Papal Resignation

I heard the Pope is retiring.

Say whaaaaat?

I mean is that even allowed?

Is the Statue of Liberty allowed to retire?

Mona Lisa?


Betty White?

No…so why should the Pope?

I guess maybe we shouldn’t be surprised. I mean it’s not like this never happened before…in the last 600 years.

The last Pope to resign was some dude, named, Gregory XII, who believe it or not was not the only Pope at the time. Nor was he as cool as either of the other Gregory’s—XI or XIII—who came before him and after him…somewhere…maybe.

Apparently his taste in shoes was abhorrent, which some say led to his unpopularity and subsequent resignation.

But you don’t need me to tell you that.

There was also something going on at the time called the “Western Schism”, which if you’ve ever experienced a schism—north south, east or west—you know what I’m talking about.

Anyway, so this current Pope has apparently had enough of the Pope business.

And who can blame him.

I mean saving souls can wear you down after a while…especially with a hat on your head that weighs about 400 pounds. 

And all those encyclicals you have to issue?

As a blogger, I know how much pressure that can put on a person.

But you don’t need me to tell you that.

Plus, I bet after a while a person can only take so much of all that papal “ring” kissing.

 I mean would you want people stopping you on the street to kiss your “ring” all the time?

With everything floating around out there, that’s floating around out there?

I don’t think so.

I guess we should have seen it coming…especially after he was spotted down in West Palm, checking out those senior living monasteries.

Personally, I found all that talk of, “It’s just a time share” a little suspicious.

I also heard the Holy See was changing how they calculated their matching contribution to the papal 401K.

“Whatever God wills…it is what it is”…just wasn’t gonna fly…not in this economy...not even for a Pope.

So he’s stepping down.

But he did give his two weeks…so you really can’t complain.

Even though he tried to slip the proclamation past everyone by announcing it in a dead language.

Fortunately, the “Papal Custodian”, who actually speaks Latin, was on that day, repairing a curtain rod in one of the confessionals, just as the Pope tried to sneak in the big news, right after the winners of the Vatican Super Bowl Pool were announced.

The custodian was so taken aback by what he heard that he reportedly dropped his hammer and shouted, “Holy Mother of God!”, which upset the seated Cardinals in attendance, because…well, they just hadn’t expected her, especially on a Monday, and had nothing to serve.

Eventually, the custodian explained just what he had heard and by the time the assembled group of cardinals stopped fussing over whether or not to pick up a sheet cake—or simply go with pastries—and the historical significance of the moment sunk in, the Pope had already slipped out, as he was late for his weekly game of mahjong.

All in all, everyone is hoping for a smooth transition.

There’ll be a papal election, a puff of white smoke—preferably menthol, preferably filtered—and voila…a new Pope.

And the old Pope says he will have no influence over the new Pope, in any way. Not even in a subtle cluck of the tongue, disapproving eye roll kind of way. I mean how could he, tucked away in a monastery someplace. It’s not like they Skype.

So something new and exciting to look forward to.

Maybe they’ll elect an American Pope…or an African Pope…or an Asian Pope.

Maybe even a woman Pope.

Oh wait…I forgot. There aren’t any women priests, let alone cardinals to even be considered electing Pope.

I guess that makes sense. 

I mean how could a woman ever have the open minded, caring, nurturing, sympathetic, empathetic, tolerant, mollifying, non-competitive, peace promoting, understanding qualities it takes to be Pope?

What was I thinking?

 

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February’s Gift

Despite the snow…and intermittent, constant cold, there’s cause for optimism this time of year.

You can feel the sun gaining more and more strength every day.

The shadows are sharper, the light is warmer…even the colors are brighter.

Whew….

Cuz you never know.

I mean I assume the winter won’t last forever, but I also assume the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes people are going to be knocking on my door, any day now.

So it’s good to see signs.

You can’t count on the Robin’s…not anymore.  The Robins are here all year round, now. At least it seems that way. 

I came out on my back porch in January and there were about 12 of them jumping around on my lawn. I can’t be certain, but I think they were giving me the stink eye…as if to say, “What…you never saw a Robin before?”

Daffodil shoots, peeking out through the snow is a good sign.

As is the little bit of new red growth extending from the end of the maple tree’s branches.

On the days I’m able to sleep in, morning sunshine, angling high through the bedroom window is nice to wake up to.

On the days I’m not, the wait for the sky to brighten, is hardly a wait at all.

Best of the best, the evening sun hangs higher, lasting longer, every day, a little more than the last.

The western sky paints silhouettes of rooftops long into the evening; chimney smoke drifting into clouds.

Not quite on the homestretch to spring, but definitely on the backstretch, approaching the final turn.

Reasons to be optimistic…a gift…three quarters through February.

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Snow Way, PC

I’d have to say we got off pretty easy around here, especially after all the dire predictions in regard to our recent blizzard; the one they called Nemo.

Nemo….

What kind of name is that for a blizzard?

I mean, if we have to name a blizzard—and I’m not sure if we do—it should have a better name than that.

Maybe “Bob”.

Blizzard Bob has kind of a nice ring to it…don’t you think?

Some news outlets were predicting up to 30 inches of the white stuff, presumably snow, depending on where you lived.

And a lot of places got just that.

In our little zip code, they say we were rewarded with about 18 inches.  I heard 23 inches on one news source, but I think that report came from a guy buried in a snow drift outside one of our fine North Main Street establishments.

Personally, I couldn’t measure more than 8-10 inches in my back yard, but I’ve been having some trouble with my old ruler lately, so I wouldn’t go by that.

But no matter how many inches you had in front of your house or apartment, one thing I have to admit is that the roads in my town, after our clown friend Nemo finally wound down, were in perfect condition.

Perfect condition for cross country skiing, snowmobiling, tobogganing, ice-skating…all your basic winter sports activities.

Gotta love a town that puts recreation in front of mobilization.

Maybe we should put in for the next Olympics.

Putnam Avenue would be perfect for the downhill.

William Street, the giant slalom.

The intersection of King and North Regent streets would be perfect for the speed skating oval.

What’s up, PC?

Snow way, this happens…not in PC.

Maybe White Plains or Harrison, but not PC.

Who dropped the big bad Nemo ball, this time around?

This is not my PC…not the town, who usually mans the streets like Patton’s Third Army at the first hint of snow.  The PC I brag about to all my elitist friends, from surrounding snob towns, who routinely find themselves waiting weeks for their DPW to remove debris from their streets after a big storm of any sort.

I really am befuddled. I mean there were trucks and plows going up and down my street, per usual, from about noon or so Friday, well into the evening.

So I certainly can’t fault the DPW workers who were out there working their tails off in the cold and wet, all day long. They always do a great job, long into the night until the last flake has been put on notice. Which is why it was so surprising, this time, to see that as the storm picked up, the trucks seemed to disappear.

The usual comforting sound I’ve come to expect on stormy nights of large trucks lumbering down the road—plows scraping, salt and sand spreaders ching-chinging—was noticeably absent.

By the next morning it looked as if there was well more than half a foot of fluffy new snow in the middle of the road. That is until folks dug out their driveways and ran their cars over it, which then turned it into a skating rink, where even walking was tricky for more than 24 hours, and was still a slushy mess as of Monday morning, in many places.

It was the first time I could ever remember the sidewalks and driveways being cleaner than the streets.

I don’t know…I don’t want to go all “grassy knoll” here, but when I hear statements that the storm was “opportune” in that it “exposed the need  to update equipment and snow-fighting techniques. Lessons learned in the storm will be used in the village's budget process” it makes me raise an eyebrow, preferably my own.

It’s not like the biggest election in PC history is just around the corner or anything is it?

I mean snow way this was about politics or potential fodder for election rhetoric.

And even if by some stretch of a wild imagination, it was, I have no idea who would have anything to gain by it…just who has to lose by it….

Us.

 So I doubt it will come up.

As storms go, this one was fairly significant, so who knows…maybe this time it was the best we could do, given the conditions and the circumstances. 

But, still, we’ve had worse, and we’ve done better.

What I do know—and expect—is the next big snow—maybe they’ll call it Sneezy—PC will be back on top of its game, clearing our streets in record time.

Who needs the Olympics.

I also expect that most of it will be plowed onto the end of my driveway.

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Valentine’s Schmalentines

Okay…so Valentine’s Day is tomorrow.

Like I didn’t know that?

Like I was born in a barn or something?

Right…you are soooooo off base.

It was a garage.

A two car garage.

More of a service bay, actually…at a highway rest stop off of 84.

What can I say…I was in a hurry.

I didn’t want to miss one more episode of Ozzie & Harriet than I needed to.

Okay…maybe I am trying to avoid the issue.

Valentine’s Day.

But I made my feelings on all of that pretty clear…last year…right here.

That’s right…I’m a rhyming fool.

So cool.

I can rhyme all day…

That’s what I say.

Especially if it keeps me from writing about…Valentine’s Day.

Little cherubs….flowers…cardboard organs filled with assorted chocolates, filled with soft, chewy centers.

Who needs it?

I get that everyday watching Oprah.

Big deal.

And I REPEAT…this is not about the stress and pressure associated with my 2^nd grade experience counting cards.

It was 1^st grade and I wasn’t all that accurate with my numbers yet, so I’m sure I had more cards than the one I counted…from my grandma.

You know…the one she forgot to sign.

And it has absolutely nothing at all to do with the very first Valentine I bought for Z, after we met.

It has to do with the very first Valentine I bought for Z, before we met…between the restraining order and our official first date.

What? 

I was young. I thought flatulence jokes were suitable for every occasion.

And yes…that was our official first date, even if there was a mandated, locked door between us.

But who can remember that far back…not without the monthly reminders from the probation department.

Besides, I don’t like to celebrate Valentine’s until the day after, anyway.

Everything’s way cheaper then.

Cards, candy, flowers…all half price.

Even less if you buy from the “year old” bin

But even so, half price or no…I do know how to do Valentine’s.

Despite the incident with the edible underwear…that guy was wearing.

And you can ask Z about the time I hired that glee club from the senior center to sing our wedding song.

You’ve never heard “Aqualung” until you’ve heard it performed by a group of octogenarians, with flatulence issues.

See…always funny.

But this year I’m doing it up really big.

Pulling out all the stops.

Sparing no expense.

And, maybe you’re right.

Maybe I should do it on actual Valentine’s Day…no matter how much more it costs.

But I heard rumblings there might be a “Duck Dynasty” marathon on.

I guess I’ll have to wait ‘til next year.

What?

Can I help it if I’m just a big romantic at heart?

Even with a soft chewy center.

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Blizzard Diary

Friday

February 8, 2013

6:00 AM – Good news. No sign of snow. Z leaves for work early hoping to park inside to avoid removal of snow accumulation before the evening commute. Not sure how she gets away with it. I would think parking inside a hospital would be frowned upon. I wish her God speed and eat my first jelly donut.

7:00 AM – Bad news. First sign of snow gathers on the front lawn.  No actual snow, just the Zombies across the street, who become annoyed at just the mention of snow, mostly because they have a hard enough time shuffling around on dry pavement, let alone snow. Not sure why they always gather on my lawn, though. I guess they think I can make it go away, mostly because I fixed their cable once. I wish them God speed and eat my fourth and fifth jelly donut.

8:00 AM – Good news. The Zombies finally went home after I agreed to let them have all the Boston Creams. Zombies love Boston Creams.  Good thing. The first real sign of accumulating snow appears. Again, not actual snow…just the stupid sign my “Harbinger of Doom” neighbor, Fred, breaks out whenever they predict more than 4 inches. Fred has signs for most cataclysmic events. Armageddon, the Rapture, the old Mayan Calendar, the New Mayan Calendar, the Super Bowl Halftime show. I wish him God speed and wish I had saved a Boston Cream for myself.

9:00 AM – Bad news. One half inch of actual snow has accumulated. Fred has already baled but left the sign behind in my driveway.  The Zombies have already shoveled their walk…twice. They’re in unusually good spirits for an impending blizzard. Apparently, they made an agreement with the new family down the block—the Donner’s—to eat each other’s dead, if it should come to that.  Zombies...what else is new?

10:00 AM – More bad news.  We’re already out of Mallomars.

11:00 AM – Temperature hovers near Freezing. This annoys Freezing to no end, who tells Temperature to get a life and stop getting sticky chocolate finger prints on her iPad. I slip out of the room undetected and wash my hands.

12 Noon – I retreat to the garage and start the back-up generator to ensure a quick emergency power transition, should it come to that. I also start the lawn mower and leaf blower, just because I’m odd. I miss those guys.

12:30 PM - Due to confusion precipitated by carbon monoxide fumes accumulating in the garage, I gather up two loads of firewood and carry them into the house next door, where the two cute witches live.  They thank me and say they can use it to keep their caldron going at full boil. They express their appreciation by saying they would love to have me for lunch.  I decline…but wish them God speed and ask if they happen to have any Mallomars. They do not.

1:00 PM – Bad news. The snow continues to accumulate. At least an inch and a half on the ground now.  A cold shiver of dread creeps across my spine as the neighbor’s cat creeps across my porch. I suddenly remember, I never had lunch. I decide on tuna.

2:00 PM – Snow begins to intensify.  I warily record nearly 2 inches of accumulation at this hour. There may be at least another 2 inches, but I decide to wait until another hour to record those, when I’m not so wary or feeling woe. Possible sugar crash at work—not sure why.

3:00 PM – Return to the garage to gather more firewood but discover the Vampires from up the block have taken whatever was left. They heard from the witches that I was giving away free wood. I merely smile since Vampires don’t like to be crossed. They tell me they’re making steaks and need the wood to make a fire.  I tell them steaks seem like an odd choice for Vampires and they should be careful not to get burned. They just stare at me with those blank vampire expressions that I hate. The Vampires never get my subtle humor.

4:00 PM - Good news. Z arrives home early from work after driving 20 miles in treacherous conditions. Bad news. She immediately runs over Fred’s sign, which I forgot to remove from the driveway. Z curses and chants something in tongue, which causes the Zombies across the street, still obsessively shoveling their walk, to drop their shovels and run inside, or what passes as running for a Zombie.  I take a nap.

8:00 PM –. After waking, I find the storm has intensified. Actual accumulation and blowing wind is apparent.  I judge about 4 inches. The rest I let slide with just casual observation as I sense those inches are much more sensitive to criticism than the original 4. Z has apparently brokered a deal with the vampires to return some of the firewood. Not sure what the exact terms are but I’m concerned it involves my washing caskets for the next year again

10:00 PM – Bad News. Slept though almost all of CSI: NY.

11:00 PM – Five Zombie s across the street knock on my door and ask if I want my front walk shoveld. Actually, only two make it to the door. The other three are stuck in a drift by the curb.  I thank them but decline. Never allow a Zombie to shovel your walk. They'll never let you forget it.

12 Midnight – Snow falling horizontally. The Zombies stuck by the curb are no longer visible. Decide to call it a night. Leave note to myself not to disturb the Zombies buried by the curb in the morning. Zombies like to sleep in.

1:00 AM – Wake Z to remind her she is free to consume my body should I not survive the storm. She grunts, and reminds me that she’s eliminated fatty meals from her diet and that I never listen.  I wonder if the donut shop will be open in the morning.

Saturday, February 9, 2013

6:00 AM – I awaken to a glorious snow covered expanse.  Unfortutnarely the exanse is in the bathroom as I forgtot to close the window.  Good news…we have survived the storm and the Zombies across the street have already shoveled out my driveway. Bad news...it appears they’ve eaten their dead…or undead…plus they’ll expect me to pay them for shoveling.  Just another day in the neighborhood…except there’s no jelly donuts.

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Not Too Bad

8 AM yesterday

 

 

8 AM today

 

12 Noon

 

 

Could have been worse.

 

Blizzard Diary coming on Monday

 

 

 

 

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Cavorting in Cabo

I know…enough with the travelogue…enough with our little trip to Cabo.

After a couple of posts, it begins to feel like sitting in your neighbor’s rumpus room for 3 hours oohing and awwwing over his 1,500 slides of the Eisenhower locks.

 So I’m gonna wrap it all up today…I promise.

Sort of….

Besides there's some sort of a major snow storm approaching that may or may not dump as much as 1,000 feet of snow on the Northeast, so I’m gonna start shoveling as soon as I finish up...even before it starts 

And I’m sure none of you are in the mood to hear about how incredible it is to bask in the warm glow of summer sun, while you’re back here freezing.

So I won’t mention it…I promise…again.

Sort of….

Last summer I wrote that every vacation develops a rhythm of its own choosing. The sooner you discover that rhythm and step in time to its particular beat, the sooner you’re able to let yourself go wherever the music wants to take you.

Well, for wary, greenhorn international travelers like Z and me, on the first day of this vacation we danced to a very slow, dirge like beat, characterized more by a waltz that a ch-cha.

Once we settled in our room and slipped into our shorts and T’s, we met up with K and John by the pool bar and immediately proceeded to confuse the entire staff with our instructions as to what we needed charged to our credit cards and what went to our rooms.

Don’t ask…it’s complicated.

But it was necessary…and it served us well…I think.

And since Cabo is a resort town, everyone took it in stride. In fact, for the rest of the week the staff referred to us as “Turistas locos gringos”, which I think translates loosely to “Cool Guys”.

So that was nice.

After catching up over a couple of Margaritas and a heaping plate of Nachos Grande, we decided to pick up the tempo of this vacation salsa and bravely headed out for a stroll around the Marina, which harbored some interesting characters, along with a few yachts, slightly larger than our hotel.

This little “pleasure vessel”, in particular, which was available for a week’s charter at the low, low price of 750,000 Euros or 1,016,025 US Dollars, boasted its own helicopter pad and, of course, helicopter.

Unfortunately our stay consisted of only 6 days and 5 nights, so we had to take a pass.

Not that we didn’t have plenty of opportunity to sail the deep blue seas, as our walk along the promenade elicited at least several dozen invitations to go fishing from a bunch of nice folks eager to help out a group of eager new arrivals.

One particularly nice fellow even offered to show me some pictures of his sister, but Z insisted we had to keep moving; I think because the overwhelming number of friendly locals had her tempted to buy everything from genuine silver jewelry, authentic Mexican sombreros, antique pottery and glassware from the time of Cortez to vintage T-shirts that once belonged Charo.

It was almost as convenient as shopping on Amazon…and everything, we were told, was a really great deal!

As the week progressed, so did the rhythm with every sunrise over the prominent mountain in view of our balcony.  In view of just about everywhere we went, actually.

It also helped that our particular Mexican Conga was aided by the friendly wait staff that serviced the pool, and somehow knew exactly when it was time to haul out the Piña Coladas and Strawberry Daiquiris.

We were 2 hours behind US Eastern time so we felt absolutely no guilt over starting by 11 AM…or even 10.

After all, it was noon somewhere.

And since our primary activity for most of the week consisted of lying about on these plush couches, which I believe were designed by Antony & Cleopatra, it seemed like the thing to do.

Of course we also ventured out to the beach most afternoons, as well, which was about a 20 minute walk around the harbor.  Oddly enough, “beaching it” did not seem to be a prime Cabo activity, I guess because in January, the water is only 75 degrees and considered “muy frio” by the locals.

Of course it was far from “frio” for this caballero and I wasn’t coming all the way to Mexico without splashing around in the Pacific for a while…with or without the threat of water taxis potentially introducing me to the bow of their little boats.

Apparently in Cabo, waving your hand over your head, in any manner, whether on land or sea indicates that you are in need of a cab.

It’s not that I minded almost becoming a figurehead for the Gaucho II, but I found it unnecessary for Z to tip the guy on top of it.

But I have to admit, taking the water taxis is a good way to get around to the various beaches and points of interest in Cabo…as long as you’re actually sitting in the boat.

They’ll even drop you off at a remote beach for a couple of hours of fun in the sun, and come back to pick you up…eventually. 

Of course, you have to take into consideration that this kind of aquatic transportation requires you to get your feet wet—literally—in order to get in and out of the boat, once you reach your destination…that is, when you can actually catch up to the boat, which is rising and falling with the ocean swell, even just a foot or two from the shore line. 

Of course being an industrious group, we didn’t have too much trouble in that department as Z knocked me to my knees and volunteered my back as a stepping stool for the rest.

Not that I minded, but I thought they could have told the water cabbie that I was supposed to get on the boat too. 

But not to worry, I somehow channeled my old 25 year old self, ran through the waves and managed to propel myself up and over, twist around and plop firmly onto the bow…much to the relief of my fellow Cabo Cruisers.

Well, I assume it was relief, since they had their backs to me, taking in the last of the sights.

Throw in all the nightly dinners under the stars, complete with a moon rise over the dark ocean horizon and you pretty much have the gist of our Cavorting in Cabo.

Before we knew it, a few days later, the car service was dropping us off at our frigid front door around Midnight, and our summer in January was officially a memory.

A distant memory, even now, but something to keep us warm the rest of this winter season.

Which reminds me, I better go get the snow shovel out.

I think I see a few flakes….

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