And so I embark on my second full winter in Los Angeles, a land where it's still in the 60s even though winter is less than a week away. Without snow, freezing cold and the need to wear 16 layers underneath a heavy winter coat, my brain keeps resetting my internal calendar back to a month like September -- basically what time of year it thinks is actually occurring. And I'm okay with that... although I would like to experience about a week's worth of snow and cold, just to have the spirit of the season. I'm sure my parents are probably a little more confused, given that it's even warmer in Tucson. My mom is perpetually cold. At least she used to be before she moved to the high desert. As a result of this, winters were always hard for her because she was always freezing. And quite frankly, I can understand how miserable that is. While being hot is uncomfortable, there's that special extra displeasure and negative emotion that comes with being cold. When I was 6 or 7, Mom somehow managed to convince me that if you skip the first day of winter, winter won't happen. This was done through a combination of manipulating my faith in my parents and a slight application of Jewish guilt, the Second Most Powerful Force in the Universe. The other piece of the puzzle is that my birthday is December 21, which is usually the day on which the Winter Solstice takes place -- the first day of winter. So Mom convinced me that if we skip my birthday, there'll be no winter. This went on for about two weeks while I agonized over the decision of whether to be selfish and have my birthday or to be a good son and skip it so Mom won't be cold all winter. Then she finally told me she was just playing with my head. This type of thing will explain to those of you who know me why I turned out the way I did, I guess. But I always think of that story around this time of year, and I am thankful for years like this when the Winter Solstice is on the 22nd, not the 21st.