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Saturday 1 May 2010

THE F WORD


Recently, a 21-year-old Nebraskan woman bit a part of a man’s ear off after he called her fat at a party. She actually tackled him to the ground and chewed it off like a pitbull in heat. I’m thinking she was either off her meds, or having a really bad period that month. In her defense, does not every man on the planet know by now that those are words you simply strike from your vocab?? I mean DUH, it’s up there with, ‘Are you really going to wear that,’ and ‘You’re getting your period aren’t you?’ I mean we as women readily accept that there are things we cannot say when it comes to your gender, such as: ‘Wow, it’s so small!’ or, ‘What a cute little bald spot’….It’s about making the effort.

Speaking of sensitivity issues, I am now getting to the stage of my pregnancy where people offer me seats on the tube. I don’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing. For a while I’d come home pissed off that no one offered me one – women are fickle. My partner would kindly explain that perhaps people thought I was just fat. [He’s got a real way with words sometimes]. Then suddenly as if over night, people would see me coming, glance at my belly and start moving out of my way as if I was going to drop the kid at their feet.

Then of course there are the variety of looks one gets: the sympathy glance (usually from other women); the nostalgia gaze – ‘ahh the beauty of creating life how I miss it,’ and of course the looks of outright fear and discomfort from men, ‘I know I’m supposed to do something but I’m not sure what it is?!’ Or my favorite; the look that says, ‘my wife just went through this, please don’t make me go back there!’ And finally you have the outright gawkers who just stare at your belly like it’s a boil about to burst like in a scene from Alien (this is usually the younger generation). I usually look at them, clutch my stomach and make a small violent gasp like it’s about to come out. Okay, I’m not always mature.

I was on a crowded bus just yesterday and a woman screamed at a guy sitting down, ‘there is a pregnant lady here, get up!’ She scared me half to death, although I must say I appreciated her balls. Sometimes I get defiant and politely refuse the seat (what do you think I am, infirm?! Gosh). It’s usually on those days where I haven’t moved a muscle and I feel like standing up is my penance. I also hate how useless one can feel when they are pregnant, as if suddenly you are this fragile beast that is about to be put out to pasture. And of course as I am indeed a woman – and fickle – other days I think, get your ass up you lazy man, can’t you see I’ve swallowed a basketball!

I must say, where I am very lucky is that my partner is adorable and believes in chivalry to the point of obsession. I’m not allowed to carry anything, lift anything, bend over (he is convinced this will crush our son’s head) or walk on the outside of him when we’re on the sidewalk. I’m not sure if he’s seen a lot of cars jump sidewalks and mow down innocent bystanders, but I have acquiesced and simply let him move me to the inside of the pavement. I figure, while the chivalrous treatment lasts I should take advantage of it. Cause something tells me that when I nudge him at 3am to change a screaming baby he’ll give me a look that politely says, sweetheart, chivalry is dead! 


Friday 30 April 2010

FOCUS PEOPLE, FOCUS


I have been known to take part in market research groups. Don't ask, just one of the strange things I have done in my life. Perhaps you’ve wondered who made up those focus groups that decide on ads, or test run particular products, or give feedback on programs etc. Then again, perhaps you never even thought of it. I certainly didn’t until a friend of mine dragged me to one. I must admit I’ll do most things out of intrigue. I’m a believer that within any situation, even those you didn’t wish upon yourself, there is room to take in your surroundings and get something from the experience - even if it is sheer horror, amusement, or confirmation that some people out there are just downright freaky. Then again, they also have free food and drinks on hand, and you know how I feel about free stuff. Oh, and did I mention they pay you as well - genius bonus for giving your opinions for an hour or so. I wish my partner/family would sign up to this way of thinking. Of course there is also the sheer fascination of seeing how the advertising world thinks they’re going to get us to buy their products. And for me, if there is an opportunity to put my two sense in, well hell, sign me up. 

There are all sorts of groups one can attend: testing new products, evaluating systems (i.e. the NHS, how things run etc), watching and giving feedback on ads, etc. Some groups, I won’t lie, are downright boring. I’ve sat through my fair share of those and had to dig deep to find something to entertain me. Others are ripe for material in terms of studying one’s fellow humans – I’m a writer, it’s what we do.

In any group there is the moderator. The ones worth their salt can effectively lead a group of miscreants through this process without it taking all damn night. Not all are good at this, you can spot weakness a mile a way. Within the focus group itself, there is always the mute; that guy or girl you are not sure why they came cause they look utterly miserable and are unwilling to participate (hell if I’ve dragged myself there, I’m going to roll up my sleeves and tell you what I think). Then of course on the other end of the spectrum, there is the total nutjob who won’t shut up and needs to give their opinion at full voice at positively every step of the way. These types are usually a bit scary, aggressive, and end up sitting at the far end of the table, cause everyone has slowly moved away from them. Then there is the digresser – as I call them. This is the person who shows up but is clearly only there for human interaction and ends up talking about their cat, mother, or favorite food groups. They are usually harmless, but entertaining as hell. Then there is the food hog – no, this is not me, I swear. That person that stands around the food table inhaling anything edible like they haven’t eaten since last week. I hate watching people eat, so this one is a real challenge for me.

The biggest perk for giving up precious moments of your life is that some of the groups pay well. I mean really well. I got a free weekend at a five star hotel all expenses paid. Okay, I had to give up two days of my life for the focus group, but it actually turned out to be pretty damn funny. Like in high school, splinter groups quickly form and our group was of course the rebellious, yet still effective and creative sort - and if I do say so myself, our presentation (we had to create an imaginary hotel that fulfilled all our wildest dreams) kicked some serious ass. Then there was the one for De Beers where everyone in the group was a young couple – except for me – who came wearing rocks the size of ice cubes on their ring fingers. I was then forced to play the game of deciding what they did, where they came from, and if they could afford a rock that size, what the hell were they doing here?

My sister finds it utterly hysterical I go to these things. She loves when I break it all down and debrief her in that special way that I can – [she’s an easy laugh and I love her for it]. Then again, I think she sometimes worries that I’m the freak mouthing off and hovering around the food table stealing all the sandwiches. 

Thursday 29 April 2010

TELL IT LIKE IT IS


A voter in East London remarked last week that political correctness was preventing politicians from saying more. “Anyone that says anything about anyone that's not from this country is considered a racist.” [When it comes to the general public, I think one does just fine when it comes to lambasting their fellow human beings].

And yet, Gordon Brown was far from politically correct when he stepped in it BIG time yesterday. However, on the contrary he simply branded one of his own countrymen a racist by calling an elderly woman a bigot (sorry I have to stop as I’m laughing so hard). Is it only me, but I wish that politicians could actually say what they really think more often. Maybe then we could actually get to the root of things instead of dancing around everything with this polite sugary vernacular that we all know is bullshit.

I think people are simply bored of the lip service from their politicians  and don't buy it anymore. Consider this, if they all did it - put down the PC jargon and simply called it how they saw it - then one couldn’t be branded any less savory than the other. Could you imagine, the amusement that could be had from their actual true thoughts on the issues?...“I am raising taxes cause I’m bitter that I’m not as wealthy as some of my constituents.” “I’m not raising taxes cause my dad is loaded and damn it I want as much as I can get cause the wife loves to shop.” “I say we build a fence around England, cause gosh darn it, I just don’t like brown people.” “I don’t give a toss about the environment cause war and capitalism makes much more money.” “Yeah, I slept with my intern. A man needs to let off some steam once in awhile, so what!” And so on, you get the idea.

I figure instead of repelling voters, it will simply bring out the true nature of everyone. The bigots will align with the bigots; the planet haters will find their likeminded brothers and sisters; and those that could give a hoot about their leader’s personal lives will have company too. Why not talk about the elephant in the room, it’s there and it’s obese at this point!

I can’t tell you how fast I would’ve voted for a leader in the past if I heard a politician actually speak without all the editing; then again, I’m a tell it like it is kind of girl. It might even have made me respect George Bush more if he actually came clean and said, “okay screw it, invading Iraq was a total sham, but do you know how much money it made me? It was just smart economics.” Okay, nothing would’ve made me respect him, but it couldn’t have hurt.

Or how about the real kicker, how about a  politician who actually says who he IS, not who his voters are. Couldn't you just hear it: “I’m Johnny Hoo-haw and I think institutionalized religion is a farce, I could care less if gays marry, and I’m smart enough not to tell my wife what to do when it comes to her body. But hey, that’s just me; the rest of you feel free to do what you have to do to get through the day. I'll still lower your taxes and try to keep the economy from falling through the floor.” 


I mourn when people tell me a candidate has to be religious cause the country is. What about if it’s simply a big fat lie and his idea of going to church is up there with a triple root canal and a plate of lima beans. Wouldn’t we want our leader to be honest and capable, rather than be a big fat phoney? Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t want my leader to support this or that because of lobbyists and his core group will turn against him and they’re the most powerful.

I suppose it comes down to the fact that whomever gets elected means very little (it's true people, no one man is going to change the world, so LET GO of the pipe dream). It comes down to the government and how well they can function together. And in truth, none of us truly know who we are voting for anyway – Brown could be an Abba loving, cross-dressing, lush as far as we know. I say, break out the Manolo Blahniks, Gordon, and swig on that whisky. It might even bring up your numbers.

Tuesday 27 April 2010

DELIVERANCE


My smile has always been my thing. Or at least, on the days when I feel like a hideous dwarf and want to throw on a pillowcase and belt it, it is the one thing I can look to and say, okay, that’s not too shabby. And since I’ve been in England, I can’t count how many people have remarked on my teeth. I’ve had a woman cross a room, and tell me she knew I was American purely by the shade and straightness of my pearly whites. And of course with some of my friends here, without fail, they are a subject of great ridicule. My American translation: pure unadulterated envy, let’s be honest.

I will never forget the time I had just arrived in England and one of these great teeth, (in the front no less) came loose on flight over. Alright alright, the tooth is fake. A shiny, perfect veneer warranted after a traumatic double root canal and implant surgery. But it looks damn good and I never claimed to be perfect.

So mere hours off the plane, I enter what was to be my new abode. There I was met with the disclosure that my new uber gregarious roommate was having a dinner party for eighteen - as you do apparently - in a kitchen that was 5x12. No joke. Don’t be confused, it was not a welcoming party for me, but instead a celebration for the Bank holiday. And to add to the amusement, I currently looked like a member of some Appalachian folk band. Okay, so I’d have to use my personality to win people over, not my smile.

So hours later, having stuffed my tooth tenuously back in it’s place, I found myself packed around a table of public school boys (U.S equivalent: think New England prep school vibe), the flavor of the evening apparently, and the kitchen is starting to resemble a late night homo-erotic raucous in the dormitory. 

To my surprise, the evening quickly rolled into a blur of Dolly Parton tunes (go figure??) and a variety of delinquent table games. The clear winner to my jetlagged befuddlement – was ‘pass the business card’ or ’Suck and Blow’ as it was affectionately called. Who the hell needs intellectual conversation about social issues or world events when you’ve got ‘Suck and Blow.’ The idea: you pass it to your neighbor by sucking and blowing respectively; if it drops, you accidentally kiss. Well, hello limey [Perhaps parliament should try this]. My main worry...sucking, blowing, and losing my beautiful, and now very loose tooth in poncy boy’s mouth.

At this point, it suddenly dawned on me that I was in my 30’s and I was sucking on a business card for an airport car service across from some guy in an expensive shirt who smelled like cheap cider. Hey, but I’m in England - the most civilized country on earth, so what if they play games that resemble a 13 year old’s first slumber party. That said, as soon as the dollar bill made an appearance (get your mind out of the class A gutter) - apparently the business card wasn’t challenging enough - I stood up and planned my escape.

Call me a teetotal spoiled sport, but it is common knowledge, or so I thought, that most dollar bills have traces of fecal matter on them. Apparently this fact was lost on the room - and they say the American education system is lacking. Thankfully my English mother called just as I was summoned to ‘suck,’ and my tooth had officially dislodged itself, leaving a huge gaping hole in my mouth. Fine, perhaps now I look typically American.

‘How’s it to be in England, sweetheart’. I gazed around the smoky room of twenty something’s without a care in the world, as Dolly swooned in the background, ‘you know Mom, it doesn’t suck’.

GIVE US YOUR TIRED, YOUR POOR...WAIT A MINUTE, FORGET IT. GET OUT.




I’m a child of immigrants. My parents and grandparents were immigrants. My partner comes from immigrants. And I currently live in a country I was not born in. In fact, I think I’m in the majority here when I say everyone could trace themselves back to an immigrant somewhere. These days the word immigration has become a dirty word. No matter where you are in the world, it is the defining issue that can literally divide a room, and boy can it get ugly. And of course, nowadays, with the history of the world pleasantly forgotten, every argument is pulled out of the arsenal and used to fight the proverbial corner. “They should not be here; our country is too crowded (there seems to be an awful lot of space in the middle?? Just saying); they take our jobs (btw, they take your jobs cause you don’t want to do them for the wage they do them for; that sounds like free enterprise to me) etc. I’m sure you’ve heard them all too – or said them yourselves – and you’re perfectly entitled to your opinion of course.

The problem is, if we were to give history its actual due, we as Americans took a country that wasn’t ours, from a people we deemed insignificant, and how did we take care of that one? Well, we killed as many as we could get our hands on. Check your history books (and for those of you in California, the Mexicans and Spanish were there first as well back in the 1500’s). Then we took it one step further and founded our country on the very principle of acceptance. Some of you may want to check the engraving on the Statue of Liberty: “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free;” Sound familiar? Big oops. Guess we should’ve put a time stamp on that one. We meant to say, “Give us your tired, your poor till 2011, then you’ll have to bugger off somewhere else. Try Spain. I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”

And because immigration is such a contention issue, it has of course become a call to arms for racists everywhere. Now it’s not just a ‘we don’t want them here’ question, it’s a ‘we don’t want them here cause they are horrible bunch of – racial epithet – and those nasty *&(@(&#*) are screwing up our country.’ Nice. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?

The latest bill to address the immigration debate is in Arizona. Supposedly, it’s one of the strictest bills to pass on the issue. People fear that this will spark a rise in racial profiling as the police can stop a person, anytime, anywhere if they find you ‘suspicious’ of being illegal. Wow. I can’t wait to see how they figure out that one.  I’d hate to be a brown tourist in Tucson, I can tell you that much. After Governor Jan Brewer signed the bill, a reporter asked if she knew what an illegal immigrant looks like. "I do not know what an illegal immigrant looks like," Brewer said. "I can tell you there are people in Arizona who assume they know what an illegal immigrant looks like. I don't know if they know that for a fact or not." Wow, that’s reassuring. Can anyone say lynch mob?

Before the anti-immigrant corner gets their knickers all in a twist, I understand the argument – especially over here in the UK - that an island can only take so many people, and systems are becoming over run and the people of that country are sick of people entering illegally and living off the system. Of course I accept that. And I’m all for people going down the legal route to obtain status in a country. In fact, I think we should be focusing on that as opposed to anything else. But fences? Closing borders? Mass deportation? They’re not dogs people. It’s actual people we’re talking about. People wanting better lives for their families, people escaping unbelievable oppression, poverty, violence. Excuse my utter frankness, but If you woke up in the Congo and were getting raped daily, watching all your ancestors get slaughtered, would you not want to flee to somewhere better where you could get a Starbucks and be the left the hell alone. I would.

And then of course, there are some people that take it a step wayyy too far and fear us becoming a mixed race of people – ohhh the fearful Xenophobes of the world wanting their bloodlines to remain pure and white as snow; to those people I say two things: one -  WAKE UP, no bloodline is pure anymore, you silly fools. And secondly, I can’t wait to introduce you to my part Grenadian, Polish, Lebanese, English, French, Greek child. He’s going to be a knockout. 

Monday 26 April 2010

....

And trust me, we will revisit this topic. There is just too much to talk about. [Also, if anyone does know of a super sonic night cream I want to hear about it!]

FRANKENSTEIN AND THE JOKER WALK INTO A SKIN CLINIC....




I watched a clip the other day of Heidi Montag trying to eat a burger with her family (I admit it, the headline "Heidi struggles to eat burger" was just too hard to resist). While I will never get those minutes of my life back, it did end up with me howling with laughter at the sheer mortifying absurdity of what things have become. Her mother, bless her, was trying to tell her that she needs some counseling due to her ten thousand surgeries. I’m sure she was also contemplating getting her daughter fingerprinted as she is unrecognizable from whom she gave birth to. Heidi’s response to her mother, as she tried to gum her burger as a result of her very sore jaw, “Mom, you live in the mountains. I live where I live. I need to look like this.” Wow. Okay. So in the vortex of Los Angeles, the weak minded go through the welcome gates, hand them their brain and get one made of silicon apparently. I suppose in a way she’s right. Per capita, it is a city of some very altered looking individuals. The most ironic part of the clip, the moment she tries to get profound and explains to her mother that she'd never be happy on the inside if she wasn't happy with herself on the outside. Um. Honey. Flip that. Then we should talk.

The scary fact is, a portion of our population – male and female - is on its way to becoming a race of plasticized androids. I actually have visions of one day the earth being populated with women scampering around looking like wild animals (that Wildstein woman in NY scares the Beeeejeezus out of me!) and comic book characters. "Look it's the Joker. No, oops. That's Aunt Sally!"

I get it. Aging sucks. I think we’re all in agreement on that. Of course there are the pros of getting old (we become wiser, more comfortable with ourselves, blab la bla), but the cons are not easy to deal with. Things start to sag, fall, wrinkle, pucker, crease, crinkle, ache, creak….all in all, the process is not a kind one. So I understand people wanting to change things, make an adjustment here or there, upgrade their skincare line. My best friend and I swap feedback on night creams like we’re two scientists on a quest to find some mysterious cure. Well, I suppose we are; the natural way to look reasonably attractive as one hits those scary numbers. And I freely admit that I’ve done a few noninvasive things to fight off time. I'm not completely devoid of vanity. 

But when I start thinking of someone taking a knife to my face, or pouring battery acid on it so that a layer falls off, or injecting the mostly deadly bacteria on the planet into my face, I start to wonder if I’m living in a world gone mad. Well, we know the answer to that one. And is it just me, but the majority of these women who put strings in their face (some new facelift procedure apparently), and butt fat in their cheeks or get pulled so tight that their eyes can’t close, to me, they come out looking worse, NEVER better (there are one or two exceptions, but that is being generous).

What really alarms me is the new wave of teen obsession with plastic surgery. You're young, your body is swimming with natural collagen, enjoy it for f**sakes! It’s as if we’re breeding a culture of insecure, psychologically damaged individuals who from the age of 14 are already pining for larger breasts, botox and lips like Angelina Jolie. What happened to self-esteem? Inner beauty? Intellectualism? Who is parenting these individuals, alerting them to the fact that double DD breasts at 16 will do no more for their happiness than the two hundred dollar jeans they insist on wearing. And a more salient point, do they know what their chest will look like in 20 years? Listen up in science class kids, gravity is a bitch.

For now, I suggest putting down the knives and bacteria. Those of you addicted, I’ll be blunt since no one else will – you look like shiny, puffy freaks. No one is buying it. I suggest an ample dose of retouching on iphoto for all. It works like a charm, makes you feel good and has no downtime. 
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