services less than helpfully provided only the Russian spelling of the word, which pretty much looks like "We have no idea what this is and cannot guarantee that it is even a word.")
So, in the Russian style of doing things big, Muscovites ordered up a big snowstorm. A 4-day blizzard. Wind. And in 4 days they got...a whopping 26 inches of snow.
Really, that's the best they can do? 4 days, and they could only come up with 26 inches of snow? The Muscovites are really slacking. Here in Baltimore, we only took 2 days to accumulate 32 inches. And we went one better. In the next storm, only a few days later, we got 20 more inches. In the Snow Race, we have whipped the Russians' popkas.
Meanwhile Michigan, though technically not in the Snow Race, has been investigating innovative ways for the application of snow to political and economic problems. Several snowmen recently showed up on the lawn of the state Capitol to protest an increase in taxes, bearing signs that said, "Don't raise our taxes!" and "I'm mad and I vote." Lawmakers have taken a brief break from thinking about raising taxes and are currently investigating whether, through some obscure loophole in state law, snowmen can, indeed, vote.
The snowmen are also reportedly protesting the outsourcing of snow to Moscow.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Hair's to you
There are so many changes in the world of hair fashion, it is easy to get confused about what is in and what is not. But there does seem to be one simple hair rule that is timeless, that transcends current trends: Whatever MY hair is currently trending toward, it is not in.
Not that my stylist is to blame. She could give me the very latest fashion from New York, and as soon as I reach home, my hair violently rejects its new highbrow pedigree, and goes back to its plebeian roots.
At one of my recent visits, my stylist had just returned from a hair styling show.
"Bangs are definitely in," she reported.
Finally! I thought. I'm "in" with something hair related.
"Yep, with bangs, you've got the French thing going," she said with enthusiasm. I hoped she was not referring to a poodle.
Emboldened by my newfound in-ness, I asked her to cut my hair a certain way on the top. Her face wrinkled in distaste.
"You can't do that," she said. "It'll look too out of date, so...so...so nineties," she concluded.
I felt that it would be an improvement for me, personally, to be only two decades behind in my hair style. But she refused to, as she put it, "put my signature on something like that."
It's a good thing she never sees me outside the salon, with my hairstyle that defies all her hard work and in-ness. She would be crossing out her signature.
Joe thinks I shouldn't try to make my hair do anything it clearly does not want to do. "Just let your hair be itself," he advises.
Despite everything I do to the contrary, that is pretty much what happens anyway.
Not that my stylist is to blame. She could give me the very latest fashion from New York, and as soon as I reach home, my hair violently rejects its new highbrow pedigree, and goes back to its plebeian roots.
At one of my recent visits, my stylist had just returned from a hair styling show.
"Bangs are definitely in," she reported.
Finally! I thought. I'm "in" with something hair related.
"Yep, with bangs, you've got the French thing going," she said with enthusiasm. I hoped she was not referring to a poodle.
Emboldened by my newfound in-ness, I asked her to cut my hair a certain way on the top. Her face wrinkled in distaste.
"You can't do that," she said. "It'll look too out of date, so...so...so nineties," she concluded.
I felt that it would be an improvement for me, personally, to be only two decades behind in my hair style. But she refused to, as she put it, "put my signature on something like that."
It's a good thing she never sees me outside the salon, with my hairstyle that defies all her hard work and in-ness. She would be crossing out her signature.
Joe thinks I shouldn't try to make my hair do anything it clearly does not want to do. "Just let your hair be itself," he advises.
Despite everything I do to the contrary, that is pretty much what happens anyway.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
The final event
Today we highlight the final major event in the Oella Olympics, Getting Home at Night. This event generally does not begin until the early evening hours, when everyone is coming home from work. The majority of competitors can thus rather easily make it out of their neighborhood in the morning to get to work, but getting back home is a challenge fit for only the best and bravest drivers. This is intentional, because if the Get Home competition was called Get to Work and was held in the morning, and people found it too difficult, they would just stay home. But of course everyone wants to get back home in the evening.
Before competitors even reach the Getting Home at Night course, there are practice courses along commuter routes, such as interstate lanes that suddenly disappear under a bank of snow. Olympic officials no doubt feel that we Maryland drivers are getting soft, and that we need forced driving exercises so we can stay competitive with colder nations, such as Pennsylvania. They must know we have no real hope of standing up to places like Minnesota, or New York City, where kids have had a mere three snow days in the last six years. Maryland kids graduate without ever having to go to school when it's below 58 degrees outside.
Let the Games begin...
Getting Home at Night
Around 3 or 4 in the afternoon, officials start preparing the Getting Home at Night course. Scouts identify every possible avenue into a neighborhood, and put up diabolical obstacles to make it more difficult for participants to get to their destination in a timely manner. For instance, a participant may be driving home, whistling, pleased that he or she is almost home and has met with no major impediments, when suddenly the participant's street is blocked by an enormous delivery truck. The participant is waved away, and immediately hastens to find an alternate route. He or she carefully negotiates the treacherous mountain terrain, strewn with the wreckage of other competitors, and several minutes -- or hours -- later, triumphantly turns onto the other end of his or her street, which consists of a steep hill leading into a blind s-curve, affectionately known as Suicide Curve.
But before the competitor can even reach Suicide Curve, he or she is stopped short by a car wildly backing down the hill in the face of an oncoming vehicle. As it is apparent that the car is not going to stop, the competitor hastily pulls into a narrow space off the road (although "on the road" and "off the road" are used loosely in this competition). The competitor quickly notices that the car backing down has no idea how to do so, and briefly imagines that this may be the last event he or she will ever compete in, because if the backing-up car slams into his or her car, he or she is going into the river.
Even with "lifeline" bystanders helpfully assisting the driver to back down the street -- by throwing stones and branches at the car, for instance -- it is several agonizing minutes before the car is safely out of the way and the participant can resume trying to get up the hill. Assuming this is accomplished, the participant creeps along on that "road" we discussed in connection with an earlier event, until he or she comes to a narrow pass that must be negotiated on two wheels.
Other obstacles encountered may include a plow, which sat idle all day while everyone was at work, and whose driver now seems bent on causing maximum chaos for participants. Some competitors, in desperation, abandon all attempts to reach home by car, and decide to parachute in. If by some Olympic miracle they do not land in the river, or in the trees, they are greeted by one of the neighborhood's many dogs, whose job it is to lick the competitors silly.
Competitors who persevere are rewarded with a warm home and satisfying dinner, and the thought that tomorrow the course must be negotiated all over again.
Before competitors even reach the Getting Home at Night course, there are practice courses along commuter routes, such as interstate lanes that suddenly disappear under a bank of snow. Olympic officials no doubt feel that we Maryland drivers are getting soft, and that we need forced driving exercises so we can stay competitive with colder nations, such as Pennsylvania. They must know we have no real hope of standing up to places like Minnesota, or New York City, where kids have had a mere three snow days in the last six years. Maryland kids graduate without ever having to go to school when it's below 58 degrees outside.
Let the Games begin...
Getting Home at Night
Around 3 or 4 in the afternoon, officials start preparing the Getting Home at Night course. Scouts identify every possible avenue into a neighborhood, and put up diabolical obstacles to make it more difficult for participants to get to their destination in a timely manner. For instance, a participant may be driving home, whistling, pleased that he or she is almost home and has met with no major impediments, when suddenly the participant's street is blocked by an enormous delivery truck. The participant is waved away, and immediately hastens to find an alternate route. He or she carefully negotiates the treacherous mountain terrain, strewn with the wreckage of other competitors, and several minutes -- or hours -- later, triumphantly turns onto the other end of his or her street, which consists of a steep hill leading into a blind s-curve, affectionately known as Suicide Curve.
But before the competitor can even reach Suicide Curve, he or she is stopped short by a car wildly backing down the hill in the face of an oncoming vehicle. As it is apparent that the car is not going to stop, the competitor hastily pulls into a narrow space off the road (although "on the road" and "off the road" are used loosely in this competition). The competitor quickly notices that the car backing down has no idea how to do so, and briefly imagines that this may be the last event he or she will ever compete in, because if the backing-up car slams into his or her car, he or she is going into the river.
Even with "lifeline" bystanders helpfully assisting the driver to back down the street -- by throwing stones and branches at the car, for instance -- it is several agonizing minutes before the car is safely out of the way and the participant can resume trying to get up the hill. Assuming this is accomplished, the participant creeps along on that "road" we discussed in connection with an earlier event, until he or she comes to a narrow pass that must be negotiated on two wheels.
Other obstacles encountered may include a plow, which sat idle all day while everyone was at work, and whose driver now seems bent on causing maximum chaos for participants. Some competitors, in desperation, abandon all attempts to reach home by car, and decide to parachute in. If by some Olympic miracle they do not land in the river, or in the trees, they are greeted by one of the neighborhood's many dogs, whose job it is to lick the competitors silly.
Competitors who persevere are rewarded with a warm home and satisfying dinner, and the thought that tomorrow the course must be negotiated all over again.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
The Oella Olympics continue
Today we continue our look at the Oella Olympics, a lesser known but just as exciting event occurring concurrently with the Winter Olympics in Vancouver, although with athletes who are slightly less in shape, and with a timeline that is promising to stretch into late summer. Highlighted today is the event known as...
Free Your Car from the Snow
This event draws all residents of the area, and early in the competition more resembled a reality show in which participants, if they wanted to continue providing food for their household, were forced to leave their warm, cozy houses and dig their vehicles out from under the approximately 139 inches of snow brought in especially for this event.
To begin the competition, officials spin competitors around several times, point them vaguely in the direction of a snow pile, and order them to begin digging. Competitors have no idea whether it is their car under a particular snow pile, or indeed whether there is a car under the snow pile, but this is all part of the challenge.
Most participants are restricted to hand tools for this event, although by some trick of nature participants discover, part way through the competition, that their largest shovels have mysteriously transformed into the tiny plastic shovels used by children at the beach, and are about as effective.
In addition to digging out their car, participants vie for places to put the snow as they do so, with extra points being awarded to those who are able to build up a snow pile without having it fall back onto their car. Points are deducted, however, if a participant attempts to sneak some snow onto a neighbor's snow pile.
Special prizes are awarded to contestants who leave their car snowbound the longest, making this one of the longest-lasting events in the Games. Joe's car was stuck for an impressive 11 days, although this is by no means a record. Officials expect that some vehicles will only be freed of snow in the final days of Armageddon.
The long-standing tradition of belly-flopping onto a finished snowbank cannot be resisted by some competitors (one of whom may be known as Joe) after finishing the event. This practice, however, is frowned upon by spouses, especially when the belly flop results in the complete undoing of the spouse's hard work of building up the snow pile. In at least one case, this has given the spouse (who may be known as Holly) grounds to begin a snowball fight.
There is always debate over what to do with the snow accumulated from this event, and this year some of it is being consumed by a "snow eater," a machine brought in from Canada that melts the snow and delivers it to the sewer system. Secretly, however, much of the snow is being diverted to New England, where residents reportedly "welcome the snow, as a lack of it has kept people from enjoying winter activities such as sledding and skiing."
The participants of the Oella Olympics wish them all the snow they want.
Free Your Car from the Snow
This event draws all residents of the area, and early in the competition more resembled a reality show in which participants, if they wanted to continue providing food for their household, were forced to leave their warm, cozy houses and dig their vehicles out from under the approximately 139 inches of snow brought in especially for this event.
To begin the competition, officials spin competitors around several times, point them vaguely in the direction of a snow pile, and order them to begin digging. Competitors have no idea whether it is their car under a particular snow pile, or indeed whether there is a car under the snow pile, but this is all part of the challenge.
Most participants are restricted to hand tools for this event, although by some trick of nature participants discover, part way through the competition, that their largest shovels have mysteriously transformed into the tiny plastic shovels used by children at the beach, and are about as effective.
In addition to digging out their car, participants vie for places to put the snow as they do so, with extra points being awarded to those who are able to build up a snow pile without having it fall back onto their car. Points are deducted, however, if a participant attempts to sneak some snow onto a neighbor's snow pile.
Special prizes are awarded to contestants who leave their car snowbound the longest, making this one of the longest-lasting events in the Games. Joe's car was stuck for an impressive 11 days, although this is by no means a record. Officials expect that some vehicles will only be freed of snow in the final days of Armageddon.
The long-standing tradition of belly-flopping onto a finished snowbank cannot be resisted by some competitors (one of whom may be known as Joe) after finishing the event. This practice, however, is frowned upon by spouses, especially when the belly flop results in the complete undoing of the spouse's hard work of building up the snow pile. In at least one case, this has given the spouse (who may be known as Holly) grounds to begin a snowball fight.
There is always debate over what to do with the snow accumulated from this event, and this year some of it is being consumed by a "snow eater," a machine brought in from Canada that melts the snow and delivers it to the sewer system. Secretly, however, much of the snow is being diverted to New England, where residents reportedly "welcome the snow, as a lack of it has kept people from enjoying winter activities such as sledding and skiing."
The participants of the Oella Olympics wish them all the snow they want.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Our own Olympic Games
The Olympics inspire us all to greater heights of effort and achievement. Joe and I have certainly doubled our own efforts to stay awake until 11 p.m. to watch the TV highlights from Vancouver. Sadly, we have not always achieved this lofty goal, although we do engage periodically in some good-natured yet fierce jostling for an extra blanket while we're watching.
However, we have also been inspired to participate in our own winter games right here in our town, which have been come about in large part thanks to the 137.986 inches of snow that fell in the last couple of weeks. This week we would like to share some of the events in our Oella Games with you. Today's highlighted event:
The "Every Car Is Off-Road" Event
In this thrilling event, two cars going in opposite directions attempt to be the first to barrel down a narrow strip of land that is reportedly a road, but which more resembles a mountain pass unused since the 8th century. This "road" has steep snowbanks on one side and sheer drop-offs on the other and is marked by a lack of driveways or other areas into which one car can pull over. (If a car does attempt to pull over, officials armed with stout brooms furiously brush the snow in front of the car back and forth to force the car back onto the "road.")
Olympic rules state that at least one of the participating vehicles in the off-road event must be equal in size to the Amazon River Basin, and be driven by a graduate of the Dukes of Hazzard Driving School. Males and females may both compete in this event, although each participant's gender is carefully obscured from his or her opponent due to excessive male complaints that female drivers exhibit haphazard driving even under normal circumstances, and therefore have an advantage in this event.
This event combines the thrills of off-roading with elements of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, specifically the idea of a lifeline, so that drivers may appeal to bystanders for assistance in how they should maneuver their car to the best advantage. Bystanders may also freely offer such advice even in the absence of driver appeal, and are allowed to use flowing hand gestures to show, for instance, how a driver may maneuver his or her car onto a nearby bush to avoid the other vehicle's head-on onslaught. Bystanders may also aid the motorist in digging his or her vehicle out of a snowbank when their advice fails.
Winners of the "Every Car is Off-Road" get to arrive safely at their own abode and are awarded a full week's supply of groceries in recognition of their driving heroism. Losers...well, most are automatically entered in the "Free Your Car from the Snow" event, which will be discussed next time.
However, we have also been inspired to participate in our own winter games right here in our town, which have been come about in large part thanks to the 137.986 inches of snow that fell in the last couple of weeks. This week we would like to share some of the events in our Oella Games with you. Today's highlighted event:
The "Every Car Is Off-Road" Event
In this thrilling event, two cars going in opposite directions attempt to be the first to barrel down a narrow strip of land that is reportedly a road, but which more resembles a mountain pass unused since the 8th century. This "road" has steep snowbanks on one side and sheer drop-offs on the other and is marked by a lack of driveways or other areas into which one car can pull over. (If a car does attempt to pull over, officials armed with stout brooms furiously brush the snow in front of the car back and forth to force the car back onto the "road.")
Olympic rules state that at least one of the participating vehicles in the off-road event must be equal in size to the Amazon River Basin, and be driven by a graduate of the Dukes of Hazzard Driving School. Males and females may both compete in this event, although each participant's gender is carefully obscured from his or her opponent due to excessive male complaints that female drivers exhibit haphazard driving even under normal circumstances, and therefore have an advantage in this event.
This event combines the thrills of off-roading with elements of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, specifically the idea of a lifeline, so that drivers may appeal to bystanders for assistance in how they should maneuver their car to the best advantage. Bystanders may also freely offer such advice even in the absence of driver appeal, and are allowed to use flowing hand gestures to show, for instance, how a driver may maneuver his or her car onto a nearby bush to avoid the other vehicle's head-on onslaught. Bystanders may also aid the motorist in digging his or her vehicle out of a snowbank when their advice fails.
Winners of the "Every Car is Off-Road" get to arrive safely at their own abode and are awarded a full week's supply of groceries in recognition of their driving heroism. Losers...well, most are automatically entered in the "Free Your Car from the Snow" event, which will be discussed next time.
Friday, February 12, 2010
On being snowbound
Being snowed in for a few days gave us a lot of time to reflect, a chance to spend time together, and many opportunities to do things we normally don't have time to do. Too bad we didn't take those opportunities. Oh, we had intentions of doing so:
What we planned to do:
What we did:
Occasionally we roused ourselves long enough to turn on the TV to see what was happening in the rest of the Mid-Atlantic area, which looked pretty much the same as what was happening outside our window, and to hear admonishments from state officials that under no circumstances should we venture outside. As if we could find the outside.
But the more we were told not to go out, the more we kind of wanted to, like when you're touring a cave and the tour guide tells you repeatedly NOT to touch the stalagmites, because they take like 500 kajillion years to form. Well, that's kind of how we felt about being told not to go out in a blizzard. Luckily, we fell asleep before we could act on our contrariness.
But we needed all that sleep to prepare us for the aftermath of the storm, when we all headed out to dig through the snow with whatever we could -- shovels, brooms, nitrogen bombs, etc. In our parking lot the mounds of snow covering the cars pretty much all looked alike, and people would spend hours shoveling out their car, only to find that it wasn't their car, it wasn't a car at all, but the local post office.
But as reported by news sources, there was some good news in all of this. People helped each other shovel and braved snowy roads to take each other to dialysis appointments. Even more astonishing, people in Washington DC were so transformed by nature's events that the city did not have a single murder for a whole week. In such dire circumstances one would have expected the murder rate to go up ("Long-time neighbors have it out over suspicions that one piled his personal snow on the other's property; wives hurl loaves of bread at each other"). It is heartwarming to know that humans can rise to the occasion and overcome their innate selfish behavior, especially when they have run out of food and need to be nice to their neighbor.
As the snow slowly melts, we have much to look forward to, like finding hidden treasures long buried -- grocery carts, mail from three months previous, etc. ("Alice! Here's that picnic table we thought we threw out!") But as life returns to normal, I sure will miss those naps.
What we planned to do:
- Clean out the basement.
- Redecorate.
- Take apart every computer in the house, dust all the little parts, and put them back together such that they can be used as robots that will clean and redecorate for us the next time we are snowed in.
- Make a plan to save the world.
- Or at least Haiti.
What we did:
- Promptly fell asleep for several hours each afternoon.
Occasionally we roused ourselves long enough to turn on the TV to see what was happening in the rest of the Mid-Atlantic area, which looked pretty much the same as what was happening outside our window, and to hear admonishments from state officials that under no circumstances should we venture outside. As if we could find the outside.
But the more we were told not to go out, the more we kind of wanted to, like when you're touring a cave and the tour guide tells you repeatedly NOT to touch the stalagmites, because they take like 500 kajillion years to form. Well, that's kind of how we felt about being told not to go out in a blizzard. Luckily, we fell asleep before we could act on our contrariness.
But we needed all that sleep to prepare us for the aftermath of the storm, when we all headed out to dig through the snow with whatever we could -- shovels, brooms, nitrogen bombs, etc. In our parking lot the mounds of snow covering the cars pretty much all looked alike, and people would spend hours shoveling out their car, only to find that it wasn't their car, it wasn't a car at all, but the local post office.
But as reported by news sources, there was some good news in all of this. People helped each other shovel and braved snowy roads to take each other to dialysis appointments. Even more astonishing, people in Washington DC were so transformed by nature's events that the city did not have a single murder for a whole week. In such dire circumstances one would have expected the murder rate to go up ("Long-time neighbors have it out over suspicions that one piled his personal snow on the other's property; wives hurl loaves of bread at each other"). It is heartwarming to know that humans can rise to the occasion and overcome their innate selfish behavior, especially when they have run out of food and need to be nice to their neighbor.
As the snow slowly melts, we have much to look forward to, like finding hidden treasures long buried -- grocery carts, mail from three months previous, etc. ("Alice! Here's that picnic table we thought we threw out!") But as life returns to normal, I sure will miss those naps.
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