The Hidden Benefits Of Walking To School

Last night I laid down the law. Now that it's March and getting warmer, I will no longer be driving Big Man and Little Man to school. From this moment on, it is their responsibility to get themselves out of the house and walk the half mile each morning. Mom's car service is closed for the season.

Today, as dawn broke and the birds chirped, I awoke a little cheerier. Because I knew we would be spared our usual maddening routine.

The one where I keep prodding them to get out of the house. The one where after I've said repeatedly, "Let's go!" I find Big Man sitting in his room staring into space in his bare feet. The one where I storm outside in my coat-covered pajamas and sit in the car waiting for him to drag his butt out while laying on the horn fuming, "Tomorrow, I don't care how fucking cold it is, you're gonna walk!"

Now, Little Man, bless his heart, usually manages to get into the car on time. Sometimes he even gets in before me. Probably because he's scarred for life over the way I rip Big Man a new asshole some mornings.

You see once Big Man finally slinks into the car, eyes down and shoulders slumped, I am no longer in the driver's seat. Satan has replaced me at the wheel. A volcano of poison spews from His mouth for what seems an eternity. Then comes deafening silence save for the popping and screeching of His head as it spins and my head reappears just in time to pull over near the crossing guard where Big Man and Little Man scurry frantically out.

I drive home with a neck ache feeling completely crappy about the way I blew up all the while knowing it's my fault because I don't make it their responsibility to get out of the house on time.

But not any more. The insanity stops this morning. Big Man and Little Man are now expected to get themselves to school.

I brace myself for a million excuses from Big Man. Miraculously he seems to be on schedule for an on-time departure. But much to my surprise, Little Man hobbles down the hall telling me he can't put any pressure on his leg. And at 7:40, when he should be fully dressed and out the door, I find him sitting on the couch still in his robe.

Little Man. What are you kidding me? Do you think I'm new? Besides, do you really want to be driven to school by the devil?

I reassure him that he probably pulled a muscle at hockey practice last night and the best way to make his leg feel better is to stretch it out by walking. To school.

Finally he gets ready. He hobbles down the front steps, gives me one last forlorn look, then makes his way down our street with a jerky limp looking like he's been suddenly afflicted with St. Vitus's dance.

Five minutes later he texts me:

"Im nedver gona mak it"

I text back:

"U can do it! Keep moving!"

After school, Big Man makes it home first. Then Little Man rounds the corner. Miracle of miracles! He's no longer limping! He's been healed! A shining example of the many health benefits of walking to school. Not to mention the psychological ones. Theirs and mine.

The Agony And The Ecstasy: Our Post-Olympics Depression

As Little Man and I took in the Olympics closing ceremony last night and the fake snow fell on the upturned faces of the amazing athletes and Neil Young's mournful harmonica belted out "Long May You Run," he turned to me all sad and dejected-like and wailed, "What am I going to watch on TV, now?"

Little Man, I share your pain. For what is television without the Olympics? Mostly a numbing void of stupid "reality" shows and "entertainment news." Car wrecks of lives that we can't seem to pull ourselves away from no matter how hard we try.

Post-Olympic TV is a depressing prospect indeed after vicariously tasting the glory and the agony of an eclectic bunch of men and women who've single-mindedly devoted their young lives to being the best that they can possibly be.

I have to say that the sport I'm going to miss the most is curling. Watching this charmingly-quirky, old-fashioned game steadies me after all the gasping and holding of breath that I do during the ski slope and ice rink antics. Curling is the perfect yin to the other sports' yang.

Big Man's spot-on curling commentary never fails to make me laugh:

"The stone is sliding, Jim. It's sliding.

The ladies are scrubbing. They're scrubbing.

She's releasing the stone now, Jim. She's releasing.

And the ladies are scrubbing. They're scrubbing.

I tell you Jim, if they don't get a medal out of this, they should consider opening up a Mighty Maids franchise. These girls are good scrubbers!"

Here's Little Man's commentary while watching the Swedish curlers:

"There's the hot one!"

What I'd like to know is, what the hell are they saying to each other while all that sliding and scrubbing is going on? It's like some secret, made-up language that only twins can understand.

But now, dear Olympians, our television stands dark in our living room. And I imagine you today in your Olympic Village, packing your bags, saying your tearful farewells to your team mates and rivals, perhaps throwing a few good-natured snowballs.

But before I say goodbye to you, I'd like to say merci.

For showing us, over these past few weeks, that behind your excruciatingly beautiful grace and breathtaking skill is hard work, patience, pain, sacrifice and loss -- of medals and, sadly, even precious life.

Thank you for allowing us to soar with you over the snow-covered peaks then gently setting us down, leaving us inspired to, as corny as this sounds, achieve our own personal bests. Because the lives of we mere mortals are often just as challenging as an Olympic athlete's --along with the joy of being human, there's hard work, pain and heartbreak.

And one last thing, dear gods and goddesses of Olympus. Please help me stay away from reality TV!

Not Tonight Honey, I Have To Return My Library Book

Sometimes when I'm in a penny-pinching mode, instead of laying out cash for a book I'd like to read, I borrow it from the library.

Makes sense, right? My town library is called The Rye Free Reading Room. Free being the operative word. Except in my case.

Because even though I'm always like, this time I swear it will be different, it never is. Inevitably I fail to return my library books by the end of the three-week reading period. And then, when I do finally drag my sorry ass in, our very nice library lady is forced to fine me. And then I get all pissed off. Not at her. At me.

You see, once I miss the due date, it's all over. It could be weeks before I bring the book back. Even months. And my brilliant exercise in thrifty erudition all of a sudden gets very expensive. I've ended up owing in late fees the actual price of the book. I've even lost money.

That being said, the latest book I took out, The Female Brain, by Louann Brizendine, M.D., is due tomorrow. Now, I finished it about two weeks ago. Do you THINK I could have returned it then instead of waiting until the last minute?

Of course not. And tomorrow, the day that the book is due, we're expecting a blizzard. So if I don't bring it back today there's a very good chance that I will be too snowed in to bring it back tomorrow.

But I AM going to bring it back today. REALLY. I promise.

Before I do, however, there are a few little tidbits that I learned from this eye-opening book that I wanted to jot down. Perhaps the single most important is this: I am NOT crazy.

It's just that every month we ladies are forced to take a ride on a hormonal roller coaster. Now the ride to the top is pretty great. It's the best part of the month. Our brains are fueled by rising estrogen levels which means we're in peak verbal and emotional form.

But mid-cycle, after those hormones plummet and that car comes crashing down, welcome to crazy town. Where it can be a struggle just to speak in coherent sentences. Let alone not act on the urge to strangle your loved ones. Then bury them in the backyard.

I don't know about you but every single month when I'm in the throes of heavy-duty PMS, I'm always all, oh my god, what is wrong with me? I really AM an evil person! Then, surprise, surprise, I get my period (sorry if that's too graphic, male readers!) and it's like this big fucking revelation. Oh! That's why I felt like stabbing PB with a kitchen knife!

So, thank you, Dr. Louann Brizendine! I've read countless articles on these "womanly issues" (better, men?). But none of those explanations were as user-friendly as yours. My mantra next month will be: It's not me. It's my hormones!

The second most important piece of information I got from this book has to do with sex. And guys, I know for sure that you're more than happy to pay attention to this part and gals, you could give a shit. That's because a woman has sexual thoughts maybe once a day. A man, on the other hand, once a minute. I repeat. Once a minute.

So, thank you again, Dr. Louann (can I call you Louann?). Now it's completely clear to me why I look at PB like he has four heads when he tries to put the moves on me in the middle of the day. I have other things on my mind. Like kids, what I'm going to make for dinner, whether Brangelina is really breaking up and returning my damn library book!

Basking In My Birthday Glow

Here's a tip. Instead of celebrating your birthday just once, on the actual day, I HIGHLY recommend spreading the festivities out. Preferably, for as long as you can. Without it starting to feel obnoxious. (You know who I'm talking about.)

Example: My "pre-birthday" festivities began this past Friday night. It just so happened that my brother Reggie and his partner Farm Boy were in from Minneapolis for a conference. And since my birthday was just a few days away, the Frederick side of the family decided to make it a party.

And party, we did. My Dad and I broke out the Irish Whiskey. And we're not even Irish! PB cooked a delectable dinner that we ate around the fireplace then we feasted on the BEST chocolate cake I have ever had in my life. And, believe you me, I KNOW chocolate cake.

My mother bought this cake came from a little bakery in my hometown of Hawthorne, New Jersey, called Just Desserts. Now, Hawthorne sits in the shadow of the big city (as in New York City). It has one main street that is barely a main street with a move theater, pizzeria, stationary, liquor store and, what the hell, throw in a laundromat for good measure.

But this cake from humble Hawthorne, New Jersey? The "Chocolate Silk Cake" to be exact? Can stand up to any fancy New York City cake. In a heartbeat. The inside is moist with just the right touch of denseness. The icing is chocolaty and rich but not too sweet.

This cake is so good that I would just like to say, for the record, I will never again consume a cake that doesn't come from Just Desserts! I repeat, I will ONLY eat cakes from this bakery, god dammit!

In addition to my IV infusion of silky chocolate, Friday night included a guest appearance from my vivacious and beautiful friend Lila who always manages to be the life of the party.

Then, my sister Ginger, never to be outdone, ended the evening by demonstrating some pole-dancing moves she picked up from a bachelorette party she recently attended.

But wait. That's not all. Because today, on my actual birthday day, I woke up to find Big Man and Little Man in the kitchen cooking me up an egg- white omelet (Ah ha! That's why Big Man asked me yesterday what my favorite breakfast food was!).

And because it's my special day, I got all daring and poured my daily shot of orange juice, not into my regular juice glass, but into a stemless Riedel wine goblet. It's my party and I'll have my O.J. in a stemless Riedel wine goblet if I want to!

Aside from the morning presents and cards from the boys, today is going to be pretty low-key. PB's in California on a shoot. I might brave the frigid February air and take a walk down by the Sound. Then there will be the usual after-school flurry of homework and hockey practice.

But I'm fine with that. Because my birthday ain't over yet. I have this Friday to look forward to. I'm having lunch with my "yoga girls" --a group of us that met in yoga class and have been celebrating birthdays together since our kids were in elementary school (some of which are now in college!).

Plus, I definitely have enough leftover chocolate cake to see me through to the end of my birthday week.

My "Almost" Julia Roberts Hairy Armpits Moment

This past Saturday night I had a break from reality. Instead of collapsing on the couch with a frosty cold one after a marathon day of watching rec-league hockey, I attended a fancy-shmancy dinner-dance/benefit.

Which meant I had to transform myself from someone whose usual attire is a full-length puffer-coat and mud-encrusted UGGs to some high-heeled, makeup-wearing stranger. Not an easy feat.

So when I got into the shower to blast off a day's worth of rink residue, I figured it was high time I shaved my armpits. Especially since the dress I was planning to wear was sleeveless.

Now, I am a regular shaver. In the summer. In the winter, my attitude about body hair is what they don't know won't hurt 'em. So seeing it was winter, which meant I was out of practice, I figured it might be a good idea to do some quality control after my shaving session.

As I peered into my magnifying mirror to examine my newly-shorn pits, I was fully expecting to see maybe a missed patch of stubble or some razor rash.

When, QUELLE HORREUR!!!

Poking out the side of my underarm were straggly strands of pit hair! I swear to god, one was at least an inch long! How could I have missed that? I was headed for a Julia Roberts moment.

(Remember when she showed up at some film premier looking like she was transporting a small rodent in her arm pit? No? Well, let me refresh your memory.)

Jeez Louise. Her pit hair is so long it even has a part. But I digress. Julia didn't seem fazed by it. I guess, when you look like Julia Roberts, what's a little pit hair? Or a lot, for that matter?

I, on the other hand, wasn't going to come close to looking like Julia in my sleeveless sheath. So I got to work. With hands still trembling from the shock of what I witnessed underneath my arm, I shaved off the wiry strands.

Then, arms plastered firmly to my sides, I went off to the ball. Determined not to raise either one. No matter how many adoring fans I saw.

Mean Mother

While making pancakes this morning, the black hole I call my brain forgot whether I had added my usual secret ingredients –vanilla and cinnamon -- to the mix. So for good measure, I tossed in some more.

Here’s the conversation that ensued after I cut up said pancakes and placed them in front of Little Man.

Little Man: (noticing the pancakes were a little more “golden” than usual, probably due to the doubling of vanilla and cinnamon) “WHOLE WHEAT?!!!”

Me: “They’re not whole wheat. Do you think I would DARE serve you a flour that was good for you? NO! I only serve you white foods. That are completely devoid of their nutrients. Like the good mother you’ve trained me to be.

Little Man: “You’re mean.”

Yes, Little Man.

I'm mean.

I'm so mean that it didn't even cross my mind to dump said plate of pancakes on your head.

So mean that, after you finished breakfast, I helped you study for your big science test, then got you off to school.

Good thing I take your morning ravings with a grain of salt. That would be a whole-wheat grain of salt.

Ice Hockey, New Year Resolutions & Flossing

Oh, hello. It's been quite a long time since you heard from me, eh? Well, what can I say except, shit happens.

Shit like Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Shit like a very sick dog who won't stop killing off her own red blood cells.

Shit like, when I'm not sitting in the vet's office, spending every living weekend driving Big Man and Little Man all over the tri-state area to play ice hockey.

Geographically speaking, that's New York, New Jersey and Connecticut. But then there's the interplanetary travel to Long Island.

What??? You're telling me that Long Island is part of New York?

Well, you spend three entire periods freezing your ass off at an ice hockey game in the company of chanting Long Island parents. I'm not talking about a random "Go Team!" I have witnessed these people make like a squad of cheerleaders and shout in unison stuff that actually rhymes.

Sprinkle in some horns and cow-bells and a generous helping of fights with the opposing team's parents and then tell me these people are NOT from another planet.

It's no wonder I haven't been able to blog for a while. Rec-league hockey has scarred me for life.

But enough about that. It's a new year and with it comes new beginnings. That's what New Year's resolutions are for, right?

For some reason, as 2009 drew to a close, resolutions weren't even on my radar screen. In fact, it was only until the magazine headlines at the supermarket check-out caught my eye did it register that it was the season for resolutions.

Glancing at the standard fare about busting belly flab and nicotine patches, etc., it dawned on me that, for the first time in my life, I hadn't given even one millimeter of brain space to making any resolutions.

"Why is that?" I wondered. Then, in the dingily lit interior of my suburban A&P, it hit me like a lightening bolt. My lack of resolution-making wasn't because I was forgetful. It wasn't because I was perfect. It wasn't because I was a resolution rebel. It was because I was old.

Okay. Not that old. But after forty-something years, I guess I've finally accumulated enough history, enough experience, enough knowledge about myself to realize something about New Year's resolutions. They don't work for me.

With this eureka moment came a feeling of complete and utter freedom! If accompanied by a soundtrack it would have been the Hallelujah chorus. No longer would New Year's Eve usher in a bunch of self-imposed shoulds and then, a week later, the disappointment, self-loathing and sense of failure from not living up to these expectations.

It was almost as if I could feel all these musts and have to's whooshing out of my body then vaporizing into thin air. And all that remained was me. Just me. With enough room to see that I already do plenty of stuff that's good for me.

Take flossing, for instance. I can say with all honesty that I floss every night.

But it wasn't always this way. I was a reluctant flosser. When having to choose between flossing or laying my head down on my pillow two minutes sooner, I always went with the latter.

Then, during a dentist visit, my hygienist told me that if I didn't start flossing, drastic measures would have to be taken. In the form of multiple shots of Novocain and a "deep cleaning." Which I learned was a euphemism for digging and scraping under my gum line with sharp, pointy, metal implements.

You'd think that would be enough to instantly change my ways. Actually, I did start to floss a little more regularly. Just enough to avoid any dental jack-hammering.

But it took a while to change. There were nights when I had to force myself to floss. Other times I'd skip it completely. Then I'd get on a roll and floss for a month straight. Then, for no apparent reason, I'd fall off the wagon.

And then a funny thing happened. I started NOT to like the way my mouth felt if I hadn't flossed. It got to the point where, if there was even one microscopic morsel of errant food wedged between my teeth, I wasn't able to rest until it was banished by my trustworthy Deep-Clean Glide.

Now, I'm a regular flosser. Sometimes I even floss after every meal. But my transformation from flossing slacker to flossing fanatic didn't happen overnight. There were no champagne-induced proclamations during some New Year's Eve party and then, presto chango, I was a flosser.

Okay. My sincere apologies if all this falls under the "too much information" category. Here's my point. My pre-New Year's epiphany at the A&P doesn't mean I'm anti-New Year's resolutions. On the contrary. I'm all for self-betterment. What I've learned is this. Change doesn't happen simply by the clock striking midnight. No mater how you slice it, change is freaking hard.