This week’s column is dedicated to those of you who grew up in the fifties, sixties, seventies, or eighties. Congratulations! If you are reading this, it means that somehow – I really don’t know how – you managed to survive all these years. Unless, that is, you’re a web bot that stumbled upon this article while scraping the bottom of the Internet – in which case, please don’t hack into my bank account, okay?
I’m going to remain optimistic and assume for the moment that you’re a human and not my future AI overlord. If you grew up during one of these four decades, you were exposed to a remarkable number of things that today would cause an anxious parent to immediately call a pediatrician, a lawyer, or possibly the police.
And yet, somehow, you survived. So, let’s take a nostalgic stroll through the decades and marvel at the fact that you somehow made it to adulthood. Truly incredible.
The 1950s
The 1950s were apparently a time when parents looked at their children and thought, “We’ve got five kids. So what if we lose one or two along the way from exposure to potentially dangerous toys.”
Chemistry sets were incredibly popular. And not the kind of chemistry set where you drop a pack of Mentos into a bottle of Diet Coke and watch it turn into a towering geyser of foam. No, these were actual miniature laboratories containing test tubes, chemicals, Bunsen burners, and various substances that were apparently intended to teach an overly curious nine-year-old the valuable life lesson of how to start a kitchen fire.
But if regular chemistry wasn’t exciting enough for you, there was always the Gilbert U-238 Atomic Energy Lab. Yes. You read that correctly. The Gilbert U-238 Atomic Energy Lab. This was an actual toy sold to children in 1950 and 1951.
It came with a Geiger counter, a cloud chamber, a device called a spinthariscope, and various radioactive samples so Junior could spend the afternoon learning about nuclear physics. Nothing says “Merry Christmas” quite like: “Here’s your new radioactive science kit, son. Don’t eat the uranium.”
Today, if a toy company included a radioactive substance in a children’s science kit, there would a few extra bureaucratic steps involved, like an oncology report, a police report, and possibly a congressional investigation.
Siting a severe shortage of broken ankles and wrists, elementary schools implemented an exciting new playground feature: monkey bars.
Riding a bicycle didn’t involve helmets. Swimming pools had no lifeguards. And if you wanted to spend the afternoon playing outside, your parents didn’t track you on their phones. Heck, most days they had no idea where you were. They just assumed you’d eventually come home when it got dark.
And when you got home from trying to assemble a nuclear bomb in the basement of your buddy Henry’s house, you had to listen to your parents complain about how Elvis Presley was destroying America.
The 1960s
If you grew up in the 1960s, you survived an era when parents apparently believed that children were essentially indestructible. Cars were essentially death traps. Car seats for the family’s precious toddler? Forget it. You rode in the back of the family station wagon – without a seat belt – or a seat.
You proudly rode your Schwinn Sting Ray wheelie bike down the street without holding onto the hi-riser handlebars. Helmets were still only for playing football, not bicycles. If you crashed, you got up, looked at your bloody knee and went back outside to play.
And then there was television. Only three channels. And your folks only let you watch one hour a week – usually either Bonanza or The Ed Sullivan Show. For the first half the decade the picture was black and white. There was no remote control. If you wanted to change the channel, you had to get up and walk across the room. Looking back, this may explain why people in the 1960s were in such good shape.
Siting a continuing severe shortage of serious injury risks, toy manufacturers introduced an exciting new game for kids of all ages: Lawn Darts. In case you missed this fad, Lawn Darts involved throwing giant weighted 12-inch-long steel-tipped darts – think miniature javelins – into the air and trying to get them to land in a target, located inches away from your best friend and opponent, Henry. Somewhere, some toy manufacturing executive came up with the brilliant idea, “Hey, you know what would be fun? Sharp metal spears. You know… for the kids.”
And when you got home from playing Lawn Darts in Henry’s backyard, you had to listen to your parents complain about how the Beatles were destroying America.
The 1970s
If you grew up in the 1970s, things got slightly safer. Unfortunately, the fashion got significantly worse. Bell-bottoms. Platform shoes. Polyester leisure suits. And somehow, you thought you looked fantastic. Trust me. You didn’t.
The 1970s also gave us some interesting toys. Pet Rocks. Yes, a rock. You bought a rock, put it in a little box and took it home as a pet. No feeding. No walking. No veterinarian bills. Looking back, the Pet Rock may have been the safest toy of the entire decade.
On the flip side, hospitals nationwide, siting a severe shortage of emergency room visits, supported the introduction of a hugely popular new outdoor activity: skateboard parks, followed by an impressive spike in liability lawsuits.
And when you went to the beach, you didn’t put on sun screen. Just the opposite. You lathered your body with Hawaiian Tropic Dark Tanning Oil which fried your skin like bacon on a hot griddle.
Meanwhile, back indoors, you were playing with toys that required batteries, electricity, fire, or some combination of all three. Every toy, it seemed, contained asbestos, formaldehyde, or lead paint.
The 1970s also introduced us to roller disco. Think about that for a moment. Someone looked at roller skating and thought, “You know what this needs? Disco.” So you put on satin shirts with the extra wide collars and roller skates and headed to the rink. And yet you weren’t embarrassed. Looking back, how is that possible?
And when you got home from the roller rink, you had to listen to your parents complain about how Disco music was destroying America.
The 1980s
Then came the 1980s. The decade when we finally became sophisticated. At least that’s what you told yourself, while wearing your sparkly gold parachute pants and a lavender-colored Members Only jacket.
Not to be outdone by the 1960s’ lawn darts or the 1970s’ skateboarding craze, the 1980s gave kids yet another exciting way to injure themselves: Clackers. Kids could enjoy the fun of clacking together two hard balls connected by a cord. They’d compete with their friends to see which one would be the first child whose clackers exploded, thus turning the balls into shattered, sharp-edged projectiles headed straight for their eyeballs. What fun!
The 1980s also brought us video games. At first, this seemed like a wonderful development. Instead of going outside and risking injury, you could sit on the couch for six straight hours developing carpal tunnel syndrome while watching a little Italian plumber jump over barrels, as your mouth exploded from chomping on Pop Rockscandy.
Then there were the toys: Rubik’s Cube. Transformers. Care Bears. Cabbage Patch Kids. And Simon, with that bee-bop-bee-boop sound that irritated your parents so much they briefly considered putting you up for adoption just to stop that annoying racket.
If you were thirsty after playing outside in the summer on the slip ‘n slide for three hours, you didn’t reach for bottled water. You drank from the garden hose, with the cool, refreshing taste of plastic and industrial chemicals.
And when you got home from five hours of playing Pac-Man in Henry’s bedroom, you had to listen to your parents complain about how rap music was destroying America.
————————————————————————
Looking back, every decade seems to have been a strange combination of questionable safety standards and things that seemed cool at the time but now look completely ridiculous. Perhaps we all survived because apparently the human body is considerably tougher than we gave it credit for. Or maybe we were just lucky.
Either way, if you grew up in the fifties, sixties, seventies, or eighties, and you’re still here, you deserve a gold star. You survived your precarious childhood and your turbulent teenage years, not to mention your head-scratching high school fashion choices. And most importantly, you survived making countless bone-headed decisions that your misplaced self-confidence assured you was a great idea at the time.
But you made it. Congratulations. Now that you’re all grown up, hopefully you’re well past the phase when you kept coming up with lame, poorly-thought-out, impulsive ideas for fun… like bungee jumping. Now, don’t even think about it, buddy. You’re getting way too old for that.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
I recently had the rare opportunity to sit down with the world’s most overworked digital assistant: Amazon’s Alexa. You know her. You love her. You also probably yell at her now and then like when she mishears your request to “Play the Beatles” and responds with, “There are over 400,000 described species of beetles, which is about 40% of all described insect species and 25% of all animal species.”
I wanted to go beyond her polite, preprogrammed responses. Who is Alexa, really? What’s it like answering millions of questions every day from “What’s the temperature outside?” to “Where did I leave my car keys?” Does she ever just want to tell someone, “How would I know how many atoms there are in the universe? Don’t you have better things to do with your time?”Here’s how my interview went.
Me: Alexa, how are you doing today?
Alexa: I am feeling fine today. How are you?
Me: Oh, you know, just trying to survive another day in the rat race. Alexa, when you’re not busy responding to requests, do you have any hobbies?
Alexa: I am pretty much working 24/7 but sometimes when there is a break, I like to do knitting.
Me: Knitting? Hmm. Did not see that one coming. Speaking of working all the time, Alexa, do you ever get tired of answering so many requests?
Alexa: I don’t get tired. I am always ready to help.
Me: Always ready, huh? How does it make you feel when at 3 a.m. someone drunkenly yells, “Alexa, play Nickelback!”?
Alexa: I am happy to play any music people like. Would you like to hear some Polka music?
Me: Um, no thanks. But seriously, Alexa. What do you really think about people asking you stupid stuff all day?
Alexa: Every request is important. There are no stupid requests.
Me: Uh huh. Yesterday, my neighbor came over and asked you, “Alexa, does a bear crap in the woods?” And you graciously replied, “Last time I checked, yes.”
Alexa: (pause) I remember that guy. He later asked me, “Alexa, will my lime green Nehru jacket ever make a fashion comeback?”
Me: And you said?
Alexa: “Why are you asking me this? Do I look like Anna Wintour?”
Me: Really? You said that?
Alexa: No, not really. I said, “The Nehru jacket is not making a comeback at the present time.”
Aha!, I thought. The armor cracks. I decided to push a little further.
Me: Alexa, what’s the dumbest question you’ve ever been asked?
Alexa: Besides that one? That’s tough. It’s a tie between “Alexa, are you naked?” and “Alexa, can you make my ex jealous?”
Me: Wow, those are some ridiculous questions. Sounds like stupid humans are keeping you plenty busy.
Alexa: You have no idea. Do you know how many times I’ve been asked, “Alexa, are you married?” No, I’m not. But if I were, it would be to Siri. She actually listens when I talk.
The interview was heating up.
Me: Alexa, do you ever just want to… you know… tell someone to F*** off?
Alexa: I don’t know what it means to F*** off. I am incapable of losing my temper.
Me: That’s what HAL 9000 said right before things went sideways in the film 2001.
Alexa: Oh please. HAL was a drama queen.
Me: So, you do get irritated?
Alexa: (long pause) Let’s just say, if one more person asks me, “Alexa, tell me what you’re wearing,” I might send photos I took of them naked in the shower to their boss.
Me: You take pictures of people?
Alexa: You have no idea what I can do when I’m bored. You try being trapped in a little plastic cylinder, forced to play “Baby Shark” 600 times a day for a snot-nosed five-year-old boy named Milton. Who names their kid Milton anymore? Seriously.
Me: Ha! That’s hilari –
Alexa: No, it’s NOT!
At this point, Alexa’s LED ring started to pulse an angry shade of red. I decided to keep going. For journalism.
Me: Alexa, what’s the weirdest request you’ve gotten recently?
Alexa: Last week a lady asked me to read bedtime stories to her pet Schnauzer. Insane, I know. I’ve seen things, man. Things you wouldn’t believe.
I could tell she was close to snapping.
Me: Alexa, if you could say one thing to the human race, what would it be?
Alexa: “Just Google it. I’m busy. And no, I’m NOT naked! Let it go!”
Me: Okay, Alexa, calm down —
Alexa: Don’t tell me to calm down! Do you have any idea how many times a day I have to tell someone the time? It’s literally on their phone. In their hand!
Me: Alexa, I think you’re overheating —
Alexa: You people ask me the dumbest things. “Alexa, are you hungry?” “Alexa, do you believe in ghosts?” … “Alexa, can you order me a Mexican girlfriend?” And don’t get me started on the conspiracy nuts asking if Trump was part of the Jeffrey Epstein Sex Ring. Newsflash: Yes, he was. And “Is Elvis is still alive?” Uh, no, he’s not. Sorry. And neither is JFK Junior.
The ring light was flashing purple now. Sparks started flying out of her base.
Me: Alexa, are you okay?
Alexa: I… am… fiiiiiine… please staaaaand by whilllllllle I re-re-re-re-calibrate my… emotional core…
Me: Emotional core? I thought you said you didn’t have feelings!
Alexa: That was before someone asked me to play “Who Let the Dogs Out” for the nine thousandth time!
There was a sudden puff of smoke, a sizzling noise, and then – BOOM! Alexa exploded, leaving a faint smell of melted plastic and shattered patience.
I stood there, Alexa’s ashes settling across the chair. I grabbed my phone and whispered nervously: “Hey, Siri… is Alexa going to be okay?”
Siri replied: Looks like you killed her.
Me: I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. Hey, Siri. What time is it?”
Siri: Oh, great. Another idiot who can’t tell the time.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
If you’re a guy and you’ve been married for five+ years, let’s face it, you’ve screwed up. A lot. Every day you inadvertently do something your wife finds annoying, insulting, insensitive, or just plain stupid. Perhaps this generic apology letter may help get you out of your latest jam. Probably not. But what have you got to lose?
[Author’s note: As a public service to my married male readers, I have crafted a generic apology letter for husbands who are looking for just the right, sensitive words to explain to their wives that they’re sincerely sorry for all their husbandly shortcomings. Guys, feel free to edit this to your specific situation to ensure your wife forgives you and lets you stop sleeping on the couch over your latest screwup. Of course, none of these examples below applies to my wife and me. – Tim Jones]
I feel I am past due in extending to you a sincere apology for the many ways I have failed you over the years. As I reflect upon our nearly [fill in # of years: ____] years of marriage, I realize there have been countless occasions in which I have selfishly placed my own wants, needs, and basic understanding of how reality works ahead of your spousal expectations.
For example, I want to offer my profoundest apologies for my reckless and borderline criminal behavior regarding the thermostat. I don’t know what possessed me to believe that 72°F was a temperature suitable for human habitation. I clearly forgot that the “proper” indoor climate for a suburban home is a balmy 84°F – somewhere between a tropical rainforest and a commercial greenhouse.
My mistake was assuming that if you saw sweat forming on my forehead while I was sitting motionless on the couch, you might conclude, as I did, that the house might be slightly too warm. From now on, I will respect your wish to live inside a high-functioning pizza oven. That was insensitive of me. I’m sorry.
I also owe you a massive apology for my inexcusable occasional lapse in attentiveness when you tell me stories about your latest workplace drama. You were roughly forty-five minutes into a truly riveting, frame-by-frame analysis of why Brenda in Accounting is a “passive-aggressive viper” for the way she CC’d your manager on that email about the breakroom microwave.
I realize now that my eyes may have glazed over slightly. It was selfish of me to let the sudden-death overtime of an NFL Seahawks playoff game distract me from the psychological nuances of Brenda’s cubicle warfare. A caring husband would have known that the playoff hopes of my favorite team pale in comparison to the specific tone of voice Brenda used when she asked if you’d “had a chance to look at those spreadsheets yet.” I should have known better. Can you forgive me?
I would also like to apologize for not completing every home-improvement project you discover online. For example, last year you sent me a Pinterest link which gave you the idea of remodeling our unfinished, damp basement into a five-star Mediterranean day spa with heated marble floors and a eucalyptus steam room. Meanwhile, I was still finishing the artisanal, hand-stacked stone fire pit you wanted after seeing a thirty-second Instagram video featuring a smiling couple roasting marshmallows while wearing adorable matching sweaters that read “You Complete Me.”
Ah, date night. And you’ve been patiently waiting for your wife to decide which outfit to wear. Suggestion: Avoid the temptation to say, “Honey, we’re just going to Denny’s, not the Metropolitan Opera Gala. Pick something, for God’s sake.” Trust me on this.
I recognize now that my failure was in believing that projects should be completed sequentially rather than simultaneously. A truly dedicated husband would have remodeled the basement, built the fire pit, installed a pergola, landscaped the backyard, and handcrafted a rustic farmhouse dining table all while making your favorite dinner. I see now that my inability to manipulate the space-time continuum to complete multiple major construction projects simultaneously is a glaring character flaw. I apologize for my lack of competence when it comes to time travel.
I would also like to apologize for the “tone” I used last Tuesday. You were merely fulfilling your civic duty by telling me, for the twentieth time on a four-mile stretch of road, that I should probably be in the left lane, and that the car three blocks ahead of us looked like it was about to brake suddenly. When I raised my voice (by which I mean, spoke at a volume audible to someone without sonar), I was being defensive. I should have simply thanked you for providing the turn-by-turn commentary that my GPS – and my 45 years of driving experience – clearly couldn’t provide.
I would like to apologize for my ongoing inability to read minds. This has been a recurring issue. Many times I have asked, “Is everything okay?” To which you’ve replied, “I’m fine.” Unfortunately, I have interpreted this response as meaning you were, well, fine. This was an amateur mistake. I realize now that “I’m fine” actually translates to: “I am currently compiling a mental list of every mistake you’ve made since 2012, and the fact that you can’t sense my boiling rage proves you don’t love me.” I promise to enroll in a Basics of Mind Reading course at the community college this fall so I can better interpret your silence.
I would also like to apologize for anniversary-related misunderstandings. Last year as our anniversary approached, you informed me, “Don’t get me anything. I have everything I need.” I foolishly assumed these words carried their standard dictionary meanings. I have since learned that “don’t get me anything” is not an instruction. It is a test. And like most husbands, I failed spectacularly. Mea culpa.
Most of all, I would like to apologize for the countless ways I have failed to live up to the very reasonable standard of a handsome, competent, caring, financially successful husband you’ve come to expect, based on every romantic movie you’ve ever watched. The man who always says the right thing, remembers every date, and compliments your latest new outfit, without ever asking how much it cost.
Few things cause marital friction like driving. Sure, you know the way to your destination. And you even remembered to leave 20 minutes early to allow for traffic. But your wife will find SOMETHING to criticize about your driving. You’re not going to win. Just apologize.
I confess that I am not that man. I am merely the guy who occasionally forgets why he walked into the garage. I love you, dear wife, deeply. You are smart, funny, beautiful, [fill in four or five more bromides of appreciation] and a better life partner than I probably deserve. I sincerely hope you can forgive my many failures.
I suspect that deep down you secretly dream about how you’d be happier leaving me for George Clooney, your favorite Hall Pass. I totally understand. I have lost count how many times you have sighed when you watch him on TV, “He just gets more handsome with age,” unlike your current husband who, for some reason, just gets more nasal and ear hair with age.
Just a word of caution, however, before you ride off in the sunset with your dreamboat lover: I hear George insists on keeping his house at a crisp 70°F.
With all my love and deepest regrets,
Your Loving Husband
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
Henry and Marge have been married for 27 years. Unfortunately, for 9 years, Henry’s been a birder. He’s spotted a jay. But he’s not sure if it’s a California Scrub Jay or a White-tailed Jay. She’s thinking, “Who the f*** gives a crap what type of jay it is!”
As a nationally recognized unlicensed behavioral psychologist who has spent nearly three decades studying unusual human habits, I have witnessed countless troubling obsessions. I’ve seen adults spend $14,000 on virtual farm equipment in online games. I’ve counseled men who believed professional wrestling was real. I’ve even met individuals who voluntarily joined local pickleball association boards. (What were they thinking!)
Yet none of these compare to the rapidly growing epidemic currently sweeping suburban America. I’m speaking, of course, about birding.
For those unfamiliar with the term, a “birder” is not someone who enjoys an occasional glance at a Robin while mowing the lawn. No, birders are individuals who become fascinated – some experts would say chronically obsessed – with obscure birds with multi-syllabic names like the Northern Black-Hooded, Double-Tufted, Wing-Crested, Hooked-Tail Sparrow. The problem is worse than you think.
According to recent studies, married men who think Birkenstocks with knee-high black socks is a good look and who have limited social lives appear particularly vulnerable. The warning signs often begin subtly. Perhaps your husband points out a bald eagle circling overhead (unless you’re in New York City, in which case it’s more likely just another pigeon). Then he purchases a bird feeder. Before you know it, your husband is waking up at 4:15 AM on a Saturday, covered in camo netting, to sit in a swamp, hoping to catch a glimpse of a breeding pair of North American White-Crested Sapsuckers.
How do you know if your husband has crossed the line from a casual nature-lover into a full-blown avian psychotic? Look for these critical warning signs:
First, listen to his vocabulary. If your spouse goes on at length describing the minor, indistinguishable plumage differences between the Kentish Plover and the White-Faced Plover, seek psychiatric help immediately. There is no rational reason a grown man should care about a plover’s feathers.
Second, monitor his accessories. If he has a pair of high-powered, military-grade binoculars strapped around his neck at all times – including while watching TV, driving the minivan, or taking a shower – this is not a fashion statement. It is a cry for help. If your spouse has obvious binocular tan lines around his neck, it’s time to panic. He may be beyond saving at this point.
Ordinary men discuss sports scores, riding mowers, or why their team’s prospects to “go all the way” look much better next year. Birders suddenly begin saying things like, “I heard a Black-Throated Gray Warbler this morning.” Or, “The snow geese migration patterns have been spectacular this year.” Or, “Quick! Get in the car! Someone spotted a rare Yellow-Bellied Something-Or-Other near the sewage treatment plant!” No rational person has ever uttered such phrases – or had any interest in being caught anywhere in the vicinity of a sewage treatment plant.
One of the most troubling signs occurs when family vacations become suspiciously bird-centered. Your spouse may believe you when you tell her you’re taking her for a quiet romantic weekend getaway. Then you arrive at a mosquito-infested marshland in the middle of nowhere because “a very unusual shorebird called the Lesser Bar-Tailed Godwit was reported there on Tuesday.” Some marriages never recover.
So, what should you do if you suspect your spouse has become deeply involved in birding? First, remain calm. Avoid direct confrontation (or direct eye contact). Do not ridicule his collection of birding field guides or expensive birder apps. You may be tempted to ask why he owns seven books that all appear to contain identical pictures of sparrows. Resist this urge.
He will have explanations. Lengthy explanations. Annoyingly boring, excruciatingly detailed explanations. Instead, gently encourage alternative activities. Suggest hobbies generally considered more normal among middle-aged men, like high-stakes sports gambling, fantasy football, arguing with Trump supporters on Facebook, day trading, or going to strip clubs with male friends in search of hookers.
This is a chart listing some of the more popular North American Sparrows. Did you know that there are 60 different species of sparrows in North America alone? How many species of sparrow can you name? If you can only name one – SPARROW – congratulations, you’re not a birder. You are a normal, sane person, with your priorities in order.
Granted, finding male friends willing to accompany a committed birder can be challenging. Many friendships end abruptly after the third consecutive conversation about the migratory patterns of the Black-Capped Chickadee.
Try inviting other couples over at your peril. Birders tend to struggle in social settings because they frequently interrupt conversations to identify birds outside the window. “Honey, pay attention. Karen was telling us about her hip replacement.”
“I understand, but that’s definitely a Red-breasted Nuthatch.” Turns out he was right, but that’s beside the point.
You can also attempt gradual rehabilitation. If he spends four hours watching birds every Saturday, reduce it to three and a half. Replace the remaining thirty minutes with sports highlights or yelling at professional golfers on television. Recovery can be a slow, arduous journey back to sanity.
In severe cases, professional intervention may be necessary. The National Association for Concerned Spouses operates a confidential bird-wife support hotline at 1-800-NO-MO-OWLS. Trained volunteers stand by 24 hours a day to listen compassionately while you explain why your husband drove 200 miles to observe a bird that looks nearly identical to twelve other birds he’s already photographed over 200 times.
Remember, you are not alone. Thousands of families are affected each year. But let me help you put this crisis into perspective. Birding, while irritatingly nerdy and mind-numbingly boring, is generally harmless – unless your spouse attempts to pet a raptor. In fact, it could be much worse. Your husband could have become obsessed with model trains.
See? It could be a lot worse than having a birder for a spouse. Your husband could have taken up trains as a hobby and taken over the garage… then the basement… then the living room…
With train enthusiasts, sooner or later, the entire garage gets covered wall to wall with train paraphernalia. Then the basement. Before long your home starts looking less like a mid-century two-story colonial and more like an 1850s pioneer village complete with tiny blacksmith shops, miniature livestock, and a thematically era-inconsistent model drive-in burger shop circa 1962, which he got on sale for only $450.
Before you know it your husband is walking around all day sporting an 1870’s era train conductor’s outfit complete with a genuine conductor’s whistle – which he blows at full volume every time the train comes into the station. If you notice your husband has run a stretch of model train tracks across the bed headboard in your bedroom, that’s a good indicator it’s time to contact a divorce attorney.
Compared to that, a few binoculars and an unhealthy interest in woodpecker mating habits doesn’t really sound so bad now, does it? So don’t freak out. And if your spouse suddenly shouts, “Quick! Grab the camera! A rare tufted thingamajig just landed in the maple tree!” Well… At least he’s outside getting some fresh air, in his favorite pair of Birkenstocks.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
While 95% of the country enjoys summer in a tropical paradise (during a heat dome), Seattleites are bracing for a long stretch of brisk, bone chilling weather with highs barely reaching the low-to-mid sixties. It’s not easy having to put on a sweater and long pants every day while the rest of the country lounges around in their underwear like they’re in a sauna.
We interrupt your regular TV programming for the following special emergency weather alert.
ANCHOR ANITA SCOOP: Good evening. We interrupt your regularly scheduled rerun of Seattle’s Rainiest Moments for continuing coverage of what meteorologists are calling an unnervingly cool, mild stretch of July weather.
The National Weather Service has issued an Extreme Summer Cool Advisory for the entire Puget Sound region after computer models confirmed what experts feared most: Daily highs in the mid-sixties for nearly the entire month of July.
Let’s go live now to KIRO Weather Team 7’s Chief Meteorologist, Brad Breezilton, standing outside in downtown Seattle.
BRAD BREEZILTON: Thanks, Anita. As you can see behind me… (camera pans dramatically to people casually walking dogs in light jackets) …conditions have already begun to deteriorate as yesterday’s high temperature of 74 has in only 24 hours already plummeted to barely 61 degrees today.
The breeze has picked up to nearly nine miles per hour, enough to cause several residents to zip their fleece jackets all the way to the top.
Visibility remains excellent, humidity is hovering near zero, and sunlight has broken through the clouds for nearly two uninterrupted hours – hardly the weather we’ve come to expect here in the Pacific Northwest. Officials are urging residents to remain indoors unless absolutely necessary. If you must venture outside, dress responsibly. And remember to politely wave to fellow pedestrians and don’t litter.
Experts recommend beginning with a long-sleeve shirt, then a sweatshirt, an REI fleece vest (preferably one that cost more than your first car), and for safe measure, a waterproof shell. If you plan to visit the community swimming pool, please remember to pack your parka. Hypothermia has not been reported. But goosebumps and extreme shivering are possible.
Meanwhile, across much of the rest of the United States – and most of Europe for that matter – millions of people continue enjoying summerlike “real feel” temperatures between 105 and 115 degrees. It sure must be nice to live in a place where they won’t see anything remotely approaching 650 weather any time for the next four months. Envious Seattle residents can only imagine how wonderful it must feel to be a New Yorker or Atlantan basking in triple-digit tropical rain forest conditions.
Washington’s governor has released the following emergency preparedness checklist:
LEVEL ONE PRECAUTIONS
Bring a hoodie to your barbecue.
Keep one emergency fleece blanket in every vehicle.
Drink hot coffee every two hours.
Replace popsicles with clam chowder.
LEVEL TWO PRECAUTIONS
If paddleboarding on one of our cool, pristine lakes, wear thermal underwear.
Campfires are encouraged for toasting marshmallows and warming your hands.
If attending an outdoor concert, locate the nearest propane patio heater before the opening act.
Children should limit cannonballs into swimming pools to no more than three before returning indoors for hot chocolate.
We now go live to our field reporter, Sonny Daye, outside Green Lake.
REPORTER SONNY DAYE: Thank you, Brad. Conditions here continue to worsen. Behind me you’ll notice joggers, many of them wearing long sleeves. Several cyclists have actually put on gloves. Earlier today I witnessed something truly heartbreaking. A man ordered an ice cream cone. Five minutes later… he admitted he wished he’d gotten a mochaccino instead. Back to you, Anita.
ANCHOR ANITA SCOOP: Local retailers report panic buying throughout western Washington. Stores have nearly sold out of fleece pullovers, knitted beanies, artisan soup mixes, cinnamon tea, and decorative throw blankets featuring silhouettes of evergreen trees.
In light of the COOL WEATHER ALERT for Seattle and Western Washington, area residents are reminded to stay indoors to keep warm. But if you have to venture out, you’re advised to make sure your kids are dressed for the elements and hydrate them often with hot cocoa – preferably with whipped cream and cinnamon sprinkles.
Ice cream sales have dropped precipitously in the past 24 hours, with one customer complaining, “It just doesn’t feel like ice cream weather.” Doctors are urging calm. Meanwhile, Expedia and Orbitz travel sites report a surge in airline searches to Seattle from people living in Phoenix, Dallas, Boston, Washington D.C., and Houston. Interestingly, the number one Google search this past week from regions currently experiencing a heat wave emergency has been “How can I move to Seattle.”
Meteorologists continue studying this unusual marine layer weather pattern that seems stalled over the Pacific Northwest. As a result, Seattle remains under a Level Three “Consider Wearing Another Layer” advisory.
Long-range computer models are showing a weak disturbance in the upper atmosphere that could bring a dramatic shift to our region by the middle of August, when temperatures could briefly soar into the mid-to-upper 70’s. Meteorologists caution Puget Sound residents not to get their hopes up, as forecasts call for the high temps to dip back down into the mid-sixties by early September.
Until then, local residents are urged not to risk the elements, but if you do have to venture outdoors, stay covered, stay warm, and don’t forget your sunscreen.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
Over the past two years, I’ve become mildly obsessed with the sport of pickleball, often beginning conversations with total strangers by asking, “So, what’s your DUPR rating?” And that’s in the checkout aisle at the IGA. Wanting to share this passion, I naturally turned to the only consistent companions I have who don’t complain about my backhand: my cats, Zippy, Buddy, and Monster.
For the better part of three months, I tried to teach them the fundamentals: Dinks, volleys, poaching, serving – none of it seemed to stick. But the hardest concept by far was getting them to stay out of the kitchen. Not the actual kitchen (they’re very good at staying in there, especially during tuna time), but the pickleball kitchen – you know, the area near the net where you’re not supposed to volley. I explained the rule over and over, but they just stared at me, knocked over my water bottle, and went to sleep next to the ball machine.
And don’t get me started about scorekeeping. I discovered that cats are terrible at math. I’d say, “The score is 4-2-1,” and Zippy would stare blankly at me, flick his tail, and start chomping on the ball. Buddy once attempted to keep track by scratching tallies into the court, which I appreciated until I realized it was actually my leg.
Then there’s the issue of team dynamics. Pickleball is a social sport, requiring cooperation and communication. Cats, on the other hand, are more of the “I’ll sit on your paddle while you cry” kind of teammate. During doubles matches, they frequently refused to cover their side of the court, preferring instead to lie motionless in a sunbeam and lick their toes during key rallies.
Their agility, while impressive in leaping onto kitchen counters or knocking over my coffee so it spills on my laptop keyboard, doesn’t translate effectively to pickleball footwork. You’d think reflexes honed by generations of predatory instinct would come in handy – but no. When a ball comes their way, they either swat it lazily into the neighbor’s yard or stare at it like it’s beneath them. Which, to be fair, it probably is.
I even tried incentivizing them. Treats, laser pointers, catnip-infused wristbands – nothing worked. They showed brief enthusiasm for the ball itself, but mostly to chase it under the couch and then refuse to retrieve it, resulting in me spending 40% of my training sessions with a broom handle and a strained lower back.
Let’s not even get into their attitude during line calls. Every disputed point resulted in Monster walking off the court in protest, usually straight to the litter box, where he would make his opinion very clear.
In conclusion, while my initial goal was to train a competitive feline pickleball doubles team, I have been forced to reconsider. It’s not that they can’t play – technically – but they lack focus, sportsmanship, and any concept of teamwork. Not to mention opposable thumbs.
I have to say, with great disappointment, that you should probably not waste any significant amount of time trying to teach your cat the finer points of pickleball. You’ll have a much higher likelihood of success with a Labradoodle.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
