I think I have an answer to the all-important "Where do you go to church?" question. Though we haven't officially joined, we have frequented a liberal-leaning, thinking man's church here in Charlotte and couldn't be happier about it. Imagine; liberal and religion in the same sentence!
The you-you church is filled with a bunch of old hippies and basic disgruntled church-goers who refuse to suffer the "doom and gloom" syndrome of whatever other faith/denomination/abomination they have suffered in the past. My kinda people, to be exact.
Besides the same "all about us" classes, you-you has discussion groups, poetry groups, nature walks and yoga sessions to help in the overall spiritual healing process that attending church was meant to do. At least, that's what I think. There's a variety of small (to use office-speak) breakout groups for those who want to get involved and connect on a smaller, more intimate level. I've chosen to start with yoga. In addition to being good for me, it's a place to which I've been to before and am comfortable in and know my way around, to some degree.
My past experiences with organized religion has been hit or miss and I've come to the conclusion that I will not attend any church in order to be a good girl, or earn another check mark in the journey to the next world. Uh ah. I want to go to be a part of a community that is engaging and touches my soul in some meaningful way. To put in mildly, I just don't have the time to be payin lip service!
Speaking of service, the first service we went to was not a regular service, which was really fantastic in retrospect. The leader of this group is a former poetry professor at a well recognized university and conducts "poetry services" once a season. This was one of them, and what a service it was. Besides hearing thoughtful, beautiful stories from around the world, we listened to several sweet Beatles tunes (what screams "live and let live" hippie dippie 60s more than "Let It Be"?) and witnessed the congregation waltz together out the door. I was moved. To tears, to be exact. My soul was touched. We can't wait to go back.
I think I have found the answer.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Where have you been?
It's been almost two whole months since my last post and it's hard to reason why. I got away from it, mostly. I also spent a couple of weeks in Canada and disconnected to my feelings about Charlotte. Disconnecting from something/some place you are otherwise desperately trying to connect with is, well, discombobulating to say the least.
What has happened to me in Charlotte since then? I've been busily hunting for employment and let me tell you, it has been a humbling experience. I think I have been unemployed for a total of three days since the age of 13. I've had a variety of odd/mind-numbingly normal, (I once dressed up as a Duracell battery; it paid outrageously well) good/horrible, (ad sales jobs with the freedom to wander and luncheon come to mind in the good department) well-paying/pathetically paying gigs along the way and find myself in a strange place. I am working, but not at a job that is necessarily well-suited for me and am working hard to make peace with it. Though I am grateful to be employed, I am still asking myself, much like a Talking Heads disciple, "lord, how did I get here?".
Talking to former beauty queens who live for pampering and vanity sessions is not a job I ever saw myself doing. Besides being obviously (annoyingly) over-qualified, I am spending an inordinate amount of time with people who very much care and take care of their looks. I am generally speaking, not one of those people. I'm not criticizing though; I wish in some ways, I did care more about beauty. I just don't feel natural or familiar in this territory. And let's not forget the Elephant in the room, the beauty business is fairly superficial. I'm trying to find people who are beautiful on the inside and again feel discombobulated. Sigh.
To be fair, I have met a couple of genuinely sweet people. Not everyone who works for a beauty/cosmetics company is a superficial ninny, though it sometimes feels that way. I have actually become good friends with a few and am grateful for the opportunity to meet any new people here. I can live with that for now.
For now.
What has happened to me in Charlotte since then? I've been busily hunting for employment and let me tell you, it has been a humbling experience. I think I have been unemployed for a total of three days since the age of 13. I've had a variety of odd/mind-numbingly normal, (I once dressed up as a Duracell battery; it paid outrageously well) good/horrible, (ad sales jobs with the freedom to wander and luncheon come to mind in the good department) well-paying/pathetically paying gigs along the way and find myself in a strange place. I am working, but not at a job that is necessarily well-suited for me and am working hard to make peace with it. Though I am grateful to be employed, I am still asking myself, much like a Talking Heads disciple, "lord, how did I get here?".
Talking to former beauty queens who live for pampering and vanity sessions is not a job I ever saw myself doing. Besides being obviously (annoyingly) over-qualified, I am spending an inordinate amount of time with people who very much care and take care of their looks. I am generally speaking, not one of those people. I'm not criticizing though; I wish in some ways, I did care more about beauty. I just don't feel natural or familiar in this territory. And let's not forget the Elephant in the room, the beauty business is fairly superficial. I'm trying to find people who are beautiful on the inside and again feel discombobulated. Sigh.
To be fair, I have met a couple of genuinely sweet people. Not everyone who works for a beauty/cosmetics company is a superficial ninny, though it sometimes feels that way. I have actually become good friends with a few and am grateful for the opportunity to meet any new people here. I can live with that for now.
For now.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
A Par-tay, Charlotte style
My very dear friend Lynn decided to throw us a welcome to Charlotte party and seeing as how we missed getting together with people in a big way, we said of course. I know she is saddened by my lack of friends in Charlotte and wants to introduce me to many of her friends whom she loves so much. I also know she is one helluva hostess and throws a fabulous party (she is a native New Orleanian after all) and our arrival in her new home town was the perfect excuse for throwin down.
I was a bit nervous about the party for several reasons including most importantly, my open and apparent need of new friends. Would I seem desperate? I sure didn't want to come off that way. I also wasn't sure what parties were like here and how different they would be from my own Canadian backyard summer affairs which tended to be loose and long-lasting. I didn't know if people would take off their masks, let down their hair or whatever other cliche there is for having some real fun...that's what I like to do.
To ease my anxiety, Lynn strategically made me in charge of getting everyone their first drink. This allowed me to introduce myself, get people talking, and hopefully a little liquored up. As a former bartender, it was a role I was very comfortable with. It also gave me a purpose other than sitting on the sofa waiting for people to be my friend. Blech.
My kids planted themselves out front and worked their quirky, adorable charm on all the unsuspecting guests. "I'm Keller; my dad is famous, and so I'm famous and I like armchairs" was a particularly memorable opener. Cyre on the other hand, shook hands and directed traffic. Her manners are impeccable at most times and shone this particular night. My husband planted himself in a chair beside the piano and played jazz tunes with his partner in crime, Ethan. I couldn't help but relax and smile.
The music, food and wine worked wonders. Before long, people were laughing and chatting up a storm. Friends sat with friends as per usual at a party but were quick to make room for someone new. The kids got tattoos from the hostess and one mom took it upon herself to put them every kid there (and herself of course). Food just kept showing up as did bottle after bottle of Shiraz's, cabs and Merlots. Things were heating up!
With all the good food and free-flowing wine, it wasn't long before other guests decided to get in on the entertainment. I just prayed my husband, the paid professional, wouldn't roll his eyes when the amateurs stepped up to the mike. To be fair, Lynn had warned us that a few friends had anticipated a well-heeled hootenanny and were going to bring along their instrument of choice. One friend was even going to bring a pair of tap shoes; this I couldn't wait to see! Another friend had a song to sing and when I asked her about it at the beginning of the night she replied "not yet honey. I'm not nearly drunk enough!". Ooowee.
What started off as a trumpet/piano duo became a trio with the additional of an accordion, a quartet with the addition of an African drum, and an accompaniment to both the hoofer and the belter. Channeling her best Ella Fitzgerald (well, more like Ethel Merman really) one guest sang a tribute to our host that had us in stitches. "Bravo!" we shouted, though I noted how quickly my husband counted down another song he was certain she wouldn't know. The tap-dancing professor proved that one isn't restricted to using just the left or right brain. I was inspired.
I was also flattered by the friendliness of the folks there and the warm welcomes I received. I'm making a list of names and email addresses so I can send out thank yous and tell our guests how much it meant to us to have them there. I know I won't be BF or BFF (what does those mean anyhow?) with all of them, but I do know I'll be friends with more of them. It was a wonderful way to meet some wonderful Charlotteans.
I was a bit nervous about the party for several reasons including most importantly, my open and apparent need of new friends. Would I seem desperate? I sure didn't want to come off that way. I also wasn't sure what parties were like here and how different they would be from my own Canadian backyard summer affairs which tended to be loose and long-lasting. I didn't know if people would take off their masks, let down their hair or whatever other cliche there is for having some real fun...that's what I like to do.
To ease my anxiety, Lynn strategically made me in charge of getting everyone their first drink. This allowed me to introduce myself, get people talking, and hopefully a little liquored up. As a former bartender, it was a role I was very comfortable with. It also gave me a purpose other than sitting on the sofa waiting for people to be my friend. Blech.
My kids planted themselves out front and worked their quirky, adorable charm on all the unsuspecting guests. "I'm Keller; my dad is famous, and so I'm famous and I like armchairs" was a particularly memorable opener. Cyre on the other hand, shook hands and directed traffic. Her manners are impeccable at most times and shone this particular night. My husband planted himself in a chair beside the piano and played jazz tunes with his partner in crime, Ethan. I couldn't help but relax and smile.
The music, food and wine worked wonders. Before long, people were laughing and chatting up a storm. Friends sat with friends as per usual at a party but were quick to make room for someone new. The kids got tattoos from the hostess and one mom took it upon herself to put them every kid there (and herself of course). Food just kept showing up as did bottle after bottle of Shiraz's, cabs and Merlots. Things were heating up!
With all the good food and free-flowing wine, it wasn't long before other guests decided to get in on the entertainment. I just prayed my husband, the paid professional, wouldn't roll his eyes when the amateurs stepped up to the mike. To be fair, Lynn had warned us that a few friends had anticipated a well-heeled hootenanny and were going to bring along their instrument of choice. One friend was even going to bring a pair of tap shoes; this I couldn't wait to see! Another friend had a song to sing and when I asked her about it at the beginning of the night she replied "not yet honey. I'm not nearly drunk enough!". Ooowee.
What started off as a trumpet/piano duo became a trio with the additional of an accordion, a quartet with the addition of an African drum, and an accompaniment to both the hoofer and the belter. Channeling her best Ella Fitzgerald (well, more like Ethel Merman really) one guest sang a tribute to our host that had us in stitches. "Bravo!" we shouted, though I noted how quickly my husband counted down another song he was certain she wouldn't know. The tap-dancing professor proved that one isn't restricted to using just the left or right brain. I was inspired.
I was also flattered by the friendliness of the folks there and the warm welcomes I received. I'm making a list of names and email addresses so I can send out thank yous and tell our guests how much it meant to us to have them there. I know I won't be BF or BFF (what does those mean anyhow?) with all of them, but I do know I'll be friends with more of them. It was a wonderful way to meet some wonderful Charlotteans.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Flea Market: The Future of America
As much as it pains me to say so, Jeff Foxworthy is right on the money. About some things anyway. The other night while channel surfing I came across a comedy panel with JF on it and he was waxing poetic on his favorite topic, Rednecks. His brilliant remark "Show me a three year old in a diaper walking around a flea market with a baby bottle full of coca cola and I'll show you a future NASCAR fan" rings oh so true. I know because I saw that three year last week at a flea market just outside of Charlotte.
Someone told me the flea market south of Pineville had really great antiques on Saturdays so being a second-hand/thrift/consignment store junkie, I naturally decided to drag my poor family and visiting friend down to the Carolina border to check out all the great finds. My kids have been down this road before and are automatically suspect of any such invitation which means bribes are in order. A new toy, a junk food-like snack or cold hard cash to spend are what get Cyre and Keller into the car. My husband on the other hand, loves the social petrie dish that is flea market culture; he was game . My poor friend from out of town had no choice but to tag along.
To say I was disappointed with the offerings is a major understatement. No antiques, junky electronics and cheapo fleece blankets with pictures of wolves and football teams did nothing for me. Although there were some truly far out, glow-in-the-dark, neon palm tree and blessed Madonna lanterns for sale, most of the stuff there was forgettable. It takes an awful lot of awful for me to travel to a consumer gathering of any sort and not spend a dime. My daughter did pick up a couple of books and my son got a coffin-like incense burner but I left empty handed. Humpf.
What I did get out of the trip though is really hard to explain. It was worthy of a comedy special on its own, JF style of course. How to do justice to the phenomenon that is Dave's Ministry...let's see. We were walking down a main aisle, browsing at rows of imitation name brand sneakers and such when we heard the strum of a gee-tar, followed by a lonesome voice. "They have paid entertainment at this place?" was my first reaction, followed by "what the hell kinda busker is that?". Hell no, heaven, ummm...maybe. You see, Dave drove down to the market every weekend to spread the gospel of Jesus' love to all those poor families who were willing to park themselves on the nearby benches and listen up. He had a hand-written sign with his name, a bucket to collect money for I don't know what exactly, some pamphlets to hand out and a microphone to sing from.
I couldn't make out what his handouts said or which song he was singing for I dared not venture too close. I really wanted to get my hands on his words of wisdom but fear kept me a safe distance apart. As surreal as it was, I was mesmerized and couldn't tear myself away. I looked over at my husband and friend just to compare their reactions with mine and validate that what we were witness to was truly unbelievable. Yep, same stunned look. My husband then raised his eyebrows in "Oh ya, baby" glee and my friend turned away in "only in America" embarrassment.
Now to be fair, his voice wasn't awful and his gee-tar playing passable. But Dave was 100% sincere and that's what gets people in the end anyhow. I imagine Dave engages in one or two Christian discussions every weekend and I also imagine that's good enough for him. Shoot, if I get one or two comments per blog entry, I'm thrilled! Maybe like blogging is for me, Dave's singing is therapeutic for him and satisfying without any measured response. Or is it? We'll have to check with JF on that one. He'd know.
Someone told me the flea market south of Pineville had really great antiques on Saturdays so being a second-hand/thrift/consignment store junkie, I naturally decided to drag my poor family and visiting friend down to the Carolina border to check out all the great finds. My kids have been down this road before and are automatically suspect of any such invitation which means bribes are in order. A new toy, a junk food-like snack or cold hard cash to spend are what get Cyre and Keller into the car. My husband on the other hand, loves the social petrie dish that is flea market culture; he was game . My poor friend from out of town had no choice but to tag along.
To say I was disappointed with the offerings is a major understatement. No antiques, junky electronics and cheapo fleece blankets with pictures of wolves and football teams did nothing for me. Although there were some truly far out, glow-in-the-dark, neon palm tree and blessed Madonna lanterns for sale, most of the stuff there was forgettable. It takes an awful lot of awful for me to travel to a consumer gathering of any sort and not spend a dime. My daughter did pick up a couple of books and my son got a coffin-like incense burner but I left empty handed. Humpf.
What I did get out of the trip though is really hard to explain. It was worthy of a comedy special on its own, JF style of course. How to do justice to the phenomenon that is Dave's Ministry...let's see. We were walking down a main aisle, browsing at rows of imitation name brand sneakers and such when we heard the strum of a gee-tar, followed by a lonesome voice. "They have paid entertainment at this place?" was my first reaction, followed by "what the hell kinda busker is that?". Hell no, heaven, ummm...maybe. You see, Dave drove down to the market every weekend to spread the gospel of Jesus' love to all those poor families who were willing to park themselves on the nearby benches and listen up. He had a hand-written sign with his name, a bucket to collect money for I don't know what exactly, some pamphlets to hand out and a microphone to sing from.
I couldn't make out what his handouts said or which song he was singing for I dared not venture too close. I really wanted to get my hands on his words of wisdom but fear kept me a safe distance apart. As surreal as it was, I was mesmerized and couldn't tear myself away. I looked over at my husband and friend just to compare their reactions with mine and validate that what we were witness to was truly unbelievable. Yep, same stunned look. My husband then raised his eyebrows in "Oh ya, baby" glee and my friend turned away in "only in America" embarrassment.
Now to be fair, his voice wasn't awful and his gee-tar playing passable. But Dave was 100% sincere and that's what gets people in the end anyhow. I imagine Dave engages in one or two Christian discussions every weekend and I also imagine that's good enough for him. Shoot, if I get one or two comments per blog entry, I'm thrilled! Maybe like blogging is for me, Dave's singing is therapeutic for him and satisfying without any measured response. Or is it? We'll have to check with JF on that one. He'd know.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
PLEATED PANTS
I never noticed it until the other day. There I was, innocently cruising the aisles of the local department store with my husband who was on a quest for new black pants, when he pointed out the obvious. "There's nothing but pleated pants here." "Is that weird?" I replied. "Haven't you noticed that so many of the men folk around here wear pleated pants?" I hadn't.
I am not a fashion moron nor a savant nor a fashionista. I regularly read fashion magazines and even check out the Satorialist on a semi-regular basis and therefore consider myself "in the know". But the pleated pants syndrome had escaped me...until now. Row upon row of khakis and slacks in the department store with their neatly pressed pleats hung there waiting for average guy to take them home. If jeans could have pleats, I'm sure they'd sell them there too.
Maybe it was just that store. I decided at that very moment to do an informal survey of every guy I saw for that day and every day going forward. (I'd probably forget after a day or two but it seemed like a great social experiment nevertheless.) It would prove to be a bit tricky, staring at men's lower halves, without coming off like an over-sexed cougar or a castrating man-hater. I had to be casual, sneaking sly glances at all times.
No sooner had I stepped out the door did I almost ran into two guys wearing you guessed it, pleated pants. Khakis to be exact. Wow. It could have been beginner's luck, I told myself. As I crossed the street toward my car, I pretended to look for traffic, but instead did a quick pedestrian scope. Pleats, pleats, pleats, wait; shorts. It was unbelievable. I felt like I was witnessing a clothing cult of some sort.
What is it about this town that loves the pleat? I was sure it was just another male fashion faux pas until I spotted a woman walking downtown in a pair of pleated pants later in the week. Khakis again. I hit the brakes and risked a rear-ender when she passed in view. Could it be spreading?
In a complete panic that night, both the husband and I scoured our drawers and closets looking for any sign of pleats. As he pulled out an older pair of khakis, a "HA!" erupted from my lips. Wait, they weren't pleated. Good to know they still made khakis sans pleat. What I really need to know though is whether the pleat is unique to Charlotte or not. Any feedback America?
I'm thinking a "What Not to Wear" marathon is in order for this town. What do you think?
I am not a fashion moron nor a savant nor a fashionista. I regularly read fashion magazines and even check out the Satorialist on a semi-regular basis and therefore consider myself "in the know". But the pleated pants syndrome had escaped me...until now. Row upon row of khakis and slacks in the department store with their neatly pressed pleats hung there waiting for average guy to take them home. If jeans could have pleats, I'm sure they'd sell them there too.
Maybe it was just that store. I decided at that very moment to do an informal survey of every guy I saw for that day and every day going forward. (I'd probably forget after a day or two but it seemed like a great social experiment nevertheless.) It would prove to be a bit tricky, staring at men's lower halves, without coming off like an over-sexed cougar or a castrating man-hater. I had to be casual, sneaking sly glances at all times.
No sooner had I stepped out the door did I almost ran into two guys wearing you guessed it, pleated pants. Khakis to be exact. Wow. It could have been beginner's luck, I told myself. As I crossed the street toward my car, I pretended to look for traffic, but instead did a quick pedestrian scope. Pleats, pleats, pleats, wait; shorts. It was unbelievable. I felt like I was witnessing a clothing cult of some sort.
What is it about this town that loves the pleat? I was sure it was just another male fashion faux pas until I spotted a woman walking downtown in a pair of pleated pants later in the week. Khakis again. I hit the brakes and risked a rear-ender when she passed in view. Could it be spreading?
In a complete panic that night, both the husband and I scoured our drawers and closets looking for any sign of pleats. As he pulled out an older pair of khakis, a "HA!" erupted from my lips. Wait, they weren't pleated. Good to know they still made khakis sans pleat. What I really need to know though is whether the pleat is unique to Charlotte or not. Any feedback America?
I'm thinking a "What Not to Wear" marathon is in order for this town. What do you think?
Friday, September 28, 2007
SPIN CLASS - MBA or M Div required
One of the things I've always wanted to do was take a spin class. Hunched over their machines, dripping in sweat and looking like they might keel over at any moment, these cycle warriors seem to be the ultimate fitness fanatics and I wanted to be one of them; at least once anyway. After weeks of observing the dedication required, I decided to take the plunge. I was sure all that great indie rock blasting from the cycle room was just what I needed to keep me motivated.
Imagine my surprise when my instructor, who shares the name with a despised ex-colleague and who also, if you play the name game, rhymes with muck or better, a curse word which truly described the old office mate's personality, announced this particular class was his 3rd Annual Christian Ride. Gulp. It was like Sunday school all over again. "Children, God is everywhere. In the trees, in the birds, in the spin class..." Kumba ya just wasn't going to do it for me and I silently debated fleeing.
Luckily, his choice of Christian music wasn't half bad and if I ignored the lyrics and concentrated on the guitar, I was OK. How bizarre to have an entire genre of music be completely foreign. Then again, I don't know much about Scandinavian Death Metal either. Regardless, my instructor got me and my machine sized up and in-sync and off we went. Tunes blaring, pedals in motion, I was excited and nervous all at the same time.
Spin classes work like this; ride for a given span of time, at a certain level and gear and at a specified frequency. How naive of me to think you just pedal. I decided my instructor must be in banking. Either that or he's devised a clever system that keeps his class moving (despite wanting to stop every moment) with non-stop number crunching. Yep, we were constantly calculating our base number, adding percentages, time intervals, degrees, and gear changes. I was so busy trying to figure out my base number and how many rotations of the knee it was and then how many more rotations it would be if I gave it 10% more and how many it would total for the 30 second challenge, that I was oblivious to the obvious issue at hand...pain!!
Just when I thought I couldn't take it any longer, my instructor would instruct us to take it down a few degrees and shift gears by 10%. I'd be doing the math and next thing I knew, it was time to do something else. It was amazing that an hour of my life could whiz by so quickly. At points during the ride my head and body seemed to have separated and focused on their own specific tasks.
It wasn't until I got off the machine that I realized how hard my body had worked. I was wobbly-legged for a good five minutes. After that came the pain. I ached for the rest of the night and into the next morning. But all the indoctrination and math didn't dissuade me from trying again.
The meek are supposed to inherent the earth; but only if they skip Spin Class.
Imagine my surprise when my instructor, who shares the name with a despised ex-colleague and who also, if you play the name game, rhymes with muck or better, a curse word which truly described the old office mate's personality, announced this particular class was his 3rd Annual Christian Ride. Gulp. It was like Sunday school all over again. "Children, God is everywhere. In the trees, in the birds, in the spin class..." Kumba ya just wasn't going to do it for me and I silently debated fleeing.
Luckily, his choice of Christian music wasn't half bad and if I ignored the lyrics and concentrated on the guitar, I was OK. How bizarre to have an entire genre of music be completely foreign. Then again, I don't know much about Scandinavian Death Metal either. Regardless, my instructor got me and my machine sized up and in-sync and off we went. Tunes blaring, pedals in motion, I was excited and nervous all at the same time.
Spin classes work like this; ride for a given span of time, at a certain level and gear and at a specified frequency. How naive of me to think you just pedal. I decided my instructor must be in banking. Either that or he's devised a clever system that keeps his class moving (despite wanting to stop every moment) with non-stop number crunching. Yep, we were constantly calculating our base number, adding percentages, time intervals, degrees, and gear changes. I was so busy trying to figure out my base number and how many rotations of the knee it was and then how many more rotations it would be if I gave it 10% more and how many it would total for the 30 second challenge, that I was oblivious to the obvious issue at hand...pain!!
Just when I thought I couldn't take it any longer, my instructor would instruct us to take it down a few degrees and shift gears by 10%. I'd be doing the math and next thing I knew, it was time to do something else. It was amazing that an hour of my life could whiz by so quickly. At points during the ride my head and body seemed to have separated and focused on their own specific tasks.
It wasn't until I got off the machine that I realized how hard my body had worked. I was wobbly-legged for a good five minutes. After that came the pain. I ached for the rest of the night and into the next morning. But all the indoctrination and math didn't dissuade me from trying again.
The meek are supposed to inherent the earth; but only if they skip Spin Class.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Calm, doggie, calm!
Dog training, dog walking, dog grooming and just plain dog owning has changed. Gone are the days of carefree canines wandering the woods, exploring the smells and sounds of their surroundings. Today's number one domesticated animal is a mammal with a mission, with serious business to do. And be had for that matter. Dogs are big business and today's over-achieving, over-earning middle class are more than happy to dole out the dough for their Jakes and Marleys.
Somehow it seems our need for perfection and status and stature has transferred over to our pets. We are obsessed. Just take a look at how many recent novels on the New York Times bestseller list are tales of living with dogs. Dog boutiques, dog spas, dog retreats...I can think of entire subcontinental nations that aren't fed and cared for as well.
Sadly, for example, it's no longer acceptable to leave a dog outside for no specific purpose other than to perform bodily functions, exercise or guard the homestead. Dogs must be entertained, socialized and trained. It's not enough to turn out well adjusted children. Our pets also speak volumes about what kind of a person we are.
What does Alfie say about us? Probably that we are loose, unstructured and bohemian creative types. Some of that may be true. Then again, we have one of the sweetest dogs, one who thrives on the love and affection he is given. That part speaks to the warmth and closeness in our home.
Much to some of our neighbor's chagrin, Alfie is free to wander our fence-less property and saunter next door to visit with the tamest Bull Terrier ever bred. On more than one occasion we've heard a knock at the door and opened it to discover a kind-hearted neighbor holding Alfie by the collar with a "he was wandering out front" explanation for their impromptu citizen's arrest; I mean, kind concern. We now let him wander out back only and make sure someone is out front with him, or that he is tied to the light post. It's not that we don't trust Alfie; we don't want to worry anyone else.
However, sometimes doggie encounters happen and our "he's a dog" attitude clashes with the "he is a well-adjusted, thriving member of our family"attitude of other dog owners and mayhem ensues. A couple of days into the move I decided to take Alfie for a walk and give him a chance to let the other dogs in the hood know he had arrived. Not only did I put the leash on, I even made him sit while I put it on. I was ready to make a good impression with the neighbors and show them how obedient and well turned out our pooch was.
A few feet from our driveway Alfie let out a long and loud bow wow. I admit it was startling; mostly because I didn't hear or see anyone else approaching on the street. Unfortunately it did more than startle the taut and tuned Vizela-esque dog and his equally taut and tuned owner exercising (OK, walking) across the road. Alfie's "hey, I'm Alfie from Canada and I'm new here" introduction sent both poor creatures into absolute trauma mode.
Immediately the owner stopped, turned to the dog and commanded it to remain calm. While firmly holding the dog with one hand, she directed the dog to look into her eyes by bringing her two fingers from her eyes, to the dog's eyes and back to hers. Again she commanded it to remain calm. There was no "hey, who cares" or "hey, welcome to the hood" or "hey, I'm Franz" from this canine. Not a wimper nor a wag was allowed.
I was mortified. I didn't know if it was the horror we had created or the horrible reaction to a seemingly average dog encounter I witnessed that made me want to scuttle back into the house. I could just hear the recounting at the next therapy appointment..."and then, this explosion out of no where! I still shake when I think about it". Sniff, sniff. Pass the kleenex please.
I probably should have felt shame for upsetting the apple cart so. But some carts are simply driving down the road in the wrong direction and need some shaking up. Just to be sure I haven't totally lost my mind, I'm going to rent Lassie or Old Yeller and reminisce about the good old doggie days. Do you think dogs ever think that too?
Somehow it seems our need for perfection and status and stature has transferred over to our pets. We are obsessed. Just take a look at how many recent novels on the New York Times bestseller list are tales of living with dogs. Dog boutiques, dog spas, dog retreats...I can think of entire subcontinental nations that aren't fed and cared for as well.
Sadly, for example, it's no longer acceptable to leave a dog outside for no specific purpose other than to perform bodily functions, exercise or guard the homestead. Dogs must be entertained, socialized and trained. It's not enough to turn out well adjusted children. Our pets also speak volumes about what kind of a person we are.
What does Alfie say about us? Probably that we are loose, unstructured and bohemian creative types. Some of that may be true. Then again, we have one of the sweetest dogs, one who thrives on the love and affection he is given. That part speaks to the warmth and closeness in our home.
Much to some of our neighbor's chagrin, Alfie is free to wander our fence-less property and saunter next door to visit with the tamest Bull Terrier ever bred. On more than one occasion we've heard a knock at the door and opened it to discover a kind-hearted neighbor holding Alfie by the collar with a "he was wandering out front" explanation for their impromptu citizen's arrest; I mean, kind concern. We now let him wander out back only and make sure someone is out front with him, or that he is tied to the light post. It's not that we don't trust Alfie; we don't want to worry anyone else.
However, sometimes doggie encounters happen and our "he's a dog" attitude clashes with the "he is a well-adjusted, thriving member of our family"attitude of other dog owners and mayhem ensues. A couple of days into the move I decided to take Alfie for a walk and give him a chance to let the other dogs in the hood know he had arrived. Not only did I put the leash on, I even made him sit while I put it on. I was ready to make a good impression with the neighbors and show them how obedient and well turned out our pooch was.
A few feet from our driveway Alfie let out a long and loud bow wow. I admit it was startling; mostly because I didn't hear or see anyone else approaching on the street. Unfortunately it did more than startle the taut and tuned Vizela-esque dog and his equally taut and tuned owner exercising (OK, walking) across the road. Alfie's "hey, I'm Alfie from Canada and I'm new here" introduction sent both poor creatures into absolute trauma mode.
Immediately the owner stopped, turned to the dog and commanded it to remain calm. While firmly holding the dog with one hand, she directed the dog to look into her eyes by bringing her two fingers from her eyes, to the dog's eyes and back to hers. Again she commanded it to remain calm. There was no "hey, who cares" or "hey, welcome to the hood" or "hey, I'm Franz" from this canine. Not a wimper nor a wag was allowed.
I was mortified. I didn't know if it was the horror we had created or the horrible reaction to a seemingly average dog encounter I witnessed that made me want to scuttle back into the house. I could just hear the recounting at the next therapy appointment..."and then, this explosion out of no where! I still shake when I think about it". Sniff, sniff. Pass the kleenex please.
I probably should have felt shame for upsetting the apple cart so. But some carts are simply driving down the road in the wrong direction and need some shaking up. Just to be sure I haven't totally lost my mind, I'm going to rent Lassie or Old Yeller and reminisce about the good old doggie days. Do you think dogs ever think that too?
Monday, September 17, 2007
A Welcome from the Mayor's Office
I bet I'm one of the lucky people arriving in Charlotte to have gotten a personal and warm welcome from the Mayor's office. Of course how it came to that point is a story in itself and would not have been possible without the assistance of my dear neighbor, Ms Southern Hospitality.
One of the key things to learn when arriving in a new town is how garbage disposal and pick up works. Every city does recycling differently, on different days, with different materials and bins etc. Let me first off, pay the city of Charlotte a big compliment for its efficiency; when they say something will happen, it does. When people complain about government services, they listen.
During the first week here, we did a lot of unpacking in a short period of time and it seemed as if we were never going to unpack the sky-high pile of boxes sprawled across our house. As the stack of empties got higher and higher, my anxiety about the amount of work we were creating for the garbage men rose higher and higher too. Back in Canada we had made friends with the garbage guys, offering them sodas on the road, tips at Christmas, help in loading up the truck...I swear by the time we left we could have put a dead body out on the curb and they would have thrown it on the truck without batting an eye...
Here in Charlotte it doesn't quite work that way. First of all, any boxes that don't fit in the bin are considered bulk and require special order pick up. Secondly, all boxes must be piled in single form, measuring a precise 3x3 foot area. Of course we weren't aware of the new policy and quite frankly were arrogant enough to figure we'd just butter up the new crew like we'd done before and all would be well. Garbage duty has generally been up to my husband, with the occasional pinch hit by myself on the rare occasions he's on the road. Not surprising, our first week here he had to dash out of town, leaving me to deal with the box debacle.
The first time the garbage truck passed by without picking up the boxes was puzzling until Ms Southern Hospitality clued me in to the 3x3 requirement. So I spent over two hours that night out front, cutting, breaking, bending, and re-stacking those high end, heavy duty boxes we bought from the reputable moving company in Canada. These weren't your scraggly leftovers from the liquor store. I saw all those colorful Canadian dollars go up in flame with every tear in every box...
After much huffing and puffing I got the job, a small sense of smug pride on my face as I thanked my neighbor for her direction. She was kind enough to find me an old phone book and stack all the packing paper in her and other neighbors' bins who had the extra room too. Her willingness to offer directions, tips on where to shop for the best produce and where to get a good haircut at a decent price went above and beyond the call of neighborly duty and I felt immediately welcomed. Just to ensure that this new pile would make its way into the truck however, I left a couple of sodas and a thank you note on top of the 3x3-ish stack. They just had to take them now!
The next morning I awoke to find my stack still there; my heart sank. What the heck was I going to do? Get a measuring tape and a paper shredder? I decided I'd wait for my husband to get home and we'd discuss our options which so far included midnight runs to the dump and paying the guy with the red truck on the next street over to come and rescue/dispose of them himself. That night over dinner we decided we would slowly take a smaller pile to school with the kids each day and throw them in the "cardboard waste" bin there. Sneaky sure, but problem solved.
Indeed. Seems Ms Southern Hospitality is hooked up with some city officials and got on the horn on behalf of her clueless neighbors. She "gave them what-for" as she put it and explained that we were foreigners who were unaware of garbage policy in Charlotte and how she personally witnessed hours of back-breaking labor on my part, trying to make it right and what kinda welcome was this?
That very next day the pile disappeared. No word, no note (no sodas either). I saw Ms Southern Hospitality out front that evening and she told me the Mayor sent her an email, apologizing to us and offering a personal welcome to the queen city. Talk about neighborly love!
Well, most of the neighbors anyhow. Our landlord (and neighbor) showed up later that week with a citation from another disgruntled neighbor who had taken a picture of our boxes and sent them to the city along with a nuisance complaint. We of course explained how the matter had already been taken up with the city and how the Mayor had sent us a personal welcome. I wonder where he lives?
One of the key things to learn when arriving in a new town is how garbage disposal and pick up works. Every city does recycling differently, on different days, with different materials and bins etc. Let me first off, pay the city of Charlotte a big compliment for its efficiency; when they say something will happen, it does. When people complain about government services, they listen.
During the first week here, we did a lot of unpacking in a short period of time and it seemed as if we were never going to unpack the sky-high pile of boxes sprawled across our house. As the stack of empties got higher and higher, my anxiety about the amount of work we were creating for the garbage men rose higher and higher too. Back in Canada we had made friends with the garbage guys, offering them sodas on the road, tips at Christmas, help in loading up the truck...I swear by the time we left we could have put a dead body out on the curb and they would have thrown it on the truck without batting an eye...
Here in Charlotte it doesn't quite work that way. First of all, any boxes that don't fit in the bin are considered bulk and require special order pick up. Secondly, all boxes must be piled in single form, measuring a precise 3x3 foot area. Of course we weren't aware of the new policy and quite frankly were arrogant enough to figure we'd just butter up the new crew like we'd done before and all would be well. Garbage duty has generally been up to my husband, with the occasional pinch hit by myself on the rare occasions he's on the road. Not surprising, our first week here he had to dash out of town, leaving me to deal with the box debacle.
The first time the garbage truck passed by without picking up the boxes was puzzling until Ms Southern Hospitality clued me in to the 3x3 requirement. So I spent over two hours that night out front, cutting, breaking, bending, and re-stacking those high end, heavy duty boxes we bought from the reputable moving company in Canada. These weren't your scraggly leftovers from the liquor store. I saw all those colorful Canadian dollars go up in flame with every tear in every box...
After much huffing and puffing I got the job, a small sense of smug pride on my face as I thanked my neighbor for her direction. She was kind enough to find me an old phone book and stack all the packing paper in her and other neighbors' bins who had the extra room too. Her willingness to offer directions, tips on where to shop for the best produce and where to get a good haircut at a decent price went above and beyond the call of neighborly duty and I felt immediately welcomed. Just to ensure that this new pile would make its way into the truck however, I left a couple of sodas and a thank you note on top of the 3x3-ish stack. They just had to take them now!
The next morning I awoke to find my stack still there; my heart sank. What the heck was I going to do? Get a measuring tape and a paper shredder? I decided I'd wait for my husband to get home and we'd discuss our options which so far included midnight runs to the dump and paying the guy with the red truck on the next street over to come and rescue/dispose of them himself. That night over dinner we decided we would slowly take a smaller pile to school with the kids each day and throw them in the "cardboard waste" bin there. Sneaky sure, but problem solved.
Indeed. Seems Ms Southern Hospitality is hooked up with some city officials and got on the horn on behalf of her clueless neighbors. She "gave them what-for" as she put it and explained that we were foreigners who were unaware of garbage policy in Charlotte and how she personally witnessed hours of back-breaking labor on my part, trying to make it right and what kinda welcome was this?
That very next day the pile disappeared. No word, no note (no sodas either). I saw Ms Southern Hospitality out front that evening and she told me the Mayor sent her an email, apologizing to us and offering a personal welcome to the queen city. Talk about neighborly love!
Well, most of the neighbors anyhow. Our landlord (and neighbor) showed up later that week with a citation from another disgruntled neighbor who had taken a picture of our boxes and sent them to the city along with a nuisance complaint. We of course explained how the matter had already been taken up with the city and how the Mayor had sent us a personal welcome. I wonder where he lives?
Sunday, September 16, 2007
The Y - Paging all fun people
We decided once we got to Charlotte, that we would find a gym that would offer something for the whole family. Fortunately, this city has amazing YMCAs, with several locations to choose from. As a former Y member, I found myself imagining how great a shape I would get in, how my husband might finally commit to exercise and relax more and how my kids would have somewhere to do some physical activity, along with meeting new friends. Y's are extremely social places and having friends to work out with makes the experience so much more palatable.
The Y we joined, like the first church we visited, is also in the same upscale neighborhood. We chose it mostly because it offers a ton of extra courses for kids, which some other locations do not. Though it's not totally inconvenient, it's definitely not the closest to our house either. Nevertheless, it is a massive, gorgeous facility with tons of classes and equipment to chose from, not to mention immaculate. I feel great about working out there, something not easily accomplished. Exercise to me is equal to taking cod liver oil...good for me but not exactly fun.
However, I think there's some sort of weird, fungal, mutant disease going around Charlotte that has not been properly identified, and which might have sprung from the floors of my Y. I encountered not one, but two YMs (Y Members or Yummy Mummies, as my husband calls them) who had complete meltdowns this week over their kids sitting on or touching the floors of the Y with their bare skin. The first YM scolded her daughter at the pool for walking on the tiles without shoes...unfortunately you aren't allowed to wear shoes in the pool, or I'm sure this kid would have had hers strapped on permanently like flippers on a duck...
I realize my kids were born in the free-spirited mess that is New Orleans and I therefore do not get freaked out about dirt, but honest to gawd, you would have thought this kid was squishing her toes in a cesspool, the way her mama was carrying on. I was stuck on the bench directly in front of her so I could neither move, nor distract myself with a book (I didn't' have one) and was forced to witness the horror that was. To emphasize her point, the YM gave me a "duh" eye roll/head shake, as if her poor kid was the only one there not getting how disgusting those floors really were. I shudder to think about that family shuffling through the French Quarter during carnival, trying to avoid stepping on revelers, throws, take out containers and half eaten lunch...
Episode number two happened in the change room. This time, some poor kid had the audacity to park her butt on the carpeted floor...I mean really, think of how disgusting it gets between daily vacuums! It wasn't as if there weren't an alternative to the floor either...each change room comes equipped with a bench, which was specifically designed to create distance between gym members and those nasty floors. YM number two emphasized this point to her daughter several times in a row, like the kid had some sort of hearing or learning disability. Once again I had managed to position myself directly in the line of fire and could neither bolt nor blatantly ignore her. Suddenly the change room curtain fabric became fascinating, as if I had missed it the first time we changed and now just discovered its pink and green, 1980s, chevron-patterned beauty.
Both experiences made me reflect on my complete disregard of the dangers of public floors. After giving it a couple of minutes of thought I concluded both YMs were probably just nuts and had some deep rooted control issues and I could therefore relax about my own laid back attitude... I am firm believer in what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger and that most definitely includes cooties.
Though the Y incidents might seem trivial, there was something about them that ran much deeper and left me feeling disturbed . I finally figured it out on the drive home though. I need to be surrounded by fun people. Call me judgemental, but folks who are germ-a-phobes just don't seem the type who, generally speaking, wanna kick it up a notch.
So next time I go the Y, I'm going rush the front desk and page all fun people and invite them to come work out with me...in bare feet, of course.
The Y we joined, like the first church we visited, is also in the same upscale neighborhood. We chose it mostly because it offers a ton of extra courses for kids, which some other locations do not. Though it's not totally inconvenient, it's definitely not the closest to our house either. Nevertheless, it is a massive, gorgeous facility with tons of classes and equipment to chose from, not to mention immaculate. I feel great about working out there, something not easily accomplished. Exercise to me is equal to taking cod liver oil...good for me but not exactly fun.
However, I think there's some sort of weird, fungal, mutant disease going around Charlotte that has not been properly identified, and which might have sprung from the floors of my Y. I encountered not one, but two YMs (Y Members or Yummy Mummies, as my husband calls them) who had complete meltdowns this week over their kids sitting on or touching the floors of the Y with their bare skin. The first YM scolded her daughter at the pool for walking on the tiles without shoes...unfortunately you aren't allowed to wear shoes in the pool, or I'm sure this kid would have had hers strapped on permanently like flippers on a duck...
I realize my kids were born in the free-spirited mess that is New Orleans and I therefore do not get freaked out about dirt, but honest to gawd, you would have thought this kid was squishing her toes in a cesspool, the way her mama was carrying on. I was stuck on the bench directly in front of her so I could neither move, nor distract myself with a book (I didn't' have one) and was forced to witness the horror that was. To emphasize her point, the YM gave me a "duh" eye roll/head shake, as if her poor kid was the only one there not getting how disgusting those floors really were. I shudder to think about that family shuffling through the French Quarter during carnival, trying to avoid stepping on revelers, throws, take out containers and half eaten lunch...
Episode number two happened in the change room. This time, some poor kid had the audacity to park her butt on the carpeted floor...I mean really, think of how disgusting it gets between daily vacuums! It wasn't as if there weren't an alternative to the floor either...each change room comes equipped with a bench, which was specifically designed to create distance between gym members and those nasty floors. YM number two emphasized this point to her daughter several times in a row, like the kid had some sort of hearing or learning disability. Once again I had managed to position myself directly in the line of fire and could neither bolt nor blatantly ignore her. Suddenly the change room curtain fabric became fascinating, as if I had missed it the first time we changed and now just discovered its pink and green, 1980s, chevron-patterned beauty.
Both experiences made me reflect on my complete disregard of the dangers of public floors. After giving it a couple of minutes of thought I concluded both YMs were probably just nuts and had some deep rooted control issues and I could therefore relax about my own laid back attitude... I am firm believer in what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger and that most definitely includes cooties.
Though the Y incidents might seem trivial, there was something about them that ran much deeper and left me feeling disturbed . I finally figured it out on the drive home though. I need to be surrounded by fun people. Call me judgemental, but folks who are germ-a-phobes just don't seem the type who, generally speaking, wanna kick it up a notch.
So next time I go the Y, I'm going rush the front desk and page all fun people and invite them to come work out with me...in bare feet, of course.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Are there any Queens here?
No, I'm not talking about royalty. I mean the other queens, the ones who worship Barbra and Liza and Pottery Barn.
I can't imagine how difficult it would be to gay or lesbian in this town, a town which worships Jesus and by default, does not approve of homosexuality. The closets here are full and it ain't because there's a sale on at Marshalls...
Don't get me wrong, there are gays and lesbians in Charlotte. I have some friends who fit this category and they are some of the most interesting and joyful people I know. But so many other people I've met are church goers and there aren't many churches that are accepting of this lifestyle. It makes me wonder how difficult (or not - feel free to post your responses on this one) it is to be a queen in the Queen city.
Speaking of church goers, the quest for a "home" church continues...apparently it is required of a successful Charlotteer (mousekateer???). In fact, one of my husband's colleagues hipped us to the three most important questions we will be asked which include "what church do you belong to", "which Y do you work out at" and, I've blocked out the third. Do other cities have a success checklist too? If so, send me a list and lets compare notes and failures.
On the quest to be saved, we've managed to check out two extremes of the worship spectrum in our first week alone. Our first Sunday found us outside the doors of a modern structure with a soaring sanctuary tower, in a tony established neighborhood...it's NOT where we live. Some new friends recommended we check it out, as it has a contemporary service for young families, of which we fit the description. Shocking news...we prefer a more traditional service with old school hymns, comforting scripture readings and sermons we can relate to but which don't include any references to sports teams. Too much to ask?
Without going into all the juicy details, let's just say the sermon on investments and portfolios (how are you investing in Jesus) fit this banking congregation to a tee, but made me feel like both a financial and now a spiritual loser. Great. One of the local public school principals made an appearance as well, to appeal to the congregation to come out and support her poor, underprivileged student body. The colorful anecdote on why their presence was needed included a quaint recalling of one student trying to use dismayed in a sentence and coming up with "my mama dis made me a sandwich to eat", all of which got uproarious laughter. I didn't dare look at the one and only African American family to see their reaction...it would have been too much.
Later that week we attended a gospel service at a well known African American church. The music and the message were fantastic and literally brought me to tears. It made me realize how happy and spirit-filled these folks were and at that moment, I wanted to be one of them. Unfortunately I cannot sing like Mahala and rarely feel that expressive, particularly in public. The soul food dinner served beforehand filled us in the literal sense and added to the "I'm not in Kansas anymore" experience. The spoiler to an otherwise amazing experience was one church member exclaiming "there as many white people here as blacks!", an unnecessary reminder I am indeed in the south.
Tune in again this week for further stories including "The Y - paging fun people" and "The Dog Walk - calm, lady, calm!".
I can't imagine how difficult it would be to gay or lesbian in this town, a town which worships Jesus and by default, does not approve of homosexuality. The closets here are full and it ain't because there's a sale on at Marshalls...
Don't get me wrong, there are gays and lesbians in Charlotte. I have some friends who fit this category and they are some of the most interesting and joyful people I know. But so many other people I've met are church goers and there aren't many churches that are accepting of this lifestyle. It makes me wonder how difficult (or not - feel free to post your responses on this one) it is to be a queen in the Queen city.
Speaking of church goers, the quest for a "home" church continues...apparently it is required of a successful Charlotteer (mousekateer???). In fact, one of my husband's colleagues hipped us to the three most important questions we will be asked which include "what church do you belong to", "which Y do you work out at" and, I've blocked out the third. Do other cities have a success checklist too? If so, send me a list and lets compare notes and failures.
On the quest to be saved, we've managed to check out two extremes of the worship spectrum in our first week alone. Our first Sunday found us outside the doors of a modern structure with a soaring sanctuary tower, in a tony established neighborhood...it's NOT where we live. Some new friends recommended we check it out, as it has a contemporary service for young families, of which we fit the description. Shocking news...we prefer a more traditional service with old school hymns, comforting scripture readings and sermons we can relate to but which don't include any references to sports teams. Too much to ask?
Without going into all the juicy details, let's just say the sermon on investments and portfolios (how are you investing in Jesus) fit this banking congregation to a tee, but made me feel like both a financial and now a spiritual loser. Great. One of the local public school principals made an appearance as well, to appeal to the congregation to come out and support her poor, underprivileged student body. The colorful anecdote on why their presence was needed included a quaint recalling of one student trying to use dismayed in a sentence and coming up with "my mama dis made me a sandwich to eat", all of which got uproarious laughter. I didn't dare look at the one and only African American family to see their reaction...it would have been too much.
Later that week we attended a gospel service at a well known African American church. The music and the message were fantastic and literally brought me to tears. It made me realize how happy and spirit-filled these folks were and at that moment, I wanted to be one of them. Unfortunately I cannot sing like Mahala and rarely feel that expressive, particularly in public. The soul food dinner served beforehand filled us in the literal sense and added to the "I'm not in Kansas anymore" experience. The spoiler to an otherwise amazing experience was one church member exclaiming "there as many white people here as blacks!", an unnecessary reminder I am indeed in the south.
Tune in again this week for further stories including "The Y - paging fun people" and "The Dog Walk - calm, lady, calm!".
The Queen City
As a fresh transplant to Charlotte, I'm surrounded by new people, experiences and scenery; much of it is wonderful, some of it strange. My blog is an attempt to sort it all out (cheaper than therapy) and amuse myself and hopefully others, with my observations. If you're like me (70% of population is from some place else) you'll understand how confusing it is to arrive at the corner of Sharon and Sharon and not know which way is up! Enjoy!
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