Quite a welcome greeted me upon my return from a week in Rothenburg, Germany (above). No, not the nasty drop in temps that we are presently enduring (remember: 60 Florida degrees feels like 20 Rothenburg, or Rochester, degrees).
No, as I stepped out our back porch yesterday late to let Diz do her thing, I stepped on a snake! Yep, this ophid suffered the terror of terror. Well, it was a very small little guy, but. . . . He survived, but the fact that I am still writing about it tells you I am still thinking about it. That, I suppose, is the only glad tiding of this cold snap—it will force him and his cold-blooded buds to hunt their holes.
Over at Jupiter Island on the wrong coast of Florida, a lady walking around on New Year’s Day found something a bit out of the ordinary, at least for her. It was yet another shoe with the foot still inside. These feet missing their bodies seem to be all the rage over on the Atlantic side in the past year and they have become rather common occurrences recently. Must be some sadistic monster over there with this homicidal foot fetish or perhaps a pit bull or two are out just being pit bulls, enjoying the weather, killing cows and horses, dismembering humans. Whatever, “common occurrences” or not, I’m sure this woman will for the rest of her life remember precisely what she was doing at 10 minutes and thirty-three seconds past 9 a.m. on, Wednesday, January First, 2014.
Coming back from the farmer’s market today, some dill weed was tail-gating me on this beach road even though it was a straight-away and he/she/it could have passed at any time. On a thin bicycle, this can be very stressful. So, what does this driver do when we reach a blind curve? Yes, he/she/it passes. PASSES! Driving like this, which makes no sense, explains why so many cars here, including this one passing me, sport “Differently Abled” license tags, aka handicap tags. Poor driving habits is probably how most got crippled in the first place.
So many old people now driving on our local roads. Just about every day either a motorcyclist or a bicyclist are flattened severely to death by some old coot that “I’m sorry, officer, I just didn’t see him.”
Speaking of names. . . .
What’s in a name? Would the Hula Hoop have been as popular had it been marketed under its original name, the “Hawaiian Spinning Dance Ring”? What’s in a name? If you think tags don’t matter, just consider what happened to the “Hydrox Cookie.” Although it entered the market first and was perhaps an even better-tasting product, Hydrox lost the war to a better-named copy-cat, Oreo. As marketeers then and now know, it’s easier selling a product whose name rolls off the tongue and sounds like something good and happy and wholesome rather than trying to peddle a product whose name grinds out like some hideous monster from a bad dream.
Hydrox v. Oreo? Although I actually preferred the former cookie, shopping moms and hungry kids nation-wide voted overwhelmingly for the latter. Try telling the former makers of Hydrox that a name doesn’t matter. Words count, names matter.