Red Nose

Guest Post: Please Welcome Golf Widow!

Hey, it's my first guest post! Or first post by a guest! Or first guest to write a post! Or something. You know what I mean. Anyway, the lovely and talented Golf Widow has a pretty nifty offer out there, to wit: Donate two bucks to her "I've Just Gotten Laid Off and I'm Panicky" fund and she will write a guest post for you, on the subject of your choice.

Well, Golf Widow is wickedly funny, and I had just gotten a rather nice bonus, so I thought, "Hey. I like Golf Widow, and I have two bucks. I will give it to her, and I will let her write whatever she chooses."

By the way, you should also buy her book! Or make someone buy it for you! It's here:

Getting My Think On

And here is her official Red Nose Guest Post.

Hi - I'm guest-posting for my favorite lady clown, today.

I'm sort of inspired to talk about the circus a little, obviously.

I actually have two clowny blog-buddies. Andy Martello, who is also my podcast cohost, is a Ringling graduate, though he doesn't work in a circus environment anymore. This is because, in a mad fit of irony, he married a woman who is terrified of clowns.

I used to be afraid of clowns myself, when I was a tiny kid. It wasn't anything personal. I was afraid of anyone who concealed their faces in any way, even by accident. My poor uncle had to cope with my hiding whenever he and his newly-cultivated mustache approached me. Our neighbor, another mustachioed gentleman, used to wait at the bottom of the slide so we wouldn't fall. I'd let him catch me (I wasn't allowed to slide without a grownup), but I kept my head well turned away. My mother once had to calm my terror just because a bottle of ketchup splattered on her cheeks.

Eventually, I got over my fear of clowns, but it was still years before I got to go to a real circus.

Circumstances conspired against me. The circus wasn't in town when I was in kindergarten; it was, when my brother went to kindergarten the next year.

The first circus I went to was the one my brother's kindergarten class put on, after their field trip. My brother was the ringmaster. I was hellaciously, inordinately proud of this fact, even though he was way littler than my first-grade self.

You think I don't remember any of this. His top hat was made of green construction paper. Take that, memory banks.

The Big Apple Circus came to town a few times over the years, but I missed out on it every time for a while, there. It seemed they scheduled their tours to coincide with strep throat season. Everyone else was having popcorn and watching clowns. I was home having ginger ale and watching The Price is Right.

Finally, finally, the circus was in town at the same time I was actually healthy enough to go, and we went.

And I hated it.

The animals looked sad, and scared, and they smelled bad. The clowns looked happy from far away, but when they got close, you could see that that was just makeup - underneath, they looked ... bored.

I later learned from Andy that that couldn't have been any kind of quality circus, and that his own training was rigid about making sure you were In the Moment when you were being a clown. I rather agree with him, on that score. I still didn't like the fact that the animals couldn't get on a bus and leave if they weren't happy, but I eventually got over the whole bored-clown trauma.

My mother went to see "Barnum" at dinner theater, and had to convince a clown that he couldn't have anything to eat off her plate. I was sorry to have missed out on that experience (though I did go through a similar exchange with a hippie when I saw "Hair" performed in the round).

I haven't been to a traditional circus since that one-ring when I was a kid, but I do occasionally watch them on television, and I enjoy reading about them.

I wept copiously over the film "The Greatest Show on Earth," but it was a good weepy movie.

And Andy makes fun of me for liking Cirque du Soleil, but it is what it is: no animals; and the clowns are funny not because of their makeup, which is minimal, but because of their antics.

As is only right and proper. They don't call it "clowning around" because they're good at applying greasepaint.

By the way, Andy was not in my Clown College class, because he is just a precious darling boy and attended way later than I did. But he's totally right -- we were taught to always be in character and in the moment.

Honest, we're not all scary.

Thank you, Golf Widow!

Clear, Not Smear

Remember how I complained about my windshield smearers? Let me break it down for you:

Windshield smearers + Nighttime + Precipitation = Invisible lane lines = White knuckle commute home

After a couple of these, I caved and ordered new super-trick extra-spiffy you-won't-even-know-it's raining windshield wipers from Rainx, because they had a special promotion going wherein I will get a special-extra bonus visibility pack in addition to the wipers.

I am all about the visibility, even if it is expensive. (See above equation.)

So it's taking awhile to get these doodads. I was hunting around the kitchen for something or other. I lifted the lid on the "I don't know what to do with this so I'll put it in here" box, and whad'ya know?

(Not much! You?)

There, sitting among the lightbulbs and other detritus was a little bottle of Rainx, the liquid that you put on your windshield to make the rain all but evaporate before it hits.

I grabbed it and clutched it to my bosom, then I read the directions. Since it was above 40 degrees and we had just gotten some nice new clean soft shop rags, off I went to apply the potent elixir. I applied it in overlapping circles with said soft cloth, allowed it to dry to a light haze, applied some more, allowed it to dry some more, then I polished the windshield until it was as clear as... okay, glass.

It rained yesterday. I had to commute farther than usual, to the hotel that was hosting our sales conference. Aha! The perfect test!

My friends, this stuff works so well it should be illegal. It is magic. It turned my barely adequate windshield wipers into powerhouses of wipeage largely because all the water turned into little teeny droplets that danced right off the car with a single smearer swipe.

I can't wait for my new wipers. The combination will make driving in a monsoon seem like a a jaunt on perfect sunny day in springtime, complete with the trilling of the lark.

Okay, maybe not with the trilling of the lark. But I'll be able to see, dammit.

The Spillening and the Signening

I got to Saratoga Springs in spite of massive ice storms and pouring rains and delayed flights, and it was good.

Except I kept spilling stuff all over the place. Poised and graceful, that's me.

The first calamity happened at BWI while I was waiting to board my flight to Albany. I had carefully chosen my seat so that I could put my medium Cafe Dulce (another version of Crack-in-a-Cup) on the seat beside me. Then another woman ambled past me, excusing herself, and I went to pick up the cup to ensure that it wouldn't get knocked over.

Except I knocked it over. It landed on the floor, the top popped off, and the entire cup of coffee spread over the carpet. Luckily no one got hit by the tasty beverage, but I was very sad. The woman apologized profusely and offered to buy me another, but I declined because it wasn't really her fault. I told the Southwest folks of the accident, but no one seemed to care very much. Then the woman decided to make friends with me, which she also didn't need to do, but I was polite and discussed the relative merits of Janet Evanovich's oeuvre with her (funny, good for airplanes, isn't Grandma Mazur the best?, getting kind of repetitive but Lean Mean Thirteen is good, no I haven't read much James Patterson, blah blah blah get on the plane already). By the time we boarded, the coffee had become one with the carpet and the stain was actually invisible. Self-cleaning carpet! That's what I need!

So, I got to Albany without incident, although the landing was, shall we say, exciting (which is not necessarily what I'm looking for in an airplane landing). My ride, the tall Paul, was there to drive me to Saratoga, where we met my lovely and talented hostess, Phylise, who immediately escorted us to The Local for beers and bar food. Excellent stuff, except when I got up to leave I stumbled a little and...

Knocked over a half-full pint of beer. Again, no one got wet, but it was a close call, and I did moisten my coat slightly, but the slight drizzle on the walk back to the house took care of that.

So, the next day we did the radio thing (two minutes!) and then went over to Borders for the talkening and the signening. And it turns out that this big-time author, Russell Banks, is also having a book signing, but at 2:00 as opposed to mine at 11:00. Borders had the areas all set up. Here's the setup for Russell Banks, complete with comfy chair:

And here's the setup for me:

Yeah. Three chairs. Now there's a confidence builder right there.

But! People started to come! And we had to usurp the bigger space! And it filled up with kids and grownups! And it was fun! I told a bunch of stories, and I juggled at little, and people actually bought some books, and I actually signed them like a real live au-thor. I must admit that it was kind of neat to see this display:

After the signing, we partook of Chowderfest, a tradition in Saratoga Springs where a bunch of restaurants in town whomp up their best chowder, and offer cups of it to the hungering public for a buck. You get a sticker for your ballot, then vote for the best chowder, kind of like a chili cookoff. I passed on the vegan curry chowder (I don't do curry), but I had some lovely Seafood Chowder from the Stadium Grill, some awesome Southern Fried Chicken chowder from Hattie's, and two cups of Philly Cheesesteak Chowder from Bailey's Cafe. Yes, two cups, because I...

Knocked over the first and spilled it all over the floor. Go me! Once again, though, the only casualty was the concrete floor, and my shoe, which a very friendly (and hungry) Golden Retriever cleaned for me a little while later.

I swear, you can't take me anywhere. At least I didn't drop the juggling balls.

Heading Upstate

Well damn! The Habs just tied it up with 36 seconds left, and I do not like this turn of events AT ALL. I mean, Ovie does have a hat trick, but geez. Oh well -- on to overtime.

Wait a sec... WOOO! Ovie scored the winner in overtime! That's his fourth goal of the game and his 43rd of the season and a critical two points for my boys.

But hockey is not the subject of this entry. The subject of this entry is that I am going travelling up to Saratoga Springs, New York tomorrow to speak at Saratoga Reads! Winterfest. Saratoga Reads! is a very cool community program wherein the whole community, using the resources of Skidmore College, reads a novel and discusses it.

Well, wouldn't you just know it? The winning novel is Water for Elephants, the lovely circus novel by Sarah Gruen. My great good friend Phylise is on the board for Saratoga Reads! and knows of my sordid past. So... she invited me to come on up and speak and juggle (badly) and clown around at Border's for an hour or so. And, of course I agreed, because I am stupid always willing to help out a pal, especially when they pay my airfare, which is really cheap on Southwest.

Little did I know that the local media would leap all over the thought of a former clown coming up to speak, so I've had two interviews from local newspapers and I'll be going to a local radio station before the event to talk about whatever they want to talk about!

And! When I was talking to one of the reporters, he told me that he saw a big stack of my book at Borders, awaiting the hordes who will no doubt stampede the table to acquire a signed copy. Then, a traditional publisher will see the bestselling potential of my cheesy chicklit novel and then sales will skyrocket and I will have to kick back a substantial portion of my newly earned millions to Saratoga Reads!.

Well, if you're gonna hallucinate dream, dream big.

Go Out And Listen

Tonight I went to a book signing at a local Barnes and Noble. The book is by Dave Isay, and it's called Listening Is an Act of Love.

It's a collection of the interviews recorded for the StoryCorps project -- the same folks who recorded my interview with my Mom.

Dave's a fascinating guy, devoted to collecting an oral history of America. Not famous people, not wealthy people or politicians or scientists -- he wants to hear the stories of you and me, our parents and grandparents, and what life means to us. The book contains stories from the first 10,000 interviews. He played excepts from about half a dozen of the stories: funny ones, touching ones, infuriating ones.

He had a special guest there, a guy whose StoryCorps interview was selected for the book. He is one of the rare people who survived the destruction of the World Trade Center towers. He was on the 101st floor when the first plane hit, and he managed to get all the way down the stairs to safety. All through the other stories I managed to keep my shit together, but when he read his story -- especially the part when he gets home to his wife -- that did it. I had to wipe my eyes.

Dave kept saying that everyone needs to do this, that everyone should participate in whatever way possible. So when he asked for questions, I raised my hand and just said, "I did a StoryCorps interview with my 96-year old mother, and you're right; it's an amazing experience."

And that was all I could manage to croak out before I... well, sorta choked up.

Of course I bought the book. When I went up to get it signed, I asked him to sign it "To Anna and Mary" because I'm going to lend it to Mom to read. He added a little note "So glad you could be part of the StoryCorps project."

You could be, too. Grab a tape recorder, a notebook and a pen, go to a StoryCorps booth location with a friend, or a relative, or anyone. Ask questions, and listen. It's an amazing experience; it's an act of love.

Braggin' On My Baby

Joe has dipped his toe into the journalistic pool with this fabulous story from his murky past. It happened before I met him, but at least I've seen the scar. Isn't that a great picture? He looks very, um, mellow in it, doesn't he?

DC Sports Fans, Take Note

Well, I won't limit this little bit of familial promotion to fans of sports teams located in the District of Columbia and its greater metropolitan area, but they are the target audience for the cogent analytical writings of DC Optimist.

In the spirit of full disclosure, i will identify said optimist as my highly talented nephew. Check out this post in particular. If you know what's been going with the Washington Wizards (vis a vis injuries) lately, now you know whom to blame.

Anyway, check him out and give him some love. Tell him I sent you.

Now It Can Be Told

Back in December, I got the following email:

Mary,
I love your blog.  I’d like to discuss a writing opportunity with you.
Contact me with your contact information if you’re interested.  Thanks.

My interest was, as you might imagine, piqued. My scam alert was tingling though, so I checked out the site that the sender referenced.

And I called the sender immediately and sent my contact information. In January, I talked to my contact some more. It sounded good. I signed a contract. Thus began my entry into -- yes, you guessed it -- paid bloggerdom. I haven't been able to mention it before now, because the site wasn't live.

Today, the site went live and I can now shamelessly promote my entry into the world of sell-out paid bloggerdom.

Yep. I'm working for Mickey; come and visit!

The site's pretty neat, actually. Lots of (as I'm sure you've guessed) family-oriented stuff, parenting tips, entertainment ideas, crafts, coupons, and the like. I'm providing the old fart/aging hippie point of view.

Now, I also want to say this. Please, please, please don't be hurt if I didn't list your blog or journal or online diary under my favorites. I can only list 10. I will be able to edit that list at some point, and I plan to change it up pretty regularly. So if you want to be listed, let me know. If you are listed and don't want to be, let me know that as well. Okay?

Also, I'm not going anywhere, either. The posts over at Family.com will still be me, without the cussing and political rants and stories of my sordid youth. I definitely still need a place for that!