Garlic Cheese Speaks for Itself

It all began with a single bag of cheese – an event so ghastly and unspeakable, that it will go down in the “Sharie Derrickson List Of Unspeakable Events That She Will Never Speak Of, Except In A Column To Make A Few Bucks.”

I bought a bag of cheese – but not just any cheese – River Rat Garlic Curd Cheese – a cheese that has so much garlic, vampires can’t come within a mile of the stuff, which is a moot point since vampires don’t like cheese. Their loss. It is, of course, delicious and addicting cheese.

I picked up a bag of said cheese the day of the Clayton Christmas Parade because nothing says, “I love a parade,” more than garlic curd cheese washed down by a hot cup of cocoa. I snacked on the curd cheese, and I mean THE WHOLE BAG, between bouts of scrambling along the parade route to snatch thrown candy from greedy six-year-olds.

Anyway, the next day is when the event becomes unspeakable. I had a dentist appointment in Syracuse and I have to be sedated. See, I broke my jaw a number of years ago, so I have to be sedated for any dental work, including a simple cleaning. I used to have to be sedated just to brush and floss, but I didn’t get much done the rest of the day, so now, I suffer – and drink mouthwash.

So an hour before my appointment, I am suppose to take a little blue pill that makes me all emotional, which is followed by another little blue pill right before some guy wearing a face mask sticks a jack hammer in my mouth and hits a cranial nerve with the attached ice pick. At least, that’s how I think it all goes down – I am, after all, pretty sedated.

My husband and I leave the house and make the long trek to Syracuse, and about an hour before my scheduled appointment, I take the little blue pill and fall into a blissful sleep where I dream I am in “Chocolate Garlic Cheese Land” where the streets are paved with Tootsie Rolls and garlic curd cheese. It was a lovely dream – and then, I woke up to find we were parked along side of Route 81 and my husband was pacing outside the car in the snow.

“What’s going on?” I mumbled out the car window, wiping the drool from my face.

“Uh, Shar, what have you been eating?”

“Tootsie Rolls and garlic cheese. Why?”

My husband bend over and put his hands on his knees as if to catch his breath. “Because you have been burping it for the last ten miles.”

And, because I was sedated, I began to laugh hysterically until tears ran down my eyes. “You’re so funny,” I said. “Hey, it’s snowing. Cool.”

“How much of that cheese did you eat??

“A bag.”

“YOU ATE A WHOLE BAG OF GARLIC CHEESE BEFORE GOING TO THE DENTIST?”

“I was hungry – and – and – and – I was at a parade!”

“Huh?”

“You just don’t understand me?” I said, starting to cry. “You don’t love me.”

My husband came over and opened the car door and hugged me as I cried and wiped my nose on his coat. “I love you honey – but you can’t eat garlic cheese and then take a little blue pill. The dentist isn’t going to like it too much, so let’s not do it again, okay!”

“Okay,” I whimpered.

“You go back to sleep now and I will wake you up when we get there.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To the dentist,” he said.

I began to cry again. “BUT I HATE THE DENTIST!”

“I know sweetie – but you have to go. After we are done, I will take you to lunch – how would that be?”

“Can I have pie?”

“Sure,” he said, laughing.

“And garlic cheese?”

“Well, I don’t think that is such a good idea, but we’ll see.”

“I love you,” I said.

“You too,” he said, rolling his eyes.

We drove the rest of the way to Syracuse with the windows rolled down, but I didn’t care because I was back in “Chocolate Garlic Cheese Land.”

Once in Syracuse, my husband woke me up. “Honey – we’re here.”

“Are we at the mall?”

“Yep.”

The next thing I remember is some guy in a facemask shoving an ice pick in my mouth.

“Am I at the mall?” I tried to say. By now, I was full-blown sedated with a numb tongue.

“Yes. You are at the mall. Now spit.”

“I think there’s an ordinance against that,” I said, garlic wafting from my mouth.

The dentist turned his head away and wiped tears from his eyes. “Can someone bring a fan in here?” I heard the dentist say to a technician standing at my side who was holding her hand over her nose.

“Man – what did she eat?” the technician asked.

I could hear my husband’s voice – but couldn’t see him. “Garlic curd cheese. A whole bag. She says it’s parade food. You gotta know her to understand. Sorry.”

I then let out the largest belch in world history – a Tarzan-like belch – a belch so loud that stag-horn sheep around the world came running toward Syracuse, and then passed out from the smell.

The room cleared and I was left alone – in the dental chair – with that sucker thing in my mouth. “Wow – that was loud,” I said laughing with a numb mouth and a sucker thing sticking to my tongue.

As I drifted in and out of sleep, I could hear voices.

“Well, she is sedated and numbed up – I have to finish.”

“But doc – she smells like Sicily on a hot day.”

“I’m really sorry, guys. I didn’t know she’d eat a whole bag of garlic cheese – but then, there is no telling what that woman will do,” my husband said, embarrassed.

“Okay,” I heard the dentist say. “I’m going in. Cover me.”

I came around during the car ride home. “Are we done at the dentist?” I asked.

“We’re done at the dentist all right,” my husband said.

“When do I have to go back?”

“You don’t.”

“Ever?”

“That’s right,” my husband said. “He said you never have to go back to him.”

“That’s great,” I said, mumbling. “I guess all that brushing and flossing really paid off.”

“It sure did, dear.”

“I’m hungry,” I said.

“Here – the dentist gave me these for you.” he said, handing me a small plastic container.

“What is it?”

“Tic Tacs.”

“Ahhhhh. He’s a nice dentist, isn’t he!” I said, starting to cry. “I’ll miss him.”

“I’m sure he’s going to miss you, too. Eat your Tic Tacs.”

“Okay,” I said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” my husband said, “Now eat all of those Tic Tacs and go to sleep.”

And then, I went back to “Chocolate Garlic Cheese Land,” ready to eat with a healthy set of chompers – and I was happy – and the windows remained rolled down.


© 2006 Sharie Derrickson. Previously printed in the Thousand Islands Sun.

I Don’t Buy It

According to a recent $3,500,000 study, people hate television commercials. Apparently, it took some think tank of rocket scientists to tell us something that I would have gladly told them for a cool three mil. Also, according to another study done by “The People Who Have Nothing Better To Do With Their Time,” consumers who own VCRs and digital video recorders actually skip the commercials altogether. Really. Wow. You don’t say? Well, I’ll be a Sea Monkey’s uncle – or aunt.

I have in my whole life only liked one television commercial – the one where Santa rides down the hill on the Norelco razor because it meant that I would wake up sometime soon and find a whole bunch of stuff under the Christmas tree because television commercials told my parents that I just had to have it all, or they would be rotten parents, and if I didn’t have this stuff, I would probably end up in some kind of therapy or hire a lawyer and take them to court for what was rightly mine.

The first commercial was probably before television, like during a clan meeting during the “Ice Age” for snow shovels because primitive people needed to be told what the needed to buy. It appears that part hasn’t changed, but advertising has become more sophisticated and there is yet another group of scientists whose sole purpose in life is to find more ways to convince you that your life would be so much better if you bought that combination chainsaw/radio.

Here is an actual and not made-up paragraph from another a study: “In order to analyze the influences, we introduced an analyzing scheme using eye tracking data combined with the scene description, taking into account the exposed content of information, channel information, and type of information.”

To this, I say, “Huh? How dare they do whatever it is they are talking about!”

It goes on to say that they “experimented” on “test subjects” to analyze cognitive processes performed unconsciously – basically, they are tapping into the “I gotta have it” part of our brains without us knowing it, and I for one don’t like that very much because only I should be tapping into my brain without ever knowing it – which I do pretty often, I think.

And boy, do they start their brainwashing campaign early. Saturday morning cartoons have now been replaced with hour-long infomercials – something I didn’t know until the UPS man started showing up with Ginsu knife sets, vacuums that could suck up a bowling ball, and electric vegetable peelers – C.O.D.

So, on behalf of the American public, I am going to interrupt this normal broadcast to rant – to tell advertisers a thing or two – and I am not even going to charge them a dime (although if they want to pay me a couple of million, that is okay because then I can buy more stuff.)

* Come on – get off of the “feminine hygiene” thing. In fact, we don’t want to hear about hemorrhoid cream, jock itch, or foot fungus either. What if, and I mean this in a totally speculative way, what if superior alien beings are monitoring our airwaves and see these commercials. What kind of impression does that give? Is that the message we want to send to the very beings that may someday want come and invest in a franchise of hot dog stands? It’s bad for business and it embarrasses teenagers.

* Stop using animals to sell us stuff. I will not buy insurance because of a dancing lizard or a duck, nor will I buy a taco because of a dog. It is cruelty to animals as well as being stupid. One day, you are a lizard sunning yourself on the shores of some tropical island, and the next, you are being forced to break dance under hot lights with the director yelling, “Cut” every time you screw up. I know if I were a lizard, I wouldn’t like it.

* There is nothing fun about gelatin so stop telling us there is. If anything, making a gelatin desert is a pain. First, you have to heat the water, and then add the powder, find room in your refrigerator, and then wait for a week for it to turn jigglely. Then, we are all supposed to be euphoric as we watch it shake in our bowl. Well, you know what? That’s creepy. Food should not wiggle unless you are purposely eating something that is still alive – which is also creepy.

* You don’t need to advertise for Mercedes Benz. If you make enough money to own one, and you want one, you will buy one. For the rest of us, it is just reminding us that we can’t afford one, and that is rude. Didn’t your mother raise you better than that?

* Enough of the “Can you hear me now?” thing. Yes. We can hear you because everybody has a cellular phone, which means that there is nowhere left to go for peace and quiet anymore, which is probably why we will never attract space-alien investors. Thanks a lot, boneheads. There goes my hot dog stand franchise.

* If you have to try and sell us something, how about having your commercials make sense. I saw a commercial once where a beautiful woman was riding her horse across a beach at sunset and it was a commercial for ballpoint pens or something like that. I miss the correlation there, unless she was riding her horse to the office supply store because her car broke down and the pens were on sale and she just had to have the pen to write a letter to the advertiser telling them how dumb the commercial was. Not sure.

* Please, and I mean this, please lay off the toy commercials. See, here is something you might not know – kids can’t drive to the store to buy stuff. They must have their parents drive them, see, because children’s little feet don’t touch the gas peddle and they can’t see over the steering wheel. They also don’t have bank accounts, which their parents must also provide. You would think that one of your mega-dollar studies would have told you this. In fact, cut all commercials aimed at children, which includes sugary cereals, hair braiders, designer clothes, and theme parks. Next time my daughter wants one of these things, I’ll have her call you for it. How does that grab ya?

* Quit using statistics. We could care less what four out of five dentists like. Four out of five of us don’t even like going to the dentist.

* Uh, stop using sex to sell your products. We are sick and tired of being told that if we use a product, we will somehow turn into supermodels. I could use the shampoo, wear the underwear, use the breath mint, and drink your diet cola, but I will never look anything like Christie Brinkley. David Brinkley maybe. According to you, the advertiser, we are all too hairy, too fat, too pimply, too wrinkly, and we smell. If you want to sell us something, try self-esteem. That is actually something I might buy.

© 2006 Sharie Derrickson. Previously printed in the Thousand Islands Sun.

Send in the Clowns

They wore me down – they being my husband and daughter. We now have a dog – but not just any dog – we have a four-pound Guinea-pig-looking dog whose favorite hobby is trying to chew off my left arm and to consume every shoelace in the house. For years, I successfully fought off attempts by my family to get a dog. Because I am afraid of dogs, I had a list of reasons why a dog is not in the family’s best interest, and had statistical data and research to back up my arguments.

“Mom, I want a dog.”

“No.”

“But why not?”

“Here, read this,” I say, handing my daughter a story about how a man was found dead in his home, half eaten by his loyal cocker spaniel.

“Mom, the man had been dead for days and the dog was hungry!” she said, shoving the story back at me.

“That’s what the dog wants you to think.”

“Are you suggesting that the dog plotted the death of the man just so he could eat him?”

“Dogs are smart – and cunning,” I said. “Can’t be trusted – just like teenagers.”

“But you had a dog growing up – why can’t I have one?”

“Dogs were different back then.”

“How?”

“Inbreeding. Now, they steal babies.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, a couple of years ago, a dog grabbed a baby while it slept and ran into the woods with it – they never found the baby.”

“Mom, that was a dingo – a dingo Mom – not a beagle.”

But, because my husband and daughter are just as cunning, they studied me, looking for areas of vulnerability. They tried every trick in the book, and until a couple of weeks ago, my defenses were impenetrable. Then, I read a story on the Internet that said that teenagers that have their own dog are less likely to engage in bad behavior during college years. I barged into my husband’s office. “We are getting our kid a dog!” I blurted.

“I thought you were afraid of dogs. Why get one now?” he said, startled.

“So she doesn’t run away and join the circus.”

“You harbor some pretty weird fears – I’ll give you that – but okay, we’ll get a dog,” he said.

Running away and joining the circus is not as ludicrous as it sounds. I know this because I tried to do it when I was 18. I lived near Sarasota, Florida, home to Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey’s Clown College. I saw circus life as my ticket to an exotic life of travel and free popcorn. (I ended up joining the Navy, which is kind of like the circus except you have to pay for your popcorn.) So, I sent in my application to the college and was given an audition in front of a panel of esteemed clown judges.

“Okay Sharie, what are your talents?”

“Talents?”

“Yes. Can you juggle?”

“Yes,” I said as I picked up two tennis balls and tossed them in the air.

“Uh, that’s not juggling – that’s just throwing two balls in the air and catching them,” one judge said, jotting something down on his paper.

“How many balls do you need to use for it to be considered juggling?” I asked.

“No less than three.”

“Then, no, I can’t juggle.”

“Can you walk on a ball?”

“No.”

“All right,” one judge said, scratching his head, “how about make balloon animals – can you do that?”

“NO. They scare me.”

“So, what can you do?”

“I can trip and fall. I do it all the time – see,” I said, tripping and falling down in front of the judges.

“Thank you. You will hear from us soon.”

I did hear back from them a couple of weeks later in what I call “The Greatest Rejection on Earth,” because when you actually get told that you have nothing to offer the circus, you have hit an all-time low point in your life.

“Dear Sharie, we regret to inform you that, at this time, we cannot accept your application to Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Clown College. While your talent at falling down was quite impressive, we are seeking candidates with a wider breadth of clown abilities. Should you become, in the future, able to walk on a ball or if you overcome your fear of balloon animals, please feel free to reapply.”

I took the rejection hard and to be truthful, I have never really healed. To this day, I can’t look at a picture of Emmett Kelly or Red Skelton without a deep sense of shame and humiliation. I avoid any situation that might put me in close proximity of a clown, like children’s birthday parties, street corners in San Francisco, and used-car lots. I didn’t want the same fate for my daughter. I wanted to spare her the same rejection because she is also unable to walk on a ball, and her falling-down abilities are far inferior to mine.

So, I did what any mother would do – I caved and got the girl a dog. It is the price you pay to ensure your child’s success, I suppose. And there is a price, believe me. Time I used to spend doing stuff I like to do, which is to sit around and do nothing, is now spent puppy-sitting, and picking up chewed pieces of shoelaces, which seems to be her favorite snack, as evidenced by the fact that all of our shoes have become slip-ons.

I would never admit this to my daughter, but the dog has grown on me because we have a lot in common. We both like to watch, “The Price is Right,” we both like to play tug of war, we both like beef jerky, and we both like doing our nails – at lease I think she likes it. And, about 30 times a day, we go outside for a walk to “do our business,” although I don’t “do my business,” outside – I only pretend because girls always go to the bathroom in pairs.

And, each day, when my daughter gets home from school, I have to pretend that I have had it with the dog, and launch into a litany of grievances, like, “Do you know what YOUR dog did today – she got into my nail polish, and now, look at her,” I say, holding up a perfectly painted paw, that just so happens to match the polish on my own toes.

“You know, Mom, if I didn’t know better, I would think you actually love the dog.”

“What could you be thinking? This dog is a nightmare – although I must admit, she is a quick learner – look what I taught her today!” I said, all excited as the dog showed off a new trick.

“Mom, why did you teach the dog to walk on a ball?”

“Yeah, cool, huh. Now that takes some talent, right there,” I said, beaming with pride. “We’ll show those nasty old judges, won’t we,” I said, as the dog covered my face in puppy spit.

“What judges?” my daughter asked.

“Oh, I’m just playing,” I said, not telling my daughter about my motivations behind getting her a dog. Somehow, I don’t think she would understand.

“Why are there tennis balls all over the kitchen,” my daughter asked, holding up a drool-covered ball.”

“You’ll see,” I said, winking at the dog. “Just you wait. She’s going to put on The Greatest Show on Earth.”

“What’s next – balloon animals?” she asked mockingly as I grimaced at the mere suggestion.

“NO. No balloon animals,” I said. Some fears are just too great to overcome.

© 2006 Sharie Derrickson. Previously printed in the Thousand Islands Sun.