Really Big Toys

I appreciated this article by Sean Kirst in the Post-Standard yesterday, about how Syracuse is the snowiest big city in the U.S. and we should embrace that status more fully.

Admittedly I feel a twinge when I contemplate the snowiest big city status because the "population of 100,000" threshold is fairly arbitrary, and places like Fulton and Lowville always have Syracuse beat when it comes to snowfall.  I understand that Lowville has some massive rotary snow plows that they pull out when there's too much snow for regular plows.  I haven't seen them myself, but in searching the Internet for some photos or footage, I encountered quite the cache of riveting snow removal footage.

Check out this sucker.  It's essentially what would result from a regular big old snow plow mating with a snow blower, and then the offspring taking steroids.  A lot of them.  Or check out this one (I love the punch line on that video, when they pan over to a clear view of the oops!, and the evil laughter in the background).

By far my favorites among the Wicked Cool Snow Moving Equipment, though, relate to trains.  Try this awe inspiring footage of a plowing train.  I found myself leaning forward as I watched the engine bog down, as if I could somehow help it break through.  Or how about this little engine that could?  How on Earth do they get trains out of situations like that, or like this?  Apparently with a little assistance.

Okay.  Eh hem.  Betcha didn't know I'm part redneck at heart.  Big Snow Plows.  Heh heh heh.  Cooool.

Back to that article, though - I completely agree that we ought to embrace our crazy snowfall 'round these parts.  We cope with the snow remarkably well on a technical level, but couldn't we play it up a bit more? Make it a tourist attraction and get more people outside playing in it, rather than just enduring it?  Instead of just hosting international bass fishing tournaments on Onondaga Lake, how about hosting a snowplowing competition?  I, for one, would go to it.

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No, no, no, no, no!

First of all, every year around this time I start getting supremely annoyed with the kajillion companies that send me clothing catalogs. Why?  Because I don't want to idly flip open the first page and see this:

while I'm standing huddled over the wood stove trying to return life to the fingers that became popsicles while getting the mail.

Or THIS while I'm contemplating how many layers I need to put on in order to sit still in the house for a few minutes without goose bumps:

I get cold just looking at those shirts.  Or (*gasp*) REALLY not this, while I'm at my whitest, flabbiest, chilliest, winter best:

Actually, come to think of it, I just never want to see anything related to swim suits - that's not seasonal.

Do these catalogs work?  They must.  Otherwise they wouldn't use them.  But in Upstate New York in January, these don't make me want to buy their clothing.  They make me want to run screaming from such scanty little tops and toe baring straps.  All I can think about is the systemic shock of stepping into a snowbank in sandals.  Alternatively, they make me contemplate moving to a warmer climate, to someplace where the concept of spring is not roughly 5 months and 65" of snow away.

While we're on the subject of snow, though, allow me to observe that this post's title applies to the following sequence of photos as well.

Dang it all, if we're going to have winter, we may as well HAVE it.  To hell with swimsuits and tank tops and shorts for now, and enough of the incredible shrinking snow piles outside.  Let's have some more snow.  At least I could have some fun with it, and relish a cozy snowed-in evening or two in front of the fire.  Bring it on!

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Variations in Life's Blogability

I've discovered something about winter: it's a lot less bloggable than other seasons.  That's not because the great outdoors in winter aren't interesting.  They most certainly are.  It's just that the daylight is so short the only times I can get out in it are during the day... when I'm generally at work.  No evening frolics in the garden with the camera for me.  Heaven forbid a weekend is so busy that I don't get time to do something outdoors because then I'm really at a loss as to what to blog about.  Like right now.

This past weekend was brutally packed and involved no outdoor adventures.  I'm buried at work, and we had other commitments scheduled back to back both days, too.

They weren't all un-fun - don't get me wrong.  I stuck in one blissfully frivolous event, life's responsibilities be damned:

We went to see the Metropolitan Opera's production of Der Rosenkavalier projected live in high definition on the big screen at our local mall on Saturday afternoon.  Very cool.  If you can even tolerate listening to opera I highly recommend seeing a live in HD projection - it's a totally different experience, and available in a lot more theaters than you might think.

If there's one person I'm a sucker for, it's lyric soprano Renée Fleming.  I love good opera, which the Met most certainly is, and love to see what productions we can on the big screen generally.  But I cannot miss a Met production if Renée Fleming is singing the lead.

Saturday's performance of Der Rosenkavalier was spectacular.  Richard Strauss operas have been the backbone of Renée Fleming's career because they bring out the absolute best in her vocally and dramatically.  She stars as the Marschallin, one of my favorite soprano roles in opera because the Marschallin, when performed well, is complex, strong, sympathetic, generous, likable, not entirely dependent on men, and doesn't die some kind of tragic death at the end.  That's a mighty rare combination in opera.  Susan Graham is a delectable mezzo-soprano and she sang the "trouser" role of Octavian, the Marshallin's lover.  She was excellent.  The sets for the Met's Der Rosenkavalier are magnificently opulent.

I'm guessing I don't necessarily have a lot of opera fans as readers, so I won't go on and on about it, but dang, what a lovely way to spend a Saturday afternoon!  We have tickets to see Renée Fleming at the Met in Rossini's Armida later this spring, and I can hardly wait.  It will be my first time at the Met, and my husband's first time in New York City.  Something to look forward to.

The point of all that was to say, while inconvenient timing, I spent the only weekend hours I could have had free for bloggably outdoorsy anything in a movie theater instead.  Worth it.  Definitely worth it.

However, after this past weekend, I'm behind in everything.  My Christmas lights are still up, along with the tree.  They really, really need to come down.  (What's the exact moment when I cross from appearing indolent to appearing weird?)  The house is a disaster.  It's amazing how fast 5 animals and 2 humans can wreck it, especially when the dogs' wintertime hobby is chewing all the kindling wood to bits all over the library, which is the central room in our house.  And, as I write this, I have a sink full of dishes and about 30 lbs of laundry to wash.

*Sigh*  Back to work.  I'm already counting down to next weekend...

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Happy Birthday Hounds!

I just realized that I completely missed the hounds' birthday.  It was Wednesday, I think.  So a belated happy birthday, kids!

(Don't they look enthusiastic?  This is one of the many reasons I don't have human kids.  They care not a jot that I forgot their birthday.)

We've never known for sure the real birth date for any of our pets since we always take in strays with who knows what history.  We adopted the hounds from the local Humane Association when they were supposedly 2 years old.  Their prior owner had surrendered them and had actually completed some paperwork about them.  The spot for birthday on the form read "January 6, 2006".  That makes them 4.  Or 28 in dog years.  They act more like 4.

It's been a rough road with these two.  It's amazing how much damage can be done in early years of mistreatment and/or neglect and an extended stint in a shelter.  But they've come a long way, and most days I find them excellent companions and friends.  Most days.  When I'm not cleaning poo off the carpet or fishing valuables out of Simon's mouth.

There is, by the way, no such thing as a dog-proof house.  A dozen baby gates and everything up high be damned - they always find a way to get into something.

I'll never adopt litter mates again, though, as it made it infinitely harder to bond with them.  For a long time we thought it would be impossible.  I really feel for the parents of twins!  Instead of turning to their humans for guidance, instruction and security, they rely almost exclusively on each other.  They are the most symbiotic and codependent creatures I have ever encountered.  They even typically sleep in identical positions, or at least mirror images of one another.

Training them?  Not easy.  For weeks in obedience school we couldn't convince them to stop paying attention to each other long enough to focus on what we were asking of them, even with bits of hot dog in our hands.  But separating them back then for an hour at a time so they could attend separate classes wasn't possible for me to endure - I could not handle the kind of panic attacks Lucy would exhibit when separated from her brother for that long.  The vet and (bless her heart) very patient trainer agreed that it couldn't be good for them to force the issue.

They have definitely come a long way, as they now have enough confidence that we can even take them to the vet separately if we have to (so long as they're each with a human and not left alone), but it was a heck of a project to get them to that point.  And the pure ecstatic joy they exhibit when they're reunited after even a few minutes apart makes me both shake my head in bewilderment and makes a little teary eyed.

Just because they can endure separation for brief stints when necessary, don't think they aren't still ridiculously symbiotic.  By way of example, Lucy's never gotten the hang of asking to go outside when she needs to go, and now Simon consistently asks to go out when it's really Lucy who has to go.  (Thank you, Simon.  You have no idea how much I appreciate that little trick).

They spend their days locked in the same crate together because if you put them in separate crates Lucy tries to dig her way out obsessively until her paws bleed.  After spending all that time stuck touching each other, they burst out of the crate and rip around the house and yard, playing like maniacs.  If I spent 8 hours a day physically touching somebody I'd want to spend a few hours on my own afterward, that's for sure, no matter how much I liked the person.  They then collapse in a heap to rest.  On top of one another.

They occasionally do get on each other's nerves - usually for short bursts that last less than 15 seconds.  Lucy generally wins the spats, for what it's worth.  I don't think they'd survive long without one another, and I try not to think about how we'll cope when one dies before the other. Hopefully it will be a long time before we have to cross that particular bridge.  After all, they're young 'uns, right?

Well, anyway, despite all the torment you've dished out, my fine canine friends, I'm mighty glad your birthday happened, and that you wormed your wrinkly, droopy, stubborn, codependent ways into my house and heart.

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