Wet Noodle

Hello World,

Happy Spring! Yes, the time has come, as it surely must, when we pass the vernal equinox and find ourselves firmly planted in Spring, along with the rest of the early shoots just poking up their heads in the flower-beds. (Or if you live with juvenile delinquent squirrels, as we do here, your early shoots are poking up in the driveway, between the cracks of the sidewalks, out the side of the rock wall and under the woodpile, but that's another story.) I believe our first crocus opened on March 10th, and the following week, we not only had crocus all over, but also very early jonquils, a couple of really hardy hyacinths, and even a pack of errant wind-flowers to cheer us along the path in the backyard. This week we had one or two sunny days with temperatures in the 60s, and today close to 70, and there has been a veritable explosion of daffodils everywhere in our yard, not to mention even forsythia in the sunnier locations around town. I hesitate to say that there's no stopping this juggernaut called Spring, because I have seen blizzards in April that have completely covered giant trumpet daffodils that were standing 15 inches tall, but if it were up to the flowers, Spring would definitely be here to stay. Whether or not the actual weather cooperates with them remains to be seen.

And so with Spring having sprung, that can only mean one thing, and in fact it's coming up this weekend, ready or not. Yes, everyone's favorite (NOT) or what I like to call the three most dreaded words in the English language, Daylight Saving Time is on Sunday. Every year when I complain about Daylight Saving Time, I try to find something else positive to say about it, for instance, at least it's not on Easter. This holds true again this year, as it's not anywhere near the bunny day of lore and legend, of the Orthodox or non-Orthodox version, or any other of any description. In fact, the only thing it's close to appears to be Benito Juarez's birthday, or some other obscure festival day from our friends south of the border, and I think we can all live with that. So be prepared to set your clocks ahead an hour, lose an hour of sleep, and Spring Forward with the rest of drowsy humanity on Sunday. Or you can stick to your own schedule, be fashionably late everywhere like the Orthodox Greeks, and say that you've given up Daylight Saving Time for Lent. Now there's an idea that might just catch on!

Here's another one of those stories that only seems to happen to me, and I mean that in contrast with normal people. I had a container of La Choy Chinese noodles to snack on, or have with rice for dinner, and found them very satisfactory. But then I remembered that when you order Chinese food out, they give you little packages of flat noodles, and it made me wonder if you could get those at the supermarket also, since I suddenly had a craving for them. Sure enough, when we went to the store after dinner one night, Bill spotted a package of them on the shelf, and we snapped them up in a twinkling. I was looking forward to having them as a snack on Saturday afternoon, so you can imagine that it was with some surprise and chagrin when I went to look for them, that apparently they never made it home from the supermarket with us, or got separated from us on the way into the house, to the enjoyment of our outdoor friends among the local wildlife. In any case, they weren't there, and I was disappointed, since I had been looking forward to them so much. So the following week, the whole scenario was repeated, except that this time, the package of noodles made it into the house, and Saturday afternoon found me hunkered down with my package of China Boy Wide Style Chow Mein Noodles, with much anticipation. The package assured me that these noodles were All Natural, No Preservatives, No Artificial Color or Flavor Added. I'll say! They were certainly right about that last part, because it turned out that they had absolutely no flavor whatsoever, good, bad or indifferent, there was a total lack of anything where the flavor should have been. Apparently the noodles have no taste to begin with, and since they make a point of saying they don't add any flavor to them, there's obviously no danger of any flavor cropping up unexpectedly. I suppose this would be a good thing as a base for a dish with a lot of flavor where you wouldn't want the noodles to compete with the rest of the ingredients, but as a snack, it was just like eating cardboard. This was only funny after we made a special trip to go buy them in the first place and not get them home, then go back and buy them all over again, only to find out we could have saved ourselves all the trouble to start with.

The other entertaining part of this experience was the recipe on the back of the package for tuna casserole, which called for 1 tablespoon of instant minced onion, and here I'm thinking, what in the blue blazes would an instant onion be? I mean, once it's already in a jar, how much more instant do you need it? I just can't figure that out. On the other hand, this same recipe called for one cup of celery (a whole cup!) and while I admit that there's few things I like less than celery, I still think a whole cup is going a bit overboard. Of course, they might mean All Natural, No Preservatives, No Artificial Color or Flavor Added Celery, which tastes just like cardboard, but I say it's still celery and I'm having none of it.

Meanwhile, in the wonderful world of alternative medicine, holistic therapy and chakras, we have Bill to thank for the following information about Reiki, which should help all of us lead happier and more peaceful lives:

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Apparently everyone in the Reiki game is their own sect, so each has a different take on the "rules." The following are my two favorite versions.

REIKI AFFIRMATIONS:
1. Be kind to your neighbor and all living things.
- Being kind brings Love into the will.

2. Be thankful for your many blessings.
- Being thankful brings Joy into the spirit.

3. Work honestly.
- Working honestly brings Abundance into the soul.

4. Let go of anger.
- Letting go of anger brings Peace to the mind.

5. Let go of worry.
- Letting go of worry brings Healing to the body.

ASCENSION REIKI AFFIRMATIONS:

"I AM" Life
Separation is gone, I am remembering to be happy.

"I AM" Love
Fear is gone, I am remembering to be kind to my neighbor and all living things.

"I AM" Joy
Sorrow is gone, I am remembering to rejoice and give thanks for my many blessings.

"I AM" Abundance
Scarcity is gone, I am remembering to work honestly and be generous.

"I AM" Peace
Anger is gone, I am remembering to laugh.

"I AM" Healing
Worry is gone, I am remembering to smile.
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Now, all of that is all well and good, and should be enough to keep anyone Joyful, Abundant and Kind, and probably with a killer aura besides, right? Not so fast, grasshopper! When Bill contacted his friends at his favorite Reiki web page and told them he needed an Affirmation about Patience (and needed it RIGHT NOW, by golly!) they told him to go ahead and make up his own. Well, around here, we call that sort of thing waving a red flag in front of a bull, so you can imagine what happened next. Bill started making up his own Pseudo-firmations, such as -

"I AM" Monday
Fuzzy jammies are gone and I'm remembering to put one foot in front of the other.

There was also this favorite, which I'm sure many of us can relate to -

"I AM" Memory
Something-or-other is gone and I am remembering . . . er, . . . um . . .

Last week when I was having a particularly challenging day at work, I came up with these pearls of wisdom -

"I AM" Serenity
Hysteria is gone and I am remembering to sweep the shell casings out of my office.

Bill took the opportunity on St. Patrick's Day to take the formula to a whole new level with this inventive masterpiece -

"I AM", in fact, only a limerick
so remembering this is a cheap trick
Unlike affirmations
on human relations
this reminds me -- be iconoclastic!

Feel free to play along and jump on the Reiki bandwagon for a ride into Peace, Love and Healing. It couldn't hurt and it might even help. The best part is that it's not illegal or immoral, and it has the added advantage of being non-fattening besides, unless you subscribe to another one of mine from the slings and arrows at work: "I AM" Serenity ... Despair is gone and I am remembering to eat lots of junk food!

Wash And Wear

Hello World,

And so here's another week all shot to blazes, and what have we got to show for it, I ask you that? Before you know it, a third of the year will be over already, and we'll be starting to wonder where the time has gone. In fact, I'm pretty sure I saw a robin earlier in the week, although I could not rule out the possibility of stress-related hallucinations accounting for this apparition instead. I realize that I am past the point now where anyone would consider me a reliable witness, if indeed there ever was a point when I was one, and more's the pity, I'm sure. In fairness, I will say, one advantage of getting older is more birthday presents, which I enjoyed the previous week at home and at my Mom's house, with all the trimmings and fanfare that could be desired. It was even a lovely day, which can't be counted on in early March, and the birthday elves came across with the goods in vast quantities. They ran the gamut from apparel to entertainment to housewares, not to mention, items for which categories don't even exist. Top it all off with cake and ice cream, and you've pretty much got my idea of a perfect day, and you can quote me on that.

I have been informed by any number of alert readers (oh all right, this actually turned up unexpectedly in my own research) that the "After me, the flood" quotation, which I assumed after all these centuries had been pretty firmly attributed to King Louis XV of France (and certainly sounded to me like it would have been right up his Champs Elysee, as it were) is in fact one of those widely recognized historical mis-attributions so beloved by revisionists everywhere. I have Leonard Earl Johnson's New Orleans web page (feel free to drop by at www.lej.org and "set a spell") to thank for this cogent paragraph on the subject: [ "After me the flood," words of Madam de Pompadour {Jeanne Poisson, Marquise de Pompadour} and not, as often thought, the words of Louis, the next-to-last. But words so indicative of France during Louis XV's reign that most of us think he said them. ] So there you have it, monarchy fans, yet another long-standing urban legend debunked through the unrelenting power of modern technology, where nothing is sacred and being dead is no protection. In fact, many historical figures have more personality changes and career opportunities after they die than they ever had while alive, which should be a sobering thought to the rest of us still slaving away in this vale of tears. On the other hand, the Information Please almanac described the ruler as "Louis XV The Well-Beloved," so there would appear to be a bit of revisionist history going on there pre-humously, as well as post-humously in this case.

While we're on the subject of dead people, a cyber-friend shared with me part of this wide-ranging conversation with relatives:

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I merely mentioned that we should all be cremated, and our ashes mixed with Portland cement & cast into stone memorials of some kind and be placed in the garden. 1. Saves cemetery space. 2. No traveling to visit loved ones. 3. Portable - you move, loved one moves with you. 4. Move a lot, cast loved one into Travelocity Gnome. 5. Pets can be cast into adorable doggy & kitty statues. 6. Loved one - NOT - cast into new curb for driveway. I got a 50/50 response from all in attendance. I see a new career brewing! Investors welcome!
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Ya gotta love that part about the gnome! Although you know how I always worry when things like this start to make perfect sense to me. Also making sense (NOT) I heard from a colleague who works at another hospital, who wrote: [ Now, we're having laundry problems, how does one send X amount of wash cloths to the laundry, and get not only the X amount back, but even more??? The linens are counted daily, and somehow, we are ending up with more linens than what we started with? Hmmmmm ] I had to say that I didn't see this as a problem, but rather a golden opportunity that could be exploited to their great advantage. Sure, maybe they don't want any more wash cloths, and I can understand that, but let's test out this concept on a different asset. For instance, instead of sending them wash cloths, send them some money (after all, money laundering is appreciated the world over) and if they sent you back more than you sent them, who would complain about that? In fact, you'd be way ahead of the game, and just look at how that would improve cash flow and that good old bottom line in no time.

For many years, whenever my Mom was at home by herself and thought she heard a funny noise in the other room, she would call out, "Take the television set!" This was to encourage the supposed burglars to steal the TV, which she was unhappy with, figuring that she could then use the insurance money to buy one she liked better. I was reminded of this when I found that having a temp at work, while helpful, could be an unpredictable proposition at best, and thoroughly counter-productive at worst. After many weeks, it had reached the point where my hours were so irregular that poor Bill had no way of knowing when I might or might not finally be coming home after work. Last week, on one particularly exceptional day, I managed to leave so early that I was going to come home and say that it was still so light out, I was afraid I was going to get sunburned on the way, but when I opened the door, what I heard was Bill shouting, "Take the television set!" I laughed.

I'm sure that everyone will be relieved to know, even though Easter is still weeks away, and overnight temperatures here are still in the 30's, that the seasonal aisles at CVS are crammed with hula hoops, jump ropes and beach balls. Call me a hidebound traditionalist if you must, but I think we can all rally around the idea of giving up hula hoops for Lent, at the very least. In other seasonal news, there is joy in Mudville, or at least at our house, since the new Mets network was able to hammer out a distribution agreement with our local cable provider early in Spring Training, so we can enjoy the upcoming games to our heart's content. This is in stark contrast to the pandemonium and acrimony that greeted the launching of the Yankees channel previously, where giant oligarchies on both sides dug in their heels, and the poor fans were caught in the crossfire and held hostage for weeks with nary a pinstripe in sight. In fact, as I recall, they eventually had to call out the National Guard, or perhaps it was the National Anthem, to step in and restore the peace. Of course, I believe they were using the NHL negotiators at the time, so that was only to be expected. Luckily for athletes and fans everywhere, they were universally recognized as being far too incompetent to handle sports negotiations any longer, and I'm sure we were all relieved to see them re-assigned to FEMA at the beginning of last year, where they couldn't possibly cause any more problems. Say, I'll bet nobody saw that one coming!

Swinging On A Star

Hello World,

Happy Saint Patrick's Day! I hope that everything where you are is jolly and green, festive and green, not to mention green and just plain more green. I don't know about anywhere else, but around here, it seemed like the holiday just sort of snuck up on us, without the usual brouhaha (or should I say, "brew-haha!") about who's allowed to march in the parade, or who's protesting being allowed or not being allowed to march, or what they're allowed to wear or not wear, or who's protesting what they're allowed to wear or not wear, and so on and so forth, oh Danny Boy, from glen to glen and sea to shining sea. On the other hand, it does seem to me lately that the fabled saint's day has turned instead into more of a movable feast, or a kind of Irish Saints Month, along the lines of Womens History Month, as they begin having what they refer to as St. Patrick's Day parades at the end of February in the local towns, with one showing up in the newspaper at least every other day until the 17th, by which time, the big one in New York City is old hat. Or perhaps I should say, "old tam." But anyway, it seems to have come and gone without the usual controversy and attendant media circus, so I suppose that's a good thing for the world in general, and purveyors of fine green beers in particular.

As a matter of fact, when we went to the diner tonight, the major-domo of the establishment was decked out in a shocking green tie with shamrocks, and I told him that anyone could tell that he was Irish through and through. Although truth to tell, in reality he's extremely Greek, and everyone knows that Greek Orthodox St. Patrick's Day lags at least a week behind traditional St. Patrick's Day in the old calendar, so I thought that was rushing things just a bit. And of course, it could be even more than a week, because it's based on the first full moon after the Festival of the Dervishes, and everyone knows that you can't count on those Dervishes by a long shot.

Speaking of things you can't count on, I was more surprised than anyone when our temp apparently requested her agency to re-assign her to another department in the hospital, out of the blue yesterday, after being with us for two months. She'll be going over to the main building to help out in Radiology, and I wish her well there with them, and vice versa. It occurred to me later that perhaps she's been with us before and is working her way through the departments in alphabetical order, starting with Admitting-Billing-Cardiology, through Geriatrics-Housekeeping-ICU, and only just now getting to the Ps and Rs before wrapping up in Volunteers. I only found out about it after it was a done deal, so there was no point in complaining about it, although based on how my co-worker has been coming along in her physical therapy, I'm cautiously optimistic that she might actually return in two weeks. The agency promised me another person for the remaining two weeks, and if we can just keep our heads above water for that time, we may actually make it through this 16-week ordeal with a minimum of bloodshed and no fatalities, which would have seemed unthinkable in January. I realize that may sound delusional to rational people, but it's my delusion and I'm sticking with it.

While we're on the topic of unthinkable things, I'm afraid that I have to report that it was on Wednesday of this week that I first heard the ice cream man outside my office window in the middle of the day. Mind you, it was 45 degrees at the time, and more than a week before the official beginning of Spring, so I can only say that I find that alarming, not to mention inappropriate, to find these harbingers of latter days showing up so prematurely. Why, next thing you know, they'll be sending out Christmas catalogs in August.

I am reminded of the Spirit of Summer to Come, because we somehow managed to get through the entire month of February without me cutting any firewood for camping, which is when I usually take the opportunity to get a jump on that. I still have plenty of left-over firewood from last year, but I always cut more anyway, plus what I scavenge from parking lots, neighbors and along the side of the road in my travels. Because I use a hand-saw, rather than something more automated, I like to do it in the winter, when I don't get so overheated, or attract swarms of crazed mosquitoes. If they ever come out with winter mosquitoes, I'm in big trouble. In any case, it wasn't until March that I actually got outside with my saw and did some damage on the old woodpile, and at least making some progress in that area. There's more yet to do, but a start's a start, and I expect by July that I should have way more firewood than any dozen people would need to take camping with them. Not that I know a dozen people who carry their own firewood camping with them, but if I did, I would still have enough firewood for all of us. No sense leaving these things to chance, I always say.

And what might be going on in the wonderful world of mission statements, do we suppose? I hold in my hands the latest catalog from my new friend Skip Backus, the Executive Director of the Omega Institute, whose motto seems to be "Awaken Engage Explore" and who assures me that they obtained my name from a like-minded organization. (Since one of the program highlights of the upcoming semester appears to be a Chant Weekend by the international yoga community leaders, I shudder to think which "like-minded organization" was kind enough to provide my name and address to these folks.) Inside the front cover, Skip cheerfully invites me to peruse their mission statement on page 4, not realizing that I consider myself an expert of the genre with extremely high standards. Their idea is actually very nice, and I have no quibbles with it, but as a mission statement, it fails every test there is. You may as well just call it a sentence of their beliefs, because it utterly lacks the ponderousness and incomprehensibility that make mission statements, well, so missionary. Theirs simply says: "Through innovative educational experiences that awaken the best in the human spirit, Omega provides hope and healing for individuals and society." Now I ask you, where's the melodrama in that? That actually sounds like people saying what they mean and meaning what they say, you certainly can't have that and still call it a mission statement.

On the other hand, their course offerings, workshops and educational experiences are about what you'd expect from the nation's premier center for holistic studies. Right across from their very upfront and basic mission statement, I discover that I can explore such experiences as "Revelation of Universal Energy," "The Practice of Abundance" and "The Art of Translucent Living," whatever that means. They have pages upon pages of things like "Mindfulness Education for Children" and "Awakening to Oneness" that don't even get you in the ballpark as far as what the program is all about, or if in fact it's a program at all, rather than rejuvenating retreat, empowerment vacation or performance art. My favorite part is where they list their categories, with all the buzzwords and jargon that you'd expect, such as Activism, Creativity, Drumming, Meditation, Shamanism, Sustainability, Trapeze, and Wellness, when all of a sudden, right smack dab in the middle, there's French staring you straight in the face. I can't imagine what holistic French must be like, but I'm thinking it would not be a pretty sight. Or in the immortal words of Louis XV, "Apres moi, le trapeze!"

Talk Is Cheap

Hello World,

Well, the Ides of March are almost upon us, so you know that March Madness is underway in college basketball, Spring is just around the corner, and the rejuvenating sound of the crack of the bat is heard throughout the South, as we welcome the Boys of Summer back to Spring Training for another season in the sun. These are heady times full of wonder and optimism, which even Lent can't quench, and all the world's possibilities lay directly in our path. Ah, if you could bottle that, you'd make a fortune. At least in the Spring, long before the season's early golden promise has been destroyed in the wreckage of dashed hopes by cruel fates in October. By then, you need something else to believe in, and it's probably just as well that someone decided to stick Christmas in there and help people get their minds off things for a while.

I'm sure everyone knows by now that if February has come and gone, then it must be time for our anniversary, and any week that includes our anniversary must also have my birthday in it, and you'd be right on both counts. The anniversary elves were right on target last week, bringing Bill things to wear, eat, read and listen to, while showering me with handy items of fashion, safety, entertainment, storage, and an answer to the age-old question of what to do with 200-feet of garden hose when it's not in use. We were both pleased as punch, although personally, I happen to think that I can out-please punch any day of the week, and with one hand tied behind my back besides. Anyway, the birthday elves have yet to make their appearance, but I have high hopes for their gift selections. Actually, I've come up with a pretty good system, where I give Bill a list of ideal presents earlier in the year, for various gift-giving events that may occur as time goes by, and by the time these events roll around, I've completely forgotten what was on the list, and so always find myself being pleasantly surprised when I unwrap wonderful things that he assures me I asked for. I always knew that I could come up with some advantage to having a faulty memory.

Speaking of memories, I've been in my new office now for a whole week, and the horrors of my old office are fading into a blur. It's not only so nice and cool in my new office, but it's much brighter, since apparently it's on the sunny side of the building and has two big windows besides. In an ironic twist, this whole week, my old office has been much cooler than I remember it being the whole time I was in it, although still not as cool as my new office, and I finally said to Bill that I'm getting the nagging feeling that all this time, I had been making that office hot, and not the other way around. It was just waiting for me to leave, in order to cool down, and probably just as glad to see the tail-end of me as vice versa. On the other hand, there's been no stampede by disgruntled office seekers to take over my old office, which is just as well, because right now, it has a fully decorated Christmas tree in the closet.

Now here is a perfect example of what happens when people don't say what they mean. I walked out of my new office and bumped into a fellow employee from another building, who I did not know and was standing outside of our conference room, and asked this question like a bolt out of the blue: "Do you know are they having lunch in here?" Since I had no idea why she was asking that question, I could only say that I wasn't expecting anyone to have lunch in our conference room, to which she replied, in a way which must have seemed perfectly reasonable to her, that there was a sign down the hall to the effect that Payroll was handing out paychecks in Room 218. I said they must mean in the Payroll director's office around the corner, but she pointed out with unassailable logic that our conference room was in fact Room 218, according the plate number above the transom. I'm not known for being contrary, but even I had to say that this was the first I was hearing of paychecks being given out of our conference room, so we marched down the hall towards Payroll (past the sign that assured people that they could, indeed, pick up their paychecks in Room 218) in hopes of getting to the bottom of this mystery. Luckily we discovered a couple of ladies from the Payroll department in the local shredding room, merrily shredding documents (let's not go there!) which was apparently where people were supposed to go and pick up their checks. It seems that Ye Olde Shredding Roome was never important enough to have a room number assigned to it, and since it's across the hall from Room 217, the ladies simply decided that it must be Room 218, which is what they put on their sign. I said to the temp that it was lucky we straightened that out, or it could have been a very long day in Purchasing, with a lot of unhappy employees showing up at our conference room.

While we're on the subject of people not saying what they mean, Bill loves this story from the Tax Collector's office in Moffat County, where they were trying to explain that the taxes are paid in arrears, that is, for the previous year and not in advance for the upcoming year, but what they actually said was, "Property taxes in Colorado are paid in the rears by one year." Try as I might, I can't think of any way to improve upon that.

And what about the wonderful world of apparel, you might be asking yourselves? Our friends at Complements by Anthony Richards, Where Value is Always in Style, and who sell nothing but shoes and ought to know better, offered this gushing description of Madeira: "Easy-wearing flat with stylish mesh insets. Cushioned insole and non-skid outsole with 1" heel." Excuse me? What part of "flat" don't you seem to understand? Meanwhile, the nice folks at Haband made every effort to entice me to buy their Men's Fine Tailored Shirts by Botany 500 with the screaming headline: "Luxury Shirts $10" and if that's not a contradiction in terms, well, I just don't know what is. It was in that same mailing that they showed what they referred to as a trench coat, but described this way: "So Fun and Versatile, you'll look for reasons to pop on this perky number! Princess seaming with contrast piping visually cinches waist, no belt needed. Inside you'll find a playful lining of punchy striped fabric, roomy pockets and oversized buttons." All this was true, but I was still trying to discern the "trench" part of this supposed trench coat. Being short, not to mention pink, and also having white piping around the collar, cuffs and pockets, it looked more than anything like a drum majorette's costume than any battle-scarred veteran of trench warfare, and I'm only guessing it's because it was also available in a camel color that they determined that was close enough to qualify it as a trench coat. Call me a linguistic stickler (don't you dare!) but I have the draw the line at that, and I don't mind saying, way before that in fact. The Maginot Line, that is.

Meanwhile at church, on Sunday I woke up long enough during the sermon ... er, I mean, I couldn't help but sit up and take notice when the Pastor was explaining about someone being part of a certain environment by saying, "He's in that m'loo" and meaning "milieu" but instead sounding as if Tex Ritter had just stopped by to sing, "Skip to m'Lou, my darlin'." It always makes me wonder why people try to use words they obviously don't know and can't pronounce, in place of more familiar words that would suffice just as well. On the other hand, I'm not in that m'loo, so I should probably skip the whole thing, my darlin'.

Here's something we can file under "Why the Terrorists Hate Us," and courtesy of our friends at USA Weekend Magazine from last week, in a story about the return of glamour in general and false eyelashes in particular: "For those who want to lash out longer than a day, big-city salons offer eyelash extensions glued to the lash line that last for up to two months and cost between $300 and $500." Eyelash extensions??? Seriously, folks, if this isn't the height, or rather depth, of some appalling travesty in modern civilization, then I'll eat my hat. Can there honestly be so many shallow people in this place, who not only have way too much money, but obviously way too much time on their hands as well, and they can't think of anything better to do than this, so that there's actually a market for this tomfoolery? I mean, I appreciate glamour as much as the next fellow, but this whole nonsense just takes Tom and all of his Fools to a brand new level. On an extension ladder, of course.

Yesterday at work, I was having one of those days where all of the wheels just come off completely, or rather, never seemed to get put on in the first place. I was complaining in the ladies room to the bookkeeper down the hall, and she said, "You feel like shooting someone, right?" I said no, there's way too many of them, I may as well just go ahead and shoot myself instead and get it over with. She laughed and said I would need to have them back up the truck and deliver the giant economy size "Box o' Bullets" in order to do it the other way around, and while it sounded like a tempting idea, we both agreed that it was probably unworkable on a number of levels. Here's where it really pays not to be one of those grouchy Christians who have given up chocolate for Lent, and while I'm not suggesting that this is one possible explanation for serial killers, I will say that if the m'loo fits, you may as well skip it, my darlin'.

Too Cold For Me

Hello World,

Happy March! Well, by now even the Winter Olympics are nothing but a fond memory, and it's getting harder and harder to have things to look forward to around here. Of course, this was a busy week on its own merits, including not only the Closing Ceremonies of the Olympics, but also Shrove Tuesday, Mardi Gras and Ash Wednesday, all piling up on top of each other in giddy profusion. Well, I guess no one would refer to Ash Wednesday as "giddy," but the pile-up part of it is still true. Toward the end of the week, we even had more snow, which I think it's safe to say that no one wanted to see, or perhaps that was just me, but I've just about had it with snow for one winter, and that's all there is to it. In fact, it took an entire week of the snow melting before we ever found the newspaper that arrived on the Sunday of the blizzard, which I had assumed hadn't been delivered because I never saw any tire tracks when I went out into the winter wonderland to go look for it. And don't forget, I was up early that day so I could hurry to church and usher. I'll never know how they got through and brought us the newspaper in all that slop, but I give them a lot of credit for that. When the snow finally melted around it a week later, we found the news quaintly outdated, in light of further developments in many of the stories being covered, so it was sort of like a time capsule in our very own yard.

And then, just as our thoughts were starting to turn to Spring, suddenly here's more snow, with icy gusts bringing overnight wind chill temperatures near zero in many areas. Thanks so very much not! And while it's tempting to point at the red and the square, and blame Comrade Mischka for all of our troubles, I believe that we would discover a conspiracy afoot that is even deeper and wider, not to mention of far greater antiquity, than the Kremlin's infernal weather machine. Here, of course, I'm talking about Groundhog Day, and Bill was happy to pass along the following informative selections from AOL News:

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"The tradition is believed to have originated with a German superstition. The Germans believed that if a hibernating animal casts a shadow Feb. 2 - the Christian holiday of Candlemas - winter will last another six weeks. If no shadow is seen, legend says spring will come early."
"Others latched on to the Phil frenzy for a publicity boost - for just about anything, from global warming to the lottery. The groundhog's brief emergence is televised on national news programs.
"The National Environmental Trust said its groundhog-suit-wearing human "will ignore his shadow and will instead rely on global warming evidence to forecast an early spring."
"The American Physiological Society was offering experts to discuss "What Punxsutawney Phil can teach us about surviving massive blood loss, preventing muscle atrophy, and more."
"The Pennsylvania Lottery even has Gus, "the second most famous groundhog in Pennsylvania," who implores lottery players to "keep on scratchin'."
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And what's all this about Candlemas, you might be wondering? Well, wonder no more:
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CandlemasFrom Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Candlemas (Russian: Sretenie, Spanish: Candelaria) is a Christian feast commemorating the purification of the Virgin Mary and the presentation of the infant Jesus in the Temple.
Candlemas is the last festival in the Christian year that is dated by reference to Christmas; subsequent holidays are calculated with reference to Easter, so Candlemas marks the end of the Christmas and Epiphany season.
"Down with the rosemary, and so Down with the bays and misletoe ; Down with the holly, ivy, all, Wherewith ye dress'd the Christmas Hall" — Robert Herrick (1591-1674), "Ceremony upon Candlemas Eve"
The term "Candlemas" comes from the tradition set forth in the Roman Missal whereby the celebrant of the Mass on February 2nd blesses the candles for use during the year (said candles must be of beeswax).
The date of Candlemas is established by the date set for the Nativity of Jesus, for it comes 40 days afterwards. Under Mosaic law, a mother who had given birth to a man-child was considered unclean for seven days; moreover she was to remain for three and thirty days "in the blood of her purification." Candlemas therefore corresponds to the day on which Mary, according to Jewish law (see Leviticus 12:2 - 8), should have attended a ceremony of ritual purification. The gospel of Luke 2:22-39 relates that Mary was purified according to the religious law, followed by Jesus' presentation in the Jerusalem temple, and this explains the formal names given to the festival.
In the West, the date of Christmas is now fixed at December 25, and Candlemas therefore falls the following February 2. The dating is identical among Orthodox Christians, except that the ecclesiastic December 25th of most Orthodox Christians falls on January 6th of the civil calendar due to a theological dispute related to the adoption of the Gregorian calendar, meaning that most Orthodox Christians celebrate the feast on February 14th. In the Armenian Apostolic Church, the Feast, called "The Coming of the Son of God into the Temple", is also celebrated on February 14.
The earliest reference to a celebration was when the intrepid pilgrim nun Egeria, travelling in the Holy Land, 381-384 AD, reported that February 14th was a day solemnly kept in Jerusalem with a procession to Constantine's Basilica of the Resurrection, a homily on Luke 2:22 (which makes the occasion perfectly clear), and a Liturgy. This so-called Itinerarium Peregrinatio ("Pilgrimage Itinerary") of Egeria does not offer a name for the Feast, however. The date, February 14 proves that in Jerusalem at that time, Christ's birth was celebrated on January 6, Epiphany.
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Say, maybe those Orthodox Greeks were onto something after all! And for those people out there who may still be unconvinced that all of this is part of a larger conspiracy, let me just point out that it is only now, on the coldest night of the year, that my birdbath heater decided to stop working, and the poor fountain is frozen solid and covered with snow. Coincidence? I think not! After all, let's not forget that it's the total lack of proof that only goes to show how well the conspiracy is working. And if you ask me, the groundhogs are in it up to their eyebrows, especially "Vladivostock Phil," who came out of his burrow in some secret KGB hideout, saw a vision of Sister Egeria, and predicted six more weeks of Greeks. But you didn't hear that from me.