The Mathematics of a Winter Morning

I don't care what the calendar says. Each year there is a clear "first day of winter," a day which may or may not be connected to the official winter solstice. In New England, it's usually several days before the calendar claims it's winter. For me, the first day of winter is the first morning you need to get yourself and a small child out of the house and off to school/daycare/work. And on that morning, I better add some extra minutes to our routine.

It snowed here on Saturday -- just a few inches -- enough to coat the trees with a lovely icing and blanket the lawns. With such a light covering, it was easy to deny that winter was indeed here. But this morning, as I helped my son get ready for school, I realized that we needed to bring snow boots to school, just in case the playground was still snowy. I put them in his bookbag but took them out a few minutes later because I had forgotten to write his initials in them. (+3 minutes)

We were all packed and dressed -- coat, hat and mittens -- when I opened the front door and found my car covered with a thick frost. Oh yeah, that. "Noah, stay here, I need to go warm up the car," I said, as I headed outside. (+3 minutes)

I was feeling impressed that I had remembered to unlock all of the car doors before coming inside (I tend to forget to do this which usually adds +2 minutes when I'm trying to get the child into the car later). I again gathered our things at the front door before realizing that I had no house keys. Ugh... The key chain for my car keys broke a few months ago, and now all of my keys were stashed on one key chain. Which was in the car ignition. Ugh. "OK, Noah, we need to go out the garage door." (+3 minutes)

Noah was enthusiastic about helping to scrape the ice off the car -- I'll have to remind him of this when he's 15. So together we scraped the windows clean. This is usually +5 minutes, but with a child, it's +8 minutes. Noah decided it was easier to scrape without his mittens on (he'll learn, oh, he'll learn... I usually forget mine and have to go back inside which adds +3 minutes), but then it was +1 minute to re-apply mittens after scraping. Settled into the car, add +1 minute to re-adjust the blowing heater.

Nineteen minutes -- not so bad. Maybe we can break the record next year.

Continue to Hold

When the November issue of Field & Stream slid through my mail slot last week, I wondered how on earth I had become the target demographic for "the world's leading outdoor magazine." With headlines such as "7 Days You Must Hunt This Fall" and "Flush Roosters in Any Cover" it was a far cry from my preferred magazine topics "7 Wardrobe Updates This Fall" and "Flush Editors in Any Cover." I laughed about it. I Facebooked about it. And then I forgot about it.

Until I got the October issue arrived this week.

Never mind that we're less than a week away from December (isn't it horribly late for a "Welcome to Deer Camp" main feature?) now I was getting worried. Especially when I looked more closely and noticed the SEP10 printed on the mailing label. Oh man, a whole year of deer hanging by their antlers on the cover and recipes like Wild Turkey Potpie and Venison and Pumpkin Curry...

When I called Field & Stream, the sympathetic customer service rep said that it was a complementary one-year subscription from Home and Beyond and then gave me an 800 number to call to cancel it. Home and Beyond...it rang a bell. I ordered two sets of Rubbermaid shelf systems for the garage from Home and Beyond via Amazon.com. Lovely shelves. But why on earth would they come with a subscription to Field & Stream? It's not like I ordered a gun rack. Or a make-your-own-sausage kit (which yes, is available in the Field & Stream classifieds).

I called the 800 number only to connect with ValueMags -- ah yes, the "world's most parasitic magazine subscription company" (my quote, not theirs). Once they have you in their grips, they're not letting go. Better learn to love venison stew.

"Thank you for calling ValueMags. All of our operators are currently busy. Please press 1 to hold, 2 to leave a message." Ha ha. Leave a message? Ha ha. As I spent 13 minutes on hold, my son stayed by my side, offering moral support for phone queue hell by affixing Thanksgiving stickers to me and saying, "You're the Thanksgiving turkey, but you won't get cooked." Twenty-seven stickers (26 shirt, 1 forehead) later, 'Angela' cancelled my subscription, explaining that I may get a few more before it is finally cancelled. That's fine, I've been looking for a good recipe for mallard pudding.

Only I Didn't Say Fudge

One of my favorite scenes from "A Christmas Story" is when Ralphie lets an expletive fly after dropping the lug nuts while his father changes a tire in the snow. The slow-motion close-up shows Ralphie saying, "Oh fuddddgggge," with this subsequent voice-over: "Only I didn't say fudge." When the father tells the mother what transpired, the mother lets out a blood-curdling scream.

When it was my turn, I went with the audible, stuck-in-throat gasp.

I knew we were pushing the envelope when we downloaded the uncensored versions of songs from iTunes. It was innocent, really. We couldn't find the 'clean' versions of "Rockstar" or "Boom Boom Pow" on iTunes. I make an effort not to curse in front of my 4-year-old son, and I guess I secretly hoped that he wouldn't notice the swear words in music if he wasn't hearing them from 'real people.' Even during the questionable language, like 'popping pills from a Pez dispenser,' I croon, "We're gonna pop our Pez from a Pez dispenser." Because in our house, that's the only thing that's coming out of a Pez dispenser.

Wishful thinking.

We were on a long car trip last weekend when Noah casually said, "Boom Boom Pow says shit a lot." Cue audible gasp. Cue husband's subdued laughter in front seat. Cue horror!

We stammered. Umm, uhhh, ummm... (secretly thinking, Oh my gosh he knows a CURSE word!!!) And then our NASCAR-loving kid looked out the window and said, "A tire's come off! We're gettin' loose Daddy!" Of course, no tire had actually come off of our car (and phew for that), but Noah had made an observation of the real world and then moved right back into the fantasy world he dwells in at least 70 percent of the time.

Crisis averted? I'm a little conflicted. Part of me says we ought to find those clean versions, and the other part of me says he'll probably hear it at the racetrack soon enough.

The Uphill Battle of the Bulge

Over the winter I picked up the third book in a series titled "Eat This, Not That." I received the first on a permanent loan, and I have purchased the others. The series is by David Zinczenko (and co-author Matt Goulding), editor-in-chief at Men's Health magazine, and the first book hooked me by exposing calorie, fat, and sodium contents for food at many popular restaurants.

Some of the numbers were downright disgusting. I'm not going to feign ignorance over what's in a brownie sundae, but some of the stats -- even for "healthier" entrees -- were shocking. The authors capitalized on the book's popularity and came out with similar books focused on kids' eating and supermarket shopping. I have devoured all of the books (wonder how many calories that is!), both for education and entertainment. I can see some holes in their logic and recommendations, but overall I think the books are eye-opening.

One of the points the authors make -- and I think as Americans we like this point because it takes some of the blame off of our eating habits -- is that the rise of weight and weight-related issues can be traced to how food is manufactured and marketed. So now I find myself looking for underhanded food marketing tactics. And here's a perfect example, which prompted this blog tonight: I was trolling around on Shape magazine's website, jotting down some new strength training moves. I came upon a video of exercises and when I clicked to play, an ad started. An ad for organic lettuce, right?

Nah. An ad for Red Robin's Burnin' Love Burger, of course. It had a link to "Click here for your free burger." Shame on you Shape magazine. But I guess things are tough in the publishing world these days.

The Lane Dilemma

For anyone who swims laps at a shared pool there is usually one thought when setting foot on the pool deck: Please let there be an open lane. An open lane means you can swim at your own pace and do your own stroke. There is no risk of whacking someone when you careen off course during the backstroke, and you certainly won't kick anyone in the side during an overzealous breaststroke. Young swimmers don't have to worry about disrespectfully splashing past the older ones, and slow swimmers don't have to feel intimidated by the Phelps look-alike who has mastered flip turns and the butterfly. If there's an open lane.

But sometimes there isn't. In this case, swim buddies will often opt to 'circle' a lane which means swimming in tandem on the right side of the lane...down on the right, back on the right, thus forming a circle... This works well for swimmers of similar speeds who know each other. For the buddy-less, one must assess the situation, sizing up lane occupants to determine who might be the best to split a lane. (Splitting is when two swimmers stick to their own sides of the lane.)

Recently I was the buddy-less swimmer facing a pool without an empty lane. Lanes 1 and 2 were out. The former had children and swim instructors, and the latter had two men already splitting the lane. Lane 6, which for whatever reason is my preferred lane, had a jogger. She was sticking to one side of the lane, but I just didn't think it was fair to subject her to my splashing. That left three lanes. In Lane 5, we had what I will call 'the haphazard swimmer.' Like all of my athletic pursuits, I am average at best. I am not particularly fast or graceful, but I pray I do not fall into the 'haphazard' swimmer category. The haphazard swimmer does not believe in the vertical line of swimming. Or even if he does, his arms and legs do not obey. Sharing a lane with a haphazard swimmer is more likely to result in a blow to the head or a swift kick to the ribs. So don't go there if you don't have to.

In Lane 3, there was an older gentleman who was swimming down the center of the lane. I just didn't want to bother him. The best candidate was in Lane 4. I had split a lane with him before, for only a few minutes before there was an opening. He is a fast, fluid swimmer that is considerate when sharing a lane. The only problem? He can swim for yards and yards without stopping. Some swimmers will just get into the lane, but I like to wait until the person comes up for a rest, then ask permission to share. It's just the polite thing to do, I think. But he just kept flipping and flipping and flipping. I gave up and asked the guy in Lane 3 if we could split. As I mentioned, he was older and possibly hard of hearing out of the pool. So I had to practically scream at his waterclogged ears, "Can we split the lane?" He finally replied, "I'm leaving in a few minutes." Ummm...so was that a yes or a no? Off he went, and I wasn't sure if he would think I was rude for not waiting until he finished or if he hadn't really heard what I said. I turned back to Lane 4...here he comes...and...flip! Damn. I was about to ambush the jogger when Lane 3 returned, and said, "Well you can get in. No sense sitting there." So we split for a few minutes, until he headed off to the locker room. And I was free to do a haphazard backstroke down Lane 3.

Back on the Blogging Wagon

Well I really fell off the blogging wagon for a while. I think you're starting to get the idea of what happens when I try to keep a journal. But with a journal, there's zero accountability...who knows if I actually write or not? Here, anyone can see how bad I am about regularly writing for fun. I'm reading a memoir by a guy who's a novelist and a runner. And he admits that he has never been good about keeping a journal (about life) but is steady about keeping a running journal. Well amen to that because I feel the same way. Last spring I bought a runner's journal. Up until mid-December I was really good about recording workouts, whether running, swimming, strength training, or what-have-you. I don't know what it is about daily life that keeps me from writing, but I look at the times when I have kept a journal (a semester abroad in Australia), and I really enjoy looking back at my thoughts.

Perhaps I've been an intermittent blogger because I don't have a focus. This isn't a blog about fixing cars or reducing the fat content in America's favorite comfort foods. It's Seinfeld-ian in a way...it's a blog about nothing. I can only hope to be half as entertaining.

Now that that's off my chest, here are a couple of thoughts about the holidays:

You know that program "One Laptop Per Child" which strives to provide a laptop for all children in developing countries? I have a new proposal -- the "One Portable DVD Player Per Child" initiative. All parents on long road trips should seriously consider this for the sake of sanity. After a few antsy trips to and from New Jersey, we finally bit the Best Buy bullet and bought a portable DVD player for our son. Hallelujah. Not a peep out of him on either leg of the trip. He watched DVDs for about an hour or so on the way to NJ and for about three hours on the way back. Not only did it keep him quiet but he now can't stand to watch TV for more than 30 minutes at a time. He used to watch an hour of "Curious George" from 5 to 6 p.m. while I made dinner, but since the trip he promptly shuts it off at 5:30, declaring, "I'm tired of watching George." I guess I better dust off the 30-Minute Meals cookbook.

Speaking of meals, I love how the holidays revolve around food. I mean, I want to throw up at the thought of a Christmas cookie right now, but while you're in the thick of it, the feasting isn't so bad. Part of the feasting, at least in my family, has always involved the holiday box of chocolates. And I don't mean the Godiva ballotin...I'm talking about the Russell Stover rectangular trough with the candy diagram on the inside of the lid. Year after year, the box is passed, and everyone tries to figure out if the candy is still in the same position as the diagram. Because once you remove an empty wrapper, you've pretty much ruined the diagram's integrity. You don't know what's where. Coconuts are now where the cremes used to be, and a caramel has slid over to the walnut section. It's a complete disaster. But anyway, you do your best to find what you're looking for -- albeit the lumpy tops of the nut clusters are a dead giveaway -- yet it's inevitable that you bite into a strawberry creme when you were hoping for a mocha truffle. But you know you're among family when the person next to you says, "Ooh! Strawberry creme! Are you going to finish that?" and takes the other half so you can guiltlessly troll for that truffle.