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.

Home Theater

On Mother’s Day, Andy walked into Best Buy to purchase a battery charger and walked out with home theater.

“I saved $45,” he stated, as I walked up to him at the cashier’s desk.

“It's too good a deal to pass up,” echoed the cashier.

“I bought the same system last week,” chimed in a salesman standing behind the cashier.

I glared at the salesmen, then looked back at Andy. “What are you going to do with it?” I asked.

The last time Andy played with a home theater, he installed a "soundbar" underneath our gigantic TV, which he purchased two years ago when I was away on business. I found out about this new TV when Sam squealed into the phone, “Guess what, Mom? I got to ride in the front seat of the car today!”

She was 6, and the TV filled the entire back end of our Toyota Highlander with the rear seats folded down.

“What’s wrong with the TV’s built-in speakers?” I asked Andy when he purchased that soundbar.

“Nothing,” he said. “The soundbar will just improve the audio experience.”

Audio experience? I never thought of TV as offering an “audio experience.”

After installing the center soundbar under the TV, he was intrigued that only the TV voices came out of it, while the rest of the noise emanated from the TV’s built-in speakers. I couldn’t tell the difference.

Surround sound is another matter though. It feels like a home invasion. I don’t want Jon Stewart to sneak up behind me or feel as if I’m in the front row at American Idol.

“You’ll like it,” he kept insisting. Just like I like the high-definition TV, he reminded me. OK, so yes, we can see the tennis ball when we’re watching Wimbledon. And the fact that Maria Sharapova has acne scars on her chin.

Standing at the cashier in Best Buy, I let loose with a volley of passive-aggressive teasing: “Ah, nice battery charger” and “Happy Mother’s Day to me.”

He exhaled, then declared: “I’ve wanted this for years, and I’m buying it.”

OK, then.

I didn’t speak much at dinner. I was quietly fuming that I never just saunter into a furniture store and purchase new sofas — granted $200 home theater speakers are a far cry from the cost of new living room furniture.

In our 11 years of marriage, the only furniture I have purchased is a $29.95 faux suede ottoman at Bed Bath & Beyond. It sits in front of a musty hand-me-down leather chair from my in-laws.

Andy isn’t bothered by our mismatched, musty furniture. It’s well-built furniture, he insists — better than what we could buy at the local Sofas-N-More. Left to himself — with no wife or child to accommodate — he could live in a cave, as long as it had a big-screen HD TV, cable, one comfortable chair, a refrigerator, the fastest Internet connection available, and a shower the size of a locker room. Oh, and a bed. With a TempurPedic mattress and pillow.

And home theater.

Of all his tech-y purchases, this one just hasn’t worked for me. Watching baseball the other night, I kept thinking I heard a cat fight and hit mute to see where it was coming from. It took three tries before I realized it was the fans at Fenway cheering from the mantelpiece. Then, watching the Grey’s Anatomy season finale, I heard a droning sound that was either a helicopter overhead or the furnace about to explode. Mood music, I realized, the second time I hit mute.

And yes, Sam has asked us to turn down the TV so she can sleep. At that low volume, I can hear the droning and the cat-fight-like sounds, but not any words being spoken.

Mostly though, I’ve kept my complaints to myself. Without Andy’s tech savvy, I would own an unreliable PC infected with viruses, a 10-year-old cell phone with no texting or email capabilities, and a 25-year-old TV with 13 push-button channels and no remote.

But if sofas came with built-in speakers, would I have new furniture too?

Ex-Palined

Writing an article today, I mis-typed the word 'explained.' It came out 'expalined.'

I kind of like it. It describes the current state of the GOP.

What a waste

Taxes are due soon. Should I skip the IRS as middleman and just make a check out to Edward Liddy at AIG? Or maybe Merrill Lynch's ex, John Thain, would like to freshen up his living room using more taxpayer money.

Tell you what, Mr. Thain. I'll send you two lovely sofas, upholstered in what I call a midsummer-night's dream (deer leaping through flowered trees against a dark navy background), and you can send me a couple of those $87,000 guest chairs.

I'm sure you'll love these fine sofas that currently clash with everything else in my living room. For they were purchased 30-odd years ago by the man who once held your job, and who, when times were tough for the company, refused to let his son make copies on the office Xerox machine. It would be a waste of paper and toner, he said, and those cost money.

That same son asked if he could have the sofas when his parents downsized from the house where they raised five kids to a smaller condominium. Why waste them? They're comfortable and well-built. They're just out of style and hideous.

What happened to executives who didn't like to see waste - -guys who thought more about the bottom line than buying $1,400 waste cans? Or is fiscal responsibility as outdated as leaping-deer-print upholstery?

A modest proposal: Family Class

When my daughter Sam was 18 months old, we made the mistake of flying from Albany, New York, to Las Vegas — nonstop. It was like traveling with a chimpanzee. Contained in a metal tube for six hours with no understanding of her personal space — or anyone else’s — she wanted to run up and down the aisle. And she screamed when we tried to distract her with all the toys we had lugged on board.

When we did walk up and down the aisle with her, she grabbed the other passengers’ drinks off their tray tables before we knew what was happening. She giggled and shrieked and tried to climb into other peoples’ rows. And at one point, she escaped my grasp and beat on the cockpit door. It was only six months after 9/11, and I expected a couple of F-14s to force us down in Wichita. And then I expected Congress to pass a bill forbidding children under the age of 5 to fly on commercial aircraft.

When we did land (in Las Vegas), I swore we would never get on an airplane again until Sam was 18, even if it meant driving home (or buying a home in Vegas and living there for the next 16-½ years).

We did fly home — on a red-eye, so she slept. And since then (Sam is now 8), we have traveled without offending fellow passengers (we hope).

But sitting in Dulles International Airport at 5:30 a.m. on a recent Sunday morning, trying to doze after a less-than-restful red-eye returning from a business trip, I was reminded again that young kids do not get the whole air travel thing. They don’t want to sit still, they don’t want to wait, they don’t want to be pulled from their warm beds at 4 a.m. to make a pre-dawn flight. On Dulles’ concourse C, one little girl screamed so loudly — from 5:30 a.m. until 7 a.m. when she boarded a flight with her parents (or were they her kidnappers? hard to tell) — that I was just about to start screaming too.

In a time where airlines are cutting back on everything from legroom to free toilets, I offer a modest proposal: Family class.

Not all flights would have Family class, just ones with the special retrofitted airplanes. On these planes, the rear third would be a wide-open bouncy-castle-type space. No seats, no seat belts, no luggage racks. Nothing but four walls, a floor, and a ceiling all lined with of soft, poofy cushion of air.

Turbulence? All the more fun as it helps kids bounce higher. Take off and landing? Who needs seatbelts when you’re surrounded by soft walls.

Between flights, this cabin would be misted with Chlorox.

Flight attendants would be teenagers and/or former preschool teachers, and they’d wear whistles. As for an in-flight movie, you bet. Nemo and Madagascar would show on a big screen TV that would slide down from the ceiling. Kids would just lie down on the soft floor with their blankies, stored back by the bathrooms during bouncy time.

On the ground, every concourse would have a soundproof Family room manned by more teenagers. And flights with Family class would never depart earlier than 9 a.m.

Then the middle third of the plane would be a first-class-like cabin for parents. Amenities would include free drinks, noise-cancellation headphones, or better yet, those industrial-strength ear protectors worn by the ground crew. Seats would recline fully and have footrests. Flight attendants would be trained in massage.

OK, so yes, the cost would be prohibitive — to both retrofit the airplanes and for the tickets. But some parents would definitely pay. And then they would ask the pilot to fly around the world twice while they slept.

As for the rest of us, we can always buy those industrial-strength ear protectors. The gift shops should sell them next to the travel blankets and neck pillows.

S-not such pretty pictures

I was at Stratton Mountain today for a photo shoot and learned that there's probably a story behind every pretty picture in a magazine. 

My story begins on the coldest day of the year (so far) with a very nice Austrian photographer I'll call Klaus. Klaus had called the night before to remind me to “be bright.” So I arrived at Stratton carrying three coats — the brightest I could find in the closet, including a cantaloupe-colored jacket purchased at like 99% off several years ago. But before he had even seen one coat, Klaus tut-tutted my lime green ski boots. They’re 10 years old, and I paid ungodly sums to have them custom fit. They’re hideous, but comfortable. 

So off we went to the ski shop, where they fitted me with silver Rossignol ladies' boots, complete with fur trim, and some Rossi skis, which turned out to be great skis. If only my feet hadn't been swimming around in the boots.

Then we trotted off to another fancy ski shop to borrow a jacket, because "cantaloupe" and "pool blue" weren't what Klaus had in mind. A Vanna-White-type woman with a German accent took a $500 red Marker coat, complete with rhinestone in the zipper pull, off its hanger and found a hat to match.

"You'll be varm in zat," she announced. But "zat" wasn't exactly the most insulated coat in the store. She also announced that it was "MINUS zhirty-two" at the summit. ;l/......./.;¬¬¬£££££££££££££ (WHOA--cat on the keyboard)

I wanted to wear an insulated coat underneath but wasn't supposed to look fat. I also had to leave the face mask and neck gator behind. Can't make it look cold and unpleasant for the nice readers! Same with mittens. A big thanks to whoever invented those hand-warmer thingees. I should have shoved a couple extra in my underwear. Oh, and I wore big girly earrings with my earlobes showing, so that felt nice in the frigid air.

So we started skiing and Klaus, reminded me to smile. Except my teeth froze. I'd duck behind the coat's collar when he wasn't shooting to stay warm, but had to purse my lips so as not to get lip gloss on the collar. And once behind the collar, my breath formed frost on my upper lip, creating a frosty white mustache.

Then my nose started to run, so I sniffed and snuffed to keep it from spoiling the $500 coat's collar. A few minutes later, as we sat on the chairlift, I noticed that when I exhaled, a fine mist of snot sprayed gently down onto the coat. 

After a few easy runs, Klaus headed for the moguls. “Turn here,” he said pointing to some huge mounds of snow separated by ice.

“OK, I’ll try,” I said from behind the now wet collar. “I’m not the best mogul skier.”

And I wasn’t. "Should I hike back up and try it again?" I asked.

"Yes," Klaus nodded.

I hiked four times for retakes. Donna Weinbrecht I'm not.

"It vill get you varm," Klaus kept saying.

Yeah, and it will also get more snot on the coat. 

So I'm not sure if he got any good shots or not. But I somehow survived with no frostbite, and there’s a red Marker coat -- infused with phlegm -- for sale for half-a-grand at a ski shop in the base village.

YouTube? Or MeTube?

Skiing the other day, I saw a guy with a video camera strapped to the top of his helmet. I rolled my eyes (behind my goggles). What was this guy filming? His ski day? As seen from his eyes — or rather, from the top of his head? Was he going to use up bandwidth sending it to his buddies? Or post it on YouTube?

Perhaps I was subjected to too many slideshows as a child and an uncle who would take 12 photos of the amaryllis in bloom, each from a different angle. I’ve always found the “how-we-spent-our-summer-vacation” slideshows and home movies not only dull but selfish. If you’d like a trip down memory lane, please wander there yourself. I once dated a guy who would set up a slide projector at parties and then would show pictures of his latest rock climbing adventure. We watched slide after slide of his backside, as he worked his way up some cliff.

His roommate called it the “Me Projector.”

Now, with cameras in cell phones and digital video camcorders, everyone seems to be recording their every move. In July 2006, YouTube reported that 65,000 new videos were uploaded daily, with viewers watching more than 100 million each day. And that was two years ago.

While it’s hard to determine how many of these uploaded videos are professionally-made — music videos, clips of The Daily Show or Colbert Report, or old footage of Robin Williams doing stand-up on stage — most I would venture to guess are posted by people like helmet-cam guy.

And Dave, the World’s Greatest Chef  (it says so on his apron), cooking southern fried chicken in his kitchen (or someone’s kitchen).

And a girl named Zexy, who was filmed making Jell-O.

And the parent who filmed kids playing violin, a video that has mercifully only had 96 hits.

The first video uploaded to YouTube, on April 23, 2005, was titled, “Me at the zoo.” In it, a kid talks about what makes elephants interesting. They have trunks. Thankfully, the video lasts only 18 seconds.

With most of these videos, there is nary an editor or producer in sight.

I can understand the parents and grandparents of the violinists wanting to see that video. And I’ve had a few good laughs watching Sadie, the farting bunny, which is worth all of its five seconds. And all the funny cat videos. But what are the rest of these videographers — and their stars — hoping for? That Steven Spielberg will ask them to direct his next movie? Or that Warren Miller will underwrite their next ski video? Or Rachael Ray will invite them to be their guest host?

Or are they simply saying, “Look at me!”?

Jet decimates flock, only two survivors

by Branta Fowl

New York, N.Y. -- A flock of geese, bound for the warmer waters of Charlotte, N.C., was almost wiped out by an airliner which flew directly into the V-shaped flock in the air north of New York's La Guardia Airport. Only two geese survived.

Both landed safely on the Hudson River.

Having sustained damage to its engines, the airliner also landed on the Hudson.

"We didn't even see it coming," said Loosey Goosey, who flew on the outer fringes of the V. "Mother Goose took a direct hit and fell immediately. Fred and Gertrude were sucked into one engine, Eggbert was pulled into the other. It was awful."

"All I saw were feathers flying," said Canada, who was flying next to Loosey in the formation. "It's so sad. Those planes should honk or something.

Both Loosey and Canada are awaiting another flock before continuing their migration but say they will not return to the waters near the airport.

The International Committee on Safe Migration is planning a full investigation.

How the Bankers Stole Christmas

Every You down in You-ville

Liked Christmas a lot.

And the Bankers did too--in New York and Charlotte.

 

The Bankers loved Christmas! The whole Christmas season!

You can ask why. Everyone knows the reason.

It was gift cards and sweaters and HD TVs

American Girl dolls and new shoes and Nintendo Wiis.

 

But I think that the most likely reason of all

May have been that everyone's credit limit was too tall.

 

But, no matter the reason, the gift cards or shoes.

Weeks before Christmas, the Bankers began hating the Yous.

Staring down from their offices with nervous wan smiles

At the vacant shop windows and empty store aisles.

But every You down in You-ville couldn't even afford lunch

From debt load and foreclosure and the big credit crunch.

 

It happened back in September,

If you will remember ...

 

After years of prosperity, the economy tanked.

And now this austerity, it just really stank.

For 28 years, they'd been on a roll.

Now the Yous one by one were living on the dole.

 

"They're not filling the stores!" the Bankers snarled with a sneer.

"We'll never stay liquid. That much is clear."

Then they growled as they watched the DOW Jones keep on dropping.

"We must find a way to keep them all shopping!"

 

But how?

 

Then the Bankers got an idea!

An awful idea

The Bankers got a wonderful awful idea!

 

"We know just what to do!" they laughed with great glee.

And they boarded their jets and flew to D.C.

And as they walked into Congress, they knew they'd receive

An unprecedented 700 billion dollar reprieve.

 

"Help us!" they said in a loud chorus of rings,

"For we are the most awesome of the financial kings!"

 

They reminded Congress, "to give us free rein!

To regulate us now would be completely insane.

We can bring the DOW back to its previous bubble

It's just those stupid Yous who are in all this trouble."

 

Then, they loaded their pockets with taxpayer money.

And flew off to where the climate was sunny.

They would eat escargot in the restaurants of Paris

And fly private jets to the beaches of Nevis.

 

But then as the Bankers sat down and gloated

Their overstuffed egos distended and bloated.

The Yous stood watch as the DOW continued down

And their homes were foreclosed in their very own town.

 

The Bank had taken their houses and credit.

For 28 years, the government had let it.

Secondary derivatives and subprime mortgage rates.

And credit default swaps had sealed the Yous' fates.

 

All through the fall, throughout the long days

All the Yous felt robbed of their 401(k)s.

They sold all they could--a stock market unloading.

But as Christmas approached, there was a sense of foreboding.

 

With no credit to buy and no money to spend

The Yous would be starting a new Christmas trend.

They'd make and they'd bake and they'd learn to buy less

Until the new President could get them out of this mess.

 

For Christmas would come, just without cash

It would come without packaging that went in the trash.

It would come without presents, without ribbons and wrappings

Without tags and tinsel and trimmings and trappings.

 

Then the Yous thought of something really quite daring.

Maybe Christmas, they thought, is about more than sharing.

The holidays, perhaps, are more about caring.

 

As Christmas drew near, the Yous felt in good cheer

And focused their hopes on the New Year.

 

And hope, the Yous realized, the tall and the small,

Could be the very best Christmas present of all.

 

I miss Sarah Palin

Barack Obama is the 44th president of the United States. Hooray! I didn't dare believe it until I saw it on TV. Then again, I didn't dare believe that George W. Bush could be president either.

Almost two weeks after the election, there's a sense of hope in the cold November air, a sense that Captain Hazelwood is no longer -- or will soon no longer be -- at the helm of the S.S. USA, that no matter how strong the storm, Captain Obama will have the wisdom and courage to keep the ship not only afloat but making headway. Assuming he can get the ship off the reef, stop the hemorrhaging, and make repairs.

But I have to say, I miss Sarah Palin. Not as a potential vice presidential candidate but as a daily source of entertainment. In the two months before the election, I awoke every day with a sense of "Oh goodie, what will she do today?!" I couldn't wait to go online, read the news and editorials, watch Keith Olbermann and Jon Stewart, and check out huffingtonpost.com and politico.com and any other website that detailed her every misstep -- her patronizing winks, folksy "you betchas," and her mangled, usually meaningless sentences, although I can't fault her for not knowing what the Bush Doctrine is. Had you asked me, I would have guessed that Bush couldn't even spell the word doctrine, let alone have one.

With what looks like a responsible, thoughtful, wise administration about to step in, what will we have to titter about over dinner? It's like when the neighbors are all behaving, there's no one to center the conversation around -- no "Did you hear what Nancy said to Sue?" or "Jennifer will catch more than a cold if she wears that outfit." With no one's misfortune to gossip about at neighborhood gatherings, we're left to inquire about what's in the stuffed mushrooms and wonder aloud how Joanne makes her azaleas flourish. 

As uncharitable as it is to gossip and titter, let's face it: it's fun, especially when we don't like the people we're tittering about.

So give me a juicy scandal -- a Watergate, a Neiman-Marcus-gate, a Wysteria Lane. As long as it's in the GOP. Or at someone else's house. Meow.

Auto relations

Yesterday, while driving through tourist-filled Manchester, Vermont, the car’s brakes gave out. Pedal to the floor, a guttural noise coming from under the hood, oh sh*t. I didn’t think this happened to 21^st century cars. I shifted into low and steered away from pedestrians.

Fortunately, I was less than a mile from the mechanic’s, the same mechanic who allegedly fixed the worn brakes last week.

I pulled into his lot without rear-ending an Audi wagon, put the car in park, turned off the ignition, and breathed a sigh of relief. I had killed no one, not even myself.

Turns out a caliper screw had come loose, which allowed all the brake fluid to leak out. The mechanic tightened the screw, poured more fluid into the reservoir, and sent me on my way with instructions to call immediately if the brake light came on.

I drove straight to my husband's office and asked to trade cars.

So yes, I’m a complete girl when it comes to car trouble, no doubt because my first car was broken more often than not. This is not how it’s supposed to be. Cars, like marriages, are just supposed to work, especially late-model cars. Yes, they both require regular maintenance and upkeep. But given that, they should function without a hitch. Right? No alternator failure on a cold afternoon in the mountains, or a busted U-joint in rush hour traffic.

It all started after college when I began a 10-year, 100,000-mile relationship with one of the few lemons ever produced by Toyota — a used 1981 Corolla with sunburned blue paint. In the decade I drove this car, I went through two water pumps (one failure requiring a tow truck), three batteries (each guaranteed “for life”), two transmissions (one installed the day I started grad school and cost half my student loan), two clutches, and an alternator, which kindly gave out in the driveway.

I also learned what a distributor vacuum pump does and that if it breaks, the car won’t drive faster than 10 mph. This happened in a blizzard outside Salida, Colorado. I spent the night in a cheap motel, wiled away 6 hours the next day at the Toyota dealer while they couldn’t find the problem, limped home (a one-hour drive that took four), and found a love note from the dealer’s mechanic in the glove box the next day.

Another time, the thermostat broke in Phoenix in June. In 100-degree heat, I drove home to Tucson (a 90-minute drive) with the heat on and windows open.

The car didn’t much care for cold either. If the temperature dipped below 20 degrees, it wouldn't started.

Then there was the valve cover that blew over Vail Pass. Fortunately, the oil light didn’t come on until an hour later when I was only 10 minutes from home. Did I immediately stop as my father had always instructed? Nope. But I did make it home.

And all this after I regularly fed it super unleaded gas and STP, changed its oil every 3,000 miles, purchased a custom-fit dashmat to protect the vinyl from the harsh western sun, and often vacuumed the interior and polished its dull paint. It was like living with a psychotic person who occasionally forgot to take his meds.

After 10 years of torment and tears (often beside the road far from home and long before cellphones), I finally sold the car to a local high school girl who covered the rear bumper with Nine Inch Nails stickers, and I was able to afford a 1991 Subaru wagon previously owned (and sold by) a Christian family. After Toyota the Terrible, the Blue ‘Ru was as reliable as my father.

Then came the evil Passat. It was the first brand new car I ever owned. But it compromised my trust almost from our first date. Within the first week, the air conditioning button on the dash got stuck on (in November). The dealer replaced it, but I was left to wonder what would go wrong next. Six years later, just about everything had — including the front fairing dropping off from its underbelly as I drove along a dirt road in Vermont. I once left it parked and unlocked overnight on a street in Boston. Come morning, it was still there, right where I'd left it, as if somewhere it had a note to car thieves: "Don't steal me, you'll regret it."

I finally outright refused to drive it after the STOP, BRAKE FAULT light flashed red on the dashboard, and no one could figure out why, not even the dealer who charged us over $500 despite fixing nothing. We traded it for a Toyota Prius, a cute little car that looks like a hamster. It gets the garage now (although this comfortable parking spot never did much for the Passat). A year into the relationship, the Prius still has my trust.

But the Prius has become Andy’s car, given its good gas mileage and his daily 62-mile commute. And I am left with the seven-year-old Highlander and its suspicious brakes. Maybe what it needs is a name — something like Goldie or Rusty or Bob. Would it feel like part of the family then? And thus less inclined to carry us to our deaths?

Or is this yet another relationship destined for the junk heap? 

Does anybody know what's going on?

A-hem. Excuse me. Yes, over here. (Furtive look around to see if anyone is eavesdropping.) Could you explain the financial crisis to me?

You see, I’ve done the required reading (New York Times and AP stories), and I’ve even done the bonus reading (editorials, Newsweek analyses), and I’ve also listened to the network news analysts. I have investments in both stocks and bonds, and I don’t glaze over or tune out when I meet with our financial planner.

But I don’t get it. And like high school kids in chemistry class who don’t dare admit that the chapter on atomic orbitals is confounding, I’m guessing that I'm not the only one who doesn’t get how it will affect us, the middle-class consumers and taxpayers.

Yes, I understand that there are people who bought houses far beyond their means (like the woman interviewed on CNN last week who makes $10/hour as a hair stylist yet bought a $495,000 house on Long Island), and I understand that many folks are mired in credit card debt. I understand that real estate has tanked, so have sympathy for those who have to sell their houses right now. And I know that, should the market stay the same, I might be able to afford a Winnebago in my retirement but not gas to drive it. And my daughter's education fund? It might cover text books.

I have a slim grasp of what hedge funds and derivatives are, and I get the rudiments of Wall Street — the buying and selling of stock as a way for corporations to raise capital. But the rest of what Wall Street does seems like magic — or dark magic — where the magician waves his wand and literally pulls money out of a hat.

It hasn’t really hit me yet what the economy’s implosion will do to my daily life. I can still buy food and pay my bills. I still have a few writing assignments. My daughter gets on the school bus each morning and returns each afternoon. I can buy gas for my car and bread at the bakery. So the economic crisis feels like this abstract thing out there — like a hurricane that’s affecting another part of the country. But which part? And what kind of damage is it causing? And will it soon show up here?

If I knew this, then maybe I would have understood what Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson planned on doing with that $700 billion. Exactly who received this money? And by that, I mean the name of the company and/or entity, and the name of the individual in charge. And what are they going to do with it?

I vaguely understand that it is supposed to free up credit, so people and companies could borrow money. But at this point, I don’t anticipate needing a loan in the near future. So is my ship still in danger of sinking? Or will I remain afloat, only having to navigate choppy water?

And what exactly is happening to the people who got us into this mess — the well-paid financiers and “creative thinkers” who kept pulling money out of the hat even though they knew there was nothing behind it? Like, a-hem, Mr. Paulson himself, former Goldman Sachs CEO whose net worth has been projected at around $700 million. I don’t see him throwing $10 million into the bailout kitty. If we could round up 7,000 of his Wall Street cohorts, there’s the $700 billion right there.

I wish someone would write, “Economic Crisis for Real People.” A lot of us might benefit. Maybe the bailout package would have passed Congress. Or maybe we, the well-informed voters, would have insisted that the bill be drafted in a different form in the first place.

But who am I to say? Maybe I’m just the dumb kid sitting in the back of the class.

You see, I’ve done the required reading (New York Times and AP stories), and I’ve even done the bonus reading (editorials, Newsweek analyses), and I’ve also listened to the network news analysts. I have investments in both stocks and bonds, and I don’t glaze over or tune out when I meet with our financial planner. 

But I don’t get it. And like high school kids in chemistry class who don’t dare admit that the chapter on atomic orbitals is confounding, I’m guessing that I'm not the only one who doesn’t get how it will affect us, the middle-class consumers and taxpayers.

Yes, I understand that there are people who bought houses far beyond their means (like the woman interviewed on CNN last week who makes $10/hour as a hair stylist yet bought a $495,000 house on Long Island), and I understand that many folks are mired in credit card debt. I understand that real estate has tanked, so have sympathy for those who have to sell their houses right now. And I know that, should the market stay the same, I might be able to afford a Winnebago in my retirement but not gas to drive it. And my daughter's education fund? It might cover text books. 

I have a slim grasp of what hedge funds and derivatives are, and I get the rudiments of Wall Street — the buying and selling of stock as a way for corporations to raise capital. But the rest of what Wall Street does seems like magic — or dark magic — where the magician waves his wand and literally pulls money out of a hat.

It hasn’t really hit me yet what the economy’s implosion will do to my daily life. I can still buy food and pay my bills. I still have a few writing assignments. My daughter gets on the school bus each morning and returns each afternoon. I can buy gas for my car and bread at the bakery. So the economic crisis feels like this abstract thing out there — like a hurricane that’s affecting another part of the country. But which part? And what kind of damage is it causing? And will it soon show up here?

If I knew this, then maybe I would have understood what Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson planned on doing with that $700 billion bailout. Exactly who received this money? And by that, I mean the name of the company and/or entity, and the name of the individual in charge. And what are they going to do with it?

I vaguely understand that it is supposed to free up credit, so people and companies could borrow money. But at this point, I don’t anticipate needing a loan in the near future. So is my ship still in danger of sinking? Or will I remain afloat, only having to navigate choppy water?

And what exactly is happening to the people who got us into this mess — the well-paid financiers and “creative thinkers” who kept pulling money out of the hat even though they knew there was nothing behind it? Like, a-hem, Mr. Paulson himself, former Goldman Sachs CEO whose net worth has been projected at around $700 million. I don’t see him throwing $10 million into the bailout kitty. If we could round up 7,000 of his Wall Street cohorts, there’s the $700 billion right there.

I wish someone would write, “Economic Crisis for Real People.” A lot of us might benefit. Maybe the bailout package would have passed Congress. Or maybe we, the well-informed voters, would have insisted that the bill be drafted in a different form in the first place.

But who am I to say? Maybe I’m just the dumb kid sitting in the back of the class.

Treasure hunting

I hate to shop. Never liked it. Just ask my mother. 

Whenever we visited my grandmother in Boston — traveling from our home in the hinterlands of Vermont — my mother would drag me and my sister on day-long shopping expeditions to Filene's or R.H. Stearns, where she would sequester us in a small dressing room while she tried on what seemed like 50 dresses at a time. It was more boring than church.

Worse, she rarely wore the items that she purchased. I remember one particular dress — dark blue and resembling a Naval officer's uniform — that cost $98 (in 1974) at Stearns. She wore it five times (I counted). Or the 100 percent polyester pantsuit in a gray/brown floral print, which belongs in the Worst Dressed section of the Fashion Hall of Fame, along with the patent leather go-go boots to match, all from Filene’s. She might have gotten away with it on the streets of New York. But in Vermont? It looked like a costume.

Not surprisingly, my sense of fashion now tends toward the practical (boring). If a pair of capris and a shirt can’t be worn on a bike as well as to a business meeting, they aren’t worth buying.

Which makes it hard to explain the allure of TJMaxx, the fashion-for-less department store that sits in a corner of downtown Rutland. At least once a season, I find myself wandering the aisles and digging for bargains in not just women's clothing but also in housewares, linens, picture frames, and kids' toys. It's the first stop on the Procrastination Express. 

What makes it so enticing? Does it spark the latent hunter-gatherer in me? Is finding a softshell Patagonia jacket for $49.99 — hiding amongst the women's pajamas — like coming across a rare Goji berry in the forest?

Or is hunting for bargains just a game? A treasure hunt for grown-ups: Patagonia capris for $19.99, Lole Bermuda shorts on the clearance rack for $10, hand-milled lavender soap from Provence for $4.99, a Le Creuset Dutch oven regularly $250 marked down to $49.99, kids' Levis with rhinestone-capped rivets for $14.99, Waterford crystal candleholders for $12.99. 

It feels like plundered booty.

So if Andy asks me what I did today, I won’t admit that I wasted time. Instead, I’ll say I went treasure hunting.

Handbags and windbreakers

My friend Nigel, who lives in New Zealand, always enjoys pointing out the amusing differences between American English and the King's English (or is it now the Queen's?). In England and its former colonies, a bathroom is a place where people bathe, while a toilet (water closet, loo ...) is where we perform necessary anatomical eliminations.

He has also reminded me that what I refer to as a sweater is in fact called a jumper.

Then, on a blustery day, when I announced that I had forgotten my windbreaker, he chuckled and said that a windbreaker in Britain is someone who suffers from flatulence (and thus might require the loo?). In proper English, my nylon jacket is called a wind cheater.

Most recently, he responded to my purse blog with a more ominous tale of linguistic misinterpretation.

"In the English-speaking world, what you call a purse, we call a handbag," he wrote via email. "A purse is a wallet-like thing in which notes (bills), credit cards, and (more rarely these days) coins are kept. Women keep their purses in their handbags."

He then recounted a story about a New Zealand woman who was held-up at gunpoint in Gotham by a man who demanded that she hand over her purse. She opened her handbag and frantically rummaged around in it for her purse.

"Gimme your f**n purse!" the mugger screamed.

"I'm looking for it," she screamed back.

The thief then snatched her handbag and ran off with it, "leaving it to observers and later the cops to explain to the woman that she was very lucky that this linguistic misunderstanding hadn't got her shot," wrote Nigel, "for it's likely that the thief would have thought she was rummaging in her purse for a gun and not that she was searching for her purse in her handbag!"

Imagine if the thief had demanded her windbreaker.

Purses

I need a new purse. My current bag is an over-the-shoulder or strap-in-your-hand hybrid, and it doesn’t do either well. So I tend to leave it flopped on the floor wherever I go, and something invariably falls out of its outside pocket. Like the car keys.

But to buy a new purse is to condone this particular accessory. And I don’t. I don’t even like the name. Never have. You can’t say purse without squinching up your lips. Purse. It rhymes with terse. A purse is what a crotchety old woman carries looped over her arm, held tight. Like a weapon. Or a suitcase-sized satchel hauled about by a harried mother who needs to have at her immediate disposal any number of items: tissues, pens, a sweater, mirror and comb, three shades of lipstick, a daily planner from 2005, a dented half-drunk water bottle, and a three-course meal complete with silverware.

I do not want to be either of these women. I want to be footloose and purse-free, able to shove my driver’s license, credit card, and $20 in one pocket and chapstick in the other and walk out the door.

To carry more implies that others depend on me: “Don’t look at me! Carry your own damn Kleenex.”

And to carry a handbag looped over one arm ties up that arm from useful activity. Ever tried steering a bike with a bag dangling from your arm?

My purse-carrying days began slow and grudgingly. In my 30s, I purchased a fanny pack and stuffed it with my wallet, chapstick, and a checkbook, Post-It notepad and a pen. Then I found a cute canvas over-the-shoulder carpet-bag-looking tote at a funky store in Ouray, Colorado, and decided it looked more dignified. I put in it the contents of my fanny pack, plus a newly acquired cellphone and Palm Pilot.

And then I had a child.

My purse became an Eagle Creek backpack-slash-diaper-bag. We could have survived for a week on a deserted island with what was stored in that bag, and probably for two weeks if you didn’t mind pinching cracker crumbs from the seams.

Now that Sam is almost 8, I’m back down to a normal-sized purse. I bought a leather Coach backpack-style version a few years ago, thinking that the leather and the designer name would give the illusion of respectability.

But it soon became spattered with milk (from baby bottles smuggled into movie theaters and restaurants) and required too much maneuvering in winter to get it over both shoulders while wearing a Parka. So I ditched it for the over-the-shoulder or strap-in-your-hand model. I purchased it for too much money from Title IX Sports, the athletic-mom outfitter. In my mind this made it less of a purse and more of a “lifestyle accessory.”

But it too is proving annoying. And I am forced to realize that I am the dispenser of Kleenex and Purell, money and gum, chapstick and cough drops. And when my cellphone rings, I need to be able to find it. What if it’s the school nurse calling? Or the police?

Perhaps I just need to give my handbag a new name. Like Seinfeld, I’m not carrying a purse. I’ve got a “European Carry-All.”

And with it slung over my shoulder, I’ll pretend I’m walking the Champs Elysees in Paris.

“Vous faire a besoin d’un tissue, ma petite enfant?”

Murderer in the basement

If and when I get skin cancer, I should remember today.

I skied at Pico. It was one of those classic spring days, the kind that feel like winter’s ransom. The sky was blue with a few swaths of cirrus; the sun and a south breeze warmed the air just enough that the snow’s surface softened, but not to the point of turning the snow to gloppy mashed potatoes. And the turns we made in the snow after the hour-plus hike up the mountain reminded me of why I love to ski. When I need a mental trip to my happy place, skiing Pico today could be it.

The only downside to the day — besides the hike up with skins stuck on our skis (which in my book isn’t a downside at all; the exercise is the reason we’re there) — was that I forgot to wear a baseball hat. I had slathered my face with SPF 45, but after five months of keeping my face hidden under hats, scarves, neck gators, and jacket collars, it’s hard to think of the sun as a bad thing.

As we started hiking at 12:30 p.m. — melanoma’s cocktail hour — I realized that we would be staring straight into the sun for the next hour and 15 minutes, never mind the rays reflecting off the bright snow. Well, I reasoned, it’s too nice to head home.

At least if I do get skin cancer — and I very much hope I don’t — I can look back over the past 40-plus years and remember days like today. Or the eight winters spent in Colorado where every weekend was spent skiing at a different resort. Or 12 years racing my bike in the west, sometimes spending up to six hours in the saddle as we rode across the desert, our sweat long ago having washed away whatever sunscreen we remembered to apply at dawn. Or even childhood summers spent in the town pool or swamping metal canoes in the lake at summer camp. Like a really bad hangover, at least it will have been fun that led me to that state.

If only we earned all our illnesses, rather than just contracting them for no good reason. We could rationally weigh the costs and benefits of our actions. Certainly some habits predispose us to illnesses. My weird Aunt Anne smoked eight packs a day and died of lung cancer.

But what about my friend Wendy? She contracted thyroid cancer several years ago, but as far as I know, she eats well and exercises regularly. She’s smart, funny and just goofy enough to be an interesting person. So it’s not like I can say, “Well, duh, if you didn’t so much bacon, then maybe you wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

Despite regular tests, her doctors, so far, have been unable to find the source of her cancer. So in a sense, she and her family — her husband and two kids — are living with the equivalent of a murderer in the basement. They know he’s there, but they just can’t find him, nor do they know how he got there. So they go about their daily lives trying not to think about him.

Maybe we all have murderers in our basements. And maybe I let mine in on a nice sunny day when my skis cut through the corn snow like butter.

But I try not to think about it. Why ruin a beautiful sunny spring day? Or even a dreary one for that matter.

And next time, I’ll remember my hat.

Psychotic Boyfriends

Spring is finally showing signs of arriving in Vermont. The crocuses are poking up their brave little heads, and the snow banks are melting, leaving behind their glacial loads of road grit and grime on the lawn. Yesterday, it was almost 60 degrees — the first time it has been that warm since ... since I can't remember when. Last October, maybe?

But no sooner have I washed and put away my winter parka and folded up my scarf, it’s back to blustery and cold, with a north wind beating back any warmth from the sun's rays. And what’s this? Snow in the forecast for Friday?

It makes me feel as if I'm dating a psychotic boyfriend. For no apparent reason, he's suddenly friendly and warm, making me forget completely about the dark days of winter when he was sullen and mean. He even gives flowers on these days. When perfect spring days arrive, I feel like dancing in the street. Throw open the windows! Let’s have a party!

But Psychotic Boyfriend throws these days at us just often enough (which isn’t anywhere near often enough) to allow us to weather the bad days — the days when it snows in May or the rain blows sideways and the furnace can’t possibly take the chill out of the air. These are the days that Psychotic Boyfriend has not taken his medication. It’s a wonder anyone puts up with his behavior.

Just as I'm threatening to walk out — to move south or west or to remote Pacific atolls where the sun always shines — Psychotic Boyfriend softens his blows, turns sunny and warm again, and cons me into sticking around. The earth radiates warmth, the grass turns green, the daffodils finally bloom, the air smells like spring. Now this is more like it. I even feel like inviting the neighbors over for a beer.

For over a decade, I lived out west, where the weather was much more even-tempered — excluding the occasional tornado. I didn’t have to drop everything on a nice day just to get outdoors. There was always the weekend, when the sun would almost always continue to shine. But while living there, I dated an actual psychotic boyfriend, who on a perfectly sunny day would verbally attack me for something — that I didn’t make enough money, that I wasn’t ambitious enough, that I didn’t cook enough. I stuck with him for over three years, living for those really good days when we would climb three 14,000-foot peaks in a day, or mountain bike Moab’s White Rim trail.

I finally dumped the real psychotic boyfriend and realized that I could still climb 14-ners and do long mountain bike rides without the mental anguish. I traded him in for a place where the weather is psychotic and the boyfriend (now husband) is not. Although I would dearly love to live where the sun shines more days than not, we are (I’m slowly realizing) not moving.

If this is the sacrifice I must make — a balanced man for unbalanced weather — then I guess I can’t put the parka away quite yet.

-----

In 1876, Mark Twain gave a speech entitled “The Weather.” In it, he said, “I reverently believe that the Maker who made us all makes everything in New England but the weather. I don't know who makes that, but I think it must be raw apprentices in the weather-clerk's factory who experiment and learn how, in New England, for board and clothes, and then are promoted to make weather for countries that require a good article, and will take their custom elsewhere if they don't get it.”