My weather algorithm needs work

Where I grew up in Florida, weather was simple.  It was hot, or it was too damn hot.  It was raining, or it wasn't.  That's it.  Sure, a few times in my life a hurricane trashed us, and once a June storm caused flooding, but those events were more like visits from political candidates than regular weather:  Everyone talked about them, and you had plenty of warning they were coming.  I consequently grew up with a simple approach to the weather:  It was what it was, and it didn't matter to me.

I've now lived far more of my life outside Florida than in it, but my fundamentally blase attitude about the weather has stayed with me.  I've sharpened my weather-planning algorithm only slightly:  In spring, I switch to short-sleeve shirts; in summer to shorts; in fall back to long pants, and in late fall to long-sleeve shirts.  When it starts getting cold, I add a light coat when I notice people around me wearing one.

This approach generally works for me in my part of North Carolina.

Today, it did not. 

I'd upgraded to a coat a bit ago, when the weather turned cold, and I knew it was December, so I figured I was done thinking about the weather until March.  I'd noticed over the past few days that the coat was a bit much, but I figured that situation would correct itself soon enough.  In case I was wrong, though, I left the coat on the hanger this morning and wore a heavy long-sleeved shirt.

Bad choice.

Today, the high was something like 77.  The day was glorious, the weather the perfection of a late September or early October afternoon.  I should have been in short sleeves.  Everyone else was. 

I definitely need to improve my weather algorithm.  The problem is, I can't be bothered.  Doing that would just add overhead to my day. 

Yes, I know I could look at the weather app on my phone, and I do that every now and then--but only when I've dressed inappropriately.  I could check it before dressing, but I won't, because, well, I'm stupid that way. 

Maybe I'll just leave a coat in every car we own and at my office.  That would cost more, but only once.

See?  I told you I'm stupid that way.

I am so sixteen inside

Or maybe it's twelve.  Sometimes, it's hard for me to tell which.

Example:  Not long after arriving in Albany last Wednesday, I had to phone into a podcast show (more on that in another post).  My room wasn't ready yet, and the hotel lobby was too loud for the call, so I asked one of the desk clerks where I might find a quiet space.  He sent me to a lower floor which was, he assured me, "a ghost town."

It was indeed a whole lot of empty space.  No one was in any of its many meeting rooms.

Those rooms had, however, very recently hosted some sort of motivational/organizational meetings.  Flip boards and cork boards and whiteboards sported all sorts of generic terms and sayings.  The room I chose for the call featured this bit of seminar detritus.

After I finished the call, the juvenile me found the board irresistible.  I grabbed a marker, and a few minutes later, I left the room with the board sporting a new message.

I told you:  sixteen, or maybe twelve. 

If I'm ever a world-famous writer

I want someone to make a video like this one for me.

(Warning: Very adult language.)



Yeah, I know: How shallow can he be?

At least this shallow, probably worse.

Wanna know how dumb I can be?

Sure you do. Here's an example.

The handle on my main travel suitcase broke a while back. Gina agreed to take care of it for me by sending the broken one to the Tumi mothership for repair. In the meantime, though, I had to travel again and so needed another bag. My solution, which Gina implemented (my credit card in hand): Get another Tumi. Just to try it, we went for one with four wheels instead of two.

The reason for my brand loyalty to Tumi is another story for another time. Remind me sometime, and I'll tell you.

Anyway, the suitcase came, and off on a trip I went. The whole journey, the suitcase steered like a drunk with a noisemaker, unable to stay on course and squeaking the whole time. I came to hate that bag--a first for me with a Tumi. Still, I thought, perhaps it's just not broken in. I don't send back things, so I figured I had to get used to it. Penance for my sins (small penance).

Next trip comes, and the damn thing still sucks. Finally, as I'm griping about it, Gina says she'll take it back for me. As we're talking, she looks at the suitcase and notes that it has brakes on two of its wheels--and one of those brakes is engaged.

She disengages the brake and, voila, the thing rolls straight and true and silent.

Brakes on a suitcase. Who knew? Clearly, I did not.

Given that the suitcase's behavior perfectly mimicked that of a bag with one stuck wheel, which was exactly what it was, I should have noticed this issue on my own and fixed it. But, no: I preferred to gripe and live with it.

Gina and Tumi: 1. Mark: 0.

Why I wore the cone suit

Ticia, my Balticon handler and now friend, posted a comment on yesterday's Cone man entry and my "I am stupid" label. In that comment, which for your ease of reference I've replicated here, she asked a couple of questions.

"I am stupid" is a bit harsh.

The pictures are great, but I sense a story behind the donning of said costume.

Did you lose a bet?

Were you forced to sing the "Nothing" song from "A Chorus Line"?

No, I did not lose a bet.

No, I did not have to sing the "Nothing"--or any other--song.

The reason I was cone man is the same as the reason for the "I am stupid" label: I wanted to wear the cone.

You see, I have the kind of mind that, as Russell Brand commented in a stand-up routine we saw at the beach, sees a situation and wants to do something inappropriate. The moment I saw the cone man suit, I thought, I wonder what's it like to be the cone, and then immediately after that, I want to be the cone.

Unfortunately for those around me, I also have the kind of mind that leads me to act on such impulses.

Hence the cone man appearance--and the label.

I didn't even show you the pictures of me working the parking lot for business for the ice cream store, hugging my kids and friends, or making some of them dance with me. See, I do have some self-control.

Cone man

I mentioned in my beach blogs that at one point I had donned the cone costume at the ice cream place where I bought Mr. Creepy Cone. I received requests for pictures, and after lengthy consideration have decided to honor them.

I did this two years ago and threatened to do it again this year. Cooler heads prevailed--but there's always next year!

I think the sequence of pictures speaks for itself, so I won't say any more.