Wine-ing About Cooking

It started out fun, but then things got fuzzy. I wanted to make a dish that I often order at one of my favorite restaurants (yes Mexican) called tortilla soup. Well, to cut right to the cheese, I mean chase—you know it’s been a long time since you’ve cooked when you can’t even find the cheese grater. Worse yet, when you can’t remember what the cheese grater looks like.This has nothing to do with memory loss and everything to do with cooking blues, because I know what a grater looks like, I just couldn’t remember what mine looked like.

In my case it takes up way too much of my time, cooking that is. For me it’s off to work by 8:30 a.m., whistle blows at 5 p.m. (sometimes midnight), then home to feed the horse (an overgrown dog really, with a huge appetite who honestly only loves me for my amazing ability to feed him), then phone interviews, edit my students articles, and more writing until 10 p.m.—well let’s just say, “hello fast food ala ATM card.” Sleep fits in there somewhere between today and tomorrow, I’m just not sure where, exactly. Now who hid the ladle?

I always tell everyone that when I do cook, my stove thinks a new tenant moved in. And since my 17-year-old son Andrew is not too keen on casseroles or anything with green in it, I keep it simple for him (mac and cheese from a box tops the charts). At this point, I can’t make out if it’s the onions that are making me cry or just the cooking?

I pour myself a glass of Cabernet – this always helps. See, I cook just fine, and I receive my fair share of compliments when I host a dinner (key word: when). I love to watch the Food Network cooking shows on Saturdays (how does Giada stay so thin anyway?), and Andrew has to pull me away, literally from the Tupperware stand in the middle of the malls. The wine is taking effect and I begin to search high and low (mostly low) for that new mini white Tupperware strainer with a practically noir look on my face.

The tortilla soup is almost done. So is the bottle of wine. But how could soup possibly take five hours to make? With no time left to read Bill Clinton’s new book “Giving,” I plop on the couch and contemplate how it feels to be “receiving” no soup (because I’m full of wine now) and wonder if I fed the horse yet.

Kitchen is a mess and take-out would’ve only cost me no more than two or three Abe Lincolns (love Taco Bell), so why all the fuss and muss? I’m thinking cooking is just not my thing. I’m much better at putting words together than food, where the only things left on the floor and counters to clean-up are trite clichés and passive sentences my editor didn’t need.

By the way, I finally found the cheese grater. It was tucked neatly away in my sock drawer.

Charleen Earley is a freelance writer, humor columnist, high school journalism teacher and stand-up comedienne. Contact her at charleenbearley@gmail.com.

Memories of a Super Bowl Gone By

I found myself recuperating from a strenuous hike while watching Super Bowl XLII on Feb. 3, 2008. More than the commercials and half-time show, I really wanted to see Eli Manning play, but from a horizontal position, because I was in so much pain from the six-mile hike.

Pain or no pain, food took priority, so I jetted to a Mexican restaurant just minutes before the coin toss. The Motrin I took earlier gave me the strength to drive. Heads I’d buy chips and salsa, tails I’d buy a chili relleno dinner. I ended up buying it all since I heard it was going to be a great game—much fuel needed.

When the cashier clerk, a young blonde thing, asked me who I was rootin’ for, I said the Giants over the Patriots, hands-down. She agreed with my choice and explained why. ”I support San Francisco all the way!” she said. I almost said something about the difference between NY Giants and SF Giants (football verses baseball), but thought, what the heck, it doesn’t really matter. So instead I told her I was supporting the Giant’s too. I mean if she had told me she was voting for Osama Bin Laden for President, then I woulda said something. You’ve gotta choose your correctional-battles.

Meanwhile back at the house, Eli Manning came through for me. He was MVP for me too, not just for the San Francisco Giants! Added bonus was watching his older brother Peyton from inside his $30,000 booth showing such brotherly love and support. I’ll bet his mom made him stay there in the corner all day, seen through the dark windows, but either way, he was there.

Mr. Rubberface himself, Jim Carrey was spotted at the game. Comics and football go so well together, like cake and ice cream – of which I had neither for my one-person after party celebration.

By second half, I had stuffed myself so much, that my stomach hurt, but it was worth it. The game was alive, exciting and edgy, even down to the very last second (literally) of the game.

The commercials were fun too. Talking Stain was one of my favorites, but I didn’t like the one with the guy who connected jumper cables to his nipples to start a car. That was both “ew” and stupid. He should’ve just connected them to the cavities on his teeth.

Bridgestone Super Bowl halftime show with Tom Petty was good, but not wow. No wardrobe failure either, not even a popped guitar string. He opened with American Girl and ended with Free Fallin’.

By the end of the game, Giants 17, Patriots 14, I had forgotten all about my aching calves, until I got up and the pain hit me hard. I still don’t know what a blitz is, but my body sure felt like one.

Charleen Earley is a comedienne, freelance writer and a high school journalism teacher. She can be reached at charleenbearley@gmail.com.

Privately Running on Good Intentions

I really thought the treadmill would change things … mainly my thighs. Instead, I now have a new $300 clothes rack with cup holder (for my chocolate shakes), parked strategically in front of the TV.

Good intentions quickly convert into ‘not intended for those purposes’ real quick-like in my pad.

I see myself getting up, mummy-style, before the rooster crows (or the upstairs neighbor starts showering). I do 10 minutes of brisk walking, then five of running at 3.2 miles per hour. Sweat begins dripping three minutes in, excessive gasps for air rapidly replace the garbled snoring just 15 minutes earlier — then I wake up, treadmill still cold from non-use. Do you burn calories while you dream of running?

Just weeks old, fresh from the big, bulky box (resembling my body) it had been yanked from, this apparatus, this melter-o-flab machine, this torturous hunk of metal with indicator knobs and a circulatory floor mat, bring tears to my eyes and guilt to my conscience. Yes, I pay happily and willingly for infliction of pain. I pay for self-chastisement too. But at least I envision the pay-off. Who doesn’t?

See, what I’m really doing is paying for privacy and good (stuffy) apartment air. Unlike the gym, at home I can run 24/7, with or without make-up, and watch “real” women on The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

Added bonus … I don’t have to chat with a complete stranger – dude who doesn’t know that turning 10 shades of red coupled with extremely heavy panting is biological charades for, “I really can’t talk right now, bozo.”

Treading at home means I can wear my cute outfits (that don’t fit cute anymore), without having to don an extra-large cotton tee shirt to cover up what I’m trying to lose. And, I could run, hop, skip and jump (off the unit) with no threats of annihilation from a trainer-slash-salesperson wanting me to get on a “program,” down protein powders (now sold in Costco-sized containers) and pop meal metabolizing pills with the healthy foods I’m supposed to be eating. Back off junior-experts with commission checks, I only down Mexican food in those large quantities.

In my humble who-cares-what-I-think-anyway opinion, working out in public (without the trim, fit, you must be starving yourself-bods) is like performing a comedy set without using words or worse yet, in underwear-only. I’d rather go on stage “fit” and prepared (and fully clothed), than vulnerably exposed. The Full Monty, in this case, is just not my idea of weight loss.

Meanwhile, back at the apartment, my newfound dust-collector piece of furniture has potential. It promises me a thinner tomorrow, a private adventure towards a more energized me, and a healthier, cardiovascular circulatory system just begging to challenge any 10-year-old to a race … to the nearest ice cream shop.

Charleen Earley is a freelance writer, humor columnist, comedienne, and high school journalism teacher. She can be reached at charleenbearley@gmail.com.

Middle Child with Syndrome

They say the middle child makes the best comic. And just my luck, I happen to be that child. So maybe I was predestined to be the funny-maker in the family, or maybe, just maybe, on my birth day, I just came out funny.

Either way, I was born on the same day John F. Kennedy was assassinated, and while that part is not so funny, I did manage to find humor in it by telling people “ask not what I could do for you, but what you could do for me!”

Making ‘funny’ comes easy for middle peeps. We want all the attention (due us), and if it takes the stage to get it, or an elevator, then as my mother always said, “by all means.”

I look back at my growing years and think yah, it’s my turn now.

My older sister, by 10 months and 13 days (but who’s counting), was the pioneer. She forged through familial territory, carving out a place for herself in the home and hearts of others. She owned the bragging rights. She made headlines.

My younger brother (by two years and one day) stole gender rights. He made the sports page, above the fold.

I made the business page in sub-headlines, smaller font, page 10 or 11, depending on which daily; a section no one reads anyway because all their attention was lost on features or sports.

Stuck in the middle, I was sort of like the belly of the fam. I was not the cherished head, nor the spoiled feet, but the uncomfortable middle, the love handles (that no one really “loves”) — the donut roll with the first button unlatched to make room for lunch.

So I had to break out, break free; I’ve gotta be me (enter song made famous in 1968 by Sammy Davis Jr.) and there you have it—the middle-but-mighty. Okay, the poetic rhyme was completely unintentional, but you get my drift. ‘Attention-getter’ – that was my new “middle” name. Not Barbara.

As the funny middle child, my first break in “stand-up” with an audience came in the fifth grade. While the teacher wrote on the chalkboard, his back to us, I jumped out of my front row seat (not sure I’d have had the guts if I were in the back row), and gave my best imitation of “Mr. Lee at the blackboard.” The young crowd loved it, but my teacher decided to be the heckler who killed my set and sent me back to my seat, show over.
Still, the punishment was worth the reprimand. Laughter was my paycheck, even though it came from 10-year-olds. At least no one was drunk (except for Ellen, I had my doubts). For the most part, it was honest-to-goodness positive feedback on my then, raw talent.

I had nowhere to go but up from there. However, it wasn’t until years later, (oh, say about 25), that I would find myself on a real stage with a real audience and a real microphone (instead of chalk). Sound was much better.

At a comedy competition in San Francisco, where I was an audience-member, not a contender, I watched this one kid kill the audience (so awesome), with his mother sitting in the row directly in front of me. She asked me to watch her tan corduroy sports jacket (which I felt was way outdated at that time) while she visited the restroom. I agreed to be top notch security guard of her garment, but asked her what size it was, in case anyone should ask. She probably thought to herself, great … everyone’s a comic! I thought to myself, she had no idea how many of “us” are out there.

When she returned, jacket still draped around the back of her seat (because really, who would want such a thing), I asked her if she had other kids, to which she nodded yes, but added that this was the only one doing stand-up.

I had to ask her one more thing, which I was sure I knew the answer to. She replied, “Yes, he IS the middle child.”

Gray Gray Go Away

Each day I find several new ones. They’re long, coarse and wiry in places I can’t even seem to reach anymore with the tweezers. As I enter into a new stage of life, the stage of gray (or is it grey?), I’m left with no other resolve but to write about it. Like that will make it disappear.

It started out at the temples. Oh look, one little one here (how cute, call it a milestone), another, slightly longer one there (hunt and pluck is fun), until finally the cuteness began to wear off faster than a 25-cent watercolor tattoo. I soon found myself meticulously hunting for the white-on-brown almost daily.

Not quite ready to sing Clairol’s “I’m gonna wash that gray right outta my hair” (or is it “man”), I decided to do some research on this amazing phenomenon, so I went straight to the net (as opposed to hair net).

Out of the 10,200,000 sites on gray hair, I combed through hundreds of sites (okay, more like five) on hiding the new and unwanted shades of gray (or in my case white) with dyes. I found ‘Born Again Hair Color,’ ‘The Gray Hair Net,’ and my personal favorite ‘Grey Sterling’s Self-Service Mortuary’ (a guide to links carrying goth-friendly items such as clothing, make-up and hair dye, in case you were wondering).

For those of you not ready to add chemicals to your tresses, there were sites with advice on how to slow the colorful aging metamorphosis down to a pathetic crawl, Slowskys-style (you know those Comcast turtles who just had a baby).

It’s easy. You simply include more curry leaves in cooking, eat more dates and honey and the best tip of all was, “washing the hair with a paste of cooked black gram dhal and fenugreek lengthens the hair, keeps them black and cures dandruff.” Even if I don’t have black hair, I’m thinking this might be the best remedy yet.

I wonder why I am so adamant about obliterating the signs of aging. Has pop culture and the media falsified reality and distorted the truth by convincing me that aging is something to be “weeded” out at all costs? Now we’re deep, almost to the root of the matter here.

They say for every gray hair you pluck off your head, two new gray ones grow in its place. I Googled that too and out of 882,000 sites, I found a resounding – it ain’t biologically possible. If it were true, men would be lining up for days outside of Walgreen’s for a set of tweezers – do those come in Craftsman or Snap-on?

I tend to pluck in the truck at stoplights, because quite frankly, it offers the best light possible to rip out those freaky follicles at the root. And if anyone is watching me, too bad. It’s way better than “picking a winner” in the nose region.

And so what if I look like Cruella de Vil right now. She was hot. I tell myself it’s all about how you carry yourself, not how evil you look. And if you say one word about my graying hair, make sure you know where your puppy is at all times, especially the dark brown ones.

Charleen Earley is a comedienne, freelance writer, high school journalism teacher, mom and humor columnist. Visit her at www.charleenearley.com.

Funny Side Up: I’m a Walking Thesaurus

I’m a walking thesaurus and it’s becoming a problem … or is it issue? I do it sitting down too. While someone is talking, I blurt out their last word for them or I’ll throw out a better, more descriptive, illustrative, colorful, eloquent and vivid word to help them out.

But they don’t want my help – wherein lies my problem (and possible speaking restraining orders called peaceful contact). I know what you’re thinking too. Who died and made you Ms. Verbal editor, eh? I can’t help it. It’s not like I’m from New Jersey and talk a-mile-a-minute, but it seems everyone around me (here in California) talks very slow, like I’m in a dream. 

It’s they who come up with the worst words to describe their experiences. Or they do that long minute, minute-and-a-half pause with the annoying “um” to go with it. This type of communication just screams inside my head with, “Charleen, help him out quick, what’s the word he’s wanting to use right now?” It’s not me, it’s them, I convince myself.

If they’d just be more accurate in conveying their messages, I wouldn’t have to jump in and save their verbal-communication-day with an amazingly precise and scrupulous word.

Not trying to toot my own vernacular horn, but you’d think they’d be thanking me. Instead they roll their eyes, grunt, reluctantly repeat my word with disdainful resolve, or (and this one hurts) ask me to let them finish their own sentence pleeease. It happened today. When I get that type of “shush,” I realize I have a dilemma and things are getting way out of control. Is there an AA program for this? Hi, my name is Charleen and I’m a sentence-finisher. Welcome Charleen!

Only I’m not welcome. People around me would rather polish off their sentence with the most tedious, dreary, unexciting, wearisome, humdrum, uninspiring, un-thoughtful, non-descriptive, mind-numbing, inaccurate, lackluster word they can muster. And they’re perfectly happy with it too, borderline proud. Seriously?

So I muster a silent prayer. Forgive them Father, for they know not what better word to use. I also pray (heavily) that those around them will somehow miraculously understand the message conveyed. They usually do.

So it is me. Ultimately, I’m learning to keep my mouth shut; to speak and let speak; and to toss out my internal thesaurus while others are talking … or is it yapping?

When Critters are Not So Cute Anymore

He may not be A&E’s Billy the Exterminator decked out in black leathers laced with studded spikes from head to toe, but Jeff Anderson, owner of San Francisco and Oakland’s Critter Control, does pretty much the same thing—he solves peoples’ issues with uninvited guests called critters.

His daily work orders involves critters such as cute woodchucks, squirrels, raccoons, moles, possums, bats and birds to creepy snakes and alligators; just not insects. Those tormented by wasp and ants – maybe call The Orkin Man, or some other pest control service.

Owner of the Oakland franchise since 1996 and the San Francisco location for the last two years, Anderson’s team includes his daughter Jaime and her husband Dale Eagles. Together they service homeowners, industrial and commercial clients and business owners throughout Alameda, Contra Costa, San Francisco and Marin counties.

A retired IBM employee, Anderson decided to direct his second career towards the outdoors with something that involved animals. “I grew up in Minnesota and as a youngster I trapped mink. It was back in the 50’s,” said Anderson.

Instead of trapping for pleasure, his family protects people, property and wildlife by trapping for safety and peace-of-mind. Teaching is also part of their job. “Part of our inspection is not only finding out what type of animal it is, but also making habitat modifications so they won’t have the problem again. We educate our clients on what they need to do in order to keep the critter from coming back.”

Featured on Discovery Channel’s MythBusters a couple of times, Anderson talked about how to remove, as-best-as-possible, the liquid arsenic sprays of a skunk. “I was once sprayed in my face by a skunk. I used a mixture of hydrogen peroxide, baking soda and liquid dish soap to neutralize the smell,” said Anderson.

Critter Control, the franchise, began in Detroit, Michigan in the 80’s, and today has over 100 offices throughout the United States and in Canada. Owner-operators must have special licenses to do their job. Anderson has a license with the Department of Fish and Game (needed for trapping wildlife), a pest control license and also a contractor’s license, since some of his work involves fixing property damage.

On call 24/7, 365 days a year, Anderson says at times it’s like being a private investigator. “You have to be like a detective because you have to figure out what is going on, what type of animal it is, what damage they’ve done and how to fix it,” he said. Sometimes you have a bad smell and it turns out to be a plumbing issue.”

While the Department of Fish and Game does not allow wildlife relocation (unless the animal is released on the same property), sometimes Anderson’s job is not a happy one, when he has to put the animal to sleep. His best tip for homeowners involves prevention. “Don’t leave any pet food out at night for your cats and dogs and don’t feed wildlife,” said Anderson, who has given educational talks at schools. “While you may enjoy that particular animal, your neighbors may not.”

He also encourages his clients to inspect their attics and foundations, because rodents view cracks and crevices like celebrities view red carpet galas. “They use the storm sewers as highways; they rip up yards and vents and nest in attics and under houses,” said Anderson.

Costs for Anderson’s services vary greatly depending on the size of the home or business and the type of problem. Anderson’s scariest moment was when he came face-to-face with a rattle snake.
“I pulled a rattle snake out of a coke machine,” he said. “But to this day, I have not been bit by one yet!”

For more information, visit their website at www.crittercontrol.com.

Science is More Fun the Second Time Around

Life has a biological way of giving you do-overs. Like this summer when I was asked to be an environmental science camp counselor. I immediately asked if I qualified since I just about failed biology, chemistry and physiology in high school over 30 years ago. Don’t get me wrong. I loved those courses and loved my teachers, Mr. Cornejos and Mr. Bandar even more; I just didn’t test well, and okay, didn’t study well either. What matters now is I’m back in the biological game.

The camp leader told me my lack of science skills would not be a problem, since the kids would do most of the work and I would be more like a facilitator or something real important like that.

I said yes to the job and to my surprise, I survived the week without burning sulfur through the floor; didn’t have to take any tests – well, except for nitrate, pH, turbidity and sulfide in water samples, and best of all, I didn’t have to work with the chemical Phenolphthalein, otherwise known as C20H14O4 – even though the haunting high school memories of chem lab would find me drifting at times.

No, see environmental science focused primarily on the environment and how we humans are messing it up big time, scientifically-speaking. I learned that all of the plastics we’ve made are still present on planet earth in some form or another, living happily in landfills and at the bottom of oceans (basically everywhere) and won’t decompose in our lifetime.

I learned that we are 100% dependent on our beautiful Delta for our water source and that Southern California wants it too. And most importantly, that the Delta is considered to be the most invaded estuaries in the world! I had no idea that more than 250 alien aquatic and plant species have invaded the Delta and at least 185 of these species have gained a foothold and are currently inhabiting (and altering) the Delta’s ecosystem. Bad, bad water hyacinth – I don’t care how pretty you look. I also learned (on the first day mind you) to do a headcount of all those (including teachers) who ride the bus back home, instead of leaving someone behind to fend for transportation on their own.

The five-day camp was held at California State University East Bay’s Concord site. During the week we took mini field trips to Dow Chemical’s 450-acre wetland in Pittsburg, Ralph D. Bollman Water Treatment Plant in Concord, and Delta Diablo Sanitation District in Antioch – a somewhat “crappy” job, but someone has to do it, right?

I should also mention that this day camp, in conjunction with Contra Costa Economic Partnership, was largely sponsored by Chevron, who, by the way, is making incredible efforts to develop efficient facility projects that reduce energy costs, benefit the environment and ensure clean, reliable power for education, government and businesses. And no, they did not pay me for this plug.

Also as a camp counselor, I was versed in reinforcing 10 work-ready essential skills with the students in order to promote such job-qualities as professionalism and ethics, creativity and innovation, collaboration and communication, and more.

I thought I did a pretty good job of that all week long, sans day one when I forgot about the teacher who needed to ride the bus home with us. Thank goodness for Starbucks gift cards. The teacher forgave me and I decided to give her an award called, “No Teacher Left Behind.”

Interested in the 2012 camp series, visit, www.cceconptnr.org. I know I’m going back!

Moving from Hoarder to Not-so-Hoarder

I just finished moving from 1,500 square feet to 950 square feet, and let me just sum it all up for you in three words: I’m a survivor.

More specifically, a relationship-survivor. I’m happy to announce, that I’m still engaged to a man who had every reason to run-don’t-walk during the last two months of pawing through box after box filled to the brim – okay more like smashed jam-packed – with what I’ve been schlepping around for the last 47 years.

I affectionately call my belongings “things” and “stuff.” My problem began when I was young. Real young. Say around five-ish. I remember begging my mom not to get rid of my priceless collectibles with the strong argument of, “that’s my stuff” or, “those are my things.” Stuff like newspapers with my articles in them from 12 years ago. I had no idea newspapers – that many – weighed so much either, since I’ve always had help by strong peeps, carrying my boxes of stuff from one storage place to another.

I reasoned that because those articles were not on the Internet back then, I needed to save them, the entire newspaper too, not just my 15” prose on page 7. But for what? I was a crappy writer then. Not that I’m Pulitzer-material now – close though – I realized that those clips were not going to score me a cover story in the New Yorker.

I found lies in those boxes too. Neatly tucked away in box number 85, was my son’s green and yellow crocheted baby blanky, the one I had told him his dad and I “lost.” He’s 20-years-old now, and when I showed him his security blanket, he was miffed. I couldn’t blame him. White lies don’t hoard well.

My claws came out like switchblades when my fiancé questioned why I needed to save 15 remote controls, over 20 surge protectors and make-up from the 80’s. I growled another strong argument of … “back off or else.”

Thoughts of becoming rich through eBay sales danced through my head. So did thoughts of strangling my fiancé with the 30 extension cords too. I mean, what did he know? This is my life and those are my things and stuff.

In the end, I made progress. I sold about a quarter of my things and stuff during three days of garage sales with his mom’s help; I threw a quarter of it away; donated a quarter of it to Goodwill; and ultimately kept the remaining must-haves-or-I’ll-die stuff.

It felt good. It felt like a weight was lifted. I learned about my problem. Two months and seven Hoarder episodes later, I realized my problem was in letting go. First step, realizing you have a problem. Second step, finding very good reasons to not let go. Third step, letting go.

Fourth step, hello shopping.

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