CIRQUE DU SCREAMING LADY

 Today I swung on a trapeze…why, didn’t you?  

It’s something I’ve been dying to do for a long time, in fact, before I had the King I signed up for a class in Regent’s Park, in London, and it was rained out (surprise surprise). So, two years on, I finally managed to rebook the class and go and attempt to carry out my cirque du soleil fantasy. Fantasies are fun aren’t they, but oh so far from reality.

Firstly, need I remind you, actually forget that…need I remind myself that I am afraid of heights. Yes, you heard me. I bet you’re wondering why the hell I decided to climb up a very tall ladder and let some man push me out onto the trapeze without a second thought. Who are we kidding, there were OH SO many thoughts going through my head; mainly, am I going to die? Who last died on this thing, why is this ladder so damn rickety, and did I remember to leave a will and explicit instructions on how the King likes his pasta?

So it went like this, six eager trapeze wannabees (or scared sh*tless morons) met in a section of the park where they had set up a giant trapeze, netting contraption. Two out of the six of us were apparently pros and had been coming for weeks. The rest of us looked slightly ill as we realized how high the trapeze actually hung above the ground. After some warm up stretches (in which I almost pulled a muscle, NOT a good sign when you’re about to go flying through the air) and a few trial runs on a small bar hanging about seven feet off the ground, we were told that it was now time to climb the ladder and try out what they just taught us.

WAIT, whoa…yeah, that was my first thought too. They ran through a bunch of directions once that I was barely comprehending; we hung upside down with a person on either side of us, and then got down. That was it. I certainly did not think that was grounds to go climbing up I don't know how many feet above the ground and pretend I was a professional acrobat. Needless to say, the first time up there was a bit of a blur. The mere ascent up the ladder almost made me puke, the only thing saving me was the fact that I was heavily harnessed and had a wire attached to the side of my belt and I was too scared to climb back down the ladder.

When I got to the top that’s when it really hit me: I HATE HEIGHTS, what the hell was I thinking!! The second thing that hit me was this man standing behind me holding my belt and telling me to lean forward and grab the bar cause he’s ‘got me,’ well, he better be telling me the truth or I’m going to find him and kill him (that’s after they peel me of the ground). After a few deep breaths and a rallying of my pride (the instructors were those hardcore annoying, ‘we don’t say can’t’ types) I jumped out, let out a large scream and went flying through the air. The instructors on the ground were apparently yelling directions at me (lift your knees, lock them onto the bar, now let go of your hands, blab la bla) but to be frank, I just heard my heart beating and the sound of death rushing towards me.

When I got down on the ground after the first time – and kissed it – the annoyingly pushy instructor told me that I did fine, but next time maybe I could listen to the directions and not scream so much. Oh, step ASIDE, instructor lady! I was just happy all my limbs were still attached to my body. Needless to say, after watching the rest of the group go – and one girl get the hell out of there, fast – I climbed up that rickety old ladder several more times and kicked that trapeze's ass. Not only did I hang upside down (you hear that King, your Mamma ain’t no sissy!) but I did the catch and release with the instructor shouting commands at me and managed not to have a complete coronary in the process.

And the best part, I have proof for the King (in video form) that his mom rocks and still managed to come home alive and make him his pasta the way he likes it. Ah, the small successes in life.

Happy Friday.

 T

THE MOON OF HONEY

For the last four days we have been on honeymoon (yes, I’m blogging on honeymoon, but in all fairness I don’t keep a diary so this is my version of documenting life…and my husband is watching Grand Prix as I write this); I think it’s been four days? To be honest, it’s all been a bit of a blur due to the fact that we are finally sleeping and have plunged into a state of mind numbing relaxation. Trust me, this is a totally foreign state to both my husband and I and it took many days to get here.

Upon arriving at the hotel we were greeted by the friendliest staff imaginable, which coming from London where customer service is nonexistent, we found a tad shocking (why are they smiling at us? Do we have something in our teeth?). After being congratulated on our marital state by all, including the man that delivered our luggage to our room – at least I think he was congratulating us, I don’t understand Greek - we were shown around the breathtaking grounds of the hotel and then led to our oceanfront room (okay I’m gloating, but why hide the bliss, you know what I mean?)

Upon entering our room we were met by a woman who was holding a tray of champagne and a variety of decadent snacks. I thought my husband was going to hug her. Of course on the bed were the requisite flower petals in the shape of a heart  - at least it didn’t spell out love – and by the bed, a dish of honey with walnuts. We were told this was a Greek tradition to bless a marriage, or make you incredibly fat. My hips were quickly starting to realize that this trip was not going to be kind to them.  

The first few days of the honeymoon consisted of us cramming in as much as humanly possible in some sort of delirious fog whilst my husband asked me what time it was every five minutes (he claims this obsession was because he wanted to fit in as much as humanly possible). Every time a staff member remarked at how much we were doing and we should simply relax (it was said in a sweet, Grecian way of course) we would dole out our stock response with glazed eyes: “We have a kid back home.” It’s amazing how this statement renders any recipient speechless and is followed by an all too-knowing nod, followed by: “Go in (maniac infused) peace, and get it all in while you can!”

So, after doing every conceivable activity: working out, spa appointments, tennis (damn, was that amusing for the guests walking past our court. Agassi and Graff we are NOT), biking, and trolling the prodigious buffet like winter starved animals (this was no run of the mill buffet I assure you. I’m from America, I’ve seen my fair share) and sleeping a ton, we finally began to downshift into profound mind-numbing relaxation. Then again, it could’ve been the three pounds of feta cheese and homemade bread we had consumed over the course of the first two days that finally slowed us down.

From that point on, we began that slow motion amble that most guests adopt a few days into their stay. We’d amble to the restaurant, amble to the buffet (I shall keep mentioning the buffet, cause LORD was it glorious. Again, my hips didn’t think so), amble to the lounge chair, amble into the ocean – well sort of, it was cold as hell and we’d have to count in unison and then run in screaming – amble to the pool. You get the idea. We’d even amble in and out of bed like to aching eighty year olds (I blame the tennis) without a care in the world or what time it was – although that said, we were amusingly always aware of what time breakfast was being served.

During this zoned out ambling we’d of course find time for our other favorite activity (get your mind out of the gutter) which was people watching, and our hotel was happily rife with things to gawk at. We had plenty staff to vote on in order of competency and emotional stability (so much fun); many Eastern Europeans to play ‘name that language’ with – Estonian, a total mystery; or the even more fun game of trying to figure out ‘how long have they been married?’ according to how much couples spoke to one another at meal times. (I know I know, catty as hell, but at least we can admit it). There were also outfits to dissect – oh so many wedge heels and sparkly short shirts that were deemed dresses and outfits my husband would give funny names: "here comes leopard floaty dress girl and clown pants guy!"

Then there was the ‘posing’ couple as we called them. She was young and long legged and he was always hiding under a hat lugging around a large camera. The best part, they would wander around the hotel and she would pose in front of every conceivable spot in the most provocative of ways. Of course this would amuse my husband to no end and he would nudge me to attention as she did some backbend in front of a fountain. Of course, from there on out whenever he wanted to take a photo of me, my simple stance of smiling, arms by my side, just didn’t cut it.

The only thing hindering our total blissed out state was the fact that despite our best efforts, the King’s absence was heavily felt especially when we’d gaze upon other families bonding and having fun. We would then remark at all the things that the King would heavily dig – the buffet of course and the long legged Russians. Then again, at the first sight of a child’s tantrum or an exhausted parent pushing their toddler around the grounds in a pram for the fiftieth time in hopes of sleep, we’d quickly remind each other that the King rocks, but total halcyon bliss rocks harder….as does twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep and a trip to the spa.

SYBIL

[IT'S ONE FROM THE ARCHIVES TODAY. THE SUN IS SHINING, AND I HAVE TO PACK FOR A TRIP THAT I'VE BEEN LOOKING FORWARD TO WITH INTENSE ANTICIPATION - AS IT INVOLVES SUN, SEA AND UNINTERRUPTED SLEEP...WELL, NEED I SAY MORE. NEW BLOGS NEXT WEEK].

Wouldn’t it be great if you could reinvent yourself on a constant basis? There is something enviable about watching performers like Bowie, Madonna, and of course Lady Gaga change their personas (clothes, hair, comportment) every two seconds. Not that at this point in my life I need to start sticking prosthetic nipples on my shoulders or horns on my head as Gaga does….although she may have something with the nipple on the shoulder thing, it’s better than having them dangle around one’s knees.

But think about it, how great would it be to reinvent yourself every so often - a little redesign to spruce up the place and keep things lively. You could certainly stave off boredom by parading in a host of new characters to introduce to all your loved ones. 'Yes, family and friends, this month I’m going to be a cowboy and love all things horsey. In fact you can start calling me, Tex. Why? Because I can…oh, and I’m bored of being the girl that reads books and cooks Thai food. So there.' Okay fine, my husband would probably have me sectioned if I came home wearing spurs and chaps, and wonder who was sauntering around the house singing Western theme tunes. Then again, he may actually dig the whole chaps thing, I’ll have to check with him on that one.

The possibilities of reinvention are endless really; one month you could be a hippie chick and get really into growing your own organic vegetables, hydroponically of course, and then WHOOSH, by the next week, you could decide that you’re going to start hanging out Goth clubs because black is the new black. And let's be honest, PVC is so easy to clean (after my own OCD heart). So you may begin to feel a bit like Sybil, and people would probably start to tire of your theatrics, but think of all things you’d learn and things you’d be exposed to, even simply on a superficial level. Go on admit it, you know half of you went to summer camp or somewhere no one knew you and started styling your hair differently and talking with a mild Bostonian accent just to see if you could get away with it. On a smaller scale, how many of you give a different name at Starbucks to the barista? Yeah. I thought so.

In high school I used to dress differently almost every day. At the time, I was probably just trying to figure out my look, but I remember also thinking that being restricted to one style of dress was just boring really. Some days it would be a big hippie floral skirt and sandals, other days a more conservative demure outfit, then out of nowhere, a metal t-shirt and ripped jeans. I’m sure my mother started to wonder about my mental state. Then again, she had other teenagers to contend with, so perhaps she was used to the vacillations of the adolescent mind and figured as long as I was breathing, all was well.

I suppose it could’ve been a lot worse, I could’ve grafted horns to my head and left the house in my underwear. Then she really would’ve had cause to worry.

I'M SORRY

I think anyone with a heart that pumps blood could tell you how challenging it is at times to make an apology. Walk into any house on your street and ask the occupants if they are a quick forgive, or if the word ‘sorry’ gets stuck in their throat sometimes and you’ll quickly find yourself with a myriad of answers – half of them couched in caveats: ‘I’m always the first to say sorry, BUT it depends on the circumstances!"

Didn’t Elton John have it so right when he said, “Sorry seems to be the hardest word.” One it comes to that little five-letter word and one’s personal relationships things can get complicated really quickly. For some people the notion of apologizing is a capitulation they are simply not able or genetically designed to make. For others, they are quick to say it, but you know they don’t mean it. And of course you can also stumble across those human gems that say it instantly, mean it with the utmost sincerity and drive the rest of us bonkers cause they're so damn evolved.

I think I fall somewhere in the middle. When I’m wrong, or have done something moronic (it happens) I readily admit it and will tell my husband so. The problem is, determining when I’m wrong is not always so easy (ha!). Let’s face it, sometimes I’m just so convinced that I’m right that I’d rather spend the time convincing my husband of my viewpoint – and vice versa. Yes, we can be utterly exhausting. On the good side of things, I think we – like most adults (ahem) out there – are starting to realize that an apology ends whatever pointless argument we are having and gets us back to the more poignant and pressing matters in life: like who is going to bathe the King. You see, baby steps, the only path to the heartfelt apology. 

I think the thing that amazes me – or scares me senseless – about human beings is how truly stubborn we can be. Despite umpteenth religions telling us the importance of forgiveness – hey Jesus forgave and look how he was treated; Geeesh! – Many people can simply not come around to the fact that their behavior cannot always go unchecked and it is hurtful to those around them. These people utterly mystify me. Yeah sure, we’d all like to NOT be culpable for our actions and walk around hurling that three letter conjoining excuse (yeah, BUT; I’m talking to you) that attempts to explain our transgressions, but it comes to the point where some people just have to stop being so darn pigheaded and just apologize for being…well, human. No caveats, no buts, no escaping. You screwed up and acted like an ass, now own up to it.

That’s the beauty of the apology. We’re human; we’re built with design flaws. Big ones. In fact, if we were laptops, we’d all be sent back to the factory for some serious refurbishment. So hence, why most humans need to get in bed with the apology, give it a big fat hug, and pony that bad boy out a lot more often.

Sorry for not blogging on Friday…gosh, it just gets easier and easier.

Happy Monday.

PLEASE HOLD THE LINE UNTIL YOU DIE

I have serious ire for automated phone systems. Needless to say, I am disturbed as I’m sure many of you are, when I call up somewhere to talk to a human being and am met by a pseudo human being that prompts me to go from one place in the cyber phone abyss (or hell, as I call it) to another, until I am trapped in some endless maze that costs me ten pounds (dollars) a minute and gets me absolutely nowhere. Ah futility, you've got to love it.

This happened to me the other day when I was trying to call my credit card company (bank, mileage plus program, school, doctor, store…mother’s house; just kidding mom) to answer a simple question about my account. Ah yes, the automated systems make nothing simple; in fact, they are designed to drive you freaking bonkers and shave years off your life. In fact, it’s hard to determine what part of the whole automated experience that drives me the most nuts. The antiseptic, saccharine, moronic woman’s voice that tries to soothe me through the process (why is it always a woman?)…or the fifty years you spend on the phone trying to get to the right department before being disconnected? Or the kicker, the phone bill at the end of the month that makes your eyeballs bulge because you forgot it was not a 1-800 number (as I’m calling international half the time, 800 numbers are lost on me).

Moreover, the woman on the phone always seems to want to funnel you to a website or a delightfully informative series of prompts that are designed to anticipate your questions (but never seem to have answers to any pertinent questions), and most importantly, never seem to give me the prompt that says, "press four if you are enraged and want to speak to a human being – that is not in a call center in India - that can actually answer your question for you!" I’m one of those people that just keeps pushing the number zero until either someone comes on the line or the phone blows up. I of course simultaneously curse out the robot that is telling me how to reach the right department and tell her what I truly think of her and the company that created her.

Needless to say, by the end of the phone call, I’m irritated, foul mouthed, and have usually forgotten why I was calling in the first place as the phone call takes so darn long. Of course, the whole design of these systems is to save the company money, which makes me even more annoyed, as the person paying for the lengthy phone call is MOI, the consumer. You see how many different ways we get screwed?

The other day I actually got put through to a person in under five seconds. I was so shocked I became a stuttering mess and couldn’t actually articulate what I needed. It was somewhat embarrassing, and yet, by the end of the phone call I practically invited the woman to tea because she was so darn 'up with people' (any of you that don't know the reference, it's worth the Google) and helpful.

You see, John Q Public has simple needs and desires. Just have a real blood pumping heart and talk to us in a non-robotic voice, and next thing you know, we will sign up for another year, take out another credit card or triple our cable package. I’m telling you, we’re suckers like that. 

ANTICIPATION

I’m one of those people that loves anticipation. In fact, I think it should be bottled like a non-smelling, emotive perfume and spread throughout the world. Cause let’s be frank, anticipation is not only a very tangible thing, but we as humans need anticipation. It’s that little something that is always on the horizon reminding us that we are not stagnate, or if I can be so blunt, that despite the far off destination of death, we always have things to look forward to, damn it! I suppose a Buddhist would say anticipation is not very zen, but then again, always being in the now is just tedious. Yeah, I said it.

At the moment, I have several things I’m anticipating – and I’m not talking about the little things like: sleep, dinner, or sunshine – although any of those things would be very welcomed, first and foremost the sun, as I haven’t seen it in about two months (I wish I were kidding). Before I continue, let’s be clear, I’m also not talking about the everyday anticipation, such as how I feel before my morning coffee – although that is not something to scoff at. I’m talking about those things you painstakingly plan (or phone in a rush job, whichever you prefer) during the year and look at your calendar like a drooling Labrador cause you know how badly you want the day to come (Heinz Ketchup gave anticipation such a lame rap. Seriously, it's Ketchup. Who cares).

Before you start thinking, oh this poor woman is setting very high expectations for herself, I must remind you that I’m also part jaded cynic, so that takes care of being defeated by the event in question not living up to expectations. You see, thanks to my writer's brain I run through every possibility and scenario that could occur (although there have been some definite surprises along the way) and that way all my bases are covered. If it’s great, even better. If it kind of sucks, well I’m sure I can find a silver lining in there somewhere – cause my amusement is all in the details.

So, on the topic of grand anticipation, next week my husband and I (I’m getting better at saying that, aren’t I?) are off on honeymoon. And the anticipation I feel for that short blip in our lives is keeping me up at night – then again, what doesn’t? In short, I’m so darn excited to escape to a sunny climate with no King in sight (sorry Muffin, but mamma needs some serious adult time with her baby daddy) that I have already packed my bags. Okay, I’m exaggerating, but I’m pretty darn close. So, needless to say, my palpable anticipation is what is getting me through the fact that I wake up every night at 3 or 4 in the morning and then have to chase the King around from sunrise to sundown.

You see why anticipation is so important?! But, as I said, being a realist, I’ve also told myself that if for some freak reason the place where we are going experiences some unseasonal typhoon, I will roll with it. In fact, I will more than roll with it. I will take my stack of books and magazines, park it on a huge soft comfy sofa like Jabba the Hut (hopefully this is not how I look in a bikini), watch the rain and marvel at the fact that for five days, I have nothing to do but decide which SPF to put on (I promise mother it's 30 plus).

Happy Monday.