In The Bag

Hello World,

Well, there's practically not enough of April left now to shake a stick at, not that it would do any good if you did, and I ought to know, because next Friday will be May first already, believe that or not. Anyone can tell that they're throwing darts at the climate board in the Kremlin again, because the weather is not only all over the map, sometimes the conditions are unrecognizable as weather in this entire solar system. One day it will be 70 degrees and sunny, and the next it will be 35 degrees with fog as thick as concrete. Then it rains non-stop for two days, followed by gale force winds that blow loose branches everywhere and empty trash cans right after them. You don't dare go anywhere without a change of clothes, because if it's hot, it will turn cold, or vice versa, and whatever you're wearing will be the exact opposite of what you will need. The meteorologists have washed their hands of the whole mess, because anything they predict more than 10 minutes in the future is nothing more than pure speculation, woefully off the mark more often than not, and the five-day forecast has become the laughingstock of the local news. So far, my favorite weather-related moment was when a colleague of Bill's, bemoaning the unspeakable conditions in the Midwest, quipped: "Don't blame me for the weather, I voted for the other guy!"

Speaking of weather, it started out drizzling on Wednesday, but I wasn't worried, and had every confidence that it was going to clear up. Of course, it was Secretary's Day (what they now refer to as Administrative Professionals Day) and it's been my experience in going to the Chamber of Commerce luncheons to celebrate the day, that it never rains on the secretaries. No matter how it looks in the morning, from threatening to ugly to extreme and all the way up to Biblical plagues of frogs and locusts, by the time the luncheon rolls around, it has usually turned out sunny and pleasant, often to the surprise of everyone, except the secretaries, of course. Last year was the first time since I've been working at the hospital that they did not participate in the luncheon, which must have thrown a monkey wrench in the works for the Chamber of Commerce, because as the largest employer in the city, the hospital attendees always took up the most tables. So I wasn't surprised this time around when there was no mention of a luncheon, or even an ice cream social in the cafeteria, or God forbid, just a memo circulated to thank the clerical workers for their contributions to helping the hospital run more smoothly. I took a cue from The Unsinkable Molly Brown who once famously observed: "I mean much more to me, than I mean to anyone else I ever met," and if the hospital wasn't going to provide me with lunch, by golly, I was going to take matters into my own hands or know the reason why. So I took myself out to lunch, and followed that up with dessert at Carvel, and then did some shopping and other errands, and I had a nice day out before finally wrapping it all up and heading for home. Of course, it was not the beloved (or is that beleaguered) Secretary's Day luncheons of yore, and more's the pity I'm sure, with its notoriously bad speeches, nondescript food, balky service, quirky raffle prizes, even quirkier goodie bags, and somehow every year, the world's worst sound system. (I finally figured out that they must move it every year from one country club to the next, wherever the luncheon is going to be held, because it would be impossible for all of the clubs to each have their own world's worst sound system especially in this day and age of technological advancements.) I admit that I miss poking fun at the foibles and follies of the luncheon, which over the years has been a welcome diversion and favored tradition, and while my own festivities for the day could not compete with the Chamber of Commerce, it was still better than being at work all afternoon.

In other local news, April finally brought with it the return of yard waste pickups by the sanitation department, after being discontinued since October. I find winter is a good time to clean up piles of leaves and twigs out of the flower beds, but since the city won't pick them up, I have to collect them in bags and then hold onto the bags until they implement the pickup schedule again in April. Luckily, they've now invented handy bags for this purpose, which are made of heavy-duty Kraft paper, and they're large capacity and square on the bottom, so they stand up by themselves, like a trash can. Over the winter, I've been stuffing bags full of leaves and twigs and assorted whatnot from all over the yard, and then I leave them in the garage or the porch until spring. At this juncture, I should point out that I am well known as a person who tends to take things at face value (which is why I am usually at a loss when confronted with satire, and even sarcasm is often lost on me) and people may call me naive (they'd better not!) but I will never master the shrewd cynicism of world-weary skeptics, even if I wanted to. I admit that I thought this was a pretty fool-proof system, but unfortunately, it turned out that the joke was on me, because there's always some fool that's proof against any system. For no reason that I can ascertain, our juvenile delinquent squirrels and/or incorrigible raccoons and/or nefarious possums and/or diabolical skunks have all singly or collectively decided that the thing to do is to chew holes in the bottoms of the bags, and see what interesting items spill out. What the attraction is in this objective is a mystery to me, since these were the very same leaves and twigs that were already in the yard to start with, and presumably haven't become any more appealing since being put in bags, yet they can't seem to keep their busy little claws away from them. The result is that when I want to put the bags out for trash pickup, I first have to tape them closed with packing tape, so they don't come completely apart and leave behind piles of leaves and twigs that I was trying to get rid of in the first place, thanks so very much not.

Of course, everyone knows that satire is lost on me, so it's possible that no one else will find this funny. We have our friends at Workman Publishing to thank for their venerable Word-a-Day calendar, which it seems that I have been enjoying for decades by now, and they do a heck of a job coming up with interesting words with their definitions and etymology. Being in the publishing business, you would expect the calendar to be a grammatical jewel, with nary a misspelling, mixed metaphor, dangling modifier or mismatched case to mar its pristine pages, and over the years, I'd say that you'd be right. That's why I was pulled up short earlier in the week, when the word for the day was "cursory," which they defined as "rapidly and often superficially performed or produced: hasty." Meanwhile on the back, they launched their explanation of the term with this opening salvo: "Descended comes from the Latin verb 'currere,' meaning 'to run,' 'cursory' always implies speed but also stresses a lack of attention to detail." It would be cynical to wonder if it was just a bizarre coincidence that the one calendar page with an egregious error in the first sentence happens to be the one about a lack of attention to detail, or whether it was planned that way as a prank. No one has ever accused the editors at Workman of having a sense of humor, that I know of, and April 20 seems an odd time for an April Fool's Day joke, but the alternative certainly doesn't have much to recommend it either.

Having their own typographical problems this week, the Wheels section of our local newspaper featured a front-page story about the 2009 Nissan 370Z by Malcolm Gunn for Wheelbase Communications, that looked like this:

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Pof a sports car's validity is some-
times seen when its successor
is highly refined as opposed to
heavily made over.

For 2009, new the 370Z shows
that the outgoing 350Z was on the mark
right from the beginning .....
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Personally, I don't blame the hapless Malcolm for the "P of a sports car" goof, since that was obviously the typesetter's fault, who fell so in love with the giant initial cap that the accuracy of the sentence went right out the window. I also doubt that the writer meant to come up with "new the 370Z," and everyone knows that the spell-checker isn't going to help you with that, since the two words aren't misspelled, just in the wrong order. Frankly, it's enough to make a person wonder about technological advances altogether, when the most expensive country clubs have the world's worst sound systems, and the most powerful word processing software can't prevent the most glaring mistakes that in the old days, a one-eyed editor could catch in his sleep. Ah, for those halcyon days of yore, which may have been low tech, but made up for that with high standards instead. At this point, I would leave you with some satirical jibe to enjoy the rest of the weekend with, but everyone knows that satire is what closes on Saturday night.

Elle

Strike Up The Band

Hello World,

Well, here we find ourselves already past the half-way point of April, and I don't mind saying, no end in sight, that's for sure. This Sunday will be Easter for the Eastern Orthodox Christians among us, while last Sunday was Easter for the Western churches, and after that, all bets are off. We'll be looking down both barrels of May before we know what hit us, and although it seems impossible to believe now, pretty soon we'll be complaining about the heat around here. I have the feeling that hospitals have been doing a land-office business in treating frostbite, because it seems whenever the sun is out, you find people in the local area wearing shorts and tank tops, even though it's not even 50 degrees yet. Ever since February, hopeful individuals have been trying to rush Spring along, and although the calendar may say that it's here, the temperatures have certainly not cooperated, day after raw, blustery day. Winter-weary folks are so anxious for Spring to finally get here, that they must have decided that if they just go ahead and start wearing summer clothes, the weather might wake up at last and follow their lead. The way things are going, I might call that a long shot, but you know they say that Hope Springs Eternal, or perhaps it just seems that we've been Hoping for Spring for an Eternity.

Speaking of long shots, I couldn't help but notice the following sports note in the Best Bets section of our newspaper's TV listings. [[ One of the roads to the Triple Crown runs through picturesque, palm tree-lined Santa Anita Park in Arcadia, California, home of today's Santa Anita Derby. Six winners of this grade one race have gone on to win the Kentucky Derby, the last being Sunday Silence in 1989. At this writing, starters for the 1-1/8 mile race include The Pamplemousse, winner of the G3 Sham Stakes on Feb. 28, and Chocolate Candy, who won the G3 Camino Real Derby on Feb. 14. ]] Well, now you're just being silly. I said to Bill that there's so much jargon in that short blurb that it's like they fed a random selection of words into a computer and let it spit out the results in three sentences. First of all, it's been 20 years since one of their horses went on to win the Kentucky Derby, so that's a long time to wait for lightning to strike twice, and obviously the road to the Triple Crown is not running through this park as much as they want to lead me to believe, at least not recently. And I have no idea what G3 means in horse racing terms, and I thought I knew pretty much of what there is to know about the Sport of Kings, but apparently not. I'm assuming that the Camino Real Derby is not named after the infamous 1960's muscle car of the same name, but rather the town that gave its name to the vehicle in the first place. But there is nothing that would share the name that would have Sham Stakes make any sense, and whoever came up with that idea basically needs to be banned from naming things ever again. Or at least, put some new words into the computer and start over again, but heck, Sham Stakes has to go, baby, go, as they say at Belmont racetrack.

Moving right along, we had our very own little but speedy "And they're off!" moment at home last week, however inadvertent. I was in the living room during the day, as I often am, because that is where several of my computers are located, as well as other gadgets and papers that I need on a regular basis. I was about to go upstairs after I straightened things up, but I started to notice an odd buzzing noise that I couldn't identify. I assumed it was coming from outside, and must be one of the neighbors using some new yard equipment, and certainly nothing to be alarmed about. I walked over to the window, but the noise didn't seem to be coming from outside. I walked along the whole back of the living room, trying to get closer to the buzzing, which seemed steady but not very loud, and did not seem to be coming from any of my electronic equipment, any of the lights, the thermostat, radiator or wall outlets. In the corner, I realized that it must be coming from the next room, so I went through the door into the den, and once I opened the door, I recognized the sound immediately, as anyone would if they were in the same room with it, because it was the unmistakable sound of an electric pencil sharpener grinding away at full tilt. Mind you, the room was completely deserted at the time, except for one of our cats Potfourri (and we don't let her have pencils) and this pencil sharpener has been in the den, and plugged in just like it was, probably for the last 15 years or so. So unless the Invisible Man snuck in to sharpen his invisible pencils, for some reason, the pencil sharpener just picked this time out of the blue to turn itself on and grind away its little gears, all by its little old lonesome and with no one touching it. Of course, everyone knows that I have a long-standing policy against using logic with irrational beings, so I didn't try to make any sense of the situation, I just pulled the plug and left it at that. I don't need to be hit over the head with a brass band to know when it's time to just cut your losses and get out while the getting's good. I can't claim that I would ever win the Sham Stakes, but by golly, I won't be left standing in the starting gates, that's for sure.

Last Saturday, I settled down to watch an old episode of The Lawrence Welk Show, which they play on public television for people who like that sort of thing. Lawrence introduced the program by saying that it would feature what he described as "big band hits of the swing era," which I thought would be interesting, because they usually perform music that is so obscure, it makes you wonder where they dredged them up from. So I admit that I was lulled into a false sense of expecting to hear familiar classics from the glory days of the big bands, and I don't mind saying, looking forward to it. I should have realized what we were in for, when they started the show with And The Angels Sang, then followed that up with La Vie En Rose played on accordion, their country singer belted out Heartache, the pianist jumped on board with April in Paris, and finally the baritone weighed in with You're Nobody Till Somebody Loves You. If any of that is anybody's idea of big band music, well, it's just a good thing that I have a long-standing policy against using logic with irrational beings, that's all I have to say. After 15 minutes, they still hadn't played one classic big band tune that would be familiar to anyone with fond memories of the period, and I had long since given up on the idea that I would hear many of my favorite songs from that heyday of popular music. But I have to admit that even I was surprised when the band suddenly launched into a rollicking pull-out-all-the-stops version of Hava Nagila, the renowned Israeli folk song, which could be considered big band music only because the bands always play it at every wedding reception, anniversary party, high school reunion, cruise ship, vacation resort or other gathering where they make strangers get up and dance with each other. So just when I thought that the self-starting pencil sharpener was leading in the Sham Stakes, along comes this cockamamie tribute to big bands, with music selected by aliens from a far distant solar system.

Speaking of aliens, it should come as a surprise to nobody that after I was out doing yard work last week, I noticed the tell-tale spots of a rash from poison ivy on both of my arms. I don't mind saying that I think it's way too early for this nonsense, and I was really annoyed, although I have the feeling that I said exactly the same thing last year at exactly this same time, so I guess it does no good to get annoyed at the poison ivy at this point. Usually I get a rash if I work in the wrong area without my gloves on, or if I have short sleeves and I'm not careful about what I touch. But this time I was wearing long sleeves and gloves, and I wasn't expecting any trouble, especially since I thought it was way too early to worry about things like poison ivy, being that it was still 40 degrees every day. The problem was not just that I was in an area where I didn't expect poison ivy, but unlike Thorndale ivy, which looks the same year-round, the poison ivy and honeysuckle hadn't even started to leaf out yet, so if I picked up a loose vine along with a bunch of leaves and twigs, I couldn't even tell what sort of vine it was, only that it wasn't Thorndale. I still figured it was too early to worry about it, and if it was honeysuckle there was nothing to worry about anyway, but I honestly think that getting a rash from a vine that doesn't even have leaves on it yet is a low blow. Of course, this is all I have come to expect from our rampant mutant alien poison ivy, thanks so very much not, and I'm sure I don't need to remind anyone of my long-standing policy against using logic with irrational beings. So far the space invaders seem to be taking the lead in the Sham Stakes, with the poison ivy just edging out the aliens from the black hole where swing music is destroyed. In astronomy, this is known as The Big Band Theory.

We did have a very nice Easter last Sunday, and the weather even cooperated for a change, which is not something to be taken lightly, the way things have been going, and I ought to know. The Easter Bunny stopped by bright and early, so we had plenty of treats and goodies to start the day, and no complaints on that score. Then we packed up the car and went to my Mom's on Long Island, and not even bad traffic to slow us down, in spite of all the stores running Easter sales, as if a holiday without crass commercialization would be somehow un-American. We had lunch at the diner and also brought home some food for Mom, and then ran some errands, because you sure don't want to miss out on those Easter sales, by golly. It turned out that the Easter Bunny had shown up at Mom's house also, so there were more treats and goodies to go around, including Mallomars, because the Easter Bunny certainly knows what my Mom likes after all these years. He also brought an adorable bunny cake that was chocolate with white icing, and we made short work of that, and came back for seconds, and in fact, if the Easter Bunny had brought another one, it would not have gone to waste either. (Waist perhaps, but not waste.) We left about 6:00 and were surprised again at the lack of traffic, so those Easter sales must have still been going strong, and we stopped at the deli to pick up some sandwich makings on the way home, which we thought would be a more sensible choice than having more bunny cake for dinner. (Not more popular perhaps, but definitely more sensible.) I had the added advantage of taking off Monday from work, although I did have to go in for a while to get the weekend time cards to Payroll on time, rather than do them on Tuesday and be late. So it all shaped up to be a very nice holiday, where never was heard a discouraging word, and the skies were not cloudy all day, E-I-E-I-O. And when all was said and done, who do we suppose actually won the Sham Stakes this time around, between the nags, the pencil sharpener, the anti-music aliens, the ivy-less poison ivy, the Spring hopefuls shivering in their shorts and Greeks bearing gifts? In a surprising come-from-behind victory, crossing the finish line first is the Easter Bunny dancing the Hava Nagila and tossing chocolate coins to the cheering crowds. I'm thinking that they should probably save those coins, because they might be worth something someday. In astronomy, this is known as The Big Bank Theory.

Elle

Nick of Time

Hello World,

Happy days are here again! By that I mean, right at this very moment, there are any number of days that we can be happy about, possibly even more than you might be aware of. For many Christians, this is Holy Week, with yesterday being Maundy Thursday and today is Good Friday, which means that Sunday will be Easter. Yesterday was also the first day of Passover, which often finds itself in the vicinity of Easter, and this year, nearer than most. Speaking of nearer, for our Orthodox friends, this will be Palm Sunday, and Orthodox Easter will be April 19, which is also closer to the regular or non-Orthodox Easter than it often is. So right there, we have plenty of eventful days full of celebrations and observances, to suit the joyful or the somber equally among us. But that's not all, not by a long shot. Although the college basketball madness begins in the month which bears its name, it's April that sees the Final Four whittled down to the eventual winner, as March Madness winds up at last, about a week too late to be chronologically accurate, but just as popular with its fans for all that. Hard on its heels is American Circus Day on April 3rd, which honors America's first circus in 1793, and I suppose we've had clowns going into politics ever since. Meanwhile, all over the country, major league baseball returned for a new season, with Opening Day in cities from coast to coast beginning on April 5, and after a long cold winter, that is a day to celebrate indeed. And then earlier this week on April 6th, those of us who are mad for plaid could enjoy a Happy Tartan Day, commemorating the signing of the Scottish Declaration of Independence on this date in 1320. Whew! That's a lot to cram into a short period of time, and a person would have to step lively to get in all of their palms, kugel, hoops, kilts, fish sticks, fast balls, bunnies and trapezes, not to mention, maundies, whatever they are, but please make mine chocolate.

In the local area, hysteria gripped the New York sports scene when the Yankees lost their first two games, sending their beleaguered fans into paroxysms of wailing and gnashing of teeth. This cataclysmic disaster dwarfed all other events that might have been happening at the same time, and basically the entire media ground to a halt in response to the calamity. Luckily, humanity was saved when they won their third game, although they were reduced to relying on something called Nick Swisher, a journeyman infielder who sounds like a shady character from a Charles Dickens novel. Personally, I wasn't worried about the Yankees, figuring that two games was way too early for panic, but I understood how they felt on April 8, when suddenly the sky was nothing but a mad swirling expanse of snowflakes, all looking like they meant business. The way things had been going this winter, and in other localities even worse, just about the last thing any of us wanted to see in April was more snow. Fortunately, it turned out to be flurries that didn't do much damage, and in fact, later that same day, we heard the unmistakable sounds of the ice cream truck making its rounds in the hospital neighborhood. So things seemed to return to normal for the most part, but as for myself, I thought that was a little too close for comfort.

Of course, last week was Palm Sunday, and if there is anything more popular with cats, I don't know it. In fact, just having fresh palms in the house was enough to draw the most reclusive of our invisible cats, Captain Midnight his own invisible self, out from under the kitchen cabinets, and into the living room to play with them. It's a wonder to me that they don't sell them in pet stores year round, or make cat toys out of them, because I've yet to meet the cat who can resist them. You can't help but get the feeling that all of the designers of cat toys are Moslem terrorists, because they've obviously never brought home palms from church and found out what the rest of us with cats already know. If he wasn't already the savior of the local pinstripe franchise, I'm thinking that Hartz could hire Nick Swisher away from the Yankees to be the spokesperson for their new Swisher Palms, guaranteed to get your kitty to do the twist. Oliver Twist, that is, although Artful Dodger might be a more apt description for the Dickensian appeal of the product..

Speaking of Nick, in my previous note I explained how the government should recruit the volunteer sidewalk Santa's in March and October to go to everyone's house and change the time on their devices to account for Daylight Saving Time, which would certainly save time for me, if nothing else. We can count on Bill to come up with an even better idea:

===============================
I think we should let the REAL Santa Claus reset the clocks. As you said, he's not doing anything for the rest of the year, and he has several advantages over the Sidewalk Santas. For one thing, he's not recovering from some debilitating addiction, so he's probably a tad more reliable. Heck, we ALREADY let him in the house and he's never stolen anything (that I know of). And, having come to the house for all these years, he could probably FIND all the clocks. Not to mention that he's used to doing even MORE complicated things (like assembling bicycles) at 2 in the morning.
===============================

Well, I don't see any way to improve upon that, try as I might. After all, we already call him St. Nick, so he could be the St. Nick of Time. (Oof!) Speaking of improvements, I just realized after living here all of these years, we finally have forsythia in our yard, and a welcome sight they are indeed. We had new neighbors move in a couple of years ago, and they decided to install a sort of decorative latticed fence-like apparatus along part of their driveway on top of the rock wall. I noticed today that they had it placed in such a way that it separates their forsythia from their yard, with the result that the forsythia is now in our yard instead, on the opposite side of the fence. To my way of thinking, that makes it our forsythia at this point, and we're just as glad to have it. Personally, I think the bright yellow flowers will look quite charming against the white lattice background, and when people compliment me on my brilliant landscaping arrangements, you can be sure that I will say, "Thank you" and leave it at that, while giving no credit whatsoever to the neighbors for the fence, the flowers or even the rock wall, all of which are technically theirs. This is what I call the Artful Dodger method of garden acquisitions.

While we're on the topic of acquisitiveness, we have our friends at http://paultan.org (and please feel free to go visit their web site and see for yourself) to thank for the following:

================================
The Rolls-Royce Phantom Coupe goes on sale officially in the Middle East today, a place where all the oil-rich need something new as an outlet to spend their money anyway. Unlike the Phantom Drop-head Coupe that allows you to drive with the top down to watch the clear starry night, owners of the Phantom Coupe have to make do with a funky "starlight headliner" which illuminates the ceiling of the car with more than 1,600 fiber optics to give the impression of a star-filled sky.
================================

Here is normally the part where I would say, "This is why the terrorists hate us," but it appears that it's the terrorists who are buying these cars in the first place. It certainly does seem as if the world has been turned upside down, with the desperate Yankees being rescued by Charles Dickens, migrating forsythia, snow in April, and Santa Claus in March. Talk about March Madness! The way things are going, you just don't know what to expect next, but to be on the safe side, I wouldn't rule out marshmallow peeps, dandelions, income taxes, weather, clowns in politics, more holidays, ice cream and stars, real or otherwise. Of course, we've already had the wailing and gnashing of teeth, so we can't rule out the possibility of further Biblical plagues being visited upon the area, so if it starts raining frogs or hordes of locusts, don't say I didn't warn you. I can't claim to be the Spirit of Easter Future, but I do the best I can with what I've got, or my name isn't -

Miss Havisham

Happy Hour

Hello World,

Happy April! It doesn't seem remotely possible that a quarter of the year is already behind us, but there's no escaping the fact that we find ourselves now in the fourth month of the year, so we can just go ahead and put that first quarter right in the bank and lock the door behind it, because it's done and gone. I'm sure the scientists would tell us that the days are getting longer, as we continue to move along in the year, but so far that hasn't translated into any better weather, and this is turning into a year that has seemed colder, for a longer period, than I can remember for quite a while. Speaking just for myself, I'm getting mighty tired of one cold and dreary day followed by yet another cold and dreary day hard on its heels, one after another stretching out in a line like an old newspaper blown down the street. Luckily, this wearying prospect has in no way discouraged the spring flowers from popping up, which they tell me are guided by length of day and not temperature, and they are a cheery sight on the grayest of days. We had our first crocus on March 8 (I always take a picture of the first crocus, so I know when it is) while our first jonquils took until March 28 to appear. By the 30th, we had blue squill along the driveway and even windflowers, while April 1st was not fooling around where the daffodils were concerned, although that seemed early to me. Today after work, I noticed hyacinths in the back yard, in spite of pouring rain and temperatures that were inclement to a fault. Driving around town, there are even hints of very early forsythia in the sunnier locations, and if there's anything more exhilarating than its sunny yellow radiance, I don't know what it is. Since the government has never implemented my suggestion of mandatory mood-enhancing drugs to get us all through the dark days of winter, at least we can count on the wonderful spring flowers as a tonic for whatever ails you.

Speaking of dark days, a couple of alert readers were quick to send me their thoughts about Daylight Slippery Time, including one (thanks, John!) who pointed out that people wanting to avoid DST need go no further than Arizona, where it is not observed by the state, except on the Navajo Reservation, which is located in parts of three separate states, and that would probably be confusing enough, with or without DST as well. Another chimed in with her own new and improved version:

============================
I never could understand why we have to spring forward during the middle of the night, especially Saturday night! Everyone who knows me, knows that you don't mess with my sleep or my weekend. I can handle turning the clocks back in the fall, although it is such an inconvenience to deal with all the clocks in the house (only one of mine has a reverse). In essence, the hour gained is spent resetting the time……As far as going forward, why not spring forward on a Friday, like 4pm, or any weekday afternoon for that matter. I don't think you'd get too many complaints from workers. In fact, it would be a day to look forward to….You can call my idea “Immodest Proposal #2” Proposal #3 is not to bother at all. We delayed falling back last year and we sprang forward early this year, why must we mess with time at all??????? My mood swings are in constant upheaval as it is! I need gradual change at my age….a minute or two every day is about all I can handle.
============================

That part about leaving work early certainly has an appeal that is notably lacking in the current scenario, that's for sure. Another idea to take some of the sting out of the process, since the government is so gung ho on this concept, I think they should just send teams of people to everybody's house to reset the time on all of their devices twice a year. They could call themselves the Hour Rangers, and have cool uniforms with an hourglass on the front, plus a cape, mask and boots, and change DST from a chore to an adventure. In fact, since they would only be needed on two days of the year, they could have bunches of volunteers sign up for it all over the country, like sidewalk Santa's in December, except of course in Arizona, where they wouldn't be needed. Come to think of it, all of those sidewalk Santa's aren't busy in March and October anyway, I say let's get them on this job, after all, they already have experience wearing a costume.

Speaking of the government, for anyone who grew up with a father like mine, who drummed into their head the old saying, "A pint's a pound the world around," you might be surprised to find, as I was, that this is not so. Of course, everyone knows that I'm no fan of revisionist history, and it seems late in the game to discover after all this time, that this moldy old adage doesn't hold water, or if it does, it's not 16 ounces worth. Oh, I just don't know, I'm so confused, now I really don't know what to believe anymore. Next, they'll be telling me to throw the baby out with the bath water, cry over spilled milk, leap before I look, and put all of my eggs in one basket. (I would count my chickens before they hatch, but that would be a horse of the same color.) For all of you poundage fans out there, we have Bill to thank for the following weighty information:

=================================
Ounces, Pounds and PintsIn current American usage, 8 ounces make a cup, 2 cups make a pint, two pints make a quart, 4 quarts make a gallon. A pint of water weighs a pound.
But in the British empire, it took 20 (fluid) ounces to make an imperial pint, making the Imperial gallon 25% bigger than the American gallon.
Thus, we have the common American claim that "a pint is a pound the world around" pitted against the English statement that "a pint of water weighs a pound and a quarter".
But in England, it got a lot worse, because there were two different ounces! Precious metals and apothecary goods were sold in troy (or apothecary) ounces of 480 grains each, while everything else was traded in avoirdupois ounces of 437.5 grains each. Thus, the comforting fact that an ounce of gold (31.1 grams) weighs more than an ounce of feathers (28.35 grams). On the other hand, the troy pound has only 12 ounces, while the avoirdupois pound has 16 ounces, so a pound of gold (373 grams) weighs LESS than a pound of feathers (454 grams).
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By golly, I may never have a pound of gold to call my own, but it's good to know that an ounce of gold weighs more than an ounce of feathers anyway. So I guess we can all put that in our pipe and smoke it, let the chips fall where they may, rush in where angels fear to tread, lead a horse to water and make him drink, because all bets are off at this pint, I mean, point.

Recently I sent a message to the pastor of my church, which included a bit of the feeble attempts at humor that I am so well known for, and he fired back this unexpected reply:

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Congratulations, we at the Matchbook Cover National You-Too-Can-Be-a-Writer Submit a Writing Sample Review Board have awarded you a full scholarship to next year's writing class!
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It's true that a normal person might not find that particularly amusing, but I can assure you that for the pastor, who is not known for his humor, and that's putting it mildly, this was nothing short of uproarious, believe me.

Meanwhile, on the subject of people you can't trust, I was surprised at the Smart Source flyer that came in with our newspaper, as it usually does on Saturdays. Our friends at Pearle Vision usually have one of their ads on the front, featuring a pretty model in a stylish pair of glasses, which are fitted with clear lenses instead of prescription, so the model's eyes don't look out of proportion or anything. This is their way to convince a vain public, one supposes, that they can wear glasses, and still look fashionable like the model in the picture. (For anyone who believes what they see in advertisements, please contact me about openings in the Hour Rangers, so I can get your size for the costume.) Now I guess it's gotten to the point where they think it's warm enough for us to start thinking ahead to the sunnier days to come, so it must have made sense to them for this week's ad to feature a model wearing a pair of sunglasses rather than regular eyeglasses. I would have no squawk with that, except that instead of having the model wear an actual pair of sunglasses, they obviously edited the picture to make them look like sunglasses, and unnaturally so. The lenses are so completely black, they're not even like the black glasses they would use to give blind people, they're like a solid black plastic spatula. It's not smoky black, or tinted black like real sunglasses, but totally and absolutely opaque black, like a painted black wall. All this would not be enough to get my dander up, heaven knows in these days of no standards, except that the only other thing in the ad besides the model and her black glasses is their slogan, which screams in large letters: "WE WANT YOU TO SEE MORE." Okay, now you're just being silly. The only thing that makes sense for this ad to say is "TAKE OFF YOUR GLASSES," especially if they're solid black like a wall. Honestly, you just can't make this stuff up.

Only other people like me, who are saddled with Windows 2000NT on their computers at work, can understand what happens now when the time changes for DST twice a year. Of course, the software is advanced enough to change the time automatically, unfortunately, it changes it on the OLD dates when DST used to take effect, not when it is nowadays. Every year, I would just wait it out and let it reset to the right time after three weeks or so when it finally got around to it, and in the meantime, just exist in a semi-time warp where my computer was out of sync with the rest of the world that had either sprung ahead or fallen back at the correct moments. This time around, I admit that I caved in and threw in the towel on the whole idea. I went into Control Panel and manually reset the time zone from Eastern Time to Atlantic Time, so along with Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, I could spring ahead an hour and be at the same time as the rest of the local area. It's true that this is the coward's way out, but after all, I'm just an ordinary person, and everyone knows there's really no such thing as super-heroes. Look, up in the sky! It's a bird! It's a plane! Say, who is that guy in the cape who's resetting the time on my clocks?

Elle