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.

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?