Southern Fried White Trash

New blog site

2012-12-04T13:06:00.001-05:00

Go to my website now for the latest blogs and columns

http://www.caroletownsend.com/blog

2012-06-15T17:06:00.005-04:00

What is it about a little dog?

I did it. I said I wasn’t going to do it, and then I went and did it anyway. I have brought another rescue dog into our home, only this time it isn’t a goofy, 90-lb. lover boy. It’s a 2 lb. princess diva that looks like a miniature fox. All she currently lacks is a teensy diamond-encrusted tiara.

We already have two great dogs, both big ones. At the risk of being branded a dog hoarder, I couldn’t say “no” to this little prima donna. My husband and I gave this a lot of thought to be sure that we weren’t adopting her based on emotion rather than responsibility. Next thing you know, we were packing her into her little carrier and whisking her off to Atlanta.

The last thing we need in our lives right now is more chaos, another thing to worry about. But there’s just something about a tiny little dog that doesn’t knock you over when barreling down the stairs, or one that can curl up in your lap and become the size of a tennis ball, that’s just so endearing. Don’t get me wrong; we adore our two big dogs. But she needed a home, and I think I needed a tiny little pseudo-baby.

We introduced the little one to the big ones when we arrived back in Atlanta yesterday after a trip to Memphis. Our big male dog, all wags, slobber and love, is intrigued and excited at the prospect of having a new friend to play with. Our big female is more aloof, more reserved in her judgment, than the male. She is suspect of the little dog, and the high-pitched sounds and lightning-fast movements the little one makes get on her nerves. Our big girl slowly approaches, sniffs, backs way and gives the little girl a look like, “Just wait until I get you alone.” The little girl looks right back at the big one as if to say, “Let’s take this outside.”

I believe that, eventually, they’ll all be OK and accepting of one another. We’ll just have to be vigilant until that day comes. Somehow, I’m not surprised that it’s the two females that are having problems co-existing.

Our veterinarian suggested we immediately rename the new dog, and I’m thinking of calling her “Cosette” (from Les Miserables). Are there any dog lovers out there who have suggestions for me that might help these two accept each other? My nerves sure could use them.

Carole Townsend is also a Gwinnett Daily Post staff correspondent and author of the recently-released book, “Southern Fried White Trash.” The book takes a humorous look at families and how we behave when thrown together for weddings, funerals and holidays. She has been quoted on msnbc.com, in the LA Times, USA Today and the Christian Science Monitor, been featured on FOX 5 News and CNN, and is often a guest on television and radio shows nationwide. Her next book, “Red Lipstick and Clean Underwear,” is eagerly expected in summer 2012.

2012-06-15T17:03:00.003-04:00

Family is the most precious commodity

I think I can honestly say that I never fully appreciated the value of family until very recently, when my own experienced a terrible tragedy and near fatality. My mother died when I was 17 years old, after a three-year battle with leukemia in its most wicked form. Since that awful time, this event has been the second most frightening I can recall. My perspective on life, death and family as a teenager was much different from the one I have now. I’ve lived long enough to get the value of all three.

It’s been both gratifying and uplifting to see how our family has pulled together, each one of us doing something to make the whole thing work for as long as it’s going to have to. Yes, as we’ve each made our own ways with families, careers and children, it can sometimes feel as though we’ve drifted so far apart we could never pull together if we had to.

And then something like this hits, and it’s as though we were all made to do just what we’ve done: mobilize, handle, comfort and yes, even laugh.

I’ve made a pretty good living over the years writing about families and family dynamics. I can poke fun and find humor in the weirdest situations, because families are big, messy, real-life soap operas with an outlandish spin on them, and everybody gets family humor. The comedy never gets old, because families are always going to top the last holiday or reunion or wedding with behavior that turns into stories that will be passed on for generations.

It’s my sincere hope that everybody gets the other good stuff about family, as well. It’s even better than the humor; it’s peace.

2012-05-25T17:12:00.003-04:00

Do your family get-togethers measure up?

Most everyone I know loves this time of year. May brings to a close the long dry spell of cold weather and sparse holidays. This month kicks off a string of celebrations including Mother’s Day, graduation parties, Memorial Day, Father’s Day and July 4^th. Barbecues, vacations, picnics and family get-togethers are the stuff of which family memories are made; scrapbooks everywhere are chock full of snapshots of these happy events.

I tend to be one of those people who idealizes holidays and family get-togethers. I admit it, and it’s not a good way to be. I build these affairs up in my mind, expecting everything from perfect weather to smooth sailing relationship-wise. And when an occasion never quite measures up, I walk away disappointed, befuddled and a bit more jaded (until the next one rolls around, when I fall for it all over again). I can’t help myself; I think there’s a scientific name for my condition, but it escapes me right now.

I often address this very topic when I write - in fact, my first book examined wildly derailed clan festivities – and I’ve found over the years that most people can totally relate to what I’m saying. I’ve also seen my theory borne out again and again in my life and in others’: When the occasion is one that involves family, chaos and craziness are givens, almost necessary ingredients. In fact, this is such a common phenomenon that I actually asked a family counselor here in Gwinnett why that is.

His answer made perfect sense. He said, “When we move out of our parents’ house and make our own families, then all get back together for any occasion, we revert right back to yesteryear when we were kids. Old jealousies and rivalries rekindle; we all tell stories about each other from the old days, and for good measure, there’s usually some kind of alcohol thrown into the mix. Of course we get detonation; it’s a pressure cooker just waiting to explode.”

I’ve talked with literally hundreds of people who’ve shared their wacky family get-together stories with me over the years. Many of the stories end with relatives storming out and vowing never to speak to so-and-so ever again. Still others draw to a close with a distant aunt or grandma running from the room, sobbing. Some end up in the local hospital emergency room, and still others come to a close with a visit from the cops. In any case, I fully understand why there’s such a steady need for therapists for adults in their 30s and up. It takes about that long for us to get that our families, while we love them, are the reason we turn out like we do. A therapist can talk us through all the stuff that made us crazy in the first place, hopefully realizing after several sessions that we’re not alone. I don’t know why, but there’s comfort in that.

Here’s my sincerest wish for you and your family to thoroughly enjoy every celebration that’s coming this summer. After all, while our families may make us crazy, they also love us. They get the inside jokes and while they may tease us mercilessly, they’re also the first to have our backs when it matters.

And if that didn’t make you feel better, relax in the knowledge that you’re not alone in feeling that unsettling fluttering in the pit of your stomach at the mention of another family cookout.

Does your family drive you crazy at get-togethers, or is yours the exception?

2012-05-17T11:51:00.001-04:00

On the Road Again

My husband and I just returned from a week-long jaunt through much of Tennessee, spending most of our time in Memphis. I was blessed to have several television appearances and book signings up there, and trips like that are always so much fun. This one was no different, and we were doubly blessed to be able to spend some time with much-loved family while we were there.

One of the most entertaining features of road travel is the stops along the way, in my opinion. People fascinate me, and people-watching is one of my favorite pastimes during these stops. Most of the humor in my writing is about everyday people and the everyday funny stuff we do, whether we know we’re doing it or not.

On the drive back home, we stopped at a giant new Love’s convenience store/gas station/truck stop. Talk about a great place to watch people. Love’s has a great reputation for having clean restrooms, so when we find one, we stop. Gas station restrooms are among my Top 3 Nightmare Scenarios, as some of you may already know.

Anyway, this Love’s did not disappoint. As I hobbled on my crutches from the front of the shiny new store to the back (where the restrooms are) I felt supremely confident that I’d find clean, roomy accommodations. Along the way, I was both amused and surprised by the merchandise that I saw for sale. There were flat-screen TVs. Yes, TVs. In a gas station. Now who goes to the gas station prepared to make such a purchase?

Of course, there were the standard baseball caps, but many of them were bedazzled with rhinestones, and even some with lights and sound. There was a whole aisle of cell phones and accessories. On the other side of that same aisle, there were deer hunting accessories (is that what they’re called?), beer-logo’ed tee shirts and the requisite shot glasses with naked lady silhouettes on them. I think those designate club membership, like belonging to the Bloods or Crips, but just here in the South. Every gas station along I-40 has them.

Without a doubt, my favorite merchandise display was a locked glass cabinet with diamond (OK probably cubic zirconia) rings, ready-made for popping the question if that thought occurred to you on the way to the restroom. Engagement rings for sale in a gas station. There are so many takes on that concept that I feel sure I could write an entire book off that fact alone.

Now I know you’re dying to know what was for sale right alongside the sparkling rings, so I’ll go ahead and tell you. Ready? Pork rinds (twenty-plus varieties) and Elvis bobble-head figurines. On my mother’s grave, it’s true.

Only in the South, right?

2012-05-03T17:41:00.000-04:00

Out of the Mouths of Southerners

I just finished up an interview with a major radio station here in Atlanta (O.K. it was B 98.5 – very exciting!), and one of the topics on which we touched was Southerners and the stuff we say. I love living in the South and always have; we are such a colorful, often genteel, sometimes raucous bunch. Although I was born here and grew up down in Doraville, I have lived in other regions of the U.S. and believe me, we have them beat. I’ll never live anywhere else as long as I have a choice.

At any rate, we were laughing in the interview at the colorful way we Southerners have of expressing ourselves, of getting a point across. Once we say something, there’s little chance of the point being misunderstood or forgotten. I’ve heard our way of speaking referred to as “y’allbonics,” which I find amusing.

“Sam Hill,” as in, "What in the Sam Hill are you doing?" – While there are a lot of stories floating around about who Sam Hill was (a politician from Connecticut, a champion of the Pacific railroad, and more) , this phrase seems to simply boil down to “what on earth,” as in “What on earth are you doing?”

“There’s more than one way to skin a cat” – There’s more than one way to get this accomplished. I’m not sure about the reference to skinning a poor kitty.

“fixing to” – about to, as in “I’m fixing to go skin a cat.”

“up under” – under, as in, “The cat is up under the car.”

“madder than a wet hen” – I’ve never seen a wet hen, but if it’s anything like a wet cat, I get it.

“uglier than a mud fence” – I’ve never seen a mud fence either , but I have to assume they’re ugly.

“Drunker than Cooter (or Cootie Brown)” – Cooter Brown supposedly lived on the line which divided the North and South during the Civil War, making him eligible for military draft by either side. He had family on both sides, so he didn’t want to be drafted. Legend has it he got drunk and stayed drunk for the duration of the war so that he would be deemed useless for military purposes. I guess Canada was out of the question.

“Get on the stick” – Hurry up and get started.

“Gimme some sugar” – Give me a kiss.

Oh, and one more thing I have to add: When you grow up here, every soft drink, no matter the brand or color, is referred to as a “Coke.” Older folks use the term, “Co-Cola.” My dad does, anyway.

Where else can people get their points across with such flourish? What a great place to live.

2012-05-03T17:35:00.001-04:00

I’d like to ask that you indulge me one last time in sharing my knee surgery experience with you, not to be self-serving but to share with you what I’ve discovered. Two weeks into this venture, I’ve learned a few things about acceptance, dependence and humility.

My husband and children have had to do pretty much everything for me since the surgery. I can’t even carry things for myself, because I’m on crutches. I am not even allowed to drive yet. All the attention and chauffering were kind of nice at first, but a few days of not being able to do anything for myself had me stir crazy, frustrated and whiny.

First thing Monday morning, I endured a two-hour physical therapy session. It’s humiliating to sweat and work just to step on and off a small platform and pedal a specially-made stationary bike, because pedaling a normal stationary bike is beyond my ability just yet.

The piece de resistance is the fact that I had to ride “the scooter” through Kroger yesterday. I felt short and helpless and yes, disabled. I didn’t like it. However, did you know that, as a rule, the bargain items are located on the lower shelves? Check it out next time you’re shopping; you might save a few bucks.

I can tell you a few valuable lessons I’m taking away from this experience. First, I will never again occupy the “handicapped” bathroom stall in a public restroom. It’s more roomy and convenient, but it’s also inconsiderate of those who really need it. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.

Second, I will demonstrate patience and gladly offer help when I see people in public who are at a physical disadvantage for any reason. I could tell yesterday that I was inconveniencing a few shoppers because my scooter didn’t go fast enough. Some people were actually rude about it. That of course inspired me to gear it down even further, and to back up a lot.

Third, my husband and children are fantastic. But I already knew that.

I'll have a side of arsenic with that, thank you.

2012-04-12T15:36:00.000-04:00

Pink slime. Ammonia. Arsenic. Hormones. Steroids. Genetic alteration. Doesn’t that all sound yummy? If you read the paper or listen to television news at all, you’re learning (as I am) that all this stuff is put in our food, and done to our food, in an attempt to strengthen the bottom line of the companies that provide them. Who’s supposed to be at the switch on this? The FDA? Well great job.

So many of us grew up in the generation that ate whatever was marketed to us on TV. We ate potato chips. We ate Little Debbies and drank sugared-up, revved-up soft drinks. I mean, if they were on television, they must have been OK, right? Hey, they must have actually been good for us, even.

I have, in the past seven or eight years, begun to pay close attention to nutrition, food sources and additives. As a result, we grow our own vegetables in a small garden in our back yard. When I learned that chickens are being pumped up with steroids heretofore only seen in sweaty, dark gyms, I started shopping for organic chicken. When pink slime was exposed as being a widely-used ammonia-treated beef filler (used, of course, in our best interest to keep costs down), I started shopping for organic beef.

I’m not sure when some guy sitting somewhere in a penthouse office decided that it was OK to sell consumers foods that would likely make them or their children sick, but he did. And I’m not sure when the good folks at the FDA decided that certain amounts of this or that, rat hair or ammonia, slime or steroids, are acceptable for human consumption, but they did.

I am sure, however, that it’s our responsibility to do our homework on this stuff. It’s my responsibility as a wife, a mom and a consumer, to know what we’re consuming. I just wish full disclosure was required of the folks that sell this stuff, and I wish the people who are supposed to be minding the store would use some common sense when they rubber-stamp foods safe for consumption. But until that day, I will read everything I can get my hands on, starting with labels.

Now, it’s almost time to make dinner. Let’s see, what goes best with abnormally large chicken breasts? Carmine (crushed red beetle abdomens) or bone char (cow bones used in several foods, including gelatin and sugar)?

Let me see your lips...

2012-04-10T07:51:00.000-04:00

Hollywood, California has to be one of the toughest places to try to live and make a living. Everything I read, every news story I see from Tinseltown, tells another tale of actors (women, mostly) striving to look better, be accepted, be perfect, be adored. So often, that striving leads these women to order up surgeries that result in science-fiction results: plumper foreheads, protruding cheeks, and trout pout (one of the newest trends and one about which I just learned a bit more).

Trout pout is apparently the Hollywood term for lip-plumping-gone-bad. I’m sure you’ve seen it. In one photo an actress will look perfectly normal, and in the next her misshapen lips take up half her face. They look like air bags. Seriously, Google it. A news story I saw about this very thing the other day said that lip-filling (beyond a certain psi) is not an exact procedure; the results are unpredictable and often asymmetrical. Yet, women in the spotlight continue to do it with the idea that “plumper” means “younger.” I was so ahead of my time.

Filling up one’s lips with collagen or fat, or injecting botulism into one’s skin, seem awfully extreme to me. All I have to think about are the needles and the “what-ifs.” I can’t imagine being so desperate for youth and beauty that the “what-ifs” don’t matter. I’m not being judgmental; I really feel for the women who are compelled to take this procedure to the extreme (and isn’t everything in Hollywood extreme?).

I think that’s why I like the actress Kathy Bates so much. Of course, she’s wildly talented (remember her in “Misery?”), but she’s also just Kathy Bates. She’s pretty in her own way. She’s confident, talented and real. And I’ll bet she can even feel her lips.

Holiday traditions evolve, and that's OK

2012-04-10T07:49:00.000-04:00

Growing up as I did, one of many children with lots of aunts and uncles, holidays were always highlighted with big meals. Of course, Thanksgiving was the Queen Mother of all these spreads, but Easter was always right up there, too. My mom and my aunts would cook for days, everything made from scratch. For nearly thirty years, I have tried to live up to that legacy. A few years ago, I had an epiphany.

No matter how long a cook takes to prepare a meal, no matter how many hard-to-find ingredients are required, no matter how great a hand-me-down recipe may be, it still takes everyone about a half hour to eat the entire repast. That light bulb came on when my children were young and has grown brighter every year. Yes, my family appreciates my cooking but hey, what they don’t know won’t hurt them.

There are several bakeries out there who make better yeast rolls than I do, and I make a pretty mean roll. The Honey Baked Ham Company has me beat hands down in the main course department. Potato salad is sold in every store in the free world, and most of them taste the same - awful. Nobody in my family will eat it anyway. That leaves, say, baked beans (how hard can they be?), deviled eggs (my youngest daughter’s specialty) and maybe a salad. I will make a dessert or two, just because I enjoy baking.

I had to check myself this year, as I almost crossed a line that I’m not sure I’m ready to cross yet. You see, I have a couple of book signings in Tennessee both Friday and Saturday this weekend, leaving me almost no time to prepare for the family and friends we’re expecting to celebrate with us on Sunday. Don’t get me wrong; it’s a good problem to have, but still…

I was in my local supermarket the other day, and I saw pre-colored eggs for sale. They weren’t the plastic ones you fill with surprises and hide; they were actual eggs someone else had dyed and packaged, probably last summer but I don’t know that for sure. I actually picked up a carton or two, then stopped myself.

The day I get too busy to dye Easter eggs is the day I’m way too busy. That vinegary smell and the hopelessly stained dog fur and little fingers that go with egg dyeing are all part of the experience. I can do without slaving in the kitchen; I won’t do without the family memories. Truth be told, I think I enjoy the activity more than the children ever did.

Crazy inventions: I think men came up with these

2012-03-30T20:44:00.000-04:00

There are some things I run across in life that just beg the question, “Who thought of this?” You know what I mean, those everyday items that either make your life a little bit easier or a little bit more difficult. I have come up with a list of these items that, I feel sure, were invented by a man somewhere along the line. Guys love gadgets; they don’t really have to serve a purpose, as long as they look or sound cool. For instance:Girdles. A man, definitely. OK, maybe a skinny woman, but I’m thinking it was a man. Why would a woman care whether another woman looks slimmer? Anyone who actually needs a girdle knows that whatever is squeezed in must squeeze out somewhere else. That scientific principle accounts for the muffin top phenomenon, and it accounts for back fat. It has to go somewhere. A woman would know that.
Thong underwear. Need I say more?
An avocado seeder. Completely unnecessary but a very cool gadget. A spoon does the same job. So does a finger, in a pinch.
Different size tires. I can look at a variety of tires, and all I see are round black things. A man sees “22s” or “high performance.” Are different sizes and profiles really necessary? Don’t they just need to roll?
Golf ball picker-uppers. Come on. It’s a sedentary sport already.
The “pee-pee tee-pee,” a tent-like device designed for use while changing a baby boy’s diaper. Any mom knows there’s no avoiding a mishap here and there when you have a little boy in diapers, contraption or no contraption. Who needs to be looking for yet one more thing while the kid is squirming on the changing table?
And maybe my No. 1 favorite silly invention likely thought up by a guy: the M-3 submachine gun designed for shooting around corners. It was a machine gun with – you guessed it – a curved barrel. Talk about “shoot first, ask questions later.”
The world is full of whacky inventions that someone, somewhere along the line thought would be the best idea ever. What’s the funniest invention you’ve ever seen or heard of?

Carole Townsend is also a Gwinnett Daily Post staff correspondent and author of the recently-released book, “Southern Fried White Trash.” The book takes a humorous look at families and how we behave when thrown together for weddings, funerals and holidays. She has been quoted on msnbc.com, in the LA Times, USA Today and the Christian Science Monitor, been featured on FOX 5 News and CNN, and is often a guest on television and radio shows nationwide.

How strongly do you feel about your property rights?

2012-03-27T09:34:00.000-04:00

A Roswell man is dead, the victim of a violent explosion in his home yesterday that happened while Roswell, GA officials were serving him with an eviction notice. His name was Andrew Wordes, and many say he was driven to the desperate act because he wanted to keep chickens on his property as pets, and in Roswell, that’s not allowed (at least not the way that Andrew was doing it, it seems).

Of course, there are other factors that contributed to Mr. Wordes’ sad choice Monday. He had been jailed for three months recently for keeping his chickens on his land, in an apparent violation of a city of Roswell ordinance that provides strict guidelines for keeping chickens on property. Wordes had been cited in 2009 and while one judge ruled in his favor, a judge who later heard the matter ruled against the man who had come to be known as the “Chicken Man.”

As a result of his incarceration, Wordes fell behind on his mortgage payment. His house had also recently flooded and was severely damaged, requiring more repairs than he could afford. Wordes was also ill with advanced Crohn’s disease and had been very sick in recent months. Friends and neighbors who knew the man well said he was simply tired, worn down from fighting for something that mattered very much to him.

By all accounts, Andrew Wordes was a kind and generous man, always willing to help others without asking anything in return. I know this personally, because he had helped my elderly father on several occasions of his own volition and without expecting payment. My sister and her children knew him very well; his kind and gentle demeanor seemed to touch those who knew him.

There was even a “Save the Roswell Chicken Man” Facebook page. A lot of people sided with Wordes, and during his incarceration, word spread among other property owners and people throughout Georgia and beyond who wanted to keep chickens either as pets or as a source of healthier eggs than are often found on supermarket shelves.

I understand that laws are laws and that we need them to keep order and peace; we humans are an unruly bunch. Just a couple of years ago, I reported a story out of Winder in which a pack of rogue chickens (left behind by their former owners) was attacking people who had the misfortune to walk past their hood hangout in the woods. The chickens were attacking passersby, and the city’s solution to the problem was to put a $500 hit on the rooster, which in turn solved the problem. True story.

In Mr. Wordes’ tragic case, I fear (as I do anytime government encroaches on property rights), that cooler minds did not prevail. Compassion, understanding and common sense did not prevail. The man felt defeated, cornered; his dire circumstances did not matter. And even to the end he remained considerate of others, warning a news reporter and marshalls to back away from the house before the explosion happened.

And now we have this. Over chickens.

How do you feel about chickens being kept – responsibly – on adequate acreage? Do city officials and staff have any responsibility to understand the person and the “big picture” before mandating incarceration or an eviction?

Bunnies and chocolate and baskets, oh my!

2012-03-19T17:45:00.000-04:00

I went to the supermarket the other day to pick up a few things we needed for a small get-together at our house. A few aisles into the store, I came across the holiday aisle, and it pulsated and glowed with pastel-colored tinfoil, colorful Easter baskets, brightly wrapped egg-shaped candy, hard marshmallow chicks and jelly beans. Parked at the end of that same aisle was a bargain cart loaded up with Valentine’s Day merchandise, all clearance priced.

I love the holidays, any of them. Maybe it’s because there’s color-coordinated candy that goes along with most of them. I often wonder who thinks up the different themes. I mean think about it; we all know the actual reason for Easter. It’s a day for celebration for Christians everywhere, as well as a day to reflect upon a sorrowful and somber occasion. Who took that and ran with it, coming up with hidden eggs, bunny rabbits and jelly beans as a way to celebrate? I mean I’m not complaining about the candy but still, you have to wonder. Who decided that Easter was the time to dye, then hide, then find, eggs?

I think the most bizzare Easter candy I’ve seen on the shelves is the chocolate crosses, the tools of crucifixion. I just can’t do it, even if it’s filled with peanut butter. Somebody got their signals crossed on that one.

I know. I should lighten up.

What's old is cool again.

2012-03-19T17:43:00.000-04:00

My husband and I went to see a pretty good movie the other day – 21 Jump Street. Of course the language was a bit over the top, but that’s true of many movies. What I did think was cool about the movie is the fact that it’s based on a show from the 1980s . That seems to be a trend with movies and music as well these days. Remakes are wildly popular, and for a reason.

With a marketing background, I learned way back in college a simple rule that’s held true throughout the years: “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Please pardon my liberties with the grammar, but that’s the actual rule, verbatim.

Think about it: Starksy and Hutch. The Flintstones. The Addams Family. Footloose. All remakes. Rumor has it that even Jaws and Star Wars will be remade in the next year or two. We loved those shows and movies when we were kids. They may not have been brain food, but they had something that the majority of today’s entertainment lacks –that something that stirs nostalgia and fond memories, that thing that makes for a blockbuster.

The same can be said for music. Our children love “our” soundtrack, 70s and 80s music. My daughter has remarked to me on a couple of occasions that her children won’t want to listen to the music of her generation like our children enjoy our music. I think she may be right. Will rap and hip-hop last? I guess only time will tell. Will a group like Aerosmith or The Eagles or Journey come out of today’s music? I kind of doubt it, but we’ll see.

Then again, maybe I’m biased.

Are you 40-something? Why do you think the music, television and movies we grew up with still have appeal?

FOOD FOR THOUGHT: Guys, you have less than a week

2012-02-09T14:11:00.000-05:00

That’s right. Valentine’s Day is right around the corner - Tuesday, in fact. I read somewhere the other day that this is the most procrastinated holiday of the year, meaning that many people (OK men) wait until the last minute to buy their sweetheart a gift. There’s a reason for that, I think. It’s not that the day doesn’t matter to them; they are puzzled by it. It’s also a holiday laced with land mines. One wrong move, and the whole thing’s going to blow up.

Sure, we kid ourselves and say that Valentine’s Day is for couples, sweethearts, lovers, whatever you want to call them. It’s not. It’s a chick holiday. Roses? Dainty chocolates? Jewelry? All chick stuff. And men know this, somewhere deep in their hearts. They fear the day. They dread it. I don’t think they get it. They know that they are supposed to shop or otherwise purchase something their sweetheart will love, but what is it?

As Americans, when in doubt, we spend. Consider these statistics:

According to Business Insider News, the average U.S. consumer will spend about $116 on Valentine’s Day gifts, meals and entertainment. Men will spend double what women will spend ($158.81 compared to $75.79). About 110 million roses, mostly red and produced specifically for the big day, will be delivered during a three-day time period ($1.7 billion worth). And about 11 percent of couples will get engaged on Valentine’s Day.

Perhaps most interesting of all is the research that concluded that 53 percent of women in American would dump their boyfriends if they did not get them anything for The Big Day.

There’s a lot riding on it, guys.

Why else will a man pay five times retail for 12 roses? No, the price of roses does not increase because of demand. It increases because of fear. It increases because florists know that, at the last minute, they can get whatever price they demand for roses, because a lot hangs in the balance.

I’d like to help if I can, gentlemen. For most women, a gift that reflects thought is much better than a gift for which you got gouged. By “thought,” I mean think about her likes, something she may want but would never purchase for herself, something she may have mentioned in passing. It may even mean you cooking dinner and giving the kids a bath while she soaks in a tub reading the latest issue of People magazine. Whatever matters to her.

Of course, this means you can’t wait until noon on the 14^th to start thinking about this; thought takes time. Here are a few other pointers that I hope you find helpful:

A big, cheap bottle of perfume is not a bargain. Also, buying her a scent and telling her it reminds you of your mother is not wise.

Do not buy lingerie for a woman you don’t know very, very well. A gas station is not the place to buy roses, even if they are conveniently, individually wrapped in plastic.

Appliances are another no-no, even the pink and red ones.

Two tickets to your favorite basketball team’s next home game is not a good Valentine’s Day gift.

Jewelry is a great gift (I threw that in in case my husband reads this).

Well good luck. And if you do procrastinate and find yourself up a creek without a paddle on Tuesday, call a florist and prepare to pay - dearly. You’ll save yourself a lot of heartache in the long run.

Politics? Same song, different day.

2012-01-26T11:22:00.002-05:00

Have you watched any TV at all lately? I mean, have you even turned it on recently? If you have, you’ve likely caught a GOP candidate debate being conducted, rehashed or picked apart. Is it my imagination, or are these guys debating more this time around than we’ve ever been treated to before? It seems as though there’s a new debate every 8 hours or so.

Now I get, even admire, working hard for votes. I do. I love this country and its machinations. Hard work, convictions and millions of dollars can take an ordinary person all the way to the top of the governmental food chain in the U.S. You have to love that.

Didn’t they call traveling and speaking to crowds along the rail “stumping” a long time ago? I believe that term came from the fact that the candidate would stand on a stump so that everyone in the crowd could see him while he spoke.

Today, I suppose the “stump” is CNN or FOX or whatever network airs a debate. I have actually watched a few of them; after that, the rhetoric and banter all started to sound alike to me. I still haven’t decided which GOP candidate will be my pick, because I have yet to hear one whom I believe can defeat Barack Obama next fall. I’m still waiting. There’s too much bickering and finger-pointing, and it seems as though the party is in a bit of disarray. I hope we fix that, and soon. I hope we put forth a candidate that the entire support can support. Divided (as we all know) we fall.

Anyway, If we could take Mitt’s hair and business savvy, Newt’s ego and attitude, Santorum’s “aw shucks” boyish good looks and Paul’s anger and roll them all up into one candidate (maybe throw in one of Hillary’s pantsuits for good measure), that might be a winner.

It seems to me that, instead of these guys making valid arguments as to why they’d be the best man to lead this nation out of the mess we're in, they spend the bulk of their time pointing out the other guys’ failings. And shortcomings. And dirty deals and affairs and lapses in judgment.

I know, that’s the nature of politics. It’s a dirty business, no matter whether it’s local or national. You can’t climb to the top of any heap without stepping on other people to get there. However, I think I may have a solution.

I say we demand a candidate reality show. Put them all on an island with a jar of peanut butter and a ball of string, winner take all. Or make them all live in the same house together for a few months, sharing bathrooms and household chores. Or simply install cameras in each of their homes, just to see how they behave when there’s not a moderator, cameras and bright lights. Think a hybrid show, made up of “Jersey Shore,” “Survivor” and “Dance Moms.”

The candidates could stump for free; in fact millions of dollars would be generated from advertising, all of which could be put toward our staggering national debt. I mean, every little bit helps, right?

Do you watch every debate that takes place? Are you hearing anything new, and have you seen a credible front runner yet?

Carole Townsend is also a Gwinnett Daily Post staff correspondent and author of the recently-released book, “Southern Fried White Trash.” The book takes a humorous look at families and how we behave when thrown together for weddings, funerals and holidays. She has been quoted on msnbc.com, in the LA Times and the Christian Science Monitor, been featured on FOX 5 News and CNN, and is often a guest on radio shows nationwide.

Solitude is good for the soul. I think.

2012-01-20T19:36:00.000-05:00

Here I sit, on a balcony overlooking the Gulf of Mexico, writing today’s blog post. It’s a beautiful day (every day I’ve been here has been breathtaking), and I am reminded again of how very blessed I am. I’ve been given the rare opportunity of a taking a month or so here, all by myself, to finish my second book. I have my husband to thank for this gift.

I’ve been here for 4 days, 7 hours and 26 minutes. That precision might sound a bit odd to you, but let me explain my painful accuracy by first asking you a question: What’s the longest stretch of time you’ve spent alone? I mean all alone, completely, utterly alone?

Four days, 7 hours and 27 minutes, here. And counting.

This is an adventure for me. Because I’m a mom, I haven’t been able to go into a bathroom at home and close the door all by myself for 22 years. Being away from home, my husband, our children, the dogs, my work there, is very different for me and is taking some getting used to.

For example, the day after I arrived (I’ve lost track; I think it was Sunday), I awoke around 7 a.m. CST and took a long walk on the beach, then ventured out to get some supplies – food, mainly, so that I can cook most of my meals. I shopped, brought the bags home and unloaded the car. That done, I glanced at my watch, sure I had spent half the day on the errands and thinking I’d better get cracking on the writing.

9:30 a.m. A bit too early for a glass of wine, I quickly concluded. I held my watch up to my ear, sure it was broken. What had seemed like half a day had actually been a little over 2 hours.

By the end of Day 2, I caught myself chasing a pelican on the beach just to have the company. I’m not sure what sound pelicans make, but by that point, I wouldn’t have cared. I actually tried the conch shell trick of holding one up to my ear and hearing some sound – any sound – emanating from within. Nothing. I suppose I should be grateful for that, come to think of it.

Day 3, I ventured out again and found a nail salon. Nice people, but none of them spoke English. I didn’t care. I told them my life story anyway. They all smiled and nodded, and that was good enough for me. Even when they talked and laughed among themselves at the stir-crazy woman sitting in the chair, I didn’t care. They were people.

I ate lunch in a restaurant, alone. Another first for me.

Today, I think I’m hitting my stride with the writing. I hope so. I’d hate to squander this time. But I have taken a break from writing the book to write this piece, and I can laugh here at how difficult it is to truly unplug from our lives, however briefly. I didn’t realize how addicted I am to my phone, television, music, conversation, schedules and deadlines. I’m addicted to busy-ness.

Writing is a funny occupation. Speaking for myself, I must have uninterrupted quiet when I do it, especially when working on a long project. I have that here at the beach, save for the gentle crash of waves on the shore and the occasional shrill cry of a seagull. I think I have finally stopped fighting the lack of busy-ness and can accomplish what I came here to do.

Just in case, though, if any of you wants to call and just chat, my cell number is 770-555- (I’m kidding).

Think about it though, how do you think you’d do with days or even weeks of solitude?

Carole Townsend is also a Gwinnett Daily Post staff correspondent and author of the recently-released book, “Southern Fried White Trash.” The book takes a humorous look at families and how we behave when thrown together for weddings, funerals and holidays. She has been quoted on msnbc.com, in the LA Times and the Anniston Star, been featured on FOX 5 News and CNN, and is often a guest on radio shows nationwide.

Birthdays take on new meaning, don't they?

2011-12-27T20:46:00.000-05:00

Editor’s Note: Carole Townsend, a correspondent for the Daily Post, is writing a blog called “Food for Thought.” It is available online at www.gwinnettdailypost.com/townsend.

O.K. is it self-serving to write about today being my birthday? Probably, but I promise I won’t make it all about ME ME ME. Partly, but not all of it.

Today, I am 51 years old. I have four grown children, and they’ve all turned out to be amazing, very cool people. Wish I could take all the credit for that, but my husband had a big hand in their upbringing and guidance. Our children are the main yardstick I use by which to measure my life’s accomplishments. That will probably sound weird to everyone except you mothers out there, but it’s true.

So anyway. Back to 51. Never has a new decade bothered me in my age progression. Reaching a new age, having another birthday - in my opinion - beats the heck out of the alternative. And to tell you the truth, I have liked each decade better and better.

In my 30s I hit my stride professionally; in my 40s, I finally gained the self esteem and confidence that every woman deserves (you can speak your mind and be assertive about it, and not feel guilty ladies), and here in my 50s, I feel as though I am beginning to enjoy the fruits of my labors. There’s self-discovery as a result of our being new empty-nesters, and there’s the sheer joy of watching your children become wonderful young adults and pursue their dreams.

I wouldn’t be true to myself, however, if I weren’t honest about some of the other joys of aging, no matter how gracefully I try to do it. For one, it’s hard to look cool and collected when it takes you 5 minutes or so to walk completely upright when you first get out of your car or even a chair. My joints just aren’t as responsive as they used to be.

Too, I was strolling down Main Street Buford the other day with a girlfriend, and my knee decided to stop working. It simply froze. It wouldn’t bend or hold weight or anything. At that point I just had to stop and pretend to window shop and pray that the situation was temporary. It was, until it happens again.

Everything seems to be dropping, going south. I’m not a vain person, but I do hope this phenomenon doesn’t go on and on. At the rate I’m going, I’ll soon have to start wearing some of my clothes upside-down so they’ll fit properly.

What’s up with that little semicircle of skin underneath the eyes? Mine looks like an intricate roadmap, and all the creams, potions and lotions in the world do not affect it one little bit. Don’t believe it.

Lastly, I finally get what people mean when they use the term “turkey neck.” Again, don’t waste your money on the creams or that “As Seen on TV” gadget that massages the neck area. I think that actually makes it worse.

I do like my 50s though, neck and all. Not that I want to rush things, but wonder what the 60s hold?

Carole Townsend is also a Gwinnett Daily Post staff correspondent and author of the recently-released book, “Southern Fried White Trash.” The book takes a humorous look at all families and how we behave when thrown together for weddings, funerals and holidays. She has been quoted on msnbc.com, in the LA Times, The Erie (PA) Times and the Anniston Star, been featured on FOX 5 News and CNN, and is often a guest on radio shows nationwide.

Women on the road, unite!

2011-11-18T07:58:00.002-05:00

I’m sitting here in my office, so happy to be home from a nearly week-long trip to south Georgia. I was on a book promotion tour visiting TV stations, radio stations and even having a book signing. Mind you, I am grateful for the flurry of interest and activity but I have to tell you, I am not much of a traveller. I used to be, but then I started paying attention. Women are at a distinct disadvantage on the road.

Of all the things that really made me feel “away from home” last week, I have to say that public restrooms ranked up there close to the top of the list. Does that sound like a strange thing to say? Allow me to explain, and I’m going to be talking mostly to women because, frankly, we get it.

First, for whatever reason, doesn’t it seem that every single time you stop for a meal or to fuel up, you simply have to use the restroom? I’m not sure what causes that phenomenon, but it’s true.

There must be a law against placing door locks on restroom stall doors. Or there must be great fun in prying the locks off, because more often than not, you can’t close and lock the door of the stall. Solution: once seated, you hold the door closed with one foot. Awkward, but do-able.

Without fail on this trip, every public restroom I used was missing the little hook thing on which you hang your purse. That’s a problem, because without the hook, you’re either holding your purse the entire time or putting it on the floor, which in my mind is not an option. Can you imagine the germs?

So here’s my solution: I hold the strap of my purse in my mouth while I go about my other business. Note: you still have to be careful not to let your purse touch anything germy; for heaven’s sake, it’s in your mouth! You also have to be careful not to leave teeth marks in the leather, all the while still holding the door closed with one foot.

Now ladies, while sitting there looking and feeling absolutely ridiculous, you reach over for some paper and – you guessed it – there is none. Great. You can’t ask a woman in another stall (if such a person exists) for some paper because your mouth is full of purse. Too, I always hear my mom’s words of wisdom – “You should have checked for paper before you sat down!”

In one restroom I visited somewhere along I-75, there was a huge roll of paper in the stall but no cap on the dispenser to hold it in place. I tore off some paper, and the whole roll came off and went flying 2 or 3 stalls over. It was a big roll, like the size of one of those round bales of hay you see in the fields in rural Georgia. I injured two women with it and had to apologize, one foot still on the door.

They rolled it back to me (more germs), and I placed the paper back where it belonged. I wondered if the women made note of my shoes (oh you know you do that, too) while I waited for them to leave the restroom first. If you note the shoes, you know who was in which stall.

Finally, after I’ve exhausted myself with the door and the purse and the paper, I had to wash my hands. No soap. No hot water. No hand sanitizer. In other words, my own personal nightmare.

Women, I think we should band together and demand better facilities out there. At the very least, let’s get the store owners to remove those shot glasses with the female silhouettes on them, usually strategically placed near the cash registers in such establishments. They’re right next to the camouflage baseball caps with Confederate flags on them.

Is it just me, or have other women had the same experiences?

Tell me again why they send out these swimsuit catalogs?

2011-10-16T08:19:00.000-04:00

I went to the mailbox yesterday, expecting the usual mix of junk mail, bills and more bills. And I was right, of course. Gas bill, electric bill, mortgage statement. Ahhh, here’s the new supermodel swimsuit catalog. That reminds me; I need to pick up some hemlock for tonight’s casserole.

Why do I do this to myself? Every year, I order something from this place. Granted, it may be a lipstick or great shoes, but I do it just the same. I think it keeps me in touch with the fact that I am a woman despite the baggy sweats and messy hair. And every year I forget – they send me the swimsuit catalog.

Now I ask you, how many people do you know who really look like these models? They are beautiful, stunning, gorgeous specimens. But please, tell me, how many women do you know who actually look like these chicks without airbrushing? Even they don’t look this good without touch-ups!

Anyway, I brought the mail in and put it all on the kitchen table. I sorted through it, and I left the catalog on the table, unopened. I have to be in the right frame of mind to open it and flip through it. There’s a bag of Halloween candy on the table next to it. That speaks volumes, doesn’t it?

Whose idea is it to send out a catalog for swimming zippers in the very same month of the nation’s largest candyfest? That doesn’t make sense to me.

After I had finished my work for the day and had poured a small glass of wine, I picked up the catalog and settled into my chair. I looked at the gorgeous women wearing tie-dyed dental floss and acting as though they don’t have a care in the world. One was wearing a black suit slashed as though Freddie Kruger got ahold of her after drinking a few energy drinks. She looked stunning. Inevitably, my mind wandered to how I might look in that same suit. All I could picture was one of those speed strips they install in the road before you get to a stop sign.

The biggest suit in the catalog was made of 2 oz. of spandex fabric and a bead.

You know what though? I have given birth to two children and raised several more, one way or the other. I have a respected education. I maintain a beautiful home, love my family and do what I love for a living.

I have friends who would do anything for me, and it’s reciprocated. I help care for my elderly father, travel when I can, laugh every chance I get and marvel at the strength of real women. I find beauty and ingenuity because I look for it. I spotlight it every chance I get.

There are some days when I imagine trading every bit of that for a body that would look great in one of these Spandex bandaids, but then again, I like who I am. I love my life. And yes, I’m even O.K. with the extra “me” that’s shown up over the years.

Man, wonder what the mailman will bring tomorrow.

Advanced technology? Are we sure?

2011-10-11T13:28:00.001-04:00

I have a new car, have I told you that? I love it. It answers my phone. It informs me of upcoming inclement weather. It points out the best restaurants in whatever region I’m in. It tells me if my hair is out of place. It does everything for me except wash dishes, and I’m sure that’s only because I haven’t found the right button for that.

With the onset of cold weather, this car has told me that the tires need air. Like a responsible auto owner, I took my new baby to the dealership in order to comply. You won’t believe what transpired.

The service guy behind the desk told me that the tires I have really need what amounts to air with bigger molecules in order to maintain proper pressure, especially in the cold months.

Say what?

You want to sell me bigger air? I almost laughed, but when I saw that he was serious, I didn’t. Now I don’t know about you, but I think when we’ve come so far technologically that we can a) sell air, and for a lot of money, and b) choose the size of the air molecules, I have to ask myself: Are we really all that much better off?

Then I started thinking, “How, exactly, will I know that I have in fact purchased bigger air molecules instead of the everyday, run-of-the-mill variety that the masses enjoy? What if I don’t buy the big air, and people find out? Can they tell just by looking at my tires?” I was really starting to stress. The service guy was growing impatient.

I am ashamed to say that I opted to purchase the bigger air. I was too afraid not too. But I left feeling like one of those people who just purchased the Brooklyn Bridge, or who walks out of a room with a KICK ME sign on her back. For all I know, he could have told me he was selling me Happy Thoughts or Good Karma.

The air wasn’t even a different color. I know. I asked to see it.

What do you think? Has technology made our lives more or less complicated?

Your baby can read, for three easy payments of $99 (plus S&H)

2011-10-11T07:25:00.000-04:00

I saw something yesterday that made me do a double-take. It was a commercial for something called, “Your Baby Can Read.” Apparently it’s a combination of books and recordings and visual software that teaches your infant-to-toddler-age child to read. Now I’m all for reading to your child and teaching her everything you can. I believe that helps a child appreciate the written word and hunger for learning. But a baby reading? I don’t know.

I have two children. They are 19 and 21 years old, but I still vividly remember what they were like as babies. Like most other kids, I could have easily put them in a bucket and just hosed them off occasionally for the first 12 months of life. They took food in; they gave some back. Yes, they developed skills and awareness and emotional expression during that critical first year, but I can pretty much guarantee you that they were not reading-ready. They are both smart, bright, delightful children, but no way were they going to read to me during that first year of life. As a young mom, I felt lucky not to have done anything that resulted in injury or death to them in that year; I sure wasn’t going to muddy the waters by trying to teach them to read.

As they got a bit older, a day without either of them ingesting discarded cigarette butts or munching on dog food was a good day.

Part of this commercial (an infomercial, really) spotlighted a mother holding her slobbering little prodigy in her lap, regurgitating words that had been hammered into her little head by a robotic male voice. Mom just cooed and giggled in delight as her little “reader” uttered barely understandable words in response to flash cards. What Mom failed to realize is that she could have taught the little girl completely inaccurate words to correspond with each card. “CAT = HULA HOOP” or “TRUCK = SWORD.” A baby has no frame of reference.

True reading requires the ability to both decode a word AND process the meaning simultaneously. Later on, it also requires the ability to comprehend and retain those words, but maybe that’s the next phenomenon to hit the market – “Your Child Can Retain and Comprehend.”

In our society, we are so rushed to push our kids past all the others, to somehow give them an edge over all the other kids with whom they’ll compete throughout their lifetimes. To give the marketing mastermind(s) behind “Your Baby Can Read” credit, they were smart enough to capitalize on this fact. Still, I’m holding out for something really spectacular to come along, like “Your Baby Can Vacuum” or “Your Baby Can Prepare Your Taxes.” When I see either of those, I’m in.

Do you do extreme sporting? Do you have life insurance?

2011-10-07T11:45:00.000-04:00

We have some friends, another couple, of whom I am completely in awe. They are slightly older than my husband and me, yet they are constantly exploring new avenues of adventure. They zip-line. They go whitewater rafting. They hike uncharted trails. They scuba dive. And now that we are all good friends, they want us to join them in their exciting adventures.

This poses a problem for me, and it’s kind of embarrassing. My idea of adventure is going to the mall on the weekend, or letting myself run low on my favorite hairspray before restocking. The closest I care to get to nature is someplace like the Georgia Aquarium, and I keep a tank of air and safety flares near me in case of disaster even there. Instead of whitewater rafting, I prefer floating on a raft in a swimming pool. It’s not the physical exertion of which I am afraid; rather, I live my life by one basic principle when it comes to the outdoors and its wildlife inhabitants: “You stay in your area, and I’ll stay in mine.”

I want to change this mindset, I really do. But here’s how I look at it. If sharks live in the ocean, and I choose to suit up and go in the water and swim around with them, they have the upper hand and I’m kind of asking for it. If they have enough sense to stay off the sand, certainly I can return the favor by staying out of the water.

If a bear has been considerate enough to mark trees along the trail I’m hiking by clawing his initials into the trunks, the least I can do is heed his warning that I’m on his turf, invading his personal space. If I see those warnings and ignore them, in my mind, I’m tempting fate.

I don’t want spiders and snakes in my house, and I’m going to assume they don’t want me in theirs. And frogs terrify me.

This same couple asked us to go rafting with them up in North Carolina a couple of weeks ago. There were to be Category IV rapids. Now, when a recreational activity uses the same classifications as tornadoes, that’s a red flag to me. We couldn’t join them on this particular trip but sure enough, they were both ejected from their raft and ended up wedged between rocks in dangerously rough water, having to rescue themselves. They told the story and punctuated it with laughs and guffaws. I was astounded.

That in no way sounds like fun to me. It makes for a fascinating story, but it does not sound like fun.

I would, however, go see a movie about it.

I hope we remain friends and that this couple doesn’t decide we’re too boring (or that I am too boring. My husband would love all that nonsense).

I'm a 30% off woman, myself.

2011-09-30T11:39:00.000-04:00

The most outrageous news story broke this week, about The U.S. Department of Justice and their over-the-top snacking habits: namely, serving $16 muffins, $10 cookies, $8.24 cups of coffee and, in another meeting, spending $32 per person for snacks that included Cracker Jack, candy bars and popcorn. And the cost to plan five of these culinary utopian snack-fests disguised as department meetings? $600,000.

In an interview with a U.S. Department of Justice spokeswoman after the story broke, she explained that those expenses were approved before there were suggested limits on food and beverage costs for such events.

What? You need someone to tell you that a $16 muffin may be overpriced? Sometimes, I just have to shake my head in wonder.

Maybe the debt crisis isn’t going to be solved by choking more money out of individual taxpayers and small businesses, or even the super-wealthy. Maybe it will be greatly alleviated by curbing out-of-control spending and program fraud. Just a thought, but I am no expert.

In our household, we are currently in “conserve” mode. My husband and I are both fortunate in that we have jobs and can meet our obligations. As the primary shopper for our home, I have always actually thought about what I spend, even before the economy tanked a few years ago. I just can’t rationalize paying too much for something using the logic, “Well, we have it to spend, so why not?” I guess being raised by parents who survived the Great Depression has something to do with that.

Looking around at many of our friends and other families in the community, my husband and I understand without a doubt that the situation we enjoy now could change in an instant. To us, that means we need to tread lightly, to be careful. We cut back wherever we can, eliminating spending that seems frivolous now, but that we justified not too long ago.

I am horribly unorganized, so couponing is a tough one for me. Sure, I have fun cutting them out. It’s like a grown-up art project. But then I let them expire, or I pick up the wrong brand or quantity in the store, or I forget to take them with me at all. The old me would just get frustrated and forget the whole thing. But I am really trying now to cut costs wherever possible. I think I’m getting the hang of it, and I am even getting so brave as to combine coupons with other special offers and sales. Even if I just save a little bit, I feel good about it.

Our children get it, although they’re very young adults. They understand that they do not have a limitless supply of money to squander.

And that brings us back to our fearless leaders in Washington, who apparently feel that they do. I would personally volunteer, sacrifice my time, to go up there and teach a 30-Percent-Off class (although 30 percent off a $16 muffin is still no bargain). In other words I’d teach, say, meeting planners that if someone is trying to sell them a muffin for $16, bargain with them! Haggle. Whip out a coupon. Better yet, just run up the street to the closest supermarket and buy as many as you need. With any luck, they’ll be on sale.

Blind, reckless spending is never a good thing and cannot continue indefinitely, and I don’t believe it’s a Democrat vs. Republican problem. I believe it’s an “It’s not my money, so why should I care?” problem.

How can we insist they stop the madness?

Politics is a dirty business.

2011-09-23T11:41:00.001-04:00

November elections are barreling down upon us, and the rumbling – the dance – began weeks, even months, ago. The dance to which I refer involves chest-beating, finger-pointing, innuendo, and a little term I heard years ago called “information massaging.” I love that. In the political arena, it’s a campaign manager’s other term for “bending the truth.”

Of course, not every public figure engages in these practices. In fact, I like to think that most do not. But it doesn’t take many of those who do to spoil the process, the outcome and the consequences for everyone.

I have always been fascinated by politics, even more so by politicians. This fascination does not stem from a desire to someday seek public office myself; rather, it stems from my black-and-white, right-and-wrong view of the world. I admire those who seek to truly serve the public, and I am constantly amazed and disappointed by those who seek to manipulate the public for their own personal gain.

James Freeman Clarke hit the nail on the head when he said, “A politician thinks of the next election. A statesman, of the next generation.” Smart man, since it’s usually the next generation who picks up the tab for the previous generation’s choices. And let me say it again: I have the utmost respect for those who serve keeping their fellow humans at the forefront of their motivations (whether they be neighbors, city or county residents, state residents or U.S. residents).

The benefit of most of my years of experience is limited to local politics. I am not a political reporter, but I do enjoy the privilege of covering city council meetings for several Gwinnett cities. Over the 7+ years I have observed local politics, I have seen some remarkable things from candidates and voters alike.

I have seen flowers planted in a toilet in order to make a political statement. There are too many jokes and punch lines there to explore. I have heard of campaign signs being stolen, anonymous letters with false accusations sent to voters, leading conversations being recorded, dubbed and shared, and flat-out lies being presented as the truth. In other words, by my black-and-white way of thinking, I have seen some people stop at nothing for the sole purpose of obtaining a position of power (and if you think political offices at the local level don’t carry a measure of power and influence, think again).

If political figures would just stick to the issues, campaigns and elections would look more like what our forefathers had in mind. I always have to ask the question, “If underhanded practices are necessary for a candidate to win, why? If attacking an opponent on a personal level rather than on their stance on the issues, why?” And by my black-and-white way of thinking, the answer is simple. Diversion. Smoke and mirrors. Sleight of hand. Cool if you’re David Copperfield; not so cool if you’re going to be making decisions about my money, property rights and community.

I urge each of you to become involved in politics at the local level. Educate yourself by attending local council meetings. Matters ranging from tax rates to what you can do with your own home and yard are decided there. You’ll be amazed at what you learn about your community, and further amazed to learn that you can influence governmental policy that affects you and your family. You will also meet some extraordinary people.

I also urge you to vote in the upcoming local elections. Meet the candidates. Talk to them about what matters to you and your neighbors. If the candidate is an incumbent, look at his or her voting record. Find out about previous campaign promises and whether they were fulfilled, or at least fought for.

Think about it. If you don’t vote, do you have the right to complain about actions taken by your elected officials?