How to Walk Ten Feet in Five Minutes

This column, properly read (with a nice cup of Earl Grey and a pumpkin muffin) should take just a shade under five minutes to read.

This, coincidently, is the exact amount of time it takes my two children and me to walk the ten foot distance between the back door of my house and the car when it is raining.
In good weather this trip takes about twenty seconds.

There seems to be a rule in my house that the amount of time something will take (like getting the kiddos off to school or to a doctor’s appointment) is exactly two more minutes than you actually have available to you.

It all starts with shoes and socks.

If you think it’s difficult to keep a pair of socks together or keep track of both of your shoes as an adult, it is infinitely more difficult when those items are one third the size of yours.
I don’t believe in much by way of superstition or make believe, (the Tooth Fairy, Santa Clause etc.) but I believe in the Sock Gnomes.

These little pranksters sneak into your laundry and take one sock from every pair you have and permanently remove them from your home. I can only assume they flush them down the toilette, because on these same days I cannot find socks or shoes for my girls there is inevitably a backed up commode somewhere in the house flooding water at the exact moment you need to leave.

Sock Gnomes. There is no other explanation.

When it is raining torrentially (like last Friday’s monsoon like conditions) there is a simple mathematical formula that the girls like to use to determine how long it will take them to cover the short distance between the screen door and the open door of our family mini van "Mrs. Pettigrew". (The van is like a kindly old English nanny, she takes care of us always)

That formula is, as far as I can tell: the amount of rainfall per minute, plus the time we have left to make it to our destination, minus whatever stuffed animals and other assorted toys they can carry, divided by the earth’s exact distance from the sun that moment.

I should have realized long ago what was happening when I spied both girls by the door furiously punching numbers into their calculators and discussing something urgently in hushed tones to each other while looking over at me and making delta force style hand gestures about some upcoming scheme.

There is a typical, very human reaction to being hit with a wall of rain when stepping out your door in the morning, and that is to run like the dickens to get where you need to go.
But if you are a small, your first reaction to weather of this kind is to freeze up solid. No motion. No breathing. Nothing.

There is no amount of coaxing, cajoling, entreating or encouraging that can get a child to move in these situations. Dora The Explorer herself could be waving from inside the van, holding a plate of smores and lollipops and still that child will not move unless there is an adult hand holding theirs, urging them (okay, pulling) them on.

Once that child has finally gotten moving she or he will inevitably discover a few mud puddles that they will want to examine closely or stomp through.

These are both, of course, very time consuming activities.

I wish there was three more hours in every day for all the things that my girls want to look at more closely. "Dad, look! Wildflowers! Mom, stop the car, there’s an Elmo poster in that window. Dad! Doggies!"

Once you have gotten your adorable child (looking picturesque in her yellow duckie rain jacket) to the van there is still the task of buckling them in their seats, which involves standing just outside the vehicle, with rain pouring down the back of your neck directly into your underwear.
All this activity has taken exactly three and a half minutes, and as you settle into the driver’s seat, soaking wet, you marvel to yourself that you somehow shaved a minute and a half off the time it normally it takes to make it to the car in these conditions.

That is when you will look back at your smiling children and see that one of them has only one shoe on.

Oh, and the car keys are still somewhere inside. (Or with your spouse, who left the house in the other car an hour ago)

It’s okay you smile and tell yourself, you still have a minute and a half left.

It's Not Five O' Clock Somewhere

To say that the average country music fan is passionate about the genre is like saying a fish merely enjoys the water.

I can say this with full authority now, because this past summer I have absorbed a lifetime's worth of country music working as an usher at the fantastic Meadowbrook Pavilion concert venue in Gilford, NH. I now qualify for a PH.D. in the subject.

It is not a style of music that I heretofore had any contact with. (Mostly for sanity and okay, snobbery purposes) But having it thrust upon me continually this summer has given me pause, and somewhere between Montgomery Gentry's funny ode to dysfunctional families, Long Line of Losers and Reba McIntire's song for the single gal, I'll Have What She's Having, I realized that there is much to like playing on your local country music radio station.

I offer the following analysis, full of county music's pros and cons. (A fancy pants Latin phrase meaning "the good stuff and the bad stuff")

The pros:

1. Great melodies: If you are not singing along to a country song on the radio (even subconsciously) within one minute of hearing it you are probably either legally deaf or dead. It's not easy to write a catchy melody and many other kinds of music pride themselves on being as weird and "artistic" as they can be, which, frankly, translates into unlistenable music. There is no sing along like a country music concert sing along. I think the Irishman in me likes the idea of rousing song sung in broken voices by a crowd of simple folks.

2. Funny Song Titles: Hands down country music has the wittiest song titles. I can't decide what my favorite one is. So far it's a close race between She Got the Ring and I got the Finger, Being so Blue is Turning me Gray, My Wife Ran off With My Best Friend (I sure do miss him) and the immortal Get Your Biscuits in the Oven and Your Buns in the Bed. I'm thinking of writing my own song titled We Don't Text in Texas (Or LOL in Louisiana). That song title, by the way, is open for any aspiring song writer to use. I ask only for you to name your first born son Tincan and acknowledge me thoroughly before each and every playing of said song.

3. Recognition of the working man: There is no man or woman, no matter how successful or wealthy they may be, who has not at some point in their life worked a dead end job. To these folks country music has been a historic source of comfort and solace. Who can argue with a tune that gives a little hope? The simple joys in life are worth counting, and in this rat race we are in, this piece of advice is sorely needed.

I'm sorry country music fans, but your beloved music form has some decided cons.

1. The simple things: For every country song that celebrates the little things in life (a roof over you head, a good woman at your side etc.) and the working man, I wish there was a song about a working stiff who suddenly realizes that he loves numbers, so decides to get off his duff and go to night school and make something of his life. (In my song he becomes a successful accountant and helps save the family farm of his best friend)Celebrating the simple things too much can make a little ambition in life seem futile. (Put down that beer man, turn off the radio and never stop trying to improve yourself)

2. Twang: Is there a chance for a country band or artist from Wisconsin? Or California? Or New Hampshire? Do you have to have a surreal southern drawl to make it in country music? Here is a fun game. Take any pop song you know and sing it with an exaggerated twang. (Try Brown Eyed Girl for starters) Voila', a country song!

3. The cowboy hats: You should only be allowed to wear a cowboy hat if you actually work with livestock. A majority of country artists are now from urban environments, and have never seen a cow or ridden a horse in their lives. I used to like to pretend to be a cowboy; we all did at one point. The hats are silly. (Okay, I'm being too harsh here. I love silly hats as much as the next guy, maybe more)

4. It's not five o' clock somewhere: Here is the actual song lyric, a reference to cutting off work at lunchtime and heading to the bar: "It's only half past noon, but I don't care, it's five o' clock somewhere."

No it's not. It's five thirty somewhere. Time zones only work by the hour, so it's an hour difference. (And by the way, the place that it's now five thirty in is the Muslim country of Algeria in Africa, where it is, ironically, very difficult to find alcohol)

If the song said "its only noon here, but I don't care, it's five o' clock somewhere", then I would smile at the clever word play. But I cannot stand idly by while such dumb lyric gets quoted endlessly by those who would start the weekend early.

Well there they are. I'm thinking of putting this whole thing to music to make it go down easier.I think I'll call it My Gal took off with my laptop and all I got was this lousy blog.

I think it will be a hit.

Scones, Brussel Sprouts and other Non- foods

There is some great confusion, I believe, between the term "edible" and the word "food".

Allow me to illuminate your understanding.

There are many things in this world that can be classified as "edible" (fit to be eaten, especially by humans) but that no self respecting human being could bring themselves to call "food".

In fact, that above definition from Webster's Dictionary is particularly troubling because of the "especially by humans" clause tacked onto the end. This sounds a bit like a definition that would appeal to Martians.

The book Edible Wild Plants: A North American Field Guide ($24.99 at Amazon.com or slightly more at that hippy bookstore downtown) lists thousands of plants that you can consume to keep yourself alive, but that you would, not in a million years, put in a salad when your boss comes over for dinner.

Skunkweed may be "edible", but it is most defiantly not "food".

I have my own list.

1. Scones: The English have given us many great things: The Magna Carta, Canada, Charles Dickens, Shakespeare, The Beatles and English Toast.Having said that, scones, those British, brick-like, round objects (sometimes with blueberries or chocolate chips) in the window of your local bakery or trendy coffee shop, are a to me a great mystery. They continue to get made, day after day, yet no one I have ever met has actually eaten one.

Here is the actual recipe for scones: Go out in your yard, collect some rocks and bake them.

Then add butter.

Scones, according to British sailor lore, were created to both feed seamen and keep them afloat should their ship sink. (And if they are especially well made they could save the entire crew by draining every last drop of moisture from the ocean and allowing the crew to walk back home on dry land)

2. Brussel Sprouts: These little green balls of fun are to the cafeteria line what scones are to the bakery. They are incredibly compact and they stack well. My wife says that we eat brussel sprouts because somewhere, thousands of years ago, someone lost a bet, and the winner of that bet said to the loser, "hey you see that shrub over there...

"And then the loser of the bet, having just eaten the first brussel sprout in history, said "hmm, needs butter".

3. Spam: Much has been said and written about this curious product in a tin container, but here is a little known fact you might not know: Spam is actually the belly button lint of the pig.

And in a scone related note, Spam has a intertwined history with the British Navy. These poor sailors, scones for breakfast, Spam for lunch and dinner.

I hope they had butter.

4. The new KFC "Doubledown": This "sandwich" from Colonel Sander's Fried Chicken chain is quite possibly the end of Western Civilization. It consists of two fried chicken patties with cheese and bacon between them, and when exposed to the light can give every mammal within a ten mile radius a heart attack.

Somewhere there is a refined southern gentleman in a seersucker suit turning over in his grave.

So eat well my friends, and make good choices about what you put on your plate.

The Sports Edition

This being a census year, I thought that I might offer up a few thoughts on the subject of populace enumeration and demographic trends.

The U.S. population is on the move, following careers, industries and all sorts of other things, and its wreaking all sorts of havoc on the territorial norms and local folkways of our dear country.Congressional districts and states that were once reliably in one party column or the other now find them selves changing hands in a whirlpool of colors. Once dependably red or blue areas now appear as purple on those political maps that appear in Time Magazine.Likewise, regions that were once mono-lingual are finding themselves tasked with finding second language speakers in their court, city and educational systems. Second and third languages are now popping up on road signs, menus and bathroom doors.

This is not even to mention the change in pop culture trends from one quarter of our country to the other.For instance, I attended a Country Music concert this fall, (courtesy of my good friend Jon, Im not sure Id ever willingly pay for a ticket) and under a cold clear New Hampshire sky I heard a large crowd sing along with Alan Jacksons hit song Small Town Southern Man. (With the last chorus changed Simpsons style to small town New Hampshire man)

But all of this geographic tomfoolery pales in comparison with the troubling fact that I can now (if I was so inclined) purchase a New York Yankees baseball cap in many stores in my area.How and when did this happen?All this migration has led to a muddling of sports loyalties, and its now possible to see a Pittsburgh Steelers team flag flying from a house in my in-laws Lowell Massachusetts neighborhood.

Forty years ago it would have been unthinkable to meet a local Yankees fan, but I can now count on two hands the friends I have that bleed pinstripes and dress their children in A-rod jerseys and Got Melky t- shirts.This migration of fans has been noted by the marketing department of my beloved Boston Red Sox and pitched as The Red Sox Nation with a nod to the exodus of Sox fans to all parts of the globe. So its safe to assume that in some neighborhood in the Los Angeles area there is a house with a Red Sox flag flying proudly from the front door.

The sports fan scene gets even more jumbled at my church. Our youth pastor is a Chicago Bears football fan (the self same Bears who beat up on our beloved New England Patriots in the Super Bowl back in 86) and of the men on our board of elders, one is a Chicago White Sox baseball fan (the first one I have ever met) and another proudly wears his vintage Hartford Whalers hockey jacket.And speaking of migrations, I dont have the heart to tell him that the Whalers have now moved to North Carolina and are now called the Hurricanes.

Wait, a professional hockey team south of the Mason Dixon Line?

Yes, and the recently won the Stanley Cup. (Hockeys championship trophy)It gets worse.

They beat a team from Canada.

Somewhere Lord Stanley (a Canadian Prime Minister and the giver of the first championship cup one hundred years ago) is turning over in his grave.

We live in confusing times indeed.And after all this regional extrapolation, I have to ask myself this question; is this the melting pot that our founding fathers envisioned?

After all, wasnt our first president himself a fan of football's Washington Redskins?

If you hail from the great state of Texas you are known as a "Texan". If you are from the upper peninsula of Michigan you are called a "Yooper". A person from Ohio is a "Buckeye" and a native of Costa Rica is festively called a "Tico". If you are from New Zealand you could be called a "Kiwi" and if you have the fortune to have been born in Australia you are known as an "Ozzie". If you come from Massachusetts...okay, we won't go there. Some states and regions have the luxury of simply adding an "er" to the end of the state name and having a nomenclature that is immediately recognizable and descriptive. (It's okay, he's a "New Yorker" or he was a quiet "Mainer") And, to a Southerner (there it is again) anybody from above the Mason-Dixon line is automatically a "Yankee". (Sorry Red Sox fans)

We in the tradition rich, historical state of New Hampshire have yet to come up with a distinctive,descriptive nickname that sticks.Oh, there have been candidates here and there. Let's examine them shall we?

There is the obvious play on the states official nickname, a "Granite Stater", and while this has been perhaps descriptively accurate (describing folks who have traditionally been stoic and independent) it has for some reason failed to catch on, popularly speaking.I recently saw the term "New Hampshireman" in print for the first time and it occurred to me that it's limited usage is perhaps related to the "man" at the end of the word.

As of the writing this column the state has a pretty high female population, including my lovely wife who would perhaps object to this somewhat outdated moniker.What about "New Hampshireite" you say?To this I would respond that "New Hampshireite" is not only difficult to say, but it sounds vaguely like an alien race on Star Trek.

So yours truly has spent many a fortnight in my basement laboratory coming up with a solution to this lack-of-a-sobriquet crisis, and I am ready to submit my proposal.

"Hamper".

It's witty, easy to say and with it's slightly whimsical flair it casts the state in a new light. New Hampshire has a pretty healthy tourist population these days, thanks to our beautiful foliage, great skiing and early presidential primary, so to promote ourselves as fun loving would be a coup for the state's tourism board.Also, it looks great on a t-shirt.I know, I know. Change is hard. So I suggest working the term into your vocabulary slowly to get a handle on it. You could, for instance, start referring to our Governor (respectfully of course) as the "Head Hamper", or calling all that weekend traffic going north on Rt. 93 "Hamper Holiday" traffic.This will take time and determination, so steady yourself. But, remember, future generations of Hampers are depending on you.

So, if you would help me out with promoting this new handle around the state that would make me one happy Hamper.

Diego, Snugly Cat By Winter, Ivan The Terrible By Summer

There is so much potential guilt to feel as a parent, and so many people and things willing to help you in triggering it. (My child isn't walking as soon as the other kids his age. Perhaps we should have shelled out the hundred bucks for the Baby Einstein CD/DVD development package or the intensive walking/baby yoga class that was offered at the gym last month?)

So much guilt, so little time to fit in all in.

But what if the object of your guilt as a parent is not in fact your children, but your beloved, genteel, lovable, cuddly cat?I'm not sure where my wife and I went wrong with Diego, but something has changed lately.

We adopted Diego from a Humane Society as a young kitten and he immediately warmed up to us, our friends, our enemies and just about anyone else who would give him a second of consideration. He was, in fact, so loving that the shelter folks named him Don Juan after the famous Latin lover. We renamed him Diego after the Mexican muralist and renowned lover of women, Diego Rivera. This name also fit because both the cat and the painter have been blessed with ample girth around the middle.The first few years of life together were blissful and tranquil. Diego would sit out on the fire escape of our second story apartment and sun himself while looking longingly over the fields and wooded areas of our small New Hampshire town. I would sometimes take him for a walk on a leash (yes they actually make them for cats) when the guilt would overtake me. This guilt, it has to be said, was mostly caused by my younger brother's animal rights inspired comment "there is no such thing as an indoor animal!"

So it was to Diego's great joy that when the family grew by two small children we moved into an old farmhouse with woods and open spaces galore.This is when the great change came about. Diego the lover became Ivan the Terrible to the local "critter" population. Gone was our fluffy bundle of love and in his place was the angel of death.Where did we go wrong? Was it the generic cat food? Was it the week that we were away? Was it the new baby?

A wise man I know recently said to me, concerning pets, that "It's ironic that we lavish so much attention and love on our pets when the fact is that if they were bigger than us they would eat us."I never would have believed that Diego, my lovable goof of a cat, was capable of hurting anything.

And then the snow melted.

This is Diego's first summer as a full fledged outdoor cat, and he has faithfully brought us a present every morning. But it isn't so much the volume of critters that's concerning us, as it is the variety. (And should I be worried that he's keeping track of his kills fighter pilot style with x's on the side of his food dish?) I thought that we had seen it all, what with the moles, mice, birds, frogs, chipmunks and snakes greeting us on the porch each morning.

But it has been the live creatures that have been most problematic and worrisome to us lately.

For instance, this week saw the delivery of a live chipmunk (which played out like a summer block buster movie in our house, complete with a breathless chase scene through the various rooms and ended with an amazing, Matrix style, slow motion, scoop-up-with-a-dustpan-flick-out-the-open-window- onto-the-lawn diving move by yours truly) and a live snake that was dropped onto my feet just yesterday as I was washing the dishes and listening to the new Bob Dylan album at top volume. (I was glad my wife and two daughters were not home to hear the man of the house let out a high pitched scream of terror.)

We are all hoping (both my family and the community of neighborhood creatures who are currently holding a rally on my front steps, complete with picket signs and a burning cat effigy) that the return of colder weather will temper the fire in Diego's blood, and return him to the formerly docile pet that we have known.

I guess we shall find out this coming winter. (Snakes hibernate, right?)

A Pain In My Funny Bone

I think that after nearly thirty-three years, the joints of my body have finally organized, unionized and held a meeting.The minutes of that meeting were recently sent to my brain via my spinal column, and below are a few excerpts:

Lower Back: "Okay everyone, lets get this meeting to order. There is a draft of a resolution on floor right now sponsored by myself, Right Knee, Left Shoulder and Right Elbow. Right Knee, would you care to sum up the resolution for us?"

Right Knee: "Sure thing L.B.! Basically the situation we have here in Tincan's body is that a few of us joints bear the responsibility for all the pain that gets experienced, and, well, frankly we think that the rest of the joints of the body should start pulling their weight and share in some of the pain."

Left Shoulder: "That's right man, preach it!"

Right Elbow: "You tell 'em Right Knee!"

Right Knee: "All right fellows, simmer down. Where was I? Oh right, a schedule. What we propose is that every joint be scheduled for a little pain every day on a rotating basis, thus giving a few of us some needed (no pun intended) down time."

Left Hip: "But won't Tincan be suspicious when he wakes up with aches and pains in places where he's never had them beore?"

Right Knee: "Well, we've considered that, and we came to the conclusion that since the brain is also going on this body, this is the perfect time to act. Tincan won't know what's going on."Lower Back: "We know it's a bit of a gamble, but we feel that the current situation can't go on like this."

Left Shoulder: "Yeah, I've been in pain since the great soccer injury of '93!"

Right Wrist: "Hey, if this resolution passes, who's scheduled for pain tomorrow?"

Right Knee: "Let's see here, it says that Left Big Toe is the first one up to bat."

Right Ankle: "Hey, Tincan's birthday is coming up soon. We should do something special. Who's on duty that day?"

Right Knee: "That would be...let me just flip the page here...okay, here it is, both Thumbs!"

Thumbs: "Oh boy!"

Lower Back: "So that's the vote before us folks. Are we going to be a team here or what? "Who votes "yes" on Resolution O.U.C.H.?"

All joints in unison: "Aye!"


I can't wait for my birthday next month.Does anyone have any Motrin?