A classic from The Onion about the vanilla-like quality of Omaha: “Omaha Man To Probably Stay In Omaha Another Year Or Two.”

{A special thanks to Tony, the Woodward to my Bernstein, for sending this my way.}

By now most (or some; I suppose I shouldn’t be too arrogant here) of you know I proudly paid a young man named Joshua to ink my body with the most perfect logo ever.

Now that the Apple and I have had time to get to know one another a little more intimately, I’m starting to think that filling in the tattoo would be a wise idea.

So I turn to you, loyal reader. What should I do?

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Casey? Casey, are you out there? Just knock if you can hear me.

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I discovered a column I wrote when I still worked for the Bellevue Leader newspaper back in 2004. It seems appropriate to post this particular column, as the Omaha area has been hit for the second consecutive week with a sizable snowstorm.

Old Man Winter brings out the best in strangers, our neighbors (Feb. 4, 2004)

Last week’s snowstorm wreaked considerable havoc on our roads, our sidewalks, our parking lots and our tempers. Watching the fat flakes float to the ground last Sunday night, we could only hope the snow wouldn’t stick or stay around for too long.

We were wrong.

The snow quickened its pace through most of Monday, leaving more than a foot of snow behind. While our children were thrilled to have two days away from school, we felt differently.

If you were out on the roads last Monday or Tuesday – like me – you were aware of the way your body tensed as you crept along the roads. You looked past your knuckles clenched to white at the snow-packed roads. When traffic came to a standstill, you probably cursed.

I did.

Nasty weather rarely arrives at an opportune time, but Nebraska has been spoiled for far too many winters. We’ve been given the easy way out.

When Old Man Winter smacked us back into reality, some of us grew frustrated and weary at the extra effort this meteorological inconvenience caused.

It’s not so much that snowstorms such as this create added stress; it’s more how powerless they make us feel. I experienced that sensation first hand a number of times, although two stick out in my head.

When arriving home from work late Monday, I was met with unplowed streets in my neighborhood near 120th and L streets in Omaha.

My 40-foot steeped driveway was covered knee-deep in snow. With my car clock blinking 8:46, I was in no mood to shovel. I parked on the street, went inside and went to bed.

Tuesday morning, shortly after 8, I heard my neighbors’ snow blowers cutting through slabs of freshly fallen snow like two-tiered chocolate cake. I peeked through my living room blinds at these men, most of whom are retired and enjoy this type of “recreational” yard work.

I looked further down my driveway at the damage the overnight winds had done to the snow, now in deep piles.

Since becoming a homeowner last year, I’ve learned the tasks it takes to maintain my home. Shoveling snow has never been enjoyable. (Add mowing the lawn and pulling weeds to that list.)

As I pondered my options, I saw Dan, my neighbor, push his red and black snow blower down the sidewalk toward my house. He turned to the right and slowly moved up my massive driveway. The snow blew in a thick stream away from the concrete and into my front yard. It was a beautiful sight to behold. I could park in my detached garage tonight. It made me happy.

Good Deed No. 1 for the day.

After Dan finished my driveway, I hopped in my car and headed to work. I hadn’t experienced much difficulty driving Monday, and expected the same on Tuesday.

I was wrong.

As I drove along the I-80 onramp, I felt my wheels skid across the road. It felt like my car had a mind of its own as it plowed into a towering bank of plowed snow on the side of the road. My car came to an abrupt stop. I was stuck, with no hope in sight.

An Omaha police officer saw me. He hopped from his black SUV. The burly man was dressed in uniform, without a coat or hat.

“Going a little too fast, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” I replied, sheepishly. “I guess so.”

“Are you OK? You’re not hurt?”

“No, no. I’m fine.”

“Well, there’s not much I can do for you here. You should call someone to help tow you out. I’ll be back in a little while to check back on you.”

“OK, thanks,” I said, my mind already trying to locate the name of someone who could help. My dad lives in Denver, so he wasn’t an option. Neither was my 20-year-old sister, who lives in Los Angeles.

One of my options was my boss, Ron Petak.

“Ron could help,” I thought to myself.

Just seconds before I dialed the number, a small silver Honda pulled in front of me, along the side of the road. Wearing business attire, he was clearly on his way to work or a meeting.

I hopped out of my car when I saw him walk toward me with a shovel he pulled from his back seat.

“We’ll get you out of here,” he said with a smile. “Don’t worry. But get back in the car, where it’s warm.”

As he dug around my front and rear tires, I hoped for the best. But I also felt guilty: After my neighbor cleared my sidewalk and driveway, was asking for yet another good deed a wise move?

I didn’t have much time to think. The stranger approached my window and told me to start moving the car back and forth, shifting from drive to neutral and back again.

As we attempted to dislodge my car, another stranger pulled up. This gentleman wore jeans and a winter coat as he hopped from his red SUV.

“Need some help?” he shouted at us.

We said yes. He approached the front of my car and started to push.

Within a few moments, my car was free. I was overcome with this sense of relief, paired with humility.

There was an awkward pause before I drove away. I needed to get to work, but I felt I owed these two something. And a simple “thank you” wasn’t enough.

“My name’s Wendy.”
They both smiled.

“Thanks, Wendy,” said the man driving the Honda. “Stay warm, and drive safe!”

I sped off, at a cautious 15 mph. As I eased onto Interstate 80, I got teary-eyed.

Call me too soft, but I was touched by their gesture. Who knows if I could’ve tracked down Ron for help? Who knows if I would have sat there until someone stopped?

Some may say winter storms bring out the worst in people. I’m here to say they bring out the best.

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While rediscovering the album “Electro-Shock Blues” by The Eels, I also came across this nifty (and animated) story outlining the album’s origins. Oh, how I love you, Google, for finding me little gems such as this. They just make my day.

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This little piece of creativity may change the way you look at Apple, Inc. forever.

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I know what the phrase “three sheets to the wind” means. But, pray tell, what is this phrase’s origin?

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Meet Chewbacca, my new roommate. After living with two boys, I decided to give a 6-foot cardboard cutout of a fictional movie character a try. I can’t imagine he’ll cause too much trouble or make a mess. But if he starts making that signature guttural moaning sound, he’s outta here.

I just hope I’m not surprised (and startled) shitless by his creepy stature when I get up to use the bathroom at night.

Yikes.

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So it’s 3:30 in the morning. I’m wide awake and can’t fall back to sleep. As such, I will attempt to tick away the pending minutes with the worst type of blog post: The Bulleted List of Random Shit.

“Damnit all to hell, man,” you’re probably muttering to yourself. “Those posts drive me nuts-o.”

The reason? I think they’re a dreadfully lazy way to compose one’s thoughts.

I feel your pain, loyal reader. But I’ve never been someone who can scribe such thoughts at such an early hour. The language flows best from my fingers at sunrise.

Here we go.

• I shopped at Victoria’s Secret during my lunch hour earlier this week. I usually have a few pangs of embarrassment walking into the store. Those feelings were magnified when a mother lead her two small boys (maybe ages 4 and 5, if I had to guess) through the store. The boys had no idea how to react to all the pink and all the lace and all the fruity, feminine smells. So they did what boys do: turn over boxes of bras, only to send the pretty little things crashing to the ground. And as I shopped, the boys looked at me. I wasn’t sure what felt worse: knowing the boys were at a women’s underwear store or having their little eyes follow my fingers as I went through the drawers and racks. For some reason, I felt like we both were in the wrong.

• A bowl of Corn Pops and two cookies does not a dinner make. My ravenous state Tuesday morning, after such a meal, is plenty proof of that.

• Last night I dined at the Millard Roadhouse with about 12 of my fellow neighbors, most of whom are retired. We have a football pool each fall and celebrate the end of the season with a group dinner. I was, by far, the youngest at the table. But the outing put my life in perspective when they talked of spouses who’ve passed away, prescription cough medicine that costs $75 a bottle, the skyrocketing costs of health insurance and, of course, grandchildren. I realized how much life I have yet to live, God willing.

• I have spent the past seven days combing through sale racks at a number of Omaha retailers until I, at last, discovered my coveted item: red tights. You would think red tights would be simple enough to find. But no. I even ventured to my local Hot Topic, hoping the pierce-faced sales teen could help me locate a pair. “Sorry, we just have these leopard print ones that are red and black.” As I stood there in my Gap khakis and Gap sweater, my work badge dangling from my right hip, I felt completely out of place and exited the store. Thankfully, though, JCPenney ended my search at the 11th hour.

• What does mean when I receive the same Viagra spam emails at home and at work?

• Demetri Martin is one of the funniest comedians I’ve seen in quite some time. He has more than 70,000 MySpace friends. It seems pretty pointless to click the “Add to Friends” link, but I did it anyway. I believe in miracles.

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I am forever indebted to Matt Vangalapudi for this lovely photo, taken during the Christmas season. (Matt, this photo is most certainly thugnauseous. Take a bow, my good man! Take a bow.)

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