Over the past couple weeks, several people have asked what kind of gas mileage I get with the new car. The answer is "it depends".
Dorian is rated for 31 mpg on the highway. In the first leg of the trip, burning the MTBE-laden fuel we have here in the metromess, he got about 29 mpg. Throughout the rest of the trip, the fuel economy was between 31 and 32 mpg.
Seems to me that any benefit that the extremely toxic MTBE might have in decreasing emissions would be lost because we're burning more fuel. But hey, what do I know? It's only math.
31 December, 2006
Home again, home again
Jiggity-jig.
Three travel days, three days at my folks', three days at my in-laws'. 1845 miles under Dorian's belted radials, and at least five more pounds over my belt than when we left our driveway.
We had a nice trip again this year. At Mom and Dad's, it was lots of hugs and kisses from the godkids. I just can't believe how big they're getting. Godgirl is five going on eighteen; Godboy is two and... well, he'll probably be less unhappy next year, when he's three. Both are so adorable that it makes my teeth hurt. Along the way, there was some adult conversation, a couple TV football games, and a touch of some kind of stomach bug.
Also, the beginnings of another round of holiday package tag with UPS. You see, Turtle and I ordered a couple laptops for ourselves, and Dell decided to ship them a full six days before they were supposed to. To our house. Where we weren't.
I jumped on the UPS web site, called customer service, and was told that there was nothing they could do until the first failed delivery. Once the first attempt failed, I should call the local depot to make different arrangements.
"Oh. Okay. Can you give me the number for the depot?" I asked.
"No, we don't have that information."
"But I know from past experience that the local depots' numbers are unlisted precisely to prevent customers from calling there," I said. "How am I supposed to call them if I can't get the number?"
"I don't have that information," he repeated. "You'll have to call the depot for that number."
Blink. If that's the sort of Möbius thinking that drives UPS shipping logistics, it's no wonder I have such a hard time connecting with my packages. There ended up being a lot of tail chasing over the next few days, but Turtle hit on the idea to call our pet sitter. She gave us the prized InfoNotice number from the dreaded sticky note stuck to our front door 700+ miles away, and we were able to use that number to re-route our computers to my work address. There they'll sit until 2007.
Where was I? Oh yeah... from my folks' place, we headed over to Turtle's mom and dad's. We're not used to the constant buzz of activity that surrounds small children, so we were really looking forward to the quieter environs. Of course, we forgot how loud the Turtle parents' house can be when the relatives are all together. But aside from that one afternoon, it was much calmer and quite relaxing. We had a wonderful visit with my in-laws and even found time to have a nice lunch with a couple of Turtle's friends from her old job.
Dad (as I've become comfortable enough to call him) and I made our rapidly-becoming-traditional trip to the liquor store to pick up my 2007 bottle of Jack Daniel's Old No. 7. Around these parts, all we have are wine and beer sales, so I don't get in to real liquor stores very often. It's kind of fascinating to me to walk the aisles and marvel at all the fancy bottles and types of liquids fermented and distilled.
Somewhere along the line, it occurred to us to wonder: if both the green label and black label varieties of Jack Daniel's are now 80 proof (black label used to be 90 proof), then what's the difference? We asked one of the employees, and the answer was "none". Apparently, the same liquor is sold under both green and black labels because black label devotees such as myself have a traditional bias against the green label and wouldn't buy it.
Marketing. Gotta love it.
We got home last evening, and as usual the cats won't let us out of their sight today. We made some tentative plans to spend this evening with friends, but after being on the road for the past nine days, I'll be quite happy to just stay at home if the opportunity presents itself. In case I'm not awake at midnight, HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Three travel days, three days at my folks', three days at my in-laws'. 1845 miles under Dorian's belted radials, and at least five more pounds over my belt than when we left our driveway.
We had a nice trip again this year. At Mom and Dad's, it was lots of hugs and kisses from the godkids. I just can't believe how big they're getting. Godgirl is five going on eighteen; Godboy is two and... well, he'll probably be less unhappy next year, when he's three. Both are so adorable that it makes my teeth hurt. Along the way, there was some adult conversation, a couple TV football games, and a touch of some kind of stomach bug.
Also, the beginnings of another round of holiday package tag with UPS. You see, Turtle and I ordered a couple laptops for ourselves, and Dell decided to ship them a full six days before they were supposed to. To our house. Where we weren't.
I jumped on the UPS web site, called customer service, and was told that there was nothing they could do until the first failed delivery. Once the first attempt failed, I should call the local depot to make different arrangements.
"Oh. Okay. Can you give me the number for the depot?" I asked.
"No, we don't have that information."
"But I know from past experience that the local depots' numbers are unlisted precisely to prevent customers from calling there," I said. "How am I supposed to call them if I can't get the number?"
"I don't have that information," he repeated. "You'll have to call the depot for that number."
Blink. If that's the sort of Möbius thinking that drives UPS shipping logistics, it's no wonder I have such a hard time connecting with my packages. There ended up being a lot of tail chasing over the next few days, but Turtle hit on the idea to call our pet sitter. She gave us the prized InfoNotice number from the dreaded sticky note stuck to our front door 700+ miles away, and we were able to use that number to re-route our computers to my work address. There they'll sit until 2007.
Where was I? Oh yeah... from my folks' place, we headed over to Turtle's mom and dad's. We're not used to the constant buzz of activity that surrounds small children, so we were really looking forward to the quieter environs. Of course, we forgot how loud the Turtle parents' house can be when the relatives are all together. But aside from that one afternoon, it was much calmer and quite relaxing. We had a wonderful visit with my in-laws and even found time to have a nice lunch with a couple of Turtle's friends from her old job.
Dad (as I've become comfortable enough to call him) and I made our rapidly-becoming-traditional trip to the liquor store to pick up my 2007 bottle of Jack Daniel's Old No. 7. Around these parts, all we have are wine and beer sales, so I don't get in to real liquor stores very often. It's kind of fascinating to me to walk the aisles and marvel at all the fancy bottles and types of liquids fermented and distilled.
Somewhere along the line, it occurred to us to wonder: if both the green label and black label varieties of Jack Daniel's are now 80 proof (black label used to be 90 proof), then what's the difference? We asked one of the employees, and the answer was "none". Apparently, the same liquor is sold under both green and black labels because black label devotees such as myself have a traditional bias against the green label and wouldn't buy it.
Marketing. Gotta love it.
We got home last evening, and as usual the cats won't let us out of their sight today. We made some tentative plans to spend this evening with friends, but after being on the road for the past nine days, I'll be quite happy to just stay at home if the opportunity presents itself. In case I'm not awake at midnight, HAPPY NEW YEAR!
21 December, 2006
DON'T. PANIC.
Turtle and I are "fixin' ta" head out on our holiday trip bright dark and early tomorrow morning and won't be back until the day before the ball drops. Dad joined the 21st century earlier this year and now has broadband internet, so I may have a chance to check in before we get home. Or I may not.
With all the distractions—such as my two godhatchlings, my ex-high school crush (who wants to talk to Turtle about her business), Turtle's ex-hair stylist, and my in-laws' bottle of Old No. 7—who can say?
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a complete lack of fruitcake.
With all the distractions—such as my two godhatchlings, my ex-high school crush (who wants to talk to Turtle about her business), Turtle's ex-hair stylist, and my in-laws' bottle of Old No. 7—who can say?
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a complete lack of fruitcake.
20 December, 2006
A mare-brained theory
Ever since The Da Vinci Code hit the big screen, The Discovery Channel and The History Channel have been running documentaries purporting to debunk the life of Christ. For years, they've been running UFO programs so chock-full of nuts that they should be sponsored by Snickers, Planters, and Aunt Myrtle's fruitcake.
On occasion, I stumble upon one of these while flipping channels and watch for a while, like a rubbernecking commuter who spots an overturned pickup truck on his way to work—but not recently. Which is why I was a little surprised by the strange burgoo that my subconscious was cooking up when the alarm went off at 5:20 this morning.
The Christmas-themed outlandishness went something like this: Mary, mother of Jesus, remained a virgin not because of anything to do with divinity or miracles but because she didn't give birth to Jesus at all. The whole thing was a bit of legerdemain on the part of benevolent space aliens who implanted baby Jesus in the womb of a mare.*
When Mary and Joseph made the trek to Bethlehem, it was this same mare who carried Mary on her back and Jesus in her belly. Then, once they were all settled away in the manger, the mare gave birth. Mary took all the credit and the presents.
Speaking of presents, it turns out that the star followed by the three magi wasn't actually a star at all. It wasn't even a comet. It was the alien mother ship, decloaked and running with all its exterior lights on, that guided the wise men to Bethlehem.
The views and opinions expressed in this dream do not necessarily state or reflect those of the author.
The holiday trip can't come soon enough. I obviously need some rest.
* The equine in question being a horse, not a donkey. It seems that my dream generator's capacity for blasphemy has its limits.
On occasion, I stumble upon one of these while flipping channels and watch for a while, like a rubbernecking commuter who spots an overturned pickup truck on his way to work—but not recently. Which is why I was a little surprised by the strange burgoo that my subconscious was cooking up when the alarm went off at 5:20 this morning.
The Christmas-themed outlandishness went something like this: Mary, mother of Jesus, remained a virgin not because of anything to do with divinity or miracles but because she didn't give birth to Jesus at all. The whole thing was a bit of legerdemain on the part of benevolent space aliens who implanted baby Jesus in the womb of a mare.*
When Mary and Joseph made the trek to Bethlehem, it was this same mare who carried Mary on her back and Jesus in her belly. Then, once they were all settled away in the manger, the mare gave birth. Mary took all the credit and the presents.
Speaking of presents, it turns out that the star followed by the three magi wasn't actually a star at all. It wasn't even a comet. It was the alien mother ship, decloaked and running with all its exterior lights on, that guided the wise men to Bethlehem.
The views and opinions expressed in this dream do not necessarily state or reflect those of the author.
The holiday trip can't come soon enough. I obviously need some rest.
* The equine in question being a horse, not a donkey. It seems that my dream generator's capacity for blasphemy has its limits.
19 December, 2006
Pitch Black
Okay, not really—but with it being overcast and gloomy outside and the lights periodically going out in here, the lumens are a bit scarce. You see, between the Great Purge of '06 and the impending holidays, the cubicle farm in which I sit and craft my tight, elegant code is a ghost town. Even the tumbleweeds seem to have packed up and moved on to greener pastures.
Therein lies the crux of the apostrophe, because the fluorescent light bars are on an electrical circuit controlled by a timer and a motion detector. If nothing within its cold, uncaring gaze moves for 10 minutes or so, "Boom, Boom! Out Go The Lights!" This pleases my taskmasters, because it not only means that I'm head-down, being productive instead of getting up for a cup of coffee or a trip to the men's, but it also saves electricity.
So far today, the lights have gone out half a dozen times or so, and it's making two of the three remaining cubicle farmers a bit goofy around the edges (the third is a dour chap who, frankly, doesn't see the humor in much of anything).
The last time it happened, I heard a snort and a chuckle, then "Lights out... uh-huh... blast, blast, blast."
Peter Wolf, "Lights Out". Nicely played.
I jumped up out of my chair and gesticulated to catch the attention of the motion detector and turn on the lights.
"Tha-row ya hands in tha air, and wave 'em like you just don't care!"
And there was light—but also dead silence. I guess adding that last "WHOOP! WHOOP!" was just a bit too much.
Therein lies the crux of the apostrophe, because the fluorescent light bars are on an electrical circuit controlled by a timer and a motion detector. If nothing within its cold, uncaring gaze moves for 10 minutes or so, "Boom, Boom! Out Go The Lights!" This pleases my taskmasters, because it not only means that I'm head-down, being productive instead of getting up for a cup of coffee or a trip to the men's, but it also saves electricity.
So far today, the lights have gone out half a dozen times or so, and it's making two of the three remaining cubicle farmers a bit goofy around the edges (the third is a dour chap who, frankly, doesn't see the humor in much of anything).
The last time it happened, I heard a snort and a chuckle, then "Lights out... uh-huh... blast, blast, blast."
Peter Wolf, "Lights Out". Nicely played.
I jumped up out of my chair and gesticulated to catch the attention of the motion detector and turn on the lights.
"Tha-row ya hands in tha air, and wave 'em like you just don't care!"
And there was light—but also dead silence. I guess adding that last "WHOOP! WHOOP!" was just a bit too much.
18 December, 2006
A matter of perspective
Over the past couple months or so, I've seen several interviews with actor Ryan O'Neill. In each, the interviewer eventually got around to asking, with varying degrees of tact, about Farrah Fawcett's on-going battle with intestinal cancer.
"I guess you can really relate to what Farrah's going through, huh? Because of your own battle with cancer?"
Now, it's always a little difficult to tell when an actor's reactions are genuine and whether he's just... yanno; but O'Neill's response to this question is invariably an expression of mild irritation mixed with pity.
"Compared with what she's going through," he says seriously, "I didn't even have cancer. I took a pill, and that was it."
I think I know how he feels. I see little kids on TV with a couple pathetic wisps of hair left over after their radiation therapy. I see the the young woman with the large, dark eyes, gauntly beautiful with head wrapped in a scarf. I see the news story about the wife and mother who had both breasts and her uterus removed because tests revealed that she was genetically predisposed toward both types of cancer.
I'm a cancer survivor, technically. The fellow cyclist and bladder cancer survivor who gave me my first yellow bracelet solemnly discouraged me from downplaying any cancer. I understand what he was trying to tell me, but like Ryan O'Neill, I look around at the battles that others are fighting and can't help thinking that my thyroid surgery and one little radioactive iodine pill were hardly like having cancer at all.
And I thank God.
"I guess you can really relate to what Farrah's going through, huh? Because of your own battle with cancer?"
Now, it's always a little difficult to tell when an actor's reactions are genuine and whether he's just... yanno; but O'Neill's response to this question is invariably an expression of mild irritation mixed with pity.
"Compared with what she's going through," he says seriously, "I didn't even have cancer. I took a pill, and that was it."
I think I know how he feels. I see little kids on TV with a couple pathetic wisps of hair left over after their radiation therapy. I see the the young woman with the large, dark eyes, gauntly beautiful with head wrapped in a scarf. I see the news story about the wife and mother who had both breasts and her uterus removed because tests revealed that she was genetically predisposed toward both types of cancer.
I'm a cancer survivor, technically. The fellow cyclist and bladder cancer survivor who gave me my first yellow bracelet solemnly discouraged me from downplaying any cancer. I understand what he was trying to tell me, but like Ryan O'Neill, I look around at the battles that others are fighting and can't help thinking that my thyroid surgery and one little radioactive iodine pill were hardly like having cancer at all.
And I thank God.
11 December, 2006
'Tis the season
...to try and bag yourself a cyclist to strap on your hood. Apparently.
Let me set this up for you: 70 °F, sunny, and I'm off work. Turtle tells me I'd be a fool not to go for a bike ride; I can't argue with that kind of logic, and off I go.
Madness.
You: The school bus driver in the next neighborhood over.
Me: Wondering how it is that you have no qualms about sitting with your stop sign stuck out, holding up traffic while you socialize with one of the riders' parents; but you're in such a rush that you have to make your right turn across my path rather than wait for the additional five seconds it would have taken me to pass the side street on to which you turned.
You: The high-and-tight mouth breather who parked his fire engine red monster truck in the middle of the road while he chatted with the guy in his front yard.
Me: Flattered that, after my appraisal of your choice of parking spots, you cared enough to hunt me down, pull up next to me, and lean across the seat with your middle finger out the passenger window. Boy, you sure put me in my place, and I'm touched that you spent half an hour of your life to make sure that you found me and delivered your message.
You: The lady crossing guard who saw me coming, marched out in the middle of the street, and held up her sign to stop me—the only moving vehicle in sight.
Me: Glad to know you're out there keeping the neighborhood safe. If you hadn't stopped me for the full minute that it took for the stroller-pushing dad reach your crosswalk, it could have been blood and entrails all over the road. And I hope youchoked didn't choke on your wad of gum while you were snickering.
Merry freakin' Christmas to the lot of ya.
Let me set this up for you: 70 °F, sunny, and I'm off work. Turtle tells me I'd be a fool not to go for a bike ride; I can't argue with that kind of logic, and off I go.
Madness.
You: The school bus driver in the next neighborhood over.
Me: Wondering how it is that you have no qualms about sitting with your stop sign stuck out, holding up traffic while you socialize with one of the riders' parents; but you're in such a rush that you have to make your right turn across my path rather than wait for the additional five seconds it would have taken me to pass the side street on to which you turned.
You: The high-and-tight mouth breather who parked his fire engine red monster truck in the middle of the road while he chatted with the guy in his front yard.
Me: Flattered that, after my appraisal of your choice of parking spots, you cared enough to hunt me down, pull up next to me, and lean across the seat with your middle finger out the passenger window. Boy, you sure put me in my place, and I'm touched that you spent half an hour of your life to make sure that you found me and delivered your message.
You: The lady crossing guard who saw me coming, marched out in the middle of the street, and held up her sign to stop me—the only moving vehicle in sight.
Me: Glad to know you're out there keeping the neighborhood safe. If you hadn't stopped me for the full minute that it took for the stroller-pushing dad reach your crosswalk, it could have been blood and entrails all over the road. And I hope you
Merry freakin' Christmas to the lot of ya.
04 December, 2006
Nutcracker? Sweet!
Last season, my favorite holiday music came from a video of a home light show that would have been the envy of a Las Vegas casino. This year, it's a video over at Specialized featuring as its soundtrack "The Nutcracker Suite" played entirely on bicycle parts. And it sounds great! I just wish the clip were longer.
There's a bit more about the project and slightly different version of the performance at Peter Kirn's Create Digital Music blog, if you're interested.
The music is the work of Flip Baber (a.k.a., "Johnny Random"), who's pretty darned amazing, as you can hear from this sampling of his work. It's enough to send a fellow Googling for a full-length CD, but I have paying work to accomplish.
There's a bit more about the project and slightly different version of the performance at Peter Kirn's Create Digital Music blog, if you're interested.
The music is the work of Flip Baber (a.k.a., "Johnny Random"), who's pretty darned amazing, as you can hear from this sampling of his work. It's enough to send a fellow Googling for a full-length CD, but I have paying work to accomplish.
Update
I've also discovered that Peter Kirn has posted an entire entry devoted to bicycle music. Who knew?It's official: I'm a fogey
After spending all day off work and pretty much all day doing pro bono web monkey things*, I emerged from my cave and discovered I had an hour to kill before it was time for Heroes. I began flipping channels. Deal Or No Deal on NBC. Yech. King of Queens on CBS. I like Kevin Whatshisname, but... enh. Billboard Music Awards on Fox. Janet Jackson was on, and I'd just like to say "yikes".
I used to be a mild fan (an oxymoron, technically), back a ways. I even own a well-worn copy of Rhythm Nation 1814... but oh my stars and garters, what happened to Janet? She was up on stage with a bunch of growling gangstas and a huge lighted sign that read "S.E.X." The sound kept going off for five seconds at a time, and I thought there was something wrong with the idiot box until it dawned on me that the network was muting large chunks of Ms. Jackson's performance.
Disgusted, I went back to flipping and landed on ABC and a spirited performance by a Baptist choir on Gospel Jubilee. Now, I'm not a huge fan of the genre, but I was amused to realize that I was finding it more entertaining than Janet Jackson's koochie show.
Still curious, I flipped back to the Billboard awards just in time to see Nellie Furtado win an award for "Promiscuous", off her latest album... Loose.
Mein Gott. I realized it was all I could do to keep from channeling my grandfather's trademarked "I don't know what the world's coming to."
* Except for a worthwhile two hours spent re-watching Miracle. I'm pleased to say that the U.S. team won again.
I used to be a mild fan (an oxymoron, technically), back a ways. I even own a well-worn copy of Rhythm Nation 1814... but oh my stars and garters, what happened to Janet? She was up on stage with a bunch of growling gangstas and a huge lighted sign that read "S.E.X." The sound kept going off for five seconds at a time, and I thought there was something wrong with the idiot box until it dawned on me that the network was muting large chunks of Ms. Jackson's performance.
Disgusted, I went back to flipping and landed on ABC and a spirited performance by a Baptist choir on Gospel Jubilee. Now, I'm not a huge fan of the genre, but I was amused to realize that I was finding it more entertaining than Janet Jackson's koochie show.
Still curious, I flipped back to the Billboard awards just in time to see Nellie Furtado win an award for "Promiscuous", off her latest album... Loose.
Mein Gott. I realized it was all I could do to keep from channeling my grandfather's trademarked "I don't know what the world's coming to."
* Except for a worthwhile two hours spent re-watching Miracle. I'm pleased to say that the U.S. team won again.
03 December, 2006
Great Scott! That's trivia!
Not long ago, one of you wrote about the TV ad for a major credit card's check card. Two things before I get on with it:
Have you ever watched a [suppressing gag reflex] Warner Brothers cartoon involving the operation of an assembly line and wondered what that peppy, industriously familiar tune was? Have you ever listened to Rush's "La Villa Strangiato" and wondered why that one passage reminded you of Looney Toons?
I have, so this morning I gave my trivial-minded, obsessive evil twin his head and came up with the answer. The tune? "Powerhouse". The composer? Raymond Scott. Ah... there's the real story. It turns out that the composer was a one of those little-known artists who thought out of the box and mostly labored in obscurity because of it.
I never was much good at reading articles in the encyclopedia and restating their content in my own words. If you're interested in learning about Scott, I encourage you to check out the Wikipedia article about him.
Now playing: Cake, Fashion Nugget
- I apologize for not being able to remember which of you it was. Believe me, I searched.
- Does it strike anyone else as ironic? A credit card company plugging a card that sucks funds directly from one's checking account. Pretty much the anti-credit, as I see it.
Have you ever watched a [suppressing gag reflex] Warner Brothers cartoon involving the operation of an assembly line and wondered what that peppy, industriously familiar tune was? Have you ever listened to Rush's "La Villa Strangiato" and wondered why that one passage reminded you of Looney Toons?
I have, so this morning I gave my trivial-minded, obsessive evil twin his head and came up with the answer. The tune? "Powerhouse". The composer? Raymond Scott. Ah... there's the real story. It turns out that the composer was a one of those little-known artists who thought out of the box and mostly labored in obscurity because of it.
I never was much good at reading articles in the encyclopedia and restating their content in my own words. If you're interested in learning about Scott, I encourage you to check out the Wikipedia article about him.
Now playing: Cake, Fashion Nugget
01 December, 2006
The bigger chill
Yesterday (don't hurt yourself; it was a Thursday) was the first of North Texas' one or two annual ice storms.
Any of "youse" from areas of the multiverse that regularly experience both temperatures below 50 °F and precipitation in both liquid and solid species, feel free to cackle loudly. You're absolutely entitled, and I can afford to be beneficent given the fact that you'll be experiencing this sort of weather for the next three months. I, meanwhile, will likely be back in shirt sleeves by the end of the weekend.
Wednesday evening, I had no sooner arrived home from work when the local television news programs were ecstatically and endlessly reporting the impending arrival of a strong storm system rolling in from Canada. Rain! Freezing rain! Sleet! Dogs and cats, living together! Pandemonium.
They were at least partially correct, of course. The merest hint of rain, much less freezing rain strikes fear into the hearts of the locals in this unnaturally warm, moisture-deprived part of the country. Never mind that they're all driving Hummers and F-150s. When the sky starts to fall, when clouds cover the sun, or when the temperature drops to 40 °F, they naturally conclude that all roads are impassable at speeds above 25 mph.
Normally, I wouldn't have cared. Under such circumstances, my employers typically close the office, and I get a free day off. This time, though, I had procrastinated and neglected to turn in my benefits enrollment form that was due today. Since I was scheduled to be off work today, and since the form could only be printed from within the company's intranet, I had to rouse Dorian from a sound sleep and drive back in to Dallas. It was 78 °F when I left the house; an hour later, the temperature had dropped 48 degrees and it was pouring rain.
It poured all night, and I smiled as I lay awake picturing all that rain draining into our depleted reservoirs. As some point, I thought I heard water dripping, which meant getting out of bed, getting dressed, and climbing into the attic space with a flashlight to check for roof leaks. There were none.
Come morning, I was sure there was no hurry to get around for work. The last time we had weather like this, I drove in to work, arrived just in time to receive word that the office was closed for the day, and turned right around. I waited until 7am, when the office closings are announced, and discovered we were open for business. Now an hour behind my usual departure time, I showered, dressed, and finally made it out the door by 8:30—just in time to battle my way through full-on rush hour with the bulk of the locals (who, to reinforce the point, cannot drive in temperatures below 40 degrees).
Throughout the morning, the weather worsened. I could hear sleet rattling against the window behind my cubicle and wondered what the Powers That Be were thinking. By 2:30, someone had apparently been watching the TV in the break room and noted all the mile-high overpasses choked with feckless drivers trying to crash their SUVs and 1983 Sentras through the concrete retaining walls. The office closed, and I headed home, avoiding all the giant overpasses, but coming to a half-hour standstill when I made the mistake of getting on an expressway that was moving well until I merged on to it. The problem? Every overpass (normal height) had at least one totaled car or upside-down SUV blocking the way.
What a bunch of dum-dum heads.
Fortunately, Dorian has a lovely automagic transmission and a CD player spinning some sweet tunes. Another Falling Down incident averted. By the time I arrived home, the local news was reporting temperatures around 13 °F.
By Monday (another vacation day) we'll be back to the low 50s. I may even put on my tights and get in a bike ride.
Any of "youse" from areas of the multiverse that regularly experience both temperatures below 50 °F and precipitation in both liquid and solid species, feel free to cackle loudly. You're absolutely entitled, and I can afford to be beneficent given the fact that you'll be experiencing this sort of weather for the next three months. I, meanwhile, will likely be back in shirt sleeves by the end of the weekend.
Wednesday evening, I had no sooner arrived home from work when the local television news programs were ecstatically and endlessly reporting the impending arrival of a strong storm system rolling in from Canada. Rain! Freezing rain! Sleet! Dogs and cats, living together! Pandemonium.
They were at least partially correct, of course. The merest hint of rain, much less freezing rain strikes fear into the hearts of the locals in this unnaturally warm, moisture-deprived part of the country. Never mind that they're all driving Hummers and F-150s. When the sky starts to fall, when clouds cover the sun, or when the temperature drops to 40 °F, they naturally conclude that all roads are impassable at speeds above 25 mph.
Normally, I wouldn't have cared. Under such circumstances, my employers typically close the office, and I get a free day off. This time, though, I had procrastinated and neglected to turn in my benefits enrollment form that was due today. Since I was scheduled to be off work today, and since the form could only be printed from within the company's intranet, I had to rouse Dorian from a sound sleep and drive back in to Dallas. It was 78 °F when I left the house; an hour later, the temperature had dropped 48 degrees and it was pouring rain.
It poured all night, and I smiled as I lay awake picturing all that rain draining into our depleted reservoirs. As some point, I thought I heard water dripping, which meant getting out of bed, getting dressed, and climbing into the attic space with a flashlight to check for roof leaks. There were none.
Come morning, I was sure there was no hurry to get around for work. The last time we had weather like this, I drove in to work, arrived just in time to receive word that the office was closed for the day, and turned right around. I waited until 7am, when the office closings are announced, and discovered we were open for business. Now an hour behind my usual departure time, I showered, dressed, and finally made it out the door by 8:30—just in time to battle my way through full-on rush hour with the bulk of the locals (who, to reinforce the point, cannot drive in temperatures below 40 degrees).
Throughout the morning, the weather worsened. I could hear sleet rattling against the window behind my cubicle and wondered what the Powers That Be were thinking. By 2:30, someone had apparently been watching the TV in the break room and noted all the mile-high overpasses choked with feckless drivers trying to crash their SUVs and 1983 Sentras through the concrete retaining walls. The office closed, and I headed home, avoiding all the giant overpasses, but coming to a half-hour standstill when I made the mistake of getting on an expressway that was moving well until I merged on to it. The problem? Every overpass (normal height) had at least one totaled car or upside-down SUV blocking the way.
What a bunch of dum-dum heads.
Fortunately, Dorian has a lovely automagic transmission and a CD player spinning some sweet tunes. Another Falling Down incident averted. By the time I arrived home, the local news was reporting temperatures around 13 °F.
By Monday (another vacation day) we'll be back to the low 50s. I may even put on my tights and get in a bike ride.
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