Posts
Earbud update: the Sock Alien caught in the act!
http://sknygrydg07.posterous.com/caught-in-the-act-6
Ramblings Episode 598: Post-Fact Society
10 years ago
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Untangling Earbuds
They say the only sure things are death and taxes, but I'd like to add "tangled earbuds" to that short list of life's certainties. Like the gravitational constant, I think it must be a physical law of the universe that earbuds tangle themselves no matter how carefully you lay them down.
To satisfy the empiricist in me, I have experimented with this extensively. When I am finished listening to my favorite podcasts, I lay my earbuds flat on my computer desk where they should peacefully wait until later in the day when I load my iPod Shuffle with fresh, new podcasts. During the time I am gone, nobody is home but our lazy cat, who has never jumped on said computer desk. One would think that when I got back, the earbuds would be exactly as I had left them.
But alas, no. When I pick up my poor earbuds, they have tangled themselves into an impossible Gordian knot that takes me more hours to untie that it would take me to solve a Rubik's cube (I'm still waiting on that little stroke of brilliance, in case you're wondering).
It's worse when I leave them overnight. When I go to bed, I take my trusty Shuffle upstairs and lay it carefully on my side of the bathroom counter. Again, no matter how neatly I arrange the earbud cords, they are hopelessly tangled by morning. I have learned to set my alarm early enough to allow time for the inevitable exercise in untangling that I must undergo every morning. I think Earbud Untangling should count as part of my workout routine, but Gizmo is not convinced.
Personally, I suspect the Sock Alien. I think he creeps out of the dryer when he's done playing with the assorted single socks he absconded with on laundry day. He slithers along and, finding no additional socks, is irresistably attracted to my earbuds. It's like gravity or something. See? I knew the gravitational constant figured into this somehow.
I wonder what would happen if I put a nice, clean sock on the floor directly underneath my poor earbuds? I shall have to experiment!
To satisfy the empiricist in me, I have experimented with this extensively. When I am finished listening to my favorite podcasts, I lay my earbuds flat on my computer desk where they should peacefully wait until later in the day when I load my iPod Shuffle with fresh, new podcasts. During the time I am gone, nobody is home but our lazy cat, who has never jumped on said computer desk. One would think that when I got back, the earbuds would be exactly as I had left them.
But alas, no. When I pick up my poor earbuds, they have tangled themselves into an impossible Gordian knot that takes me more hours to untie that it would take me to solve a Rubik's cube (I'm still waiting on that little stroke of brilliance, in case you're wondering).
It's worse when I leave them overnight. When I go to bed, I take my trusty Shuffle upstairs and lay it carefully on my side of the bathroom counter. Again, no matter how neatly I arrange the earbud cords, they are hopelessly tangled by morning. I have learned to set my alarm early enough to allow time for the inevitable exercise in untangling that I must undergo every morning. I think Earbud Untangling should count as part of my workout routine, but Gizmo is not convinced.
Personally, I suspect the Sock Alien. I think he creeps out of the dryer when he's done playing with the assorted single socks he absconded with on laundry day. He slithers along and, finding no additional socks, is irresistably attracted to my earbuds. It's like gravity or something. See? I knew the gravitational constant figured into this somehow.
I wonder what would happen if I put a nice, clean sock on the floor directly underneath my poor earbuds? I shall have to experiment!
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Going to Phoenix
A great vacation consists of good air, good fun, good eats, and good friends. I had all of the above last week when EdGizmo and I went to Phoenix.
Good Air
The first indication that we weren't in Michigan any more was when our plane landed in Phoenix and I spied the palm trees that lined the runway. The second indication was the almost-hot puff of air that blew over us as we left the plane - the kind of hot you'd never feel in Michigan on the second day of March.
What really told me we weren't in Michigan anymore was the aroma. Once we got our rental car (some foreign jobby-sorry, Dad) and were driving down the road, I opened the windows and inhaled. It smelled like spring, yet no spring I'd ever experienced. I could detect some sort of blooms, but it wasn't the overpowering perfume of flowers. There was a gentle sweetness that was citrusy, but subtler than any fruit. I found out later it was orange blossoms. I think I'll forever associate that scent with Phoenix.
My body loved the Phoenix air. My skin is usually oily enough to supply an OPEC nation, but the arid climate turned it into something somewhat approaching normal. It felt fabulous, and I wondered if that's how most people's skin feels all the time. If so, I'm jealous! I quickly got used to needing only one paper towel to dry my hands (as opposed to the two or three I usually used) and my thick head of hair dried in record time.
And the warmth! The ninety-degree temps we had the first day would have been oppressive back home, but felt only a little on the warm side in Phoenix. The eighties we had over the next couple days felt more like perfect room-temperature weather. This feeling was enhanced by the fact that there wasn't so much as a hint of a breeze the whole time we were there. It wasn't until Thursday, when highs were in the seventies that we had to put our jeans back on in place of the shorts we'd been wearing previously.
Good Fun
As if just living and breathing the air in Phoenix weren't enough, I got to see a baseball game! Spring training was in full swing in Arizona, and we saw the Cubs play the Indians at Cleveland's brand new facility, Goodyear Park. It was a great game, which the Indians won, 5 - 4. Indians legend Bob Feller was there, and I shook his hand and got his autograph. We sat in the shade, ate hot dogs and ice cream, and took in the game. What could be better?
We also toured the Desert Botanical Garden, which featured a glass exhibit by Dale Chihuly. It was sometimes hard to tell where the plants ended and the glass began. The same could be said of Frank Lloyd Wright's Taliesin West. The buildings blended in with the landscape so well that I could hardly tell anything was there until we were practically on top of it.
Good Eats
Of course, anytime we go to another city that has a Ruth's Chris Steakhouse, we have to go there. So we did, and it was delicious, as usual. There were a couple things they did differently there than other Ruth's Chris restaurants we've been to. When the hostess seated us, she replaced the white cloth napkins that were on the table with black ones. "So you don't get light-colored lint on your dark pants," she explained. Later, when our steaks came to us on their 500-degree plates, the servers asked us to raise our napkins in front of us so we wouldn't get splattered by the sizzling butter. I don't know if that's just a Phoenix thing, but regardless, it was a good idea.
Another great eatery we tried on a friend's recommendation was the Heart Attack Grill. They have precisely four entrees on their menu: a Single Bypass (a half-pound burger), a Double Bypass (with two half-pound patties), a Triple Bypass (with three half-pound patties) and a Quadruple Bypass (yes, two full pounds of hamburger). Their one side item is Flatliner Fries, cooked in lard, of course. No diet beverages are allowed in the establishment, and even the water comes in the bottled variety. Everything is served by waitresses in scanty nurses' costumes and the men who cook the burgers are dolled up in lab coats.
Good Friends
Far and away the highlight of our trip was getting to meet fellow Grammar Police officer Ruthie Cohen. She was warm, kind, generous, funny, and just a pleasure to be around. She played host for us, accompanying us to the Desert Botanical Garden, to dinner one night (Rock Bottom Brewery), and to lunch another day (Paradise Bakery). We felt so comfortable with her that we felt like we've known her for ages. Of course, I'm sure our acquaintance through the Grammar Police helped that, but she is one reason we definitely would like to go back to Phoenix.
I certainly hope to one day very soon.
Good Air
The first indication that we weren't in Michigan any more was when our plane landed in Phoenix and I spied the palm trees that lined the runway. The second indication was the almost-hot puff of air that blew over us as we left the plane - the kind of hot you'd never feel in Michigan on the second day of March.
What really told me we weren't in Michigan anymore was the aroma. Once we got our rental car (some foreign jobby-sorry, Dad) and were driving down the road, I opened the windows and inhaled. It smelled like spring, yet no spring I'd ever experienced. I could detect some sort of blooms, but it wasn't the overpowering perfume of flowers. There was a gentle sweetness that was citrusy, but subtler than any fruit. I found out later it was orange blossoms. I think I'll forever associate that scent with Phoenix.
My body loved the Phoenix air. My skin is usually oily enough to supply an OPEC nation, but the arid climate turned it into something somewhat approaching normal. It felt fabulous, and I wondered if that's how most people's skin feels all the time. If so, I'm jealous! I quickly got used to needing only one paper towel to dry my hands (as opposed to the two or three I usually used) and my thick head of hair dried in record time.
And the warmth! The ninety-degree temps we had the first day would have been oppressive back home, but felt only a little on the warm side in Phoenix. The eighties we had over the next couple days felt more like perfect room-temperature weather. This feeling was enhanced by the fact that there wasn't so much as a hint of a breeze the whole time we were there. It wasn't until Thursday, when highs were in the seventies that we had to put our jeans back on in place of the shorts we'd been wearing previously.
Good Fun
As if just living and breathing the air in Phoenix weren't enough, I got to see a baseball game! Spring training was in full swing in Arizona, and we saw the Cubs play the Indians at Cleveland's brand new facility, Goodyear Park. It was a great game, which the Indians won, 5 - 4. Indians legend Bob Feller was there, and I shook his hand and got his autograph. We sat in the shade, ate hot dogs and ice cream, and took in the game. What could be better?
We also toured the Desert Botanical Garden, which featured a glass exhibit by Dale Chihuly. It was sometimes hard to tell where the plants ended and the glass began. The same could be said of Frank Lloyd Wright's Taliesin West. The buildings blended in with the landscape so well that I could hardly tell anything was there until we were practically on top of it.
Good Eats
Of course, anytime we go to another city that has a Ruth's Chris Steakhouse, we have to go there. So we did, and it was delicious, as usual. There were a couple things they did differently there than other Ruth's Chris restaurants we've been to. When the hostess seated us, she replaced the white cloth napkins that were on the table with black ones. "So you don't get light-colored lint on your dark pants," she explained. Later, when our steaks came to us on their 500-degree plates, the servers asked us to raise our napkins in front of us so we wouldn't get splattered by the sizzling butter. I don't know if that's just a Phoenix thing, but regardless, it was a good idea.
Another great eatery we tried on a friend's recommendation was the Heart Attack Grill. They have precisely four entrees on their menu: a Single Bypass (a half-pound burger), a Double Bypass (with two half-pound patties), a Triple Bypass (with three half-pound patties) and a Quadruple Bypass (yes, two full pounds of hamburger). Their one side item is Flatliner Fries, cooked in lard, of course. No diet beverages are allowed in the establishment, and even the water comes in the bottled variety. Everything is served by waitresses in scanty nurses' costumes and the men who cook the burgers are dolled up in lab coats.
Good Friends
Far and away the highlight of our trip was getting to meet fellow Grammar Police officer Ruthie Cohen. She was warm, kind, generous, funny, and just a pleasure to be around. She played host for us, accompanying us to the Desert Botanical Garden, to dinner one night (Rock Bottom Brewery), and to lunch another day (Paradise Bakery). We felt so comfortable with her that we felt like we've known her for ages. Of course, I'm sure our acquaintance through the Grammar Police helped that, but she is one reason we definitely would like to go back to Phoenix.
I certainly hope to one day very soon.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Being a Speed Limit
Today is my birthday, and for the first time in five years, I'm a speed limit. For the last time until I hit 55 or 70, I am now one of the most common speed limits on American roads - 45. How cool is that?
Now if I were celebrating any other birthday, it wouldn't be as cool. After all, I don't know that there's anything particularly special about turning an age that just happens to be divisible by the number 5. Said birthdays are even less cool when they're not one of those mile markers like 25 or 75 that represent entire quarter centuries lived. By those standards, 45 is buried in ignominy.
It's different when you're turning an age that is divisible by 10. When your age ends in a zero, you've just finished living a(nother) decade of life and there's a whole new decade in front of you. The first one of these - when you turn 10 - is really neat because now you can count your age using double digits. The decades that follow mark transitions into different parts of life. Not only that, but it helps the increasingly aged mind that the math becomes much easier at a 10-year point.
There's something about the decade that makes those birthdays extra cool, too. We even talk about time in terms of decades. It's easy to refer to the sixties, seventies, eighties, or whatever. But who in the world talks about time in five-year increments? Think about it: while people may reminisce about the seventies, for instance, they just don't wax rhapsodic about the specific period of the late seventies. Of course, that may have more to do with the lame clothes and disco music of the time, but still . . . We just don't talk about fives the way we do tens. This is just another reason that some may be tempted to leave 45 in the dust of passing time.
But there are other cool things about being 45. For one thing, it's halfway to 90. I've got another 45 years before I'm really old. But, by far, the coolest thing about being 45 is that I'm now a speed limit. My age is posted on rectangular white signs for the whole world to see. Granted, said signs don't say "Julayne is 45," they simply say, "Speed Limit 45." But every time I pass one from now on, I'll know it means me.
Now if I were celebrating any other birthday, it wouldn't be as cool. After all, I don't know that there's anything particularly special about turning an age that just happens to be divisible by the number 5. Said birthdays are even less cool when they're not one of those mile markers like 25 or 75 that represent entire quarter centuries lived. By those standards, 45 is buried in ignominy.
It's different when you're turning an age that is divisible by 10. When your age ends in a zero, you've just finished living a(nother) decade of life and there's a whole new decade in front of you. The first one of these - when you turn 10 - is really neat because now you can count your age using double digits. The decades that follow mark transitions into different parts of life. Not only that, but it helps the increasingly aged mind that the math becomes much easier at a 10-year point.
There's something about the decade that makes those birthdays extra cool, too. We even talk about time in terms of decades. It's easy to refer to the sixties, seventies, eighties, or whatever. But who in the world talks about time in five-year increments? Think about it: while people may reminisce about the seventies, for instance, they just don't wax rhapsodic about the specific period of the late seventies. Of course, that may have more to do with the lame clothes and disco music of the time, but still . . . We just don't talk about fives the way we do tens. This is just another reason that some may be tempted to leave 45 in the dust of passing time.
But there are other cool things about being 45. For one thing, it's halfway to 90. I've got another 45 years before I'm really old. But, by far, the coolest thing about being 45 is that I'm now a speed limit. My age is posted on rectangular white signs for the whole world to see. Granted, said signs don't say "Julayne is 45," they simply say, "Speed Limit 45." But every time I pass one from now on, I'll know it means me.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Being a Lions Fan
Hi. My name is Julayne, and I'm a . . . Lions fan. Like an alcoholic irresistibly drawn to drink, I'm perennially enticed by the wretched football games played by the hapless Detroit Lions.
There must be something wrong with a fan who keeps going back to the kind of misery that the Detroit Lions consistently heap upon their fans. We haven't had a decent season since the days Barry Sanders graced the Honolulu blue and silver, and the Lions are one of the few NFL teams never to have played in a Super Bowl, let alone won one. I could quote more of the statistical morass that defines the Lions, but I'll desist. The fact remains that despite how awful the Lions are, I'm still a fan of the team. One has to wonder why.
It may be the old root-for-the-underdog mentality that defines America's rags-to-riches character. The problem with that is that the Lions have been all rags and no riches. Maybe it's because I've always been drawn to mournful things like gray, rainy days and music in minor keys. There's a certain piteousness about the Lions that makes you want to wallow with them in some sort of depressive mud puddle. But the Lions won't even feel properly sorry for themselves. There is an indefatigable optimism about even their worst games that has them looking hopefully to next week and causes them to celebrate their first downs as if they were touchdowns.
Perhaps I'm a glutton for punishment. After all, I'm also a fan of the Detroit Tigers and the Michigan Wolverines, both of whom had disastrous seasons this year. The 2008 Tigers looked more like the 2003 Tigers (who lost more than 100 games) than the 2006 Tigers (who made the World Series). Michigan is not playing in a college bowl game this year for the first time in over thirty years. It's definitely not a good year to be a sports fan in southeastern Michigan. But I keep coming back.
Maybe it's genetic. My dad has been a Lions fan all his life, so perhaps I inherited it from him. But even he gets discouraged and sometimes threatens to start following a different team just so he can say his team can win a game once in a while. Yet I have a difficult time even joking about such a thing, despite the suggestions of my Packer-fan husband. There's something about being a Lions fan and remaining a Lions fan that I can't seem to get away from.
I guess what I need to do is stop analyzing it, accept the cold, hard reality that I'm a fan of a terrible team and leave it at that. Enjoy the flash-in-the-pan bright spots and the occasional first downs and revel in the fact that one way into the NFL Hall of Fame is to be the only 0-16 team ever to have donned NFL jerseys.
Whatever else the Lions might be, they are my football team, for better or for worse. Even though it's been mostly for worse, I'll keep rooting for them. After all, there's always next year.
There must be something wrong with a fan who keeps going back to the kind of misery that the Detroit Lions consistently heap upon their fans. We haven't had a decent season since the days Barry Sanders graced the Honolulu blue and silver, and the Lions are one of the few NFL teams never to have played in a Super Bowl, let alone won one. I could quote more of the statistical morass that defines the Lions, but I'll desist. The fact remains that despite how awful the Lions are, I'm still a fan of the team. One has to wonder why.
It may be the old root-for-the-underdog mentality that defines America's rags-to-riches character. The problem with that is that the Lions have been all rags and no riches. Maybe it's because I've always been drawn to mournful things like gray, rainy days and music in minor keys. There's a certain piteousness about the Lions that makes you want to wallow with them in some sort of depressive mud puddle. But the Lions won't even feel properly sorry for themselves. There is an indefatigable optimism about even their worst games that has them looking hopefully to next week and causes them to celebrate their first downs as if they were touchdowns.
Perhaps I'm a glutton for punishment. After all, I'm also a fan of the Detroit Tigers and the Michigan Wolverines, both of whom had disastrous seasons this year. The 2008 Tigers looked more like the 2003 Tigers (who lost more than 100 games) than the 2006 Tigers (who made the World Series). Michigan is not playing in a college bowl game this year for the first time in over thirty years. It's definitely not a good year to be a sports fan in southeastern Michigan. But I keep coming back.
Maybe it's genetic. My dad has been a Lions fan all his life, so perhaps I inherited it from him. But even he gets discouraged and sometimes threatens to start following a different team just so he can say his team can win a game once in a while. Yet I have a difficult time even joking about such a thing, despite the suggestions of my Packer-fan husband. There's something about being a Lions fan and remaining a Lions fan that I can't seem to get away from.
I guess what I need to do is stop analyzing it, accept the cold, hard reality that I'm a fan of a terrible team and leave it at that. Enjoy the flash-in-the-pan bright spots and the occasional first downs and revel in the fact that one way into the NFL Hall of Fame is to be the only 0-16 team ever to have donned NFL jerseys.
Whatever else the Lions might be, they are my football team, for better or for worse. Even though it's been mostly for worse, I'll keep rooting for them. After all, there's always next year.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Playing Musical Mayo
Who knew that condiments could be fodder for a game of musical chairs?
This morning as I was making my lunch, I reached into the refrigerator to pull out everything I needed. Turkey, check. Apple, check. Mayo, che -- wait a minute. This wasn't mayonnaise. It was Miracle Whip salad dressing! Suddenly I knew I'd been had by the fiend who plays the game of Musical Mayo.
We store our condiments in one of those plastic refrigerator trays that slides into plastic grooves inside the fridge door. In the tray is ketchup, mustard, maybe a jar of pickles, and yes, Miracle Whip and mayonnaise. These latter two stand one behind another on one side of the tray. It's easiest to just grab a bottle from the closest corner, and boom! Instant sandwich makings. Naturally, I prefer that the mayo be at the front of the tray for just such instant grabbage. Some fiend in our house, on the other hand, prefers that the Miracle Whip be in the front for the same reason.
This fiend gets up earlier than I do, so on the days he takes his lunch to work, he makes his first. When he's done, I'm guessing he sticks his Miracle Whip back in the most convenient spot -- that coveted front corner. Which results in my mayo getting shoved to the back corner and my getting to do the Musical Mayo mambo when it's my turn at food fabrication.
I supppose we could demote the ketchup to the back row. Then the mayo and the Miracle Whip could stand side by side, ready at a moment's notice to decorate my sandwich or the fiend's. But one problem with that solution is that the corner would still be the position most highly sought after, resulting in a new game of Musical Mayo that runs side-to-side instead of front-to-back. Not only that, what would we do when we want ketchup for our hamburgers?
I'm not at all sure how to resolve this conundrum. Perhaps I should simply start humming nameless tunes while I extract condiments from the refrigerator. Then when the music stops . . .
This morning as I was making my lunch, I reached into the refrigerator to pull out everything I needed. Turkey, check. Apple, check. Mayo, che -- wait a minute. This wasn't mayonnaise. It was Miracle Whip salad dressing! Suddenly I knew I'd been had by the fiend who plays the game of Musical Mayo.
We store our condiments in one of those plastic refrigerator trays that slides into plastic grooves inside the fridge door. In the tray is ketchup, mustard, maybe a jar of pickles, and yes, Miracle Whip and mayonnaise. These latter two stand one behind another on one side of the tray. It's easiest to just grab a bottle from the closest corner, and boom! Instant sandwich makings. Naturally, I prefer that the mayo be at the front of the tray for just such instant grabbage. Some fiend in our house, on the other hand, prefers that the Miracle Whip be in the front for the same reason.
This fiend gets up earlier than I do, so on the days he takes his lunch to work, he makes his first. When he's done, I'm guessing he sticks his Miracle Whip back in the most convenient spot -- that coveted front corner. Which results in my mayo getting shoved to the back corner and my getting to do the Musical Mayo mambo when it's my turn at food fabrication.
I supppose we could demote the ketchup to the back row. Then the mayo and the Miracle Whip could stand side by side, ready at a moment's notice to decorate my sandwich or the fiend's. But one problem with that solution is that the corner would still be the position most highly sought after, resulting in a new game of Musical Mayo that runs side-to-side instead of front-to-back. Not only that, what would we do when we want ketchup for our hamburgers?
I'm not at all sure how to resolve this conundrum. Perhaps I should simply start humming nameless tunes while I extract condiments from the refrigerator. Then when the music stops . . .
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Loving My Weather Channel Widget
I admit it. I'm a weather geek. I love all things having to do with storms, clouds, tornadoes, you name it. Not only can I tell you exactly what a dewpoint is, but I can calculate it in my head fairly accurately given temperature and humidity readings. Of course, I rely on my handy dewpoint spreadsheet for more exact figures (see, I told you I was a geek). I check the weather forecast several times a day from many different sources. If I don't quite believe something one weatherman says, I'll check it against what other weathermen say.
Sometimes I even do my own amateur forecasting. "Well, the radio station says it's supposed to get up to 80 degrees next week, but I don't think we'll see much more than the mid-seventies." Then when the thermometer tops out at a warm, but not hot, 75 degrees, I carve out another notch in my temperature-taker.
There are all kinds of awesome gadgets in my weather-geek toolbox. Besides the Weather Channel being my favorite cable TV channel and website, I also get my kicks out of different weather websites, cool weather webcams, and other wonders of our technological age.
But by far my favorite recent discovery has been the Weather Channel desktop widget. I tried it a couple years ago, and it didn't do much for me but kludge up my computer. But I thought they may have spruced things up a bit since then, so I gave it another shot. I discovered one thing:
I love my Weather Channel desktop widget! And I'm telling everyone I know. I'm driving my Twitter followers crazy by mentioning it at least twice a day.
My WC widget lives in my computer's system tray (that bunch of icons in the lower right hand corner), telling me what the local temperature is. Just one click on the little blue square pops up a window that gives me everything I need to know in a quick snapshot. I see local radar and a short-term forecast. I have easy access to anything else I might want to see, such as more detailed hourly forecasts or the long-range variety. I can get pollen counts and traffic info. There's weather trivia and travel conditions. It even has a section of cute cartoons. I can customize it so the color scheme reflects my favorite MLB team. Right now, it's set to the colors of the Detroit "Wait-Till-Next-Year" Tigers (meow!).
Just yesterday, I found out that my little widget flashes yellow when there's a weather alert. Last night there was a frost warning, and the widget twinkled away to alert me to the fact. Is that the coolest thing, or what?
The only thing I'm really bummed about is that because of downloading restrictions on my computer at work, I can't get my widget there. So I guess I'll have to get my weather jollies at home while trying to ignore the voice of Gizmo, who keeps telling me, "Weather is what happens when you walk out the door!"
Poor misguided soul. Someday he'll learn the joys of weather geekdom. On that happy day, he too can be the proud owner of a Weather Channel desktop widget.
Sometimes I even do my own amateur forecasting. "Well, the radio station says it's supposed to get up to 80 degrees next week, but I don't think we'll see much more than the mid-seventies." Then when the thermometer tops out at a warm, but not hot, 75 degrees, I carve out another notch in my temperature-taker.
There are all kinds of awesome gadgets in my weather-geek toolbox. Besides the Weather Channel being my favorite cable TV channel and website, I also get my kicks out of different weather websites, cool weather webcams, and other wonders of our technological age.
But by far my favorite recent discovery has been the Weather Channel desktop widget. I tried it a couple years ago, and it didn't do much for me but kludge up my computer. But I thought they may have spruced things up a bit since then, so I gave it another shot. I discovered one thing:
I love my Weather Channel desktop widget! And I'm telling everyone I know. I'm driving my Twitter followers crazy by mentioning it at least twice a day.
My WC widget lives in my computer's system tray (that bunch of icons in the lower right hand corner), telling me what the local temperature is. Just one click on the little blue square pops up a window that gives me everything I need to know in a quick snapshot. I see local radar and a short-term forecast. I have easy access to anything else I might want to see, such as more detailed hourly forecasts or the long-range variety. I can get pollen counts and traffic info. There's weather trivia and travel conditions. It even has a section of cute cartoons. I can customize it so the color scheme reflects my favorite MLB team. Right now, it's set to the colors of the Detroit "Wait-Till-Next-Year" Tigers (meow!).
Just yesterday, I found out that my little widget flashes yellow when there's a weather alert. Last night there was a frost warning, and the widget twinkled away to alert me to the fact. Is that the coolest thing, or what?
The only thing I'm really bummed about is that because of downloading restrictions on my computer at work, I can't get my widget there. So I guess I'll have to get my weather jollies at home while trying to ignore the voice of Gizmo, who keeps telling me, "Weather is what happens when you walk out the door!"
Poor misguided soul. Someday he'll learn the joys of weather geekdom. On that happy day, he too can be the proud owner of a Weather Channel desktop widget.
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