Archive for the ‘Conversational LCD’ Category

I’ve always thought things to be a bit trite when the conversation turns to the weather. I am, however, discounting the fact that here in Colorado, the weather can be a very dynamic subject indeed. To refer to the weather here as “trite,” especially this time of year when it doesn’t seem as if winter is done yet could be fatal. I loosely think of this as the “Donner Effect.” It could mean the difference between getting somewhere safely and getting stuck in mountain snow several feet deep and changing the way you look at food forever. There, despite your better judgment, you may nonetheless find yourself hungrily eyeballing people around you and wondering how they might taste on a bed of lettuce with a little salsa verde spread on top…

Even the dogs in the backseat would start to feel a little fear as their hackles mysteriously begin to rise despite the absence of a cat, or another girl dog. Then, they realize you’ve been looking at them in the rearview mirror and, intuitive creatures that they are, can just tell you are thinking “Hmm, that old gal over there looks like she’d taste pretty leathery, but that young pup’ll do in a pinch…”

Anyway, drama aside, any skier or snowboarder can tell you that some of the best snow often falls this time of year, or at least they’d like to think so, given the need to justify the high cost of season lift passes-which is a drama in itself. But that’s up in the high country.

Here in the low country-the Denver Metro, that is-snowfalls this time of year typically mean muddy shoes and wet socks (or a muddy shoe and a wet sock, for those missing a foot or more off one leg), and an all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet of earthworms for any red breasted robin. All they have to do is roll out of the nest, down the tree, and onto the street, where they can happily hop around from puddle to puddle, suckin’ ’em up like so many al dente spaghetti noodles. “A bottle of red, a bottle of white, it all depends upon your appetite…”
Kidding aside, my neighbors and I woke up two mornings ago to a nice, white blanket of snow which, though it looked nice, we all knew would turn to slush in only about fifteen minutes. And though it was great for the grass and great for the birds-terrible for the earthworms, though, in a Darwin Awards sort of way-it was likely to leave an indelible mark upon linoleum kitchens and carpeted living rooms alike throughout the neighborhood.

You’ve heard of house proud? Well, how about truck proud? In this neighborhood, the men are very proud of their “four-by’s,” to a point where I sometimes believe they’d sooner take off their muddy boots and put pink, fluffy slippers on instead before risking getting the interior dirty on sloppy days like yesterday. Mud belongs on the outside, don’tcha know?

But ask their wives, and I bet they’ll tell you the same thing: These are the same guys that won’t think twice about wearing those same muddy boots into the house. But, if you think about it, it makes sense, as no man wants his wife or kids to see him wearing pink fuzzy slippers around the house. In the truck it’s okay, though, ’cause only the dog will see him there and he ain’t talkin’ anyway. It’s enough to make me wonder what, if anything, the neighborhood women who drive trucks might put on their feet on muddy days. Heck, life’s confusing enough as it is; it makes me glad we drive a brown Subaru wagon (but not glad enough to put down my street address, just in case any of the neighbors are reading…).
See? Talking about the weather isn’t always bad, especially when it’s me doing the talking. I’ve hardly mentioned the weather at all, and even when I did, I really didn’t. So, in case you haven’t had enough yet, all I really meant to say was that yesterday, after it warmed up, I drove Sophie down to the nearby bushes she loves to run around in. Just as I thought, mosquitoes had been busy breeding-as if they were confident malaria had no known medical remedy and that causing another outbreak would be a matter of community pride.

As I’d expected, many of the newborn mosquitoes, a.k.a. six-hour-olds, clung to the windows, daring me to come out so they could suck a little blood and take it back to feed their two-day-old parents. And, if there was enough left over and the old sods were still alive, their elderly three-day-old grandparents would get some, too.

This in mind, I hit the gas pedal and, at around 15 mph, even the heartiest of the bugs blew off the windows. The windshield wiper took care of the rest in a cold-hearted, uncaring, Darwin Awards kind of way, but this time for mosquitoes. Then I rolled down the windows so Sophie could stick her nose out and feel the wind rushing between her ears and up her little doggie nostrils too.

I was a little hesitant to do it, even though I know how much she loves it, because every now and then a rogue breeze finds its way up her nose and causes her to sneeze. It usually creates a simultaneous whiplash effect for her, which usually abruptly and violently ends with a sharp “thunk” on the car door window frame as well as an ejection of a generous portion of doggy-snot. It’s the sort of thing that could draw applause from even the most stoic of cats, though it typically only causes a grimace of empathic pain to cross my face because, let’s face it, cats are smart enough to not stick their heads out of moving car door windows and, whenever possible, avoid being in moving cars at all.

So off we went, riding along with the car windows down, and Sophie’s head sticking out of one window. I could hear the gentle, scrunching sound of the gravel underneath the car tires. Then, to my amazement, I had a fleeting sensation of sitting in the bedroom, first thing in the morning! “What’s happening,” I wonder, “this has to be a dream!”

Actually, I wasn’t dreaming at all. In fact, I was completely lucid. What fooled me, however, was that the local frogs were also in their beginning throes of breeding season, gettin’ down and dirty makin’ tadpoles. It was the sound of that racket that took me back to the bedroom, where my multi–adjustable white noise machine had been making that same sound since Christmas. Ha! I had grown so used to hearing the machine version of The Amphibian Dating Game that I didn’t recognize it in nature! Well, there you have it, the reason for the seasons, at least as far as I can tell.

And, if you are as confused by these reasons as I am-and I bet you could be if you really tried-then you can understand why I chose communications as my college curriculum and not biology. What’s more, just as I began this posting by stating my belief that talking about the weather is among the lowest, least creative forms of conversation, I haven’t really said anything about the weather at all. That said, if I could suddenly combine this with the odd skill of pointing at things that aren’t really there in a TV studio-but are plainly visible to viewers at home-I guess I have the right stuff to be a TV weatherman! Think Brick What’s-His-Name from the movie Anchorman, and you’ll know what I mean. Now, where did I leave my slippers?