Sick Bay

Hello World, By golly, who would believe that we’re more than halfway past the middle of January already, I ask you that. Not to speak out of turn, but I actually know people (who shall remain nameless, but admittedly look very familiar) whose Christmas lights, tree, and assorted decorations are still up, and I don’t mind saying, lending a holly jolly air to the month, which would otherwise be sorely lacking. Heaven knows, January already has little enough to recommend it - especially now that they’ve moved the Super Bowl to February – and having a bit of left-over yuletide cheer can’t help but improve the general gloominess, I dare say. On the other hand, I recently discovered that the first month is, in fact, National Soup Month, which seems appropriate in terms of the weather, but certainly doesn’t raise the rafters with fireworks, parades, and parties, that’s for sure. Garcon, more tomato bisque, if you please, and don’t spare the pesto, my good man! Speaking of soup weather, the conditions around here have been so contrary lately that you’re afraid to watch the meteorologists on TV, because whatever they tell you would only make you want to huddle in bed with the covers pulled up over your head, and just stay there for the duration. (“No soup for you!”) It hasn’t been a large amount of snow, so far, but everything else that Old Man Winter can throw at us has been more than enough already, thanks not. A couple of weeks ago, when Winter Storm Grayson was doing his worst with record-breaking snow, freezing cold, and bitter winds, Bill checked the weather in our little corner of the world, as well as on Long Island, and also upstate New York, to see how our far-flung friends and relatives might be faring under the circumstances. While the temperature here was in the frigid single-digits (and don’t think that we didn’t complain, because we did – loud and long – to no avail, I might add) he noticed that upstate in Latham it was an appalling -10, and once again, thanks ever so much not. At that point, it was only about a week before we were planning to take our annual trip to The Great White North for the MLK weekend, and my first thought was to call on our host to prevail upon the local power company and get them to turn up the heat in the region, so that we didn’t drive all the way up there, only to have my poor car die in their driveway from the deadly deep freeze, alas. I won’t say that the Screamin’ Red Demon is trying to convince me that it makes no sense to drive 150 miles north in the dead of winter, but I do keep finding vacation brochures about Florida on the front seat – and which could easily be nothing more than a coincidence, rather than editorial comment, after all. In any event, it turned out that the joke was on us, because just as we were getting ourselves all packed up and ready to depart on our usual post-holiday mini Christmas with our friends around Albany, we suddenly got some very bad news. Apparently in the midst of all of the galloping cruds that are going around nowadays, our friends unfortunately caught the flu (even after dutifully getting their flu shots already) and had to reluctantly cancel our weekend get-together while they were flat on their backs and had generally lost all will to live. This was a low blow indeed, since we’ve been doing this every year for many decades by now, and look forward to it as one of the real highlights for us, not just in the long and dreary winter, but the whole year through. This disappointing obstacle tossed numerous monkey wrenches into many of our plans, including souvenir shopping, belated Christmas stockings for their cats, show-&-tell, classic holiday DVDs, and not to mention, more fun and games than your average elf could shake the proverbial peppermint stick at, by jingle. { sigh } Luckily, we already have plans to meet up in March for a concert (bad weather and good health permitting) so that will have to do for cat stockings, show-&-tell, souvenir shopping, and all of the assorted left-over hoopla that didn't happen in January. "Holiday Inn," anyone? Also on the topic of holiday left-overs, one thing I always looked forward to during the Christmas season was snacking on candy canes while wrapping packages and listening to those timeless seasonal records of yesteryear, with Bing Crosby, Andy Williams, and the Vienna Boys Choir joyfully decking those halls, walking in a winter wonderland, and getting all those partridges in pear trees, for some reason. Alas, times change (and not always for the better, I can tell you that) and nowadays, us old and crotchety wheezers don't exchange voluminous stacks of meticulously wrapped presents like we used to back in the old days (instead, it's "Here's a fancy bag that I bought at the supermarket, that already came with matching tissue paper, a snazzy bow, and a gift card - merry Christmas!") so that beloved ritual from those halcyon days of yore has fallen by the wayside, and more's the pity, I'm sure. But in an effort to bring a little extra yuletide cheer into our lives, Bill had thoughtfully brought home a package of mini candy canes that we could enjoy, to sweeten up our otherwise mundane activities, like vacuuming, paying bills, washing dishes, or cleaning litter boxes. (That last one of which, it can't be emphasized too strongly, can certainly use all the sweetening that's possible, by golly.) Anyway, it brought back to me, in vivid fashion, what always irritated me about candy canes to start with, and that is for whatever inexplicable reason, their impenetrable wrapping that makes it impossible to get into, except for the most stubborn and resourceful challengers to the task. I have no idea why they insist on bundling them up these days, like they’re securing the nuclear launch codes or something, and thwarting the very customers that you think they would want to attract. I already know it's not to protect the integrity of the ingredients, heaven knows, because anyone can tell you, if they've (perhaps inadvertently) left candy canes in an area accessible to household varmints, or a wide array of local wildlife, that absolutely nothing will touch them, and they will simply languish there in perfectly pristine condition indefinitely, without the slightest disturbance, and I ought to know. So it's obvious that they're not really food, and a clamoring public surely doesn't need to be protected from their supposed hazards, like a toxic spill of Agent Orange or a sack of poisonous spiders. Heck, I would think that we all have enough to worry about as it is, with the galloping cruds assaulting us on every side, without adding to that by fretting over whether mini candy canes can make us sick. Personally, I say "Free The Canes!" and wrap up the nuclear launch codes with the fruitcake instead, where it will no doubt remain hermetically sealed in perpetuity, or perhaps even longer. (Oh, hit that easy target!) Elle