The Greatest Show

January 3, 2009 – Brad bought four tix to the Greatest Show on Earth. Which is a euphemism for the Greatest Rip-Off in the History of Mankind.  And I can’t believe he got four tickets as he knows how I feel about circuses.  Which is obvious: I hate them. Except for Cirque de Soleil which at one time was a freakishly awesome spectacle that has been so overfranschised that I’m now waiting for Cirque su Soleil: Dirt (you know, to follow O, air and all things useful). Anyway, I don’t like the circus.  Never have and strongly believe I never will. And no, it’s not because I’m an animal lover. It’s not that noble.  I just don’t find them that interesting.  And it’s a hassle to get there.  And a soda and popcorn costs as much as a tank of gas. And it smells.  And it’s hard to get good seats (and I am ALL ABOUT access).  And it seems kinda sad and weird (which is unusual, because I’m usually first in line for sad and weird).  The only thing I think I might like about the circus is the people watching.  Because the circus brings out all kinds of freaks who aren’t even getting paid to be freaks.   But I could do that at the Greyhound station…for free.  My kids have been several times and I’ve managed not to go.  Brad has taken them, they’ve gone with their Indian Princess or Indian Guide tribe (no moms, you know) and so on.  Now it seems, I’ll be going this February.  I’ll let you know now it goes.  I guess Mama will have start to saving her coin for some popcorn, cotton candy and some crappy souvenir guaranteed to break within eight hours of receipt.

 

P.S. – I will tell you that I loved “Like Water for Elephants” by Sara Gruen, which is about the circus.  And I read this other weirdly disturbing book about this circus and this genetically altered circus family who started a cult and had people shedding limbs to join the cult. I can’t for the life of me remember who wrote it or the name of it, but it was strangely good and repulsive at the same time. I recommend it to those with a strong stomach. I gave it my friend, David, as a gift and he never cracked the spine.  Wimp.

 

Onion Goggles

I was thumbing through the Sur La Table catalog yesterday hoping to flag some kitchen utensil I can’t live without.  I don’t have a potato ricer, for example, and I’m starting to worry that my mashed taters aren’t as light and fluffy as they could be.  Ina’s mashed potatoes look pretty darned creamy. Or a garlic keeper – I have to admit that my garlic gets pretty beat up bumping around in the back of my produce drawer.  There are things that make one’s life better in the kitchen – butter keeper anyone? I LOVE my butter keeper – fresh, room temp butter at your fingertips.  Yes, I know, I don’t need fresh, room temp butter on every carb that passes my lips…but yum yum yum! 

 

And then, there are laughable, ridiculous kitchen gadgets that should have never seen the light of day – like the battery-powered vegetable peeler that Brad gave me last year for Christmas.  The one he ordered off the television.  The one that I have never been able to bring myself to use – because, really, is peeling vegetables that hard?

 

But this one has got to take the cake – Onion Goggles.  I’m not kidding.

 

These little goggles come in pink and black and feature a “comfortable foam” seal that protects the eyes from “onion vapors.”  It also has, hold onto your chopping block, anti-fog lenses!  They are $22 and can be yours just in time for Christmas!  Also, just in case you’re wondering, you CANNOT wear your onion goggles over other glasses.  The idea of someone deciding to chop onions and then opening a drawer to find their Baby Pink Onion Goggles and actually WEARING the Onion Goggles is more than I can bear.  Then, they have to hand wash their Onion Goggles (because Onion Goggles are too delicate to run in the dishwasher) and put them back in their appointed drawer for next time.

 

Clearly, this is the gift for the person who has everything including lots of time, energy and strength of character to walk around their kitchen wearing Onion Goggles.   And that is not moi.

 

Dr. Tooth – Again!

I know it seems like yesterday that I was at the dentist. But time flies when you’re not flossing and I headed in yesterday for a cleaning.  I’m sorry, correction – I headed in for “periodontal maintenance.” 

 

I was crabby and I didn’t want to go.  The only good thing that comes from these visits is that I can bask in the glow of my incredibly sound blood pressure.  Yes, they take my blood pressure at the dentist (and they slightly massage my temples, which is nice, I admit).  It’s 110 over 70, thank you very much.  I know, I am incredibly undeserving of such great blood pressure. I have no explanation for it either.

 

Anyway, I HATE having that perky dental hygienist stick that freakishly long probe into a my sweet little gums and then tsk tsk tsk her way through the rest.

 

My girlfriend said the other day “I’d rather have an O-B exam than go to the dentist!”

 

Amen, sistah.

 

So I decided to try a different tact.  I looked at my hygienist who, instead of being perky, was rather groovy in her Birkenstocks and cute, shaggy, Chrissie Hynde haircut, and I laid it all out on the table – or rather on my bib.

 

“Look, let’s save everyone some time and trouble today, okay? You’re going to stick that needle deep into my gums and tell me how horrible my gums look.  You’re going to tell me I’m at great risk for periodontal gum disease and how I need to come in right away for four to six deep gum cleanings where you scrape my gums and inject antibiotics between my teeth and I want to crawl through the ceiling.  Just for the record, I’m not going to do that, okay?  Then, you’re going to tell me that gum disease leads to heart disease and you’re going to pull out a copy of that New York Times article that talks about how gum disease is indeed linked to heart disease.  Then you’re going to refer me to your computer screen where you’re going to show me some fancy pictures of my yucky gums that you took with this little tooth camera. Then you’re going to demonstrate The Proper Flossing Method.   So, here’s the deal. I know how to floss and I know I should floss.  Much like exercise and eating right – I KNOW what to do.  I just don’t do it.  Can we just get through today and I’ll try to do better the next time. After all, isn’t that all we can ask of each other?”

 

She looked at me.  “You said all that with a smile on your face. I like that.  I’m with you, let’s get through this.”

 

Wow, that was easier than I thought as I settled in to listening to some cheesy but welcomed Christmas music.  I wonder if it will work with my internist…

 

The Reluctant Republican

As many of you know, I’m a Republican.  If you didn’t know this about me, may I refer you to an article in the New York Times Sunday “Style” section that referred to me as a Bible-reading, steak-eating Republican. 

 

Them’s a lot of adjective and all of them are true.

 

This year, I was a reluctant Republican, I might add. I very much espouse the platform of the Republican party but I’ve been a bit disappointed by my own this election season.  If you are horrified by my Republicanism, please know that I have a few close friends who are liberal Democrats and they still love me.  So there.  One is my friend, Missy.  She is a wonderful friend for many, many reasons including her passionate commitment to victims of domestic violence.   Her career as a parole officer (yes, she was licensed to carry a gun and she knew how to use it) morphed into a victim’s advocate for the state of North Carolina.  The things Missy’s knows would curdle your milk, friends.  Anyway, equally impressive to her passionate support of victims of domestic violence is her support of two things that couldn’t be more diff – Obama and moi. 

 

I know! I find that hysterical, too.  But all I can say is that Obama and I are two very, very lucky people.  Obama and I have reaped the rewards of Missy’s tireless commitment, unceasing adoration and kind and constant words of support. 

 

So it is with pride that I post this picture of my oldest and dearest friend, Missy, with the POTUS.  That’s Miss on the right. I’m sure you recognize the POTUS.  NOTE:  I am working on how to import this photo…I promise. 

 

The Balsa Gliders Rock!

My brother is a banker. Well, that’s not exactly true. He works at a bank, but he’s not really a banker, per se.  He’s really a sports marketing guy who dresses up every day in a suit and tie and pretends to be a banker.  He likes his job – it allows for cool travel, interesting people and some impossible-to-get tickets to some way sick sporting events.  But what he really does is play the drums.  He’s played since he was a kid and my mom tried to “soundproof” our downstairs den so he wouldn’t bother the neighbors (or my dad).  Recently, my sister-in-law tried to soundproof their basement so my brother could play and wouldn’t bother the neighbors (or the baby).  Neither effort was successful, but my brother has worked out a drumming schedule around naptime.  Since I absolutely adore my baby brother, I wanted to pass along some exciting news about his band (along with a note from him).   The Balsa Gliders rock and have been exceptionally supportive of 365 Nights, even giving me the shout-out at a recent and gi-normous outdoor music festival in Raleigh, which was very, very thoughtful and all those drunk people dancing with their eyes closed would agree.

 

I got a drumset in the 8^th grade. And now two decades, a wife, three kids, and a mortgage later, I have apparently found myself as the drummer in a band. Over the years, The Balsa Gliders has consisted of three lawyers, a Mongolian miner, a librarian, a doctor, a PhD, a judge and a priest…and now a banker.

Below is the link to our new album on iTunes (“Danceable in Victor”). It runs the gamut of styles (indie-pop, alt.country, rock) and influences (REM, Wilco, Replacements, among others) so there should be something for everyone. Give it a listen and, if it suits you, maybe buy some tracks (or the whole thing…it makes a great X-mas gift). For the unsure, start out with “University of California at Santa Barbara” or “Woman I’ll Find a Way.”

Feel free to pass this along (we’re going viral).

 

Thanks for your time.

 

Charla’s Brother

 

 

Danceable In Victor Balsa Gliders℗ 2008 Deep South Digital / Balsa Gliders Genre: Rock

 

Elf on the Shelf!

Okay, I’m going to talk about something that might be incredibly touchy in my neck of the woods.  In fact, I might peeve even more people than I did when I blogged about half-birthdays (which I thought was really funny, I might add…)

 

Anyway, has anyone even heard of this Elf on the Shelf phenomenon? Well, Google “elf on the shelf” and you can find out everything you want to know…and from a tiny animated elf, no less.  Simply put, Elf on the Shelf is a little elf that you purchase (of course you have to buy it, silly) who keeps an eye on your kids during the holidays.  Elf is the one who “knows” what your kids wants for Christmas and reports back to the big guy.  He sits on a shelf and lords over bad behavior with a discerning eye. And in my ‘hood,  Elf on the Shelf also pulls off shenanigans during the holidays – turns milk blue, puts the Christmas tree on the roof, turns over tables and chairs.

 

I mean, it’s an absolute scream…in fact, I want to scream just thinking about it.  And I really wanted to scream when my kids came home and demanded to know why OUR FAMILY didn’t have an Elf on the Shelf. 

 

“We don’t celebrate Elf on the Shelf at our house, kids.” I said while taking some freshly baked HOMEMADE cookies out of the oven. “And the last time I checked, it wasn’t a major holiday.  Talk to me when the banks are closed and the school are out for National Elf on the Shelf Day and I’ll reconsider.”

 

“Well, (insert here the name of every kid my kids know) has an Elf on the Shelf,” respond my sweet children, practically in unison.

 

And I’m thinking, do I respond with response that it appropriate for a first and third grader?  Or do I respond with a response that only my dear friends would tolerate (and just barely)?

 

This is my response for a first and third grader:

 

“Everyone has different family traditions, including Elf on the Shelf.  Our family has some wonderful family traditions at the holidays.”

 

“Like what?” they demanded.

 

“Well, we have our Christmas poems that everyone writes and then reads aloud to the family on Christmas Eve. We make our gingerbread houses.  We have our two children from the Angel Tree program and we buy gifts for them. We go pick out the tree together and then Daddy decorates it while Mommy sits in the corner sipping wine and wondering how soon that big honkin’ tree will start shedding.  Lots of good stuff.”

 

“Besides, tell me how Elf on the Shelf adds value to the real meaning of Christmas…which, in case you’ve forgotten, has nothing to do with Santa, elves and presents.”

 

“I know,” mumbled my first grader, clearly defeated by infallible logic. “It’s about Jesus, and Mary and Joseph and the angels and the wise men.  And Jesus’ grandfather, God.”

 

Well, he got that very nearly right and that’s all I needed.

 

But here is my inappropriate response to a request for Elf on the Shelf…

 

Why are people messing up the curve on Christmas?  In this world of stuff, stuff and more stuff, why do we need an Elf on the Shelf? Why do we need another “legend” to perpetuate at Christmas? Is the centuries old tradition of Old St. Nick not adequate in today’s world?  Doesn’t he do enough?  Is Rudolph getting stale?  Is Hermie passé? What about Frosty – doesn’t anyone care about how he’s doing? And how about the legend of the candy cane, and of bells ringing and of coal in stockings (really, that one’s outright dead and buried). And now I gotta think about Elfie (who even has his own Facebook page, and I’m not kidding)?  

 

Aren’t we all so overwhelmed with the holiday season that we’re looking for things NOT to do?  And now, I have to ‘splain to my kids why we’re NOT adopting Elfie and making him a beloved holiday tradition.  Just one more way I am failing my family, I suppose.

 

All right, girls, lemme have it.  I know many of you love and espouse your Elf on the Shelf and that I’m just one giant Ebenezer Scrooge.  All comments (nicely written) welcome….

 

 

Crazy ‘Bout Book Clubs

Nov. 18th –  So I’ve been on the Book Club circuit these days.    As a long-time Book Clubber, I LOVE book clubs.  Smart women, great conversation, lots of wine – what’s not to love?  But it’s a bit weird when I attend a book club and members remind me of how much they know about me.  A few examples:

 

–       Please don’t mind Pookie, I know how much you hate small, yippy dogs.  In fact, let me put him in the hamper…

 

–       Would you like a tumbler of Chardonnay? I bought this giant jug of it just for you…

 

–       You know, I work out at the Underground Gym, too!  I can’t recall seeing you there lately…

 

–       Wrapping Santa?  Sister, I know your pain…can we just sit down here and talk a minute because you’re not going believe how what my husband’s family does…

 

Remarkably, in the hubbub of everyday life I sometimes forget that I wrote a book about my life and included lots and lots of details about what I like (long flowing muumuu-like bathing suit cover ups, for example) and what I don’t like (cheesecake from a box). 

 

Gee, those two things have got to be connected…

 

Dr. Tooth

September 2nd — Not even an act of God could keep from me the dentist last week.  Which is a pity really, because I really, truly hate the dentist. 

 

I live in Charlotte, aka the City of Trees.  In fact, we have such a massive tree cover on the back of our house it’s hard to get a good read on the weather. And for 360 days a year, Charlotte is a great place to live.  But on those rare occasions when the rains flood and the snows freeze, it’s a real pickle.  Trees snap or fall over from the roots.  Creeks overflow.  Houses built in the flood plain flood (I know, people live in homes in a flood plain).  And traffic becomes so snarled and backed up it takes me an hour to get to my dentist’s office (which is a stone’s throw from my house).

 

So I stay in touch with the doc’s office to tell them it’s not looking good.   That I am boxed in my neighborhood by fallen trees, flooding streets and busted traffic lights.

 

And this what I’m dealing with every, single time I call.  “Good morning, thanks for calling Charlotte Family Dentistry and the offices of Dr. Tooth and Dr. Decay. This is Tiffany and how many I help you with your gums today?”  Seriously, cars are being carried off in the tides of Hurricane Fay and I’m on my cell phone every fifteen minutes with the world’s perkiest dental receptionist. 

 

And every time I try to rain check (sorry, I couldn’t help it), Tiffany is hanging in there.  “Keep trying, hon.  We have time to see you.”  Well, no wonder, everyone else who was scheduled to get their teeth scraped was smart enough to stay home on the ark.  In fact, when I arrive at the office of Dr. Tooth and Dr. Decay, everyone is standing around waiting for little ole me.  Including Tiff.  “Come on in, hon!”  

 

The weird thing about the dentist is that it doesn’t really hurt and yet…it really hurts.  My jaw aches.  My toes curl.  My shoulders are scrunched up.  And my ears are ringing from that freaky cleaning apparatus that sends sonar signals to bats, I’m sure. 

 

And my teeth are fine. 

 

Well, of course they are! When you’re 41, all your teeth have been filled with metal (or some sort of substance that will survive nuclear war).  And I have a lovely little root canal, too, that I picked up when I was 40 weeks pregnant with my first child.  Good times.  Anyway, there is little left to be done when it comes to my teeth.  Apparently, it’s my gums that are wreaking havoc.  Well, no wonder – when someone is paid to stick a small, insanely sharp fishhook in my gums to see if they bleed, I’d say havoc is wreaking, wouldn’t you?  Apparently, I need to come to Dr. Tooth and Dr. Decay more often…say every three months, so they can stick that small, insanely sharp fishhook into my gums to see if they bleed…or not. 

In case you didn’t read the memo – tender gums are bad.  They can cause all sorts of digestive, heart and internal issues.  And I thought bad breath was a problem.

 

School Blues

September 2nd – So my kids started school last week.  I swore that “back to school” would be different this year…we wouldn’t be rushed…I wouldn’t be stressed…Brad wouldn’t be crabby…I would make a healthy and hot breakfast…my children would look well-groomed and pulled together…and one of my children wouldn’t need to take an 18-minute poop right before we needed to walk out the door.  Well, I made scrambled eggs and that was about it.  NOTE:  I make great scrambled eggs…

 

I wasn’t sad when my kids left for school.  I didn’t weep or even tear up.  I didn’t flop down on the couch in quiet reflection of what this year might bring.  I didn’t pull out picture albums of my kids and run my fingers over photos of their sweet little faces (as I don’t have picture albums of my kids). 

 

Instead I hustled out the door and went to school with my kids to serve as a greeter for parents who are dropping off their kindergarteners at “big kid” school for the first time ever.  And that’s when I cried, if you can believe it.  I teared up with some mom I didn’t know from Adam (or Eve) as she watched her little guy walk down this interminably long hallway into his classroom.  Then, I walked in a new kid and his mom who had moved here from California…yesterday.  And I swear I wiped a tear.  I mean, come on – this is hard for a kid (and for me!)  New house, new school and new teacher – all in 48 hours? I needed to fall out on my therapists’ couch just to process it all.  I became melancholy and reflective – over other people’s children. 

 

But that’s always the way, isn’t it?

 

I mean, I’m about to fall apart that my niece (aka The Third Child I Never Had) will start kindergarten. I’ve had to restrain myself to keep from showing up at HER school to walk her to her new classroom.  That’s a task I must leave to my brother and his wife, but I’ll be there in sniffly spirit, I suppose.

 

Wall-E = Depressed Me

August 7th — In July, I took my kids to the movies. We saw “Wall-E,” which was about the most depressing, G-rated movie ever, despite the fact there is barely any dialogue. I mean, I know Bambi’s mother died in a horrendous, PG-13 forest fire, but at least soft Bambi has those cute ears and sweet nose and sweet bunnies hop through the glen spreading good cheer.

Instead, I paid hard-earned money to watch a movie that featured animated robots squeaking to each other in some unintelligible computer-ease against the backdrop of a deserted Earth that has become uninhabitable due to an overload of trash. Oh, and there was one lone cockroach as metaphor. Really.

I know Al Gore probably loved the movie, but I hated it.

To make matters worse, the humans who do enter the picture are so gross and overweight that their soft little bowed legs can’t support them so they jet around their starship on these little personal hovercrafts sipping meals in a bottle and getting dumber and fatter with each passing generation. Really.

I know the ending was supposed to provide us with feelings of hope and redemption, but all those environmental sub-messages were lost on my kid and simply served to put me in a funk as I sat in an artificially cooled, windowless, concrete movie theatre in a overdeveloped strip center eating popcorn coated in fake butter from a tub coated in plastic which will take a least a hundred years to biodegrade in the landfill.

So my kids have concluded that if we litter, we’ll have to take a spaceship and go live in space for a few hundred centuries and we’ll get pudgy and get to motor around in these cool little machines and sip cheeseburgers from a cup.