Thoughts on clowns

We had mixed feelings about it, but last night we went with some friends to the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus at the Staples Center to see their new show “Over the Top.”

Mainly, I was concerned about giving my daughters a lifetime of nightmares from the clowns, which I found creepy and most un-funny when I was little. Also, I was wondering how I’d feel about the performing wild animals.

But we decided that the circus is a valuable cultural experience, so we coughed up the ticket price (and the convenience charges) and went.

As it turned out, we had to cross a PETA picket line to get in, and I felt terrible. One of the PETA activists gave Dinah and Djuna some stickers that read: “I’m an ele-friend. Circuses are no fun for animals.” My daughters said, “Oh, thank you!” and wore the stickers into the show.

My friends, the circus is not what it used to be. A bag of cotton candy is $12, a box of popcorn is $7 (and, uh, parking was $20). The toys and souvenirs didn’t really inspire my 4-year-old daughters, and if you can’t inspire a couple of eager 4-year-olds to want a circus souvenir, something is wrong. There were no peanuts or any cool circus candy (except for all-day suckers they sold when you were leaving at 10 p.m.) We did buy the girls a little stuffed toy, but the biggest hit the morning after was actually the most economical thing we got — coloring books for 4 bucks.

Moreover, the show is not the Greatest Show on Earth, as it is billed. Overall, it was a satisfactory presentation. Pretty good, but not great. Maybe I am just hankering for my childhood, when my grandparents took my sister and I to an old fashioned circus where everyone walked to the big top, which sat out in the middle of a big grassy field. I remember circus treats and circus smells and all the wonkiness of people working hard to entertain you in the dead heat of summer, with those fat, lazy Maine mosquitoes hunkering everywhere in the humidity. Now, THAT’S a circus.

First of all, last night’s ringmaster’s script was dull, with a running gag where the clowns kept stealing the guy’s hat, you know, the ringmaster’s hat that makes HIM the ringmaster because of its symbolic significance. It didn’t feel like there was enough of the traditional ringmaster banter, like “Laaa-deees and gennnntlemen, IN the center ring, witness the death-defying feats of the one-and-only Spaaaaa-deee-neeee!” There was some of it, but not enough to make it feel like a real circus. By the end of the show, I wanted to steal his hat too.

I was also not a fan of the quasi S & M section, where the dancers had bike handles coming out of their costumes at the hips. Call me a prude, but that was just plain odd.

I really liked the trained dogs and the pretty white ponies with purple feathers on their heads — seeing domesticated animals perform was actually fun. These animals appeared healthy and happy, especially the dogs. The dogs had these gleaming coats and engaged in a joyful performance where they ran at breakneck speed through an obstacle course and caught Frisbees. But watching wild animals perform — like a tiger jumping on its hind legs or an elephant laying on its side — was just icky and weird.

The traditional acts, like the high flying acts, were pretty good. Also, there was a neat act where the acrobats jumped and did tricks on these giant inner-tube things that were turned on their sides.

But the real hit of the show, we all thought, was Tom Doughtery, the lead clown. He was excellent! I honestly have never really seen a clown I liked, but I found myself genuinely laughing at his antics. My daughters loved him too and talked about him all the way home. They understood his gags and his storylines. I was pleasantly surprised.

The finale of the show was pretty, with black lights and huge fluorescent flowers.

The best moment, though, was not even in the show. When clown Tom’s toupee flew off during a gag, revealing his bald head, my electrified daughter Dinah shrieked across the aisle at top volume: “MAMA! Clown Tom is bald JUST LIKE YOU ARE!”

We all laughed so hard that our own toupees flew off. Coming to the circus was a good idea after all.

Done with chemo and hankering for a new pair of shoes (Is that odd?)

Yesterday was the last of eight rounds of chemotherapy. It really feels great to be done, but I am a little nervous because now there is no more “medicine” for me — that’s in quotation marks because chemotherapy is the medicine to help me get better from breast cancer, sure, but it is so toxic that it’s more like poison. Is, actually. Yesterday the chemo nurse said that once she dropped some Adriamycin (one of the drugs I had) on her finger and it burnt her so badly that she had to seek treatment.

Sure, there is surgery ahead to remove whatever’s left of the tumor (I had chemo first to shrink the honking thing) and radiation, too, I imagine (they’re going to throw the kitchen sink at me, and why not?), but still, chemotherapy is the medicine for cancer.

And I’m done with it.

And I’m still alive.

I want to continue the healing process with something less toxic than chemotherapy but that still offers as much firepower. Now I feel ready to get into some meditation and visualization and alternative forms of healing. I’m looking into books and tapes by Tara Brach, Deepak Chopra, Louise Hay, and Jon Kabat-Zinn. While I was going through chemo, just getting through and taking care of my family and going to work was all I could handle. I was able to make good progress in bringing myself around to the present and in sitting with gratitude for my many blessings (of which there are many and for which I’m overwhelmingly grateful). Now, it’s summer and I’m off from work, and I think I can concentrate on taking it deeper.

Except, instead of getting into meditation right away, since the end of chemo yesterday, I have been thinking about getting a new pair of shoes. Is that wrong? Wanting a new pair of shoes for no other reason than greed, desire and yes, hot longing, is pretty much the opposite of Zen Buddhism and the types of energies I’ll need to channel to do healing meditation and to practice daily mindfulness and gratitude.

And why shoes? Buying shirts feels weird now because I don’t know what my new shape will be after surgery (more about THAT another time). Buying pants feels wrong now, too, because I lost some weight after my diagnosis, and since I didn’t mean to lose it, I’m not sure if it will stay off.

So, I keep thinking about shoes.

But what to get? Some sexy Mary Janes by Born? Engineer boots? A retro sneaker? A hip, vegan walking shoe by J41? Something comfy and great-looking for work when I go back in the fall?

Down, girl, easy.

You know, even though I have quite a bit of treatment ahead of me, I just feel celebratory. The house is full of flowers from well-wishers, there is a deadly chocolate mousse cake in the fridge from my sweet husband, and my adorable daughters keep kissing my bald head saying they are glad I’m done with kermit-thermanies so that now my hair (and eyebrows and eyelashes) can start to grow back. A dear friend came over last night and we got take-out Chinese food (very yummy to me after chemo — explain that?!), and we dug into that cake.

And I’ve gotten the gift of another day with my family.

How that all feeds into a hankering for shoes, I don’t know. But somehow, it seems to fit. A sturdy new pair of shoes will be just the thing a body needs to help take the first steps of a long journey.

I have cancer. WTF?

My birthday comes at the end of January, and, now that I am a little over 40, it’s also the time when I’ve decided to have my annual mammogram. I had my first one last year.

This January I was very, very anxious about my health. I have been having some gastric issues for a little over a year and some pressure on the left side of my pelvis. After being basically ignored by a couple of doctors, I changed my primary doctor and he ordered a pelvic ultrasound.

That test revealed some sort of large mass — never a word one likes to hear — and it was unclear what it was. Around the same time I reported dutifully for my annual screening mammogram.

They called me back, another call no one likes to get. They said I had to return for another mammogram and an ultrasound.

I was terrified and immediately hit the Internet, looking for information about how often a mammogram callback results in a breast cancer diagnosis. I was relieved — only a little, really — to find that many people get called back after a screening mammogram. The test is imperfect, I was happy to find.

Naturally, I did a self exam and decided that I was having normal breast changes. I made a mental note to schedule my next screening mammogram after my menstrual cycle so that my breasts aren’t so dense for the test.

But, it turns out, I’ll never have a run-of-the-mill screening mammogram again, ever.

Turns out, I have breast cancer.

Right now, I am writing this, bald, after two chemotherapy treatments.

I have really grappled with whether I wanted to blog about this. I have lots of mixed feelings about it. But I’ve decided to go ahead and share my experiences. Mainly, I hope that they will bring comfort to others on the journey.

Next installment, the mammogram follow-up appointment. But now, I have to go put my two adorable cuties to bed. No more time for cancer tonight. So, sorry cancer, you’ll have to wait. I’ve got stories to read, cuddling to do.

The Cheese, by Margie Palatini, illustrated by Steve Johnson and Lou Fancher

cheese
Photo from Amazon.com

Review by Sandra Horning

My five year old pulled The Cheese off the new book display at our library a few weeks ago and I’ve read it for bedtime every night since. Clearly, my five year old thinks it is great. The Cheese builds around the last line of the song “The Farmer in the Dell”: and the cheese stands alone.

Down on the farm no one knows why the cheese has to stand alone in the field all day, they just know that’s how the song goes. The rat thinks the cheese looks pretty tasty and decides to take action to join the cheese in the field. Along the way he encounters everyone else from the song: the cat, the dog, the child, the wife, and the farmer. After discussing why the cheese stands alone, each character gets persuaded to join the cheese in the field. Finally they all end up having a picnic with the cheese.

The humorous dialog of why the cheese stands alone brings laughter every time. The pleasing illustrations have lots of details for young children to see. The only drawback to reading this night after night is that my son likes me to end by singing “The Farmer in the Dell” and then the tune gets stuck in my head for the rest of the night! A small price to pay for a book that helps my son get to sleep.

Ages 3-8

Mokie and Bik, by Wendy Orr, illustrated by Jonathan Bean

Mokie and Bik

Photo from Amazon.com Review by Sandra Horning Mokie and Bik is a lively tale of energetic young twins living on a docked boat. Their mother is an artist who is always out “arting” and their father works on a ship at sea, which means most of the time their nanny, Ruby, looks after them. The twins have many adventures ranging from falling overboard to catching fish (or, as the twins say, “fisk”) to learning to swim with Erik the Viking. Throughout the story Mokie and Bik speak in their made up language, which only their nanny understands.
 

As an early chapter book, Mokie and Bik is fun and different, with lovely detailed pen-and-ink illustrations to go with the text. Based on the cover illustration alone, my children and I were prepared to love this book. But, to be honest, my two boys didn’t like it. In fact, they found the twins’ language confusing and kept asking for clarification. Reading it aloud, I enjoyed some of the word play, but at times felt my tongue getting twisted up with phrases such as “swinging side to siding with Bik slip dippery riding splish swish sliding – splash! – overboard.”

However, that said, my children did listen to the whole story and I think it is worth a read aloud just for some of the word play. And perhaps a twin reading it or hearing it aloud will better appreciate the twins’ special language that so often confused my boys who never shared such a thing.

Ages 7-10

Patience Wright, America’s First Sculptor and Revolutionary Spy by Pegi Deitz Shea, illustrated by Bethanne Andersen

American Sculptor and Revolutionary Spy

Photo from Amazon.com

Review by Sandra Horning

Both my 4 and 8 year old sons were taken with Patience Wright, America’s First Sculptor and Revolutionary Spy. What child doesn’t love a good spy story? And what a story it is!

Born to a Quaker family in 1725, Patience grew up in the American colonies and showed a talent for sculpting clay at a young age. In mid life she began to sculpt wax and her reputation for creating life-like sculptures grew. As a result her work was desired by many prominent Americans. Her success led her to open a studio in London. As a well-known artist, she had many political figures among her customers, including the king and queen.

When the American colonies started revolting against England, Patience was suddenly in an important position, as she was friendly with both English and colonial leaders. As Patience worked with some of her English customers, she led them to reveal secret information. Then Patience wrote this information down and hid it in the hollow busts of her sculptures that were going to America. Thus, she became a spy.

The realistic gauche-and-pastel illustrations of wax figures and early America bring the text to life. My younger son kept asking which illustration is the sculpture and which is Patience. This is a fun read for young historians, with additional information about Patience and the revolutionary war included at the end. But historian or not, if you haven’t heard of Patience Wright, this is a must read about an extraordinary woman. Questions about wax sculpting and spying are sure to go on for several days.

Ages 4-9

Bad news means: A new place to explore and … a purchase!

With no warning, I got some bad news a couple of weeks ago. It certainly wasn’t earth-shattering or tragic news, mostly just yukky news that affects your ego. And maybe your stomach. For awhile. That kind of bad news.

I was upset, naturally. I had planned to meet up with a friend in downtown Los Angeles that night for a quick dinner before going to an event for online journalists at the LA Times building. It still sounded like fun even though I was feeling punky, so I went.

Amazingly, I didn’t hit any traffic at all and was driving through Chinatown when I realized that I was pretty early. I’ve always wanted to stroll through Chinatown and have literally never done it in the years that my husband and I have lived in the Los Angeles area.

Magically, a parking spot appeared and I knew the moment was meant to be. I took a couple of photos with my snappy new mobile phone camera and then went shopping.

The first store I went into had an array of the usual stuff you find in American Chinatowns, but I was so thrilled to be there that I perused everything carefully. Suddenly, along one wall, I saw an assortment of carved stone stamps.

When I walked over and looked closer, I saw that they were Chinese characters for people’s names and for special words. I started looking for my name but gave up because there were so many and they were arranged in no particular order (that I could determine).

Then I saw it. The stamp that made me feel better and more hopeful, all at once.

Here it is:

PASSION

Or, at least that’s what the label on the stamp says (if anyone sees that I have actually bought a stamp that says I LOVE FUDGE or KITTENS ARE MY LIFE or whatever, do, please, let me know.).

I bought the gooey red ink to go with my stamp and happily went on my way to pick up the rest of my life, post-bad news.

‘The bouncy castle was for the young ones,’ says 80-year-old British triplet celebrating her birthday

three fingersOh, my gosh, this is a really sweet article, and I just had to share it.

Alice, Doris and Gladys are British identical triplets who just celebrated their 80th birthday with a big barbecue.

The article is a chatty tribute to the women, with a few terrific photos of the triplets as they grow up.

My favorite quote from the article is about Doris’ reflection on the 80th birthday party:

Doris said: “As much as we wanted to join in, the bouncy castle was for the young ones.

Twin within a twin

Every parent of twins or multiples knows that when you’re out with your kids you get extra attention from (mostly) well-intentioned folks.

Sometimes people say nice things, sometimes it’s annoying, sometimes people even touch your kids. Most of the time, though, it’s no big deal.

But in our town we have a woman who we do try to avoid when we go out walking to the park or to the library.

She’s a twin within a twin.

She’s an elderly woman, pretty harmless-looking, and I can’t remember precisely what she looks like, which is why she has successfully snagged me more than once.

She’ll hulk after us in velcro sneakers when she sees us to ask if our daughters are twins. Then she’ll say that she has a relative with twins, a sister or something. I can’t remember, honestly.

And then, once she has our attention, she’ll lean in a little to say, “And, I’m a twin within a twin.”

There’s a beat before my palms begin to sweat, and I’ll think “Doh! She caught me again!”

“Oh,” I say, nodding and trying to think of a way to escape because now I remember what’s coming.

But it’s too late. She goes on to explain that she has an extra uterus and the doctors think that she originally had a twin sister, but that she absorbed her sister’s body while she was inside her own mother’s womb.

It’s actually very sad. I always come away from the conversation freaked out and thinking that she’s some sort of Klingon or something (from my Star Trek Next Generation days I remember that Klingons have some sort of double organ situation. You guessed it. I’m a geek.)

My husband said he successfully escaped the twin within a twin on his last walk around town with the girls, so I guess we’re starting to be able to pick her out among the local freak pedestrians.

This is the kind of thing that happens in my crazy little town, and the kind of thing one attracts by just walking around with twins.

Another day I just might tell you about the blonde knife lady. But not tonight. I’m creeped out enough as it is just thinking about the twin within a twin.

Ode to the carousel at the mall

carousel

I wrote a little poem today about how, before I had kids, I used to turn up my nose at the thought of ever letting my future children ride the merry-go-round at the mall. I love carousels and favor vintage ones, like the carousel in Griffith Park in Los Angeles, and the mall one just doesn’t fit the bill.

Of course that was before the twins arrived.

You can read my ode to the mall carousel at my Family.com blog Mommy! Mommy!.