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.

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!.

Snow White and the Seven Whores, or, The Birth of My Bloggy Self

When I started BeTwinned, I wanted it to be an online magazine with feature articles. Once I got it up and running and my post-journalism school life turned out a lot different than I had imagined (and I had absolutely no time to feed this creation with feature articles), I realized that it would be better just to make BeTwinned a blog.

So, I’ve been wanting to write more “bloggy” and to create a blogroll of all the blogs I read and to do other things on the site that would be generally, well, bloggy.

But I haven’t really gotten around to it. Tho, I plan to do it this summer when I have two months off from my job. Yes, I have two months off in the summer. You can hate me, I can take it.

Anyway, something so funny happened this morning, and it’s something so random and it’s such a short story, I thought, “How could I possibly create a whole, meaningful entry about this one little thing?”

I decided that I couldn’t do all those perfect things and that this would be the day that I would start blogging at BeTwinned. Really blogging, like all the other Mommy Bloggers I read. Having fun and writing short, pithy posts if I damn well feel like it. And writing stuff that I probably couldn’t get away with on my Disney parenting blog, Mommy! Mommy!.

Here goes.

My husband’s twin sister sent my daughters a box of Disney videos, like Mulan, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Snow White, etc.

I asked them this morning if they’d like to watch a new video from their stack (they’ve been watching Peter Pan over and over), and they said yes. I offered up Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, and they said yes.

Djuna said, “Is Snow White and the Seven Whores scary?”

I looked breathlessly at my husband, who looked like he was about ready to piss himself, so I knew I had heard her right.

I said, “I’m sorry sweetie, I didn’t hear you. Could you please say that again?”

Call me horribly cruel, but I had to hear her say it again.

And she did. I had to step out of the room, I was laughing so hard.

We watched the movie together in small pieces (that is one bitchy, freaky queen/witch, in case you have forgotten) throughout the day, and “whores” changed from “dwores” to “warses” to its current incarnation: “warves.”

I guess it is a pretty hard word to say for a three-year-old.

Mother’s Day, 2007

Here’s a thought-provoking article from Truthdig, a site that recently won a Webby for both the juried award and the People’s Choice award for “Best Political Blog.” The article contains an interesting update about the so-called “mommy wars” and how mothers still face discrimination in the workplace.

Also, I’d like to link readers to my Mother’s Day post in my blog Mommy! Mommy!, which I’ve been writing for Disney’s new site Family.com.

TwinWatch News: Tractor-trekking twins trying to raise money; twins born two months apart near their first birthdays

Twin brothers Pat and Mike Iott are planning a cross-country tractor trek to raise money for the American Heart Association. They have already raised $12,000. The tractors are refurbished vintage tractors that I think were owned by their grandfathers. The article wasn’t 100 percent clear about that.

circles

I haven’t seen another article like this one, so I thought I’d link readers to it. I had no idea that twins could be delivered days, even months apart. But, here’s an article about twins who were born over 2 months apart. The twins are nearing their first birthdays.