Jingle Bells, Batman Smells

Hello World,

Well, I have to say that the only explanation I can come up with for the continued frigid temperatures in the local region, would be if the bird bath heaters both stopped working, and were frozen solid at the bottom of the bird baths, with forlorn and thirsty birds standing by disconsolately. (Or as Jack Blanchard once famously observed: "Oh, remember me, my darling, when spring is in the air, and those bald-headed birds are whispering everywhere, when you see them walking southward in their dirty underwear, that's Tennessee Bird Walk!") But I hasten to point out that is not the case at all, the bird bath heaters are working fine, and both bird baths are free and clear, and open for business from any neighborhood visitors who care to partake of their watery goodness at any time of day or night. So why the thermometer continues to hover in the twenties around here is nothing but a mystery to me, since it has nothing to gain with the bird bath heaters working, and I would have figured it to get bored by now and move on to some other tactic. Perhaps the weather trolls have run short of boils and pestilence for the moment.

Speaking of weather, Bill and I happened to pick the right day to go out and choose a Christmas tree, because last Saturday was beautiful, while Sunday was a soggy and chilly mess. It was a little more crowded at the VFW lot than when we usually go, but there were still plenty of trees to go around, and lots of help to go right along with it. I always enjoy watching other people walk around and then pick out what I would call a little table-top tree, only about as tall as I am, with a nice small trunk, and a person can just carry it with one hand like an umbrella. I think it must be so cute to have a 5-foot tree, because they must be so easy to handle, decorate, move and take care of, compared to larger trees. Ours are usually twice that size, and more than twice as difficult to deal with, which is probably why people pick out small trees to start with. We've gotten some behemoths at the VFW over the years, that collapsed our roof rack, broke the tree stand, and one that had to be cut apart in the house just so we could get it out the door in January. The one we picked out this time, we thought it had a nice enough shape, although not overly full, and a bit on the short side for our living room. But as often happens, once we put it in the stand and stood it up, we were lucky to have just enough room at the top for the angel to fit without her wings touching the ceiling, so I guess it turned out that it was exactly the right height after all. Bill did his usual heroic job putting lights on it, transforming it into a glittery and twinkling spectacle that is a sight to behold and just as welcome. And let's face it, you can't beat that smell.

Speaking of smells, we get the following story from Bill, where things seem to have changed a lot in the tow truck business since the last time I looked:

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I finally got to my question, which was one of the highlights of my day. He had taken an order for a parking lot sign where they chose a stock wording but wanted to add that cars in violation would be towed away . . .
"At vehicle owner's expense
to
Clark Bros. Garbage
93 No. Main St.
New London, OH 44851
419-929-0771"
I was going to do it that way, considering that perhaps the local refuse collectors doubled in brass (or at least maybe RECYCLING brass, and plastic and what passes for steel these days), but then I thought better of it and decided to ask. He actually laughed -- haven't heard much of THAT since the move. Amazingly enough, it was "Garage". Whooda thunk.
=================================

Bill seemed to think that was Freudian, but personally, I think even good old Sigmund would be wearing his nose clips on that one, by golly. And on the topic of other things that I can't stand the smell of, I contacted a local company about ordering some personalized gifts for the holiday, and the nice young lady asked me about my preference for a background color of the item. I said that red or green would be fine, or even something more neutral like white or gold would be perfectly adequate. In fact, I assured her that I would be happy with just about any color, as long as it wasn't blue, which seems to have somehow become the new Christmas color, since you find it unaccountably turning up nowadays on everything from ornaments to wrapping paper, novelty lights, table settings, decorations, and those atrocious holiday cards that businesses send their customers, and that only a Blue Meanie could love. It's true that I'm usually the one who says there's no wrong way to celebrate a holiday, but I draw the line at blue for Christmas, and if I see one more indigo card with a silver wreath or dove, wishing me season's greetings and prosperity in the new year, you can bet you'll hear me screaming blue murder until I'm blue in the face, and then some. Of course, there are no standards anymore, heaven knows, and even without the blue, holiday colors have gotten very peculiar since the dinosaurs and I first started wrapping gifts of rocks and twigs for our cave-dwelling friends back in the prehistoric days of yore. On every side, you see cards and decorations and paper products with a screaming orange-y color that I would describe as Chinese red, and is no relation to true Santa Claus red, while the green, instead of being bright and festive, is more of a strange lime color that goes with nothing and is about as Christmas-y as guacamole. If it had been like this years ago, they never would have written a seasonal song called The Holly and The Ivy, it would have been known as The Chinese Firecracker and The Guacamole instead. Served in a blue bowl, of course.

Meanwhile on FaceBook, Christmas has arrived in full force, with all of the games offering yule-themed treats for your farm, your apartment, your mob, your garden, your pet, your bar, your amusement park, your restaurant, your neighbors, your zoo, your army, your vampire, your aquarium, your sorority or your Band of Merrie Men, not to mention, your superhero. Holy guacamole, Batman! I see that my virtual zoo is awash with Santa's, elves and snowmen flitting from one exhibit to another, although in a perhaps misguided attempt at accuracy, they didn't animate the snowmen to actually walk like people, or even glide mysteriously over the ground, but instead, execute a sort of awkward "crouch-hop" to propel themselves along, as if this would be a more realistic rendering of your average snowman out cavorting in the open air. I don't know exactly what the game designers had in mind with this maneuver, but my recommendation to them would be not to give up their day jobs.

Also not ready for prime time, Bill recently took a survey about high blood pressure, where they asked the participants to rate their attitude about statements such as "A significant risk factor for other conditions" and "Something I need to be concerned about." Our friends at onesurvey.com helpfully provided the following categories to measure the ratings:

Strongly Agree
Agree
Neutral
Agree
Strongly Agree

Well, it would be hard to disagree with that, so thank you for playing our game, and please step out of the booth! I guess that's what you describe as taking no chances in the survey business, where they are obviously interested in your opinion, as long as you agree with them, that is. It's easy to say that our old friend Freud has shown up with his slip again, but I'm more inclined to think that the Blue Meanies have gotten into the guacamole one more time instead.

Since this is the last weekend before Christmas, no tribute to the big day would be complete without the following holiday tidbit from Bill's online calendar, and I personally defy anyone to improve upon this, try as they might:

~>^..^< ~ >^..^< ~ >^..^< ~ >^..^< ~
SPACED-OUT SPORTSA REAL (BUT STRANGE) SPORTGallivare, Sweden, 60 miles south of the Arctic Circle, is home to the Father Christmas Olympics. Fifty or more contestants dressed as Father Christmas (or Santa Claus, Kris Kringle, St. Nicholas . . .) come from all over Europe to compete in several Santa-related categories, including sled riding, reindeer riding, chimney climbing, and gift wrapping (with points for speed and beauty). Contestants are also rated on generosity, jolliness, and their ability to ho-ho-ho. Any Santa caught smoking or drinking in front of children is automatically disqualified.
~>^..^< ~ >^..^< ~ >^..^< ~ >^..^< ~
I have to say that I'm okay with the smoking and drinking part, and I can wrap a mean package, or ride a sled with the best of them, so this sort of thing might be right up my alley, or rather, chimney. After all, I already have a left-over Mrs. Santa Claus costume from Halloween, just waiting for me to dust it off and take my chances along with Rudolph, to join in any reindeer games. You'll know that's me up in the frozen north, when you hear a jolly ho-ho-ho, and don't spare the guacamole!

Elle

Heat Wave

Hello World,

Normally, this is where I would be apologizing for the recent horrible weather in the local area, with temperatures plunging below freezing, and howling winds making it feel even colder. This is not necessarily exceptional weather for the middle of December in these parts, but it had been so warm for so long that the sudden cold snap has hit us all like a kick in the teeth and just about as unwelcome, I don't mind saying. But at least my conscience is clear, and the frigid conditions cannot be laid at my doorstep, try as they might. Unlike other years when I have forgotten the bird bath heaters until way after they were needed, and our feathered friends were using the bird baths as a skating rink rather than a drinking fountain, this time around, I got the heaters plugged in and set in place well ahead of any freezing temperatures. This came as a surprise not only to me, since my track record in this event has been woeful over the years, but certainly all of the wildlife in our neighborhood, and apparently even the weather gods were stunned beyond all recovery. In fact, usually putting the heaters in the bird baths is all that it takes to usher in weeks of balmy temperatures, so that I have no way of knowing if the heaters are working or not, and this has become such an established fact of the regional climate that people routinely plan their mid-winter picnics around it. So you can imagine that I was not expecting to put in the heaters one day, and then have the temperature plummet 30 degrees overnight, which is basically what happened, so that everything around them froze, and they were still cooking. I don't think that has ever happened in all the years that I've had heaters for the bird baths, and I don't know who's responsible for the screw-up, but I do know that I'm certainly not taking the fall for it this time, by golly.

Speaking of temperatures, I happened to bump into two ladies from Finance in the hallway of my building, and at first I thought they were just standing around and talking, but then I realized that one was trying to help the other with the zipper of her coat, which was apparently stuck with her inside. This was one of those days in our old rattle-trap of a building when the indoor conditions were at a steamy 150 degrees or so, although it was freezing outside, and she would have literally dropped dead if she couldn't get out of her coat pretty darned quick. I thought they had everything under control, until I heard them say they were going to get scissors and cut the zipper to get her out. At that point, I stepped in to see if there was anything I could do, and once I moved her into better light, it was easy enough to unsnarl the offending fabric that was caught in the zipper pull, and after that, it unzipped with ease all the way down. She then turned to her ostensible helper and barked: "You're useless!" and we all laughed. "Well, in fairness," I had to say, "I'm used to breaking into things -- family business, you know." To which the other lady retorted: "Yeah, only this time, you did it without a gun!" Hey, I've got a drivers license picture that makes me look like a dead Mafia hitman, I don't need a gun.

Also at work, our courtyard has a fenced-in area that we laughingly refer to as the "temporary boiler house," since it has been there the better part of a decade already, and no end in sight. In fact, they covered the anchor fence with green vinyl pseudo-shrubbery to make it look more decorative, since it was obviously going to be taking up residence in the courtyard over the long haul, and not temporarily in the sense that term is usually employed. We're all used to it by now, and it has long since lost its power to excite or surprise us, or so we thought. I wasn't expecting to come into the courtyard and find a large sign attached to the fence that said NO PARKING ANY TIME. Inasmuch as the sign is over the sidewalk, in front of a flower bed and across from the steps into our building, without a road anywhere in sight, I'd say that parking in front of the fence would be the least of their problems. Of course, it is a hospital, so they might be alerting people that they are not allowed to park their wheelchairs there, but it certainly made me wonder.

Also making me wonder, I couldn't help but notice in the Wheels Extra section of our local newspaper, their big splashy cover story on the 2010 Mitsubishi Lancer Sportback, with a screaming headline that describes the vehicle as "A spirited compact that can haul more than just people and cargo." Now, anyone can call me a nitpicking linguistic stickler (they'd better not!) but honestly, what else would there be besides people and cargo? I simply can't come up with something that you could put in a car that isn't people, and yet couldn't be described as cargo. Fire? Gamma rays? Gravity? I admit that I'm totally stumped and have no idea what they're trying to convey with this mismatched metaphor, whose time may not have come, and in a perfect world, would never come, if that's the best they can do. If ever something was begging to be sent back to the drawing board and start all over again, this would be it in spades, although nowadays, I despair of the ad designers coming up with any kind of improvement on their own, in fact, it would probably get even worse, I'm thinking.

While we're on the subject of linguistic stickler nitpicking, here's one of my pet peeves directly from an actual food label, and suffering from the new militant anti-punctuation ideology which is so rampant nowadays:

FOR BEST WHEN USED BY INFORMATION
PLEASE SEE DATE PRINTED ON PACKAGE

Now, the dinosaurs and I can remember a time when someone putting that sort of gobbledygook on a label would be laughed out of the package design business altogether, and have to get a job working with their hands, since their brain was obviously not up to the task. Mind you, this is exactly the sort of thing that they now have committees of people to come up with, and this is the best they can do, for heaven's sake. The only way to decode this gibberish is to recognize that "best when used by [date]" is a complete phrase, and needs to be treated as a single thought, and not just thrown to the wolves piecemeal the way it is here, so that each separate word makes the meaning ever less and less comprehensible as it goes along. Back in those halcyon days of yore, when the dinosaurs and I roamed the vast unformed land masses, and the Syntax Police kept us all on the straight and narrow, this sort of sloppy construction would never have been tolerated, it would have been rooted out and demolished as it so richly deserves. Even in recent times, a simple solution would be to set the phrase apart with quotation marks, which would have at least rescued the meaning from oblivion, if nothing else, but with the current craze of anti-punctuationism, even that avenue has been closed to us, alas. The dinosaurs would say that an even better solution would be for labels like this to have been tossed into the tar pits instead of them, and I can't say that I blame them one bit.

Also on the topic of food, we have Bill to thank for the following from a neighborhood delicatessen:

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In other news, a couple of Battaglia Brothers' own Daily Specials were too good not to pass along (they're still valiantly faxing their menus on a daily basis.) Today for your culinary enjoyment you can order:
Chicken cautlts parm. . .
Pasta w spinace
Raastedchicken
potatoeroquet
chicken salada
string bean salada
minestroniso
stuffit mushrooms
[and my personal favorite]
Rise Pudding
Hope I didn't make you hungry!
===========================

Hmmm, it sounds like it's back to the drawing board on that as well, and we can't even blame it on Mitsubishi, try as we might. And just when you think that things can't possibly get any more ridiculous in food, along comes this story from the AOL Welcome Screen:

=======================================
Marshmallow Madness - Peeps to Open First Store

Peeps aren't just for Easter anymore; starting Thursday they'll have their own store. The incandescent yellow marshmallow candy that was first introduced in the 1950s has opened its first retail shop, located near Washington D.C. at the National Harbor.

The store, which beckons Peeps fans from outside with bright yellow awnings and chick-shaped door handles, sells more than just candy creations. Visitors will find approximately 850 Peeps-themed items ranging from oversized plush toys shaped like the candy, to more refined items—like one-of-a-kind Peeps-themed artwork and china made by the 130-year-old tableware maker, Lenox. And, of course, there will be candy. Each of the candies made by the Bethlehem, Pa. based company Just Born—including Peeps, Hot Tamales, Mike and Ike and Peanut Chews—will have their own designated sections in the permanent store. The store will also feature seasonal candies, like the Valentine candy hearts and candy Christmas trees. To the more than 100,000 people belonging to the official Peeps fan club and the thousands of others who cherish the candy, the store could become more than just a place to stock up on sweets. ===================================

I'll admit that I'm no fan of the sweet treats, but for their legions of admirers, or Peep-sters, as I guess we would call them, this would be the marshmallow mecca of their dreams. Of course at our house, we file this kind of story under the category of "This Is Why The Terrorists Hate Us," and with good reason. It also serves as one more indication, if any were needed, that this is indeed the end of the world as we know it, and a very sorry state of the world it is, too. On the other hand, everyone knows that Peeps are indestructible, so they will still be here long after all the rest of us are gone, and the joke will be on us when the dinosaurs have the last laugh after all. Or I guess at that point, we would have to call them Peep-osaurs instead.

Meanwhile on the local scene, alert readers might remember that our music director at church retired at the end of last year, and all attempts to replace the position have so far been unsuccessful, so people might be wondering what is to become of Lessons & Carols, that beloved holiday tradition of lore and legend? We've been lucky to find a fill-in organist who has been with us for several weeks, and he has agreed to help us put on a scaled-down version of the annual event, with the congregation singing most of the hymns, plus a few special pieces thrown in from professional musician soloists, or congregation members teaming up on favorite duets. Without an actual choir, some things will simply have to be scrapped from the program, such as the final anthem we would do right at the end, and was usually some complicated choral piece from centuries ago that would resist all of our efforts to come together as a cohesive whole, no matter how much time and effort we threw at the thing, it was simply beyond our abilities. So for what it's worth, this will be the first time in recent memory that we will not be torturing some composer's great work, like For Unto Us A Child Is Born, and the poor beleaguered spirit of Georg Friedrich Handel can be happy and rest in peace for a change. As a matter of fact, there is a growing suspicion among the congregation that it must have been the unquiet ghost of Handel that enticed our music director into retirement in the first place, if only for the sake of preserving his own sanity. It must be said that this theory has a certain perverse logic to it which can't be ignored, but as for myself, well, you won't hear a peep out of me.

Elle

The Hit Parade

Hello World,

Happy December! And not to be an alarmist or anything, but anyone who isn't prepared for the upcoming holiday gift-giving events had better start getting serious about it, and pretty darned quick, because time's a-wasting and it will be too late before you know it. While people may complain about Christmas, and often with good reason, heaven knows, one good thing you can say about it, unlike other holidays, at least it stays put and you can find it right where you left it last year, on December 25 and no buts about it. The same cannot be said for Hanukkah, which tends to scurry around the calendar like a Mafia hitman with the FBI on its trail, and this year crops up on December 11, which is basically right around the corner and maybe just a little too close for comfort. So for everyone who is not ready yet to throw open their doors and welcome the Mafia hitman, or rather the Festival of Lights next week, please consider this your FBI wiretap, I mean, wake-up call.

Speaking of movable feasts, the champion of the genre is Thanksgiving, which is always celebrated on the same day of the week, but the date changes every year from very early to very late, so it seems that it's much more erratic than it really is. This year was a new one for us, so we had to scout around for an alternate plan for the holiday, and not rely on the same old storied traditions of yesteryear. After much brainstorming (and don't forget at this point, our brains look like the trunk of a car after the Mafia hitman has completed his mission, so this was no easy task) we finally settled on a plan to meet at my sister's log cabin in New Paltz for a festive meal with all the trimmings. Considering that we all invited ourselves over there, and then basically stuck her with all the cooking, she was a remarkably good sport about it, and was ready to welcome us with open arms, and tables groaning with food, for a traditional Thanksgiving feast with some contemporary twists to make it more interesting. Not so fast! My other sister needed to come from Long Island on the bus, and the holiday schedule was so contrary to our plan, that it would have seemed impossible to be a coincidence, although why the bus company would want to sabotage our holiday is beyond me, I'm sure. Then some of our other relatives already had a previous commitment for that Thursday, so it was on to Plan B, which was the same as the original idea, but on the day after Thanksgiving instead of Thanksgiving itself. Ah! Suddenly everything started to fall into place, as if by magic. Not being a holiday, the bus schedule arranged itself into perfect alignment, so my sister could get from Long Island and back with no trouble. Our busy relatives were free on Friday and eager to join us, and Bill and I were both off from work, so the revised plan solved all of the problems that had been the bane of our first attempt. Black Friday may be better known as a marathon shopping extravaganza, but for us, it was nothing but Pilgrims, pumpkins and sweet potatoes as far as the eye could see, and plenty of it.

So Friday morning found us going over the river and through the woods, and I mean that literally, if not necessarily flying over the ground like a hunting hound, which is in another verse of that same holiday song. We steered clear of the popular shopping sites along the highway, and found the traffic was negligible, making it to our destination without the usual holiday crowds and chaos slowing us down. Our hosts greeted us wandering Pilgrims in the time-honored tradition, with hot cider and chocolate turkeys (well, that may only be a time-honored tradition in our family) as well as a veritable cornucopia of seasonal treats such as mixed nuts and fresh fruits. When everyone had arrived, we tucked into the repast in earnest, and there was no lack of traditional favorites around Tom Turkey, including two different kinds of stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, corn, onions, spinach, carrots, cranberry sauce, dinner rolls and even a little bit of ravioli tossed in for good measure. Everything was delicious, and we all had our fill, and then some, believe me. I'm sure if there had been a stack of Bibles nearby, we all would have taken an oath and sworn that we would never eat again in our entire lives, after being stuffed to the gills like a holiday pinata and no room left for a single extra morsel, and yet it wasn't long after that we were all lined up again with our forks at the ready, this time for dessert, and a hungry gleam in our eye like we hadn't eaten in a week. Our dessert options were many and varied, and included two kinds of pie, cookies, mini pastries, brownies, ice cream, and of course, chocolate turkeys. When it was time to leave, I thought they would have to call in some neighbors to help roll us out to the car, but fortunately it was downhill, and we were able to use the force of gravity to roll down there by ourselves.

We stayed overnight at the Days Inn in Newburgh, where we had stayed before and enjoyed it, this time taking a more spacious room with a view of scenic Lake Washington, which never fails to delight. In the morning, we all gathered at the famous Johnny D's Diner, which admittedly was not as good as home-made breakfast at my sister's, but at least no one had to do the dishes. From there, we headed over to the new and impressive headquarters of Orange County Choppers, featured on the TLC network show "American Chopper," and about as locally famous as they come. The spacious and shiny new building was chock-a-block with special edition motorcycles, as well as clothing, toys, jewelry, games, books, mugs, auto supplies, helmets and enough leather and chains to make any Mafia hitman green with envy. It was more interesting than we would have expected, and people came from far and near, obviously tourists like us, because they were taking pictures of everything. (Of course, I already know better than to take pictures when there are Mafia hitmen around, so I wasn't one of them.) There was even a small stage with drums and microphones and amplifiers for music performances, and in fact, you can go right ahead and buy the Orange County Choppers Band CD right in the store while you're there. If the Mafia was in the music business, this is what we could call a hit, man.

From there, we hit the road to do some sightseeing in historic Newburgh, although the Saturday after Thanksgiving was apparently considered a holiday by some, and we found to our dismay that the eagerly anticipated manuscript museum was closed, so we turned back disappointed. But we continued on down the brick-paved main street to the waterfront along the majestic Hudson River, and the view was well worth the trip. There is a scenic overlook, nicely decorated with benches and flowers, just begging for people to stop and take pictures, and we were happy to oblige. They also provide those old-fashioned swivel binoculars that you used to find at boardwalks or observation decks, but we proclaimed these even better, because they were free, instead of having to pay a nickel for a fleeting glimpse of the view across the river. There are many historic buildings and quaint houses in this part of Newburgh, and we drove through the neighborhood enjoying the sights on every side. They built a new library, and turned the charming old library into a Visitors Center, but here again, this was their idea of a long holiday weekend, and the place was closed up tight. So we headed for something that they can't close, that is Downing Park, and which has no fences, so there isn't any way to keep it off-limits to the public, whether it be John Q. himself, or wandering Pilgrims like us, or even Mafia hitmen, for that matter. It's named after Newburgh's own Andrew J. Downing, a famous author, editor, architect and horticulturist who is said to have inspired America's park system, and the park itself was designed by Colvett Vaux and Frederick Law Olmsted, who also created New York City's Central Park. This is an old-fashioned park worthy of the name, with a duck pond and trees and an open-air pergola, but nothing to entice the modern-day park patron such as playgrounds, basketball courts, baseball fields, picnic tables, band shell, snack bar, pool, roller rink or other amusements. I'm thinking it also wouldn't lend itself to yard games like bocce or croquet, being perched on a rugged height above the city, where the view is spectacular, but you'd be fishing those balls out of the river all day long, by golly.

After a busy time of taking in the sights, it was starting to get late in the day, so we bid a fond farewell to our hosts, and went our separate ways. We had been to the Newburgh Mall on our previous trip to the area, and this time, we stopped at the Newburgh Plaza to see what they had to offer. Of course, we couldn't leave Newburgh without stopping to eat at Denny's, which is a treat of our traveling that never grows old. Our next stop was dropping my sister back at the bus station, and once again, the traffic was no problem at all, which makes a difference when you have a bus to catch. At that point, we were only about 30 minutes from home, and already had a supply of sandwiches and salads for a late snack, so it was smooth sailing from then on. All in all, for our first experimental Thanksgiving on Black Friday, we thought the whole experience was pretty successful, providing all the seasonal cheer that we could want, while avoiding many of the pitfalls of the holiday itself. We're thinking of trying the same approach with Christmas, although turning the old ho-ho-ho into a movable feast might be a bit more problematical. After all, we don't want to make Santa Claus have to chase after us like a Mafia hitman in order to deliver our presents on the right day.

Elle

Paper Doll

Hello World,

Happy Thanksgiving! Of course, this is the time of year to be accommodating to any and all loose and wandering pilgrims that might cross your path, orphans cast adrift on the treacherous shoals of holiday hoopla, with nowhere to go and no one to go there with, in search of a warm welcome and all the trimmings. On the other hand, it's true that not everybody buys into the whole holiday hoopla idea, and might prefer warm sunny beaches over Tom Turkey, and no amount of cranberry sauce is going to entice them to your table, with all of your warm welcome falling on deaf ears. In spite of the Holiday Police, I still maintain that there is no wrong way to celebrate Thanksgiving, so whether you go the Norman Rockwell route, or march to the beat of a different drumstick, I hope you make the most of it and enjoy it to the very last drop, like whipped cream straight out of the can, not that I would know anything about that, you understand.

Unfortunately, it wasn't a happy Thanksgiving for everyone, especially in the local area, where they canceled the annual parade right out from under everybody, and just about at the last minute besides, thanks not. The parade is a time-honored tradition going back generations, featuring floats and fire engines, school bands and scout troops, real clowns and politicians who only act like clowns, baton twirlers, Masons, mounted Police, stilt walkers, veterans, bagpipe bands, jugglers, and the jolly old elf himself, Santa Claus in his sleigh ushering in the official start of the Christmas season. They usually have it the Saturday before Thanksgiving, so it's easy for families to attend, since it's not on the holiday itself, when they would have other things to do at the time. It's always very popular, except perhaps with anyone trying to drive across town in the morning, when the roads are closed for the parade, and all you can do is wait it out until it's over. This year, they announced that it would be on Wednesday night at 6:30 PM, and right from the start, I thought that Thanksgiving eve would be a bad time for a parade, not only pitch black and probably cold, but like people wouldn't already have a million other things they needed to be doing to get ready the night before the holiday. Apparently I wasn't the only person who didn't rally around this new and unimproved parade idea, because shortly after that, there was a press release from the Chamber of Commerce to the effect that the parade was canceled due to a lack of participants and sponsors signing up for it. So just like Christopher Columbus and Armistice Day before it, here goes the fabled New Rochelle Thanksgiving Parade tossed unceremoniously on the trash heap of history, and more's the pity, I'm sure. Now, I ask you, how is anyone going to know that Christmas is coming, without the Santa Claus float to kick off the holiday season in style?

Of course, everyone knows that for the new kid on the FaceBook block, I've certainly shot to the top of the charts in terms of games and other frivolous applications. I already have three farms, two zoos, a garden, a restaurant, an amusement park, an apartment, a fish pond, a bar and a virtual pet, as well as being in two mobs. I'm at the point now where if I start anything else, I will have to quit my job, and it's only a lucky thing that I have come to realize that sleep is over-rated. Some of the games, like Mafia Wars, can be very competitive and being played online by serious gamers all over the world, while others like Sorority Life are simply enjoyed just for the fun of it. Or so I thought! When I was having a problem re-arranging my virtual pet's furniture in Pet Society, I checked out some fan forums for help, and I was astounded at the comments that I found posted. There were literally hundreds of entries, from every corner of the globe, desperately seeking "cheat codes" for accumulating vast quantities of play coins in Pet Society, and illicit ways to climb up through the different levels much faster than it would be possible under the normal rules of the game. Mind you, Pet Society is not structured to be a highly competitive game like Mafia Wars, it's more a virtual community where you go and play with your pet, visit other pets that you know there, and trick out your little friend with the latest duds, decor and gadgets, or whatever you can afford with the play coins that you have at the time. It would never occur to me that people would try to cheat at this, but apparently there are those, and plenty of them, who are so obsessed with acquiring every single thing that the game has to offer, that they've gotten completely out of control over it. I said to Bill that this would be like trying to cheat at Barbie dolls, because this is more like playing around in a virtual Dream Home or a sand box, than fighting your way to the top of a game where you actually win anything. Actually, that was closer to the mark than I thought, as I realized when I saw the new issue of PC World magazine, and The Name Game quiz that challenged readers to Match The Code Name To The Final Product for technology gadgets like the Wii (Revolution) and Segway (Ginger) among others, Sure enough, one of the products was The Sims, the original cyber community for people to create virtual characters and interact with other users online, where work and play and romance and commerce could flourish in idyllic splendor, or instead turn toxic and acrimonious just like real life. The developers of The Sims knew what they were doing when they came up with the original code name for the product: "Dollhouse Simulator." Ya gotta love it.

Meanwhile at work, I needed to contact one of our vendors about an order for a personalized stamp that we had ordered a few weeks ago, but never received. This happens to be a very small local company run by a nice family that we have done business with for many years, and when I called, they said I needed to speak with Joann, who would be able to tell me when we could expect the stamp to be delivered. Unfortunately, she wasn't there on Monday, so I said I would call back on Tuesday and left it at that. I called again on Tuesday morning, a little after 9:00, only to find that she wasn't in yet, so once again, I said I would call back later. I waited until 10:30 to call back again, and I admit that I was somewhat taken aback when the same nice gentleman told me that she still wasn't in yet. "Of course, she's my wife, so I can't yell at her," he explained. "You could yell at her, but I can't. In fact, I'd throw the stamp in for free, if you yell at my wife." I laughed.

Also at work, everyone realizes that I've been working at the employer of last resort for 20 years now, and in the Purchasing department the whole time, so it should come as a surprise to no one that the hospital apparently has opened up a new nursing unit entirely behind my back and without Purchasing having the slightest awareness of what was going on, which you would think would be impossible, but obviously not. In fact, if a co-worker who spotted it on the 3rd floor hadn't mentioned it to me, I might never have found out about it at all. Usually, they open new units with a bit more fanfare, inviting local dignitaries to the ribbon cutting ceremonies, and having their pictures in the newspaper. One thing that never seems to change is that the hospital administration, in its infinite wisdom, somehow manages to come up with the world's most horrible name for any new treatment area, so that you just want to crawl under a rock when they announce it. We have a specialized oncology unit, using up-to-the-minute technology and a multi-disciplinary approach, to help patients and their families with serious illness, which they have saddled with the funereal name of The Cancer Center, and thanks so very much not. Then there's the state-of-the-art and multi-modality facility for women's health issues, with the unseemly title of The Breast Center, and which we all call The Boob Center, after the boobs who dreamed that up. So when I heard that we had a new bariatric orthopedic area, for specialized joint surgery on obese patients, I couldn't help but feel that it would no doubt be christened The Fat Cripple Unit, or FCU for short. When I shared this observation with a colleague, he laughed so hard that I thought he was going to break something, and he's been working there twice as long as I have, so he's no stranger to these decisions of last resort, by golly.

Speaking of bad names, I admit that I have no explanation for the following. I don't know if it's because the weather has continued to be so mild so late in the year or what, but I've heard of more people getting kittens lately than I would have expected at this time. Even our friends upstate picked up a pair from the shelter, Pumpkin and Zoe, long after I would have assumed that kitten season had been well and truly over after the summer, but apparently not. One happy family brought home a brand new kitten and were so excited that they had to tell me all about it, and I was trying to be polite, so I asked what color it was, and found out that it was solid black all over. That prompted me to ask what they named the kitten, since that shade would easily inspire a countless variety of clever names, besides the ordinary tried-and-true ideas. I admit that I was not prepared for their answer, which was unaccountably: "Tabby." (???) Excuse me??? I realize there are no standards anymore, heaven knows, but I think it should be against some sort of International Naming Convention to give a black cat an incomprehensible name like Tabby, of all things. It's true that I was expecting an unimaginative name like Blackie, instead of something more adventurous like Pepper or Shadow or even Charcoal, but nothing would have prepared me for Tabby in a million years. I said that when we had two black cats, one was called Smokey and the other Captain Midnight, and they thought they were both great names, but added that their other choice had been Tigger, which somehow manages to make even less sense than Tabby, if that's possible. At that point, I gave it up as a lost cause, and wished them well with their solid black Tabby, figuring at least they didn't come up with an even worse name, like Snowflake or Spot. After all, you may be able to get away with that in the real world, but by golly, if you tried something like that in Pet Society, believe me, you'd get thrown right out of the dollhouse.

Elle