Math problems

My teenage daughter recently complained about learning math. But one day she will have to book airline tickets online, I told her, and differential equations might come in handy.

“Take this workshop that I’m attending in Dayton while you’re on spring break with your friend in Mexico,” I said. “What’s the cheapest way to get there?”

“Use frequent flyer miles,” she suggested.

I would. Except United doesn’t fly direct from Boston to anywhere in Ohio. And I’m not connecting through United’s Chicago hub during any month when snow could cancel flights. I would rather have a colonoscopy than sleep on an airline terminal floor.

So I logged onto Expedia. The cheapest flight to Dayton cost $101. But it leaves at 5 a.m.

We live three hours from Boston. So I would have to get up at midnight to make that flight, I reminded her. The last time I got up at midnight, I was in labor.

“Stay at that airport hotel,” she suggested, “the one where you can park for free.”

OK, I thought. Add $250 for the hotel. But subtract $150 saved on airport parking.

I toggled back to Expedia and clicked on the $101 flight. Session expired. I re-entered the destination and date information. The flight had gone up to $343.

In the old days, I told her, I would have called a travel agent, given her my travel dates, and she would have found the least expensive airfare. I then would have picked up the ticket — with its delicate carbon paper that stained fingertips and shirt cuffs murder-scene red — and paid the travel agent with a check. Once on board, smiling flight attendants would have passed out steaming towels with tongs, mixed free mini bottles of Seagram’s 7 with 7-Up or popped open some Cold Duck, and served at least one hot meal in a pre-molded tray, so the pasta primavera didn’t mix with the fruit cup in turbulence.

Now you practically need to do a statistical regression analysis to find the best deal online — and on an airline that doesn’t charge extra for the oxygen on board or have a coin slot on the toilet door.

Samoa Air even charges by weight. Your weight!

I finally found a flight leaving Boston at noon and clicked “select.” It connected through Atlanta and had gone up to $841. And something resembling a clown car rented for $30 a day. Plus $14.45 in taxes and fees.

“Now add it all up,” I told my daughter.

She looked at the list of numbers, then looked up and asked, “Can I buy a new bikini for Mexico?”

Where's our snow?!

Dear Valued Customer,

Thank you for your recent order of two feet of Fluffy Snow — the premium item in our Winter Weather package.

At this time, this item is on backorder until Winter 2017. Our supplier has been overwhelmed with orders from California, Utah, and Colorado — as well as other parts of the world. We had hoped to speed delivery to you in February but have been unable to locate another supplier of Winter Weather.

In its place, we have sent to you — free of charge — two inches of rain followed by freezing temperatures. We hope you are enjoying the express and timely delivery of our Crap Winter Weather package! It is sure to fill your reservoirs and flood your basements.

In late March, we are offering a special Mud Season package for our lowest price ever. It includes one foot of Heavy Snow, topped by a glistening wintry mix (to seal it all in!), and then a week of sub-freezing temperatures to ensure that it sticks around when you want it most!

Order now, and we’ll also deliver Snow Flurries in May at no extra charge!

Or select our El Nino package and receive a rainy July as a special bonus.

Sincerely,

Your Friends at Climate Control

Sponsored by:

Eli Lilly & Company, makers of Prozac.

Starbucks. Try our Nosnowpuccino: Two shots of espresso and a shot of whiskey, topped with wintry mix whipped cream.

And

Mother Nature. “I don’t have to explain myself. I said no.”

Spontaneous combustion

I had a hot flash.

A fucking hot flash.

A full on Jack-Jack Attack, except with no super powers attached. (Whoever created the Pixar film The Incredibles back in 2004 got the various characters’ super powers mixed up. Baby Jack-Jack shouldn’t be the one who can spontaneously combust. That talent should belong to his middle-aged mother, ElastiGirl.)

I felt like I was melting.

Suggestions to just dress in layers or run outside for a few minutes are not helpful. Because unless those layers include all my skin, or by outside, they mean the South Pole, nothing helps.

I consulted Google.

To ease hot flashes, one site suggested taking black cohosh, which I found in pill form at the local health food store. I tried it for awhile. It seems to lose potency over time. Like catnip.

On another site, menopause was described as a “very common” condition with “over 3 million cases annually.” As if it were a disease.

Why hasn’t more research been done on this “epidemic”? And where’s the CDC when you need them?

If the rulers of the world had been afflicted with hot flashes, the king’s coffers would have been spent on finding a cure. Members of Parliament surely would not have worn those powdered wigs. Nor those heavy robes. And Ben Franklin would likely have spent his experimental years not flying kites in thunderstorms but instead trying to find out why he felt like ripping off his waistcoat and breeches and diving into the Schuylkill.

And let’s for a moment imagine Donald Trump having a hot flash …

Alas, it’s just us womenfolk who go through “the change.” And short of taking replacement hormones or antidepressants, there doesn’t seem to be much we can do.

I did find this (laughable) list though on WebMD.

Avoid:

•      Stress (yeah, right)
•      Caffeine (ha)
•      Alcohol (haha)
•      Spicy foods (so is this why older people like cottage cheese?)
•      Tight clothing (this I can do)
•      Heat (o-kayyyyy)
•      Cigarette smoke

·      This is my list:

•      Sleep naked.
•        Don’t workout. It only makes you sweat more.
•      Move to a cool climate. Newfoundland is nice. And it doesn’t have snakes.

Or, as I’ve done lately, just ride it out. Risk factors of suffering through a hot flash do not include death. Just a little BO.

Oh shit ...

So I asked my friends on Facebook: Which is worse — a root canal or colonoscopy?

Most said root canal — but one friend conceded that it’s “a toss up,” with the root canal most likely costing a lot more.

Only two thought a colonoscopy would be worse, and one of them commented, “Usually one is not fortunate enough to get to pick the procedure.”

True, although I did essentially “pick” to have a colonoscopy — after a couple years of goading from my doctor.

I’ve never had either procedure but by tomorrow afternoon, will be able to report on the latter. The worst, I’ve heard — and what I’m dreading — is the prep. Why voluntarily bring on diarrhea? Can’t we just wait until we catch a bad stomach bug, then ring up proctologist and request an immediate colonoscopy?

Since there’s no backing out now, I am thankful for my Facebook friends who put it in perspective:

“Think about how short lived the discomfort is! Two days later it is just a memory.”

And my friend Mary, who commented, “Both not the most fun, but I'll take either one over open heart surgery.”

Then there’s this to look forward to: “The best part is after the colonoscopy when they give you heated blankets and food.”

Who knew? Something to look forward to?

Post-Colonoscopy

Well, that was a whole lot of no fun. 

The prep or the recovery.

The things they DON’T tell you before a colonoscopy — like expect to freeze to death as your gut experiences repeated flash floods. And your butt is going to feel as if you were sitting in sulfuric acid. 

Then don’t expect to get any sleep — because who can relax and fall sleep with the threat of bowel matter gushing from your anus?

Also, you have to get up at 1 AM to start round two (yes, there’s a round two). For the next 3 hours, your gut will discharge every little particle left clinging to the intestinal walls. 

Then, just as you start to doze off, shivering despite wearing a down vest and lying under a down comforter, you have to get up and get to the hospital, where you check in — and hope to god that you are there on the right day.

I don’t remember a thing about the procedure. I think they gave me enough anesthesia to sedate a 300-lb constipated man. I barely came-to in the recovery room, and then felt ill when I finally did wake up.

Apparently the doctor came in and talked to me, but I have no recollection.

Despite nausea and a really painful gut, they didn't let me linger. No-sir-ree, they shooed me right out of there. Maybe they had other patients needing a recovery room bed — like airplanes waiting on the tarmac for a gate?

I wobbled to car, then into the house and collapsed into bed. I have no idea how long I slept. I was queasy all day. And despite not eating for 24 hours, had no appetite. Weight loss plan? 

Oh, and to add to the indignity, I still have liquid shit coming out of me. Make it stop! 

I can’t believe that I volunteered for this. But the doctor did find one polyp, so I guess it’s good I had it done. He told Andy it was small and probably benign and that I could come back in 10 years.

Yeah, maybe I’ll stretch that to 20.

Pardon sentence structure. I’m not supposed to operate heavy machinery for 24 hours. That might include a laptop, no? 

A week later …

Noooooooooooo!

That small polyp that the doctor removed during my colonoscopy, the biopsy showed that it was benign. But it was a sessile serrated polyp and its “risk for future development of colorectal cancer is unclear,” read the letter from my doctor.

I googled sessile serrated polyp, and it doesn’t make for good bedtime reading.

It’s a premalignant lesion caused (I believe) by a genetic mutation and is a precursor to colon cancer. Not a lot is known about them, other than that they aren’t all that common and that they can lead to colon cancer.

This is all that I’ve been able to decipher from a few medical papers that contain phrases like “CpG island methylation” and “epigenetic inactivation of the mismatch repair gene MLH1 resulting in microsatellite instability.”

Doctors should know that laypeople are going to google their medical conditions and include warnings to their patients. Like DO NOT USE GOOGLE WHEN LOOKING FOR MEDICAL ADVICE.

Particularly if it’s a skin condition. Because those photos are terrifying.

And what’s with the doctor sending me a five-sentence note containing the word “unclear”? And one of those sentences wasn’t even complete.

For the price he’s charging, could he at least reassure me that the polyp was small, there was only one, and give me some statistics from others who have had one small sessile serrated polyp removed? Perhaps via a phone call?

I feel like I have a time bomb ticking in my gut. And if it’s a genetic mutation, it’s not like eating more fiber will help.

Now I have to have another colonoscopy in 5 years, not 10.

The fuzzy mega colon plush toy that I bought at Philadelphia’s medical Mütter Museum is mocking me. 

Crap.

Cecil, the Sessile Serrated Polyp

I have named the polyp removed during my colonoscopy. It’s name is Cecil. It makes it seem less scary.

Channeling Dr. Seuss this election season ...

Every Trump Down in Trumpville

Liked elections a lot...

But the Yous, who lived elsewhere, really did NOT!

The Yous hated elections! The whole election season!

Do you have to ask why? Everyone knows the reason.

The candidates’ heads weren’t screwed on just right.

And possibly too, their toupees were too tight.

But I think that the most likely reason of all,

May have been that their hearts were too small.

Whatever the reason, their hearts or their ‘toups,’

The Yous stood through the election, hating the whole group.

From Trump to Rubio to Carson and Cruz.

From Jeb Bush to Christie, and Hillary too.

None of them could stand them, not one single You.

But staring down from Vermont, with a big frumpy frown,

Was a gruff white-haired man who liked the Yous’ middle-class town.

He promised to hold those Wall Streeters accountable.

And make the income and wealth gap less insurmountable.

"There are tough times ahead!" he emphatically said,

"With the division of income, how are you Yous even fed?"

From up in his penthouse, his brain nervously spinning,

Trump growled, "I MUST find some way to stop Bernie from winning!"

For the Yous were starting to prod and to poke,

And to consider Trump’s campaign quite a big joke.

"Why, months and months I've put up with it now!"

"I MUST stop him from winning! But HOW?"

Then he got an idea! An awful idea!

The Trump got A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA!

"I know just what to do!" Trump sneered with a groan.

“I’ll tell them about my small $1 million loan.”

And he chuckled, and clucked, "What a great Trumpy trick!"

"With such a great story, how can they think I’m a dick?"

“I’ll buy this election. My fortune is great.”

“And I’ll be the financial king of these United States!”

“I’ll deport everyone who came here too late.”

“It’ll be just like firing them, a mere act of fate.”

But the Yous laughed even harder at the great Trumpy Trump.

And his polls started crashing way down to the dump.

Without Bernie or Hillary lifting a finger.

Trump’s campaign would hopefully not linger.

As Trump looked around, at the Yous tall and small,

He realized that perhaps he had misjudged them all.

They don’t want a candidate who acts like a jerk.

They would rather have one who puts them back to work.

Tho it’s hard to imagine him negotiating with Merkel,

Or facing the Syrians and Putin, that jerk-l.

The Yous were happy that Bernie had entered the race.

For he truly wants to make the country a better place.

But as the calendar turns to 2016, and the election grows near,

We realize that really our one greatest fear …

Is that the GOP might still elect that man Trump.

Who’s only one letter removed from a ‘rump.’

– P. Shinn

LIFE

Sam and I played the Game of LIFE the other day. She has my old game — the Milton Bradley version copyrighted in 1960 and “heartily endorsed” by Art Linkletter (his face graces the white $100,000 bills).

You start with $2,000 and a colorful plastic convertible. If you want auto insurance, pay $500.

From there, you spin the “Wheel of Fate” and either go to college or into business. If you skip college, your salary on the red Pay Days is a meager $5,000. But it's still $1,000 more than my dad received his first year teaching college English in 1967.

Go to college and you might become a doctor with a handsome salary of $20,000 per Pay Day.

As the salaries indicate, the game is quaint. Houses cost $15,000, and the car you get at the start is free. 

It’s funny too. One game square reads: “Inherit shrunken head collection, pay museum $10,000 to accept it." Another reads: "Uncle leaves you skunk farm. Pay $5,000 to get rid of the skunks."

Not only is it outdated financially, it's also morally dated. You can get married but not divorced. And at the end of the game, you collect —  rather than spend — $20,000 for every kid in your car.

For whatever reason, kids love the game. I did. And so does Sam. (Andy, however, always hated it and can’t articulate why.) Sam and I have played it so many times that I often make dumb choices just to see where I’ll end up. I’ve skipped college and forgone purchasing auto insurance. Wahoo, fun times.

Although the game has been updated since 1960 — in one version, the computer guy gets $50,000 every time the spinner comes off the track or gets stuck between numbers — the world has changed markedly. And I think the Game of LIFE should reflect life.

So here are my suggested stops on the 2010 game board.

START HERE. With $2,000 and car. If you want health insurance, pay $5,000.

First space: Transmission blows on your (free) car. Pay $2,000 for repairs.

If you choose the college route: Pay $100,000 in tuition. Take out student loan. Repay 10% of the loan at every Pay Day.

These would be the career choices along the college route:

-Doctor – salary $200,000 (but pay $50,000 for malpractice insurance)

-Lawyer – salary $500,000

-Teacher – salary $60,000

-Investment banker – salary $1,000,000, before bonuses (but pay $2 million in attorney’s fees)

-Journalist – collect $10,000 in unemployment

Farther along the board, you might hit: Find uranium deposit! Collect $100,000, but pay $90,000 for groundwater remediation.

At the “Get Married” space, you would spin the “Wheel of Fate” to determine your spouse, not what presents you receive.

Spin a 1, 2, or 3 – You’ve married a struggling entrepreneur. Pay $10,000 to settle bad debt. Collect no additional salary.

Spin 4, 5, or 6 – You’ve married a teacher. Collect $50,000 extra each Pay Day, and $60,000 per Pay Day after retirement. And receive $5,000 refund if you've purchased health insurance.

Spin 7, 8, or 9 – You’ve married a doctor. Pay off med school student loan of $100,000 but collect $200,000 extra each Pay Day.

Spin 10 – You’ve married a software engineer. Collect $100,000 extra each Pay Day. Collect $10,000 from any player who spins a 10.

After marriage, the next required space is “Buy a House. Spin wheel to determine type.” A 1,2, or 3 nets you a small walk-up for $500,000. Spin 4,5, or 6 and you’ll own a split-level ranch for $150,000. Get a 7,8, or 9, and you’ll be living in an old Victorian mansion for $200,000, plus $50,000 additional for repairs. Spin a 10, and you’ll be living in a gated community for $500,000. Too pricey? Well, you can always take out a subprime mortgage. At every Pay Day, the interest rates increase.

Rather than letting fate decide whether or not you have kids, this would be another route choice on the board. You can have up to 4 kids along the family route. But if you reach the end before you have a child, pay $10,000 to the fertility clinic and add a baby boy. The final space in the child route would say: “Pay $20,000 for a decade of piano lessons, ski school, tennis clinics, soccer camps, dance recitals, horseback riding lessons, and French tutoring.”

Choose the child-less route, and pay $10,000 for a Louis XIV sofa upholstered in cream silk and another $10,000 for a Grand Tour of Europe.

To the collection of sweepstakes winning and “if you have stock” spaces, the modern board must also contain the following:

-Divorce. Lose half your wealth.

-Bail eldest child out of jail. Pay $10,000 if you have children.

-Invest in Ponzi scheme. Lose everything.

-House needs new roof. Pay $20,000.

-Dog has hip dysplasia. Pay vet $2,000.

-Youngest child draws on sofa with permanent marker. Pay $500 dry cleaning fee if you have children.

-Child gets cell phone. Pay $5,000 for too many text messages if you have kids.

-Child gets into Harvard. Pay $200,000 tuition if you have children.

-Midlife crisis! Get a tattoo. Pay $10,000 to have it removed.

-Daughter has eating disorder. Pay $20,000 for therapy.

-Eldest crashes car. Pay $30,000 for a new one.

-Renovate bathrooms. Pay $50,000.

-Spouse gets face-lift. Pay $5,000.

-Destitute uncle’s wife dies. Pay $5,000 for memorial service.

-Laid off! Lose turn and skip next Pay Day.

-If you are an investment banker, go directly to Jail, do not pass go ... Oh wait, wrong game.

But all news isn’t bad, and as in the 1960 version, there would be plenty of opportunities to gain money. Such as:

-Sell first novel. Collect $50,000.

-Inherit Louis XIV sofa. Collect $10,000 from Antiques Road Show dealer.

-Apple stock splits. Collect $100,000 if you own stock.

-Investment in college student’s computer project pays off. Collect $5 million.

-Write best-selling iPhone App. Collect $100,000.

-Bonus time at Goldman Sachs. Collect $2 million. Then go to jail.

And if you can survive the game to the end, wouldn’t everyone be a winner?

Tiger the cat versus Tiger the golfer

We have a large orange cat named Tiger. Since the day after Thanksgiving 2009, this has caused some confusion among my friends.

One day in December, I complained to a friend that Tiger had walked into my office, sat at my feet, and meowed loudly while I was on a conference call. She looked puzzled and asked, “Are you one of his many paramours?”

NO! Not that Tiger. Tiger, the cat!

A month later, after a long trip to the vet, I told another friend that Tiger had gotten in a fight, had a festering abscess on his face, and was under house arrest.

What fun not to specify which Tiger I was talking about. Although they are two different creatures — different species in fact — they also share a few traits.

So with golf season upon us, I present here a list of similarities and differences: Tiger the cat versus Tiger the golfer.

- Tiger the golfer often hits birdies. Tiger the cat catches them.

- Tiger the golfer has earned many trophies. Tiger the cat leaves his on the doorstep.

- Tiger the cat likes to lie down. Tiger the golfer likes to get laid.

- Tiger the cat is fixed.

- Both like to prowl at night.

- Both like to chase tail.

- Both like to be petted and stroked even though neither deserves this much attention.

- When it comes to hunting, neither has demonstrated restraint.

- Despite his behavior, Tiger is a much-loved cat. Can the same be said of Tiger, the golfer?

Swim Team

I called my parents on Sunday night to let them know that their granddaughter helped win the Vermont State 8 & under freestyle relay title. It was quite an accomplishment for a kid who, until last Monday, jumped into the pool off the starting blocks (while holding her nose) rather than dive. And her competitors, ages 8 and younger, weren’t a bunch of dog-paddlers either. They could really swim — and do things like flip turns.

But rather than gush forth with congratulations, my father asked, “Why are you making her do this?”

“This” being swim team.

“Uh, because swimming is a good activity for kids,” I stammered. “And it’s really helping to improve her strokes.”

“And her friends do it,” I added when he said nothing in return.

After another pause, I said, “And it’s a good group of kids.” Longer pause. “And she can swim far now.” Pause. “So if she fell out of a boat in the middle of a lake, she wouldn’t drown.”

“Safety is a good reason,” my dad finally said.

Yes, safety is a good reason to learn to swim long distances without touching bottom, or clinging to the side. But his question ate at me the rest of the evening. Why were we making her do swim team? He made it sound like a forced march.

My dad is the smartest man I know — Harvard educated and winner of at least one Latin prize. He has read everything written by Shakespeare and can tell Mozart from Beethoven in just three notes.

But to my knowledge, he has never done anything against a stopwatch (to my knowledge, he was never timed listing the declensions of the demonstrative pronoun hic, haec, hoc). While he’s active and fit for a 76-year-old — and very competitive on an intellectual playing field — he has never seemed to understand why anyone would enter an athletic contest.

He has called athletes such as Michael Phelps and Roger Federer genetic anomalies and does seem to enjoy watching them compete. But us mortals? There are better things we could be doing. Winning a freestyle relay — or the Leadville 100, or the local tennis club round robin — won’t solve the world’s problems (not that the Latin prize will). Winning — or even participating in sports — doesn’t give us a better understanding of the world, although international competition does give us a small window into other cultures.

But what I’ve realized over the past 30+ years of competing in everything from rowing to alpine skiing (and not terribly well in any of them), is that athletic competition, and the rigors of training for it, gives us a better understanding of ourselves.

Yes, sports make us fit and allow us to eat as many cookies as we want, and they offer a chance to single-mindedly pursue a goal — usually among friends and/or teammates.

But there’s more to it than this. When we push to our physical limits — and beyond — it strips away all the superficial layers of our personalities, all the barriers we have constructed so people won't see our true selves, and exposes who we really are. I’ve learned more about myself — and more about what parts of my character need shoring up — by being dropped by Olympic cyclists Jeanie Longo and Rebecca Twigg than I ever did holed up in the computer lab writing a masters thesis on the bio-denitrification of drinking water.

I learned what hard work really is, because while we can hide our grades behind the veil of confidentiality, we can’t hide crossing the finish line five minutes down on the leaders, or losing a tennis match 6-0. The scores and times are there for all to see.

And when we do win, we can hold our heads high — higher than we can if we win the spelling bee or math tournament … or Latin prize. In face, it’s the opposite reaction. I have vivid memories of hunching my shoulders up to my head, as if I were a turtle trying to hide, after winning spelling bees in grade school. Athletes are heralded. Smart kids are teased. Thick glasses and general lack of hand-eye coordination didn't help.

Next time my parents call, I will tell my dad that Sam did swim team because she’s good at it. And in the future, if kids taunt her because she wins the math quiz bowl, or because she can spell floccinaucinihilipilification, or because she drops a pop-fly in a P.E. softball game, she can remember that she is the Vermont State freestyle relay champion, or at least a quarter of it.

And should she fall overboard or capsize a canoe, chances are she’ll make it to shore.