Snow Days

The winter season is upon us. Thoughts of winter conjure up many images. For many, it means the dreaded four-letter word: poop. That’s what many of us say when we look out our window ro see blinding white and this time it isn’t your sun-deficient neighbor without his shirt on.

Snow is magical, wonderful, and, for many, a major pain-in-the-rear-end. Unlike most people, I tend to enjoy snow but I hate cold. For me, I dislike winters where it’s just cold and then warms to a balmy 35 degrees when it precipitates. To me, that’s just cold for the sake of being cold. There’s no purpose behind it. No meaning. Everything looks as brown as the surprise your cat left on the kitchen floor (doesn’t matter which end it came from)

No, I say! Old-Man Winter needs to make up his mind once and for all. By the way, do you think Adam and Eve regarded him as Young Guy Winter or even Baby Winter? I digress. Like I was saying, he needs to make up his mind. Either make it warm enough to always rain so I can play golf and not get in my car every morning begging for heat while shaking like California. OR he needs to make it cold and lay a fresh blanket of snow every weekend, preferably. Let’s look at the options, shall we?

In a cold, snowy winter, everybody wins! Yes, we have to shovel, snow-blow or get chains and winches to get in and out of our snow mound, but it’s not that bad.
1) We get exercise most of us desperately need.
B) Those of us with children get to see it as special (who likes mudball fights?)
3) Everything looks pure and bright; not bleak and puke-like.
D) Most of us get days off during states-of-emergency.
v) Union members with plows on their trucks get paid for sleeping – whoops, did I write that?

The other scenario is a mild, rainy winter. I know there are fewer objections to this. Here are the benefits.
A) We get to add more layers of fat to our summer stores by not exercising to remove snow.
2) Cars are less likely to do pirouettes on the highway.
X1) People can walk down the street and not be mistaken for wild animals.

Unfortunately, we New Englanders usually get a mixed bag. Snow, freezing rain, rain, warmth, frigid, all in the same storm! I’d rather shovel 14" of pure snow than 6" of slush with an ice-pack base. Our weather ironically follows similar patterns to the Red Sox. Starts out nice at the beginning of the season, then gets crappy. Starts out crappy, then great the rest of the season. Nice start and end, but a crappy middle. Because of this, I believe that weather forecasters in New England more than earn their keep. That dreaded snow-rain line must create massive headaches (or brainfreeze as the case may be) for our dutiful weathermen (and ladies). A snow accumulation forecasts can fluctuate by 10" within an hour. Don’t like the forecast? Change the channel! You’re bound to find one you like.

In any case, as we celebrate the holidays (it’s okay to buy gifts and decorate now – I’m giving the official blessing) remember to dress in layers especially if you’re visiting the northeast. Specifically, start with a bathing suit, followed by long johns, jeans, t-shirt, sweater, sweatshirt, and finally a hat and snow-suit. Then you’re ready for anything!

Ho, Ho, Ho! Merry Easter!

While I’m not fond of the cold weather, raking, or the brownish tint on golf courses everywhere, I do love many aspects of autumn. Especially Thanksgiving. This wonderful feast is a time to reflect on all of our blessings, enjoy family (or pretend to), stuff our gullets with heart-clogging delicacies, and it serves as a gateway into the magical season of Christmas. At least it used to.

When I was a child, I’d wake up at the crack of 10:30am on T-Day (I’ve never been a morning person) to watch the middle-end of the Macy’s Parade. While I was enthralled by the mindless, obviously scripted banter between the hosts – what child isn’t – nothing was more exciting than when the jolly fat man rolled in! No, not Willard Scott. Santa Claus! St. Nicholas! Father Christmas! There he sat, high above it all. The large, white-cotton-bearded man in all of his glory. With every wave of his hand, he welcomed children of all ages to come and drink in the merriment of the holiday. He ushered in the wonderment.

Then, without time for the turkey to cool, or the heartburn to dissipate, it began: the rush. Seemingly overnight, thoroughfares, malls, and Salvation Army personnel were all adorned in brilliant reds, majestic greens, and aluminum-snow white. It was the most stressful…wait, that’s now…wonderful time of the year! No more. The gateway to Christmas has grown much wider, longer, and less brilliant. In an effort to capitalize, commercialize, and desensitize everything wonderful about Christmas, Corporate America has expanded the buying season for their benefit. They were not unaided. Every person who has succumbed to the temptation to buy early has contributed to this perversion of tradition. Yes, the giant inflatable snow-globe is cool looking, but do you really need it in July?

Nowadays, it’s not uncommon to be picking out your next artificial tree while shopping for your 4th of July hotdogs. What next? We’ll watch a commercial that says, "Come to our two-day, this weekend only, Valentine’s Day sale. And, while you’re at it, why wait? Christmas is around the corner. Kill two birds with one stone – may we suggest a 2 Karat stone?" We’ve all had the thought that it would be great if Christmas could be year-round, but this is ridiculous! Filet Mignon is a wonderful treat for me one or two times a year. This succulent, bacon-wrapped, au jus delight makes me drool just thinking about it. But, if I were forced to eat it every day things would be different. The first two weeks would be great, but then it wears off. It’s no longer a treat. It becomes boring and even - dare I say it - unappetizing.

"Hi, Hon, what’s for dinner?", I say hopefully when I arrive home.

"Filet."

"Of sole?", please oh please!

"No, silly, Mignon."

"Oh… please excuse me while I adjourn to the bathroom for a healthy retching."

"Certainly."

Fortunately for me, Christmas will always have a deeper meaning with no assistance from commercialism-at-large. But the traditional segue from Thanksgiving always made it more meaningful. The whole world seemed to revolve around a holiday of peace and joy. It’s funny that the Bible says the fruits of the spirit are love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. While there are few who exhibit even one of these in the mall’s parking-lot, this one day does seem to bring about the best in people. The more it is watered-down in gift giving, image enhancing, debt increasing, and earlier marketing every year, the more the magic dies.

Keep the magic alive. Give from the heart. Christmas is not a day, it’s an attitude of the heart. Keep the joy, the true-joy, alive for eternity.

I’m taking next week off as I engage in the grueling task of stomach stretches in preparation for the big day. Have a happy Thanksgiving. Lastly, for the sake of the nation and the children (won’t somebody please think of the children?!?) DON’T BUY ANYTHING…YET!!!

Battle of Wits

Why is everything so competitive these days? It seems everybody is trying to get ahead of everybody else (Read “Criss-Cross-Crash below) At what expense? To quote the great Norm Peterson, “It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and I’m wearing Milkbone® underwear.” We lose our peace-of-mind, integrity, character, and panties. It’s good if, after the dealings of the day, you have a safe haven to go home to. A refuge from the veracity of society. What if you don’t have that?

As a project administrator, my work day can become very hectic. There are deadlines to meet, suppliers to yell at, customers who I’d like to yell at – so I yell at the suppliers again. It can be grueling. It becomes especially tedious when I have to negotiate pricing or cost-reduction programs. If you’ve ever bought a car, truck, or battle-cruiser, you know how tough negotiating can be. It usually comes down to “what do we gain?”, “what do we lose?”, “where is the common-ground?”, and “who’s buying lunch?”. I thought I was pretty good at it. I began to develop a steely will that would stand up to almost anything…then I had a child.

In business negotiations, where you have two parties working to understand each other, it can get a little heated. People do throw their weight around (it’s no fun being hit by a 300 pound beer-belly, let me tell you!) But, usually, everybody behaves in a dignified manner. However, when the day is done, the work-bell sounds, and I negotiate my way home, I know my most challenging foe awaits. A lovely, quiet abode. The windows glow with the warmth of a puppy’s belly. Taking the path to the backdoor, I can glance through the kitchen window and see my lovely wife busy making another great home-cooked meal. I begin to hear gentle whispers in the autumn breeze. It’s the sofa beckoning for my caress. Then I walk through the door and it begins again.

My daughter is almost two years of age, yet she could make any seasoned diplomat quake with fear. Her sweet, cherub face and misaligned blonde pony-tails belie her sinister manipulations. It all starts fine. There she sits in the living room scribbling away, no doubt writing her next tactic in a strange form of toddler-ese, when she hears me walk through the door. Right away she’s up and running. Since her legs are all of ten-inches long, it takes awhile for her to reach me. In the meantime, I greet my wife who bears a welcome smile and scars from the day’s battles.

When my daughter finally arrives, about ten minutes later, she welcomes me with open arms, chants of love, and sticky lips tainted with strawberry jam. It’s the cuteness that’s so disarming. No sooner has she greeted me when she’s up on her step-stool reaching for something left on the kitchen counter that she’s not supposed to have. You know the items: graham crackers, candy, glasses, pens, pistols, etcetera. I gently squat to her level and inform her that she’s not supposed to have that and distract her with some other item. The tactic misfires and she lets out both barrels.

God has blessed my daughter, as He has all little girls, with a wonderful gift. The ability to scream at the same frequency as a car alarm. The tears fall, the face reddens, and the pouts begin, but enough about what I’m doing. It’s amazing that such a small body can inflict terrible damage on unsuspecting ear drums. Garage doors open, glass shatters, dogs jump off roofs, all from the deafening blast.

The storm passes. I’ve won the battle and she relinquishes back to her drawing pad to calculate her next move. An hour later she reveals it: dinner. Let me set this up for you – my daughter will eat just about anything between 8am to 6pm. Eggs, toast, juice, carrots, broccoli, small rodents, tissues, anything! As soon as we sit down for a formal meal her mouth transforms into a human missile launcher. My wife and I have learned to don protective gear for our safety. Virtually nothing enters the terrible fortress – the walls that once shrieked with horror now clamp shut. Anything that enters it either by coaxing or trickery is blown out at speeds of up to 200mph. Our cat Sadie, God rest her soul, was not quick enough to escape the fury of little Reilly. No amount of pleading, deal making, or psychology can gain entry through the gates. After the shackles of her booster seat are undone, she then inquires about other food items or small animals. This is when being a parent gets tough. The answer is “Honey, you have to at least try some dinner before you can eat that parakeet.” The banshee returns.

Do not get the wrong idea. I love my sweet little siren dearly. My wife and I try to do what’s best for her. We stick to our rules. But if I were given a choice between negotiating with her or work out a peace treaty between Palestine and Israel…How much of the West Bank do they want? It can only get better, right? Teenagers aren’t that bad.

Note: No cats were harmed during the writing of this article. For those of you who may have been offended by my joking – find a hobby.

Criss-Cross-Crash

I made the most extraordinary discovery today: It seems my car is equipped with a shrinking-ray. Yes, I kid you not. If I did not see this for myself I would not believe it. To my knowledge, this is not a standard feature on ’94 Nissan Sentra especially since it seems to make travel more difficult.

This is how it works – on the highway, I pick a lane I’d like to move into. First, I check my mirrors and look over my shoulder and, sure enough, I’ve got twenty car-lengths of ample space to move into. Then, to be courteous, I activate the appropriate directional. Unfortunately, the directional switch also activates the shrinking-ray. No sooner do I flip it on when the twenty car-lengths diminishes to two and keeps on shrinking. By the time I move behind the lead car, somebody’s grill is grazing my collar. This leads me two possible conclusions: my turn-signal/ shrinking-ray theory is correct, or Massachusetts’ drivers, for the most part, are the most selfish, inconsiderate, greedy jerks on the planet.

Now, I know the latter is not really conceivable, but it may be the more viable theory. This is shocking. But the more I think about it, this theory would explain some bizarre behavior. Why is it we can waste so much time watching mindless commercials about feminine hygiene products because there’s nothing else on TV, but the moment we get behind the wheel, every second becomes crucial to life itself? Being a man, last I checked, I know that as a group, we can spend up to two hours watching the final two minutes of a football game. But, by golly, if we do not get a head of that car taking that exit, we won’t get home until 5:00.34 instead of our usual 5:00.32.

The soaring power of 260 horses under the hood gallops through the heart of every man (and quite a few women). I only have 98 horses under my hood (96 of which died a long time ago,) but the principle remains the same. Mere whimps become voracious idiots. Bulging-muscled jerks become…eh...Jerkier. Suddenly, every other car’s move on the highway is either a recognition of, or challenge to, our masculinity (or strong-femininty). These are the drivers who I imagine are thinking, "How dare that pathetic and obviously inferior driver be travelling at 70mph in the right lane when I was trying to dart ahead of everybody at 100mph! This person must face the full fury of my high-beams!"

This way of thinking is not without supporting facts. As we all know, nothing makes somebody either go faster or acquiesce to the side of the road more quickly than these tactics: drive as close to their rear-end as possible without actual contact (do not attempt on pedestrians), either flash or fully engage your high-beams, and the coup de grace, blasting your horn while gesturing wildly. These tactics are sure to get the inferior driver out of your way in a matter of seconds.

That being said, based on my 14 years of driving experience in the great state of Massachusetts, I have constructed what I believe to be "The Creed of the Massachusetts Driver":

• Kindness is not allowed – being courteous to one will be followed by ten others seizing the opportunity of my weakness.
• "Yield" means "Don’t stop"
• "Stop" means "yield"
• Break-down lanes are for emergencies only. Bumper-to-bumper traffic counts as an emergency.
• Rotaries (aka Round-a-bouts) contain two types of drivers: ‘the quick’ and ‘the dead’
• Don’t use your directionals except to confuse – they communicate your plans to the enemy.
• The left lane is to remain open for those travelling in excess of 100mph.
• The minimum speed of the right lane is 80mph
• There is to be a minimum distance kept between two travelling cars. The rule of thumb is one inch for every 10mph of speed.
• And last, but certainly not least: If everybody drove like me, we wouldn’t have problems.

If you’re travelling to Massachusetts, especially it’s largest county, Rhode Island, remember to drive safely. Better yet, take a bus (they’re bigger and always get their way).